#neruhm

[dubiousduskwight]

HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.

AM, “I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream,” Harlan Ellison

[anstarra]

Stones Left Unturned

There are some who say that silence is music to the ears, and indeed Anstarra believes this to be true. When it comes as the end to cries of pain or the strident screeching of an infant then it is the silence of relief, of an end to duress. When it manifests in a shocked stilling of the words which spill from the lips of an adversary in the social arena - or the more terminal cessation of a foe’s warcry - then it is the triumphant, gloating silence of victory. And when it swirls around, enveloping you in much-needed surcease, shielding you from stress and distraction… why, then it is the silence of peace. Too infrequently heard.

Other forms of silence exist, however. Ones.. less welcome.

The silence which descends following the crashing cacophony of a man’s body passing through an old, half-rotted wooden table is less welcome. It was not the silence of victory. It was the silence of a hundred suddenly-closed doors. Anstarra can see it in the faces, suddenly shuttered. In the hunched turning-away, the shifting of chairs, the distrustful, fearful glances. In the clear-cut, painfully visible fact that her efforts have come to an end.

That’s where whores go, ain’t it?

She curses, turning on her heel to stride directly from the pub. Her knuckles smart, the memory of impacting with the obnoxious man’s teeth - an immediate and utterly necessary rejoinder to such ill-considered words - still freshly imprinted upon them. The fact that she feels the harshness of the sting despite her punching gloves, despite her own hardiness, is a testament to her failure.

The simple fact is, people enjoy a GOOD fight.

“Bloody waste of time…” She hears the bitterness in her own voice, and recognizes its roots. Her desire to help… not just for Matthieu and their collective cause, not just for the downfall of the Severidennes, not even just for the uprooting and destruction of Ner-

…

..of those stones, and the last remnants of that horror. No, not just for these things, but rather for something closer to her heart, to the root of the sympathy that she feels toward lady Faetrix Severidenne (despite her having broken Verad’s heart, the bitch) and to her shared belief with Nihka that love in all its forms is meant to be given without inhibition. The conviction, closely-held, that women (and men, yet the galling double-standards of society (especially Ishgard’s) meant that women were far more frequently concerned) should be treated with respect and dignity and not exploited simply for having a predilection for the physical.

It boggles Anstarra that a service so sought-after, so truly desirable and necessary is so reviled. On some levels, of course, she gets it. Take anything too far, and, well, it goes too far. Taboo adds to pleasure. Humiliation, the fear of exposure… there are many spices in this particular stew. But they are meant to be games! Any degradation meant to be simulated… something to enjoy and then wash off and walk away from, secure in yourself and your own sense of self-worth. Instead, far too often, the cycles of abuse and desperation and cruelty that lead to the sort of environment wherein the monstrous excesses of people like the Severidennes can take root.

The shutting down of places like the Caged Bird is a necessary thing. A first step toward something better. Part of her wonders if Matthieu is really the champion needed for this cause… does he care more about propriety than the well-being of the victims? She doesn’t know him well enough yet. But… she trusts her friends, and most especially trusts Nihka, whose endorsement of the parliamentarian is all Anstarra needs to throw her efforts behind him.

Enthusiastically. Rather too enthusiastically. As it turns out.

No one likes a bully, and far too many are intimidated by a strong woman. This, she knows. She’s played the vulnerable maid, the easily-picked-up-and-carried-off wench… whatever is needed to spur and excite. There is nothing wrong with a little artifice… Problems only arise when you break character. And tonight, punching a man’s entire mouthful of teeth into his digestive tract while sending it and the rest of him through a railing (of hard wood, sturdy construction) off a rise and through a table (whose wood, it has been mentioned, was markedly less sturdy)... Yes, this was definitely breaking character.

But it had felt damned good.

Back home, then, to seek some other way to be of assistance. To take down those nasty, void-tainted nobles, save the girl, save the man, save the OTHER girls, and stop that bastard Hearns from summoning Neruhm back to its full…

…

...fuck.