Post by Ossular on May 21, 2019 8:16:35 GMT
A month passed.
Orin's day consisted of getting woken up before the sun was even in the sky, not that there was much of one to see through the steel bars. The eladrin was chained with twenty-three other people serving time for hard labor, though no one else would be close to the amount of time that she was serving. Barefoot with scraps of clothing that was always too starchy, they would have two minutes to wash down with a communal bucket of water before breakfast- a slop of oats and grains that had no taste other than the texture. The group of them would be moved out to the mines, where they would get a brief breeze through the trees if they were lucky before going underground. They would be given pickaxes that were magically bound to their hands, and they would mine, excavate, dig and tunnel wherever they were told. Backtalking, talking in general or sometimes, even looking the wrong way? You'd get sapped. Did it twice? Everyone would be sapped. Orin took a small amount of care to make sure that the lot of them didn't get sapped by anything she did. She kept her head down. She kept her mouth shut. She just did her job and nothing more.
They would come out of the mines, and it would be night. The eladrin would hope that Citrine was out there, somewhere, amongst the stars, powerful and celestial and free. Her thoughts, when they came to her at night as she meditated, always came to Citrine and her smile. Her hair. The way she smelled of colored wax when she was about to do something mischievious. She missed mischievious, childish pranks. She missed being frustrated that she couldn't stay mad. She missed the way that Citrine's fingers dug into her hair when it was just them. She even missed all of Citrine's renditions of the Rattlin' Bog. Because of her, she'd never get to hear it again- not properly, at least- not with the flair or the pizazz that the redhead could put into it.
She... was broken. She deserved this. She deserved to be here, doing forced labor to pay back all of the expenses. They were right: Death was too good for her. They were right: she deserved more than this. They were right: No one would miss her when a tunnel collapse would finally claim her. That was the thing about hard labor- there were accidents. She had accepted her fate, and all she could do was simply count down the days until she could get out and then finally join Citrine in the afterlife. She would at least pay off her debts, first, so she could go into the afterlife truly free.
Day thirty one out of seventy-nine thousand, nine hundred and thirty-five days. Seventy-nine thousand, nine hundred and four days until she could finally apologize to Citrine. She rolled over, her dull white eyes looking over everything. Orin hadn't bothered changing her alignment since she had been brought in. Her white hair was streaked with dust and debris. Her hands were calloused. Her lips chapped. Her body a gaunt replica of what it had been, the definiton slowly fading away as the malnutrition continued. It would be after their two minutes with the single bucket of water, Orin sitting back and letting other people fight over it, eyes settled on the chaos but not actively watching it, before something caught her eyes- a higher ranking guard. She could tell by the armor. He would come. There would be chatter. Orin turned away, following the rest of her chain to breakfast.
It would be at the breakfast table that Orin would look up and see the same knight point in her direction. She would instinctively look down into her bowl of grool, pushing it with her spoon half-heartedly. "Izuki. You've been requested." That's all the eladrin would get as the guard unlocked her manacles from the rest of the chain. She would comply, stand up, and simply walk with the guard. They would weave in and out of hallways before she was brought to a room and sat at another table. She would look as the knight walked in and sat down.
"Miss Orin Izuki?"
Orin would nod.
"You've been proven innocent."
Orin's eyes would slowly twist into confusion, her brow furrowed as what the man had said slowly sunk in. "...What?" her voice cracked. She hadn't spoken in nearly two weeks. Not since she punched one of the other workers for groping her. He still hadn't come back from the infirmary.
"After a thorough investigation of the Mariner's Hall and everything that occured, we have concluded that you are, in fact, innocent," the knight would speak, leaning forward onto his side of the table. "Unless... you want to stay here?"
"Uh- um. No," Orin would shake her head. "No, I have... other matters I need to attend to." She just hadn't been planning on it. Orin figured she had a couple centuries to plan her death. She had been led to a room in order to bath properly. It was still empty, but at least she had washed off the grime and cleaned out her hair. She had been given clothings that fit for the most part, and she was given an address to a place in Waterdeep. She looked at it, and her eyes widened.
Within two hours, Orin was standing in front of a place she never thought she'd see again. The Shooting Star Inn. In the doorway stood a tall man with black hair and orange eyes of fire. He wouldn't smirk, but instead, he would motion for her to come in. He'd lean to the side, with Orin squeezing past him. The Man with the Orange Eyes would stare across the way to the Little Shop of Wonders before closing the door.
