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starryficsfinishwen · 1 year

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[pgr] salvation ⋄ alter/bianca

And they held her shoulders as the water drowned her—a baptism in her own sins.

a.n.// as promised: mommi bianca! uwu uwu I actually don't know how she came to be as abystigma hasn't been released, so ig you can say that this is like my theory of how she came to be? also some character study too because mommi looks so naisu-

pairing: alter/bianca x commandant (no particular pronouns used for commandant)

t.w.// major character spoiler!! also major character death? quite angsty if you squint, some descriptions of something gruesome happening

word count: 2,402

The light of the color-stained windows of the chapel looked more like a pool of blood.

Bianca knew this scene: a cold and unforgivable winter, a cross tainted with the blood of sinners and vital fluids, and a chapel with a dead body in front of her.

The memory is fresh as she held the weapon, trembling as the fluids dripped on the broken tiles. Every drop reverberating like the sound of her thundering heartbeat.

Outside, the winter called out its prey, the sound of the harsh winds clawing on the windows as sunrise broke through. Inside, Bianca's heart roared as the scene froze in front of her.

A sinner. That's right. That was what she is.

When the people came out to find her and the body, she already knew what happened next. A sinner damned to re-live her sins as penance. A sinner damned to face the cold-hearted truth that she was nothing more than someone who killed an innocent construct.

When the people came to take her— The sound of bells only surprised her.

❝Bianca!❞

Voices caught her attention, blinking at the sudden interference. No longer did she smell the rust and pine trees, but the taste of cinnamon and mint instead.

There was no chapel, nor a dead body in front of her; only a big tree and the golden lights of an artificial sky filled her view. Of course, it was only in her M.I.N.D.—they were only her thoughts.

She was in Babylonia.

❝Bianca?❞ A familiar voice called out once again. Turning to her side, her mouth slightly opened in surprise to see the esteemed commandant of the Gray Raven.

❝Commandant,❞ She sighed, ❝you are here. Did you need anything?❞

❝You were staring so long at the Christmas tree, I was afraid I lost you somewhere,❞ the smile on their face brought assurance to Bianca, ❝is something bothering you?❞

The warm breeze of Babylonia's square was suddenly evident to her. The mug she held, the laughter of children echoing the halls—she wished she could stop time to be with the commandant.

❝Christmas reminds me of salvation,❞ she spoke, ❝do you know about that?❞

The commandant paused for a bit, sipping their drink, ❝mm...not that I know of. Is there something about it?❞

Bianca remembered fondly—both the situation of what she meant, and somehow what she was going through. ❝It's about someone who unselfishly sacrificed their humanity for the redemption of everyone's sins.❞

It almost felt like deja vu.

❝Interesting,❞ the commandant nodded, trailing their attention to her, ❝what's their name?❞

❝The scriptures called Him, Jesus Christ.❞

The memory of a child in a manger, who grew up only to be nailed to the cross. Unselfishly, as Bianca said. The commandant hummed in satisfaction and wonder.

❝He sounds someone familiar.❞

Bianca looked at them, ❝Really?❞

They looked back at her, a glint in their eye, ❝doesn't he sound like you, Bianca?❞

When their hand reached out— The fearsome waves only seemed to crash on her.

No longer did the sound of bells welcomed her, nor the smell of cinnamon. Outside, the currents of the ocean seemed to knock on the walls.

What, in God's name, was happening?

❝Bianca!❞ an unfamiliar voice called outside her door, ❝Asimov would like to see you now. Are you done checking?❞

Musk and pine trees, the smell of her room. In front of her was a mirror—the surface reflecting her in an outfit she never once dreamed of wearing back when she was human.

Not long after, her door was carefully opened, revealing the commandant. Their expression turned from surprise to excitement as soon as they saw Bianca.

❝Hello,❞ they spoke, ❝I see that Asimov really did great. How are you feeling, Bianca?❞

❝I am alright,❞ looking at the mirror where the commandant was staring at, she gave them a small smile, ❝however, I am a bit worried.❞

Without hesitation, the commandant stepped inside, reaching out to place a hand on Bianca's shoulder. ❝What's wrong?❞

A rumble ran throughout her chest, a feeling that she somehow felt not too long ago. ❝I...it must be nothing. I must only be dreaming.❞

❝This will be a successful mission.❞ The commandant assured her, but her feeling said the opposite.

When she turned her back— The blaring lights of the submarine was blinking all the colors at her.

Green, yellow, red—all of her instincts were screaming all these colors. It almost made her nauseous, if only she were human. All the lights that seemed to glower in her line of vision, amongst the floor of the submarine.

