Kharris's blog

The foyer is as I remember it and I recover from the disorientation of translocation by dusting at my skirts and looking around. Hesitating. Stalling. I can’t breathe, but I pretend. I finally start across the small guest lounge to the bedroom door, fingers tucking at my hair and smoothing over my clothes. My bangles chime when I knock.

There’s no time. Now. Now. NOW. I can hear movement beyond. The door is not locked. Both of my hands are on the latch and it swings open from my weight where I lean. “Iloam?” There is a high note to my voice, though it comes out soft. I’m so scared part of me wants to bolt. But what am I scared of? It had been building: I needed to see him. To reassure myself. I was worried for him and he would tell me nothing when I’d asked. Fluttering uncertainty felt like a bird trapped in my breast. Seeing him was the only way to try to understand. The only way to move past the trapped feeling of worry and keep it from moving into panic.

((After over a week of fiddling, cold medicine induced haze, and personal real life unexpected happenings, I finally have to just post without it being what I want it to be. It was also MASSIVE, so I've split it into two, again. Apologies. This RP happened a bit ago, and I hope it's not too confusing with 'newer' blogs out.))

It had not been long since she had seen him, and just as it was on Day of the Dead: the tiny spirit hovered silently just out of reach. He was never very far from her, but she could never touch him, no matter how her heart or hands stretched. She knew from experience.

The candles continued to flicker, as if exposed to a breeze, though the air was still. Between the rapt dancer and spirit something … sang. The air was quiet, and there were no words and or sound, but there was rising melody of spirit as their souls resonated. Somedays, she swore she could hear their song, even in silence.

Guilt and pain rolled through Kharris again and her hands hung listlessly in her lap as she stared unblinking up at the dazzling manifestation of her son’s soul, and everything else in the world slid away. For an instant. For forever.

Dwarven curses are heavy; the weight of them on your tongue, then bursting through the air makes you feel like you are punching someone in the gut. Very satisfying, Kharris looked down at the potted plant that had seemingly flung itself off its expensive stand. The vision was macabre: dirt and a ceramic shards scattered as if imitation life’s blood pooling, fronds and leaves grasping across the plush carpet, and roots exposed here and there in pale hues that brought bones to mind. The pot had narrowly missed crushing her toes as its flight across the room had ended. It was no accident, though no one visible had thrown it. Kharris could still hear the familiar ghosts’ voices in her ears: the cursing in poorly enunciated Dwarven and the warm, woman’s laugh. I had forgotten how much Papa enjoyed cursing in Dwarven. And how he made Mum laugh because of his wretched accent. He loved her laugh.

On a wooden table, prominently positioned to be seen from anywhere in the room, there is a tall bottle of very fine whiskey. Under the bottle of whiskey rests a letter. When unfolded the letter is undated and unaddressed. The ink is rich and smooth with clean, strong script dancing across the fine vellum, but it is the excess slant of the letters that is the subtle indication of the strength of the author's emotion.

~
I am not your child. So stop treating me like one.

((The following is written in neat, schooled script, but in a dialect of Thalassian letters unlikely to be understood by many. The book itself is small, with a dark purple leather cover and the initials KDB embossed on the corner. The entry is dated, and the latest in a series of other short, handwritten notes. Apparently, Kharris keeps a diary.))

~There's so much around me.

So many.

We dance and I watch them come together and spin apart. I can see so much from up here.

Hands touch. Smiles exchange. Feet are stepped on. A woman stumbles, her partner ignores it; a man has no rhythm, but sincerity, his partner leaves; and through it all, they put me up here. To watch and be watched. Costumed in far away affection and momentary interest.

I am not part of their dance. I am enjoyed, but not shared. I belong to the stage, not them.

Kharris danced.

Moonlight and surf courted her on the waves, and her bare feet were wet from where they hovered and over the ocean’s chilly, tentative touch.

The beach was close, but each step took her farther. Bonfires from Shadowprey dotted the coast, their own shapes dancing in the brisk wind. They marked the town, but Kharris did not see them, her eyes were closed.

