Heretical Liberation

Log Info

• Title: Heretical Liberation
• Emitter: Aryia
• Characters: Aryia, Verna
• Place: City Library
• Time: November 28th, 2021
• Summary: Within a private study at the City's Library, Aryia takes Verna up on another delve into the mul'neissa's muddled memories. They experience a small glimpse of a gala that a younger Aryia partook of in her previous life, learned a few new things about the family she was a part of, as well as reexperience the catalyst that more than likely caused a cascading downsprial of events to end her up where she was now. Verna and Aryia speculate some, as well as gleam some of Verna's own past before Aryia heads off.

City Library, Midday.

After a discussion in the plaza, one and a half mul's find themselves stepping back into the same private study room that was used before within the City's Library.

Aryia dresses down some, pulling off her large sunhat and the blue shawl and depositing them on the empty desk. She sighs, rubbing at her face before sitting in a chair.

While they have no permanent claim to the room, and the frequency is not yet enough to make this entirely common, there is still some comfortable familiarity involved. Verna sheds her cloak before moving a chair over opposite Aryia's and settling. The sigh and rub of face causes brows to lift somewhat. "Do you have any concerns? Is all well?"

Aryia sets her books down as well, and leans back some in her chair. "Aside from the general anxiety that I live with on a constant basis?" she weakly jokes with a gloved hand. Which soon become ungloved, to join the growing pile of outer wear. Another sigh, and she shakes her head. "Yes, I do. Just concerned about unknowns is all, which is expected." <Handspeech>

Verna nods as she takes a moment to remove her gloves and set them aside on the table. The exposed digits provide her response. "Expectation does not necessarily remove the apprehension, yet it is preferable to utter surprise. I would urge you not to fret of the past, yet I realize that, in many ways, this is no different, to you, than others' concerns for the future."

It may be simple statement or intended to reassure in some manner. In any case, she offers her hands afterwards, palms up. "Do you have any notion of what, where, or when you wish to recall?"

Aryia sighs, nodding languidly before closing her eyes as Verna speaks. She affords a moment of silence, taking the time to breathe. In. Out.

"I'll try not to," she motions after a few seconds. "I'll do my best to be calm this time around. Thank you."

Scarred hands raise, then lower into Verna's, similar to last time. One lifts to speak momentarily. "Um... there's... the gala, I think. I keep remembering music and... and dancing. And idle chatter. It was after that memory we saw. I can't remember if something happened then, but I feel this... knot of dread looming there." <Handspeech>

Verna nods once more. "The gala," she repeats, confirming and commiting to the focus. "Regardless of what happened, know that it is the past, and I am here with you, now, in the present." An assurance that is even accompanied with a brief, light smile.

She then retrieves one hand just long enough to gesture as she incants, and focuses, repeating aloud, for them both, "The gala..."

Aryia lets out a final shuddering breath before leaning back fully and relaxing. Just before the spell takes hold, the pugilist intertwines her fingers with the Mourner's.

The gala...

Once more the bookshelf is present. With long row of tomes that grew dusty with age. However, unlike last time, the oldest ones have been shifted some from their spots, the dust disturbed. The spines cracked. They've been opened recently. A hand hovers over them, looking for...

The Gala. Eighty years ago. Dead of night.

Light music filters in as eyes slide open once more. In front of the memory was a young mul'neissa man, hair a fired red, and a few cuts on his face. Well dressed, though, a touch disheveled. Despite that, he still bore a smile. "And they say your house is nothing but a bunch of prostrators for the union?" he chuckles.

The tip of a long, thin blade rests under their chin, and lifts their face up. Once more, the strange feeling returns, a vibration in the throat. Then, a smooth, chuckling voice. "Aeldius has its hidden talents," Zilstrae hints with a wink.

There's a soft applause that goes around. Dainty, more formal than anything rambunctious before ongoings return to their private conversations. Surrounding the little duel was a plethora of well dressed folk. Namely mul'neissa, either full blooded or of some touch. Yet an errant other folk wasn't given a second glance.

There's a faint whisper in a long ear. "Zilly, dear, would you kindly not show off? We aren't here to make waves," a familiar, maternal voice says.

Zilly rolls her eyes. "... yes mother," she mumbles under her breath.

Verna takes a moment to acclimate herself to this altered point of view. She may know the magic, and utilized it before, but none of this makes her immune to the bit of disorientation. Still, she is only a facilitator and observer to fufill that role.

