Tern's RP.

Let’s just hope it doesn’t take me 10 months to complete this challenge this time! I’m posting the prompts daily in other servers, so hopefully that keeps me on top of it.  | 2021 List | 

A bubbling stream flowed slowly, breaking up the image of a still, purple face full of sadness and loss. Eyes lidded, hands in his lap, Sukhbataar stared at his glittering image. Nhaama's light cast a glow around his reflection as it crumbled and reformed over and over again. Though, the movement of it all completely hid the tears that trickled down his cheeks.

No longer angry, all of that betrayal and deep disappointment had faded away just to expose a soft and tender inside stained by grief.

Bells passed before small, bare feet padded through the grass to stand behind him -- her image just as flickering and messy as his in the water. And though he could see her, he ignored her... only staring at himself.

<"Your tribe needs you,"> she whispered to him, placing a gentle hand on his back. Once massive, carrying the weight of the tribe and dozens of bloody battles, they were thinning. Malnourished and reclused, grief was destroying a giant. <"They miss you, Ugdan. Come back to them.">

Silence left the air between them empty, just cold and damp from the chill of night and spray from the stream.

<"...Sukh, --"> She was cut off.

<"Lose your wife and child in one night when you were gone, when you'd abandoned her to suffer and die alone, Oyun. And then tell me if you would be able to care that the *tribe* needs you,"> he hissed, that voice a dark rumble like a stampeding herd of Dzo in the distance. <"They don't truly need me. It's a lie. I help no one. I am a valve turned when pressure needs released. A punching bag for petty squabbles and and chauffeur for the mediocre in our tribe. You cannot convince me otherwise.">

Oyun pulled her hand back to fold it with the other by her chest -- surprised and uncertain on how to respond.

She sighed and stepped away, turning her face just to whisper a response. <"They do need you. They do miss you. I know it doesn't feel great now, Sukhbataar. But, our success can be directly linked to your involvement."> Oyun bit her lip and murmured a parting gift on her exit: <"I have left a bowl of Tsuivan in your yurt for you when you decide to return.">

Still on his knees, still staring at the glittering, gurgling stream -- Sukh's shoulders only fell further when he was, once again, alone. Though, it only took him half a bell to raise to his feet again.

Lightning struck close to the Khaa -- a single tendril lashing out from the thick bolt to connect with the top of a yurt. Screams echoed through the night and panicked feet carried the many Dotharl around the camp to do their best to extinguish the flames. It was only a lightning storm. Not a drop of rain fell from the sky to assist them. Nhaama was angry but Sukh didn't understand why. What had they done?

He directed the lost... Barking orders, with a voice as deep as the thunder that rolled across the dark sky, for any unsure of what to do to rush to the river and grab water, or to pull the yurts apart as much as they could -- yank the burning parts away from the rest to preserve as much as possible.

But the storm raged on. Violent and vicious as more and more strikes landed around the Khaa, all of them too far to be too worrying. But, as Sukh rushed toward Oyuun's yurt to make sure the children were okay -- he felt the hair on his head stand up. Black eyes widened and time slowed. He inhaled, looking up to the sky that threatened him and the children, dropping his gaze just to see Siluun's eldest running through the Khaa.

Something screamed to him. No one could hear the sound, but he could feel it. Everything... Everything said to him that he had to go to that child that was already half his height.

Sukh sprinted, yelling for the boy to get out of the way who only looked back at his Ugdan in plain confusion... Like small prey caught in a trap, lost and afraid. But the shaman knocked the boy out of the way with his body and, in instinct alone, stuck one hand into the air and pointed the other away from the Khaa.

Levin beamed down from the sky and connected with him and he could, as he'd envisioned in his dreams, feel that raw and terrifying energy rush through his body as he screamed out in fear and agony -- but the rest of that bolt exited his other hand and rocketed off toward an empty hill in the distance.

