|| Stat Page || Updated: Jul/04/16 Experience || 600
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Weapons Simple Blades
Items Eye of the Goddess || Sword of the Strong
Posted: Sun Jan 04, 2015 8:20 pm
a b o u t Name: Cerith Race: Water Gender: Female Class: Swordsman Future Class: Significant Other: None yet Children: None RP Color:Medium Sea Green
personality 3 Base Traits: ----->Adaptable... able to adjust to new conditions ----->Dependent... requiring something, or someone, for emotional support ----->Artificial... insincere or affected
A lifetime of service and offering solace has taught Cerith to not only accept her lot in life, but also to adapt in order to survive. People don't stay, so developing long lasting affections is futile - but there is no harm in enjoying someone's company while they remain. Cerith is definitely dependent on others. She isn't dependent in that she requires others take care of her - actually, she quite enjoys planning around others, taking care of them - devoting herself to them. It is more that Cerith feels most at peace when she has someone to frame her world around. A mistress that she could care for or make money for - a fellow slave she can be protector to.
If Cerith is on her own, she has trouble finding a drive or a focus - a reason of existing. Because really, who knows what Cerith really wants ?
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Posted: Tue Jan 13, 2015 5:39 pm
Childhood to Adolescence Cerith was born and raised in Matori in the settlement of Setal where her family worked harvesting cappa grass and crafting what was harvested. In time, Cerith would have surely become a seamstress, using the silken grass to weave beautiful works of art or cloth. This, however, was not to be. While many Matori resented and hate the Obans for their enslavement, other Matori sought to appease their slavers by offering a tithe - and the family from which Cerith was born was one such family. The tradition, passed for generations, was that every other child born into their family would be offered to prominent families in Oba, along with silks and weapons. This, they hoped, would protect their settlement from raids like those suffered in the west.
Cerith wasn't intended to be offered - her older brother received that 'honor'. A dear, cherished sibling - Cerith idolized him, respected him for his 'sacrifice' and tagged along as much as she could, raised knowing that one day he would go to serve - and not wanting to miss out on her brother's presence in her life.
She doesn't know how it happened. Leaving the youngest children at home, Cerith traveled with her father, brother, and oldest sibling to the western border of Matori - and there they met the traders that would take her brother to his new master. Instead, Cerith was pushed forward. Being so young, and surprised by the twist of fate, she doesn't remember how it transpired. She barely remembers the incident - but the next thing she knew, she was having her hands wrapped in leather cuffs, and tied to a line of other slaves being taken to market in Oba.
Was she a hypocrite, Cerith began to wonder, if this suddenly didn't feel like the honor she had imagined? As a child, her parent's idolatry left her imagining a slave as serving some divine being, a better type of being - of basking in honor and smiling at the tribute and work that was being done. Instead, she was tired from walking, ashamed by so many eyes looking her over to judge her, feeling no better than a beast being stared over at a marketplace.
In retrospect her first owner wasn't cruel... but the reality of being sold, of no longer being a daughter but instead some skinny waif set to scrub the floors and cook meals for an affluent family hit her - and Cerith ran away.
She quickly learned her lesson.
As time passed, the horror and sense of betrayel remained, but was shoved down inside. After running the first time, Cerith was sold to an inn - and it was there that she met another slave woman who took her under her wing and taught her the ways of the world. To smile, to be sweet or seductive, to shift your face and body in just the right way to please those who sought her company.
As she grew Cerith garnered more attention - she could sit hip to hip with customers at the inn, listening to their woes and offering kind smiles of support. Soon, Cerith began to learn just what face, what tone, and what personality pleased certain customers, and these personas she adopted better and better until she couldn't tell the real from the fake. Her custom soon brought her attention, and she was purchased by a larger, more respectable inn. She was taught how to play the lute, plucking fingers against strings and singing with a sweet or sultry voice so that her owners received copper coins.