Not to say that she does not feel some pride at the apparent accomplishemnt. There may or may not be a twitch of her lips at the abreviated appelation; a sign of fondness, common especially from parent to child. Amusement? Annoyance? Whether all of the above are purely her own or bleedover from the memory would be hard to define.

Aryia herself was a bit muted in terms of her emotions. This time around, she was doing well to just shut up, put up, and watch intently. She does, however, feel a hint proud that her past self was still good at whatever it was she set out to do. And the weight of that rapier in her hand felt right, like a glove.

There's a soft, quiet thought that stems from the present Aryia. "... right, we have a hidden streak of fencers... I remember all the classes..."

The memory wavers some, sounds of swords clashing in practice as there's the squeaking of shoes on wood. But the pugilist focuses again. The Gala. The erroneous noises silence.

The man rises to his feet and dips his head. "Perhaps you could show me later...~?"

Zilstrae scoffs, rolling her eyes once more. "I'd rather run myself through the blade."

He seemed to take it in stride. "In due time," he hummed before walking off to a side room to freshen himself up. The long game, as was usual. Years of back and forth weren't uncommon in the slightest.

The old Aryia takes a handkerchief from a hidden pocket on the red and black dress and cleans the blade free before returning it back to its display on the wall. A beckon near the window draws the shadow's elf attention. It was a small gathering: her mother, father, and two priests. One drabbed in Taara's colors, and another in Maugrim's all black, with a simple pin of the diety on a lapel. The young elf sighs, and wanders on over, picking up a glass of wine along the way.

"Ah, there she is!" the Taaranite man beams, a half-sil. "Your mother was quite avid that you've been hard at work taking up the family business!"

Zilly glances to her mother, Khalees. She smiles sweetly, but the young daughter could see the invisible strain behind it. Anxiety formed within her, and her mind shoves some factoid down so deep that it barely has time to catch a breath. "Why, yes, of course she has!" the matron hums. "And she'd be more than willing to conduct the ceremony, wouldn't you dear?"

Zilly sighs, incantations and rituals and written passages flash through her mind. "Yes, of course, I'd love to," she replied in that customer-service manner. Filled with a smile, yet it was just a mask of annoyance. The memory glances over to the window, admiring the night sky and how the clouds blotted out a full moon.

Ah, the flirtatious nature of youth. Or so Verna has read. Quite the stinging rebuttal, though she is thankful that Aryia (nor Zilly) did not choose that alternative. The transition to the clergy, and their nature, should not surprise Verna in the slightest. It does, however, spark pursing to her lips and firmness in her grip. That couple, as it were, she is far too familiar with. So, too, is the pre-packaged proper response, despite actual personal wishes. The only unfamiliarity to Verna, in this instance, would be the maternal concern.

Aryia's grip returns a similar firmness, but its in response rather than emotion flaring. The current shadow elf has been doing good thus far, despite the deluge of small things that were coming back to her, she'd been keeping her breathing steady, and herself calm.

The Maugrim Conquerer shifts some, clearly the more silent type. But she, a human, exhales slowly and gives Zilstrae and appraising look. "Yes," she grunted. "We do wish to undergo the union, and having your daughter conduct it would be a massive boon, no?"

The father, Xarann, coughs into his lone hand. "Of course it would, though, pray we have some practice runs? We are confident she will do well, but we know neither of their Benevolence would condone a slip up."

Deaf to the concern the father held, Zilstrae cuts a glare to the one armed man. "I can handle it just fine," she reminds, a bit snippy.

The Taaranite grins. "Ooh, I like this one. Regardless, I harbor no doubts. The goddess clearly hasn't left the family."

That particular line felt like the rapier she was holding ran straight through her gut. The three longer lived mul'neissa easily mask that sensation, Zilstrae feeling they all felt the same. Khalees chuckles, shaking her head and sipping on her wine. "Nonsense to think otherwise."

Someone calls for a name across the way, and the two to-be-weds politely excuse themselves.

The small family share looks.

Aryia, in her mind, quietly murmurs, "... oh no *fucking* way..."

A union. Common, almost even expected. A show of solidarity... or, in better truth to the deities involved, a show of domination by one and a ploy to secure (perhaps steal) power by the other. While individual representatives' underlying reasons might vary, there is no room for romance or affection between Tyranny and Greed.

That Aryia would be to... preside over that ceremony(?!) is rather unexpected. Unusual? There is obviously more to this situation, at least insofar as Verna knows or recalls what is (or was) more common Charneth practice.

