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The Menacing Mariner never really seemed to have a 'down time'. Maybe her anxieties and sharp elven ears made each voice seem like ten, until the entire ale-house seemed to be bursting into the streets. Maybe it was the hints of desperation in sailors, trying to escape their wives and 'happy, settled' lives for hours on end. Or maybe the human insistence on drinking ale into the early hours of the morning after success had fallen onto their lap.
Thresh despised that. It was disgusting, and it made little sense to celebrate through ensuring the next morning was filled with the regret of a dry mouth, a disgusting taste on the tongue and the inability to think for three seconds without a throbbing headache and shallow black marks under the eyes. But still, it was where she sought shelter for the night. Fleeing the Second Wind, and all of those people. All of those gods damned eyes on her. Burning holes through her with expectations.
It wasn't like here. Here, when eyes met her hips, or a sailor commented on the exposure of her legs in her robes, it was as simple as a glare and a idle threat to dismiss them. Threats of turning their genitals to dust, or their eyes to jelly, of summoning a horror from beyond to take their thumbs and their first-born children if they attempted whatever their efforts had been a second time.
It never did win her friends amongst them. But the elf was tired, and being truthful to herself, still never found the meaning behind such a word as 'friends'. Brave enough to say it was her own short-coming. But far too afraid to change it, as her small fist gripped the iron key to her room and each barely audible fall of her boots up the stairs was the only fan-fare to her departure of the bar. The second floor as unspectacular as ever, with her massive yellow eyes adjusting to the dark hallways. There were some disgusting noises coming from one of the rooms. It hardly took a academy mage to divine what was happening past that door, and secretly, Thresh despised both the occupants for their ability to let go of better senses and embrace one another. She despised them, for being animals completely different to her own instincts.
She despised them for being happy. For being normal. And that, in turn, only made her despise herself further.
The lock to her room cranked and creaked as ominously as death itself exhaling. Even after the key was turned, she just stood there for ten seconds, staring at the floor. At her boots, still caked in mud from a sudden and nonsensical flight from people, escaping social enterprises and expectations. In the back of her head, she told herself she was listening for assassins waiting in the room, and the truth was not far off. As paranoid and ridiculous as it was, it made her heart beat in her chest worse then any small animal could manage, fingers gripping the key tighter and tighter until the skin beneath her gloves was surely as blistering white as they could be, her every breath shallow and labored with anxiety.
And then she thrust the door open. And there was nothing there. Four walls, a ceiling and a floor. A bed, a desk and a wardrobe. A rug, a few candles awaiting a touch of flame and several barrels kept alongside everything. Another thing she despised. As if she had to live alongside storage space, important enough to throw coins at the keep, and too dispensable not to receive a room that didn't reek of ale kegs.
Then again, she did have to recall... what was it she'd told him? He'd mumbled something vulgar under his breath about her backside, what was it... had something to do with shrinking him, growing the rat, and seeing if Ol' Whiskey would simply eat him. Infact, had it even been the keep? It was hard to recall, her mind preferred to expunge most social experiences shortly after they happened. It was easier to keep a distance that way.
"... what am I doing?"
Her own voice nearly startled her as she continued standing in the entrance of her room. She'd started speaking native elven in her alone time, it felt more comfortable to her. And the language was easily much more beautiful then common. But the door wasn't even closed behind herself until a short gesture and a few arcane words brought a simple mage hand into existence. Yanking the door closed behind herself, while Thresh drew a wand from her waist and began to light each candle with a soft flick of the wrist, wide yellow eyes checking each corner of the room twice to ensure she was alone. The bed was left ignored. There was no time for reverie this evening, only work. If she tried to rest, the nagging in the back of her head would easily disrupt the entire evening. Assuming she didn't exercise her inner demons in other ways...
"You're. Supposed to stop doing that."
Thresh shakes her head, snapping out of her second walking coma. Somehow she'd seated herself at the desk, and already drawn out her newest project. A large mason jar filled with dirt. A wide pan. A single, small fire essence and a flourospar gem. A pitcher of water. And some seeds. Her hand moved to the jar, and all at once thoughts of embracing stilettos and locking the door, never to leave this room until she simply ceased to be evaporated in favor of arcane pursuits.
It was far from a extraordinary experiment. The mason jar held three pounds of soil from 'The Pit' as everyone called it. Thresh had taken to calling it 'The Wound', as each visit caused her skin to crawl. Something about the weave there, or perhaps the natural world. It was a wound. A hideous gash that refused to stop bleeding. These next few days might help her understand, at least a little bit more then current circumstances.
Theories were bouncing about her skull. If the soil could support life when taken far away from the The Pit, then the effects were residual. Simply a matter of the city's reactors, and magics at work, creating some fashion of disruption.
