#ruetto

At times, it felt like the silvered, sprawling, closely bundled and sloped rooftops were made for her.  Effortless in bounds and leaps, silent in stops and starts, she could sometimes get away with calling her motions fluid.  Liquid shadow.  Hah.  How pretentious.  He would love it, really.  Lotus-hilted daggers, bursts of moths and bird-like masks --

Birds.  Avian imagery kept following her every damned where.

She wasn’t opposed to it.  It reminded her of pleasant things now, too.  Confusing, but reciprocated feelings.  Blades sunk deep into rib cages, blood licked clean from deactivated void blades.  

No, not now.  No getting lost in fantasy.

She stepped off the lip of a curved rooftop to leap with the softest pad of leather soles against the surface of another, leaving behind a trail of shadowy vines, small, shadowy ‘sunflowers’ blooming in deep purples. It was altogether likely that they weren’t actually there at all.  Her lips quirked at the loud clank of a hook and the rattle of pulling chain as someone launched themselves to the neighboring rooftop.  How did anyone sleep in this place?  Did anyone sleep in this place?

“You constantly surprise me.  Lack of outward indication hardly means anything.”

No, it meant a great deal.  Everything the insufferable old elf never indicated meant a great deal.  She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to, but it did.  Everything underneath the sun’s blessed light and shadow had always mattered so much, and he was the third in a quartet of those who’d mattered most.  Something bit at her.  Shattered glass and moss-covered statues with stony, passive faces no matter how hard she screamed or sang at--

Stop it.

Swallowed back magic left sweet tastes in her mouth, like syrupy medicine meant for children.  She could feel the irritation ticking like a cat’s tail tip, twitching back and forth.  Like a metronome, like a grandfather clock--

No, stop it.

Another leap, and then two more, to a terrace, to some open balcony, to a second-story window and a peek inside for just a moment.  Some nameless nightborn paced back and forth as restlessly as a cat sitting at the doorway, indecisive about whether or not it wants in or out.  With a quick pull, the rogue weightlessly shifted up and to the higher, sloped rooftop.   There was something so intensely satisfying about looking down over everything.

Over everyone.

No, no actual chip on her shoulder.  She’d never really had one, never really needed anyone’s approval, exactly.  Praise, yes ( and oh how she’d come to find that one out ).  A need to be better than everyone at everything, maybe.  A need to move forward, but everyone had that.  A need for --

Closure?  Something they all denied you.  Something none of them had time for, but all the time in the world for others.

One did.  She couldn’t do him the disservice of dismissing how often he was willing to listen, to offer quiet and considerate opinion and all else, always considerate.  The cat turned away, ears and tail flicking, golden eyes sullenly bored.  Lightly little sunmote.  But while he was nestled in a fond and hopeful little corner --

Feathers, dagger points, petals or rabbit ears.

Actually, a lot of Ruetto’s nervous habits are ... well, nothing at all.  The rogue goes absolutely still when truly uncomfortable.  She’s typically animated to the point of obnoxious movement when she’s chipper and pleased and happy and trying to be enchanting.  Rocking back on her heels, gesturing with her hands, leaning forward toward whoever she’s talking to with big smiles and silver-tongued turns of phrase --

But nervous?  That comes with complete and utter stillness.  No motions, no animation, not even an ear twitch.  

Name: Ruetto Sin’Eranu/Maluiel Quel’Malanore/Silverfire

Names.  They were just that.  Names.  Sounds.  Vowels and consonants and yet each one sparked little bits of feeling that, while carefully maintained, couldn’t be ignored.

The first, an ironic moniker.  Forgotten Blood.  No one had come to claim her when she sat in the line of survivors, unable to recall her family or house, or any possible identifier.  Free of scars or otherwise indicative birth-marks that might have been written into records of her birth -- not that any of the first responders would have had much time to pick through records and narrow down possibilities base on such little data.

The second, a name that came with no title, no inheritance and still, no family to claim her.  She remembered bits and pieces, and knew that if she took the time to delve into herself, she could dredge up plenty more besides.  The thought of looking terribly far into herself was frightening, like stepping into a house of mirrors, unable to find one’s way back.  It felt like a dormant thing on the verge of waking, some terrible sweeping creature full of wrath and vengeance that she felt too tired to entertain trying to put back to sleep.

The third.  An era.  It felt like an eon at the time.  Like it would never end.  Like nothing would ever change.  She still couldn’t bring herself to think about it more than that.