The father closes the gap the two leaving made, him facing the two women. He does well to hide the nerves, but he fidgets with his house symbol dangling from his neck: the cockatrice held down by chains upon a shattered disc. "When does the Gala end?" he inquires in the smooth Sildanyari language. It wouldn't help in terms of privacy due to sheer presence of elf-touched, but speaking anything else would draw ears.

The matron sighs, putting a hand on the daughter's back and glancing to a set of stairs in the center of the room. "The host will dismiss us. Shouldn't be long now." Zilstrae caught the undertones. We can we get out of here? We're stuck until we get grace. "Just try to not do anything stupid," she adds, glancing down to her daughter, being less subtle about it.

Zilstrae felt some annoyance flare up at that, but it was tempered by similar anxieties they all shared. She glances out to the window once more, watching the clouds shift and part of the Outer Rings of Aby'ssa. Bits of the full moon started to peek through. An idle, old thought was curious to how vivid it was tonight.

A loud tinking sound of a spoon on glass echoes through gala, an overly dressed, prideful half-mul'neissa man coming down the steps. He's adorned in the vestiges of Thuul, with little skulls and crossbones littered all over the stitching of his attire. Zilstrae wanted to throw up. Ugh, it was so terrible looking. Why would you wear that?

"Now now, my wonderful people. I sure hope you've enjoyed my lovely estate. I can tell with how the wine runs dry, I'm going to have to make another large purchase from House Shyrrik again soon!"

Soft laughter goes through the room. House Aelduis nervously chuckles.

"But, I am loathe to admit. I need to sleep. And I need you all out! I know, woe is me, but you all understand, yes? Please come by in the morning for tea and biscuits!"

"Sire, if I may?" a familiar voice cuts through the crowd just as they are starting to depart. The Conqurer steps forward, holding up a glass of wine. The host's eye twitches, but he gestures for them to continue. "Thank you sire. I won't keep everyone overlong, and I know it's not my place to make such grandoise prose. But those at the temples would like to extend their warmest gratitude to that of House Aelduis." She gestures towards the three mul'neissa.

The family in question stands up straighter, a few explicatives in Undercommon slipping free in an exhaled breath.

"For their diligence in keeping the Union so well versed in these past decades. I invite all to the wedding this coming month. Formal invitations will be sent soon. And it is a special occasion. Khalees' own daughter will be conducting the ceremony. Zilstrae, you'll make your house proud." The Conquerer raises her wine glass, and motions towards Zilstrae with it. She smiles.

The clouds part.

The House is suddenly awash by the pure moonlit night.

The Conquerer freezes. And her glass drops to the ground with a shatter. Brisk steps from beside her show the face of a fuming Taaranite priest. He jabs a finger towards them. "Heretical Sky-Singers!" he inquisitorially accuses.

The room erupts into a shouting match.

And the book closes.

The underlying tension that remains is felt and noted. Yes, certainly some other matters afoot, Verna's thoughts hold, as initially implied in the prior memory. Now they wish to depart and distance themselves from whatever...

The sudden surge of moonlight is not painfully bright (not that Verna actually views it with her eyes, regardless), but the accusations and commotion spawned immediately after it cause her to blink and startle, both mentally and in the here and now.

Then, just as she attempts to parse this, the book closes, removing the page of the past from view.

Aryia, too, now thrust into the now, blinks owlishly at Verna. Her mouth opens several times, looking for something to say, but... nothing comes out, even in a metaphorical sense.

Unlike last time, the mute wasn't distraught. But she was certainly stunned by all of this. "... wh-t -n th -v-rl-v-ng f-ck...?" she hisses, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.

Verna considers this latest information further, it being somewhat easier to process it after she is no longer experiencing it firsthand. She is quiet for several moments before she does attempt to answer Aryia's inquiry, even if it may have been entirely rhetorical. "It seems that events may have been triggered for theological reasons rather than, or in addition to, political motives."

Aryia is still reeling from the dredged memory, her idly nodding in agreement with Verna as she points that out. "Y-s...."

She finally opens her eyes, and rubs at her face. "That felt so fucking weird. All of it. It... it was probably both." Another sigh, and she looks to her hand, holding it off to the side like she was gripping something unseen. A few thoughts make a connection, and she scoffs. "... I guess I know how I managed to stab one of my owners. Held the dagger the same way." <Handspeech>

"You did appear to have fighting skills, as well as fighting spirit," Verna notes as she looks to Aryia's hand, "well before the incident. I expect that they both served you well in your ordeals." As a belated addendum, she adds, "Not to discount adolescent rebelliousness, of course. That, I believe, is common to any or all humanoids."

