[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.]
You rip at them, which at least doesn't hurt, for all that the flowers have woven themselves into your skin. It's as if the scar is just... made of them, somehow.
Does the panic pass, and with it urge to rip out the flowers, or do you continue?
[It passes, no cone of shame needed –– she leaves it alone, maybe with a few buds torn loose and scrapes on her skin, but as unnerving as it is, it's not going anywhere.
The carnage around her isn't helping, though -- she doesn't bother inspecting the last wielder, or anything else, making for the pond and trying to ignore that she's someone who habitually goes barefoot crossing a sea of corpses.]
[She settles down by the pond, cross-legged, and sucks in a ragged breath before frowning at it.
Everything she's touched so far has forced some memory or feeling or something, so while she's guessing she's meant to go in, she's not so keen on it.
She tries, instead, pulling out another one of her knives (since the first is still back in the dorm somewhere) and dipping it just beneath the surface, to see what happens.]
Your blade sends out pinprick ripples—but only briefly. Then the surface returns to stillness. Above you—and before you, in the water—the stars continue to fall.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Re: CHARACTER ROOMS
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?]
Re: CHARACTER ROOMS
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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Does the panic pass, and with it urge to rip out the flowers, or do you continue?
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The carnage around her isn't helping, though -- she doesn't bother inspecting the last wielder, or anything else, making for the pond and trying to ignore that she's someone who habitually goes barefoot crossing a sea of corpses.]
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The water's surface is mirror-smooth, and reflects velvet-dark night sky, moonless and glimmering with stars.
Each and every one of those stars is falling.
It is peaceful here. And you know: here, in the water, is the way home.
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Everything she's touched so far has forced some memory or feeling or something, so while she's guessing she's meant to go in, she's not so keen on it.
She tries, instead, pulling out another one of her knives (since the first is still back in the dorm somewhere) and dipping it just beneath the surface, to see what happens.]
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To find her, drown yourself in a circle of stars.
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Leli.
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1/2 (plant horror again)
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