[ Another one of the crystalline cocoons gives away, shattering outward with a sound that is somehow at once brittle and wet. The woman that tumbles from this one, landing gracelessly among the fragmented pieces of her birthing rock, is an odd sight to see. Maybe it's the the slate gray of her leathery skin that does it, or maybe the lank tentacles that grow like oily hair from her scalp. Maybe it's the black, glossy bumps of chitin that dot random swathes of her naked skin, or maybe it's the jagged teeth bared as she coughs iridescent rock chewed to gravel onto the slick ground.
What's odder than the way she looks, though, is the sound that leaves her mouth. Laughter, or maybe ecstatic weeping—it's a high, strained noise, as if her lungs can barely draw the breath to utter it. Her forehead drops forward, knocking against the cave's stony floor. Beside it, her palms lift and slam against the cool ground—once, twice, again—and in her fervor, the broken shards of her cocoon bite into her arms' unprotected flesh. ]
Ahh, ahhh, the Rough Beast, He—!
ii | WAITING
[ Once she understands her situation, Ramirra is far more subdued. Of course, the path to her comprehension involved a great deal of biting and thrashing in the beginning, so when it comes time to squat among the forest ruins, she isn't allowed to wander much farther than the length of a whip.
It's insulting—and worse than that, it's boring. She flops down on her stomach like a petulant child, drawing spirals in the dirt to pass the time. The familiarity of the pattern soothes her, meditation in the act of scrawling that repetitive shape—but, even so... ]
If someone here has a blood ritual to do, they should hurry up and get on with it already. [ She kicks her bare feet through the air as she complains aloud—to no one, to everyone—fingers picking at the scabbing remains of those self-inflicted lacerations peppering her forearms. ] Aren't the gods or spirits or whatever we're being sacrificed to going to get impatient?
iii | WILDCARD
[ You can reach out for plotting @ salroka, or a PM to this account. ]
queen ramirra (player oc) | pathfinder: kingmaker | probably firebrand
[ Another one of the crystalline cocoons gives away, shattering outward with a sound that is somehow at once brittle and wet. The woman that tumbles from this one, landing gracelessly among the fragmented pieces of her birthing rock, is an odd sight to see. Maybe it's the the slate gray of her leathery skin that does it, or maybe the lank tentacles that grow like oily hair from her scalp. Maybe it's the black, glossy bumps of chitin that dot random swathes of her naked skin, or maybe it's the jagged teeth bared as she coughs iridescent rock chewed to gravel onto the slick ground.
What's odder than the way she looks, though, is the sound that leaves her mouth. Laughter, or maybe ecstatic weeping—it's a high, strained noise, as if her lungs can barely draw the breath to utter it. Her forehead drops forward, knocking against the cave's stony floor. Beside it, her palms lift and slam against the cool ground—once, twice, again—and in her fervor, the broken shards of her cocoon bite into her arms' unprotected flesh. ]
Ahh, ahhh, the Rough Beast, He—!
ii | WAITING
[ Once she understands her situation, Ramirra is far more subdued. Of course, the path to her comprehension involved a great deal of biting and thrashing in the beginning, so when it comes time to squat among the forest ruins, she isn't allowed to wander much farther than the length of a whip.
It's insulting—and worse than that, it's boring. She flops down on her stomach like a petulant child, drawing spirals in the dirt to pass the time. The familiarity of the pattern soothes her, meditation in the act of scrawling that repetitive shape—but, even so... ]
If someone here has a blood ritual to do, they should hurry up and get on with it already. [ She kicks her bare feet through the air as she complains aloud—to no one, to everyone—fingers picking at the scabbing remains of those self-inflicted lacerations peppering her forearms. ] Aren't the gods or spirits or whatever we're being sacrificed to going to get impatient?
iii | WILDCARD
[ You can reach out for plotting @