She was lost to the rhythm of the sea and the dance. Light skirts snapped around her legs  but she was unhindered—she was dancing, her body would adjust. Her hair was pulled back from her face in four tight braids that hung down her back and with beads threaded in by nimble trollish fingers, clacking like conversations in a language unknown to any elven ears.

She was lost to the rhythm of the dance and it was the closest she’d been to peace in months. But it was not peace. Peace was an active process, in its way. This was something… blank.

((Unspecified day last week!))

Like so many city adventures, this one began with a window.
 

Looking over the Landing, perched in a tree. A bird. What kind of bird, though?

A Bird of paradise--An ornament? Preening and elegant?

A Songbird--Kept for entertainment? Hopping among perches to sing?

A Raptor--A fierce tool? Jesses on my ankles?

If I jump out, will I fall or fly? Doesn't matter. Cages.

Rum was always her poison of choice. Tonight, for added punch, she laced it with a bit of mana. She’d smiled prettily at the barkeep, Dathri, to convince him to find the richest, strongest mana he had. Intimately familiar with the pattern on the single dram vial he'd passed her, her mind wandered over Fidir and his worgs and she smiled, sipping again and sucking the mage-conjured ice deliciously for a moment. The buzz of the mana thrilled through her tongue and she lazily blinked into the darkness of midnight.

Her tongue pressed liquid over her palate and she had a flash of loneliness for Ghurab’s jackal smile and laughter. She settled the glass against her forehead, sudden remembrance of the heat of the jungle making her skin flush. Her free hand settled delicately on the piece of paper on the table in front her of her, nearly hovering over the crude drawing so lovingly sent by innocence embodied.

Vanity. Such an appropriate name.

Kharris grinned to herself, dimples peeking out in the quick flash, and turned her neck in the mirror. Her eyelids lowered, peering at the way the green ribbon pulled snug against her throat. A small pendant, no bigger than her fingertip, hung there at the little hollow of where her throat met her chest. Again the corners of her lips tugged up.

The deep green *did* suit her. She crossed her legs and leaned forward onto the little table, plucking up her kohl stick and touching up an eye out of habit rather than need. It was early evening, and the rest of the girls were filtering in with their somewhat sleepy eyes and murmured greetings, occasional bird-like laughter falling around Kharris like so much rain. These women were not much for the sun-soaked day, and it showed in their shuffles and the slightly rumpled look to them. Late to rise, later to bed.

((Cut for language))

 ((Late post, should have been posted last Wednesday.))

She sits in bath water, now cold.  The small elven woman has been staring dull-eyed at the rough wooden wall in the bathhouse for hours now.  Her mouth hangs open slightly, slack-jawed.  There have been no dimples on her cheeks in days.  The light in her eyes barely shines, dim and sickly.  Her usually animated features are quiet.  But only close survey would show her lack of expression, hidden as she is.  Shadows cling thickly to her, roiling over her in a miasma of uncontrolled power.

Rowan, 37 weeks

Likes:
Strawberries--berries of any kind, actually. I'm going through pounds of them! I feel like a bloody bird!
Your father's voice--especially when he sings.
Hand-to-kidney combat--Ouch, hon. Ouch.

Little Swimmer,

It's getting close.  Laurai is about to pop; she's carrying her girl lower, you're tucked up under my ribs--making it damned hard to catch my breath!  I like feeling you there though.  Next to my heart.

Gods and goats, listen to me gush.

What you do to me, my little man.

Mum

It was Monday morning.  Mail day, now that she wasn't conveniently at the posts everyday.  She would trudge over to Shattrath, clean up on Scryer's Tier then head to the apartment for a quick tea and then a romp around the big city for a few hours before hiring an engineer to send her to Everlook in Winterspring.  It was becoming a tradition.

Kharris smiled with satisfaction as the click on the mailbox processed her letters.  She always liked the way the mail symbol flashed to let you know it was doing it's job.  She sent ou

Iloam-player's birthday is June 2nd, so happy birthday!

Hope you like it!  That rogue we love to hate, and hate to love!

Full pic under the cut!