She learned how to listen without people realizing - to look between the lines and learn information, or extract secrets from drunken lips that she would whisper to other slaves, who then sold those secrets. In return, Cerith was afforded certain priveleges for the first time since she'd run away, and she learned that for a slave cooperation was the key to a healthy, hopefully happy life. It didn't always work out, but whatever happened, her owners supported her as her family had not.
Then the war came. Business boomed, the people flourished. It was through her skills at collecting gossip and rumors that Cerith heard about the freeing of the Matori slaves. The news had yet to spread to the mainland of Oba, but scouts from the invading army had rested at the inn to rest, and in his drunkenness a soldier spilled the news. That night, gathered quietly in their room, the inn slaves whispered about their freedom. Soon the news would spread and one of two things could happen - the people of Oba would step back and let them go, too shocked by the news of a new king to react to the exodus until it was too late. Or they'd buckle down, security would become tighter, and life would be even harder. The slaves decided that they would flee tonight - they had some amount of trust with their owners, so now if they stole away the Obans wouldn't expect it. Cerith, on the other hand, couldn't bring herself to flee.
Not until hours before dawn, that is, as she tossed and turned in her bed, weighed down by 'what ifs' that refused to leave her mind alone. Still uncertain about her loyalties, but tempted by 'freedom', Cerith fled her owners - and began her Exodus towards her homeland of Matori.
Posted: Tue Jan 13, 2015 5:40 pm
knight (assassin) ☑ 2 Month's Time Journal Entries - 0/3000 words ===☐ ██████████████████████████████ 5 Non-Battle RPs - 10 posts each ===☐ RP 1 - ██████████ ===☐ RP 2 - ██████████ ===☐ RP 3 - ██████████ ===☐ RP 4 - ██████████ ===☐ RP 5 - ██████████ 2 Battles ===☐ Battle 1 ===☐ Battle 2 1 Completed Class Quest ===☐ ████████████████████
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Posted: Tue Jan 13, 2015 6:20 pm
prentice [ Solo ] | "Runaway Child" | (Cerith) -->-->-->Cerith makes the decision to run from her mistress. [ PRP ] | "Hunting beasts and ladies" | (Mynshaka/Cerith) -->-->-->Out in the middle of nowhere, Cerith finally finds some company - even if that company is tracking a snaptrotter... [ PRP ] | "By The Sea" | (Kani/Cerith) -->-->-->Having finally found Matori civilization, Cerith comes to a few conclusions about her loyalties. [ PRP ] | "No one more precious" | (Jelanii/Cerith) -->-->-->Just as Cerith returns to Oba to try and settle in, she is reunited with her brother. [ Solo ] | "Blades and Staves" | (Cerith) -->-->-->[Affinity] [Growth Quest] | "Swordsman"
Swordsman
Posted: Tue Jan 13, 2015 6:22 pm
family Jelanii:estranged brother =="We reunited for a brief time - but after the battle with the extremists, he disappeared. Good riddance." Deep down she misses him, and that infuriates her. She'll travel around these weird lands for a bit, and see how things go.
familiars
Acquaintance | Respect | Friends | Best Friends | Fear/Dislike | Attraction | Love | Significant Other/Family
Sun-baked roads burn at the pads of her bare feet, waves of illusory heat makes her eyes water, blinking against too-bright light. Every pump of her legs burns, too - her breath chokes in her chest, and behind her she imagines she can hear hundreds of feet following her. Throngs of people, far taller than herself, knock her about - inhibiting her flight, blocking her way - confused looks, wary and terrifying, bright red eyes that look over the little girl who is woefully lost. But she isn’t a little girl, not anymore - she is a slave.
She has lived in Oba for two months now, and the pretty girl is sold to a well-to-do household - mosaic tiles decorate the packed stone of the grounds, a beautiful inner garden holds on to luscious life, so rare to find in this desert, but tediously cared for by a slave who ignorantly cares of little more than the plants and the gasps of delight from the mistress of the house when she sees small, white flowers blooming. The girl cares for another girl, younger than herself, who sits impatiently as her hair is done. A little girl who snaps out and cries when her hair is pulled, who runs to her mother and complains that the new slave is scalping her. Her mistress is stern, but her reprimands are gentle, and the slave girl goes without breakfast.