As he lay on that icy ground, naked and shivering, his nightmare had been realized. Unable to move, injured and barely alive, looking death in the face, he had to wonder if he'd just... Done something wrong. What had he done wrong? Where had he failed? He was so careful. How had he, Khartsakhan of the Moks, been captured. How was he, truly, the one on the floor, chained to the wall, bleeding out as he waited for that hungry wolf in the corner to finally have his dinner.

Khartsakhan would've liked to have the confidence to say he never made mistakes. To anyone that didn't matter to him, he would proclaim it. But as his horn scraped against that stone floor, dug out of layers and layers of ice, he had to admit it. As his vision blurred and sleep tugged at the lids of his eyes, he had to... admit it. He failed. His entire fucking life, he failed.

He failed the Moks. He failed the Mierqid. He failed Shiidemtsatsral. He failed Ochmaa. He failed Rah'sanavi. He failed Atheza. He failed every one of the people he tried to actually consider as friends. Izumi. Altan. Fucking Lydia -- wherever she went.

His ego was wounded. His confidence shattered. The Assassin, the man made rich for killing the mostly untouchable... He was afraid.

High heels clicked down the stairs outside that heavy wooden door and he curled in on himself. All he could do was be obstinate. Maybe that would give him time. Someone was looking for him, right? No. Khartsakhan was an asshole. He isolated himself intentionally. It was his fault.

Even glass can become so strong that once dropped to the ground it does not break. That was the hope for her. To put her under heat and pressure until she hardened. She was so perfect. So delicate. So devoted. She impressed him every day with that, the devotion. The sheer adoration. She was in love with him.

While a Devil may love an angel, he knows he cannot have her. He is depraved, naturally, in his wants and wishes. While she may be perfect, adoring, kind, giving, it would never be enough for the Devil. For he wants challenge and competition, he wants ambition and eagerness to push. And that was what she was... Sweet Elina. Ambitious in word but hardly in action. Devoted and sweet and fair -- but she lacked some fire.

His eyes closed as he turned a glass of amber liquor in his hand, allowing the contents to swirl and aerate as he thought.

Sometimes, in the middle of a storm, I like to leave my yurt and wander away from the Khaa just long enough for people to miss me. It's not because I need that sense of importance... But, because I want to watch the streaks of levin tear across the black sky. As rain pelts my body and face, I imagine what it would feel like to stick my hand up toward the sky and rip that power away from the clouds and let it rush through me. I'd like to wield it. I want to be so powerful that I can call on Nhaama's anger and use it to strike down Her enemies. My enemies. I want to protect the Dotharl with that power. I want to learn from it and pass that on to the next several versions of myself.

One determination I have always pursued but never been able to accurately figure, with comfort and certainty, is the point at which potential can or should become reality. It is much like when sketching a design. It is easy to fall in love with a sketch and overwork it until one feels near fear and panic when it is time to line and color. When should the sketching phase be finished?

Furthermore, when should the jump from planning to action be made?

It is too easy for it to become too late... Moments of opportunity are as fragile and fleeting as a delicate woman's heart. It is difficult to make sure the jump is well calculated enough to not be too short.

I didn't want to kill her. That little idiot didn't know what the fuck was going on. I pushed her. I hit her... because I thought she did. But, just that incredible, vacant fucking expression marred with bland confusion screamed her innocence.

Like me, like most people on this hideous, crumbling star, she was just looking for where she belonged. Some fucking purpose that no one finds, anyway.

It's not like it helped. But, I am glad I wasn't the one to do it. Maybe it was better that Altan did. I'm sure they were closer. Maybe it was better to come from him. Maybe it wasn't. But, at least it was a quick death. I just wish it wasn't for nothing.

I actually believed in that weird fucking idiot. She'd proved herself. She could shoot. She didn't completely fuck everything up when we went on jobs together.

Maybe I'm just mad. I think I'm just pissed off about how all of this happened. Izumi deserved better. I think Claire did, too.

I know she didn't make it. I know she died a likely terrible, gruesome death... I just didn't have the fucking guts to look. To find out.

All I could think about was the way she looked when she tended to her garden. So at peace. So happy. She looked at those strange plants like they were her children -- and that garden, the way it flourished, proved that she cared for it just like that.

