girl as wolf

Compare me not to stars but to storms, to hurricanes & typhoons. See me not for my beauty & fire; see me for the natural disaster I am.

[inessarazin-blog]

feliks

Feliks had been honorable once, back in his village, before he went off to war. Of course, he committed every sin, marred every sentiment handed down to him–but he was still honorable. He was honorable because people saw him that way. People thought he was worthy of their respect. That was all it took to be righteous. Every moral man sinned in secret. Feliks Bazin had been honorable because that’s how he was perceived, and because people were desperate to hand over adoration.

But Inessa was right. Whatever he was now, it wasn’t honorable. He could be the most moral, most noble person in Os Alta, and he still wouldn’t have anyone’s respect. Feliks was glad he no longer bothered with facades. He was glad he no longer bothered with Saints. It made life much easier, at least. He threw back another swig of kvas. Life was easier this way, but it was also emptier, and Feliks was trying not to mind.

“Your laughter’s painful, ‘Nessa,” Feliks hoisted himself up, leaning on his elbows with the bottle still in hand. Any other day, he wouldn’t even think about making himself comfortable on her bed. But now he had the proposition of death–and, well, he was hopeful. “I’m a loyal soldier with strong morals and a lot of compassion for everyone around me.”

Feliks was sure he sounded drunk again–at least, far more drunk than he was. He wasn’t bothering to edit his thoughts before speaking, but that was a common doing of his. It was far more common before his death, but it was still an easy habit to return to. Besides, he didn’t care much what Inessa thought of him as long as she didn’t think much. He didn’t really care to discover who she was underneath her pearly smiles and lighthearted laughter as long as she didn’t discover who he was underneath his sarcasm. This balance seemed to be in jeopardy the last time they got drunk together, when he shared more than he cared to, but still he hadn’t thought to tread carefully tonight.

“If you were to die next week,” he said, taking another sip of kvas before pointing the head of the bottle toward her. He wasn’t drunk, but he was still tipsy enough to forget the barriers he’d set up between them. He was tipsy enough to forget that he didn’t want to know Inessa. “What would you wanna do this week, you know, just to get it out of the way and all? Assuming death is polite and would wait for you to carry out your last wish. And don’t say anything like ‘fall in love,’ or your bed sheets will be rancid with bile in just a moment.”

Sarcasm oozes from his lips just as easily as the kvas slides down his throat, and it's welcome, the brevity in his tone, in his actions as he sprawls out across her bed. She pulls her legs under her and leans forward onto her elbows, now lying on her stomach as her feet swing carelessly back and forth in the air, but she has to fight to keep her composure as he continues on, boasting about himself. She buries her head in her hands and groans before whipping her gaze back up to him.

"All right then, most loyal of soldiers, let's drink to that," she says with a grin as wide as his ego, and she snatches the bottle back, pulling herself back upright and kneeling now atop the mattress. She holds the bottle up and dramatically clears her throat, patting her palm against her chest for his attention. "To Felix Bazin," she looks down at him and smirks, "the most compassionate and loyal," she takes a sip. "He loves his charges and the people he protects!" She exclaims, taking another large gulp before shoving the bottle back into his hand and collapsing alongside him.

She listens as he speaks, reaching deep for the question that follows and the commentary after, clearly hoping to find out the deepest desires of his fellow soldier, but her revealing them was never agreed upon. And instantly, Anastasia appears in her head, eyes falling shut to revel in the mirage of her, curls bouncing as the sun shines along her beautiful bronze skin. Perhaps her truest desire would be to fall in love, or rather, for the princess to fall in love with her. Maybe just one kiss, one touch from her, and Inessa could die happily. Her eyes open at the realization, but she glances over at Feliks' demanding gaze and offers him a smirk, hoping to cover and conceal the true, and what she would consider to be weak, nature that lies within.

"A battle," she finally says, "I've never been in one. His Majesty assigned me to the princess immediately, which I'm grateful for, do not mistake me, but," she trails off, head turning away from her onlooker and peering through the icy window at the gray, bleak sky, "I imagine there's no feeling like emerging from battle victorious." Still true, but maybe not her deepest desire, but one she harbors all the same. "And you, loyal and compassionate Feliks, what would you want to do?"

