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dishonoredrpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, ROSEY! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HIGH PRIESTESS with the faceclaim of SOO JOO PARK. The High Priestess fits you like a well-tailored glove, ma’am, I must say that. Levana is a fascinating study in what occurs when you let Necromancy take root without letting it fully control you. This application very much made me feel like a student of Levana’s, someone who could look up to and admire her while also trembling at the power she dragged along behind her. The human elements were there, yes, but it became clear by the end of the application just who Levana was: a frame, a shell, a portrait of a woman in the middle of decay. She’s cold and merciless and starving, and I can’t wait for her to meet the dashboard.

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THE HIGH PRIESTESS APPLICATION

- OOC -

NAME: rosey

PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 23? i think?

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST area and i don’t even know...i think i can put out 3-4 replies a week, although i do take breaks sometimes just to keep myself refreshed and going! so i think my activity could be a 7/10

ANYTHING ELSE?: ty for taking the time to read the app !! uwu please feel free to throw it in the garbage disposal BECAUSE IT’S TRASH

- IN CHARACTER-

TW: Death, child death, dark themes, and abuse throughout the application

SKELETON: The High Priestess

UPRIGHT

Intuition -- She has always had a remarkable intuition, knowing exactly how to pull and tug at minds and heartstrings. And so too has she always trusted in the way that she works her magic, in the way that she pulls and weaves the energies of the world to give life to once-beating hearts. Her intuition has always been her greatest asset, as though the Undying God herself has granted it to her and made it a blessing greater than her powers.

Sacred knowledge -- From a young age she understood her place in the world and why the Undying God had placed her upon it. There was a certain surety that came from understanding the Beginning and the ever-looming End, the tale of the wolf, the serpent, and the folly of man. How the birth of the Undying God came to be. Her parents looked at her and were jealous of the daughter that they had, of the age-old look in her eyes and how ignorant she made them feel.

Divine Feminine -- A divine woman is one who is circumspect in all things, tying together intuition, compassion, empathy, and inner wisdom. And at one time, she did have empathy for her fellow man -- for each person who sweated, bled, and ached as she did. But the ability to commiserate is no longer an option to her, but that does not taint her very intimate understanding of the plights of others because, at one point or another, it is likely she has felt such things herself. Having lived the life of man three times over, how could she not?

Subconscious Mind -- It’s in her dreams that she feels closest to them, the Undying God. There have been times where she swears she can hear their voice, and feel her touch. But then she wakes and the voices fade to whispers, which fade to breezes, which fade to nothing more than a melancholy silence. Every time she wakes and finds herself conscious, she wishes to hold a wake and mourn the loss of being so close to something so divine. But, as she wakes, that hunger comes for her again, and her subconscious mind is eclipsed by that yawning hunger for power once more.

REVERSED Secrets -- She keeps too many of them. Hoards them hungrily, like a bear dragging one poor doe after the other into its den to gorge on before the long winter comes. She keeps them even when she knows that they are of no use, even when she knows that they’ll die with her and none shall ever be able to taste the potency of their sweetness on their lips. Maybe it’s because she thinks she’s given too much to the world at this point in her life -- and these are the only things she can think of to call hers and hers alone.

Disconnected from Intuition -- It happens when she begins to perform resurrections that drain more from her and those around her. The weeks that follow leave her disconnected from herself, leave her tormented by her own silence. Her eyes shift around the room, trying to linger on a face that would give her that familiar pull in her gut, that certainty in her soul. But she’s left adrift in an ocean of quiet, and she has no choice but to lean on her logic and reasoning, to deduce until she can be as certain as she can be. All she has is her intuition and that, too, is slowly dying.

Withdrawal & Silence -- At a young age she became very adept at withdrawing into herself, at slipping into shadows. She realized that biting at the hands that sought to strike her only ended up in her getting hit harder. That raising her voice only ended up leaving her hoarse from her sobbing and tears. As all things in life, this means of survival was learned and it was a more difficult lesson to swallow. But after living two lifetimes, she realized that it was difficult to feel pain when you’re made of nothing but hard, unmoving stone.

