An easy thing to do, and one they do not need to discuss. The idea of seeing yet more spirits is not high on Orella's list of wants, and she suspects Helisent feels the same. The cloister had been claustrophobic and dusty, and being under the sky once again is a great improvement, though by how much, neither can say. Theodoric's old cruelties yet mar the land, still there, though buried under Garlean tokens, just as terrible to behold. Gyr Abania makes no attempt to hide her scars, content to let frequent storms scour them clean and fresh over and over.
Orella points out each and every landmark they pass, knowing the weight of each one, and knowing too that Helisent could never notice without guidance. Each bare patch of earth she espies tell ten-part stories to her: dirt where crops ought to be growing, once a farm, long since salted; piles of stone, monuments turned ruins turned rubble.
Almost out of nowhere, Specula Imperatoris' towers loom suddenly in the distance, still conquering the horizon as they have for a full score. The travellers have been taking shelter from a two-day storm, finally able to make tracks, and Helisent stops in hers when she sees the monstrosity.
"What is that?"
Orella follows her gaze, notes the towers without any real regard, and tells her.
"It's the... ugliest thing I've ever seen," Hel adds, still staring. "How long has it-"
"Long enough," Orella interrupts. "Long enough for me to be grateful for it, now. I've not once lost my way since it was raised."
Her charge falls silent, and it's the bird that urges them onward, testy for the lack of shrub to graze. Orella lays a hand on Kurva's rump, and the chocobo warks at her, annoyed, refusing to stop. "Come on," she says to Hel, "Before your bird decides it is too good for our company. Don't," she adds as Helisent takes the first step, and it's sharp enough to draw her attention. Orella knows what will come next if she does not speak: apologies and silence, and she does not have the energy to entertain either of those things. She prefers the questions, endless though they are. "Don't think for a moment that I think of them as anything but..." and she struggles, knows there aren't words enough to describe her feelings. "Terribilis kahrolasi," she settles for, a mixed curse, almost spat with how furious she is, suddenly.
Her eyes are drawn back to the triple towers, then, and she knows Helisent will be watching her. Orella's outbursts are few and far between. "... But I cannot deny that I grew accustomed to them," she says reluctantly, and feels an urge to kick stray rocks out of the path. "None of this is welcome," she adds, and takes her hand off the chocobo.
"I think I understand," Helisent murmurs, and takes several wider strides to match the great bird's pace. "It just seems..."
"I know."
And Orella must heave a great sigh, knows no other way to expel her fury. It doesn't quite work. Hel, tugging on Kurva's reigns, does not look back at her, and Orella wonders if the girl thinks she needs privacy during these moments.
The chocobo, annoyed with the request to stop, warks several times, and Helisent tuts at it loudly. "Let me get something to eat," she grumbles. "We'll walk again in a moment, just let me open the damn saddlebag."
While they idle, Orella stares up at the towers, wondering just what to make of them. It has been such a long time since it was of any regard to her: it feels as though the emperor's watchtower has always been there, always watching, though she knows it is not so. She can remember a childhood in the Peaks where such a skyline did not threaten the land below.
"What was it?"
Helisent's voice, muffled around whatever she's pulled form the pack, pulls her from her reverie. Orella, startled, looks at her, and shakes her head when the farl is offered her. "Hm?"
"The towers. The mountain. What was it? Before, I mean?"
And the old knight finds she must wrack her brains for the old name. Before construction had begun, the Garleans had called it simply Mons Altum. Some of her brothers had called it the flat, once upon a time, for the land had been unremarkable except for the ascent, and the village at its peak.
Ingvald had called it home.
"I don't remember," she says. Somehow, it doesn't feel like her truth to give. "Beneath regard. A mountain. Nowhere I ever visited."
"Not even as a girl?" asks Hel, who latched onto every scant mention of Orella's wayward childhood with almost savage glee. Those memories are easier to give, though she is not used to talking about herself at length, and cuts her stories short more often than not.
