#rarstarter

Stasya never used to spend much time at the lake. This was mostly due to how many Grisha practiced their powers there, and how little interest they had in the recreational use of powers. If anyone asked, though, it was because the garden was so close by--and they much preferred the garden. Lately, however, the lake had offered a lot more in terms of distraction. They spent a concerning amount of time sitting in the cold with their wind rustling their curls, and today was no different. Out here--alone and undisturbed--it was finally easy to clear their mind.

They stood now in the middle of the frozen lake, a heavy breeze dancing around them. It was remarkable how sturdy they were, unaffected by the torturous storm they were brewing. Admittedly, their power was getting away from them. They hadn’t meant to brew cyclones and ominous clouds--but doing so kept them away from the problems they couldn’t bear to solve. They were so intensely focused, so in their own world, that it took them a few moments to notice the person at the other side of the lake. 

The wind they’d created was getting out of hand, especially for such a public display. They realized this as they watched how it affected the other person, and finally they lowered their hands and attempted to stop the mess they were making. As the wind slowed, it slipped from their control, entwining itself in-between Stasya’s legs. Unable to stop it and unable to catch their balance, they fell to their knees. The ice was unwelcoming, sending a chill through their spine and bruising the parts of their legs it’d made contact with. Their breathing was as heavy as the wind they’d harbored, but even as the cyclones halted and the wind quieted, they couldn’t slow their breath. They weren’t sure they could even stand.

So, instead of standing, they pressed their palms to the slick ice beneath them and tried not to mind the cold. They briefly glanced at the person on the other side of the lake, praying to the saints that the person hadn’t noticed them. Just stand, they ordered themself--but their body didn’t listen. Their stomach tossed and turned, their arms shook, and they were reminded of why ignoring their ailments was nothing but a bad thing.

date: december 21st location: the grand palace / balcony time: 10:30 p.m. availability: open to all

Pale digits brush to the marble railing of the balcony, she breaths in the cold winter air and as it fills her lungs, her eyes close. Escaping the busy ballroom feels like she can finally strip off the heavy burden of normality, the fake contentment she’s forced upon herself while watching the pretty pretty dresses of the pretty pretty ladies with their pretty pretty dreams and foolish delusions. She looks at them and feels resentment for their ignorance, for the way they put so much effort into living a life of lies they fabricated to please themselves. Living in castles made of silver and gold, drinking kvas until their mind is dull and they are stupid, stupid, stupid and so very useless. She was one of them long ago. If she was religious, she would pray, Svetlana imagines, pray that a time will come, a time when they dream of blood and guts and the terrors she knows are real.

Perhaps these malicious wishes of hers come from the jealousy of the comfort they feel, perhaps she envies their plainness, their blunt ignorance. Or perhaps, her hunger for ruination has grown so vast and she doesn’t care who she sends into the the most terrible pits of hell. Cruel girl, they call her, mouth full of sharp teeth and she would take a bite of anyone in her way. And she really would. 

A cigarette between ruby lips, she is too blinded by the glimmering brightness coming from the ballroom to recognize the figure disturbing her quiet peace. Dark brows furrow and although careless, she speaks before she can discover the identity of the dark silhouette in the doorway, dainty digits slide on the small knife tucked in the back of her charcoal Oprichnik uniform.    ‘   I do not want company. Leave me be.   ’

date: january 14th, year 2 location: grand palace cathedral time: 9:20 pm availability: open to all

The plague seemed to swirl and eddy without warning, like an invisible smoke within the walls of Os Alta and everywhere it went carrion followed soon after—the poor falling dead and prostrate on the streets of the capital while the rich die as comfortably as they could in their homes ( if one considered going mad and hallucinating their demons anywhere close to comfortable ). Wave after wave, the death toll mounted as if a gruesome Sankt swept the kingdom and called home the faithful and the faithless, to what end, even Arina could not fathom for which Sankt devoured so ravenously and so mercilessly.

The ill and plague stricken families spilled and overflowed from the infirmaries having nowhere else to go for a cure, a cure which the Alkemi and Healers were tasked to concoct. A miracle in a vial. Making poisons was easy compared to reversing its effects and less so remedying a plague the likes of which have not been seen in a long while. The first batches of treatment have been distributed but only time will tell of its effectiveness. Until then, the otkazat’sya will slowly continue to fall like ants, the Grisha slightly more well off.

