Brilliant Disguise (27/7) - Zola
Aug 16, 2022 15:12:16 GMT
Velania Kalugina, stephena, and 2 more like this
Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Aug 16, 2022 15:12:16 GMT
“I just don’t understand — why do you think I’m special?”
The Jackal gives her a puzzled frown. The two of them are standing in the dark of the woods, a small distance away from the campfire where An’Ahkrim and the others are sitting by. “Wh— I’ve had ten pints of ale and it can’t actually affect me, but… What are you talking about?”
“Before I left for the Spines, you said if I need to know something important, someone up there”—she nods up towards the skies—“would tell me, or send you to tell me.”
He rasps out a sigh. “Here — gimme those crayons. All the blue ‘uns. I don’t care what shade, just gimme all of ‘em.”
He turns towards a tree and, with the crayons, begins drawing concentric circles on the bark in various shades of blue, though there is no apparent colour gradient; rather, the circles are a mix and match of blue hues. “Now, you mortals don’t think you’re special because there’s many of you. Stupidest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard. Some people are special in this way.” He jabs a thick finger at a cyan circle. “Others are special in this way.” His finger moves to a royal blue one next. “They’re all special in different ways, but they’re all equally special. Got that?”
The archangel turns back around to face Zola. “And you adventurers, you don’t know how fuckin’ exceptional you are,” he continues. “You can do magic. More powerful magic than most anyone could ever muster.”
“But there are so many magical people in the Feywild. And the drow, every drow can do a little bit of magic.” To illustrate her point, she waves a hand and summons dancing lights to float around them, lit in varying shades of blue. “What’s special about that?”
“Look—” Je’Sathriel stares at her exasperatedly. “Zola. Why are you so set on being ordinary?”
She pauses. “No, it’s… I… I just don’t think I’m more special than anyone else. Would an angel come down from the heavens to tell a merchant what he should do with his business for the month, what he should invest in?”
“Are you a merchant, Zola?”
The drow woman looks down at her feet. “No. I can barely count.”
“Exactly. Fuckin’ hell, what is it with you adventurers? Velania doesn’t think she’s wise, Sorrel thinks she’s got no other purpose in life but to be a living weapon, that dwarf over there probably’s just solved a celestial equation that no one’s ever done after centuries of trying and he’s drunk off his tits. And you… You think you’re just a mundane girl from the city.” The look in his eyes softens, like a father fixing his foolish young daughter with an affectionate gaze. “If there’s something you need to know, I’ll tell you.”
She remembers the first time she heard the word “prodigy” from her old fencing instructor. She was a teenager then, and was just halfway done with writing a manual for two-weapon sword dancing. The only existing manuals for the art of sword dancing were for one-handed and two-handed techniques, and thus Zola decided to make one that would suit her. She overheard the summer eladrin swordmaster murmur it to Mother Beulah when she was training out in the open — “Your girl is a prodigy.”
She looked up the meaning of the word afterwards, but didn’t think much more of it. She figured that her peers would catch up to her sooner or later.
Now, many decades later, the signs are becoming difficult to ignore.
“You have been touched by the gods,” Velania’s voice echoes in her mind. “Someone is looking after you.”
She holds, in her right hand, Justice — the sword of purifying radiance, the merciful blade that protects innocents and those on the path of redemption, like An’Ahkrim.
And in her left hand is Retribution — the sword of righteous vengeance, the blood-soaked blade that punishes evil.
Divine Justice and Divine Retribution: two sides of the same coin called Judgement.
And to those who seek to inflict harm upon mortals — those who kill and maim them, those who tempt them into evil deeds, those who entrap their souls in maledict contracts — wherever they may be, however long it may take, Judgement cometh.
The Jackal gives her a puzzled frown. The two of them are standing in the dark of the woods, a small distance away from the campfire where An’Ahkrim and the others are sitting by. “Wh— I’ve had ten pints of ale and it can’t actually affect me, but… What are you talking about?”
“Before I left for the Spines, you said if I need to know something important, someone up there”—she nods up towards the skies—“would tell me, or send you to tell me.”
He rasps out a sigh. “Here — gimme those crayons. All the blue ‘uns. I don’t care what shade, just gimme all of ‘em.”
He turns towards a tree and, with the crayons, begins drawing concentric circles on the bark in various shades of blue, though there is no apparent colour gradient; rather, the circles are a mix and match of blue hues. “Now, you mortals don’t think you’re special because there’s many of you. Stupidest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard. Some people are special in this way.” He jabs a thick finger at a cyan circle. “Others are special in this way.” His finger moves to a royal blue one next. “They’re all special in different ways, but they’re all equally special. Got that?”
The archangel turns back around to face Zola. “And you adventurers, you don’t know how fuckin’ exceptional you are,” he continues. “You can do magic. More powerful magic than most anyone could ever muster.”
“But there are so many magical people in the Feywild. And the drow, every drow can do a little bit of magic.” To illustrate her point, she waves a hand and summons dancing lights to float around them, lit in varying shades of blue. “What’s special about that?”
“Look—” Je’Sathriel stares at her exasperatedly. “Zola. Why are you so set on being ordinary?”
She pauses. “No, it’s… I… I just don’t think I’m more special than anyone else. Would an angel come down from the heavens to tell a merchant what he should do with his business for the month, what he should invest in?”
“Are you a merchant, Zola?”
The drow woman looks down at her feet. “No. I can barely count.”
“Exactly. Fuckin’ hell, what is it with you adventurers? Velania doesn’t think she’s wise, Sorrel thinks she’s got no other purpose in life but to be a living weapon, that dwarf over there probably’s just solved a celestial equation that no one’s ever done after centuries of trying and he’s drunk off his tits. And you… You think you’re just a mundane girl from the city.” The look in his eyes softens, like a father fixing his foolish young daughter with an affectionate gaze. “If there’s something you need to know, I’ll tell you.”
She remembers the first time she heard the word “prodigy” from her old fencing instructor. She was a teenager then, and was just halfway done with writing a manual for two-weapon sword dancing. The only existing manuals for the art of sword dancing were for one-handed and two-handed techniques, and thus Zola decided to make one that would suit her. She overheard the summer eladrin swordmaster murmur it to Mother Beulah when she was training out in the open — “Your girl is a prodigy.”
She looked up the meaning of the word afterwards, but didn’t think much more of it. She figured that her peers would catch up to her sooner or later.
Now, many decades later, the signs are becoming difficult to ignore.
“You have been touched by the gods,” Velania’s voice echoes in her mind. “Someone is looking after you.”
She holds, in her right hand, Justice — the sword of purifying radiance, the merciful blade that protects innocents and those on the path of redemption, like An’Ahkrim.
And in her left hand is Retribution — the sword of righteous vengeance, the blood-soaked blade that punishes evil.
Divine Justice and Divine Retribution: two sides of the same coin called Judgement.
And to those who seek to inflict harm upon mortals — those who kill and maim them, those who tempt them into evil deeds, those who entrap their souls in maledict contracts — wherever they may be, however long it may take, Judgement cometh.