"Not even as a girl, no," Orella says. The chocobo warks again, and they keep walking. "Though my village was only a week's travel, if you were so inclined. You'd have had to share a cart with stones bound for the capital, and bumpy rushes past the wildlife, though."
"Was?"
It takes Orella a moment to realise what she's asking about now. "Oh," she starts, and brushes her hair back. The day is hot and humid after the storm, and her brow is sticky. "Ala Mera. A small village, south of here. The rock is different there. Great red cliffsides, looked like burning in the sunset." She pauses, remembering. "It was destroyed by a landslide."
"Oh," Helisent says, clearly having expected more. Orella shrugs.
"Not everything is some great tale," she says. "Not even here. It was three years before Theodoric's reign bested him. I was honour guard already, by that point. Twenty and a summer, I think. I was granted leave to help with the relief, to help rebuild. I'd been living in the capital for years, already. Ala Mera wasn't my home any longer."
"Was it? Rebuilt?"
"Gods, no," Orella says, and actually laughs. "The entire cliffside fell away. Rock was softer than everywhere else. Not a good place to build a home, as it turns out. Weakened by rain, I heard. Most people got out. We were used to the earth shifting. We knew when it was bad. ... Stupid place for a village, really."
"Oh," Hel says again, but she sounds relieved, this time. Orella can't help but privately mourn the loss of the girl's heritage. Any Mhigan that knew the land would have known they'd have gotten out, or all perised. Adapt or die; the Ala Mhigan way. "Then your family...?"
"Moved to Ala Ghiri."
There's a silence. Helisent clearly wants her continue, and this time she will not oblige. The refusal hangs in the air between them, thick and cloying like the air itself. Orella wipes at her brow again and thinks of the Velodyna, several days travel behind them, of the Slow Wash, yet longer ahead. She desperately wants to bathe.
It stretches out and out and out until Helisent can do nothing but relent. She has much less practise than Orella at being obstinate. "I still think it's an eyesore," she grumbles, and tension Orella doesn't even know she had bleeds from her. So defensive, and over what? An honest question?
She ignores her charge in favour of her memories again, wondering if perhaps a visit to the old rocks is worth doing. Just to see. Maybe an offering-
"Do you miss it?" Helisent asks suddenly. "Your village."
And Orella cannot offer her an answer right away. She thinks about it deeply, takes a deep breath and lets it out through her nose.
"I don't know," she says after some time. "I barely remember it, truth be told."
But that's a lie. She remembers it like she remembers the weight of the griffin on her back, of mercy at her side. Like she remembers the touch of her father, warm on her shoulder, proud at her back. Like the taste of pride bubbling within her, how it flavoured her oaths in the solemnity of the Sali.
If Helisent sees through her, she keeps the knowledge to herself, and the rest of the way they walk in silence.
The campfire blazes happily through the night, cracklling as though chatting away with an old friend. On watch, Orella sits far enough away that it cannot spit embers at her; turned away from the flames on its other side is Helisent, slumbering peacfully, chocobo almost close enough to be touching.
"You aren't coming home, then."
Orella isn't startled. She thinks she's starting to understand.
"No."
She doesn't need to turn to know who stands behind her. It feels almost as though they're inseparable from her, in some way. She can feel the weight of their amour, the weight of their regrets. Heavy is the head that wears the helm.
"You could learn a thing or two there."
Orella snorts. It disturbs Hel, who murmurs in her sleep and rolls over to face the fire. Both wait for her to settle, breaths evening once more. "I don't think so."
"You could."
"Ghosts can't teach me shit," Orella says, quiet, sharp. She places her hand on the hilt of her blade now, for comfort as much as a warning. "I'm not walking so far just to look at rocks."
"They could," Ser protests. "You've much left to learn, Steelhand. And you're not learning by playing at being a mentor."
"Oh, bugger off," she grumbles. "What're you getting from this? She's an innocent. Leave off her, or I'll teach you a thing or three."
"And just what makes you think an innocent can help you?"
