Through the Looking Glass She's been through worse, she thinks, as the pressure grows. This is like drowning, which she's conquered before—she can't be killed, really, not in any way that lasts. Not outside of specific conditions. It's like the passage between the reflections of the world her mentor shattered to save it. The oppressiveness of he who once was Themis' cage, though this without what might have also once been broken limbs.
When Wisteria breaches the surface, soap-bubble thin, she stumbles forward. Disoriented, she swipes a hand out in front of her blindly, out of habit, damp hood falling askew with scarves and cloak hanging limply; that there had been no solid surface to break is unexpected, compounding the unbalance. She's quick to stand upright, squinting at the scene before her, blinking away the droplets clinging to her lashes trapped behind her mask.
Where in hells has she wound up? There are too many mirrors—and certainly mirrors, for there's no aether she can sense making them far from Her crystals. And that thought lingers, even as she crosses a few places off her list.
It doesn't matter. Forward.
Shoving her hair out of her face with a gloved hand, Wisteria glares ahead; it's frustrating to know she's here without having chosen to be. The only ones able to do that should be—
The ancient warrior shakes her head, pointedly grabbing for the lengths of her scarves and cloak, wringing what dampness still clings to them out much like that thought. Forward.
"Well, then!" With a clap of her hands, the traveller draws herself up with an air more lively than she feels, "Time to sort this out."
...
Wisteria moments later can be found standing in the doorway of the room housing "her" mirror and its brethren, calling out towards the deck proper, low and graveled voice managing to carry.
"Is mirrors going solid black normal after spitting some wayward soul out, here?"
Might as well see if there's anyone to answer. Sure sounds like it, she thinks.
2 inches There's a soft, tight inhale of breath as Wisteria wavers in place. She's wandered—of course she has, she'd earned all parts of her old title—through until the mirrors start showing something different. Something wrong. And she thinks of the world's shattering, the Sundering, the grieving attempt to spare the souls that didn't deserve what the Convocation deemed appropriate, because these reflections are so like her... while they aren't at all.
Faded, lost, little more than a ghost standing amid the rubble. Streaked in blood and ichor with axe in hand, aetherial armoury fanning out behind her. Feral, gaze wild and smile ever moreso, hunching forward with fists bloody, bodies at her feet. Trapped again, gaze empty as her forehead presses tighter to the bars. Collected, black mask set neatly in place above a lopsided grin, wrapped in black robes and wreathed in dark aether. All with her face but so very wrong.
"What is this?" Her normally stone-rough voice is quiet, more a rasp than words, as she steps up to one of the reflections in those oddly arranged mirrors—seeming to shape an arc with how they prop up and stack against each other—each and all performing that same movement in time with her. When she reaches out, so do they.
Quite a bit more literally than she'd anticipated, in fact. She should have known better after emerging from a mirror, herself! The thought comes as a sharp, familiar voice, scolding her from the depths of her memories.
One reflection grabs at her wrist, rage twisting its features. But there is no sound even as its mouth clearly shapes tooth-sharpened words, and in her stun, Wisteria does nothing. She could pull away, surely, but instead she finds herself still. Another hand grabs a fistful of her cloak. A scarf. A sleeve.
The black-robed one grabs for her next—pulls so sharply that her shoulder might have dislocated even the mirror fails to contain the anomaly, steps forward, cold metal claws digging into leather. It, she, speaks to her without speaking, only expressions, as her grin turns vicious.
Wisteria is ancient, but this is new, and yet somehow this wars with her survival instinct. Wisteria only steps back, though the other reflections fail to release her, instead seeking to follow when their limbs go taut.
...Even thousands of years later, the former Azem remains an idiot in the face of danger, seems, no matter how dark the tone of her voice when she makes her request.
"Mind letting go?"
The strange reflection will not, and it might benefit her if someone with experience in this fact pointed it out or else this may just turn unfortunate.
All hands How she doesn't reel from the stench is beyond her, sometimes. Maybe it's the ages spent on battlefields or in close proximity to them. Blood is a familiar thing, wretched truth as it is.
Wisteria had determined her best bet to learning more would be to start searching from the bottom-up. As of yet, she isn't sure if she regrets that decision.
Mostly, it just seems to mean she's going to have a hell of a time getting the smell of copper out of her nose, and also not trust any other water source on whatever vessel this is.
To anyone nearby curious enough about the blood-smell of the water, or otherwise visible from her place peering at the incongruity of it all, she's going to call out.
"Don't suppose you've any ideas about this, do you?" Though her voice is mostly flat, dragged over gravel, the question is genuine. Not that she's sure what she expects.
