– dear mother dearest;

Lyosha

– late evening; the parapets ,

Here, in the parapets, we're not quite in the clouds; they still loom above us, scudding across the starless skies without movement––and yet the corpses that litter the ground are out of place nonetheless, like cut-outs pasted ineptly unto the scene. A male Tsol'aa is here, his pristine countenance only further contributing to the bizarre quality of the dead things. I look between him and them, nose wrinkling at the wrongness of the situation. I could remove the offending items, I suppose, but I find that in spite of how much their presence bothers me, I can't bring myself to dispose of them. And so the dead things will remain, at least for the time being .. a perpetual smear, a scream amongst the silence.

The Tsol'aa leaves and I realize the true reason for my discomfort. It has nothing to do with the corpses themselves, but rather that smear, the screaming they utter and the silence they consequentially mar. I perceive this to be a place of peace and they're ruining that, these damned dead things, with their filth and noise. I don't want the corpses gone as much as I do their affections.

As I think about this, I can't help but wonder. About you. About .. well, us. I wonder, is this another something I inherited from you, Mother Dearest? This vehement dislike of change, the stabbing irritation that springs up when a thing doesn't go according to how I thought it would? Did you give this to me? The anxiety, the jitters; maybe even the shifts in mood that I can't seem to control? Or is this me?

How much of me is me and what pieces are yours? I think about you all the time, you know. I think about where you might be, about what you might say if you could see me now. I'm decided, for once, grown enough to detach from Father's side and chose for myself what it is that I want, because in the end, isn't that all that really matters? Would you approve of this, Mother? Are you still with me, present but just invisible; swimming through my veins, occasionally asserting yourself in my quirks and unhelpable mannerisms?

Or perhaps Father is .. was .. right and I'm simply being foolish. Maybe you really did perish shortly after giving birth to me and thus, are dead, as dead as the minutely decaying matter occurring on the corpses around me? Maybe I was simply never meant to have a Mother, just like some were never meant to be Ashtani or Mhaldorian or Eleusian. Unless Father was once again right when he said that there are no true Gods, that we carve our own path and that's that?

Did you believe that, Mother? Dead or alive, did you ever buy into his tales, his lies and his riddles? I tried not to, I really did .. but I think a part of me did anyway ..

Lyosha

–– unknown; n/a ,

Within the grasp of long, slender fingers was a quill. The Rajamala wielded it as if it were poison, executing every motion, every stroke, with the utmost of care; lowering it yet again to the tattered page of the leather journal that was just as worn; drawing its needle-like tip across the provided margins gingerly, creating loops and swirls and squiggles. Whiskey-hued orbs lending their attentions as well, watching intently as the words manifested as if having been merely summoned rather than physically written. Lyosha couldn't help but wonder, bemused––why ever hadn't he taken up journaling before? There was something about the mere act of of it, of the writing itself, something that stole over him whenever he chose to sit down and write.

Even if for only a little while, in these moments, the Rajamala might as well have been in his own world.

The present was no exception. Lyosha had made a seat for himself upon the very spine of the one of the city benches, booted feet propped up on the table while he hunched over his journal, writing as if possessed. Even his keen sense of hearing and smell proved deaf, null, to the miasma of sounds and scents and disturbances that almost never failed to announce the arrival of a some sort of newcomer or, in most cases, someone who was just passing through, trying to get from place to another ..

Lyosha

–– unknown; n/a ,

should i die
before i wake
take my soul
[and] keep it safe.

Synbios

I do not dislike this means of literature. Carry on, human.

Lyosha

Synbios said:

I do not dislike this means of literature. Carry on, human.

Ngl, when I got the email that this thread had received a comment, I expected the worst 'cause this isn't my best writing. It's not even intended to be––it's just me trying to get a better feel for Lyosha as a character and let my horrible-writing flag fly free, for once. Usually I'm a nitpicker [read: nazi] about my writing. So thank youuu

Synbios

Lyosha said:

Ngl, 

For a moment, I thought I was being referred to as a Natural Gas Liquid, and I was about to test out if I could single-handedly solve this planet's energy woes. A search result from urbandictionary corrected me, however. 

That being said...

Lyosha said:

...when I got the email that this thread had received a comment, I expected the worst 'cause this isn't my best writing. It's not even intended to be––it's just me trying to get a better feel for Lyosha as a character and let my horrible-writing flag fly free, for once. Usually I'm a nitpicker [read: nazi] about my writing. So thank youuu <333

There is no such thing as 'best writing', truth be told. One's literary proficiency undergoes a constant state of evolution as their experiences in in-game, out-game, here-game, there-game, anywhere-game, and nowhere-game - also, real life - shape their perceptions of their character. Exercises like poems and short stories related to his or her online Achaea persona - no, not Persona, that's another game entirely - help focus the player on character traits that they wish to preserve for future interactions with other Achaean personae. 