As Thresh began to spread simple grass seed across the dirt, the other fact came into her mind. If the soil would not be fixed, simply by carrying it away. What did that mean? What did even the former mean? This was such a small step to beginning her studies. The pitcher of water granted a testing dip of the elf's fingers, finding it suitably warm before just enough was poured across her miniature 'Pit'. Just enough to welcome the grass further.
The final piece of her experiment came with a crushing grip of her hand, and the mumbles of ancient words of power. Thresh had to admit. Her wife to be, Artemis, might be silly, might be too imaginative, but this time she'd had quite a good idea if only the execution were modified. Crushing the fire essence to the small precious stone, and by the end of her incantation creating a tiny little warm sun. Just a small stone. Shedding light, and warmth. If her observations were correct, the right manipulation of sunburst and fire arrow should entirely reproduce the results of a nice window-side view of the massive star.
Thresh cried very briefly. The thing she'd made, though small, was beautiful to her. She remembered dreaming of this exact same thing, such a long time ago. Back when there was nothing but infinite darkness, and cold stone walls. Back when 'Starweaver' was just a subtle insult. Back when 'Thresh' was never a name. And now she'd made one.
"Is this. What they meant by. Art?"
Her stomach immediately twisted into a knot. There's a rush of nausea, and the elf can only hear her heart beating in her throat, unable to swallow.
Her small sun was placed in a simple wire apparatus to hold it over the dirt, but she soon found herself unable to work. Pupils dilated, forehead starting to get sweaty. Even her hair of midnight black seemed to weigh heavier, as she curled her legs to her stomach, and began to take panicked breaths.
It wasn't anyone's fault but her own. And she knew it. And she reminded herself, a hundred times a minute, that they weren't laughing at her. Right? They didn't hate her for something this stupid. Right? But every time, her mind was more then kind enough to follow up with each of her short-comings. Each of her idiotic words, and actions, fueling her paranoia higher and higher.
A letter opener on the desk became a invitation. A nice, sharp point at the top. Her leg twitching feverishly as she stared across its shiny surface, and considered. Even the steel tipped quill... that would do the work. Easily, it could. All she had to do was reach out, take it, and just one little prick.
But it's never just one little prick. The tiny sea of scars on her upper thighs were testament to that. It would be one, then three, then it wouldn't stop until her crying left her exhausted and her legs were too numb to walk properly, and another bandage would need to be discreetly applied. But it was still so tempting. Better then simply waiting for someone else to do it.
Thresh's hand reaches out, and takes the letter opener. Grips it tightly, measuring the weight. Holding it over a candle, and staring at it like she was simply witnessing the events without any measure of control to them. Letting the iron heat up, knowing that soon enough it would be clean...
((Continued below.))
Thresh despised that. It was disgusting, and it made little sense to celebrate through ensuring the next morning was filled with the regret of a dry mouth, a disgusting taste on the tongue and the inability to think for three seconds without a throbbing headache and shallow black marks under the eyes. But still, it was where she sought shelter for the night. Fleeing the Second Wind, and all of those people. All of those gods damned eyes on her. Burning holes through her with expectations.
It wasn't like here. Here, when eyes met her hips, or a sailor commented on the exposure of her legs in her robes, it was as simple as a glare and a idle threat to dismiss them. Threats of turning their genitals to dust, or their eyes to jelly, of summoning a horror from beyond to take their thumbs and their first-born children if they attempted whatever their efforts had been a second time.
It never did win her friends amongst them. But the elf was tired, and being truthful to herself, still never found the meaning behind such a word as 'friends'. Brave enough to say it was her own short-coming. But far too afraid to change it, as her small fist gripped the iron key to her room and each barely audible fall of her boots up the stairs was the only fan-fare to her departure of the bar. The second floor as unspectacular as ever, with her massive yellow eyes adjusting to the dark hallways. There were some disgusting noises coming from one of the rooms. It hardly took a academy mage to divine what was happening past that door, and secretly, Thresh despised both the occupants for their ability to let go of better senses and embrace one another. She despised them, for being animals completely different to her own instincts.
She despised them for being happy. For being normal. And that, in turn, only made her despise herself further.
The lock to her room cranked and creaked as ominously as death itself exhaling. Even after the key was turned, she just stood there for ten seconds, staring at the floor. At her boots, still caked in mud from a sudden and nonsensical flight from people, escaping social enterprises and expectations. In the back of her head, she told herself she was listening for assassins waiting in the room, and the truth was not far off. As paranoid and ridiculous as it was, it made her heart beat in her chest worse then any small animal could manage, fingers gripping the key tighter and tighter until the skin beneath her gloves was surely as blistering white as they could be, her every breath shallow and labored with anxiety.
And then she thrust the door open. And there was nothing there. Four walls, a ceiling and a floor. A bed, a desk and a wardrobe. A rug, a few candles awaiting a touch of flame and several barrels kept alongside everything. Another thing she despised. As if she had to live alongside storage space, important enough to throw coins at the keep, and too dispensable not to receive a room that didn't reek of ale kegs.