[inessarazin-blog]

anastasia

Anastasia wondered how the people outside the castle walls were handling the plague that had quickly spread through the nation. It made them sad to know that they were going to get the very best care while others more deserving of it would have to hope for the cure in time. It pained them to know that mothers would lose their children to the plague just because they were not of a higher status. It was even worse to imagine that children would lose their parents for the same reason. If Anastasia had any choice in the matter they would give their cure, if one was to be found, to someone of lower class. Of course, they never have the choice.

Their eyes took in Inessa as she looked them over. Anastasia could notice the bodyguard’s slow movements and sweat covered head that was eerily similar to their own. “You’re not well either, Inessa.” They stated softly, more worried about her than herself. “I ate a couple of hours ago and I slept last night. How about you? Are you taking care of yourself?” Anastasia thought of Inessa more of a friend than a guard so of course they would be worried.

Rest. Anastasia was familiar with the symptoms of the plague. It seemed to be mentioned everywhere what the different stages caused. One of the symptoms of stage one was insomnia, so Inessa’s request would be hard to fulfill. “I will rest if you promise to get some rest as well.” They replied, not wanting the soldier to spend all night worrying. 

She shakes her head, leaning forward and gripping a hand on the back of the chair in front of her. She breathes in and it hurts. She exhales and it hurts. Beads of sweat gather along her brows and she wipes them away as quickly as she can with the back of her hand.

“I’m fine,” she mutters, her voice catching but she clears her throats and repeats herself, hoping the princess doesn’t take notice, “I’m fine, Ana, really.” A lie if there ever was one, and it weighs on her, the dishonesty toward someone she cares so deeply for—something she would have never thought possible. But there she stands, a princess, and the irony is not lost on Inessa. That potential for happiness at the tips of her fingers yet on the verge of collapse, of perish.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she snaps back, a sly grin working its way along her lips—as sly as a girl can get whilst trying her best not to faint. “And taking care of you.” She offers up a nod and a more sincere smile this time, taking a step to her right and pushing off the chair with minimal tell as to the ache in her bones. Slowly, she raises her arms by way of surrender, shrugging her shoulders before she offers up an explanation. “Okay, okay,” she sighs, taking a few more steps and leaning against the edge of the couch. “You win.” Another sigh, frustrated and defeated, leaves her lips, but she welcomes the relief of being off her feet even if it’s only momentary.

Lifting her arm, she extends her hand and pats her palm lightly atop the cushion next to her. “You rest, I rest.”

[ruleandruinrpg]

INESSA RAZIN

TWENTY-THREE ❈ HUMAN ROYAL GUARD

* This character identifies as a demigirl and uses she/her and they/them pronouns.

She was born a predator—a wolf, a tiger, a beast with the face of a lamb, a creature of dichotomies that she used to both vex and bait. There are some who would try to rationalize away what little they knew of her—a cruel childhood perhaps, an uncaring sister who fanned her hatred, lack of love—but it was all laughable and untrue, and she would be the first to say it. She recalled days spent in blissful comfort, days spent puttering around by the river with the village children as her sister, Maya, led the way. It’d always been that way—Inessa, a rebellious, willful force of nature who waved sticks as swords while adults chuckled at her youthful spunk, so ill-fitted on such a sweet face, while Maya stood tall, as striking as the high sun, admired by children and grown-ups alike. Inessa had been loved—both she and her twin sister had—and had never wanted, nor was she ever neglected, but even if she never wanted, she envied often. For as much as she was doted on by her family, her sister was always better, always extraordinary, always more. As alike in appearances as they were, no one had ever mistaken them for one another; there were too many stark differences that Inessa had learned to resent and nurse as the years passed until poison took to where any semblance of purity once lived.