Everything was how Orin had last seen in. An orange light bathed the room in natural light. A bar lined the far side. The floor was barren, with no tables of any sort. Just bar stools, a stocked bar, a swivel door to the kitchen and a set of wooden stairs leading to the second floor where, Orin was sure, there would be rooms. "What is this?"
"It's the Shooting Star," the Man with the Orange Eyes would speak bluntly, moving to one of the stools. "If you'll listen, I have a proposition you may be interested in."
"I'm not looking for another Patron, if that's what you're offering," Orin would speak, not moving from the entrance.
"Well, that's not what I'm offering." The Man would lean over, grabbing a bottle that had been set on the back of the bar. He would take a swig of it. "Warlocks and witches ain't my style. You, though, you were wronged. I'd like to right it, if you'd let-"
"What's the catch?" Orin would ask, harshly as the Man with the Orange Eyes would turn.
"I'll explain in due time, Izuki, but I need your help with something. For helping me with this matter," the Man would rise from his stool, realizing Orin didn't want to have a casual conversation at the moment, "I'll give you three things. One- training. You still have your power, and I want to teach you how to use it properly in this realm. Two- a place to stay. There's a room upstairs- I think you were room seven the last time you were here?- Anywho, all of your stuff is there. I bought it at an auction. Tracked down the rest.
"Three-?" the eladrin would raise an eyebrow. "I'll bring Citrine back." The eladrin would stop breathing, looking over the Man with the Orange Eyes. She would step toward him, step up to him, and stare into his eyes.
"Don't fuck with me," Orin would harshly spit.
"I'm not Lady Su-"
"And don't-" Orin would hold up a finger, interrupting him- "don't say her damn name... please. Just... don't." Orin would look down to the floor, thinking for a moment. It was all that was needed.
"If you bring her back? I'll do whatever you need." Orin would purse her lips. The Man with the Orange Eyes would hold out his hand to shake, but she wouldn't take it. Not yet. "Why? Why help me?"
"In due time, I promise. It's something I promised Oria I would do." The Man with the Orange Eyes would take a small breath, chest rising and falling as Orin looked back at him. She would slowly set her hand into his, squeezing as they shook on it.
"Alright. Stand back," The Man with the Orange Eyes would motion over to the bar with a head-tilt. Orin would move to the side, as instructed, as the Man with the Orange Eyes reached into his pocket and withdrew a meticulously carved diamond. He would rub it into his hands before he started to rub his hands together around it. An orange energy would surge and spark within the diamond, refracting light and shapes all over the walls of the tavern. The lights that were there burnt out, and all that was left was the lights in the hands of the Man with the Orange Eyes. Orin would watch as he started to spin his hand around the diamond, and in an almost cotton-candy like fashion, a thread would unravel through the air, snaking outward from him.
The orange thread was unraveled, and Orin watched as it just floated there in the air. The Man would look over to her. "Speak her true name," he would tell her. The eladrin would slowly move over, putting a hand on the thread. It was burning hot and didn't feel like diamond at all.
"The whole thing?"
"The whole thing."
Orin would inhale and exhale, closing her eyes as she envisioned the phoenix. ""Citrine Rain Redbriar. Captain of the Blood Red Rose and a reincarnated phoenix of the Firebird himself, made in his image... Precious of the late Winter Lady and marked for death by the very Herald of Gozreh you once loved. Once upon a time, you were a gun-slinging human Free Captain of the Neverending Story, then press-ganged by the very same Herald to take his place in service for one-hundred years. Even further, you were an elvish alchemist. Deep in the woods of the Southern Varisian druidic forests. A traveling halfling gypsy bard who followed any path set before her. And caused mischief as a black-blade kitsune trickster until that life was forcibly taken from you. You have died countless times, only to live through a lifetime within a single moment. And you will always rise from the ashes of your pain and despair to scream your triumphant return to the skies! You're the Firebird's Daughter. And Citrine Rain Redbriar is who you are.
"Please... please come back to me." The line, floating in the air, would tug, as if it had caught something. A second tug, and the line started to weave and coil in on itself. The air started to crackle with energy. Little orbs of lights started to appear and pulse. They would come together, surging inward and outward like a heartbeat. The light would grow bigger, brighter, and then start to take shape. Right before Orin's eyes, a light would pulse and ignite through the main room of the Shooting Star Inn.