"What an odd feeling saving a life is…” she muttered under her breath as she prepped the next batch of miracles in neat syringes on a medical tray. It was no different from one of her experiments—she had an objective and was aware of the variables, one of which she was suffering. “Saints,” she cursed just as quietly as she put down the needle with shaking fingers. Stage one. Without a doubt, she knew the symptoms were manifesting slowly but surely.

She watched as her fingers trembled, unable to do anything other than let it pass when she became aware of a presence watching her. As fluidly as she could, she let her hands fall to her sides, hiding her trembling digits behind her. “What do you need?”

DATE: January 13th TIME: 10:15 AM LOCATION: Grand Palace Cathedral STATUS: Open to all

For all the times in his life when he has wished he wasn’t who he is—what he is—right now, as he walks the aisle of beds, as he listens to the groans and cries of an entire nation, he has never been more thankful to be different. To be more than them. To be better. Left and right, they fall; they succumb to their symptoms—to their plague; they perish. It doesn’t matter how many times they pray, or to which Sankt they instill their faith. Death has no biases, no qualms, no opinions. It ravages as only a beast can, as only a darkness can, as only he can. Though he’s far less humble than his worthy opponent. 

Still, it’s a battle worth fighting, a war worth waging. And in the deep recess of his mind, even there he’s sure he’d win. And furthermore, this plague is no match for him. It can take his restful nights and hand him restlessness instead. It can take his steady hand and force his fingers to twitch. It can raise his temperature. It can force him to sweat. It can do whatever in Saints name it wants to, but he will win. He will fight and he will win. Every single time.

"Moi soverennyi," a passing healer whispers, bowing their head before passing by and kneeling at a bed on their left. The person atop it looks to be knocking right on Death's door, and from the way they clutch at their chest, it is only seconds away from answering their call, from opening the door and welcoming them with open arms. But alas, their eyes spring to life, the insomnia stealing away their last few precious moments of rest. With pursed lips he turns his head to the figure approaching and he secures his arms behind his back.

"Tell me," he starts, thinking aloud more so than making an effort to start an honest conversation, "do you think they'll make it?"

Valerian stood to the side, like he was used to, staring at the marble floor with such force that he was sure to sear it with his gaze alone. His intensity, deriving from his hatred of attending the event, was slowly bringing his blood up to a boil. It was going to be rather difficult for him to contain himself, to restrain from hurling himself forcefully out of those tall, ornate doors. But alas, he was given direct orders to keep put, and that he did with utmost reproach.

He had been approached several times, some recognizing him for his infamy, some attempting to shake his hand, some merely asking to dance. But he did not look up, did not attempt acknowledge their very existence at all. He believed they were all so fake, so illustriously disingenuous, to the point that every interaction brought Valerian’s temper higher and higher. Regardless of how he felt, he would push them aside with cold indifference, waiting for them to awkwardly lilt away or curse him out. As much as he wanted to tear them apart in front of his eyes with a swift flick of his finger, he kept it together. He was not supposed to act out. He could only collect himself again to the state he was before the strangers’ mouths had opened: when he was alone.

He continued to stare at the marble, watching it continue to stay in place, his peripheral vision obscured with different trains of dress or flurry of shoes. All Valerian had to do was wait, wait until he was called upon to be a monkey, a spectacle, for these ungrateful, lowlives he knew as humans. And wait he would. 

But all of a sudden, his vision of the same square foot of marble that was ingrained into his eyes was obliterated from his gaze. Before he knew it, his knees crashed to the hard, cool surface of the floor, his hot palms breaking his fall. A force from behind had knocked him into a pitiful crumple, groveling at the floor. His head whipped around so fast that he almost broke it, snarling as he began to pick himself back up.

“кто’ ‘на хуй, did that? Show yourself, or you’ll regret you were ever born,” he snapped loudly, his searing fingers clawing at the insides of his hand. 

Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. Donning their rich coloured keftas and the blackness stained on them by their sovereign --- no, not a Lantsov. Heavy skirts shift and collars stand high, stiff. Naturally, a divide has occurred, and the Grisha hug the walls like flies; otherwise, the fanatics draw in to them, drunk and enamored --- as often they are, and the skeptics turn their noses skyward and chests outward ( not much unlike fanciful avian: a peacock, for instance ). How familiar the arrogance the both of them, though --- the fiendish lilt in every word, as though it is never without self-serving intention or threat, and it isn’t. Unless, one has the unfortunate circumstance of ignorance, of course. But Rhea has never been this, ignorant. At a time, that had been a loss mourned, but now it is celebrated. There lay selfishness and violence in her every word, no matter how softly spoken. 

