Who

Divale

What

Jolted from the escape of sleep, Divale is left to mull over conflicting thoughts… and to resist certain temptations.

brief reference to self-harming
slightly backdated

When

It is late night of the tenth day of the tenth month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Rosie's Daughters, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 02 May 2018 04:00

 

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Rosie's Daughters

Not the largest building in the Bazaar, nor the finest, Rosie's still has that little something extra to pull in customers- namely, it has prostitutes. And for prostitutes, there must need be room to mingle, to catch the eye and to hook their clients. To this purpose, the main room of Rosie's has been furnished with multiple functions in mind. Much of the room is given over to a parlor setting where floors and walls are covered with intricately patterned rugs and chaise lounges provide comfortable seating for clients and hookers alike. To the right is an area where low to the floor tables have been placed, on which girls have been known to dance. To the left, beyond a slight outcropping wall to designate it as a separate room is the bar. A short counter, behind which a bartender does a brisk trade in spirits and water. Also to the left are a number of tables intended not for dancing, but for cards and dice, both of which draw as many regular customers as the girls themselves do. A doorway to the rear of the parlor leads to a hallway from which many rooms can be reached, but one may only pass through the arch in the company of one of Rosie's many daughters.


Night has long since fallen and a storm obscures the skies, with winds rising to disrupt the still and quiet of the hour.

In the darkness, one soul wakes with the abruptness of one drowning and only just managing to break through the surface to gasp for air. Only it’s not water that Divale rises from, but the deep, fathomless depths of dreamless sleep.

There is no gasping either; it’s more a low intake of breath while the rest of her consciousness catches up to the mild jolt of adrenaline coursing through her. It takes her but a moment to recognize the sound of sand and wind striking the outer walls of the room she’s in.

A room that is not her weyr. It’s a familiar room and she has been here plenty of times before, so unfamiliarity cannot be blamed. The storm, then? Far more plausible, but she is rapidly beyond caring about the cause.

Unhurried to leave and her reason for being here long since resolved, Divale sinks back onto the bed, while sleep continues to elude her. Frustratingly, it proves to be far more difficult to shake the feeling of unease lurking beneath her calm facade. Worse even, is that her sole purpose coming here was to seek an outlet; a way to take the edge off the tension behind conflicted thoughts and stress, less her control on her emotions begin to erode again.

Even in the nighttime gloom of the room, there is awareness of the sleeping form beside her. Familiar curves and features, golden blond hair as familiar as the fixtures in the very room and, enviously, still blissfully asleep. She doesn’t need glowlight to know the young woman beside her, a regular favorite, though her head tilts to face her regardless. In this quiet reverie and attempt to ignore her unsettled state, a detail dawns on her, sudden and sharp.

She resembles Cascabel.

Of course. The jolt of that revelation does not linger long. What has Divale withdrawing, is the surge of everything else that comes with it. It’s enough to make her briefly close her eyes, allowing her features to twist into a rare, unguarded and pained expression, hidden as it is in the darkness.

It’s a fleeting moment of weakness that ebbs and flows like the rise and fall of the winds outside and gradually she regains control over herself. Unease is replaced by a bitter moment of loathing for slipping, even where no one can see, but that too passes.

No one saw. No one will question.

This is a dangerous game to play. Comes the quiet, whispered warning in the shadowed depths of her thoughts.

High risks. Higher stakes! Though progress has been glacial in moving forward, the secret correspondence between her and Cascabel continued. Cautiously, they’ve begun to work out a plan.

Slowly, but surely, Divale is set to indirectly commit an act she’d sworn to herself that she’d not do; at least, not on Igen territory and soil. But what choice does she have? Never would she have expected a ghost of her past to surface among the Bazaar merchants.

She can’t stay where she is. They will be the end of her and she does not have the resolve to outlast them.

It’s not much of an excuse.

Yet it’s all that she needs. Cascabel was family! Her family. There were promises and oaths sworn, oh so long ago but not so easily forgotten.

Not was. IS. She is my sister, even if not by blood.

… and it’s because of her and Hellebore, that Cascabel is trapped where she is. Suffering untold abuse at the hands of her would-be husband and his equally as vile mother. All this, while pregnant, carrying a child that Divale is more certain brings little joy to its mother.

Back and forth, her thoughts plague her where she lays, staring up into the inky darkness shrouding the ceiling. Moral conflict wars with old wounds and desires that are steeped in vengeance long left to rot and fester. Divale can feel it building, a slow burning ache and itch just beneath her skin.

Temptations return, a subtle murmured insistence in the back of her mind and tangling with the rest; threatening to throw all her careful planning and vice-like control into disarray. Dark moments like these, where she feels the urge to turn to blade’s sweet touch to her skin. Pain set to ward off the numbness; to remind that she’s, in fact, alive.

Alive, but torn between two worlds and two vastly different lives.

Bitterly, she resists falling back into her recently acquired (weakness) habit. Slowly, Divale pulls away from the sleeping woman next to her and slides to the edge of the bed. Hands lift to roughly pull through the short cropped hair on top of her head, while seeking to calm her rapid thoughts.

She won’t be caught again.

Least of all by him.

By some small mercy, it’d been Ko’an to find her out. The confrontation replays again in fragmented pieces of memory, while she remains unmoving, sitting on the edge of the bed. Only this time, one piece stands out.

A key, overlooked and unnoticed, in the height of her humiliation and anger of being caught at her lowest point. Something that he’d said that, on the surface, would mean so little.

Only it wasn’t so meaningless.

Divale clasps a hand over her mouth, just in time, before the cheerless and harsh laughter can be voiced. It takes considerable effort on her part to choke it back and not wake the one still oblivious and asleep behind her. That the strange, twisted arrangement between her and the bronzerider became something bordering closer to a true alliance is as amusing as it is utter madness.

That there is any degree of fondness, is about as mad as my hand in plotting murder with Cascabel.

Even that thought alone is enough to bring a light, but mirthless scoff. Troubled, Divale rises from the bed and, in the dark, quietly slips back into her clothing. Wouldn’t be the first time she’s left in the predawn hours and silence from outside hints to the storm’s end. Out into the chill night’s air she walks, on no set path or direction.

She will have to find another method to exhaust herself and, perhaps, silence her thoughts and the whisperings plaguing her. Dawn will come too swiftly and she must be prepared to face it.

… and to play the game of falsehoods that her life has become.

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