RETELLING OF EVENTS AFTER THE EIGHTH OF ████████████, ████ AC
TAKES PLACE IN ████████████████, SUBJECT'S HOME
THESE ARE THE SUBJECT'S MUSING OF TOPIC ████████
The snowfall was heavy that night, the light scent of burning tabacca and opium carrying on the misted breath that the half-blood exhaled. They enjoyed smoking on the balcony for some reason, regardless of the weather. Maybe the way the snow fell between the roofs of their tucked away home felt calming, or maybe they just thought it was so they could have some peace. Between enduring Fort Loyalty and ███████ █████████ ███████ █████████, could anyone really blame them for wanting that calm?
The moment didn't exactly last, though. Given that all they had been through, they still had to work. There were papers to sign, events to prepare for and burning ███ ███████ ███████ ████████, ██████████ ███████. Once they wandered inside of their three-floor building, quite luxurious for a half-Shendar, Silven magi; even though they weren't paid for ████████████ ███████, they still managed to make ends meet. They stubbed out the garette on the ashtray of their writing desk, their room beginning to fill with smoke, and the inevitable tension following it like a bad odor.
Even though it caused them a large amount of pain, they had often taken to looking at the brand on their right hand. The Eye of Union surrounded by flames seared into their right palm as a spiritual reminder that all they'd ever be was a sacrifice for Ailor blood, and nothing more. That even if they sprinted towards that goal of becoming accepted, it may not ever happen. The reminder of pain returned for just the barest of moments, causing a snarling cringe to appear on their visage. The cut they had ██████ █████████, ██████ ███████ ████████.
Now that they had spent some time standing around, they decided it would be best to unpack; they unholstered the pouch of Wellen from their belt, and set aside the piece of chalk they used for formetal. A steely blade took from their hand and impaled into the bedside stand, soon bringing back the malicious thoughts of how they'd wanted to ████████ █████ ███ ██████████████, ██████████ ████████.
They soon made their way towards their bedside, removing the suspenders strapped over their shoulders and the following articles they didn't need for now. Usually, they had only really counted sleeping for four hours a night, but it was at this time they felt true exhaustion. Perhaps they felt as if they had never been tested properly before, or that this was just the beginning of what they'd find. After all, this was their legacy, ████ ██████ ██████, separate yet ever so close to what they'd thought it was. Thoughts of their father permeated their mind, mostly, given the state he had left their hands in shortly before departing this plane. Even he hadn't predicted that such events ███████ ██████████.
That didn't mean to say they thought this was bad. Not in the slightest. ██████████ █████████ ███████████? Due to the fact, they thought that their fathers pride might just swell up and burst, and that gave them endless satisfaction. They couldn't let it over take them, though, oh no; hubris had too many times claimed those close to them, and they would not succumb to the same.
Legacy is a powerful thing. Of those that came before, of histories to be repeated, and of the passing of blood, no matter how cursed. Even if the facts would be obscured, Shiori Draylas thought, he'd start making his own.
RETELLING OF EVENTS AFTER THE EIGHTH OF ████████████, ████ AC
TAKES PLACE IN ████████████████, SUBJECT'S HOME
THESE ARE THE SUBJECT'S MUSING OF TOPIC ████████
The snowfall was heavy that night, the light scent of burning tabacca and opium carrying on the misted breath that the half-blood exhaled. They enjoyed smoking on the balcony for some reason, regardless of the weather. Maybe the way the snow fell between the roofs of their tucked away home felt calming, or maybe they just thought it was so they could have some peace. Between enduring Fort Loyalty and ███████ █████████ ███████ █████████, could anyone really blame them for wanting that calm?
The moment didn't exactly last, though. Given that all they had been through, they still had to work. There were papers to sign, events to prepare for and burning ███ ███████ ███████ ████████, ██████████ ███████. Once they wandered inside of their three-floor building, quite luxurious for a half-Shendar, Silven magi; even though they weren't paid for ████████████ ███████, they still managed to make ends meet. They stubbed out the garette on the ashtray of their writing desk, their room beginning to fill with smoke, and the inevitable tension following it like a bad odor.
Even though it caused them a large amount of pain, they had often taken to looking at the brand on their right hand. The Eye of Union surrounded by flames seared into their right palm as a spiritual reminder that all they'd ever be was a sacrifice for Ailor blood, and nothing more. That even if they sprinted towards that goal of becoming accepted, it may not ever happen. The reminder of pain returned for just the barest of moments, causing a snarling cringe to appear on their visage. The cut they had ██████ █████████, ██████ ███████ ████████.
Now that they had spent some time standing around, they decided it would be best to unpack; they unholstered the pouch of Wellen from their belt, and set aside the piece of chalk they used for formetal. A steely blade took from their hand and impaled into the bedside stand, soon bringing back the malicious thoughts of how they'd wanted to ████████ █████ ███ ██████████████, ██████████ ████████.
They soon made their way towards their bedside, removing the suspenders strapped over their shoulders and the following articles they didn't need for now. Usually, they had only really counted sleeping for four hours a night, but it was at this time they felt true exhaustion. Perhaps they felt as if they had never been tested properly before, or that this was just the beginning of what they'd find. After all, this was their legacy, ████ ██████ ██████, separate yet ever so close to what they'd thought it was. Thoughts of their father permeated their mind, mostly, given the state he had left their hands in shortly before departing this plane. Even he hadn't predicted that such events ███████ ██████████.
That didn't mean to say they thought this was bad. Not in the slightest. ██████████ █████████ ███████████? Due to the fact, they thought that their fathers pride might just swell up and burst, and that gave them endless satisfaction. They couldn't let it over take them, though, oh no; hubris had too many times claimed those close to them, and they would not succumb to the same.
Legacy is a powerful thing. Of those that came before, of histories to be repeated, and of the passing of blood, no matter how cursed. Even if the facts would be obscured, Shiori Draylas thought, he'd start making his own.
Shiori: -removes scarf-
Helena: -tries to see Shiori's face-
Shiori: -lowers popped collar-
Helena: -still trying to see-
Shiori: -is wearing a second scarf, adjusts it, and continues walking-
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