Her clawed hand closes around you and pulls— and just like that! just like that!!! you unsheathe.
You could sing for joy; you could laugh; you do these things as a sword does: you find them in her—every bit of fury, every violent urge, and you bring your sword-voice and her warrior-voice together in harmony, and together you cut, and c͖̼̥̺u̯̱̺̙͙̳t, and c̻̜̰̞̘̹̠͎͙̀͘u̧̨̘͉̜̠͔̼̬͕t̠̹̟̞͈̞͖̜͞.
And oh, together you're unstoppable.
The others drag you apart eventually, but you won't forget it: how, for the first time in so long, you didn't feel broken. Truly, this is what love is.
The memory fades, and you're left standing back in front of the closed door.
[Sssshhhhe clenches her fists. Her ears are flat and her tail is still cutting through the air sharply and finally she pulls out one of her knives and just starts hacking away at where Sabre's name is carved in the door, chipping and scoring and trying to just ruin it so it's no longer legible.]
The door is made of denser wood than you might have guessed, at first, especially given how easily the different names were carved into them—whatever did this carving must have been absolutely absurdly sharp.
So your knife just glances off the door, leaving little more than thin scratches.
[If the door thinks that will make her less upset––
Well, it super won't. She throws her knife at it (as ineffectual as that is), punches it hard enough it should hurt twice, and then stalks back towards the kitchen to find something bigger and sharper.
The kitchen has stardard Kitchen Stuff, like cutting knives and a gas stove, so you could... maybe light a wooden spoon on fire, if you want? Or possibly some woody stems of wild roses.
It's a little tricky, getting the stems to catch—this is green wood, after all—and it generates a lot of smoke, but eventually you've got yourself a bundle of burning rose stems. Some of them still have a few rosebuds on them, which are starting to singe.
[It's all her insecurity and bitterness over never being good enough and never being the one chosen and the bone-deep jagged wound that split open the day she found out that there was a universe out there where Adora stayed and that there was just something wrong and lacking with her, specifically, that meant she was not worth it when the same moment came in her history. It's not like that just went away the day she and Sabre started getting along, it just lost its outlet.
And this sword is just really good at pushing those buttons, you know?
And you see—but do not feel—what they held: There's a memory of you, and rage that ends worlds, the sword in your hand drinking it in with love and joy.
There's Sabre, bleeding on the ground, pulling Hellfire close to her as she prepares to ensure they die together, while Hellfire looks at her adoringly.
There's you, leading Hellfire off the train, ready to fight to the point of collapse.
There are aconite and lotus, writhing in the flames. And the space around you lets out a cry like shattering steel.
Those looked like. . . memories? She hadn't meant to damage any memories. Just the thing that painted her with rejection while cherishing Sabre above all others, you know?
Maybe it's time to abandon this area –– can she leave the dorm entirely?]
Had it been rejection, or had been the feeling of being rejected? The pain and fear of it?
Well. Hard to say, now.
When you look for more places to go, though... well, it's not so much that they're not there, but they're blurred, like a dream gone out of focus. So you can... sort of leave, but there's nothing to find—at least not with that way of leaving.
[This is the wrong person to be able to pick up on that nuance -- the world has historically directed negativity towards her, so she's learned to expect and assume it will continue to do so.
Maybe she can give this scar thing a go, though –– can she unmake whatever barrier separates the dorm from other places?]
scars reveal history | scars are proof of survival | scars stay with you | scars come from wounds
You reach within yourself, and Scars are there, and you perform a Miracle. You feel her in it, as you do—Hellfire, and the world as she sees it. A fragile place, idea far more than substance, but so beautiful.
The place on your skin where the scar had been is fertile soil, and the flowers sprout rapidly: thin stems that grow lush as the burst from your skin and twine around your hand or arm or leg. They bloom quickly too: miniature purple aconite and pink and white lotus.
…Or the remnants of one, in any event. It’s not just the smell of blood on the breeze, but the stink of spilled entrails, and the groans of dying men: You really did it! You slew them all. The one who wielded lays in the blood-soaked soil beside you—and it is his own blood which has soaked it. His lamellar has broken apart around the head of the spear that pierced through his gut, but his face is still set in a howl of triumph.
It isn’t any particular battlefield, or any particular warrior. You loved them all, but there were so many, and you were wielded again and again and again.
In the distance, past the tattered flags and corpses of men and horses, is the sheen of what looks like a pond.
[She has Some Regrets –– firstly for the plant life that's just sprouted from her arm. She tears at it a little frantically in something of a knee-jerk panic reaction.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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The Avante ones catch her off guard. Because. What the hell?
But it's seeing her own name that draws her attention first. Door number one is gonna be "Kohime"...]
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You head to your(?) room, and place your hand on the door, and—
It stings a little, actually?
It's not actually locked, you're fairly sure, but touching it feels like a thorn-sharp mix of love and rejection.
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And then whirls on her heel and tries the same with the 'Sabre' door.]
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The sort of door you've got to kind of jiggle a bit—sort of coax, you know? Shouldn't take too much.
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She's not in a coaxing mood –– she just shoves it open.]
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And you're overwhelmed with feeling:
The memory fades, and you're left standing back in front of the closed door.
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So your knife just glances off the door, leaving little more than thin scratches.
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Well, it super won't. She throws her knife at it (as ineffectual as that is), punches it hard enough it should hurt twice, and then stalks back towards the kitchen to find something bigger and sharper.
Or possibly just fire.]
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But there's a logic to this place, you can feel: it needs to know that you mean it.
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And this sword is just really good at pushing those buttons, you know?
So yes, she means it, she wants this gone.]
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1/2
And you see—but do not feel—what they held:
There's a memory of you, and rage that ends worlds, the sword in your hand drinking it in with love and joy.
There's Sabre, bleeding on the ground, pulling Hellfire close to her as she prepares to ensure they die together, while Hellfire looks at her adoringly.
There's you, leading Hellfire off the train, ready to fight to the point of collapse.
There are aconite and lotus, writhing in the flames.
And the space around you lets out a cry like shattering steel.
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You may use one of your miraculous scars an additional time.
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Those looked like. . . memories? She hadn't meant to damage any memories. Just the thing that painted her with rejection while cherishing Sabre above all others, you know?
Maybe it's time to abandon this area –– can she leave the dorm entirely?]
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Well. Hard to say, now.
When you look for more places to go, though... well, it's not so much that they're not there, but they're blurred, like a dream gone out of focus. So you can... sort of leave, but there's nothing to find—at least not with that way of leaving.
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Maybe she can give this scar thing a go, though –– can she unmake whatever barrier separates the dorm from other places?]
1/2 (cw: plant horror)
You reach within yourself, and Scars are there, and you perform a Miracle. You feel her in it, as you do—Hellfire, and the world as she sees it. A fragile place, idea far more than substance, but so beautiful.
The place on your skin where the scar had been is fertile soil, and the flowers sprout rapidly: thin stems that grow lush as the burst from your skin and twine around your hand or arm or leg. They bloom quickly too: miniature purple aconite and pink and white lotus.
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…Or the remnants of one, in any event. It’s not just the smell of blood on the breeze, but the stink of spilled entrails, and the groans of dying men: You really did it! You slew them all. The one who wielded lays in the blood-soaked soil beside you—and it is his own blood which has soaked it. His lamellar has broken apart around the head of the spear that pierced through his gut, but his face is still set in a howl of triumph.
It isn’t any particular battlefield, or any particular warrior. You loved them all, but there were so many, and you were wielded again and again and again.
In the distance, past the tattered flags and corpses of men and horses, is the sheen of what looks like a pond.
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1/2 (plant horror again)
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