Exxus :: [Halcyon + Phyneas]
Apr 10, 2014 14:16:40 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Apr 10, 2014 14:16:40 GMT -5
This is the hush.
When she rages, she storms — lightning and hail and the world-splitting crash of destruction. For hours she has torn false bodies limb from limb until plastic chests that have never known hearts (and certainly won't now) split open wide enough for the ceiling to gaze into the empty space where a pair of lungs should be. By now, she hardly feels as if she has any lungs left either, breathing ragged as she wipes the back of her hand across her forehead. Wisps of loose hair writhe free from her ponytail, sticking to the fake cherry-stain of blood that coats her hands. A smear of sheer red is left across her skin, the wicked ghost of every lie she has told herself today.
It has been almost two years and the girl still tells herself it is only a matter of time until the history of her last name fades back into quiet obscurity. Her sister's Victory is only a momentary legend. New champions will steal her crown. Halcyon is not cursed to forever be a shadow-dweller. These are the mantras she tells herself as she hacks away at training dummies with swords and shoots off a round of glares to the trainers who eye her with both disappointment and great expectation, hoping the brutal girl before them might suddenly cross the room with a series of back-flips, if only to punch them in the face. This particular daughter of the Antoinette name will only ever be willing to meet half of those expectations.
Knuckle-crack, she swings her fist into the nearest punching bag as she walks by, haphazard and defiant. Even now, she refuses to drop her chin. She cares little for how Cricket's glory may or may not reflect upon her, stubbornly looking to prove that she is strong enough to champion her own battles. That's why, despite walking the line of exhaustion, she doesn't stop to rest and instead marches over to the practice area for knife throwing.
These blades are much smaller and lighter than the broadsword she has been swinging around and she holds little appreciation for the delicate nuisances of attacking with this type of weapon, preferring those with more heft and bone-smashing ability. Still, this is her way of taking a break and so she flings the first knife at the wall, frowning as it misses the outline of the target-body by a foot or so. Her breath is quiet as she picks the next up and takes a moment to focus before throwing again. It hits in the thigh, almost missing entirely again, and she cringes as one of the other Careers behind her sniggers and mutters a comment about Halcyon lacking her sister's grace and talent, except spoken in the kinds of words Halcyon might favor if her own words weren't cursed.
Perhaps that's why she bites her incoherent tongue and picks up a third dagger instead of whirling around in search of a confrontation, knowing she couldn't say anything back one way or another, or maybe this is simply the eye of a storm.
When she rages, she storms — lightning and hail and the world-splitting crash of destruction. For hours she has torn false bodies limb from limb until plastic chests that have never known hearts (and certainly won't now) split open wide enough for the ceiling to gaze into the empty space where a pair of lungs should be. By now, she hardly feels as if she has any lungs left either, breathing ragged as she wipes the back of her hand across her forehead. Wisps of loose hair writhe free from her ponytail, sticking to the fake cherry-stain of blood that coats her hands. A smear of sheer red is left across her skin, the wicked ghost of every lie she has told herself today.
It has been almost two years and the girl still tells herself it is only a matter of time until the history of her last name fades back into quiet obscurity. Her sister's Victory is only a momentary legend. New champions will steal her crown. Halcyon is not cursed to forever be a shadow-dweller. These are the mantras she tells herself as she hacks away at training dummies with swords and shoots off a round of glares to the trainers who eye her with both disappointment and great expectation, hoping the brutal girl before them might suddenly cross the room with a series of back-flips, if only to punch them in the face. This particular daughter of the Antoinette name will only ever be willing to meet half of those expectations.
Knuckle-crack, she swings her fist into the nearest punching bag as she walks by, haphazard and defiant. Even now, she refuses to drop her chin. She cares little for how Cricket's glory may or may not reflect upon her, stubbornly looking to prove that she is strong enough to champion her own battles. That's why, despite walking the line of exhaustion, she doesn't stop to rest and instead marches over to the practice area for knife throwing.
These blades are much smaller and lighter than the broadsword she has been swinging around and she holds little appreciation for the delicate nuisances of attacking with this type of weapon, preferring those with more heft and bone-smashing ability. Still, this is her way of taking a break and so she flings the first knife at the wall, frowning as it misses the outline of the target-body by a foot or so. Her breath is quiet as she picks the next up and takes a moment to focus before throwing again. It hits in the thigh, almost missing entirely again, and she cringes as one of the other Careers behind her sniggers and mutters a comment about Halcyon lacking her sister's grace and talent, except spoken in the kinds of words Halcyon might favor if her own words weren't cursed.
Perhaps that's why she bites her incoherent tongue and picks up a third dagger instead of whirling around in search of a confrontation, knowing she couldn't say anything back one way or another, or maybe this is simply the eye of a storm.
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