She cleans up after the littler girl, with bright red hair and pink eyes - she suffers her bouts of four year old fancy and temper, treating her little mistress gently. But in truth she is numb - the slave girl looks around at unfamiliar people and longs for her mother, her brother, even the father who was always so distant. When she helps her little mistress into her dresses, and combs out her hair, slow and gentle, she imagines caring for her one of her little siblings - and her eyes tear up, realizing she will never see them grow past their nappies.
She cries and cries and this time when the little mistress fetches her mother, the older woman sits with her and wraps an arm around her. And yet kind though her mistress is the girl still hates her.
Her master’s eyes linger on her at dinner, taking note of the tears in her eyes, his intentions innocent, but all the slave girl thinks of is hushed stories of Obans devouring little girls like her, and she hates him too even as he offers her a taste of spiced pudding.
She has lived in Oba for two months and a day when her master is out dining with friends, and her mistress falls asleep. Her little mistress follows, confused, as the girl stands abruptly, dropping her brush to the floor and tiptoeing around her sleeping mistress.
It is not her master who finds her, nor the guards as she had hoped. It is a Matori - one of her kind, a man old with streaks of gray in his hair. She runs to him, crying, begging for help - for him to take her home - and he grips her wrist so tightly she cries out, dragging her painfully back the way she came, her feet scrabbling at the sun-heated stone ground for purchase. He doesn’t know where she lives, though he shakes her by the arm and shoulder until she can’t speak past her soft sobs and tears. Then, resigned, he takes her to a city guard - shoving her in a flail of limbs to the ground, where she is picked up and taken away.
The slave girl is kept in a dark room with other crouched, shaking figures - stomach tangled in hunger, lips dry and cracked. During the day it is still dark, but the sun bakes the clay walls until inside it is hot and humid, and they all sweat and are stolen of all their energy, left to sit and hope for night to come. At night, they huddle together, shuddering in the cold - but thankful for at least others to share in their discomfort. They are all fugitives - runaways. Each morning, before the sun rises, a slat in the door opens and a voice demands that they say who their owners are. Those who do are taken out, to who knows where - and those who don’t remain to repeat the day’s baking. The girl almost gives in as soon as she sees the many exhausted faces before her, but the very idea of returning to that place stills her.
By the morning of her second day, she claws at the door, waiting for morning, and bites out the name of her master. She is taken to another room, given muddy water which she drinks greedily, then sleeps, waiting for her master to come and retrieve her. When she sees him, he is with an older man - his father - who advises him in low tones, scolds him, instructs him until her kind master’s face shutters in discomfort, but he nods in approval.
She is punished for her treachery - held down, punished by Nerad’s judgement (while she prays for Nessat, only to realize that her gods never truly existed - that her people were long forsaken, that the gods of her masters hold no love for their forsaken creations.)
Her face burns and burns and burns - and she can smell the sear of flesh, feels the crisp of skin.
After this, her master turns away from her, sharply, looking green in the face, and dismisses her from his service. She finds, soon enough, as she is once again returned to market, ogled by greedy eyes, and favored by those who see her brand, and take her for a challenge, that she will never have an owner like her first owner. Nobles don’t take runaway slaves… and there are only so many establishments who would.
Years later, Cerith has learned not to test her master’s kindness - as bad as she feels her life is, it can always get worse. And now, she knows that it can.
The day the war ends passes without celebration in Oba, without any recognition that it had happened until at least a week later. The only thing that anyone cares about, at first, is the recent coup d'etat against the previous king. The little folk whisper and wonder how it had happened, and why none of the military or guards are doing anything about it. The merchants bring word of their new king’s surrender, how the traitor king and numerous nobles had bartered away Oba’s victory in exchange for their kidnapped daughters. No one in Oba is concerned about delivering the news of the peace accords, or their conditions - instead, the gossip centers around the spurned military, the soldiers who had died and been injured fighting savages. The loyal and patriotic scoff at the idea of this new king, and his attempts to make peace with uncultured peoples - his weakness sullying Oban traditions. Others admit, lowly and reluctantly, that the northern lands are inhospitable, and that there is little of worth there other than Jauhar wood, which they already take, block by block, from the bordering lands.
