OPEN: Kirkwail

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Ghosts
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC post. More content warnings than you can shake a stick at, probably, including allusions to slavery and violence in the body of the log post. Please use appropriate warnings in the subject lines for your own threads.

The storm sweeps in like an assassin: unexpected, in the dark, and throwing sharp pricks of sleet at exposed eyes and noses with expert aim and enough force to almost draw blood if the angle is right. Half an hour after the clouds crest the cliffs is all it takes for the city to retract indoors and huddle around fireplaces, settling in for a long night that will, unforeseen, turn into a long two days.

The Gallows, too, is pelted with ice; the walls of the cliffs and the fortress protect much of it from the worst of the wind, but when it can find a path over or through the walls, it slams through windows or doors to scatter papers and snuff out fires.

In the dark, in the rain, hurrying between towers or already accustomed to jumping firelight casting strange shadows and the wind howling like a wounded animal, people might be forgiven if they don't notice at first. But there's a hanging in the courtyard, a dozen translucent wisps of bodies dangling from the idea of nooses, and there's a girl's voice in the basement of the templar tower screaming for her mother, and there's a ghostly man in the library holding the blade of a knife to his palm and whispering this is it, this is it—or maybe there isn't, actually, when you lift your head to pay closer attention.

But as the night wears on they multiply, and they brighten, and even if you haven't noticed them, they begin to notice you.

Comments

[shri]

Lakshmi's head so barely turns, where she's sat, half against her desk. Not because she does not enjoy Teren's company, but that there is no sight that is of remote interest to her in this moment as that of her husband and sons.

"Don't disturb them."

All she says, all she cares to say, as she turns to watch them again.

On the floor, Anand turns a page, flicking to the drawing of Lord Rama wielding a sword, and with it, he jumps up, lifting up his arms to mimic the pose. "Rani-ji, am I mighty? Like Lord Ram?"

[doneisdone]

Teren doesn't answer. She crosses the room, her clothing beginning to shift from the familiar Warden leathers to a dress dull and plain in silhouette, the sort of thing a servant would wear. The bottle is set on a table as she steps toward the king, her eyes fixed on him and filled with grim purpose.

He flickers as she grabs him by the hair; it's not quite him anymore, and yet it is, his eyes widening in startled desperation as Teren yanks his head back and punches a hidden blade into his lower back.

[shri]

Her fingers are going to Teren's throat before there is thought - and before there is time as it strictly passes for others. She is too fast, too smooth, too unerring. Sliding inside of her own skin like the being she does her best to pretend otherwise of being. Old and aching and made to fight without breath or pause. How the world goes cool, dark and fast.

Here to the steady horror of it, here the strength of it, that she can pick Teren up by her throat just like she weighed no more than a child. Holding her, dragging her, grief-stricken, eyes wide and furious, wet with the tears and rage of it.

But it doesn't happen. Her fingers close on nothing, grasp at smoke. Her teeth set hard against themselves. Another fucking spirit. "Whatever you are. Get. Out."

[doneisdone]

The spirit dissipates as though it were never there, and then, from the doorway: "it wasn't really him, in the end."

Teren is standing back where she was before she entered, but looks more solid this time, somehow; perhaps it was hard to notice a moment ago, with the light filtering through as it is. She raises a bottle-- eerily similar to the one planted on the desk-- to her lips and takes a long pull from it, holding it out to Lakshmi but not coming any closer.

"It seems I've been busy today," she adds, grimly.

[shri]

This time - she will not be made a fool of, I will not lose them again. Behind her, the scene resets, after all - their death is something she has long learned to live with.

The ache would always be in missing them. The boy reads to his father, the baby reaches for the pearls to play with. Sprawled over thick red carpets, with lanterns all of gold glittering with burning lap oil.

"Leave," is the one bark of warning. Fool her once, fool her twice.

fool her chicken soup with rice

[doneisdone]

Teren doesn't right away: perhaps it's a matter of stubbornness, proving that she goes where she pleases, and even if Lakshmi is a queen in her own land, one uttered command won't be enough for everyone.
But she's not heartless. She hears the brokenness that the woman is trying to hide, and recognizes when it is and isn't time to pick at someone who has lost everything.
Taking another swig, she hangs there for a moment or two, then wordlessly leaves.