(( While not technically "NSFW", you may want to use caution.  >_> ))

 (( Response to:  www.rp-haven.com/blog/iloam/under_your_spell ))

Fluttering, her eyes opened to the darkened room.  Dawn was creeping in the windows, but night’s darkness still clung to the corners even in this early light. The over zealous sun dazzled her and she withdrew instinctively to the cool comfort of the shadows, blinking.

The shadows smelled of leather and whiskey and ... him.  A smile grew very slowly with rising consciousness, and she felt as languid and delicious as the moon sinking into the sea.  Her dimples were deep and sweet, and she shifted to be closer to him.

He waved when I came in, a little smile.  Lazy.  Bored.

She walks in; a nightmare.   Her beauty is horrifying, mesmerizing.  I am not the only one who notices.  Iloam, you would never protect me, would you?  Not from her.

Shattrath was busy.  Languages rolled around her like water, drowning her.  Common.  Thalassian.  Draenei.  Orcish.  A smattering of dwarven for color.  The musical lilt of Gnomish and the subtle whisper of Trollish. Her bangles chimed nervously with her graceful, quick steps dancing her through the crowds.  The sounds of the Lower City markets enveloped her as she moved down the street.  She blocked her ears to the voices, willing herself only to hear the music of the cacophony.  No words.  Just noise.

If you listened the words, you might have hear to them.  And words had powers she couldn't resist.  They could enthrall, anger, hurt, soothe, and order.

Oddly enough it was the smaller words that seem to matter so much:  Yes. No. You. Need. Love. I. Hate. Me. We. Want.

(( Mature only for a few curse words ))

 (( A little outdated.  Things have happened.  But I am a very slow blogger, I hope it doesn't cause too much confusion. ))

The wind was singing up here, and Kharris smiled slowly to hear its song.  Any number of people would have been cross, or more, had they seen her up there, but none of them knew.  The dancer was careful not to let their warnings or admonitions intrude on her peace.  The wind whispered freedom and carried away any thoughts of reservation.  She let it awaken her senses and carry her mind away.

It had been weeks—months?—since she had been on a roof.  Too long.

Kharris Dawndancer took a page from Artisania Marveloso's book.

Literally.

 Kharris stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling solemnly in complete exhaustion.  The dancer was still, for once, and lay quietly on the luxurious bed with it’s down overstuffing and veritable mountain of pillows.  The bedding was of high quality—not whatever Shryn had on her own bed, Kharris was sure, but better than what Kharris was used to, for certain.   Raven strands of silky hair fanned out under her head, framing her expressionless face.

 She hadn’t bothered to remove her sandals when she'd sunk onto the bed and now one knee was bent under a light skirt in canary yellow.  Her hands smoothed over her belly absently, running in little circles to help calm her roiling stomach.  The thin gold bangles around her wrist were slowly chiming like lazy afternoon  birds.  It was the only familiar sound.

"Ihhhl'm?"  His name tasted like blood.

Kharris pushed her clumsy tongue around her mouth and then over her swollen lips, trying spit out the blood that had pooled under her tongue.  Feeling the way it was pooling up into a into a slippery gel turned her stomach.   The wretch induced a cough, and the pain from her presumably broken ribs admonished her sharply. A whimper came unbidden.  Blackness started to push in on her again and she didn't fight it, but oblivion answered came only when it wanted, and Kharris was left bitterly hovering in consciousness.

She couldn't see well, still, her vision was blurred with tears, exhaustion, and sweat, but she blinked several times trying to make sense of her environment.   She registered something pulling her uncomfortably back behind her, and she tried to roll down to her feet--why was she on her toes?  What was going on?

"It got dumped into the canal."

((This blog is overdue by about a week. I'm behind! ))

Kharris threw the small wooden box as hard as she could with a frustrated, wild scream. Everything she'd been holding very carefully in check the last, long minute expressed itself in the timbre of her voice. The box soared into the Shattrath bedroom and bounced with a hollow thunk on the nightstand. The lid flew off, skittering across the stone to finally rest under the bed, fleeing from the elf’s released fury.