arisen | ⌜ seventy-fourth finale au ⌟ | pillar v. asha

arisen | ⌜ seventy-fourth finale au ⌟ | pillar v. asha Jan 17, 2018 17:23:52 GMT -5

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Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Jan 17, 2018 17:23:52 GMT -5

PILLAR.

She wears only her skin for the first time in eight days; stripped of all her armor and breathing constellations. Orion slumbers within the downward curve of her lips, at risk of slipping and falling to his death — but he chooses not to leave her. She sleeps alone that night, regardless. Her chest burns with each inhale, limbs stinging with fatigue, but it comforts her. She wants to live, so she bleeds through her bandages and doesn't run from the flames that come to consume her. Better to be dying than to be dead.

Her fight with Hyacinth had come close, swords clashing and fire licking at their exposed skin, but Pillar was fated to be the survivor. A quick slash across the throat — and the girl from Twelve fell to the ground, dark hair spilling out around her. Not a halo; just plain black strands. She was beautiful, and then she was gone. The thorns of a winter flower. A yellow cat had poked its head out from Hyacinth's bag, calling out, but Pillar left him behind. She didn't have the right to take Buttercup away.

( She has to save herself first. )

She wakes before the sun appears, eyes already open and sword at her hip. Ghosts remain sleeping against her shoulders; blonde curls and thieving hands and a blind stare among their features. She refuses to speak their names, but she doesn't disturb them. She prepares for the finale as best she can, tying her hair up in a knot atop her head and ignoring the wrinkles across her shirt. It's not like she can mend the fabric where it's ripped, so she might as well embrace the disaster that she's become.

Purple shadows beneath her gaze and sunken cheeks, Pillar walks with heavy steps and reflects on her life as she makes her way to the Fog Lake. She had been a lamb sold to lions; a child thrown to the wolves; a girl too familiar with pain to ever consider healing as an option — and now she's a young woman, but her latest role is undisclosed. She's not sure whether she's a villain or a hero, but maybe it's better to be neither. She just wants to be something. Anything. A matchstick is no less than a wildfire.

She arrives at the lake, tendrils of mist sliding across its surface and sunlight only just beginning to stream through the clouds. One ghost stirs in her sleep, chest pouring blood, but Samira Hart's murderer doesn't dare stop her from mourning. She doesn't shrug the phantom off. Pillar's not sure why this place in particular had called to her, but it's as good a gravesite as any. She knows that this is the end. Only one tribute stands between her and victory, and she's impatient.

Sword already in her hands and satchel tossed aside, she waits by the shore. All she needs is herself and her weapon — and a final opponent. She does not know Asha Lumiere, has no memories of him beyond chance encounters and a failed ambush, but he's a part of home. She's unsure if she should hate or pity him because of this, but when his figure takes shape on the horizon, she rises to her feet and clenches her jaw. It doesn't matter. She doesn't want to feel anything for a corpse.

No words are spoken as she approaches him, no warning given to the stumbling man. Prey is prey; she doesn't care if he's incapacitated. She swings her blade, crying out with exhaustion. She wants this to be over. "Have you come to die?" she asks with a low voice, harsh and tired. "I have, too." She laughs until it hurts too much, bringing up a hand to her throat. "C'mon. Let's finish this." Her fingers reach out, grabbing at his collar and steadying him.

"I want you to be standing, Asha
— when I kill you."

( pillar fray attacks asha lumiere; sword )
OBpQFV02sword
( Deep Gash on Forehead -- 9.0 damage )

sword

arisen | ⌜ seventy-fourth finale au ⌟ | pillar v. asha Jan 17, 2018 19:33:05 GMT -5

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Post by kousei ♚ on Jan 17, 2018 19:33:05 GMT -5

A S H A

My morning star glints in the sun before my heavy swing laced with one part desperation and two parts rage splits the mind and faith of Ansgar Todd and his body crumples beneath the bloody crown I have anointed him with. I wait an eternity for two seconds to pass on his imperfect clock of mine; not quite broken but never in phase with reality. It slips from my fingers, the morning star, and hits the ground with a sickening thud and I stare at the skull fragments and brain matter staining the weapon and my hands.

An eternity, two seconds, cannon fire.

The silence that should follow is drowned when my head is tilted towards the sky and I fill the air with rancid laughter. I pause, only when I find myself in another mess of broken furniture. not bones and a world that is not monochrome in reality but in concept.