NAME: Levana Morrigan Morrell

LEVANA Being given the name of a dead thing was perhaps the most ironic prelude to her story. Being forced to act as they would have expected her sister to, the most cruel. Her mother never missed the chance to tell her how beautiful her older sister would have been, with her wide, dark eyes and sweet disposition. Even though her sister never lived past the second summer of her life, she was the one that was meant to bring them out of their destitute life. What a disappointment then that the namesake had to be given to a child that was far less capable-- according to her mother -- of gaining such a future. To which her father would sagely nod his head, watery, large eyes blinking at her sorrowfully as she sat at the rotting table, cheeks burning as she pushed her food around. She forgave them for it, though. After all, Death could rob people of their ability to love.

MORRIGAN It’s the name of her rebirth. It’s the name that she gave at the Temple, the name that she would give at courts when bestowing them with the great gift of her presence and knowledge. Sometimes used in place of Levana, other times attached to it. Nevertheless it was a name that would forever remind those who had bore witness to her power the Undying God had blessed her with. It was the name that was tied to the image of a woman bent low over the corpse of a wolfhound, teeth bared, eyes as dark as the coal that she smothered around her brow. Then the wolfhound’s teeth bared, like hers. It’s eyes opened, like hers. And soon Death gave way to Life, just as Levana gave way to Morrigan.

MORRELL -- NO LONGER USED/RECOGNIZED A name that was never meant to make something of itself, and a name that never would. Her father, whenever he was in his drunken stupors, would always remind her that the Morrell name was cursed and that she was the culmination of its disappointments. The words would slide off of his lips, the slurs a true litany illustrating her uselessness and shame. There was no use in taking the bottle away, though, not until it slipped out of his grasp and rolled onto the floor. Now, though, she never bothers to acknowledge her surname. Why should she, when they know her as Levana the Necromancer? She had promised to let the Morrell name die with her, and it did. It died with her the moment she put breath into the life of the first corpse that was laid at her feet.

FACECLAIM: Soo Joo Park Marquita Pring Golshifteh Farahini Freida Pinto Inbar Lavi

AGE: 220 years old

DETAILS: You have not always been power-hungry. It was from the very first line that I think I fell head-over-heels in love with her. She has so much power held within the palm of her hand but the cost has been so very, very great. When you read about the necromancers all you can really see is their power and glory of the title, the High Priestess being a force within herself, gaining the ear of a king, the power of a God, the reverence and awe of so many more. But there is such great weakness and pain that comes from holding power -- and it’s reverberated within every single aspect of the High Priestess. She’s suffered such great loss and the most tragic part is that she can’t even grieve it because that ability, too, has been stolen away from her.

I feel like...in general, people might think of a character like her -- old, withering, so close to death as someone boring. What is there to do with a character like her? What does she have to live her? But that’s what I love so much about her. She’s seen so much, has been through so much and she’s jaded by every single thing in the world. She’s lived for so long, what’s to keep her from doing what she wants and saying fuck all to everyone and everything? There’s a motivation that’s keeping her from completely letting loose on them all. Perhaps it’s the mere love of the long game but I think it’s because, at her core, she’s a giver and she wants to leave some semblance of good -- what she defines as good -- in this world.

BACKGROUND:

It’s an unfortunate thing, to carry the legacy of a ghost before you’ve even taken your first breath. Her parents were never able to really let go of dead things, though. Their marriage was long dead before they even tried for their first child, the love that they had once had for one another before even that. They held onto their dead ideas and dreams just as they had held onto the memory of their first daughter years after she was buried six feet beneath the dry soil of the summer ground. A famine had swept through their country and Levana’s poor sister had never stood a chance, despite the prayers that had been offered up by the Morrells time and time again. The last vestiges of their hope for something living had been placed on Levana and even when she had been placed into her mother’s arms, howling and red-faced, it hadn’t been enough. Where her sister had been a thing of beauty, she was a shock of white hair and sharp edges -- looking like the corpse that her sister very much had been.