She probably didn't deserve it. Since when have I cared about someone not deserving their death, though? It's my job. It always has been. Follow the gil. Take the life and ask only as many questions as I need to in order to get the job done right. I didn't even kill her and I'm fucking bothered. But maybe it's because I didn't. Maybe it's because I know that crazy fucker did, instead. Maybe it's because every time I think about it, I imagine her hanging in her garden, bled like a game animal -- that serene place stained blood fucking red. Maybe, out of spite, all of her plants were uprooted and dumped in the water. Some floating above, some settling in the mud.

As the sun set and the moon waited patiently for her turn under the star, Khartsakhan claimed a cliffside for himself. Legs dangling away from crumbling stone and falling clumps of loose grass and dirt, he supported himself with only his fingers wedged into dangerously small pockets of space. He'd climbed that cliff before. Several times, in fact. Maybe, one day... He'd be the reason that cliffside smoothed into something no one could climb. It'd be a shame, but at least it'd be uniquely his. No one could touch it because he'd shaped it.

Khartsakhan sucked in a tight breath, core engaged as he swung his legs for more power. And in one quick, long jump -- he reached up to hook his fingers around the ledge and slowly pull his body up.

But as his chin cleared the cliff, those golden eyes lifted and he could have sworn he saw Her above him. Hands on her hips, stark naked as the warm, orange glow of the sun outlined her body. She was beautiful, even as those coral hues squinted down at him. 'Prove it,' she'd said to him that night. And, unlike never before... He wanted to. Her way.

Pushed down to his knees, he lost himself in her. And he didn't immediately take control of the situation like he usually would. It was so unlike himself that it gripped his mind for bells and bells after they were both breathless and their bodies were left useless. He'd proved it to her, right? That he loved her. That he was sorry. Because he was.

"...Why are you telling me this," Khartsakhan asked, his typical agitated voice and harsh consonants cutting through Isak's statement mid-way. Khartsakhan wore black that day, hair up in a tidy bun with his hood hanging off of his shoulders just waiting to be pulled up. Golden eyes glowered down at Isak who sat at his desk... Impatient. Demanding.

Isak sucked in a slow breath, cool as ever even under that hot, scrutinizing glare. "Because you need to hear it, Khartsakhan." He shrugged his shoulders, relaxed as he pulled one leg over the other and rested his hands in his lap, folded together. "I value our working relationship very much!"

"How the fuck does cutting my hair have anything to do with our working relationship," he snapped quickly.

"You look like... a very handsome homeless person. Not to mention -- I'm sure that it would be easier for your day to day i--"

"Your opinion doesn't mean shit to me. It's not getting cut. Can't tolerate the way I look standing in your office or bordering the parties you like to flirt around at? Fire me or shut the fuck up."

Isak smiled, pitch eyes moving between those molten golds. "Why is this the only thing you clung onto among the entirety of our conversation? I don't believe you lack that much self confidence. Was it because everything else hit home so you lashed out about the one thing you felt was actually wrong?"

Khartsakhan then realized that Isak placed the landmine on purpose. His shoulders climbed up his neck and his face twisted up. As his mouth opened to bark back, Isak spoke again.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' Listen to me," he said, leaning forward as his foot dropped to the ground beside the other. "You're no value to me if you're dead, Khartsakhan. Talented as you are, you aren't immortal. Start acting like it. I won't be the cause of your untimely death."

Khar held onto that breath he'd inhaled in preparation for the yelling -- mouth still open... he stalled and, eventually, stepped back once. "I'm sure you won't find yourself dead one of these days because you fucked the wrong bitch," he finally said in a dark, even tone. "Maybe you should clean up your own act before you try to fix mine. The next time you get shot up because you stuck your dick in a mouth and pussy that couldn't keep quiet, I'll just leave the fucker."

"Not like you were effective in that situation anyway. I got shot,” came a quick, unamused retort.

