Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Jul 14, 2022 17:49:47 GMT
The goblet is made of dark bronze, but its bowl, stem, and base are plated with silver all over, though the shine of metal has been dulled from lying in dirt for two months. Multiple, ornate, interlacing patterns are carved out of the bronze as if in layers that end on the edge of the scalloped base. The bowl is studded with four small rubies on all sides, and each blood-red ruby is surrounded by five tiny amethysts.
It’s such a gauche-looking thing — that is what Zola thinks almost every time she looks at it, standing on the writing desk in her bedroom, holding down the sheets of parchment on which she’d been practising the Infernal script from flying off to the breeze entering through the open windows. As if it is a mere paperweight.
She’s been staring at it for gods know how long. Her inner song is muted, silent. Iorveth Duskstrider is dead — she should be feeling something. And yet she doesn’t.
Even when she saw the devil general Agragathis swing his greatsword down on the summer eladrin’s neck, decapitating him in a single motion… Even when his body disintegrated and his dust drifted away in the black air of Phlegethos before her very eyes, leaving only a single golden bracelet, Zola felt no grief, shock, or horror.
She was too busy enjoying the fight.
“General. My name is Zola. I’m here to kill you. Let’s make this beautiful, shall we?”
“Huh. This might be fun after all. Shame I won’t remember that name.”
“That’s alright. We’ll remember everything else about this.”
Her movements were graceful and poetic, even when she made mistakes, awash in pale moonlight and glittering starlight. The satisfaction was immense when Castor pierced through the general’s neck and his body crumbled into ash on her blade — yet another fiend claimed by The Twins in Phlegethos.
Is there something wrong with me?
She doesn’t feel wrong, though.
Avakeel the incubus was delighted to see his adoptive father finally dead. He happily obliged her request to bring her to the banks of the Azellah.
Lady Oziah suggested that she and Varga come along, just in case they are attacked. A surprising show of thoughtfulness from someone Zola thought of as a rude, arrogant snob, and she appreciated it. The two of them, along with Avakeel, stood to the side as Zola wandered through the once-battlefield, wide-eyed and distraught.
The platform and the plinth were still there. The hexagonal table and the chairs, toppled over, were also there. But other than that, there was nothing left. The two wooden bridges that spanned the river had been burned up. The flames in the braziers had long died. The bodies of the Heralds of Blade and Ash were gone without a trace. The curved elven longsword that she had planted into the ground next to Ophanim’s corpse — that, too, was gone.
There was nothing left. One wouldn’t be able to tell that a battle of cosmic significance, where great sacrifices were made, had taken place right here.
It broke her heart all over again.
She remembers falling to her knees on the spot next to where the pavilion used to be, where he died. The teardrops slid down her cheeks and sizzled away softly on the scorching-hot ground as she felt the phantom weight of his body in her arms.
From the corner of her tear-filled vision, she saw the only thing left of him: the wine goblet he drank from before the battle began, fallen and half-buried in the earth. She reached a hand across to grab it, and she held it close to her chest. Such a gauche-looking thing.
“Sometimes I wonder if you actually had bad taste,” she murmured, a weak smile quirking on her lips.
Iorveth will soon be reborn into the body of a newborn elf. But where did Ophanim go after he died? Will his memory live on the same way Iorveth’s will?
Questions that had been haunting her since that moment, following her all the way back to Haspar Knoll. Everything else that came after was a blur; she barely registered the words spoken to and around her — except for one particular thing.
She’d overheard Lady Oziah talking of a spell called spirit shroud. A spell that she uses to call the spirits of the dead to her.
Zola stares at the goblet again.
She takes in a long, shuddering breath. These are dangerous, daring thoughts that currently plague her mind. If she is going to go down this path…she needs to be sure.
The sword dancer turns her head to look out the window, fixing her gaze upon the eternal night sky. The stars are beautiful tonight.
“Matamoros Banks” by Bruce Springsteen
It’s such a gauche-looking thing — that is what Zola thinks almost every time she looks at it, standing on the writing desk in her bedroom, holding down the sheets of parchment on which she’d been practising the Infernal script from flying off to the breeze entering through the open windows. As if it is a mere paperweight.