Enclosed of the transparent scene, it felt like she was walking among the currents of the sea. Despite being next to a familiar figure, she could hardly breathe from everything she was feeling.

This was somehow not a dream anymore. Something was wrong with her—with her M.I.N.D.

❝Bianca,❞ commandant's voice seemed to have brought a twinge of clarity, ❝we can take a break if you want.❞

❝No,❞ even her responses felt like they were pre-programmed, ❝I am alright, I've told you.❞

❝But you look like you've exhausted yourself,❞ they pointed out, tugging her to the nearest debris for support, ❝I don't want you to be too tired.❞

❝Commandant,❞ every syllable seemed to burn on her tongue, ❝I am a construct; I do not need rest. We need to go, or what if a horde of the corrupted will swallow us?❞

❝Then I will be the one to protect you.❞ Commandant's voice was gentle, even among the wave of signals that flooded Bianca's visions, ❝you've already done so much for me.❞

❝It is my duty to protect you and other humans, Commandant.❞ Her chest felt like it was torn for a moment, ❝you need not to worry.❞

A sudden fluctuation threw her body for a moment—yet, for some reason, her body didn't even seem to twitch.

❝Remember what I told you about how similar you are to Jesus Christ?❞ The commandant asked.

❝Yes,❞ she spoke with a tremble, ❝what about it?❞

❝Well, I'm telling you that you don't have to sacrifice your life all the time.❞ The commandant reached out and squeezed her hand, and somehow, the throbbing pain in her body screamed out more, cutting out the commandant—

Her vision was drenched in red.

When the blurs of her vision made her writhe— All seemed to calm for a moment.

In front of her, when she opened her eyes, was an empty submarine. The ocean was still there, the fishes, the light—except, her sword was full of red.

And on her feet, a horde of dead corrupted.

Bianca felt the fluctuations on her body once more as her gloved hands scraped off the fluids on her sword. They were supposed to be vital fluids, but the substance felt more like blood—yet, like a pre-programmed robot, she still gripped on the handle of her sword as she scraped away all the fluids.

It felt sick and confusing—with her M.I.N.D. somehow playing tricks on her.

As she walked, the floor squeaked with all the fluids of the corrupted she killed. As she walked, she remembered the color-stained windows of the chapel. As she walked, the call of her body still screaming out red. Whatever she was feeling, she felt it twofold—yet, she could not stop it.

❝Commandant,❞ her mouth muttered, ❝where...❞

Time felt indispensible and frozen. The longer she walked, the more she felt lost. She wandered around, despite the cold drag of her feet with the corrupted she must have killed along the way— and yet.

A door that she has never seen before. By the time she moved, a lone corrupted stood along the way.

With its mouth oozing with viscous red liquid that Bianca could smell—blood.

❝You-!❞ Bianca screamed, her sword glinting under the light as she raised it above her head, ❝I will kill you-❞

When her sword was about to make contact with the lone corrupted— The light blinded her.

And she was floating somewhere—a body of water. Something that felt cool to touch, yet something that could hinder her from moving. With everything that had suddenly gone silent (the blinding colors, the fluctuations in her body), it almost felt unreal to be floating in a body of water.

❝Bianca,❞ the voice that she had been waiting for finally called out, ❝so, you are finally here again.❞

She remembered this; a memory, a lake. A place where no one but the commandant and her could share memories they can create for a long, long time. The color of the sun and the sound of the commandant was always a tune she could worship all this time.

❝Bianca,❞ they called out once more. This time, she felt her shoulders being held by their hands—somehow comforting her.

❝Commandant,❞ she spoke, but her mouth did not move, ❝can you hear me?❞

❝Bianca,❞ they did not, instead, the pressure on her shoulder tightened, ❝finally.❞

And suddenly—the sun that was above her turned hazy. The dark clouds and the water she floated in were dyed in the color she once abhorred all this time—red. She struggled to keep herself upright, but the commandant's grip on her shoulders kept her in place.

❝Commandant,❞ urgently, she shook his hands, ❝what are you trying to do?❞

But her voice reached deaf ears. The commandant's face became a blur, as if she had not recognized them anymore. Slowly, the faceless figure was pushing her onto the water, making Bianca restless move in their presence.

❝This is your fate, Bianca,❞ yet they spoke in a gentle voice, and with gentle hands as they brought her down onto the vermillion water. ❝accept it.❞—

And they held her shoulders as the water drowned her—a baptism in her own sins.

