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Old demons and old friends
Topic Started: Feb 9 2017, 07:45 AM (146 Views)
Maeve McKenna

Note: While short, this is necessary for development. I think Mina may be the only one this will make much sense for. Sorry guys. :/

The sound of plastic and glass cracking and shattering is nearly drowned out by the snarling scream that accompanies it. A noise of frustration and pure rage. It dawns, about a half second after the phone shatters against the unforgiving stone walls of "the armory" what she's done, and a stream of colorful, and creative vulgarities in a combination of Greek and English spills from her lips. Hands lift, fingers raking back through disheveled blonde hair. A common thing when she's frustrated, a nervous tic she never seems able to completely get away from. It's absolutely stupid. Words. Words on as screen from someone who has no consequence in her life whatsoever at this point. Stupid words should not incite a rage that sets her skin on fire and sends her pulse hammering in her ears. Worse. Worse than the throbbing rush, the hammering beat of her heart is the laughter. Soft, subtle, and dark. A hissing whisper against the back of her mind of monsters thought slain. Spiraling. The room spins, vision graying at the edges. The whispers swell, mocking laughter ringing, close enough to feel cool breath against her ears. And then hands. Cool hands. Strong hands. Calloused and firm. A warrior's hands, pressing against the shoulders left bare by the black tank top.

Peace Aderfi. Peace.

Sister. Only one person calls her that. She exhales a slow, shaky breath. The laughter recedes, but not without hissed promises. The gray fades, but her knees give and she sinks to the floor of the room that has become her refuge and safe haven, her sanctuary against the world.


Orthyrades.

I thought, Little Sister, that we were in agreement on how this was going to go. I thought, that we had reached an understanding.

I don't...understand what you're saying Orthyrades.

There is a wall which should not be. Your dreams are closed to me. I speak, you do not hear, or you do not listen. I cannot guide, if you will not see.

She frowns, finally turning to stare at her salvation straight on. He hasn't changed. Like something out of an old movie the powerfully build warrior. Usually she sees him as he last was in life, battle worn, bloodied. But not now. And the concern...it is not often the concern is so visible.

I haven't done anything....It's...I don't know. Something's...off. I just don't know what. The voices are back, not...not the normal ones, them I drown out. These are different. They push, and they prod. And they whisper. Sometimes I can't sleep. I can't think. And I get so...angry. Irrationally so. I thought...Orthyrades I thought I'd found clarity, resolution. But this...

There has been a shift. Arrange a meeting with the woman who sees. I suspect...but I would be certain before we move forward.

He will not say it, not aloud, not yet, not until he knows for certain. But there is a chance, there is always a risk, that the whispers, the voices, are more than just the restless dead who will not find peace. Sometimes an old soul comes attached with old baggage. The word circles, but he brushes it away. First. A conference with the Rom woman.
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