Peace has been reached, but at what cost ? The king has yet to return from the north, and for now Oba whispers, works, and speculates. Some say the king has given gold coins, monsters, secrets, and fealty in exchange for his daughter. Others say he has secured a base of operations in Jauhar, from which lumbering shall continue. The man in Cerith’s bed (who had fought at the battle and been there alongside General Talia when the king made his demands) says that Matori has been declared a free state, and all its people were free. She hesitates and peers up at him, wanting to press for questions, but the Oban has fallen asleep, snoring and unconcerned with the bit of knowledge spat out only a moment ago, tone dripping in disgust.
Carefully, Cerith extricates herself from him, his arm dropping from around her waist, and mulls over the words as she gets dressed. The inn is busy with an influx of homecoming soldiers, tired and moody from battle and surrender. The soldiers here have traveled long and far to get to Sulburi, spending one last night of freedom before they will return home to their wives and families. Downstairs, she hears drunken cheers and songs - but only from a handful of voices - and she knows from experience that the newest addition, a young, gangly Matori boy named Kudzu, will have been left to tend to them until they eventually retire to bed. The others (excepting Cerith and another girl, Seary) had all gone to their room, to sleep - including the Oban mistress, whose room has been locked tight.
In little time, Cerith retrieves Seary from her customer’s room (ignoring the sleepy, indignant mumbles from the girl with a roll of her eyes) and tiptoes downstairs, past the partying patrons (who would likely stop them for entertainment if they were seen), and pried open the door that led down to the cellars, and the connecting communal room where the other slaves slept. Together, they woke everyone else, then sat together, blinking back sleep and suppressing yawns as best they could. It wasn’t strange to have a meeting such as this - at times a talk amongst themselves was welcome, away from their mistress’ ears. But no one was in the mood for a chat so late in the evening, after so hectic a day, and Cerith could see the impatience and temper bubbling up already.
Including herself, there were nine slaves that lived at this inn. Cerith and Seary worked as servers and companions, entertaining the patrons in whatever way they wanted - and Kudzu was to be the newest addition to their craft, though he wasn’t yet full grown and wasn’t seemly, though he promised to be quite a sight when he grew into his limbs. Then there was an older woman, middle aged and graying who served, but mostly aided the mistress in her accounting for the running of the business. A round, older man and his adult assistant manned the kitchens; leaving three ladies (of varying ages) who looked after the state of the inn, keeping it clean and washing after the patrons. All eyes (excepting poor Kudzu, upstairs) were on Cerith, impatiently waiting for her ‘important revelation’ - and yet suddenly she was reluctant to share it with them - not out of spite but out of doubt. “It would seem that the Matori who fought in the war against Oba has made demands.” She started, fighting the urge to snort at the gumption of the woman. It had been startling to hear that someone of their kind, with a Yaotl of all things, had influenced the most recent battle so heavily - some found it inspiring, but Cerith found it alarming. The last thing she wanted her people to do was remind the mostly complacent Obans that Matori could be a threat.
“And the people of the north have presented those demands - that our people be freed, and our lands returned to us.”
There was an instant outburst - cries for her to verify that she’d heard correctly, that this couldn’t possible be true. It was the older woman who hissed at them and tossed her eyes upwards, and they all fell quiet, holding their breath as the wooden floorboards above them creaked under footsteps. But the dulled sound of laughter and stamping of feet (that tossed dust down on their heads) ended their concerns, for the moment. “Is this possibly true? How do we know this source of yours knows what they’re talking about?” One of the younger men asked, gnawing his lip nervously. Cerith glared at him coldly and stiffly folded her arms over her chest. “He claims he was with the general when the claim was made. Beyond that, I haven’t a clue - as you well know!”
