2022-03-02: A Zoaran Hellion in Glenwood
- Cutscene: 2022-03-02: A Zoaran Hellion in Glenwood
- Cast: Ruth Pauling
- Where: Glenwood Continent - Lunar
- Date: March 2nd, 2022
- Summary: A Filgaian-born Hellion comes to grips with a new world on the way back to the one she knew, struggling to make good on lessons imparted. (This set of small scenes take place shortly after https://dreamchasers.space/2022-01-19:_Saviors_and_Tyrants )
The journey through Emrys Mire was fruitful as a demonstrative exploration into the mutable nature of deeds in the eyes of others, but it was not a place for either to stay - nor did the Mire wish them be there. It was up to the Rose Queen and her knight to make the journey back to Filgaia with the lessons they imparted.
Her knight - Ruth - left the befouled swamp humbled, the ambiences of hatred and pain becoming part of her own morass of Malevolence to be internalized into her own expressions and will. A lethargy gripped at her as she left the Domain that dwarfed her own presence into the open fields of the Rolance region of Glenwood, as part of the usual ebb and flow of a Hellion's state of being.
It was her first time in a place where she wasn't the strongest presence there, humbling under the weight of her sins of history. The Trial Knight's words were haunting, over how a savior may become a tyrant within the perspective of a single generation. She wasn't sure she wanted to live with the idea of the reverse.
The dawn did not greet them, so much as just shine daylight past the vast canopies of Volgran Forest. The motes of blackish-purple that permeated the landscape fought back against the light, content to try and blot out the sun's rays. The natural beauty of Lunar, at its surface, was captivating and awe-inspiring - but the eyes of those embroiled within the spiritual world had to make due with a more complete picture, rich with the boiling emotions of discordance and those afflicted by it.
She took point along the route, though it mattered little. Few of the roaming Hellions challenged them. Whether it the simple depth of her amassed Malevolence or the way hers expressed itself as power, there was fear in that large-bodied, single-winged gargoyle creature marching towards them. It offset some of the numbing emotional 'come down' from the agitations of the Mire, a comfort of the self-fulfilling prophecies that goad her along.
Though the fear cast by her presence was soothing, she refused to consider herself a monster. Her conviction there was once again tested in its discordance. Can someone say they have a kind heart when it is only pain and fear that quells and comforts oneself?
Upon the ledge of a temporary outpost recently constructed - and then abandoned - by Rolance forces, Ruth caught her eye on a sight as a serpentine tongue flicked between her lips in the direction of something tantalizing. An overbearing sadness, of a demon-winged woman of blackest stone, deathly still as she perched upon the top of the lookout tower. The shaft of a wielded spear terminated in the outline of a barbed heart.
Ruth took the end of her tail in hand and considered the likeness - it, too, ending with the exact same shape. There was enough beauty to captivate the imaginations of the Rose Queen among the flowers and fauna, and she allowed herself the selfishness to approach.
Wordlessly, Ruth drew near. She let her tail coil about the rifle to keep it held as she approached, hands free. She could taste the despair. The strong visual similarities, even with the significant differences in overall shape. The one above had only two horns, a much shorter tail. She was hurting, even as she stood rigid at attention to the world ahead of her - towards the east.
"Are you--"
Ruth did not get to finish that sentence before the one atop the watchtower shuddered, shrieked as if excitable, and took off flying towards her with spear in hand and a hunger in her eyes - feelings that rapidly fluctuated between that and sheer terror in the short-lived encounter that followed.
Even frenzied wildlife took notice when that rifle boomed the once, and those yet still unconquered by impurity shared whispers and urgency as they passed along their way.
Ruth shook off that post-Mire lethargy in an instant as guilt drained into her chest, but the wake of what happened precipitated another gentle fall.
Their passage through Lastonbell was brief.
Prior, it was suggested they not tarry overlong. The air there felt closer to Filgaia's in passing, in so much there was much less Malevolence. No inquiries were made, none were answered, for the more important journey to Emrys Mire would have impared the more important elaborations.
The city of artisans had long since recovered from a terrible crisis years past, and once again stood to flourish with the resilience of those masons and ironworkers who tirelessly gave their all to rebuild the bell tower that gave the city its namesake.
It was an opportunity to acquire necessary goods for travel. No one present appeared to be able to tell that Ruth nor her charge were... something other than what they once were, beyond inquiries as to where her shoes were. A shady peddler who scavenged nearby sites of battle had taken note of her rifle, and brought another sobering reality she didn't consider: it was difficult to service ARMs and stockpile fresh ammunition.
