[Flashback] A path waged in blades [Daeva Timandre]

[Marishka Timandre]

Summer, 499 AV On a peaceful hill overlooking the rest of Mura, a sprawling mansion of white sandstone and marble sat like a mirage in the darkness of Akajia's embrace. With its giant spires reaching to the heavens, it would be of no surprise should the ordinary by passer or visitor assume that the stately home belonged to a high-ranking Konti matriarchy. And they would indeed be right, for it was home to the most famous of Muran families: the Timandre clan. Acclaimed seers, mages and generally talented individuals have sprung from its roots since Mother Avalis, the goddess of Divination, planted the first seeds of the family even before the onset of the Valterrian. But while the home usually could be seen with the occasional glow of a konti presence within the grounds, the night gave it a backdrop of emptiness as its inhabitants retreated to rest. Despite the general lull, however, there was at least one soul that roamed around its courtyards in restlessness. For the untrained eye, the figure would be akin to a ghost in the whiteness of its presence, yet Mura was not known as the 'White Isle' for little reason. Out of the unlit halls materialized the figure of a woman clad in a shapely silk dress, her strides almost too wide to maintain the composure of her elegant clothes. Her form, while not nearly as graceful as many of her sorcery-adept relatives, still had a total and absolute sense of control in every movement made, and she still seemed to dance in her strides against the moonlight. And she was beautiful as well, no doubt. With fine, statuesque features, radiant, unblemished skin and soft, snow-white hair, she presented an otherworldly sight of beauty that would make a mockery of even the most captivating of human women. It was almost assured that had there had been men watching her meander around the mansion grounds with only her filmy garments on, surely they would have felt touched and driven to seek her name and approval. Yet she was no ordinary Konti, and certainly no pathetic damsel in distress; the out-of-place whalebone suvai and scabbard hanging from her waist would have served enough warning. If they knew who she was, they wouldn’t even dare try in the first place. The Timandre may be more famous for their strong affinity for magic, but this particular member of the main house was the one of the reasons why their elders all second-guessed that each and every one of them had a latent skill in the deadly art of Suvai-wielding. For all the beauty she exuded, she was, and always will be, a dangerous woman. Yet there was sure to be no harbinger of danger in the mansion, and for her part, Marishka Timandre found the solitude cold and uninspiring. There had been many occasions when she would walk the corridors of their great home with content in her heart, but the stillness of the night lent her a melancholy she could not explain. As she stood before the threshold of the open-air garden, she held her breath and listened to her heartbeat. It was slow, deliberate, concise, as if in anticipation of something, despite the nothingness surrounding her. With a gentle yank of her hand, she pushed herself into the cold night outside. The double doors opened before the gentle winds of Mura's shores, the moonlight casting a pale blue light on the marble balustrades. A grand view of the sea, illuminated by a full, unhindered moon, shimmered in the spiraling distance. The touch of her fingertips upon the smooth marble statues gracing their courtyard tingled her senses, yet they brought no comfort, and they seemed to mock her for being alone. The void was almost threatening to pull her in as amethyst eyes gazed into the night. “Such stillness… Mother Avalis… What is your will?” She whispered, her arms retracting to envelop her body against the cold. A sigh escaped her as she looked down on the precipice before her, her mood slowly growing more pensive. The lights of Mura glowed far beneath the limestone mountain where her home was perched, and the reverie of the city’s sophisticated and cultured masses served as her only reprieve to the silence. Many of those people have always maintained a healthy distance away from her. Of all the Timandre sisters, she was unanimously branded as the least sociable, the least approachable, and the most intimidating. It had startled her at first, sometimes even hurt and offended her; she wasn’t trying to be anti-social, not at all. It led her to question the propriety of her life in Mura, as opposed to the grander scheme of freedom to be found in stranger shores. Was it too much for people to understand that she had her own interests, her own goals, separate from their own? Was it too incomprehensible that she, unlike her more settled and docile sisters, has her heart set in the wilder sides of life? There were few out there who could understand, and even fewer who would even try, since the brevity of the sword-swinging Marishka stemmed not from gentleness and docility, but from her great pride in herself. Grandmother Shahal, while proud of her and her growing prowess in the arts of the blade, had expressed concerns about the future of her fourth Granddaughter. Avalis had not spoken of her future yet, despite her being more than thirty years of age then. She hasn’t pointed out the best course of action to sate her burning personal agitation. Their mother took on a more laid-back approach, preferring to let things run their own course, as was customary for the cultured Timandres. But to sum her in the eyes of her child, she had been a distant presence. Much of the same could be said of her self-pursuing sisters, whom she very rarely talked to. Shrugging away her drab feelings, her lips began curling up to manifest a cold scowl, the earlier gentleness seemingly dissipating against the more convenient veneer of pride. If there was one thing that sustained her beyond Avalis' favor, it was her supreme self-confidence. She was not about to let herself be down from her loneliness. "Why am I feeling this way? There’s no reason to be so…” She scoffed, twisting her fingers around the hilt of her suvai, then engaged herself in what she does best. Using one slender hand to lift her dress to less cumbersome levels around her legs, she started to whirl around and dance, silver blade flashing in the thin air. Slices and cuts in space were made more sharp, more plausible, by the reflections echoing against the moonbeams. Her imaginary, yet ever present enemies, fear, self-pity, and loneliness stood before her in her mind, falling victim to her spiraling motions. Fear had a gaunt shape in her mind, moping around in a corner, waiting to die. Self-pity was a black figure, wearing a veil of secrecy underneath a toga of night, and loneliness was a white sheet of paper with a nameless face on it. They could not elude her blade, and she hacked away at them -nothing, in the eyes of casual observers- until sweat started to dribble from her every gland, every pore. "I'm... I'm... Why? What's out there for me? Why here?" she questioned the desires of her heart, tugging at the neckline of her gown and letting her bosom breathe. Was there ever going to be understanding for her? What would be there to set her free? So many questions, yet Mother Avalis stays silent.