"And I dealt with it afterward, didn't I? What about this fucking artist? What's wrong with her? Crazy ex-boyfriend? Crazy father, too? Maybe she's fucking crazy and she's going to slit your throat in your sleep. Wouldn't that be rich. Smart-ass Isak Ciardha, felled by a pathetic little thing that can barely hold a knife because she got fucking jealous. Figure your way around that one."

Isak was already standing, vaulted over his desk and pointing a letter opener at Khartsakhan -- but he was quickly disarmed. It clattered to the floor as his wrist was twisted. Still, Khar didn't humiliate the guy further. He let him go and Isak just hissed a hateful sigh.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said as he turned away from the Xaela.

"Sure I don't," Khartsakhan said as he started toward the door. "See you later, boss."

It'd been a long time since he'd left his apartment well dressed because he planned to impress for his sake rather than the sake of a client. It'd been a long time since he'd been able to put his work down, since he'd had the social energy to drift into a rich party and coexist.

That night he did, though.

Dressed in black with a wine red dress shirt and black tie, handsome dark shoes with barely there embroidered petals that looked more like tendrils of smoke from a distance, he cut in for a dance with a beautiful woman. She complimented him in similar colors, though her skin was pretty and pale in stark contrast to his soot grey. Still a compliment, but that different kind that made them a joy to look at while they danced rather than a consistent wash of colors moving in the same direction.

By the end of it all, when the dance floor and bar had thinned to the point it looked more like they were stragglers than attendees -- he'd managed several linkpearls, handshakes, red lip stains on his cheek and collar, exchanged notes and, best of all..? Promises.

What a pathetic fucking way to die, right? Get your shit together, Khartsakhan, you weak fuck. How'd you even get like this? How the fuck did this happen? How are you tied up? Where is everyone? W-why are you alone?

Dirty, dark curls clung to his face as he looked up, laying on his side with his arms behind his back and his legs bound equally as tight with metal rather than rope. He was... exhausted. But, not because he'd been fighting or running recently. Because he'd been -- how long had he been there? Weak from malnourishment and dehydration, joints aching, limbs numb, he didn't know if he could move even if he was freed.

After everything. This is how you die. After the End of Days. After the Moks. After... everything. This is it. You're not falling in a fight. Not in some grand battle. You're alone. How fucking pathetic.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shivered, realizing the stinging pain of a deep cut across his chest he hadn't noticed before as he'd come to. Khartsakhan was afraid. Shaking like a fucking leaf with his horn digging into the wooden floorboards below, he let out a weak groan that echoed in the hollow room.

At least this is it. At least you're done.

Small hands both gripped the hilt of a dagger too large -- the handle thick enough that the tips of his fingers couldn't come even close to reaching the heel of his palm. His entire body trembled, dark curls having grown just past his chin bouncing freely as he shifted from his left foot to his right. He must have been only seven summers along, big round eyes colored in gold not yet touched with age or stress, though he certainly didn't lack for it.

Thin inhales and heavy, shaking exhales had him nearly hyperventilating where his skinny chest and shoulders rose and fell too quickly.

<"Stop thinking. You're panicking. Fight him, Khartsakhan,"> came a low, barked order.

His attention flitted to his trainer just long enough for his opponent to find the courage to attack while his guard was down.

With a piercing scream, the other young boy with horns pointed downward rather than forward, dusty blond hair and pale peachy skin, charged forward. He raised his similarly oversized knife over his head as he sprinted ahead -- form poor, but there was no doubt the young combatant's trained mind was frayed and blank with terror.

...

The fight ended quickly. Khartsakhan, on his knees, pressed his forehead to the other boy's shoulder as the light in his wine-colored eyes faded... And he cried. Guilt ripped through his chest as he muttered over and over how sorry he was. But, his grief was cut short as he felt an arm hook around his midsection and yank him away from his peer.

<"Sometimes you have to take a life, Khartsakhan. You will do so many more times in the rest of yours. Do not cry for the fallen. Ensure you do not become weak enough to end up like him.">

Limp, bent over his trainer's arm, he stared through a curtain of curls at the light he'd extinguished... And he could have sworn, for a single second, he saw his friend's soul leave his body. But when he blinked those tears away, the illusion was gone.