The irony of it all was not lost on her. It was perhaps why she had such a wry, dry sense of humor despite how tragic it actually was. In the face of fate’s cruel humor, she couldn’t help but laugh along with it. She still had air in her lungs, a brightness in her eyes and a smile so bright that the moon had no choice but to look on in envy. When her mother would bite and spit at her, she would simply turn her gaze the other way and go out to the fields once more - either to lay in the wheat or lounge upon the back of their old, weary work-horse. As the sun would shine upon her pale, ivory skin she was more than content to let it eat away at her, all too happy to live a life of ease, if it only meant that she not bother the world with her existence and it not bother her with its woes and tragedy. Levana had disappointed her parents enough, there was no need to disappoint the rest of Tyrolhm by imposing her useless heap of skin and bones, her cutting mouth and staunch moralities.

When she wasn’t blissfully sketching away with a bit of charcoal stolen from the hearth or wrestling another bottle out of her father’s hand, she always managed to corral the kids of the neighboring farms into grand, elaborate games. She was always the leader, the one who set the rules, who dictated what was fair and what wasn’t -- just as she was always the one to clean up the scrapes and bruises of her comrades, whether they “fight for the king” or not. Even when she ruled with an iron-fist it was clear that she was soft around the edges, forever armed with a warm smile and a bawdy joke that would have made her mother balk and her father grab the broom to smack her with it.

What a lovely childhood she had. She wished she could remember it, now. She wished it had lasted longer.

The days of playing games of mages and holding mock-court were long behind her. The reality of her inability to be anything more than a farmer’s daughter was beginning to make the Morrell household a rather suffocating place to be. Too odd-looking to marry off, not savvy or competent enough to hold the land and keep it to herself. There was no profit to be made in caring for the children of the countryside or teaching the war-ravaged and orphaned creatures how to find joy in capturing the smile of another in charcoal, or coaxing them into sweet sleep with tales of pirates and warrior women. No man wanted a woman so useless. No family wanted to pay a dowry for useless little Levana who could only offer a shining -- albeit impish -- smile. The only suitor that had come knocking had left in quite a hurry when he realized how strong-headed she could be, how sharp her tongue was and how her eyes seemed to see right through the facade of gentility and courteousness. For the umpteenth time in her life, she had been sent to bed with an empty stomach -- though, throughout the night it had been full of laughter at her suitor’s expense.

Not long after, on the night of her 20th birthday, when her parents were ready to sell her to the most ill-reputed house in Tyrolhm that was furthest away, the Undying God decided it was high time that the blessings they had placed upon her be brought into the light -- the revelation of her abilities shining unabashedly in the bright, spring sun.

Her little gaggle had all grown and had children of their own or moved to have adventures across the Sahrnian sea. Some of them even became clerics at the Temple, while she was all too content to take each day as it came, toiling away at the dying soil, listening to the bickering of her loveless parents, frequenting the markets and listening to the songs of bards that were passing through. Levana had taught the children of the countryside her games -- telling them tales of the glorious adventures she and her friends had when they were in the golden years of their childhood. Wars raged while wielding sticks in the place of swords, and pieces of barks as shields. One of the girls had stumbled into the stream -- its waters tumultuous and high from floods that had come from the melting winter snow. The fretful, panicked hands of the small children tugged at her skirt, pulling her from her place beneath the shaded tree, voices high and weeping as they tried to pound life into little Errena’s chest.

That was the first time Levana could recall giving everything.

That was the first time Levana could remember trying.

She remembered peering up through the leaves, watching them sway in the light breeze. Years later, she knew that it was the last time she had ever known the meaning of peace.

Untrained and reckless, she had poisoned the earth that was there -- and because it hadn’t been enough, she had poisoned something within herself as well. The grass had grown black beneath her fingers, parched and dry as though it had never known green days. She remembered the cries of horror from the children as they had watched her body bow over little Errana’s, had heard the guttural noises that tore from her lips, the darkness that had been cast over her eyes. If the Undying God were to have had a voice that could be heard, it would have been the very same that poured from her lips as she called Errana’s name from the land of the dead. When she had arisen with the girl’s cold, trembling hand in hers, she looked at the children that stared at her in terror -- a weary smile on her lips as she told them to run along and keep this secret between them. There was no need, though; terror was the most effective muzzle.

