Deep thickets and spongy undergrowth sprang up in the cold night; bramble and bucklethorn and tangled knots of poison oak lay over the ground in heavy abundance, dank and choking. The forest's nights were unforgiving, to say the least. For where the Allar's safely ensconced by the bonfires, all seems calm... Unstirring even. In fact, it was the calm before the storm. The forest floors laid spectral in these witching hours, ground fog ribboning along with the earth. From somewhere far away – like a musical voice from the edge of a dream – they heard the trilling notes of flutes. A procession of flute players, it seems, as nebulous shapes warped in the mists around a focal point. A point where a figure emerges from, like the boogeymen of a person's nightmares. Yet, there came the gentle, yet furious sound of stone against metal. Barbossa, armed with claws and fangs, still made time to tend to her weapon. A long-maw spear, seldom used, saved for occasions such as these. The 'Hunt'. Months ago, hunts were different. Sacred and sinful in equal measure. It was something long since put behind her. So, she did. The past did creep, stalking the forest and choking her mind. Song flitted in one ear and echoed through her skull. She didn't understand. But, well- Barbossa knew the virtues of caution well enough. With an incline of her head, a raise of her feathers, and thinned pupils, she searched for the source- and gave a warning. A quick huff, a snort. More for herself. A slight bolstering of guts. With a single step, the bonfire accentuated every feature of the wraith’s to glisten like stars melted in platinum, the mists soon forming a single tidal wave. It rushes forwards like blows in the face— the cries of tortured menagerie & a chill as cold as hoarfrost murderously caresses the lonesome Allar. Where before a chaotic maelstrom of sound reigned, an eclipsing silence was the king now; even the spit of flames and crackling stills itself to silence, the bonfire hushed. They see an all-too-familiar figure, one that operated on infernal mechanisms of deities' wills estranged to Aloria, one that, perhaps, whispered in the Allar's mind to this day: The Colossi. Much can be told from a first impression. The first moments, within any encounter, sets the mood for everything thereafter. Drulailmon had chosen their approach. Or perhaps they hadn't- the horrors they wove may not have been of their own will. Will or not- Barbossa heeded this approach as a warning. An act of aggression. She bore no confidence in her stance- her spear shot forth, toothy edges cutting the air. The shaft trembled within her grip, and choked breaths remained trapped within her throat. There came one tremble, then another. The Allar, a statue, refused to make the first mood- but made her intentions, and fears, all-too-clear. Drulailmon sweeps their hands skywards, to the heavenly stars that sparsely decorated the cosmic gloom. In the embalmed moonlight, the expression crossing its face could have passed for sorrow— the eyes pinned on Barbossa, however, was one with a malignancy of purpose, a singular hunger, and a hatred deeper than human fathoming. But was the Allar that which had vexed the Cahal, or was it a mendacious feeling that came in passing... that ire that came in a flash, directed to something larger than them? As it draws lines with its fingers, connecting the stars as dots, it recites its gnostic sayings recalled from distant memories: "It is the power of All, and mother of None," ''In its womb was borne the Low, and it nursed the High.'' ''Amidst its arm was raised the In, and from its loins sprang the Out." ''From its flesh was carved the Gross, and from its blood was drawn the Subtle,'' "— Where do you path off now?" Barbossa's pupils twitched within a sea of gold. Her hands moved, but her spear did not. A thrust and a threat died before it could take shape- for better or for worse. The preacher made their vows, and it wove a chill deep within Barbossa's flesh. The winding winter could not make her shiver so much as the Allat. Her talons fixed to the ground. A stray wind could not knock her off balance- not so long as she stood so tall, so false. An answer found its way into the air. Something, perhaps, unsatisfying. "Don't hurt me." Drulailmon flourishes their hands— atypical-a-sight, without the company of its sanctified armaments in its hands. It does weave the constant, steady hiss of mists, dyed with zoic cries, in the cusp of its palms and the ground fog; for a moment, the blurred outline of a skull sat comfortably in its grip, before dispersing as winds do to ash. A tale of death, mayhaps? — "People cannot conceive of any means of survival except in terms of a single then-and-there contest. To speak of duty to one's country, one's people... and suchlike things, but the object of their efforts are invariably the individual, and the individual's alone. What is it that worries you? The thought of your people, knowing what you once were? To be filial to mother & father, son or daughter— so that they do not worry to see a perceived monster - their kin, you - right by their bedside?-" And with each word accentuated with the repeated question, it sounded horrifyingly empty— aptly, a spiritless voice. "ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ɪᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏʀʀɪᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙᴀʀʙᴏꜱꜱᴀ?" The answer could've been right in front of her. Barbossa regarded the Allat with a torrential fear. The sound of their voice was the sound of a war drum, or, worse yet, the echoing past. Words licked as flames, and the Allar lost her spark. Gently did the head of her spear lower- though not to the point of foolishness, or vulnerability. It didn't seem to be a motion willed by herself- something automatic. The sort of deference natural to all of her kind... Deference, now, misplaced. What was she afraid of, exactly? "I can't go back." Not a declaration, but a whisper, drowned by Cahalic choir. "I'm sorry. But I- I can't. If I try- we both suffer for it." Drulailmon waggles a finger, dismissing the unsure whisper uttered out— it was all too reminiscent of child's prattling to their parents about the monster in their closet: shrugged off, just another nightmare that you'll grow out of eventually, Johny-boy. Eventually. Not in the case that the manifestation of ghost stories and myths being right in their face, a