Buying new ammunition was a challenge. As fates would have had it, the correct kind of bullets were collected and/or manufactured here, though at a premium price due to them being 'quality Hyland imports, if you catch my drift.' An anxiety welled up looking at them - though the shapes looked right to her trained eye, she had long become dependant on the methods used during the Celesti Civil War for telling different types of bullet apart at a glance. None of the bullets had that distinctive bright yellow colorant - which lent itself to half the name of her rifle model.
Habit was one of the ways Hellions coped with their lives, and even something as simple as that lack of assurance started to get her on edge. The proud bell tower rang as a breeze ran through it, and Ruth's heart seized as her mind drifted to an unpleasant memory. Her eyes opened as her one healthy ear heard her recent acquisitions scatter out of a satchel and bounce along the freshly set cobblestone roads.
Another sensation tugged at her as the air filled with the tears of a crying child, and the mockery of others just outside of a smaller sanctuary.
"The Goddess doesn't like liars!" Another child, a boy, teased.
"But it's true! The Seraph doesn't live there," insisted a young girl, pleading, with mounting anger, "I've seen her by the bell!"
"The bell that got knocked over?" Another young girl coyly smiled. "That makes no sense. The Seraph lives here in the church! That's why we're safe from monsters."
"But not liars like Margaret," the boy corrected. "You can't see the Seraph! No one can."
The girl - Margaret - took off running back in the direction of the bell, from the opposite side of the street and could scarce see anyone in her way. She paused once, as if she felt a chill of something, and kept running.
Ruth stared at the ground in contemplation, eyes upon the rosary wrapped around her right arm as the bell rang again. The memory of the other gargoyle in her final moments replayed... but the Trial Knight's words were clear. What their natures are matter little, in the face of the actions 'we' take, and choices 'we' make.
Her tongue flicked. She knew hers, as she turned back towards the bell to see a crying girl clutch a beloved dog. Scared, ostracized, vulnerable. Emotions stirred underneath Ruth, as she approached at a measured pace.
"You're hurt." Ruth said, as the young girl looked towards her with widened eyes. "I won't hurt you." It was an assurance to herself as much as it was to this 'Margaret,' a gentle, kindly smile offset by... everything. "I see them too, the--"
The dog started to bark, aggressively, as the wind picked up, and the bell rang louder.
"...Sindra?" Margaret choked the name out, clutching her dog close.
Wind howled down the street as the guise of a young woman with short blue hair, a long white dress with a bell chime around her collar with light green trim, and a pitiless gaze manifested before the lot of them. With one outstretched hand, the winds again howled at deafening volume.
"Monster." This 'Sindra' spoke, and conjured gale forces into the Hellion before her. It was as though she were little more than any number of strewn debris as lacerations formed across overcoat and exposed flesh alike, a hissing screech of pain and bewilderment as she found herself hurled into a nearby alley.
All the while, she was focused upon Margaret's anguish. She wanted to scream above it all that she was no monster, but... the sight of Margaret clutching the side of the Seraph was the gesture alone that would be the final word of the argument.
"I will not suffer your kind bringing harm to my dear friend." Sindra spoke, with an authority that bordered divinity. "Lastonbell is under my protection. You are not welcome."
Ruth's protest was pre-emptively met with another blast of lacerating wind, and the cheers down-street about how Margaret must have angered the Seraph about lying for the wind to be going that strong.
As stated prior... the passage proved brief.
The Meadows of Triumph captured the imagination of at least half of the traveling party along the way towards the Mire, but there was urgency. What needed to be seen, felt, and spoken could not have been through the myriad flowers and towering stone spires.
The blow from having to have left Lastonbell in a hurry, lest a guardian Seraph bear down further upon at least one Malevolence presence too large to let pass, was arguably softened by the gentle rolling of grass. The escalated hostilities between the two powers of the continent from years past started to heal over, with the occasional abandoned scraps long since rusted to uselessness.
Ruth knelt before a flowerbed, and brought a free hand along the stem of one. Little motes of blackish-purple bubbled as if to acknowledge the presence of her Malevolence, though not unique to the land itself, and she breathed in deep of its fresher scents. It brought her back to a better time in what was once Celesti - a warmer climate, but one that used to be host to more colorful foilage.
While never as verdant as the meadows, there was life. There was...
