Dyxra'a
A Serpent's Smile
A large, lavishly furnished, if relatively bare, room was filled with the soft spitting of a slowly dying flame, concealed behind an old fashioned, almost ancient, metal grate that was stained black from soot and smoke. Above the yellow flames, resting atop a clean cut, black stained marble mantelpiece, a lovingly carved and, much like the grate, ancient clock softly and rhythmically added its own repetitive sound to the otherwise silent room. In the center of the room, a large rug lay over polished, wooden floor boards, the design woven into the fibers of the rug shifting seamlessly from one scene to another, appearing to dictate the life of some being but never going slow enough for anyone to get a close look. Only one door was present, one that was formed out of metal and had an array of locks, both physical and electronic, covering its surface.
The white walls of the room where periodically, and yet randomly, broken from its monotone scheme by paintings, each encased within a uniquely designed wooden frame. One picture portrayed the image of an aged Human male, his silver hair thinning, while a pair of glasses rested on his long nose. Despite his withered appearance and dust covered skin, the image of the man seemed to hold an aura of restrained violence, a cunning mind and a sense of sophistication. Another painting depicted a simple image. A dark alley way covered in graffiti, the abnormal thing about it was that the silhouettes of beings loomed from the shadows, many with brightly smoldering cigarettes hanging from where their lips would be, and the fact that every piece of graffiti was a mirror image of each other, depicting only three letters: TOL. On and on the pictures went, often depicting the images of groups of beings and very rarely a portrait of somebody, but non were painted with the same level of care as the first two. However one painting stood out from all the others; where even the images that had been badly burnt and clawed remained in their frames, one painting had been torn from the frame it rested in, leaving behind scraps of black cloth.
However, five items stood out more keenly than any other. Two of them were bookcases that seemed to defy what was possible and stretch out continuously despite being confined to a finite space, the tops of them seeming to breech the ceiling even though a small space of wall could be easily seen between where the wooden bookcases stopped and the ceiling began. Carved in an elaborate script across the top of one of the bookcases was the word knowledge, while the word memories was scrawled across the other. A shelf extended out from the base of the bookcases, where a single, large, leather bound book rested on each of the shelves. In between the bookcases was a plush, finely embroided armchair.
The final items that stood out the most was a desk, and behind that a leather, high back chair. Large amounts of paper was placed in neat piles that were situated across the expanse of the desk, each one covered in fine, neat rows of cursive handwriting. Within the chair itself sat Dyxra'a Khoez, a Falleen woman who bore a physical deformity that separated her from her species in appearance. Whereas most Falleen had small, if prominent, ridges across their heads and hair, Dyxra'a's ridges had grown large than they should, taking on the appearance of crests, and she had no hair growing from her scalp. Dressed in an outfit unusual for the Falleen, nought but a pair of jeans and a loose black shirt, Dyxra'a's trench coat, waistcoat and weapons - ranging from her cane whip Janus to her Lance sniper rifle, was missing.
Even with her head in her hands, elbows resting on the desk before her, Dyxra'a did not need to lift her head to tell who had appeared before her when the sound of soft footsteps made their way towards her before coming to a stop behind her prone body. No, with the soft smell of lilacs mixed with an earthen smell drifting across her nose, Dyxra'a didn't need to turn her steel blue gaze upon the person behind her to tell who it was. Even so, she steadfastly ignore the person, making no move to acknowledge the fact that they stood less than a foot from her.
"Are you not going to look at me?" The voice brushed across Dyxra'a's ears in the memory of a whisper, a teasing lit heavy with amusement within the voice.
"No." Without her permission, Dyxra'a spoke, her voice torn from her. Unlike the person, Dyxra'a's voice held no emotion within its depths, her accented tones cold and emotionless. "You are not here, so I needn't acknowledge you."
"You say that I do not exist, yet you speak to me. What does that make you then? Crazy?" The voice lost none of its amusement as it continued to brush across Dyxra'a's mind like a memory of fog.