Then the universe seemed to smile upon Inessa, bestowed her the gift of justification for all the cruelty and hate that had grown in her little chest like a second beating heart. Was it normal to feel so much vitriol for a girl who was as much she as Maya wasn’t? They shared womb, blood, and face, and yet her hostility, even if it was born from insecurities and pettiness, felt ancient and preordained and so big that there was no room for guilt. Many people underestimated the power of self-validation, how it could fill oneself with so much self-righteousness that it could become their downfall, but it only bolstered Inessa’s resolve and sharpened her instead. Salvation arrived in the form of a living amplifier; neither of her parents were Grisha and she wasn’t either, but Maya, oh, Maya was always extraordinary—but now she knew why. Witchery. It was unnatural. She was unnatural, and to Inessa’s dismay, their parents’ shock was overridden by tacit support and bittersweet tears; they loved her still, even knowing what Maya was and what she was no longer (human, good), and for that, Inessa hated them too. She didn’t care to think of any scenario where the situation was reversed, where she was the unnatural anomaly and Maya the human; there was no use ruminating on what would never be, only what was to come. She watched coldly as her sister left for the Little Palace, knowing the next time they’d meet they’d be more of the version of themselves that the other hated.

In the time in between, Inessa’s face grew sweeter as her soul turned blacker, a cruel trick or a convenient favor bestowed by the gods, depending on who one asked. She remained in the little village and, now a splendid, lovely creature, learned to bely her own toxins and hate and a properly hidden dagger with a beguiling smile. Her parents passed one year apart a few years after Maya left. She didn’t write to let her sister know. She imagined Maya luxuriating in the Little Palace, surrounded by those equally perverse and aberrant as she, while she herself was stuck in the village with no outlet for her antipathy, relegated to mediocrity and obscurity. If Inessa longed for relevance, it was because she knew she deserved it, and not by virtue of being born an aberration. What she wanted, she took, by will and by force, and what she wanted was admission of her own prowess, a place among the gilded and savage. And who better to appeal to than the most gilded of all, the King of Ravka? She orchestrated it all in one afternoon by the river, invited Maya back home to make up for lost time, and before her sister arrived, set the village ablaze. It was still burning by the time Maya arrived, and Inessa scrambled forward to fall into her arms, her own skin singed and dusted with ash, made a show of the tears spilling forth. “You’re a pyro, aren’t you? An Inferni? Put it out!” As Maya turned, Inessa slipped silver in between her fingers, and thrust the dagger deep into her flesh. She watched the fire burn as her sister grew colder in her arms, and her eyes were alight when she brought Maya’s corpse to the Grand Palace and threw it at the king’s feet, his court gasped around them. “The sorceress who killed my village,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She has your face,” Ivan murmured. He sounded dazzled. He looked back up.  “What is it you want?” “To be in your service. I will do to those who seek to harm your family what I did to my sister.”

There is much to say about one whose heart remains as pure and unmarred as freshly fallen snow despite the ruin that surrounds her on all sides. Was it that her purity was so indomitable, so formidable, that she couldn’t be tainted? It was a romantic thought, no doubt the most palatable one, but laughable nonetheless. For there’s something even more fearsome about those who are untouchable and pristine through billows of smoke and ash, and it is that they made themselves that way. Blood and rot slid off porcelain shoulders, the horrors of the past left to languish in the winter. She remains unsullied because she makes it so, ignores that which could bury her in melancholy and shortcomings and swallows anything that makes her fatal. Sweet-faced ingenue, people murmur, hands clasped to their heart. Little do they know it’s the angels from whom one ought to guard their hearts, their lives, their souls.

CONNECTIONS

ANASTASIA LANTSOV:  The princess she’s been tasked to protect. Inessa loves her as much as she condescends to her, for she’s a living symbol for everything Inessa had worked and killed for, an idol if she ever worshipped anyone aside from herself. The woman has a benevolent heart, an exquisite soul, a mind made for royalty, and although Inessa doesn’t think much of nobles themselves, she can admit Anastasia is atypical in that she doesn’t care to boast her title nor her status. Funny, that someone like Inessa could commend another who was so disparate from herself in goodness and upbringing, but Anastasia is an exception. She always will be. 

FELIKS BAZIN & ISKRA RAEVSKY: Her fellow royal guards. If she could do what she’d done to her twin to Iskra, she would want for nothing. The pyro is fiery and quick on her feet (not so much with her wit), certainly, but she has no business standing on equal level with Inessa, much less in the Grand Palace at all. For now, she plays sweet with razors behind kind words - should the opportunity arise to ensure Iskra’s demise, she will take it. Feliks—Feliks is a victim, and Inessa hates Altan for what devilry he wrought on an unsuspecting human, hates him as much as she pities the other guard. She respects the man enough not to let on about her pity, and of the other two guards she much prefers his company.