No, she decided, she didn't want to give Elise further cause to worry about her after the incidents that have already happened throughout the journey back. Ruth stood up, took in the air again, and let the Malevolence in the air urge her onward. She has already been allowed ample time to sit in place and sort out her feelings--
To the corner of her left eye, something ghastly stained her sight. As one of the greatest sharpshooters of her day, little could ever get past her there - and they became transfixed upon this.
Spokes from a rotted wheel, attached to a long-useless and empty carriage. She ran over, away from the flowers, to kneel before the rotted wheel and see the extent of the ruin.
It wasn't that it was a thing that decayed into uselessness.
She recognized it as the kind of carriage used for cannons throughout Filgaia. She knew, off-hand, that there was travel between the two worlds and that she had overheard talk about a war 'starting back up,' but to see this - the idea that any part of Filgaia's suffering contributed to any part of this...
The irony given her own state of being was lost to her, in the throes of her heart squeezing at the anger and pain of Emrys Mire.
A loud crashing noise further down the road pulled her out of this from piqued interest and concern, but after Lastonbell she dared not step out beyond a rocky outcropping. At least... not yet.
A leonine Beastfolk cursed as own merchant carriage fell apart along an informal road. He was well-dressed, in clothing tailored to fit his form, which... it never occured to Ruth prior that this was something that registered as strange to her. He had all the signs of being well-to-do and everything.
Several Rolance soldiers nearby started to gather to the source of the disturbance, and tension mounted. The soldiers were all human, and she knew too well how this would end. There was a face that didn't escape her as she lifted her rifle, and tried to avoid looking at her hands.
...But there was no taste of frustration, hatred, or anguish in the air beyond that initial crash. She flicked her tongue out as she caught something /else/.
Laughter, shared amongst the four of them. Spoken assurance that they'd send a Platinum Knight detail with one of their specialist carpenters to fix it up. An offer by one of the soldiers to even have their own supply wagons carry the goods back over to Pendrago if they're worried about the oncoming rain damaging their goods, one which anyone would consider a guileless mistake to say 'yes' to at face value.
Yet, nary a hint of menace or fear - just a shared moment of exasperation in life, able-bodied people coming together to address the issue, and no rising tensions or charged language related to their identities.
Ruth lowered the rifle, but that itch continued to gnaw - alleviated by chiding herself. Her rifle did not leave her hands, her tail having coiled around it as if it were of the mind to act on the impulse that nearly was.
It would happen. It always did. But it wouldn't be them, and it wasn't. She wasn't a heartless monster.
Pendrago awaited, beyond an immense field of grains as the skies grew thick with the promise of rain. For the length of the journey that would have remained en route to Azado, it was for the best that they made the best time they could. Ruth caught wind of the grumbling of a number of farmers along the way about the rain coming - and the sight of at least a few Hellions going about their fields in their own way.
Did Pendrago have a Seraph like the one that ejected the powerful Hellions crawling around under her watch? The question was enough to get Ruth to pull herself inside of who she once was, put on a new pair of boots, and put on her best face as the Platinum Knights at the gates grilled the travelers on their business going through the capital.
'Going home' sufficed. A small victory, after the mishaps of the day. Ruth remembered there wasn't a security detail like this prior, and wasn't sure what changed before they left. Behind them, a burly sort all but shoved everyone out of the way the moment they were given the go-ahead - fresh with the whiffs of the Malevolence of obsession. They bowled past Ruth heedless of what she held within her.
"Darling!" A milder-mannered (in comparison) woman rushed to embrace them. To the Resonant, the sight of a human woman and a Hellion embracing, heedless and ignorant of the dangers the other possesses was cause for concern... until the Hellion, an Orc dressed in the guise of a farmer, gave one back.
"The rain's coming. Got to make sure it doesn't ruin the crop..."
"Rain this, rain that! Those days passed, it hadn't come back! You should come home more. You'll work yourself to /death/."
"I /don't/ want you to /starve/," the Orc groused.
"Darling, you and I both know we hate that stuff you've been growing! Threw it off our plates even when the rains wouldn't end!"
"I don't want us to go hungry. The bad rain'll come back. This crop'll survive it..."
It was back and forth like that, a whole scene. Ruth waited for the idea, the presence, of some other Seraph that might have rejected the farmer's presence... but nothing like that materialized in rejection of their presence. Instead, Ruth watched as a bystander. The extended amount of time in which the two embraced itched at something.
There were others that she embraced in their time of need - hurt, scared, alone. She remembered Summer, and what became of her. To say nothing of...