"Yes. I must be. I must be to call you here. You are nothing more than an illusion, created by my own mind in some form of self inflicted, masochistic torture. No, you are not even that. You are a whisper on the wind, a listing fog. Nothing more." Even as she spoke, the smallest of cracks began to form within Dyxra'a's voice, showing that the words she spoke were more to convince herself than anything else.
When an unexpected jolt of remembered pleasure ran through Dyxra'a's system, originating from a gentle caress along her highly sensitive crests, the Fallen leapt to her feet and a blur of speed, spinning around to face where the person had been standing, only to have an empty space greet her. Instead, the voice spoke again, behind her once more, exactly where the plush armchair sat. "You say that I am nothing, yet you react to me? Come now, Dy. You can't lie to me."
Out of the corner of her eye, Dyxra'a could clearly see the heavily locked metal door had swung open. Scowling fiercely, she gestured sharply with her hand, causing the door to slam shut with a slam, the locks appearing back in place with a snap.
"I don't know how you keep getting past my defenses, but it won't continue." When no response came as her declaration echoed within the large room, Dyxra'a's tense shoulders slackened in relief and she slid back into her chair, setting her head in her scaled hands once more.
"The reason I can get past," Dyxra'a tensed as the remembered breath brushed against the back of her neck as the voice returned once more, "is because you want me to do so. You want me here, even if you can't admit. You want me, Dy." As her nickname washed across the back of her neck, a pair of soft lips pressed a kiss against her pulse point.
----------
Dyxra'a's eyes snapped open with a start, steel blue eyes staring at the ceiling above her in anger while her body continued to remain relaxed, as if she hadn't just violently awakened. Her anger stemmed from the fact that her precious inner sanctum, her place of retreat, had been breached by an embodiment of the very thing that she considered a weakness, compassion, a even worse, from the fact that the demon that haunted her was born from her mind and memories.
Method of Loci, Loci translating to palaces from an ancient language and as such more commonly known as a Mind Palace, was the method of utilising one's mind to craft a place of memory, where objects could be related to memories, helping to improve memory as a whole, the retention of information and, in Dyxra'a's case, helping to increase her speed of thought. Dyxra'a's Loci had become her safe place ever since she had learnt and mastered the technique, but since then she had taken it further. Everything that Dyxra'a viewed as a weakness was sealed away within her Loci, preventing it from compromising herself.
The main thing that Dyxra'a viewed as a weakness was emotion. She believed that emotion clouded judgement, forced belief to match circumstance instead of fact and caused one to turn a blind eye to anyone close to them and as such had sealed it away. The main emotion that Dyxra'a loathed was compassion, believing that if she were to ever fall into its clutches that she would become a lesser person, someone eagerly swayed by the plans of others, the manipulated not the manipulator.
However, without her notice, one woman had drawn her eye only a couple of years ago, her mind a thing of extraordinary beauty as she came close to match Dyxra'a's own intellect. Soon, the woman's skill in seduction drew her close to Dyxra'a, and the Falleen had welcomed the woman into her life with eagerness. It had only been later that Dyxra'a had realised that she had begun to care, even love (and how that word caused bile to rise in her throat) the woman and so she had left, locking away everything relating to the woman, not even referring to her in name, scared (even if she wouldn't admit to being so) of what the emotions she was beginning to feel meant for her. But, now, the locks were beginning to break and the woman was beginning to seep into her thoughts once more. And now she had breached Dyxra'a's sanctum.
In her anger, Dyxra'a's movements were sharp and fast, as such, when she pushed herself to her feet, burning pain ran through her body and she collapsed to the floor with a hiss of annoyance and pain as her legs gave way beneath her. In her Loci, Dyxra'a had been in the peak of health as she always strove to be, her short body toned, but in the real world the truth was different. Her body was abnormally thin, weak and without any muscle, ruined by the large amount of injuries that covered her form, particularly the large wound that sundered her scales and reached along the side of her body, the one that was slowly robbing her of her strength and life.