She packed her bags and made her way to the Temple, leaving the Morrell lands and the Morrell name far behind her. Levana never thought to question why it was so easy for her to leave those ties behind -- the land of golden wheat and warm, drowsy memories. She never thought to ruminate on which part of her had died that fateful day when she had exchanged a life of peace for Errana’s beating heart. Levana built her life anew as Morrigan, giving the name at the steps of the Temple, while enlightening them about the tale of a girl once known as Levana. There had been no need, though; it would always be worth it for the lives that she managed to call back from the arms of the Undying God. Her tutelage at the Temple illuminated the path that she had willingly turned a blind eye towards in favor of lazing days spent adventuring under Tyrolhm’s golden sun. Ravenously, she consumed the tomes that they placed in front of her, testing the limits of her power and reflecting on the tolls that they took on her. For one of the orphan girls she resurrected a bird that had been target practice for the impish little boys -- and for that she lost her taste.

For a queen’s handmaiden, she had animated the limbs of her poxed brother, and for that she lost the life of the only person she had made there that she could have called friend -- a wizened old tutor whose eyes were milky and whose lips carried lines from smiling so often. The years began to bleed into one another, her hunger for knowledge growing as her abilities did until she began to spend restless nights squinting into tomes as the wax of once-tall candles melted into stubs. The coldness of corpses and the silence that they offered became more familiar to her and far more preferable than playing the enigmatic mage at the courts that the Temple recommended she visit. But for many years, she clung to who she remembered herself to be, the charming and vibrant girl that had spent so many days dictating which child would be allowed to be king, who was to be the advisor, the general, the serf, the mistress, and the queen. Her cutting tongue was known to cause riots within courts, stirring subjects with barks of laughter, making handmaidens and queens flush -- charming kings and princes and royals alike.

They whispered of her across the lands and the wide, raging sea -- the necromancer with silver hair and dark eyes, whose smile you wished to see before you died, whose siren-like voice you heard call you from the embrace of the Undying God.

But just as death and life were inseparable, were one, so too was the love and hatred of those who heard the tales of Morrigan. There were those who sought to control her, just as she had controlled the corpses -- shackling her in dungeons until she did their bidding. There were kings and queens who wished to bed her and use her for nothing more, casting her out of their castles mid-winter when they realized she would not. Poisonings and beatings were something she learned to become familiar with (demoness, devil, defiler), prejudice, bigotry, and poverty haunted her as assuredly as her sister’s nearly-forgotten ghost had. And what did the Temple do but preach to her about the practices of her power and her duty to guard wayward kingdoms from their tumultuous, violent ways? What more was she meant to do but bear these burdens and slights, so that they might know she might usher in a new age of peace? In her many travels and over the two centuries that she walked the earth she had lived a number of lives. The mage, the pick-pocket, the farmer’s daughter, the con, the philosopher, the artist, the scholar. Not a single one of them had known peace as intimately as Levana Morrell had.

But she was dead.

Only brought back to life once, in the chamber of a queen she thought she had loved, across the Sarhnian sea who always kept a wolfhound at her side. Morrigan thought she had the heart of a wolfhound too, which made it all the more easy to lay her heart at the queen’s feet. She remembered how she had poured herself into the creature, had harkened for its heart to beat, for its heart to rise. Some nights she can still taste the growl that had torn through her throat -- an echo from the wolfhound’s maw. She could still feel how her spine had bent over the limp form, arms twitching, back arching as the creature began to rise to its feet, tongue lolling, eyes black. In restless fits of sleep, her and the hound became one in the same. Sometimes she would wake, touching her teeth, thinking that they might be sharp. Within that week, she had been ushered out of the castle by one of the queen’s advisor, his eyes unable to meet hers as her threw her traveling cloak over her shoulders, shuddering away when his skin had grazed hers, paying no mind to the way he had the guards drag her since her legs didn’t seem to respond and gave way.