“It doesn’t matter, because it’ll never happen.” The older woman responded, sighing and leaning back, away from the distracted faces, her words cutting them all deep. They all knew what she was talking about - that Oba would never give up the Matori, and not so easily either. “And yet, according to him, the king did so - for his daughter.” And that was opening another can of worms. The Matori argued amongst themselves, and Cerith fell back, listening, watching them each in turn as they made their points.
“This new king -does he even have the right to do this?”
“If he didn’t, the old one would be back by now, with him gone, wouldn’t he? Someone’s recognized his claim…”
“King or not, he can’t make those sorts of decisions for all of Oba ! They won’t listen to him!”
“If this was true, we would have heard by now, wouldn’t we ??”
“Unless they king is waiting until he’s back to make the announcement.” Cerith said lowly, tumbling it over in her mind. “He’s already overthrown the crown, and he’s uncontested - for now. But if news came back when he wasn’t back yet, then he’d come home to an army at his door, ready to push him out. He’ll want to gather power to himself, and announce it when he’s prepared to handle the push back.”
Silence again. Cerith dropped her gaze to her hands, thinking, but it was the youngest of them, a young girl who worked with cleaning, who finally spoke up. “The mistress will never let us leave.”
And it was the truth. Even if Oban law demanded that slaves be freed, she would keep them as indentured servants (a legal status that Obans could fall into - rare, these days, but still very legal), and would know people who could draw up any number of documents that attested to an invisible amount of money that they all owed her, during the years she had ‘cared’ for them. A shallow excuse, but if no one in Oba cared to enforce a new law, then they would remain here - slaves, not in name, but slaves still.
“Then we’ll leave now - she doesn’t know we know, she probably doesn’t even know herself!” The young chef announced, and everyone hissed in a breath - though only Cerith looked horrified. Everyone else looked to be considering it. “That’s -- that’s suicide! Even if we’re free, if you go now, when no one knows it happened, they’ll still treat you like a runaway!” ‘You’, not ‘us’. She sucked in a breath, then stood and quietly shifted, uncomfortable by the many thoughtful expressions. The skin under her shell burned, and she tried not to think about those memories - instead, she snorted and disgust, waving a hand around at the group. “Worst case scenario, you’re captured - and you try and wait it out long enough for your freedom to be announced. You don’t know if the king is even going to enforce this - he might have just said anything! What stock are the Obans going to put into a treaty with a savage race, anyway?”
“Cerith, it’s that or we may not get a chance to leave, if it’s really true. Don’t you want to go home?” Seary whispered, reaching to take a hold of Cerith’s hand. Cerith froze, then chewed the inside of her cheek, unsure how to answer. Then she shook her head, mutely, and moved away from the group, sitting down where her sleeping palette was, watching as the seven of them talked quietly amongst themselves. Hours later, Kudzu came downstairs, exhausted, but perked up, wide-eyed, when they looped him into it too. The poor thing. Cerith couldn’t believe any of them were this /stupid/.
And yet… Matori. She thought of her parents - she thought of Jelanii. Her little siblings, who she had never known, not really. She could go home - she could SEE them again. And yet just as soon as the thought entered her mind, she dismissed it. A family she hadn’t seen in years - a family who had given her up, easily. Cerith imagined coming home - stepping into the door to that familiar house. What would they say? Would they welcome her home with smiles and tight hugs - or would they stare, awkward, wondering why she had bothered to come home, when they had cut ties with her that day they let her be chained to a wagon. Would they pity her, seeing the brand on her face, realizing what happened to pretty young slaves in Oba (in particular, she imagined Jelanii's sharp, beautiful eyes staring at her in disgust)? Or would they act as if she had gone away for years, and was walking home like nothing had ever happened - pretending that Cerith had stepped out one day to fetch something from the market, and had simply been delayed in coming back.