...
The two of them remained steadfast in their dialogues. His conversation material rarely veered away from what he was growing, but she never seemed to flinch or falter in his presence. What was going on wasn't getting in between that Hellion's love, or the human's. This was just their life, on an apparent mutual understanding this is a man who loves and dedicates himself to growing something both he and his loved one hates.
The actions they take, the choices they make, no matter their nature.
There wasn't another ship due to leave until morning. A room was rented for the sake of another, rather than herself. She had enough to unpack today that she didn't feel like pretending a bed was a restful place for her any more. The rain took its sweet time to emerge, teasing Ruth with the possibility for one of the few truly restful and relaxing moments she gets in her life, by her reckoning.
It didn't strike her so much along the way, due to the urgency in which Crucible demanded their guests move... but the nights felt lifeless, in a fashion. Not in the sense of the air being as... 'thin' in Malevolence as it was at Lastonbell. There was more of it here than there generally was out in the fields.
She didn't smell that whiff of alcohol at the inn. Not a song filled the streets anwyhere she went. No one was dancing about the streets. It seemed as though everyone were just going from point A to point B with their lives. Inquisitively, she looked to the Granasian rosary around her forearm. No one asked her about it. Granas, too, demanded unflinching adherence to avoid temptation and sin, lest one suffer the consequences.
If He hasn't struck her down after everything, then there's still that faint hope, isn't it, she bitterly smiled as she situated herself atop a stone wall, and waited for the rain to fall as she staked out her place to lurk. There were bound to be protests, as she felt the first droplets descend.
She exhaled her Malevolence and let herself back out of the shell of her former self, let the memories of all the times things happened in the rain flood her, and soothe the buzzing that always permeates her mind.
Then she heard a male voice sing, and glowing eyes flared open from the indignity of interruption and the novelty of something she's sure she hadn't heard prior. As she drew closer, the words were of praise of 'the Goddess.' But there was a fear in his voice, an unsteadiness. As if a guilt, for having done so.
He was a very young man dressed in the cloth of an acolyte, all alone in a corner of Pendrago who might have had second thoughts about the rain as it started to intensify... and then a mystified look on his face, as the rain continued around him but not on him.
Above, Ruth's single wing extended, and the rainwater diverted as she looked upon them with glowing eyes.
"Oh! H-Hello," he spoke, "please... don't tell anyone you heard me sing."
Ruth wasn't sure if this was someone who could see her for who she was. All he knew or cared about was that there was a witness.
"You're scared." Ruth observed. To speak with him now was to deny herself of one of her methods of reprieve, but... she never could be numb to pain. "I won't hurt you."
"Um... all right, thank you? What... what're you doing there?"
"Enjoying the rain." Ruth said without a hint of irony, and her tongue flicked when she felt that nervousness from the poor young man a ways underneath her.
"You're... you're not from here? We had an awful rain that lasted so long it nearly starved us all," the young acolyte explained. "Furthermore, I... this song is in praise of the Goddess, but..."
"The Goddess," the word infringed upon the doctrine that Ruth had adopted, but beyond saying the words aloud she started to go motionless - to lock her posture for balance.
"She forbade us from singing, drinking, or dancing... because it'd feed the forces of darkness, and," the young man looked downcast, "she sent everyone on a failed Crusade to Spira. Everyone... everyone's being told to be on their best behavior, since Azado was destroyed."
Ruth remembered coming to Lunar to see a place wreathed in heart-wrenching ruin, only to be told their lesson was elsewhere. The rosary tensed around her forearm as she broke eye contact. "...Would your Goddess not wish to be shown your love?"
"I, um... I better go, before... don't tell anyone, please, /please/, She might favor Hyland if it comes to it," he didn't give her a chance to respond before he took off.
There was a fleeting moment in which a part of her wanted to leap off the stone wall, to come down before him. Urges dangerous, frightening, cruel.
Instead, her heart sank to think about it. To be denied song...? Her right hand went over her chest, as the rain continued to pour. She hadn't done that in a while, but...
She let herself sing a Granasian hymn, in her Mezzo-soprano, gaze set downward on the rosary. Above, doing its damndest to shine through the rainclouds, Filgaia awaited to be seen in the night sky in its full splendor as the Blue Star.
In the hour it followed, its light would reflect off of her rain-soaked form, basking but motionless. The next day, they'd catch a ship back to Meribia continent.
A little journey in which she would continue to struggle, even now, to say what it is she deserves.