Bianca remembered it all now: the failed mission. the remnants of corruption. the water that she was baptised in. and the grueling pain all over her.

As she drowned in the water, she could feel every part of the corruption writhing in her skin: tearing her apart and knitting it back together. Her mouth swallowed gulps of it, and it felt like it was clawing her alive. As she drowned, it was like all her sins came back to haunt her once more, as if it was taunting her to rot in it without a return at all.

Jesus Christ must have felt that way when he was nailed to the cross—relentless, unforgiving, unworthy. To be killed just when you thought you were meant to live and save more people. Perhaps, salvation was a lie; a deception meant for those just to keep going until they reach the pinnacle and their end.

When the water rescinded— All she was left was a shadow.

A walking corpse that wandered along the path to nowhere, mercilessly killing those that was in front of her. There was no shame whatever vital fluid her sword caught; only nothing but an endless escape to find the end of her life. Friend or foe—their faces were a blur, and they were met with a painful end. Maybe until...

❝Retreat!❞ A voice she had been longing to hear called out, and a chorus of footsteps clanged along the path, ❝don't look back!❞

The unsheathing of Bianca's rotten blade created a defeaning scream, the slash of a metal as she felt her alienated body pick up the pace.

❝Split up!❞ the voice angered her, as if she was being played, ❝stay alive!❞

In the middle of the heist, Bianca blindingly and helplessly succumbed to the body she once knew. What was left for her anyway, a life in Babylonia? With a body that she no longer called her own?

❝Bianca!❞ a female voice rang out, catching her attention, ❝why don't you pick someone your own size!❞

Her body shifted. It followed the source of the voice, until she felt herself enclosed in a small area. ❝what happened, why did you do this?❞

Why did she do this? ❝None of your business.❞

Bianca's voice was rugged even, to the point she no longer discerned it as her own. A huge force pushed her off of the small face, and she could hear her opponent sigh in disbelief. ❝I thought you were better than this! Snap out of it!❞

Who was she to stop her? ❝Tsk, you are getting on my nerves.❞

A monster like her did not deserve such salvation.

❝Bianca!❞ A new voice called out, but this time, it somehow made her entire frame shake.

❝No-!❞ Without hesitation, her body followed the new source. Instinctively, Bianca seemed to resonate with the familiar voice.

At some point, she could somehow hear her breath loudly and deeply, as if in a small space. ❝So, it was you?❞

❝Bianca,❞ the voice spoke, paired with a loud scream, ❝let go!❞

She must have held them captive. But still, the presence of them somehow still made her aware and awake. The pressure she held onto the person tightened.

❝You deserve to die.❞ Her mouth spoke such foreign words, ❝filthy people like you don't need to save people like me.❞

Between the cries of the person and the shaking in her bones, she could suddenly feel a warm, familiar touch on her wrists. ❝Bianca,❞ the person said, ❝what have they done to you?❞

And suddenly, she was taken aback, the blur in her mind becoming filtered. Outside, her body shook further and she screamed—something about going away, something about death.

Her M.I.N.D. was back to a clear, blue sea. Floating, with the sun gently looking down on her. She was back here once more, but this time...

❝I've been waiting for you.❞ She looked up to see them—

❝You're here,❞ she choked in her tears, ❝you are finally here.❞

The hand of the Commandant that held on her shoulders were light. There was no fear, no hesitation written on their face; instead, it was a warm smile. ❝I told you I would save you.❞

And they held her again by the shoulders, the water filling her lungs—they called it baptism, but she called it salvation.

When the fog cleared— She was met with someone who held their wound on their stomach, a small smile on their lips.

❝Welcome back, Bianca,❞ the commandant croaked, before they closed their eyes, ❝I'll see you...in Babylonia.❞

Perhaps, it was salvation somewhere; the light of the color-stained windows of the chapel that looked more like a pool of blood.

#punishing gray raven imagines #pgr #punishing gray raven #pgr commandant #pgr bianca #pgr abystigma #pgr bianca abystigma #pgr global #pgr cn #pgr jp

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abyssmalice · 2 years

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(BY POPULAR DEMAND drops another muse into my testing boat)

Profile

Name: Athena Glaukopis

Alias: “Skirk”

Age: ???

Species: Human(??)

Weapon: Sword / Greatsword / Daggers / Polearm (primary); Bow / Whip / Catalyst / Chakrams (secondary)

Constellation: N/A

Vision: N/A

Residence: The Abyss

Affiliation: Khaenri’ah (former); Herself (current)

FC: Bianca (Abystigma) from Punishing: Gray Raven (temp.)