Then again, she did have to recall... what was it she'd told him? He'd mumbled something vulgar under his breath about her backside, what was it... had something to do with shrinking him, growing the rat, and seeing if Ol' Whiskey would simply eat him. Infact, had it even been the keep? It was hard to recall, her mind preferred to expunge most social experiences shortly after they happened. It was easier to keep a distance that way.
"... what am I doing?"
Her own voice nearly startled her as she continued standing in the entrance of her room. She'd started speaking native elven in her alone time, it felt more comfortable to her. And the language was easily much more beautiful then common. But the door wasn't even closed behind herself until a short gesture and a few arcane words brought a simple mage hand into existence. Yanking the door closed behind herself, while Thresh drew a wand from her waist and began to light each candle with a soft flick of the wrist, wide yellow eyes checking each corner of the room twice to ensure she was alone. The bed was left ignored. There was no time for reverie this evening, only work. If she tried to rest, the nagging in the back of her head would easily disrupt the entire evening. Assuming she didn't exercise her inner demons in other ways...
"You're. Supposed to stop doing that."
Thresh shakes her head, snapping out of her second walking coma. Somehow she'd seated herself at the desk, and already drawn out her newest project. A large mason jar filled with dirt. A wide pan. A single, small fire essence and a flourospar gem. A pitcher of water. And some seeds. Her hand moved to the jar, and all at once thoughts of embracing stilettos and locking the door, never to leave this room until she simply ceased to be evaporated in favor of arcane pursuits.
It was far from a extraordinary experiment. The mason jar held three pounds of soil from 'The Pit' as everyone called it. Thresh had taken to calling it 'The Wound', as each visit caused her skin to crawl. Something about the weave there, or perhaps the natural world. It was a wound. A hideous gash that refused to stop bleeding. These next few days might help her understand, at least a little bit more then current circumstances.
Theories were bouncing about her skull. If the soil could support life when taken far away from the The Pit, then the effects were residual. Simply a matter of the city's reactors, and magics at work, creating some fashion of disruption.
As Thresh began to spread simple grass seed across the dirt, the other fact came into her mind. If the soil would not be fixed, simply by carrying it away. What did that mean? What did even the former mean? This was such a small step to beginning her studies. The pitcher of water granted a testing dip of the elf's fingers, finding it suitably warm before just enough was poured across her miniature 'Pit'. Just enough to welcome the grass further.
The final piece of her experiment came with a crushing grip of her hand, and the mumbles of ancient words of power. Thresh had to admit. Her wife to be, Artemis, might be silly, might be too imaginative, but this time she'd had quite a good idea if only the execution were modified. Crushing the fire essence to the small precious stone, and by the end of her incantation creating a tiny little warm sun. Just a small stone. Shedding light, and warmth. If her observations were correct, the right manipulation of sunburst and fire arrow should entirely reproduce the results of a nice window-side view of the massive star.
Thresh cried very briefly. The thing she'd made, though small, was beautiful to her. She remembered dreaming of this exact same thing, such a long time ago. Back when there was nothing but infinite darkness, and cold stone walls. Back when 'Starweaver' was just a subtle insult. Back when 'Thresh' was never a name. And now she'd made one.
"Is this. What they meant by. Art?"
Her stomach immediately twisted into a knot. There's a rush of nausea, and the elf can only hear her heart beating in her throat, unable to swallow.
Her small sun was placed in a simple wire apparatus to hold it over the dirt, but she soon found herself unable to work. Pupils dilated, forehead starting to get sweaty. Even her hair of midnight black seemed to weigh heavier, as she curled her legs to her stomach, and began to take panicked breaths.
It wasn't anyone's fault but her own. And she knew it. And she reminded herself, a hundred times a minute, that they weren't laughing at her. Right? They didn't hate her for something this stupid. Right? But every time, her mind was more then kind enough to follow up with each of her short-comings. Each of her idiotic words, and actions, fueling her paranoia higher and higher.
A letter opener on the desk became a invitation. A nice, sharp point at the top. Her leg twitching feverishly as she stared across its shiny surface, and considered. Even the steel tipped quill... that would do the work. Easily, it could. All she had to do was reach out, take it, and just one little prick.
But it's never just one little prick. The tiny sea of scars on her upper thighs were testament to that. It would be one, then three, then it wouldn't stop until her crying left her exhausted and her legs were too numb to walk properly, and another bandage would need to be discreetly applied. But it was still so tempting. Better then simply waiting for someone else to do it.
Thresh's hand reaches out, and takes the letter opener. Grips it tightly, measuring the weight. Holding it over a candle, and staring at it like she was simply witnessing the events without any measure of control to them. Letting the iron heat up, knowing that soon enough it would be clean...
((Continued below.))
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