("Where is the method to your madness?")

There is no method to be found in the man who drowns the faithful in a pool their own holy white flood. I my undamaged hand caked with blood through my hair and stare at the peasant with a red crown and spit. "When you see your god, tell him Asha Lumiere is coming for his head next." And it's true, if I could find the entity that cursed me with a lust for blood but no method to see it, I would tear his throat out with my bare hands.

It's strange that this is man who took my ring finger and severed my arrogance with his knives. The man who seemed to move like he was guided by divinity himself, with the pinpoint accuracy of his flaming knives and the way he acted as if he was cloaked in holy veils and white flood. My downfall in this monochrome reality of mine but when I forced a death rattle from his self-righteous throat, his cannon sounded no different from District Four or Sacha Dupont. Just another bloodied addition to monochromatic murder -- ("colors can be differentiated only on the basis of brightness.")

I've anointed him with a crimson crown I can only differentiate on the basis of brightness.

"Be grateful, it was a messy death but a quick one. If I'd had my way, you would've begged for that god to save you from my clutches, Todd."

I'm down to the clothes my body and down to the skin on my torso because of his knives. As I'm rummaging through his belongings I hear a squeak and spot the outline of a tail. I smile, picking up my sword and with a single thrust, I skewer the rat through its spine and body. I laugh as it squirms and screeches as I twist the blade, rotating it left to right until it's struggling comes to a slow end.

("Where is the method to your madness?")

Anything associated with Ansgar Todd's self-righteous divinity must die. Apply pressure to the creed that calls for my blood and the logic that severs my ring finger; there's no commitment to be found in their veins after all.

In the reflection of my blade I spot a rusted reflection in a blade coated with black. Red hair and green eyes. "Desimae?"

Cannon fire.

("You could've made me human.")

Seconds blur to hours on this imperfect clock of mine after her form dissolves and I'm left watching the anthem, Hyacinth Mortuus' face follows Ansgar Todd's and my laughter entwines with the harmonic for the patriotic. "I hope you saw the truth in your final moments." I whisper.

The source of my monochromia; we're all the same shade of darkness here.

When I allow myself to flutter into and out of consciousness, I expect to see Pillar Fray on the horizon. And her head upon a spike crimson spike. Another shade of grief to add to those stained glass windows upon my own alter that spells out the demise of Todd's god. The perfect career girls meets the broken career son but we're all the same shade of darkness in here.

I awake in agony, for the final harmonic lies on the horizon. I hoist myself up, fractured skeleton and all and sling my bag over my shoulder. I claw at my bare back, the granite stains sunken into the skin and clutch my sword into my good hand. I hate counting, yet I still find myself counting the steps until my vision is clouded by a materialization of my own collapsing sanity. Black and white fog enter my vision and I'm surrounded by indistinct figures, shadows I cannot differentiate on the basis of brightness.

I do not call out when I remember his card and see his pale face.

It's a suppressed scream for his throat is intact and the final words of a dead man are scrawled upon the ace of spades. "Don't lose your mind."

One step forwards and this imperfect clock of mine turns backwards; not quite broken but never in phase with reality, how can a dead man be reborn without phoenix flames?

("Don't lose your mind.")

A white flash cleaves through his neck and I'm screaming as my vision is reduced to a cloud of black splatter. I stumble backwards, an explosion of agony whips itself across my forehead and I allow my knee to buckle beneath the pressure of Pillar Fray's career brutality. She asks if I've come to die and in any other situation I would've smiled as blood ran down the side of my head and soaks into my hair.

I do not answer, not longer distinguishing if it's a taunt or question.

And I do not more as her fingers close around my throat, but I use her strength to help me stand. "I want you to be standing, Asha — when I kill you."

I let my fingers close around her wrist and spit, a wave of black iron runs down my chin as I squeeze and throw her arm to the side and step back and gaze into the eyes of Pillar Fray.

There's no family name to protect her here because she's the same shade as everyone else who's dead; the same shade as Ansgar Todd for all his divinity, the same shade as Sacha for all his desperation and the same shade as nameless Four. "It was a mistake of you to split my mind and not my skull, Fray." I step forwards, sneering as I raise my sword and it flashes black and white. "Now I'm going to make you scream."

It sings the harmonic on the horizon when it falls.