Appearance

Seems to be a young woman in her late twenties to early thirties, with a fairly muscular build and a tall height reaching around 6′0″.

Has white hair and black eyes—though, this eye color is more the product of living several decades engaging with the sheer darkness of the Abyss, resulting in her previously gold eyes being leeched of any color or vibrancy. As such, especially with the non-existent lighting of her current residence, it is very easy to miss that her pupils are star-shaped as well.

Tends to wear simple, dull-colored clothing that is loose enough for a variety of movement and combat, but with plenty of hidden pockets to stuff whatever random things she wants to carry around. Often pairs her ensemble with a ragged cloak that she rarely takes off. Her limbs, especially her hands, are frequently wrapped in gauze and bandages, giving the faint impression of either a rugged warrior or a perpetually mummified patient.

Personality

A woman of very, very few words—at first, anyway.

In a place like the Abyss, survival is paramount. As such, it’s pointless for her to waste her energy on mindless chatter. Skirk thus cuts a very blunt, if not silent, solitary figure that forever traverses the ever-never-changing landscape, going about her existence simply existing, occasionally letting her soul roar to life and burn bright in the occasional fearsome clash - patiently, she awaits what tomorrow brings or what deigns to happen next.

That said, for those rare ones that accompany her for a sufficient length of time, they will find that Skirk can be quite talkative when she wants to be. But not about frivolous subjects—no, a typical conversation with her always veneers to the philosophical, to banal rhetoric and to deep musings, almost academic in nature were it not for the fact that her preferred topics relate to rather uncomfortable discussions on things like the meaning of existence, the attributes of the soul, the nuances of morality, the question of what a good life or any life ought to entail - and the like.

—Useless thoughts in the Abyss, practically speaking. But when one can live forever in this malicious darkness while keeping a sense of sanity, even morality throughout - well, these sort of things come to mind for her. To idly wonder about as she goes about her simple existence and her never-ending life in the dark. Perhaps it will help, perhaps it will not. It’s not like anything really matters if she really thought about it.

But what is life for a human, for anyone, but something written by oneself?

And who is she, who is the person writing this life?

There are many answers to that question. And one of those answers is that it’s all nonsense that won’t answer anything.

But at the very least, it’s a form of entertainment and activity to busy her mind, and with how boring the beasts of the Abyss can be, that will have to do. Of course, if she comes across anything or anyone new or interesting - well, that’s even better then, isn’t it? A fun new plaything.

History

Once upon a time, in a magnificent city filled with soft white flowers and a shining moon, where mankind proclaimed the age of science and the rule of humanity beyond the forces of divinity and fate -

There was a beautiful lady, the sole daughter and heiress to a great lineage of protectors.

Kind but spirited, learned but fierce - this young lady had many paths and opportunities open to her. But in the end, her greatest dream, her grandest ambition, was to uphold the traditions of her family and honor her long-running heritage. As such, with her dearest friends, she enlisted into the nation’s knights and became a renown warrior.

Alas, dreams can be such flimsy, meager things. In reality, humanity is much more flawed, much more complicated than their simple, burning ambitions. And though this young lady was quite satisfied with her own dream, with meeting and fulfilling it day after day after day - her friends were not as satisfied. Her fellow men and citizens were not satisfied.

Such is the nature of human avarice. Such is the nature of ambition - simple, but ever-burning, ever-growing.

Once upon a time, in a great city filled with so many who wished to live their own lives - who wished to climb the stairs of heaven, to reach even further than the stars, to consume them and from there go even higher and further and better and more more more more more more more more—

Ah, eventually, ultimately, that city became no more. And exposed to the eyes of the gods, the threads of their fateless futures were suddenly, viciously grasped and pulled into the looms of the Fates, the people’s lives pre-determined now -

“For daring to be so bold in our era of divine judgment, you shall be cursed and condemned to an eternal darkness!”

Thus the white flowers withered and rotted, the moon shattered and fell.

And though she could not escape this divine reckoning either, even then, the young lady fled with hope, with her simple, burning ambition, hoping and hoping - until that hope died too, and she was left to wonder, all alone, what was the point of it all? Of everything that was and is and has been since?

A question she has heard and posed many a time for mere debate and learning’s sake in the glided halls of academia, now weighing with a dreadful misery in her heart.

There are so many answers to this question. None of them fit.

And even as she continues to do what she does best - doggedly surviving, determinedly living, adjusting to her new immortality - and keeps an idle eye out for a brand new answer, well. She’s already figured it out some couple of decades ago by now, but she knows. She knows.