When the eight of her fellow ex-slaves stood, packing their things, Cerith stood too. When they moved upstairs to the kitchen, stealing what food they felt could be preserved out in the desert, Cerith watched, fingertips twitching as impulses urged her to pack, to follow - and yet something in her held her back. When they stepped out the back gate of the inn, Cerith stood in the gateway, and they all looked at her - stepping forward to quietly hug her and murmur their well wishes.
When they had been gone for hours, and dawn peeked red outside - Cerith punched her pillow, cursed loudly, and threw what little remained into a bag, to follow.
Cerith and Jelanii had been reunited, as strange and unlikely as that had seemed only a short while ago, and already they had started their trip north towards the recently invaded lands, starting with Jauhar. Their journey began in Sulburi - the grand capital of Oba, and would continue until … well. Until their companions found their home in Jauhar, no doubt, at which case the Matori siblings would either continue on or find a place nearby to settle. For now, however, planning for that future seemed premature - they had only recently moved on from Sulburi, and after only a short while in the company of the three men, Cerith had grown tired of their constant company. At the earliest opportunity, she excused herself, a small jingle of Oban coins at her hip accompanying her as she left the camp and tread carefully into the supply city of Orrod.
“A Shaman… ridiculous.” Cerith found herself muttering, not for the first time, snorting softly in a very unwomanly fashion - but without an audience she allowed herself the leisure of expressing herself honestly. It had taken a short time to weedle the information from her brother - namely in the form of Cerith insisting on procuring weapons of some kind - before he admitted that he had his eye on a certain type of power - the harnessing of elemental magicks. Cerith wasn’t sure where her distaste came from - perhaps it was the small amount she knew of magic. The possibility of exhaustion neutering you - the time it took for incantations (although Jelanii had argued that this sort of magic was different than that). While the power of a mage was undeniable, the reliability of ones powers was questionable, at best.
And given the state of their small group of travelers, solid weapons were in dire need. Jelanii could sit and try and merge with the earth (‘Not if I bury him in it, first.’ Cerith had grumbled mutinously) or some such, but that still wouldn’t produce a spark of magic in him if they were attacked on the road. And as much as Jelanii swore up and down that he and his Shifter friends could protect her, she was doubtful. They were all young - even if they’d all been through so much in their own right, but knocking attackers about with fists in a brawl was different than drowning from a slit throat in the night - or a cut to the belly while trying to punch a sword-wielding bandit in the jaw. Shaking her head, Cerith looked up from where she’d been staring at a shining dagger, making a soft noise in her throat.
Slaves couldn’t wield weapons, legally - but that hadn’t stopped a few who carried needles, knives, small daggers, or throwing blades that hid within the flowing clothing, or tucked in a boot at the ankle, or in a sheath tied under the arm. Those who relied on such weapons, and wore them frequently, were those who know how to not get caught - the slaves who were owned by unscrupulous Obans who were dangerous enough to not be afraid of a slave trying to slice them open. Anyone outside of such crime rings, with the exception of highly trusted slaves owned by nobles, found with a weapon would be more likely to have it stuck right into them - that or they would meet a quick execution for such insolence. Perhaps Obans truly understood the risk of a Matori with a sword in their hands - and now the idea of wearing a blade proudly and openly appealed to her more than she could have possibly expected.
Losing interest in the knife, Cerith turned her eyes instead to a sword. It was a long, handsome blade of dark steel - shining. She imagined holding the blade - heavy and nearly as long as her body; hefting it overhead. She cringed at the very idea - arms shuddering at the promise of lifting it, quivering at the doubt that she would be able to wield such a thing with any sort of grace. Whatever she chose would need to be something she could use to protect herself, deflect attacks, but not throw her off balance - and without proper training, any weapon was a risk, but she needed to at least be able to lift it if she wanted to truly be of use.