[Daeva Timandre]

Mura was the gentle cradle amid a calming pool, the mother's arms around her fragile daughters, the caress of the sea on one's cheek. Serene and sheltered, life here was simple and unassuming, where Konti sisters and their kin could frolick amongst themselves in harmonious precision. Daeva despised it. Tranquil dreams did not manifest in her as easily as they did for her sisters. Hers were plagued with darkness and brooding fear. Of distaste and enmity that could hardly be contained under a facade of the kindly daughter her mother expected of her. Daeva was only a child growing still, early into her 20s, and inexperienced with a life not hounded by numerous scaled hands and concerned gazes. I'm the voice inside your head, you refuse to hear. She awoke with a start, her brow slick with sweat. The soft, satin blankets of her bed had long since been tossed to the floor, but it was not the chill breeze that stirred through the open windows that caused the shiver down her spine. The akontak sat up, wiping her brow with a scaled hand, and stood to reach instinctively for her Suvai. It was the only item in the room that gave her any semblance of comfort, the illusion of strength that she so desired. Garbed in only a nightgown of the finest silk, Daeva made her way down the marbled steps of her room. Her kin yet slept, awake in only the world of illusions and dreams, where Nysel weaved endless tales that either pleased or frightened. She passed all of their rooms as silent as a spectre, her azure footsteps but soft muffled sounds against the polished floor. It came as only a surprise to find the presence of her elder sister among the backdrop of an ebony sky crowned with stars. She watched with a piqued interest as the elder konti twirled and danced like a waterdancer, a beautiful apparition with a promise of a bladed kiss. "Show me," Daeva said suddenly, silver eyes flashing, "Show me, Marishka, how you dance the dance of death." The younger sister held out her hand, displaying her own, lone suvai. She had always looked up to her. To her beauty and strength, to what she had always aspired to be. "Teach me how to be strong."

