Waking Up By Falling Asleep [Florian]

[Hilana Chenzira]

30 Ash, 122

[Closed, Florian]

Long days usually made for long nights…

Sometimes, nothing went your way. And in the world Hilana lived in, there was nothing you could do about it. All you could do was stand there and take it, bow your head, and then get up and keep going. She couldn’t argue, she couldn’t make her case, she had to swallow it all, keep her mask on, and thank them. There were all of the feelings and emotions that she used to be able to express freely, encouraged to do so, even, with her chosen family… and at the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to do it to those she had come to care for in her new home. For one thing, they had their own problems, and scores of them. Hilana was usually relentlessly positive until or unless she let herself worry, and they didn’t need her unloading at them. ‘The Vastii erupt so Sorokyn needn’t…’ She knew how trivial her problems were compared to theirs. She got herself into it. She needed to get herself out.

But under the stars of the desert that Hilana dreamed of, it was just her. No Tiaz, no Hayima’el, no pack. And she was alone. She could run. She did run, despite the sand, and she didn’t sink like she might have while she was awake. Her hair and skirts streamed behind her, long legs churning distance, until she was standing at the edge of a cliff. The dunes had given away to the perilous chasm below, and she had to come to a stop.

She looked down at it, realizing she couldn’t see the bottom. That didn’t entirely matter, as her energy sang and hummed in her bones. Freedom to, freedom from. One and the same. Her fists clenched, and as she looked into the chasm, she let it all out. She screamed. It wasn’t a scream of pain or fear, but one of exhaustion and frustration. Of emotions buried, of a wild thing that was restrained by forces she could not get away from… Her chest heaved, her wild mane of curls was loose, unrestrained for the first time in a long time. ‘The Vastii erupt so Sorokyn needn’t…’

[Florian]

FLORIAN

The sky had never been so clear. The land had never been so vast. Florian had never been to the desert, nor had he even seen it. A gentle breeze blew sand across the sand, and the dunes sang. He didn’t sink into it either as he walked.

He could immediately tell it wasn’t his dream.

The woman in the distance confirmed it, and he appeared behind her, looking much as he often did in his waking life, wearing clothing ill-suited to the environment. His hair was white as starlight, his skin the same shade of purple-grey as sections of the night sky, and he wore a white shirt and high-waisted black trousers folded over the Zaichaeri military boots he was so fond of.

Florian watched her as she looked over the edge and screamed, and then as she whispered to herself, but her words carried over to him clearly, and he knew in his heart that he was sharing this dream with her for a reason.

He had much needed rest in Kalzasi. His second visit to the city was much different than the first, and a lot of the time he spent was spent learning. He learned about the gods, and magic, and he was starting to learn about history. Most importantly, he was starting to learn about himself. He was a god now, but practically an infant, with little understanding of himself and the power he carried. He certainly had no followers, and it was taking him a great deal of effort in his waking moments to filter out the new breadth of information his domain awarded.

Something about this woman called to him in his dreams, however. Did she need help? She was not dressed in any fashion he had seen in Karnor, and she was in a land he had never known. Her accent was entirely foreign.

”Who are the Vastii?” His accent was surely foreign to her, if she had ever heard it before at all. When she spoke and screamed, she didn’t sound scared. She sounded frustrated.

[Hilana Chenzira]

Release it all into the void. Let out the frustration. Empty it. Get it out. Just get it out. Then turn away, and put the mask back on. But Wildness didn't always work that way. It served her well sometimes, and sometimes... well. Hilana's tiered skirt was dyed in shades of red and purple, though the red was far more prominent. The garment hung easily off of her hips, the full hems resting just off of the sand now that she stood still. But her sleeveless, form-fitting blouse was much more plain, made of flaxen undyed linen, and shorter. Where those long legs of hers were covered, the shirt left most of her midriff and shoulders exposed.

At the sound of a foreign accent, Hilana turned back away from the abyss, more than a bit confused. She hadn't... expected to hear or see anyone else here tonight, so this was a new experience for her. She tilted her head a bit as she regarded him, her eyes taking him in. She had never seen anyone like that before, and she took one step, then two, away from the edge that she had been looking at, before closing some of the distance between them. She wore a mishmash of copper and silver earrings in her ears, though they were mostly hidden under her hip-length hair. She didn't seem to sport any other jewelry or adornments, and under those skirts, as she came down from the ledge, she wore sandals on her feet.