She’s been staring at it for gods know how long. Her inner song is muted, silent. Iorveth Duskstrider is dead — she should be feeling something. And yet she doesn’t.
Even when she saw the devil general Agragathis swing his greatsword down on the summer eladrin’s neck, decapitating him in a single motion… Even when his body disintegrated and his dust drifted away in the black air of Phlegethos before her very eyes, leaving only a single golden bracelet, Zola felt no grief, shock, or horror.
She was too busy enjoying the fight.
“General. My name is Zola. I’m here to kill you. Let’s make this beautiful, shall we?”
“Huh. This might be fun after all. Shame I won’t remember that name.”
“That’s alright. We’ll remember everything else about this.”
Her movements were graceful and poetic, even when she made mistakes, awash in pale moonlight and glittering starlight. The satisfaction was immense when Castor pierced through the general’s neck and his body crumbled into ash on her blade — yet another fiend claimed by The Twins in Phlegethos.
Is there something wrong with me?
She doesn’t feel wrong, though.
Avakeel the incubus was delighted to see his adoptive father finally dead. He happily obliged her request to bring her to the banks of the Azellah.
Lady Oziah suggested that she and Varga come along, just in case they are attacked. A surprising show of thoughtfulness from someone Zola thought of as a rude, arrogant snob, and she appreciated it. The two of them, along with Avakeel, stood to the side as Zola wandered through the once-battlefield, wide-eyed and distraught.
For two days the river keeps you down
Then you rise to the light without a sound
Then you rise to the light without a sound
The platform and the plinth were still there. The hexagonal table and the chairs, toppled over, were also there. But other than that, there was nothing left. The two wooden bridges that spanned the river had been burned up. The flames in the braziers had long died. The bodies of the Heralds of Blade and Ash were gone without a trace. The curved elven longsword that she had planted into the ground next to Ophanim’s corpse — that, too, was gone.
Past the playgrounds and empty switching yards
The turtles eat the skin from your eyes, so they lay open to the stars
The turtles eat the skin from your eyes, so they lay open to the stars
There was nothing left. One wouldn’t be able to tell that a battle of cosmic significance, where great sacrifices were made, had taken place right here.
It broke her heart all over again.
Your clothes give way to the current and river stone
‘Til every trace of who you ever were is gone
‘Til every trace of who you ever were is gone
She remembers falling to her knees on the spot next to where the pavilion used to be, where he died. The teardrops slid down her cheeks and sizzled away softly on the scorching-hot ground as she felt the phantom weight of his body in her arms.
And the things of the earth, they make their claim
That the things of heaven may do the same
That the things of heaven may do the same
From the corner of her tear-filled vision, she saw the only thing left of him: the wine goblet he drank from before the battle began, fallen and half-buried in the earth. She reached a hand across to grab it, and she held it close to her chest. Such a gauche-looking thing.
“Sometimes I wonder if you actually had bad taste,” she murmured, a weak smile quirking on her lips.
I long, my darling, for your kiss
For your sweet love I give God thanks
A touch of your loving fingertips
For your sweet love I give God thanks
A touch of your loving fingertips
Iorveth will soon be reborn into the body of a newborn elf. But where did Ophanim go after he died? Will his memory live on the same way Iorveth’s will?
Questions that had been haunting her since that moment, following her all the way back to Haspar Knoll. Everything else that came after was a blur; she barely registered the words spoken to and around her — except for one particular thing.
She’d overheard Lady Oziah talking of a spell called spirit shroud. A spell that she uses to call the spirits of the dead to her.
Zola stares at the goblet again.
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks
She takes in a long, shuddering breath. These are dangerous, daring thoughts that currently plague her mind. If she is going to go down this path…she needs to be sure.
The sword dancer turns her head to look out the window, fixing her gaze upon the eternal night sky. The stars are beautiful tonight.
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks
“Matamoros Banks” by Bruce Springsteen