But she’s nothing if not adept in deception, with her frilled hems and pinched cheeks, the sand spur smile caught on each sleeve: where the humans keep their hearts, where the corporalki keep a crimson hold of others’. She arrives with a brush her hand, the flash of her teeth: here I am, at last. Iosif, Annushka --- she speaks their names so familiarly, so delicately, each of them. The soft cadence of her voice, it is a rope -- wrapped around a callow neck, tugging hard. Rhea, she’s all the glorious women who came before her, emerald throated and sneering beneath a lamb’s blankness of expression, the veil of oblivion. Each has the capacity to terrorize, to ruin --- few know how, fewer still choose to stretch ( as opposed to reeling back, cowering ) their hands to the predation that sits against their rib cages, a sharp thing forced up against their hearts. But some, they result just as she has --- a sanguine wild nestled close to their chests, something bestial caught in the dark eyes peering out. 

I have tasted blood, and I would have it again. 

As she moves the length of the room, her gaze is hunting --- spearing itself on that of worth. Until, at once, she has found it. Her countenance softens, the talons retract to give way to vulnerable flesh beneath, and as she nestles up next to the body of intrigue, there is a momentary plummet in the air. It is the shift in the wind as something treacherous draws near, pretending to be a friend, an ally as, all the while, it’s devouring you bite by bite. 

“All alone, hm? I wonder, do you reject the company or does it reject you?”

How weak time is! How powerless the years have turned out to be against the spark in Darya’s eye, that infectious warmth even her demurest smile cannot hide. With spine delicately arched and chin held humbly high, she stands and watches the crowd dance. A lord bows to a lady and she flushes and bats her lashes, curls her fingers against his palm and lets him sweep her into his chest. Somewhere, a young girl stares at the Grisha — one in particular, handsome and dark and striking — and ignores ancient prejudices in favor of those high, aching cheekbones.

And Darya stands by Anastasia’s side with cheeks pink, as if freshly pinched. Her dress is blue and her lips are red, and she glows like a candle beneath the ballroom lights. What a picture she makes; what a fantasy the ballroom spins from nothing but wish and magic alone.

I can take it no longer; I must join them.

But a partner... she needs a partner. A lady in waiting spinning about the ballroom alone makes for a story best avoided. With an unchanged expression, promising only a deep sea of calm beneath the dark of her eyes, Darya steps forward and rolls her shoulders back — her own silent declaration: I am ready to dance, now.

There’s a laugh and it’s like music. There’s a smile and it’s art. He speaks and the words that fall out are gospel. At least that’s what one could believe, standing in the small cluster that has gathered around the blue-eyed Inferni. They adore him, eating up his every word, and Arsen lives for it. 

Arsen is versatile -- good in the heat of a fight or the fluidity of a conversation. It’s all action though and that’s all that matters; Arsen hates sitting on his rump, hates being quiet, hates being ignored. That’s not happening here. Here he is a star with his own field of gravity, dragging in every stray in the ballroom. It’s thrilling. It’s perfect. Some might have been bemoaning this event, groaning about the pomp and circumstance of it all, but Arsen has been positively giddy. Now he flourished and all was right.

“So... I’m fourteen and this girl comes over to me -- she’s practically trembling, a strong enough breeze would’ve knocked her over. She’s probably a year older than me, if that, and I’d seen her around Os Alta. I didn’t know her though, didn’t know her name or anything and I didn’t know what she wanted. I said hello to her and she started stuttering so badly I couldn’t make a word out. I asked her to repeat herself and she paused, turned on her heel, and then walked away. Didn’t see her again for months and she definitely didn’t talk to me afterwards. Never actually was able to make out what she said but I got the gist of it later after seeing it happen too many times to count.” The crowd around him laughs at his story while he turns to an older woman who is blushing, trying to hide her smile in her drink. “Young love is very silly Mrs Avdeyev but it’s harmless, I promise. Your daughter will be fine. If anything, in the future, she’ll just be embarrassed about all of this.”

A gentleman with a bushy mustache and at least a decade on Arsen claps him on the back, laughing much too hard as he compliments Arsen on his ‘message’ and ‘philosophy’. Like this red-faced human knows anything about philosophy. Arsen chuckles with tight drawn lips, discreetly managing to shrug off the hand and brush at his kefta. He’s spared more interaction when he hears footsteps approaching; Arsen turns to the source of the sound, beaming in that charmingly inviting way he does, the way that’s neither kind nor cruel and draws the masses in.

“It seems I’m giving out love advice tonight. Want to join?”