#zerimarclassics

Also not working if my comment or question is blatantly ignored because you like my skin.

No, Buffalo Bill. I want conversation. Not lotion. It clogs my pores.

First off, I CANNOT DRAW! I make a valiant effort though and - well - failed. So here if a brief little bit on my MC. Well - one of them.  This will soon make sense. (Also she is minus the sombrero and braids, of course. Hair is wild and free baby!!)

Maryssa Craven is based highly off of Soldaderas Mexicana’s of my own culture as a Chicana. 

This image is a good depiction of the Soldadera nature and what they were known for. Being young, wild, and free. The soldiers of the Mexican Revolution would sing songs about how beautiful their women were to distract the enemy and make it look like THEIR troops were weak. So the more beautiful the women sounded, the more vicious the troop. 

This is Maryssa to a T. She will fight for her own and for the people and things she loves the most, but she is actually kind of quiet. She’ll talk and hold conversations with anyone, but she rarely starts them. She has a very expressive face though and hazel eyes, so they can look like any color under the right light. Don’t immediately assume that because she is quiet that she stays that way. She can hold her own if she has to and will speak up if she really has to. Also, if you seem interesting enough, she will come up and talk to you first.  She was also known to be a rather fiery flirt. Very blunt and would dress rather plainly in comparison to the other girls of her culture and yes, she had a band of girls she would get intro trouble with OFTEN, but a bat of those long eyelashes and a flash of those pretty teeth; she managed to make some close friends fast. 

She had hair that’s so black it looks almost dark purple or blue when the sun hits it, but it is indeed black. She wears a faded maroon dress and off-white shirt (like the image above), with a forest green shawl that she wraps around her hair and shoulders but somehow ALWAYS gets lost. Which is another way she ends up meeting friends. 

Maryssa: [to random stranger, who either got wacked with a flying shawl or grabbed it from a high ledge for her] Oh, thanks. That thing flies away all the time. I swear I tied it this time. 

She thinks spiders are cute, but hates grasshoppers. She is a spontaneous hugger, excited hitter, and will happy tackle glomp you if she is excited enough. At the same time, don’t get her mad. If she does this when she is happy, blood floods the streets when she’s mad. My headcanon is that the first time Asra made her mad while she was still nonverbal - oh, he fucking KNEW! She’s a five foot one spit fire, with puppy dog eye syndrome and she HATES it, because she isn’t being cute! She will freaking END you! Or end the world FOR you. It’s entirely up in the air. 

So I’ll ask you - do you think our MCs would get along? How would their first interaction go? And yes, I do roleplay so lemme know. 

Familiar (noun): 1. well known from long or close association. 2. In close friendship. 3. Animal guides, associate to witch and cunning folk who practice magic.

 The relationship between a familiar and their master is beyond that of friend or companion. They are more than owner and pet. One does more than just feed the other, and one does more than just protect. Their energy ebbs and flows between them. A mutualistic relationship of two closely bonded friends who can sense beyond each other’s presence and thrive off one another.

So, imagine that connection being severed. Sliced in half unexpectedly. One left wandering, only missing half of themselves and never really knowing why or how it happened. All they knew is that their other half was missing. Their dear friend.

He flew over the city alone now, watching her carefully. He promised that the last time he saw him. He remembered he looked well then, worried, but well. His feathers no long shimmered with golden rays and his eyes had lost their brilliant red sheen. Everything on him looked dull and tired. Like a regular eagle amongst the flock of others, the only difference was his red eyes.

He watched them walk in the market place. Her forest green shawl still hung around her shoulders and hair. The last parting gift of a sibling to another.

But he would never again feel her fingers stroke his feathers. She would never feed or care for him again. She didn’t know him now, and would probably be frightened by him in his current state. His perch was a hole in a tree in the forest outside the city walls. The Lazaret sat within his eye line, slowly rotting away in its own nightmares. His master was not there. Nothing was.

Occasionally his call could be heard, an aching cry that broke the silence in the trees. It carried no heart or warning. It had no purpose but to make noise. Even when he landed near them, they ignored him. Paid him no mind. No more compliments about his beautiful feathers or dazzling eyes.

Nothing. No one. Only her, and she didn’t remember him. How did that hurt so much more than the knowledge that his Master was gone? Was it the remnants of his Master in him that mourned his little sister? Or was it the memories of how she smiled and held him that brought the hurt? 

The moon gave the city an eerie blue glow and it made him look ghostly pale as he flew through the narrow alleys. He landed on a window’s ledge and peered in past the curtain. He could see them laying next to each other and his feathers bristled slightly with protective nature. Carefully, and minding his talons, the golden eagle leapt inside and carefully walked towards the bed. A purple snake regarded him from her Master’s side. It wasn’t his first visit to this nest, nor would it be the last. Familiars lived longer lives than other animals.  

The woman laid asleep, nestled beside the other. His arm draped over her, with one hand lost in her dark tresses.  

She was his sister as much as she was his Master’s. This man, with white hair and purple eyes, loved her dearly. He recalled his name, and his act.

The eagle carefully fluttered his way onto the bed and tugged the blanket over her exposed foot, making her stir. He waited and she shifted again with a soft, sleepy moan and the white haired one tugged her closer into his arms for a hug before relaxing his hold on her again. One of his hands, idly twirling a lock of raven hair.

He hoped. He begged. He pleaded for a memory to expose itself.

Her eyes fluttered open and saw him at the foot of the bed, sitting up with a start and a startled gasp. The other woke with her to see him and he froze.

“You again?” Asra asked, blinking, “What do you want?”

He moved towards him and Adonis snapped at him, shrieking and flapped his great wings. The man covered the woman with his arms, blocking her from his view. He cried out again and pushed off the man’s arm, leaving a mark on him as he flew through the room, knocking items off shelves and shattering jars and glass.

He found the window and landed, giving a final hurt cry back at them and jumping out the window, hopping to a corner.

“You’re bleeding.” She said and he heard her move.

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch. Why was it here again?”

“Hold still.”

Adonis peered with keen eyes into the window, seeing his Master’s sister hover her hand over the other man’s wound. A beam of light and the scratch was gone. He bristled, angry.  

Adonis was the familiar was an alchemist. The alchemist was the older brother of Maryssa, now known as the young apprentice to Asra – the magician. Yet neither of them recalled Adonis and how he was before his Master disappeared.