Shadows... that was all that soothed the carousel of swirling emotions which blended with the darkness, only to entwine and writhe with the mitigated light seeping from behind the door from the hallway beneath. Amber-gilded spectrums that strove to reach out, in failing hope to warm a cold heart. There was no such thing as physical light, piercing the ice on the exterior. Cold as she may appear, or this merciless calculating killer silent in thought and complexity—she was awash with the mystery of emotion, those of loss, regret and vengeance. Those three emotions, or much rather, emotional adheres to the poison of her wrath... was enough to melt the thickest of glaciers, a thousand years over, or a millennia of ice ages. There was something more potent that the passions of revenge, hatred and contempt. One emotion that toppled all three like the Towers of Babel, rendering all to nothing but rust, then slowly casting to the dust of entropy. Nothing wilted here however, not even the last dying light procured by the overture of unnatural illumination from behind the metallic door. That cursed luminosity, the only guarantee of enlightenment not faltering, not dying. It installed a false sense of endurance and patience, Satrina could cry a thousand rivers had she permitted herself to do so; but no, it was not the flow of salt and water required to wash away these sins like the baptismal of Jordan. It was swallowed, caught as a lump to the throat before skin hardened, emotions frozen, and her eyes clouded to the darkness of bereavement, and even in those moments of dark solitude, faith had not been abandoned, for there was still that firm grasp on belief.
Hope... Satrina near scoffed at the sentiment of that word, a word that many had fallen upon like spears jutting outwards from the force of an unknown enemy. The knife constantly at the back concealed behind the multitudes of smiling faces, courteous in their treasons, polite in their declarations of spite, sweet in their transgressions of malice. All the while, the poker face remaining, unmoved and unchallenged by perhaps the greatest trial left yet to face, do or die, succeed or fail. No in-betweens’ remained... the liminal refused to play neutral. The final chess piece played near to perfection from the opposition, yet what was the message yet to be portrayed? What was the lesson, reason or cause that made sense of it all, no justice in the chaos of the Commonwealths loss? It was this waiting game the provoked intemperance of frustration, eating into Satrina’s essence like the worm to its carcass... lifeless. In the silences of seclusion, when her eyes were closed in search for answers, only to hear the static signals of white noise and scrambled frequencies. Sometimes there was nothing but the crawling of the primal darkness of empty space, or the scuttling... reminiscent to dead flesh crawling with parasitic life. Conundrums of symbolic quandaries, enigmas and senselessness, a mind clouded with the visions of the Lorenzian firmament turning from the amethystine hues mixed with cobalt and saffron to blackness. Ash falling like rain and the sorrows of its people were not even enough to spare her own tears; for not all lives were spared let alone saved. Forced upon death-kneel, to kiss the earth that already was dampened with the stains of blood.
Hope... Satrina near scoffed at the sentiment of that word, a word that many had fallen upon like spears jutting outwards from the force of an unknown enemy. The knife constantly at the back concealed behind the multitudes of smiling faces, courteous in their treasons, polite in their declarations of spite, sweet in their transgressions of malice. All the while, the poker face remaining, unmoved and unchallenged by perhaps the greatest trial left yet to face, do or die, succeed or fail. No in-betweens’ remained... the liminal refused to play neutral. The final chess piece played near to perfection from the opposition, yet what was the message yet to be portrayed? What was the lesson, reason or cause that made sense of it all, no justice in the chaos of the Commonwealths loss? It was this waiting game the provoked intemperance of frustration, eating into Satrina’s essence like the worm to its carcass... lifeless. In the silences of seclusion, when her eyes were closed in search for answers, only to hear the static signals of white noise and scrambled frequencies. Sometimes there was nothing but the crawling of the primal darkness of empty space, or the scuttling... reminiscent to dead flesh crawling with parasitic life. Conundrums of symbolic quandaries, enigmas and senselessness, a mind clouded with the visions of the Lorenzian firmament turning from the amethystine hues mixed with cobalt and saffron to blackness. Ash falling like rain and the sorrows of its people were not even enough to spare her own tears; for not all lives were spared let alone saved. Forced upon death-kneel, to kiss the earth that already was dampened with the stains of blood.
In her own misunderstandings and perhaps even fear, Satrina, never connected with the people of Lorenz like she had with those back in Ayenee—then again, perhaps she never tried to ‘connect’ out of stubbornness and ego? Reflecting back upon those fleeting moments, confused, unfamiliarity, refusal even to conform... pride comes before a fall. Maybe those visions were symbolical of ill-omens, but little did she realize they would plague her for many years. So, just who was she, this alluring and captivating anomaly walking amongst people who she never understood and never really understood her. Was she, Satrina Khunzag/Sheitânii/Xae'Za'afiel, the 'Dark Orchid'-- scourge of death at the left-hand, holding high the scales of ruin and war? Perhaps she was also, the shadowy parody of scores of war and slaughter from Ayenee to Eden; the Empress of Ayenee, Eden and Tenaria, the matriarch of Ayenee’s most dreaded clan? Was she something so much more than either of those, a woman yet to be moulded into a bit more than just a fiendish sadomasochist? Hard enough to stem from a habit that was more than an addiction, sadistic pleasure or ceremony, it ran wild and hot through her veins to one more complacent. Balanced in temperament and elegant in her poise; yet still hold the qualities that throughout Ayenee she had been both famous and notorious for. When does one have to separate a whole for the better sake of sanity, or to evolve into a lot more than a fiendish sadomasochist? But what did her people need right now? Did they require a pacifist to soothe their aching hearts or that cold, calculating warrior to support the cause to return their adored Aestaesys. Being diligent and delicate in the negotiations back and forth was enough to demonstrate intentions, and her eyes had seen total annihilation before in both war and black mirrors.
Dreams, nightmares that every night, shivers of cold sweat, a terror causing even shadow to flee in accompany to the squamous feeling like a creature slithering beneath flesh seeking an exit, any exit, even through the smallest of cuts. In spite of the beast wanting to tear out, or how slowly and delicately flesh is flayed back to reveal just how weak and helpless she was in this predicament. There was no falter in Satrina’s stance; it only urged her to train harder study relentlessly and to endure. Each passing day haunted by reoccurring words: “Today, tonight, and tomorrow, like the slow wheel... an antiquated mechanism of dark sorrow. Eternally turns, and yet never brings us to the place where we are supposed to be or where we want to be”, they become a philosophic endearing phrase of affirmation. Dialogue and passing pleasantries had become a thing of the past, instead revering in that silence, and holding onto the last fragments of joy that could possibly be exhumed in these most trying times and tribulations. Glancing down towards the Amaetryan crystal ring adorning left hand (ring finger), with futile optimism, “Tysti cycti sai ti tia jhyli!" along with not just the spoken words but the extension of mind through intricate series of visuals, emotions and psionic transmissions.... “Byr thysajael, thar vaestal eil cydi mor molaer ail pasaer.” . Other hand rising towards the flickering candle wavering in the plumes of her breath, right hand lifting so that thumb and pointing finger furled around the flame pinching it out... extinguished.
Now, rendering herself to intangible plethoric shrouds she had become accustomed to, though the heart still warm with the remembrance of his face, his mere presence like the pole star, the axis of her life along with the scent of her skin against hers. His memory illuminating that tenebrous asphyxiation of shadows, just like that simulated light from beneath the door. This radiant ‘opalescent’ glow shining between the fissures of two irrevocable darkness, faint but still there, reaching out, somewhere... from someplace just as dark as the room where she sat in the rare moments of despondency.