Her own answer lingers in the back of her mind, as she treks forever through this kaleidoscope nothingness. It will never be spoken, but she has one. One among so many possibilities that will never, truly, answer the question.

Once upon a time, there was a city destroyed by the gods. In spite of it all, there were survivors - some who fared better than others.

Among them, one named herself “Skirk”, after the scraping sounds of her swords and weapons against the cold earth. She was a strange survivor - ordinarily silent, like a walking corpse that should have been put down ages ago. And yet, occasionally, she betrays a blunt wit and a short but loud bark of a laugh that indicates, despite being cursed for so long, she retains a sharp lucidity that would have driven someone insane after all this time.

Ah, but perhaps, she is a touch lost in the head? For anyone who knows her will also be aware of her joyous willingness to jump to danger and death, to taste blood in the air and feel the burn of exhaustion and pain alike as she reaches and crosses and then walks back along the thin threshold of life and death alike.

Such maddening, wild behavior is the sole outlier in her otherwise quiet, solitary nature as a wandering warrior. Perhaps this is because, with her immortality, it matters not if she lives or dies - or perhaps, it is because there is a genuine thrill, an inherent greatness in being within a hair’s breadth from dying, only to defy it again and again.

Or, most likely, there is something to be found there, in the midst of a senseless battlefield.

Whatever the reason, if anyone recognizes Skirk’s name, they will likely associate it with that of a traveler, a fighter, a lunatic, a mystery, a lost child of a lost civilization. An unknown relic, meandering her way for no reason and any reason at all.

That said... there might be a few who recognize her for other things. As other things. Such precious few might have witnessed a side of her that would be remembered as familiar in a far more distant time - the brutal kindness she offers to the weak, the vicious tutorship she puts those under her wing. But even then, while these rare few have indeed been awarded something significant—she is far from being the caring person she used to be.

At most, all she cares about is that others do not repeat her mistakes, her weakness. Other people have their own lives to live - their own questions to seek and ponder and answer. And she too, has her own path to walk. If it intersects ever so often with other roads, then fine by her. They will only cross by and soon diverge on their way, after all.

She doubts anyone will walk the exact same road as her all the way through to the end - if there even is an ending to it.

But let’s see. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.

Miscellaneous

Has a very weird laugh - in that it’s very brief but very loud and seems to be a grating mix of a dog’s bark and a crow’s cawing.

Has a bad habit of letting her hair grow out to very unruly lengths before just chopping it all off in one go. This—and she’s aware of it—is just an incredible laziness on her part.

A chronic smoker. She typically makes her own rolls and blunts using a type of grass in the Abyss—ironically called ‘godgrass’—that when burnt, emits a very sweet-smelling smoke that tends to attract creatures in the vicinity.

After living so long in the Abyss with her divine curse, she has since learned to use said curse to channel the living malice of the Abyss - a power that she mainly uses to better adapt to her current residence and for battle. This is the origins of Childe’s Foul Legacy, but it is not Foul Legacy in itself; his transformation is an adaption that utilizes Abyssal forces, but does not include any aspect of her curse.

With Ajax: she initially picked him up with the intention of throwing him right back where he came from. But finding an opening back to Teyvat proved to be taking longer than she expected, so she figured to train him in the meanwhile.

The above is in part to make the boy useful rather than another piece of luggage for her, and also because she really couldn’t stand the idea of leaving some stupid kid who can’t even hold a sword right to his own devices in the Abyss of all places.

She taught him how to fight with the sword first, but eventually taught him all the other close-combat skills and weaponry she knew. If he had stayed with her in the Abyss for longer, she would have eventually moved on to ranged weaponry like the bow and the like, but alas.

She sees Ajax as a kind of funny pet. A funny pet that also happens to be sentient but whatever. Has a very stupid-cute quality to him that she will absolutely say had to grow on her, because otherwise, she just found him to be like any annoying teenager with too much nonsense to deal with.

In general, she’s not really good with kids. Or other people, nowadays; her people skills have definitely gone down the drain in the past centuries.

To cement this - she has definitely spouted a lot of difficult philosophical queries and ideas at Ajax between fights and travels. Who cares if the kid is just some random fourteen year old from the countryside, he’s there and she’s bored, she’ll say whatever the hell she wants. It’s entertaining sometimes. And other times, maybe he’ll learn something, and that’s good too.

100% called Ajax “kiddo” in lieu of his name (unless it was important she got his attention). And will 1000% continue to call him a kiddo that if she were meet him again.

#guest | (the meaning of life is found at the end of existence);

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