Orin's day consisted of getting woken up before the sun was even in the sky, not that there was much of one to see through the steel bars. The eladrin was chained with twenty-three other people serving time for hard labor, though no one else would be close to the amount of time that she was serving. Barefoot with scraps of clothing that was always too starchy, they would have two minutes to wash down with a communal bucket of water before breakfast- a slop of oats and grains that had no taste other than the texture. The group of them would be moved out to the mines, where they would get a brief breeze through the trees if they were lucky before going underground. They would be given pickaxes that were magically bound to their hands, and they would mine, excavate, dig and tunnel wherever they were told. Backtalking, talking in general or sometimes, even looking the wrong way? You'd get sapped. Did it twice? Everyone would be sapped. Orin took a small amount of care to make sure that the lot of them didn't get sapped by anything she did. She kept her head down. She kept her mouth shut. She just did her job and nothing more.
They would come out of the mines, and it would be night. The eladrin would hope that Citrine was out there, somewhere, amongst the stars, powerful and celestial and free. Her thoughts, when they came to her at night as she meditated, always came to Citrine and her smile. Her hair. The way she smelled of colored wax when she was about to do something mischievious. She missed mischievious, childish pranks. She missed being frustrated that she couldn't stay mad. She missed the way that Citrine's fingers dug into her hair when it was just them. She even missed all of Citrine's renditions of the Rattlin' Bog. Because of her, she'd never get to hear it again- not properly, at least- not with the flair or the pizazz that the redhead could put into it.
She... was broken. She deserved this. She deserved to be here, doing forced labor to pay back all of the expenses. They were right: Death was too good for her. They were right: she deserved more than this. They were right: No one would miss her when a tunnel collapse would finally claim her. That was the thing about hard labor- there were accidents. She had accepted her fate, and all she could do was simply count down the days until she could get out and then finally join Citrine in the afterlife. She would at least pay off her debts, first, so she could go into the afterlife truly free.
Day thirty one out of seventy-nine thousand, nine hundred and thirty-five days. Seventy-nine thousand, nine hundred and four days until she could finally apologize to Citrine. She rolled over, her dull white eyes looking over everything. Orin hadn't bothered changing her alignment since she had been brought in. Her white hair was streaked with dust and debris. Her hands were calloused. Her lips chapped. Her body a gaunt replica of what it had been, the definiton slowly fading away as the malnutrition continued. It would be after their two minutes with the single bucket of water, Orin sitting back and letting other people fight over it, eyes settled on the chaos but not actively watching it, before something caught her eyes- a higher ranking guard. She could tell by the armor. He would come. There would be chatter. Orin turned away, following the rest of her chain to breakfast.
It would be at the breakfast table that Orin would look up and see the same knight point in her direction. She would instinctively look down into her bowl of grool, pushing it with her spoon half-heartedly. "Izuki. You've been requested." That's all the eladrin would get as the guard unlocked her manacles from the rest of the chain. She would comply, stand up, and simply walk with the guard. They would weave in and out of hallways before she was brought to a room and sat at another table. She would look as the knight walked in and sat down.
"Miss Orin Izuki?"
Orin would nod.
"You've been proven innocent."
Orin's eyes would slowly twist into confusion, her brow furrowed as what the man had said slowly sunk in. "...What?" her voice cracked. She hadn't spoken in nearly two weeks. Not since she punched one of the other workers for groping her. He still hadn't come back from the infirmary.
"After a thorough investigation of the Mariner's Hall and everything that occured, we have concluded that you are, in fact, innocent," the knight would speak, leaning forward onto his side of the table. "Unless... you want to stay here?"
"Uh- um. No," Orin would shake her head. "No, I have... other matters I need to attend to." She just hadn't been planning on it. Orin figured she had a couple centuries to plan her death. She had been led to a room in order to bath properly. It was still empty, but at least she had washed off the grime and cleaned out her hair. She had been given clothings that fit for the most part, and she was given an address to a place in Waterdeep. She looked at it, and her eyes widened.
Within two hours, Orin was standing in front of a place she never thought she'd see again. The Shooting Star Inn. In the doorway stood a tall man with black hair and orange eyes of fire. He wouldn't smirk, but instead, he would motion for her to come in. He'd lean to the side, with Orin squeezing past him. The Man with the Orange Eyes would stare across the way to the Little Shop of Wonders before closing the door.