Aryia couldn't help but quietly laugh at that. A laugh that undams a tremor that runs through the elf, making her breath shaky for a spell. "Yes. I think I felt you feel simliarly during all of that. Seems we both liked to rebel against our mothers."

Her smile turns a bit sad. "... though. I feel like our mothers may be completely different." <Handspeech>

Verna's lips purse as she nods. "I concur. With what little I know of her, your mother seemed quite... maternal." Afterwards, perhaps unexpectedly, her lips invert into something of bemusement. "Yes, I was occassionally rebellious, though one past moment of pique did prove to be quite practical in addition to rewarding."

Aryia still couldn't help but brush a hand over where her house symbol laid on her hip. She was a priestess? Ugh, the very thought filled her with disgust

She shakes her head, settling her attention on the Mourner that helped her. She quirks a brow. "And what was that moment?" she asks, curious, and wanting to shift the focus off of her for a moment so she could recuperate. <Handspeech>

Verna dips her head low and slow; not so much as a nod as a display. After she straightens, she explains, "Most mul'niessa seem quite proud of their hair; elaborate styles, decorations, and length. My mother was no different, and seemed to take great interest in having mine styled as she saw fit. Personally, I found the time spent in preparation and maintenace rather wasteful. Thus I made use of shears one night, much to her extreme dismay."

She makes a bit of a shrug. "I soon realized that it was far easier to maintain, and I need not spend hours simply to keep it from my eyes."

Aryia blinks, then a lopsided smile spreads across her lips, the elf snickering silently behind a hand as her shoulders shake. It was enough of a laughter that one could hear the raspy, "Ha.. haha... ha..." that comes up on occasion.

She collects herself, managing to motion with a hand. "Oh that's great. I bet the look on her face would make for a good painting." <Handspeech>

"It was memorable, indeed," Verna agrees. "As I now recall, I was excused from social gatherings afterwards, as well, so it proved a wise choice on several levels." An exhale after, or due to, the reminiscence. "I departed the household not long after, seeking to make my way to... anywhere else, in truth."

Aryia lightly rolls her eyes, a motion that was all too familiar from the recent memory, but it was light hearted, if the smile was evidence. "It's just hair, I don't see why they'd be so uptight about it. Though, that sounds like a hidden blessing to not have to go to those things."

She tilts her head to the side, removing her silver ribbon and fiddling with her ivory hair. She asks with a hand, "How did you end up here then?" <Handspeech>

"If you refer to why here," Verna qualifies her response, "it was a matter of curiosity, rumor, and geography. Rune and Alexandros were rumored to hold the greatest repositories of knowledge. I did not have the funds nor means to reach Rune at that time. The journey here was difficult enough. As I expect you are aware, a lone mul'niessa travelling outside of Charn, and from Charn, does not tend to invite hospitality. Avoided, at best, and suspected, at worst. Inns and merchants were inflated if not unavailable. Many presumed that my allegiance to Vardama was false and that my goals were nefarious."

Aryia raises her brows and nods with a sigh. "I know how that is. Was hard to get lodging if the captain on the ship I was on didn't vouch for me for the same reasons."

Though, the information does spark a question. "Verna, how... *did* you end up with Vardama anyhow?" she asks, curious. That puzzle piece hadn't been put into place just yet. <Handspeech>

That is an entirely relevant and pertinent question. One that gives Verna pause, if just to consider the response. That and the wash of related recollections of her own.

"Death was an unavoidable part of my House's trade; it was not intentional, nor desired, but a consequence nonetheless. Some did not survive. Those obtained from the outer rings, or beyond, were often already very near such."

A scowl forms. "As well, commerce in Charn is blessed by The Lord Thul, rather than Rada of the seas. For many, servitude did not, does not, end with death; that or others choose to sell off their afterlives in order to remain with the living a while longer. I found it untenable. Horrid. Thus began my own studies into nature of life and death."

"My Mistress is respectful of this order of things, and obviously far more knowledgeable than a hoarding thief. Whether I chose Her or She chose myself could be a matter of debate, but I would not imply that I superceded nor defied Her will."