LUKA MRAVINSKY: He’s a sweet, pathetic thing, as fatal as he is contemptible, but his self-loathing strikes her deep in her recesses, that perhaps he hates himself more than she hates him has marked him apart from the rest of his kind. She doesn’t mind cajoling her way by his side with saccharine pleasantries until there’s a space on his shoulder for the devil in her. She taunts him because she can and retracts her cruelty with halfhearted apologies when she feels him pull away—only to restart the cycle. 

INESSA IS PORTRAYED BY MALAIKA FIRTH & IS TAKEN BY SIDNEY.

[inessarazin-blog]

feliks

date: january 12, year 2 time: 11:54 pm location: feliks’s and inessa’s room availability: closed to @inessarazin

A mere two hours ago, when Feliks noticed his hands beginning to shake, his first thought wasn’t how to make it better. No–he started to plan how to make the symptoms worse. He didn’t have any elaborate plan for his second death. In fact, he hadn’t really thought about whether or not he wanted it anymore. He just didn’t see much difference between living and dying anymore. So, if the plague had just found him and was only going to get worse no matter what he did, why try to alleviate it?

When Feliks finally returned to his dorm, he had already taken a few swigs from the bottle of kvas in his hand. He hadn’t expected to find Inessa there–though it was her room, so he really should have–but he wasn’t deterred by the sight of her. They got along well enough, at least they did when they were drunk. After drunkenly opening up to her a few weeks ago, Feliks had decided to avoid her. When they spoke, it was for work. He preferred it that way.  

Tonight, however, he didn’t feel so uncomfortable in her presence. As much as he wanted to blame the kvas, he was hardly even tipsy. So he blamed the fever. Maybe he didn’t mind looking vulnerable in front of her anymore because it felt like they both had a time limit now. At least, he could hope he had a time limit. 

“Inessa,” he singsonged, sounding drunk when the truth was he just didn’t care how he sounded anymore. He immediately made his way to her bed, falling backward onto it and holding up the bottle for her to take. “Care for a drink? I mean, might as well, right? Let’s toast to death–let’s drink to death. And then, maybe, when it’s all said and done we can be lucky enough for a bloodletter to bring us back so we can once more tend to our honorable duty as guards. Drink to that, Inessa?”

“You’re drunk,” she smirks as he enters, singing her name as if it is the sweetest word to ever grace the tip of his tongue, and for a quick moment she’s jealous, envious of his ability to cast all worries aside at a time like this. To stop and enjoy oneself in the face of death seems an impossible thing to Inessa, but then again, Feliks himself seemed impossible to her as well, yet there he stands. Right in front of her. A dead boy not so dead anymore.

If she’d been so close to the brink of death as he, if she had met death face to face, she isn’t sure what she’d do if she were yanked back into this nightmare of a world. From what she understands, it wasn’t as if he lived a life of strife and pain, in fact, she’s fairly certain he fucked and drank his way throughout Ravka, fighting on the battlefield during the day and curling up with a warm body at night and yet, she knows that life isn’t enough, not for him—not anymore.

Oddly enough, dying changes a person. Though the more she gets to know him, the more she can understand why. His stories don’t align with the sight of who he is today. That spark he talks of, that twinkle in his eye that made ladies swoon and enemies cower, its vanished. Replaced by a far darker look, a blackening of his eyes, of his soul. But Inessa knows it is that very darkness that draws her in. From the first, it has enticed her, pulled her close and kept her there. She can’t really say whether she cares for the sad sack, or just pities him—perhaps both, perhaps neither. The only thing clear to her at this point is the thirst for kvas once she spots the bottle in his hand.