When she was returned to the Temple she wept for a fortnight, unable and unwilling to leave her bed. She had given everything and they had taken everything. There was no one but herself to blame -- and what was worse, she still craved the power that had poured forth from her. She hadn’t noticed how her legs had failed her, only the way all eyes within the court had looked to her in awe, in terror, in reverence, in horror. In the years that followed, she learned to use her legs once more, the iron casts and crutch aiding her, adding further allure to the century old necromancer whose bright eyes brought corpses to life in the Undying God’s name. She knew what power the whispers of common folk and courtiers had. When she had laid her heart out for the queen consort, something within her had exhaled its final, shuddering breath. Something within her had risen from its ashes and come to life -- awakening with a ravenous, insatiable hunger that eclipsed any she had ever known.

In the eyes of the great court, she had seen within them the reflection of the death defier that was whispered about. In them, she had seen the power that she had. She could realign the stars and there was no doubt that they would look at her with that intoxicating concoction of horror and awe. They would have no choice but to do as she wished -- and what she wished was for that power to be wielded by her and her alone. To bring about the Golden Age of the world as she would define it.

The woman that stepped into the court of King Septimus was a far cry from the girl that had spent her days lounging beneath the large branches and green leaves of an age-old tree. Her iron casts had echoed as she entered the large, grand doors of the castle and from the moment she laid eyes on Septimus, she saw a future of glory -- the Golden Age made incarnate. He was malleable beneath her touch and in the first decade of his rule, she flourished. It was not unlike when she was a child, dictating this and that, her the cutting edge of her words coming off as roguish and charming, refreshing and novel as the entirety of his court leaned in to listen. Morrigan forgot, though, how quickly novelty can wear off and before long the revulsion sets in, her contempt for Septimus beginning to become a nigh-impossible pill to swallow. She thought that perhaps her intuition had failed her, that once again fate, with its cruel humor, hoped to make a mockery of her once more.

The mage with all the power in the world at her fingertips was unable to bring anything more than a handful of decades of tenuous peace, known for nothing but carnage and carnage alone under King Septimus’ rule.

She didn’t even have the ability to laugh, as she once might have been able to. That power had been taken from her, too.

The yawning hunger within her, though, did not balk in the face of kings, though. It recognized neither the limitations of Morrigan’s own body, the intricacies of politics, nor the iron, bloodied fist of Septimus. All it knew was how close she had been to power -- fingers outstretched, yearning, reaching, grasping. She remembered the weary faces of the soldiers as they returned from the carnage, how pale and wide-eyed they had been, how their armor had shone, painted with the scarlet blood of the fallen. One soldier’s eyes had lifted to hers and within them, she saw the lifelessness of so many corpses that had been laid, prostrate at her feet before harkening to her call, their once-still hearts beginning to beat something fierce.

If she could not bring them peace with King Septimus then the issue was simple; she did not have enough power to. That made her culpable for this carnage. The sharp-toothed hunger within her stirred, sinking its claws deeper into her as the last vestige of her patience was swallowed whole. She would take the power that was not given to her. She would crown a new king and usher in the Golden Age of peace that she had envisioned, or upturn the board and start this game anew, with the rules dictated by her and her alone.

Her lips had twitched as she recalled a girl, standing atop a rock, dictating to those beneath her the new rules of a new game.

That young girl had been rather good at that.

She would be too.

PLOT IDEAS:

THE GATHERING: The most difficult part about being a necromancer is the fact that everyone fears you. Levana is quite aware of the fear that she incites in people -- and the problem with wanting a major shift in power is you need support in order to make sure that the kingdom isn’t lost in total and complete anarchy. The best way to ensure that the shift of power has some control and stability is by having a group ready to take control when there is a vacuum of power. And in order to have a group with a shared agenda and mission in a monarchy, one has to have a figurehead to throw their support behind. First, though, she has to assess who is loyal to who -- or who, at the very least, can be swayed. Which means networking, connecting with people, communicating with them. This is going to be a rather difficult piece of her plan to achieve since the way that people connect with others is by emoting -- and she can’t do that anymore. It’s going to certainly push her out of her comfort zone and is going to be an interesting test that will force her to reflect how much she’s changed, and how she’s lost the ability to do one of the most human things: connect with others. THE REVOLT: I broke this up in two parts because right now I see two definitive ways for The High Priestess to incite a revolt (although this could totally clash with the plans for the rp, I would be more than happy to completely scrap these OR do them and have them fail). So I think, first, she would have to find someone to support -- because she would never ever ever be the face of a revolt -- if she were, it would be coming from a mage and that would throw a wholly different light to the war and it’s not one she cares to think about (much). First, I think that she would find two of the more malleable minds that are in line for the throne -- the World and the Chariot. Depending on which one she thinks is better for the position, she would talk to them directly and either enlist their help OR if they have something in the works already, try to push herself into a position of power within the revolters group so she can have a definitive say in how this is going to play out. THE FLOURISHING: Despite how much she’s grown with her power, there’s always an opportunity to grow even more. One idea that I keep on playing around with is mass resurrection. She’s been able to resurrect individuals with repercussions, but I think she wants to try and do more. The frustration with the limitation of her powers is beginning to grow more and more apparent, and I don’t think she’s going to be satisfied until she’s exceeded everyone’s expectations. Including her own. When she performs her magic, she gives everything she has into it, pouring pieces of herself until there is nothing left -- but it still isn’t enough. If she learns how to do this, the tides of war will be changed at her say-so. Why wouldn’t she want that? THE INSTITUTION: The Temple taught her a lot, there is no doubt. But it did not teach her everything and distinctly ties the power of the mages to this idea that they are either blessed/cursed and that they owe something to the Undying God for their abilities. However, the fact that there’s only one way of learning how to control something so personal and unique to oneself does not sit well with her. It makes her lips curl and coats her tongue with bile whenever she thinks of the waste that there must be -- how a mages power can be limited by such narrow-minded thinking. And I think that the Wheel of Fortune, the Moon, and the Hierophant are evidence of that -- that, though they study the arcane there is no need for their methods to be archaic. The times are changing and so should their perceptions of magic, their understanding and belief in the Undying God, and their perception of themselves. THE EVOLUTION: One aspect that I would like to explore with the High Priestess is her perception of herself because as she grows more disconnected with the humanity that there is within her, it’s only natural that she would reflect over whether or not this is the next stage of the necromancer. There is no other like them, so why aren’t they considered gods? Why aren’t mages revered for all that they do for those who are could be conceived as “lessers”? It’s a dangerous train of thought that I think she’s careening whole-heartedly towards and something that I think could take a dangerous turn for her. Her body is literally decaying and yet she can stave off death itself at the expense of others. Isn’t there something god-like about that? WHO IS GOING TO CHECK HER? THE AGENDA: Okay this is gonna sound ICKY but Levana is the type to utilize her resources and the thing about being an orphan is that no one looks twice at you. Which makes you an asset -- someone unseeable, someone who can listen with there being no threat. The Temple didn’t utilize the orphans as they should have, and I think that (if it’s allowable) Levana has no problem utilizing these resources and taking advantage of them. For every whispered secret, she gives them a coin or resurrects a beloved pet. For orphans who give especially prized information or promise their loyalty to her, she might even hold the possibility of resurrecting their parents above their head. No one gives to her without receiving in return. Besides, you can’t survive long at court without having a means of leverage or the assurance of mutual destruction.

CHARACTER DEATH: Triple dog fishy dare you to do it, coward.

- WRITING SAMPLE -

Another bawdy dinner -- lavish, opulent, and wasteful. Dark eyes drank in the scene before her, the court members whose mouths were stained red with wine, howling and cackling. The women of the night, scantily clad, flitting from one odious lord to another, shoving their breasts in the faces of those who seemed more like boars than men. Their wives drinking more and more so that they might pretend that they didn’t notice. Perhaps, in another life, she would have acted like one of the boorish men, drinking to her heart’s content until the room grew hazy at the edges of her vision and the smile became a fixture on her face. But not now. Not with this path that she walked.

Instead, all she could do was look on in disgust.