A: 82

S: F

H: 5‘7“

H/C: Black

E/C: Violet

Ruetto wasn’t surprised to see how quickly and concisely the puppeteer had taken notes, abbreviations in much of the more official sections.  Elsewhere, quick but legible script always in inks and with nary a mistake or so much as an inkblot filled pages full of information from medical to magical.  He’d known about her inherent arcane abilities, about her natural affinity and grasp of magics in several schools and aspects.  He’d known about her history, and it evidently hadn’t taken him long at all to dig deeply enough into records once he’d learned of her more defining traits, and sleuth his way into piecing together her identity while she floundered about in the harbor of the unknown.

Ruetto sat, curled into the armrest of a comfortable, cushioned couch -- the apartment was just big enough for her, and while she enjoyed time spent out of doors and tentatively around others, or in the company of a progressively growing lop-eared monstrosity.  Here though, she could be left wholly undisturbed to the occasional pressing need for silence and solitude.  

As I’ve laid the foundation over years of time and effort, I’ve witnessed shifts in personality that have little to do with my experimentation or tampering.  A general submissiveness is to be expected, but in the course of my spell weaving, the Songbird has slipped into an almost perpetually listless, dreamlike state.  The lack of inclination toward singing has extended into a far broader desire for silence, and she does not speak in anyone’s company but my own, unless under extreme duress.  The Songbird maintains a cheery disposition regardless, and while not unpalatable, it is odd to me that without any morale modification, she continues to attempt pursuit of every day tasks with all the pleasantness of a morale construct.  

Significant cognitive impairment may have something to do with the cheery behavior.  A simple mind is possessed of simple pleasures, and a servile disposition is most content when serving.  That being said, there are still the occasional slips.  Some compartmentalization of the Songbird’s identity remains and sparks rebellion when prodded, making deciphering its pattern and piecing it apart a difficult and time-consuming process that I simply haven’t the extra hours for.

Ruetto set the page down and picked up another, rubbing her face with her free hand and pulling her bangs away from her eyes.  Slouched forward over the armrest, the ‘Songbird’ kept her head propped in that free hand, half curled now into her hair.  Cognitive impairment.  Servile disposition.  Morale construct.  It was an honest wonder at how she’d managed to scrape much of any of herself back if any of this was -- though he’d likely just underestimated her -- but he couldn’t have, really, could he?  He’d been to and fro in the court of her mind, plucking at strings and setting triggers and traps, lines of programmed behavior.  He’d seen nearly everything she was, save for the little bits she’d managed to square away from him, much the same way she’d compartmentalized herself from the Sha.

A trill of amusement colored the thought that he had honestly been more lastingly devastating than -- and that even now, she was still ... still fighting off -- ...

“I certainly enjoy being asked, I like a sense of initiative in a partner -- that being said, I understand a lot of people are shy, and occasionally I like the thought of taking obligation off of someone’s shoulders.”

Ruetto tips her head to one side.

"I miss our fights, actually.  I didn't think I would, but you were one of the first to help me find a ferocity within myself that I'm not sure I would have otherwise.  The sound of jingling keys still brings your scarred face to mind."

"I hope you're alive.  I miss finding you asleep on benches.  You were always up for getting into trouble and I had fun sitting around, picking out people we thought looked interesting as they passed by.  I would have said yes, if you'd passed.  Hah.  But you knew that."

"You know, I - ... I still am not terribly sure how to be, around you.  I keep looking for masks to pick up, for roles to assume, the way I did with the others we knew.  I don't think you want that.  But it's been a long time since I've just been me, and the urge to don silly guises expecting you to put me into a slot -- ... though, I guess we can don silly guises with each other for fun, still.  Please sweep me into another song and dance, I beg you.  It's been so long since anyone's called to all facets of me the way you have."

"I'm not sure who has who caught and stolen away.  Do you own me, or is it the other way around?  I think that ambiguity is what keeps me from fearing you.  I don't know if I want the power you have, or the immortality you offer.  But time changes things, and time must fly so quickly to a thing like you.  I'm sure you'll get what you want eventually."

"I still want to smack you for making things weird.  We could have had a lot more fun.”

“I think I understand.  I’m not her, and once I couldn’t be crammed into a nice little slot to fit what you needed, I stopped being interesting.  And I should have kicked you while you were down.  Oddly, I think you might have respected that.”

“I wrote to you, and I’m a little worried that you haven’t written back yet.  I know you’re alright.  You’re smart, resourceful, and above all, wonderfully sneaky.  I always had a bit of a crush on you, but I can’t help wondering if it’s because of that little margin of distance you always kept between us.”

"Look.  I'll beat you up all you want, but I'm not into virgins.  Just take a few years, find a girlfriend, and I promise it'll help get rid of that giant chip on your shoulder.  I don't even remember what this family feud was about."