[Marishka Timandre]

She felt her energy course through her opened pores, blooming inside her like a bubbling mass of strength that cried out for release. She felt like a woman in great ecstasy and pain at the same time; if suvai fighters had their own version of overgiving, perhaps this was it. Her mind lost track of the surroundings for a moment as they contracted and throbbed against her skull, inundated with many a thought and confusion. "You do not belong here. Set us free!" She whimpered a little as she held a tense, shaking hand to her head. Was it really her energy that screamed for justification? Or... was it her very soul that yearned to be free? The voice was her own, yet laced with a vehemence that she had never shown. The Timandre fighter shivered for a moment, then felt her knees buckle slightly, helping her grasp on the whalebone suvai lighten. Truth be told, she was subconsciously addicted to the thrill of the chase. She longed for the volatile nature of the fight, and mesmerized by her recollection of bodies in fluid, genuine, and deadly motion. She had only done it in practice, but it was always a limited experience because any show of true violence is prohibited. A lightning lash of steel here, a falling, arcing kick there, she could do them all, and do them beautifully. She could do almost every move in the book, or calculate every inch's worth of force in a stroke. Better yet, she had been called the best student in the academy, many, many times. Yet she still licked her chops for more. Her skills called called to her for true application; sometimes she would feel a surge of something alien well up within her, and her visions would be clouded with red. Is this what they called bloodlust? Is it possible that she is actually bloodthirsty? The thought struck a broken note inside every time it came to visit. She was a Konti, gentle by nature and blessed with divinity; how could she ever admit that she has such depraved desires lodged deep in her heart: a desire to spill blood in battle? ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A voice behind her yanked her away from her thoughts, and slowly she lifted her head towards the caller. "Daeva?" she asked, her amethyst eyes almost sad that she finally had some company. "Its you, Daeva..." Here she was, the most unusual one among the Timandre sisters. She looked like another screen of night against the shadows, her rich, blue skin doing much to shelter her from view. Only her lustrous hair, the most visible proof of her konti heritage, gave her away to the eyes. Despite the great void that existed between them -as was the case between her and every other sister she has- she liked Daeva. For one, she is the most similar to her with regards to interest; while the others immersed themselves in scholarly pursuits and gentle hobbies, they both shared the same passion for the violent art of the suvai. She had seen Daeva working in the suvai academy; the instructors had all been harping about her potential as a fighter. "It must be the Akalak blood," she had commented wryly to herself. Despite her childhood fragility, a condition inherent in all akontaks, it was obvious that she had been blessed with the length and power of her anonymous father's race. With enough training and determination, she would easily be able to meteor towards the top echelons of the academy. Truth be told, Marishka even felt a little insecure of her, and not a bit jealous. Her own father, a weak and scholarly human, had not passed any tangible skills of his own to her, save for an innate love of books and a moderate spark for learning. Suffice to say, despite the suvai talents she inherited from Mother Nokomis' line, reaching her level of prowess had not been as easy for her as it seemed. The elder Timandre almost hesitated when the akontak held out her suvai with a floating hand. She knew that Daeva looked up to her as a role model; Marishka had seen the pleasure in her younger sister's face as she watched her serve defeat upon those who dared spar with her in the great circle. She had seen the way Daeva looked at her. In all respects, Daeva wanted to defeat her. Marishka regained some of her composure at the thought of this challenge. "This isn't a dance of death, little sister," she said sternly, hoping that it would hide away what she secretly wished it would be for her outside of Mura. "This is a dance of life; the great ancestors who preceded us passed this down for us to learn, that we may be able to cling to the lives we must protect." She clutched her suvai so tightly that the pale skin that covered her fists turned bleach white. She was no akontak herself, but she was almost sure that there was another, more sinister side that resided within her, prodding her to turn this 'dance of life' into what Daeva had claimed it to be. Regardless of anything else, she had to control it. She must fight to control what was threatening to consume her. With a quick flick of her wrist, the blade flew to the sky. And while it twirled in the great expanse between heaven and earth, Marishka too began to dance. She propelled her up the marble balustrade by an athletic somersault. Deftly catching the hilt as it fell towards the floor, she began to slice and slash at the air again, heedless of the great fall that awaited every mistake. In a swift, risky movement, she threw herself up into the air, curling her entire body into a ball. The blade propped over her chest made her look like a flying wheel of pain against the moonlight, yet the solemnity of her airborne ascension -the serenity in her face, the perpetuity of her closed eyes- made it a distinctly beautiful and surreal moment. She descended back to earth, landing her entire weight on one perfectly adjusted foot, then looked squarely at Daeva. "This is my desire for life, Daeva. My avenue to freedom. Tell me, is it yours, too?"