Everything was how Orin had last seen in. An orange light bathed the room in natural light. A bar lined the far side. The floor was barren, with no tables of any sort. Just bar stools, a stocked bar, a swivel door to the kitchen and a set of wooden stairs leading to the second floor where, Orin was sure, there would be rooms. "What is this?"
"It's the Shooting Star," the Man with the Orange Eyes would speak bluntly, moving to one of the stools. "If you'll listen, I have a proposition you may be interested in."
"I'm not looking for another Patron, if that's what you're offering," Orin would speak, not moving from the entrance.
"Well, that's not what I'm offering." The Man would lean over, grabbing a bottle that had been set on the back of the bar. He would take a swig of it. "Warlocks and witches ain't my style. You, though, you were wronged. I'd like to right it, if you'd let-"
"What's the catch?" Orin would ask, harshly as the Man with the Orange Eyes would turn.
"I'll explain in due time, Izuki, but I need your help with something. For helping me with this matter," the Man would rise from his stool, realizing Orin didn't want to have a casual conversation at the moment, "I'll give you three things. One- training. You still have your power, and I want to teach you how to use it properly in this realm. Two- a place to stay. There's a room upstairs- I think you were room seven the last time you were here?- Anywho, all of your stuff is there. I bought it at an auction. Tracked down the rest.
"Three-?" the eladrin would raise an eyebrow. "I'll bring Citrine back." The eladrin would stop breathing, looking over the Man with the Orange Eyes. She would step toward him, step up to him, and stare into his eyes.
"Don't fuck with me," Orin would harshly spit.
"I'm not Lady Su-"
"And don't-" Orin would hold up a finger, interrupting him- "don't say her damn name... please. Just... don't." Orin would look down to the floor, thinking for a moment. It was all that was needed.
"If you bring her back? I'll do whatever you need." Orin would purse her lips. The Man with the Orange Eyes would hold out his hand to shake, but she wouldn't take it. Not yet. "Why? Why help me?"
"In due time, I promise. It's something I promised Oria I would do." The Man with the Orange Eyes would take a small breath, chest rising and falling as Orin looked back at him. She would slowly set her hand into his, squeezing as they shook on it.
"Alright. Stand back," The Man with the Orange Eyes would motion over to the bar with a head-tilt. Orin would move to the side, as instructed, as the Man with the Orange Eyes reached into his pocket and withdrew a meticulously carved diamond. He would rub it into his hands before he started to rub his hands together around it. An orange energy would surge and spark within the diamond, refracting light and shapes all over the walls of the tavern. The lights that were there burnt out, and all that was left was the lights in the hands of the Man with the Orange Eyes. Orin would watch as he started to spin his hand around the diamond, and in an almost cotton-candy like fashion, a thread would unravel through the air, snaking outward from him.
The orange thread was unraveled, and Orin watched as it just floated there in the air. The Man would look over to her. "Speak her true name," he would tell her. The eladrin would slowly move over, putting a hand on the thread. It was burning hot and didn't feel like diamond at all.
"The whole thing?"
"The whole thing."
Orin would inhale and exhale, closing her eyes as she envisioned the phoenix. ""Citrine Rain Redbriar. Captain of the Blood Red Rose and a reincarnated phoenix of the Firebird himself, made in his image... Precious of the late Winter Lady and marked for death by the very Herald of Gozreh you once loved. Once upon a time, you were a gun-slinging human Free Captain of the Neverending Story, then press-ganged by the very same Herald to take his place in service for one-hundred years. Even further, you were an elvish alchemist. Deep in the woods of the Southern Varisian druidic forests. A traveling halfling gypsy bard who followed any path set before her. And caused mischief as a black-blade kitsune trickster until that life was forcibly taken from you. You have died countless times, only to live through a lifetime within a single moment. And you will always rise from the ashes of your pain and despair to scream your triumphant return to the skies! You're the Firebird's Daughter. And Citrine Rain Redbriar is who you are.
"Please... please come back to me." The line, floating in the air, would tug, as if it had caught something. A second tug, and the line started to weave and coil in on itself. The air started to crackle with energy. Little orbs of lights started to appear and pulse. They would come together, surging inward and outward like a heartbeat. The light would grow bigger, brighter, and then start to take shape. Right before Orin's eyes, a light would pulse and ignite through the main room of the Shooting Star Inn.