"Ya are a bleaker long before ya ever join the Cabal."
"That's why we turn people away. It's... not somethin' ya do willingly."
"It's somethin' ya need."
"That's why we turn people away. It's... not somethin' ya do willingly."
"It's somethin' ya need."
Odette stared at her hands, the flicker of hearth's flame seeming to emblazon each physical mar of flesh and every threaded scar that graced bronze palms and lay claim to slender digits. Hands that had seen too much, done too much... or not enough. Bronzed digits bore the brunt of her necessary sin, the faint threading of blade-thin tracks weaving their way upward toward her knuckles where deeper gashes marked their territory. When she looked at her hands, all Odette saw was the weight of her decisions; past, present and future. Now, they shook. Jittered. Amir's words rung quietly in her mind; a voice in the void. She had known, of course, that she was slipping. Yet, it was this knowledge, this lack of understanding untempered by uncertainty, that she'd sought out friend and Bleaker. It was in these moments, she had teetered on the precipice between tearing apart everything she knew and simply fading away. These moments, in which she had lost the will to continue.
There was a war that had waged within the woman, a turbulent tide turned stormy to crash upon the shore of reason lost amidst the rocky outcrop of frustration and despair. Cycle after cycle, things spiraled further and further out of control. Scarred hands stood as testament to times past; hands that had toiled at sea. Hands that had plucked the strings of lute and raised stein in bawdy toast many a time. Hands that had scraped at caved stonework in Festhall bombing, fell motionless in wake of public suicide, grasped rarest of rapier, mopped blood in the Weary Spirit, shed skin and made to dance in skeletal ritual of self. Hands that had shriveled and burned in the final moments of a dying prime, drawn passionately over masculine flesh, grasped goblet in Arborea, set fire in Temple of the Abyss, delivered Godsman to Abyssal throne, sacrificed fingers in the shred of mimir's maw. Hands that had torn open portals in search. Hands that could only carry so much before they broke and shattered.
"Ya are already walkin' it." He looks down to her, his tone soft - almost sad. "Whether ya claim ta be one or not."
The mercenary, once sailor, had been trying to find reason in a place devoid of it. She was butter, scraped over too much bread. A rock amidst a sea of chaos, chipped and broken. The constant gruelling grind of survival cycle after cycle. The recent awaken of Somnos only seemed to prove this further, cloak and dagger driving wedge enough to allow only the barest trickle of information that would sate thirst to aid. To be more than helpless. It was single card placed on table, when once whole hand would be shared. The meddle in that which they had to right to meddle in, let alone deign outcome. Yet, it was not the be all and end all of downward spiral. Tarnished disavowal, Indep instigate of bloodshed, disregard of deader's warning, deflection of truth, shatter of given word, enlighten of propinquity. Each played their part at the behest of lips, paws, fingers and maw that were familiar to she.
It was an all too common tale that passed the lips of those exposed to worlds beyond their own. For some, it was instantaneous. Clueless cutters, cagestruck to the point of being unable to grasp what lay at their feet and beyond. For others the eventual knowledge of lacking impact came with experience. Repetition. A burden that took its toll with each near-death experience, be it of self or loved one. Odette Vieuxpont was of the latter. Mortal, and not immune to the limitations of the human mind. Time, however, had not been kind. Circumstance, had not been kind. The vapor helped, at times, but she wasn't stupid enough to be dependent on it. Yet, there remained expectancy to perform regardless. To stand tall as pillar of strength and support. Unshakable. Unbreakable. And, she had done so. For a time.
"Cabal gives ya access ta meds ya might need, and the Mad Bleaker Ward.
They're adept at dealin' with... psychotic breaks. Which ya will experience."
They're adept at dealin' with... psychotic breaks. Which ya will experience."
Hands. They held her attention anew; digits curling to pluck invisible string in subconscious recollection of some event or another. The 'emptying', as Amir had put it, had already begun. It was not a term he used lightly. True, Odette had recognized her growing inability to cope; lashing out in frustration for the lacking common sense of peers in action that was every bit as much a subtle cry for help as it was the drive of those from her for same reason. This was nothing compared to the constancy of exhaustion that seemed nigh inescapable. Perhaps, if she'd spoken up sooner. Perhaps if she'd done things differently. No. The time for needless questioning of the unchangeable had passed. Anger faded, frustration ebbed, judgement ceased. There was only the present. A present in which she had picked up the shards of what remained and delivered them to the palms of treasured friend; submitting to Gatehouse in search of answers from those whom had none.
The results were both confronting and unexpected, but with them... so too came a measure of peace. The elf never made such recommendations. Ever. And yet, in some small way, her fate was already sealed. With it, however, came need of decision and thought. The path was one she'd already been walking, pointed out, regardless of whether or not badge clung to cloak. It would not be an easy one, but when had it ever been? The Cabal, however, could and would provide haven for the years ahead. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done about gods. Or fey. Whatever aid could be rendered would not come from outside, but from within. The ease of what could be eased in the pass of time and the search of self.
"It's hard fer 'em ta understand what ya feelin'. They can't grasp it. It's outside their boundary.
They come up with these illusions... the way they want things ta be. Ya startin' ta see it for what it is.
It's not somethin' ya fix. It's somethin' ya accept, and learn ta cope with."
[/size] They come up with these illusions... the way they want things ta be. Ya startin' ta see it for what it is.
It's not somethin' ya fix. It's somethin' ya accept, and learn ta cope with."
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