Growling under her breath, Dyxra'a levered herself onto the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress carefully as she wrapped one lace glove covered hand around the handle of Janus, the weapon that had once only hidden in the form of a cane but now found itself being used as a cane more often than not, a once again pushed herself to her feet, wobbling slightly even as she managed to keep her legs behind her than time.
[member="The Black Hat"]
The Fall
The white walls of the room where periodically, and yet randomly, broken from its monotone scheme by paintings, each encased within a uniquely designed wooden frame. One picture portrayed the image of an aged Human male, his silver hair thinning, while a pair of glasses rested on his long nose. Despite his withered appearance and dust covered skin, the image of the man seemed to hold an aura of restrained violence, a cunning mind and a sense of sophistication. Another painting depicted a simple image. A dark alley way covered in graffiti, the abnormal thing about it was that the silhouettes of beings loomed from the shadows, many with brightly smoldering cigarettes hanging from where their lips would be, and the fact that every piece of graffiti was a mirror image of each other, depicting only three letters: TOL. On and on the pictures went, often depicting the images of groups of beings and very rarely a portrait of somebody, but non were painted with the same level of care as the first two. However one painting stood out from all the others; where even the images that had been badly burnt and clawed remained in their frames, one painting had been torn from the frame it rested in, leaving behind scraps of black cloth.
However, five items stood out more keenly than any other. Two of them were bookcases that seemed to defy what was possible and stretch out continuously despite being confined to a finite space, the tops of them seeming to breech the ceiling even though a small space of wall could be easily seen between where the wooden bookcases stopped and the ceiling began. Carved in an elaborate script across the top of one of the bookcases was the word knowledge, while the word memories was scrawled across the other. A shelf extended out from the base of the bookcases, where a single, large, leather bound book rested on each of the shelves. In between the bookcases was a plush, finely embroided armchair.
The final items that stood out the most was a desk, and behind that a leather, high back chair. Large amounts of paper was placed in neat piles that were situated across the expanse of the desk, each one covered in fine, neat rows of cursive handwriting. Within the chair itself sat Dyxra'a Khoez, a Falleen woman who bore a physical deformity that separated her from her species in appearance. Whereas most Falleen had small, if prominent, ridges across their heads and hair, Dyxra'a's ridges had grown large than they should, taking on the appearance of crests, and she had no hair growing from her scalp. Dressed in an outfit unusual for the Falleen, nought but a pair of jeans and a loose black shirt, Dyxra'a's trench coat, waistcoat and weapons - ranging from her cane whip Janus to her Lance sniper rifle, was missing.
Even with her head in her hands, elbows resting on the desk before her, Dyxra'a did not need to lift her head to tell who had appeared before her when the sound of soft footsteps made their way towards her before coming to a stop behind her prone body. No, with the soft smell of lilacs mixed with an earthen smell drifting across her nose, Dyxra'a didn't need to turn her steel blue gaze upon the person behind her to tell who it was. Even so, she steadfastly ignore the person, making no move to acknowledge the fact that they stood less than a foot from her.
"Are you not going to look at me?" The voice brushed across Dyxra'a's ears in the memory of a whisper, a teasing lit heavy with amusement within the voice.
"No." Without her permission, Dyxra'a spoke, her voice torn from her. Unlike the person, Dyxra'a's voice held no emotion within its depths, her accented tones cold and emotionless. "You are not here, so I needn't acknowledge you."
"You say that I do not exist, yet you speak to me. What does that make you then? Crazy?" The voice lost none of its amusement as it continued to brush across Dyxra'a's mind like a memory of fog.
"Yes. I must be. I must be to call you here. You are nothing more than an illusion, created by my own mind in some form of self inflicted, masochistic torture. No, you are not even that. You are a whisper on the wind, a listing fog. Nothing more." Even as she spoke, the smallest of cracks began to form within Dyxra'a's voice, showing that the words she spoke were more to convince herself than anything else.