Every barrel of wine that was rolled in might have been used to pay for a bowl of stew for a child, Another bed in the orphanage. A bushel of wheat for a hungering family. The ingredients for a doctor to mix a rare salve that might soothe the growths on a suffering, aching face. Or, at the very least, they could have saved it for when the economy of the kingdom would assuredly crumble. But who was she to say? It wasn’t as if Septimus had the capacity to process an intelligent thought. Levana had a working theory that he had three main thoughts and they rotated between power, pussy, and potent wine. Anything more than that would throw him off and likely send him into a tantrum. She supposed it hurt his brain to expend itself in such a manner, which is why he would only be able to respond in the most barbaric way.

When he patted her hand to garner her attention, she wanted to let her lip curl and pull away -- but her body was slow to respond. Today was particularly vexing -- she had brought The Wheel Of Fortune to an orphanage and the two of them had set about practicing their animations on corpses. She was resistant, which had meant that Morrigan was forced to do the majority of the work.

It’s a shame that such intelligence was outweighed by cowardice.

Her limbs were weary and deft to her commands, choosing to listen when they wanted to, which meant that her movements were labored and slow. As a result, she had no choice but to sit, watch, and endure the putrid smell of the sweaty man who was unfortunately the crowned king. So she swallowed down the bile that coated her tongue and turned to him -- she had never been more thankful for her inability to show her disgust -- brow rising as she subtly pulled her hand onto her lap.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” she apologized, playing coy as she tilted her chin down. It made her look as though she were batting her eyes at him, but the fumes of his breath made her want to gag. It was nothing more than an avoidance tactic that required minimal usage of her facial muscles. Morrigan’s eyes slid away from his. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your bloated sense of self-importance...”

Her voice wouldn’t carry in the room. It always seemed to fall away, giving out at the end before she could quite finish, fading into the noise, into nothing.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” He bellowed, shoving the poor drunken woman off of his lap as he leaned towards her. “SPEAK UP, MAGE.”

Against her own sense of self-preservation and thoughts for cleanliness, she leaned closer to the king, turning into his ear. “I said that your subjects will no doubt speak of the debauchery of their king.” It wasn’t exactly a compliment but it was the truth. Hopefully he would hear her over the sound of his own labored breathing -- she was curious to see what his reaction might be.

Septimus leaned back with a grin and looked at her, hesitating a bit as he tried to process what she was saying. Perhaps he was waiting for someone to tell him whether or not he should consider the words a compliment. He didn’t quite have the faculties to gauge it for himself. His eyes flickered over her face -- not quite seeing her and unable to interpret the micro-expressions.

It was like looking for fog within mist.

There was nothing to be found except further nothingness. There was something blissful about knowing that she could never be understood, that interpretations of her words and actions could never be understood correctly. Another beat passed and then another. Her mouth didn’t shift upwards, her eyes didn’t wrinkle in delight -- she merely looked at him as she waited for him to grasp her words. Then Septimus let out a loud guffaw and she inclined her chin, turning away.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he howled, “I bet back in your day before you started wearing the ugly make-up and looking like death you could’ve used it for something too!”

“Yes,” she answers, eyes flickering back to him briefly. “I happily used it for making already small men feel smaller.” Her lip twitched, nothing more than a slight lift, before dissipating quickly. It seemed that her muscles were too tired for that, even. “To chew up bones and spit them back out.”

He certainly caught that.

He snorted derisively and waved his hand. “Don’t bring talk of death here, not tonight, Morrigan.” Ah, Morrigan. So he truly was done with her for the night if he wasn’t calling her m a g e. Tediously, she rose to her feet, nodding at the Wheel of Fortune to hand her the crutch, leaning against the wall. Levana’s eyes shuttered wearily as she rose to her feet, iron casts around her legs groaning and creaking as she righted herself.

The king watched on in boredom, not bothering to help as he pulled another woman onto his lap.

Levana turned around and bowed.

“Long live the king,” she sighed, a pretty little (little, nothing more than a light lift of her lips, barely-there) smile pulling at her lips as she bid him goodnight.

One could only hope that he choked on his own tongue between now and tomorrow morning. As she put herself to sleep she couldn’t help but smile as she thought of the sound of him choking.

EXTRAS

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#accepted #accepted: the high priestess

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