So it went with many weapons - a handful of scuffed gauntlets (one that looked to have rusted blood at the knuckles) were met with a wave of her hand and a scoff, and moved on to a separate stall, finding herself equally unimpressed with the stock there. It was at a third stall, hidden underneath a stack of polearms and spears, that she saw them: two beautiful, identical blades. Swathed in handsome, dark-stained leather sheaths, the swords were otherwise far from impressive in design, though the swords were practical in every sense of the word. The guard was made from thick, processed metal - as was the pommel, at the tip, though both were dyed and blunted. The hilt was wrapped in soft leather, plain but sturdy. Aware of the Oban salesman watching her leerily, Cerith gingerly picked up the swords and hefted them - noting a slight tug at the muscles behind her elbows, but otherwise no particular pain in holding them upright.
She paid for the swords, even before she was certain she would use them - if not her, then she could pressure any of her companions to share the swords. The initial price for them was absurd - even after haggling and flirting as best she could to lower the price - but Cerith felt it was worth it, to at least have the comforting weight of a weapon on her person.
Orrod was large and overpopulated, as was much of Oba, and she and her companions had opted to stay the night at the inn, given the long trip ahead of them - but Cerith, whispering and tipping one of her last coins to a young Matori child, was pointed in the direction of a small, private place where she could examine her swords more closely. This place was a dripping, dirty alley with piles of boxes which looked to be shredded to bits by the overgrown claws of stray Perzi (who were tame, though hungry for affection, and purred and grumbled loudly as she shuffled past them, unwilling to pet the grubby, oily skin of the dirty felines) - but it was private, as promised, without even an exit door to one of the many storage buildings around the alley.
Here, she finally unsheathed the blades - she would need a proper belt for the hilts, as her current attire would more likely slide OFF than hold the weight of the steel. The sheaths set on a nearby box, Cerith experimentally angled the twin blades in each hand, slow and steady, feeling out the weights and aware, as a tingle in the back of her mind, that in the midst of motion the two blades clanging together could spell disaster for her digits. And yet… the motions of her arms felt natural… and as she dropped her knees further apart and slowly swung the blades, experimentally, the leather hilts shifting easily under her palm as she pivoted one sword in a slow circle, that it wasn’t horribly unlike the ribbon dances she’d once performed, quite often, both as a child and a youth entertaining patrons.
The motions were awkward, uncertain - and yet the weight of a blade in each hand settled her spirit - gave her a strength she hadn’t known she’d been missing. How brutish, she thought, that a weapon would settle her - and yet in the world she was going to, perhaps brute force was more reliable than the cunning she’d fought to gather during her time in Oba.
In her mind’s eye, Cerith imagined her brother - dear, sweet, naive and ambitious Jelanii - believing he could wrest control away from the Obans with a few revolutionary fights. Believing he could change the world by himself - and all because he had ached so badly to be without her. Her brother who’d left home behind to look for her, who’d simply nodded and declared he would build a world she could live in. The promise that the world would easily crush her idealistic brother rankled at her - and soon she testing motions grew more sure, her lips curling into a snarl at the very idea. Oh, they would try - but as sick as Jelanii’s concept of a perfect world crafted in his image made her feel, as ridiculous as the concept sounded, the alternative was seeing that assurance and determination fall from his face, and without it what else would be left in those eyes but empty acceptance of the cruelty of the world, as it was?
No, the alternative was suffering his blind idealism and letting him keep that small shred of tattered innocence he’d clung to all this time. Slicing out, a sword landed inches deep into discarded crates, crunching it open in a rain of splinters - the other sword clanged against the stuck blade and jittered in a sickening vibration that made her teeth chatter, skidding up the blade like a carver’s knife and skidding off the skin of her knuckles - thankfully demonstrating the dullness of the blades. If they had been sharp, the curve of Cerith’s bent knuckles would have been sliced away like trimmed meat. Instead, she dropped the swords with a hiss and peered at her fingers - which were raw and scraped, but otherwise unharmed.
An important lesson to be learned - but only a reinforcement of the sudden determination swelling in her chest. Kneeling to pick up the swords, Cerith stared at them in new appreciation, then resheathed them, wearing the sting of her knuckles with pride. If her brother insisted on being some magic tosser, then she would be his defender.
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