“All right, give it here,” he goes on and on, a rambler, but she imagines he was smooth once with a twist to his lips and a silver tongue. She yanks the bottle from within his grasp and brings the brim to her lips for a sip. It’s warm against her throat, a bit harsh once swallowed, but hell, that was the point of drinking it. “To death,” she says, voice monotone as she glares at him. You’re lucky you’re drawing breath this very moment, she thinks, wants to say, but he would never call himself lucky, and most likely take it as an insult if she said so. And so instead, she turns around to face him, a smirk playing along her lips. “You? Feliks Bazin. Honorable?” She laughs a lighthearted laugh, as carefree as any laugh can be in the face of an incurable illness that spreads as quick as a rumor throughout the Grand Palace. Horrendous and vicious and slanderous, both one in the same if you asked Inessa, hence the effort to joke in the face of collapse.

“I cannot drink to something so preposterous,” she winks, handing him back the bottle.

[lifeinpoetry]

If you could lick my heart, / it would poison you.

Charles Hood, from Partially Excited States

[lauraharrierfan]

[inessarazin-blog]

anastasia

Anastasia looked out her bedroom window with a heavy heart. On a normal night they would be sneaking out of the palace with their clothes much too raggedy for a princess and their bag of food slipped away from the plates of people who would more likely eat one bite and toss it out than give the food to someone of less wealth. They would roam about the village delivering food among other things to those who had nothing. Sadly, this was no normal night. With the plague spreading quickly throughout the country, Anastasia was ordered by Inessa and the few else who knew of their late night activities to stay in their room. It didn’t matter how Anastasia felt. It didn’t matter that Anastasia would rather die among their people than survive locked away in their cage. She would gladly take the cure last, if a cure is ever to be found, then allow others to die on her behalf.

 She wiped the beads of sweat away as she went to remove her cloak– partly because Anastasia knew she wasn’t getting outside the palace walls tonight and partly because her body temperature was through the roof. They went to tuck their food stash and rags underneath their bed, but their hand twitched and caused them to spill some of the stolen goods onto the floor.

“Shoot.” She whispered, bending down to go retrieve the items. She hadn’t even heard the door being knocked on until she heard of the voice of her guard coming from near the doorway. “I am well.” They spoke as they stood up, but the flushed tone to their face said differently. 

She watches her as she moves, slow and shaky, hands jittering about, so much so that the contents of them falls to the floor. Inessa runs over to the princess and grasps her by the elbow. “I’ll get it, go sit,” she says, ushering her over to the table by the bed before bending to her knees to gather the jars and loaves of bread. She packs them away carefully, taking slow breaths as she over exerts herself, her sides cramping with each gasp for air. Death warmed over, that’s how she felt. Emphasis on the ‘warmed over’ part, her body hot to the touch, enough to warm the very bread within her hands. 

“You’re not well, Your Grace,” she shakes her head, pushing the bag farther beneath her bed, and it takes her all the energy she has—what little of it she can summon in her current state—to lift herself to her feet, and she grunts during the process. “You’re sweating,” she notes, turning on her heel and weaving around the bed. “When is the last time you ate?” She asks, eyebrows raised, “Or slept? You need your rest, princess.”

The soldier pads the back of her hand against Anastasia’s head, damp to the touch, and shakes her own head in return, but she lingers there for a moment. She flips her hand and runs the width of her thumb along the girl’s forehead. “Ana, please. Rest,” she begs. 

[wnq-writers]

She’s an ocean; she’s infinite; she can never be tamed.

cocaine-angell

[wmagazine]

[theroning]

[inessarazin-blog]

iskra

oh, what a trial it is to be h u m a n

@inessarazin

    It was the third day and she had been tip-toeing – as much as Iskra could tip-toe – around the fact that her two fellow guards were human. They were vulnerable in ways that she was not. There would come a time, a time that was nigh upon them, when she would be a lone ranger. Although that, in itself, was nothing new to her. What was new to her was this possibility of the plague, no, wait, not the possibility. The imminent dawning of the plague. “What does imminent even mean?” She murmured, wondering about it to herself. It was a word that she remembered Altan had used, in the context of her lusting after him ( an impossibility ). Later, she would make sure to ask Stasya or Valerian to explain the definition of the word to her. But, presently, she was more concerned with how the others might be feeling the onset of the plague. 