So keep up the writing.

[spoiler]For professional literary critics who may find my statement to violate any rules of literary criticism, please be advised that I am, first and foremost, an eldritch abomination of the strangest variety, and thus, as the venerable Doctor Mundo always says, I do what I please.[/spoiler]

Lyosha

yes, sir :'>

Lyosha

One day I opened my eyes, very suddenly awake and realized that it was never going to be any easier than this.

In those days, I was naive and reckless. I was threads and turpentine. Salt and ash. I felt sterile

Does that make any sense?

He would run his fingers over the scars and healing wounds, the ones I refused to introduce to salve; sorrow tinging his growling baritone cerulean-blue. “I wish you wouldn’t hurt yourself," he would say, blowing out his breath in a sigh.

Never mind that his calloused touch, albeit small, made me want to rejoice. I was supposed to be inconsolable.

And so I sat there without any indication of having heard him. Continued to play the game of the living dead, unresponse. Because that was what I was. I was––

––disjointed. Data unretrievable.

“It doesn’t hurt," I lied, smoke curling off my lower lip. I looked out the window at something or nothing.

“I think we ——"

%file lost or entry unrecognized++

“Probably. I don’t know.”

And then he smirked, a slow, tangible progression of teeth and pierced tongue. “It’s alright," he said, "I’ll take care of you.”

I wanted to say I know. Gods … I knew. And that was what I was afraid of.

Coeur

Would like to see where this goes! So much to be explored.

Lyosha

Standing atop a prominent central podium with a large urn gracefully hefted upon one shoulder, a youthful maiden pours an endless stream of water down over the fountain. The woman's marble countenance, flowing locks, and billowing robe are somewhere undecided between rich, dark pink and earthy brown, the puce stone from which she is carved, nebular with rippling veins both pale and dark, expertly capturing her noble virtue as it reveals its own. Water collects in the raised circular basin of the two-tiered fountain beneath the figure before trickling evenly over its crescent-shaped edges into a broad reservoir below. Purling splashes animate the lower pool, its stone walls broad and ample, and submerged coins wink from its tiled base. Gently drowning out the noise of the markets, the artful fountain serves as an occasional perch for audacious birds and weary shoppers alike.

The young Rajamala had spent an embarrassing amount of time at the fountain in Tasur'ke's center, thinking it was the famous Grotto of Song. He'd done everything short of swimming in the damned thing, to awaken his sleeping rapier. Would it come alive, he'd wondered, when it received its blessing?

But now, standing before the peculiar-haired maiden carved from marble, in the real Grotto of Song, all thoughts were chased away courtesy of the depth of his awe, a strange weakness suddenly afflicting his knees. Pretty could not even begin to describe its beauty, nor that of the surrounding area. How in Gods' name had he mistaken that measly little fountain at Tasur'ke's heart for this? Granted, Lyosha had never explored this far northeast before; and so he'd had no idea of what to expect or look for when @Madelyne had sent him on his way to bless his rapier. Never mind that one of the many house scrolls offered directions — when it came to exploring new things, he allowed his nose and ears to lead the way.

But still, though ..

And you drank from that dirty city fountain, too?! an inner voice shrieked, outraged and disgusted. Think of all the filthy thieves who've put their hands in there! Gross!

He groaned aloud then, one hand flying automatically to his mouth as he thought grimly about the amount of vomiting he would have to commit to until he'd feel safe from whatever afflictions that might lurk in the fountain's waters. That'll teach you not to put strange things in your mouth, the same voice snickered, and how pathetic was it that he blushed at something a part of him said?

What had he come here for, anyway? The weight of the ornate rapier in his hand brought him back and he blinked, refocusing on the situation at hand. Songblessing, right. Taking a deep breath, he approached the crystalline waters, trying not to be distracted by the coins that twinkled from its depths and lowering the rapier into the water ..

Lyosha

last month
when we kissed
and our lips met
my soul awoke
within the cage of my chest.

it fixed its blank eyes on you
and said,
oh, there you are.
i've been looking for you.

last month
holding you in my arms
i felt
as i had never felt
before.
for the first time,
in a painfully long time
i felt whole.

needless to say,
i can't wait
to see you again.

signed,
lyosha.