When an unexpected jolt of remembered pleasure ran through Dyxra'a's system, originating from a gentle caress along her highly sensitive crests, the Fallen leapt to her feet and a blur of speed, spinning around to face where the person had been standing, only to have an empty space greet her. Instead, the voice spoke again, behind her once more, exactly where the plush armchair sat. "You say that I am nothing, yet you react to me? Come now, Dy. You can't lie to me."
Out of the corner of her eye, Dyxra'a could clearly see the heavily locked metal door had swung open. Scowling fiercely, she gestured sharply with her hand, causing the door to slam shut with a slam, the locks appearing back in place with a snap.
"I don't know how you keep getting past my defenses, but it won't continue." When no response came as her declaration echoed within the large room, Dyxra'a's tense shoulders slackened in relief and she slid back into her chair, setting her head in her scaled hands once more.
"The reason I can get past," Dyxra'a tensed as the remembered breath brushed against the back of her neck as the voice returned once more, "is because you want me to do so. You want me here, even if you can't admit. You want me, Dy." As her nickname washed across the back of her neck, a pair of soft lips pressed a kiss against her pulse point.
----------
Dyxra'a's eyes snapped open with a start, steel blue eyes staring at the ceiling above her in anger while her body continued to remain relaxed, as if she hadn't just violently awakened. Her anger stemmed from the fact that her precious inner sanctum, her place of retreat, had been breached by an embodiment of the very thing that she considered a weakness, compassion, a even worse, from the fact that the demon that haunted her was born from her mind and memories.
Method of Loci, Loci translating to palaces from an ancient language and as such more commonly known as a Mind Palace, was the method of utilising one's mind to craft a place of memory, where objects could be related to memories, helping to improve memory as a whole, the retention of information and, in Dyxra'a's case, helping to increase her speed of thought. Dyxra'a's Loci had become her safe place ever since she had learnt and mastered the technique, but since then she had taken it further. Everything that Dyxra'a viewed as a weakness was sealed away within her Loci, preventing it from compromising herself.
The main thing that Dyxra'a viewed as a weakness was emotion. She believed that emotion clouded judgement, forced belief to match circumstance instead of fact and caused one to turn a blind eye to anyone close to them and as such had sealed it away. The main emotion that Dyxra'a loathed was compassion, believing that if she were to ever fall into its clutches that she would become a lesser person, someone eagerly swayed by the plans of others, the manipulated not the manipulator.
However, without her notice, one woman had drawn her eye only a couple of years ago, her mind a thing of extraordinary beauty as she came close to match Dyxra'a's own intellect. Soon, the woman's skill in seduction drew her close to Dyxra'a, and the Falleen had welcomed the woman into her life with eagerness. It had only been later that Dyxra'a had realised that she had begun to care, even love (and how that word caused bile to rise in her throat) the woman and so she had left, locking away everything relating to the woman, not even referring to her in name, scared (even if she wouldn't admit to being so) of what the emotions she was beginning to feel meant for her. But, now, the locks were beginning to break and the woman was beginning to seep into her thoughts once more. And now she had breached Dyxra'a's sanctum.
In her anger, Dyxra'a's movements were sharp and fast, as such, when she pushed herself to her feet, burning pain ran through her body and she collapsed to the floor with a hiss of annoyance and pain as her legs gave way beneath her. In her Loci, Dyxra'a had been in the peak of health as she always strove to be, her short body toned, but in the real world the truth was different. Her body was abnormally thin, weak and without any muscle, ruined by the large amount of injuries that covered her form, particularly the large wound that sundered her scales and reached along the side of her body, the one that was slowly robbing her of her strength and life.
Growling under her breath, Dyxra'a levered herself onto the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress carefully as she wrapped one lace glove covered hand around the handle of Janus, the weapon that had once only hidden in the form of a cane but now found itself being used as a cane more often than not, a once again pushed herself to her feet, wobbling slightly even as she managed to keep her legs behind her than time.
[member="The Black Hat"]
The Fall