   Because, if that were the case, that meant she would have to double her shifts and stay at Anton’s side morning, noon, and night. As if she did anything but that. She spent more time with Anton than she did the other guards, but it was not really her fault. Anton had a very winning personality, while her fellow guards seemed to regard her with less warmth than he. After all, there were the number of prejudices that they still had yet to overcome. What with the assumptions that she was a witch, a burden, an abomination. Such things were what made her less likely to succumb to the fever, were the reason why the servants and other nobles stared at her with their lips curled and their eyes staring down their noses. 

   If Inessa was sick and Iskra, the Inferni guard, still was seemingly in perfect health – then, oh, what resent was likely to brew there. Which was why, while Feliks took over the shift over the royal family, she came to the woman bearing gifts – a bowl of soup and a warm loaf of bread from a chef and a baker that she had charmed. Elbowing the door open with a loud bang and stumbling through somewhat ungracefully, she burst in upon her fellow guardsman. “How you feeling, Solnechnyy svet?” Sunshine.

Her head aches, actually every part of her does, from her head to her feet and every limb in between. But the only thing worse than that is not having slept in some thirty-six hours, and she's sure this is the cause of the deep, earth-shattering throb within her skull. They say it starts with a fever, a headache, a cold sweat, and each have been terrible, but the most daunting aspect of it all was the blurt figure she'd witness just a few hours prior. All she wanted was rest, but in she walked, and there she appeared. And Inessa could have sworn the girl had her face, but that was impossible. She's dead, the guard thinks. But something about that thought made the smell in her nose feel charred and smoky, and her hands had felt as though dripping with a warm liquid--blood. And that had been enough to force her wide awake.

She sat atop her bed, legs crossed with her blanket pulled tightly under her chin, and even though her temple was dripping with sweat, she shivered and her hands took the brunt of the twitching. In a word, she was miserable, save for the entrance of her least favorite person and that, it appears, will be the icing atop the cake of annoyance and frustration. Still, she forced a smile upon her haggard features, her face undoubtedly gaunt and sickly at first glance.

"A little better," she lies, bracing either of her hands on her sides and shifting her weight slightly, but she's forced to wince at the pain. That small movement felt like a thousand tiny needles stabbing along her skin, and so she slunk back onto her bed feeling weaker than she ever has, but nothing and no one, including Iskra, was going to stop her from her next shift with the princess. "Is that soup?" She asks, stomach immediately growling at the thought of a meal.

[inessarazin-blog]

I'LL PROTECT HER WITH MY LIFE

DATE: January 14th TIME: 1:18 PM LOCATION: Grand Palace — Anastasia's room STATUS: Closed to @annielantsov 

I'm not weak, she thinks as beads of sweat descend along her temple, but her legs must think otherwise because they buckle with each step she takes, with each turn of the corner. Even taking a mere breath forces her to waste what little energy she has left, her chest heaving rapidly—and wheezing sounds from deep within her chest—but it's worth it; it will be worth it even more when she sees the princess through this, when she emerges victorious from this wretched sickness. It's her duty—to protect her, to keep her out of danger and away from any potential maiming, but the girl has proven more than difficult what with her desire to feed every hungry, and more importantly, sickly mouth in all of Ravka. Such a big heart, such a tender soul. It'll get her killed, she thinks, and the thought is too much to handle given her state so she pushes it aside and repurposes that energy toward the movement of her legs. 

She finds her destination quickly, nodding at the two temporary guards she's had placed outside her door—ordered to never let her leave this room, and if she gets past them, well, then they have already sealed their fates, and she will be sure to punish them justly. Their heads on spikes come to mind most notably. But it appears they have listened and they have kept the princess safe. They'll be spared but only for now. 

Upon reaching the door, she knocks abruptly, three taps to her door feeling like punching stone against her knuckles, and the pain is nearly unbearable. "Your Highness?" She grinds her teeth against the agony; she has far pressing matters to attend to, and calls for her behind the door, but there's no answer. "Anastasia?" She enters without warning, as she would in any crisis, any time her greeting were to go unanswered. "Are you feeling well?"

[midnight-charm]

[wordsnquotes]

There were girls who would tear you apart with their lips.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night

[spdrparker]

[dvoyd]

Lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and I am not kind, and I am not afraid to make you wish that I was.

say your prayers now | m.a.w