What a question. Who was he? What was he? He was unexpected, and between his horns, and his skin and his scars and the way that they were filled with gold... it was so strange. But Hilana always had a curiosity for the things considered strange, even if such a trait tended to get her into trouble. "The Vastii are the children of Atraxia. The humans of the sands," she offered, holding her hands palm up and slightly outspread from her sides, as if to indicate the deserts around them. She seemed calmer, at least, like she was back to being in control of whatever had prompted that mighty scream. Not exactly a picture of serenity and peace, but certainly calmer. Or maybe she was just experienced at hiding whatever that undercurrent fueling her was. "It has been our home for thousands of years.... and will remain for thousands more. May I... ask who you are?"

[Florian]

Other than his outfit, The visible skin on Florian glinted with a mishmash of golden scars. Even his horn was scarred where it had been broken off and stuck back on with a mixture of resin and gold. His right arm, by contrast to the rest of his skin, was porcelain white and mechanical, as if it had belonged to a doll rather than a person. Little aetherite dragonshards dangled from his ears.

”I’ve never been to the desert.” He said, left hand in his pocket and the other dangling by his side. ”I’m Florian. From Zaichaer, in Karnor, in Ailizane... but I don’t live there anymore.”

He took a step closer to her. ”What’s your name?” he asked, but his focus was diverted from her words. Even in dreams, he focused, and he could see the troubles she faced. Her intrinsic need for control over her own life and her wildly rebellious spirit. It sang to him, and as he looked past what his eyes could see, he could see the chains that bound her very blood.

”What troubles you? You reached out to me. You must have. I... I think I can help you.” He paused, unsure what was safe to share about himself. ”I am Rebellion. You are rebellious -- I can see it.”

He reached a hand out, and grasped towards Hilana’s face, though his hands stopped before touching her skin. Suddenly visible, in his hands, was a mask. It appeared as her, but calm, demure, her hair tied back neatly. The picture of what her father wished her to become. Florian studied it in his hand, but was quiet. In this mask alone he could feel the way she hid herself, her wants, her needs. It was cracked, from the many times it had shattered and she was forced to glue it back together. Florian knew the feeling. He knew the attempts to reign himself in, over, and over, and over. He knew his own outbursts and his own mistakes. They painted themselves on his skin.

Part of him wanted to break the mask, to shatter it in his hands. It was just a dream - wasn’t it? - but sometimes one had to hold onto their chains until they were safe. And sometimes one needed to break free before they gave up all hope.

”Do you wish to rebel, Hilana?”

[Hilana Chenzira]

She had never seen anyone like this…this person. Florian, he had called himself, from far across the seas. Zaichaer…Karnor… Ailizane… She remembered Arvaelyn speaking of such places. Where the blight had been... She wondered about that white arm. But at the same time, there was curiosity. Despite the frustration that she had screamed out, despite a careful caution, she seemed to find him interesting indeed. And she yet… she knew that perhaps, she shouldn’t.

“I am called Hilana,” she told him when he asked her name, inclining her head to him in a gesture of respect, her arms returning to her sides. But those chains… whatever she had done, she had certainly angered someone somewhere, because more than just those restrictions that she sported closer to the surface, she was bound very tightly indeed. And underneath that mask that had settled back over her was pure energy that craved freedom.

He…he was Rebellion? And she had reached out to him for help? That gave her pause. The unbidden thought came to her that she might in fact be communing with a God. And that was an act of blasphemy that went against the singular religion of her culture. A Spirit, surely. A dream temptation, maybe. This was all in her dreams. She was so insignificant compared to those around her that the possibility she had done something and somehow reached out to a God was ludicrous.

When he reached for her face, she watched his hands, her brown eyes wide. This was just a dream. She didn’t flinch away, but she stared at the mask he held in his hands. So much like Namah. Marah. Athalia. Of course that was what her father wanted. Demanded. In exchange for being able to train and study to assist her people. Her jaw set just looking at that mask, and her fingers buried themselves in the excess fabric of her skirts, squeezing until her knuckles went white.

Did she want to rebel? Vastii did not rebel. They were dutiful, stoic until they weren’t, toiling as they were supposed to. And yet… “I want my father to take his boot off of my throat.” That was the first time she had ever said it aloud, to anyone at all. Her vehemence almost surprised her. Her old pack had known it, but considering they were employed by her father, and depended on him for their livelihoods and the security their jobs brought for them and their family… she understood. It was her fight, not theirs, and she wouldn’t drag them into it. “I’ve spent most of my life… rebelling against him… fighting that,” she nodded at the mask. “But for once… he has an upper hand. I know I need to be patient… but sometimes… it is hard.”

[Hilana Chenzira]

Review

Name: Hilana

XP: None (Dream)
Lore: 15 Lores
Injuries/Ailments: Some chills
Loot: None

Notes: Thread abandoned.