Aryia crosses a leg over the other and sits more upright, paying attention as Verna gave an extended answer. By the pinch of her brow, it was clear that the mul'neissa was fully aware of the extend of such servitude, and glad she was that she got avoid it. She gives a light smile at Verna's rebellion and how she viewed the aspects of life and death. She questioned what she was raised in, and found truth. To be honest, she liked that, how it was a mutual understanding that some sort of overarching sweep of conversion or just praising without cause.

"I'm glad you found her then. I find her to be one I can tolerate much more than the others." <Handspeech>

Verna nods. "As am I, of course. She is not one to encourage prosyletization nor solicitation. Afterall, all will see her, at the end."

Aryia gives a sage nod. "I'm glad. Nothing frustrates me more than having someone try and shove it in my face. I guess... after that memory, it kind of makes sense why I dislike it so." <Handspeech>

Verna considers that, in context of both the memory and her experiences in the present with Aryia. "The roots of your past appear quite tied to deities, so I do not fault your dislike of them." A pause as she expands her considerations. "This could, perhaps, further explain your celestial abilities."

Aryia relaxes some from Verna's understanding. She'd only met one other person like that so far. Though, she tilts her head to the side. "You think so? Do you have any theories? I thought it was just my house fell out of Taara's favor." <Handspeech>

Verna is quiet for a long moment, considering (or perhaps reconsidering) her words. "I have a theory, based upon what we witnessed today and from what you demonstrated in the past. There is no shortage of conjecture, however, and it is only a theory..." Those caveats out of the way, she continues.

"You demonstrated understanding of the Celestial tongue, as well as the light that you produced at the bridge. The moon figured prominently in this recent memory, and it appeared that your House may have been accused of blasphemy. One possibility points to Eluna."

"A primary goddess of the sildanyari, save the mul'niessa who forsook her for Taara. To the Taarans, an Elunite, especially mul'niessa, would be considered traitorous. Were you somehow blessed, or touched as some might state, by Eluna, it could explain your abilities as well as the past we witnessed."

Aryia leans back, nestling her chin into a palm as she ponders the theory presented. Her brows shoot up, first with surprise, then with confusion. "But what would cause that? Why my family? Why me? We were so deeply ingrained in all of that, it makes no sense for her to do that... " she muses with a spare hand, deeply sighing. "I wish I could go to the temple, but can't do that for fuck all." A pause, then, "Is the rest of my family like this?" she gestures to her eyes. <Handspeech>

Verna's lips purse. "I do not have those answers. In truth, the questions may not exist. This is only a theory, and perhaps premature. We do not have all of the information as of yet."

Aryia sighs, and silently groans. She rubs her temples,then lightly knocks her knuckles against her head. "Come on, remeber, I know the answers are in there somewhere... " The mute shakes her head. "... regardless, thank you. This answers some things I've been trying to figure out. " <Handspeech>

Verna's expression deepens to a frown. "I understand that you are anxious for answers, but concussing yourself will not speed their arrival. You will remember, in time, and you will have your answers, or the information to find them."

Aryia huffs, and surrenders. "You're right," she motions slow, hand ending on her hip where the sash rested before. "It's a lot to think about. Might have to find a new place to think. Not the bridge. I don't want to fall in the water again," she lightly chuckles. <Handspeech>

"Indeed," Verna concurs. "Wet and freezing are not conducive to in-depth thought. I suggest a comfortable chair under shelter."

The pugilist chuffs, a corner of her lip curling upwards. "Not a bad idea. But where's the fun in that? I wonder if they'll chase me off the temple spires if I bring a chair up there..." Aryia muses as she rises to her feet. <Handspeech>

Verna's head tilts. "I expect that they would not approve, though it may also depend heavily on the temple in question. The Tarienites, for example, may find some humor in it." Which Verna is obviously not as she may have missed any sarcasm in the statement.

Aryia gives a small smile at that. Either from the truth in the matter, or the jest going over her friend's head. Literally, with the signs going high. "Was a joke," she assuages. "I don't want to give the city any ammunition against us. Regardless, I'm going to go to the bathhouse again."

She takes a step forward, and rests a hand on the Mourner's shoulder with a smile. "Thanks again for your help." <Handspeech>

Verna's hood dips deeply. "Ah. Understood. As well, you are quite welcome."

The hand on a shoulder slides around back to the other shoulder as Aryia gives a brief side hug. She scoops up her belongings, throws her shawl and hat back on, and gives Verna a moon-spark snap of a finger gun. "Catch you later," she smiles warmly, then heads out. <Handspeech>

-End Scene-