"Wisteria" (Pandora, the abdicated Azem) | Final Fantasy XIV AU (Unsundered Azem)
Through the Looking Glass
She's been through worse, she thinks, as the pressure grows. This is like drowning, which she's conquered before—she can't be killed, really, not in any way that lasts. Not outside of specific conditions. It's like the passage between the reflections of the world her mentor shattered to save it. The oppressiveness of he who once was Themis' cage, though this without what might have also once been broken limbs.
When Wisteria breaches the surface, soap-bubble thin, she stumbles forward. Disoriented, she swipes a hand out in front of her blindly, out of habit, damp hood falling askew with scarves and cloak hanging limply; that there had been no solid surface to break is unexpected, compounding the unbalance. She's quick to stand upright, squinting at the scene before her, blinking away the droplets clinging to her lashes trapped behind her mask.
Where in hells has she wound up? There are too many mirrors—and certainly mirrors, for there's no aether she can sense making them far from Her crystals. And that thought lingers, even as she crosses a few places off her list.
It doesn't matter. Forward.
Shoving her hair out of her face with a gloved hand, Wisteria glares ahead; it's frustrating to know she's here without having chosen to be. The only ones able to do that should be—
The ancient warrior shakes her head, pointedly grabbing for the lengths of her scarves and cloak, wringing what dampness still clings to them out much like that thought. Forward.
"Well, then!" With a clap of her hands, the traveller draws herself up with an air more lively than she feels, "Time to sort this out."
...
Wisteria moments later can be found standing in the doorway of the room housing "her" mirror and its brethren, calling out towards the deck proper, low and graveled voice managing to carry.
"Is mirrors going solid black normal after spitting some wayward soul out, here?"
Might as well see if there's anyone to answer. Sure sounds like it, she thinks.
2 inches
There's a soft, tight inhale of breath as Wisteria wavers in place. She's wandered—of course she has, she'd earned all parts of her old title—through until the mirrors start showing something different. Something wrong. And she thinks of the world's shattering, the Sundering, the grieving attempt to spare the souls that didn't deserve what the Convocation deemed appropriate, because these reflections are so like her... while they aren't at all.
Faded, lost, little more than a ghost standing amid the rubble.
Streaked in blood and ichor with axe in hand, aetherial armoury fanning out behind her.
Feral, gaze wild and smile ever moreso, hunching forward with fists bloody, bodies at her feet.
Trapped again, gaze empty as her forehead presses tighter to the bars.
Collected, black mask set neatly in place above a lopsided grin, wrapped in black robes and wreathed in dark aether.
All with her face but so very wrong.
"What is this?" Her normally stone-rough voice is quiet, more a rasp than words, as she steps up to one of the reflections in those oddly arranged mirrors—seeming to shape an arc with how they prop up and stack against each other—each and all performing that same movement in time with her. When she reaches out, so do they.
Quite a bit more literally than she'd anticipated, in fact. She should have known better after emerging from a mirror, herself! The thought comes as a sharp, familiar voice, scolding her from the depths of her memories.
One reflection grabs at her wrist, rage twisting its features. But there is no sound even as its mouth clearly shapes tooth-sharpened words, and in her stun, Wisteria does nothing. She could pull away, surely, but instead she finds herself still. Another hand grabs a fistful of her cloak. A scarf. A sleeve.
The black-robed one grabs for her next—pulls so sharply that her shoulder might have dislocated even the mirror fails to contain the anomaly, steps forward, cold metal claws digging into leather. It, she, speaks to her without speaking, only expressions, as her grin turns vicious.
Wisteria is ancient, but this is new, and yet somehow this wars with her survival instinct. Wisteria only steps back, though the other reflections fail to release her, instead seeking to follow when their limbs go taut.
...Even thousands of years later, the former Azem remains an idiot in the face of danger, seems, no matter how dark the tone of her voice when she makes her request.
"Mind letting go?"
The strange reflection will not, and it might benefit her if someone with experience in this fact pointed it out or else this may just turn unfortunate.
All hands
How she doesn't reel from the stench is beyond her, sometimes. Maybe it's the ages spent on battlefields or in close proximity to them. Blood is a familiar thing, wretched truth as it is.
Wisteria had determined her best bet to learning more would be to start searching from the bottom-up. As of yet, she isn't sure if she regrets that decision.
Mostly, it just seems to mean she's going to have a hell of a time getting the smell of copper out of her nose, and also not trust any other water source on whatever vessel this is.
To anyone nearby curious enough about the blood-smell of the water, or otherwise visible from her place peering at the incongruity of it all, she's going to call out.
"Don't suppose you've any ideas about this, do you?" Though her voice is mostly flat, dragged over gravel, the question is genuine. Not that she's sure what she expects.
Come on in!
Wildcard option!