horrifying reality that the Allar's being forced to recognize with each climbing octave of charmless giggles sparsed through the hinterlands of mists. "Oh,— but you mistake my purpose here, dear Barbossa. I come not to bring you back into the waking dreams; I come here as the ghost of the past, for it's the time of reflection now, ʙᴇ. ɴᴏᴛ. ᴀꜰʀᴀɪᴅ— once my utterances for you on a night's eve long ago. Every head must bow, every knee must bend, every tongue must ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱ, Barbossa. Tell me: how was the taste, the cusp of power, when you were enabled by my benevolent Gods? How content were you then, and how are you now?" A step back, and her heel hit the seat behind her. Through retreat and speech, the only path was forward. Utterly, terribly dreadful. Her chest rose, fell, rose, fell. Her brave face crumbled with ease- Drulailmon certainly had a way with words. Barbossa allowed a hollow breath to weave from her teeth. Winter's chill froze the exhalation in the air, leaving trails of near-draconic smoke. The display of elements did not befit its owner. With her tail coiled like a spring, she spoke. Or, more accurately, choked. "I could cut down the mountains. I could push through a storm of spears. I managed all that and then some. But-" She shut her eyes. Drulailmon's guidance along memory lane was not a pleasant trip. "They all hated me for it. I think some of them still do- I miss that power. I can't reclaim it. I don't deserve it, either." Drulailmon's voice squealed with a rippled laugh, configurated to something squeaky— far too high-pitched for something typically alien & soulless. A mimicry of a child's voice as if it'd regressed. There was, however, something inherently wrong with such a voice it molded. It was the smoldering, ever-burning tune of something wizened, festering with an ageless rage finely tweaked in its undertone. "O', but you were afraid all this while... ᴡᴏʀʀɪᴇᴅ— an echo chamber of worries, you & kin. You miss it," Yet cannot reclaim it. You don't deserve it, do you? Do you really think so?" Ancient hate radiates from its dead, greyish-blue eyes, madness and aristocratic ego festering within the hells of it. "O' Barbossa... do you think you've gained wings?" Freedom from this all? There are things yet haunting this accursed city: in the pits, in the sunless spots, in the nightless abysses, we dare not tread alone— you and I. The scourge still shed innocent blood as you - your people - happily roam above, living life to its best." "— I've seen them, Warden." Her voice- it was dreadfully hers. Wavering at every step, with all the power of a neutered hound. She had the audacity of one, too. All but declawed, the Allar bore her teeth. Some spark of bravery pulsed within her chest. A rarity. "I've fought them." Her hand, which wielded nothing, traced over her other mitt. Both were well-worn by scars, both familiar and not. The Maz's wounds were countless as the stars in the sky. There came a breath. A confession. Perhaps what Drulailmon had waited so patiently for. "I'm not happy, Warden. My people are in danger. The Qar-Digmaan is missing- my home is at the cusp of war." Something had shifted, in speech and stance. Her spear rose an inch. "I still hear the Gold-Chaser's call. But it's distant- even more since I've cured one of my own." Oh- and did she mourn! Muted, yet genuine, the pain that crept within her eyes- and she forced herself to speak yet still— "But I haven't a choice but to follow this path. My people." She swallowed nothing but air— "Even when you took me in, I served my people before I served you. You- terrify me! I hate that you've- decided to show up now. That you keep laughing and taunting-! I can't go back!" Each face told a tale of their own, a vice of the ugliest in humans. Yet, the faces were of unchanging quality— it could never show the subtleties, the in-betweens of more complex emotions. The faces were perhaps a blanket covering scorpions in this instance: creaseless, nothing to see beyond the superficial frown, smile... a twist of its eyes, the curvature of the lips. The faces' expressions were definitely not a medium to convey their true feelings hidden beneath the carapaces of metal. Some say the eyes were the windows to the soul, and it showed such an apparent rictus of pity to her— truly, adding salt to what Barbossa might have perceived as mockery. She might as well have. For some time, the Allat held a silent palaver before speaking up— more demure than before, as if a child chastised by their parents. It speaks of a tune, once recited long ago, an inkling of a memory that would scratch Barbossa's mind raw, of the 'path she hasn't a choice but to follow': ''Let us hope that they are free now,'' ''Free as the roaring flame,'' ''As the blowing winds.'' A warrior's meant to stand her ground. In the face of a charging beast, the face of a friend, and the face of a distant memory- any Maz worth their feathers knew to stare danger and agony head-on. But those words. Those chants, from so long ago tore through flesh and mind. Sanctity, ever-so-blinding, made Barbossa move before she could even think. She became taller with that step up the camp, with those puffing feathers and heaving breaths. A worm yelled to the bird ahead, with all the force it could muster. "ɢᴏ!" ''Let us hope that they are free now...'' The voice slid into Barbossa's ears like a piece of thin, unbreakable ice. Invasive as it was in the moment uttered again— persistent as the rings of tinnitus as Barbossa roars over in her scream. It rose frostily then, the forest floors laden with the ever-present mist drifting in seismic combers, gentle waves of motion... or as though something was moving cunningly under the surface. Slowly, but surely, does the Allat glide adagio— back into the forests from whence they came from, to the underbelly of the city where it reigned as a sunless king among few, back... tucked in their closet as the hidden monster a child always spoke of. "Let us hope that you are free now." And at that, it leaves the Allar in full with a sour note of brimstone. Cageless, she ran- out of the woods, out of sight- but not with the Warden out of her mind. An encounter to remember, for her own detriment. A haunting to not soon be forgotten. Thanks to @dimetros for letting me edit and upload this RP. And also, much appreciation is held for the character, Barbossa, they've crafted.