When Orella turns, she's alone but for the crackling of the campfire. And there is no one, she makes sure of it. The blade remains drawn, her hands sure around the hilt. Somewhere along the way, she got used to its weight, and now it feels a welcome extension of her own arm.
It does not matter now. She searches, pacing, looking, jumping at every tiny sound the night provides, no matter how innocuous. Ser does not exist here, except he does, he must, for-
Something about her manner rouses the bird. It lifts its head, warks sleepily at her, and waits for her to stop pacing before tucking its head underwing once more. She watches the movement, feels her heart racing, knows her breath comes hard.
What do you want, Steelhand?
She doesn't have an answer worth giving. She doesn't have anything worth giving except herself, and she cannot help but wonder just how much there is left to give.
They'll double back on the morrow. She'll insist. Back to the Reach. Back to Ingvald, back to safety, back, back.
The sun was barely starting to rise over the peaks, doing little to dispell the early morning fog that clung to the ground. Dawn probably had happened about an hour before, but the mountains had made it hard to tell, with the sun content to hide behind jagged stone.
A moment of silence was given at the old temple before two travelers, and the younger of the pair looked up in equal parts confusion and awe at the statue of a god she didn't pray to.
".... Are they all like that?" She asked quietly, once Orella had turned away from the statue. "The carvings, I mean. He looks so ... wild."
Orella has found she doesn't mind the questions. They're a welcome relief from silence and her own thoughts, too intrusive to quiet, and mentoring comes naturally to her. It always has done. Brash and impatient she might be at times, but not when the naivity is genuine. And Helisent has been a simple presence to get used to. An enjoyable one, even, who doesn't push too far, who knows when 'tis better to go to sleep than keep chattering. There are worse companions to be had.
She can't help but grin wryly as she turns to face Helisent again. "You sound as though you expect something different of Rhalgr. The father of storms was never meant to be calm."
Hel blinks at that, then chuckles softly. "Fair enough. It's just a bit hard to get over the 'Rhalgr is a god of destruction' philosophy that most other city states have..." She shrugs, and approaches the statue to stare up at it. "Most Ala Mhigans I know do pray to him..."
As they've traveled, it's gotten easier to tell Orella this and that about what Hel knows nothing about. She had been worried over her companion's reaction to her ignorance, but Orella seemed to take it all in stride. It was ... a welcoming change.
A deep breath then, and scouring her mind for the remnants of all she knows of Him. "They call Him the breaker of worlds, sister. There's a cavern, to the south and west of the river, called the Comet's Tail. People were talking about His descent to these lands by that selfsame comet even when I was a girl - and before then, too, I'd wager. These are harsh lands. Ala Mhigo's people needed a harsh god to command them, and so we grew up in His image - which the other city states consider barbaric. Gridania, especially," she says with a grimace. "Especially after the Autumn War." She hesitates, looking up at His likeness. "... It wasn't the Garleans who forbade us worship of Him, though."
At the word 'Comet', Hel flinches just slightly, but shakes it off. Now isn't the time to think of lost sisters. She turns her head up to the statue again, taking in the staff and the palmful of lightning. "... Wasn't it the ... the king?" she asks, unsure. "Ma said something about Nophica being worshipped, but I don't know if that's right."
Orella simply shakes her head and follows her gaze. "Nophica is the patron of Gridania, sister. It was the king, that much is true- but it was Nymeia. The Spinner," she adds, with a glance over her shoulder to make sure they're at a safe distance from the spiders. "The watcher of fate, and the master of Rhalgr. The old bastard decided one morning - real fucking early in the morning," she adds, with more than a small touch of bitterness, "That he was Her scion. Her descendant. In a single morn he undermined Gyr Abania's religion, the Fist, and the people. And he used that to crush the temples," she says, and sighs. "I... was not a part of that. A moon before my induction, give or take. And my prayers had to change, just like everyone else's."
The old king sounded like a prick, Hel thought. "Who gives anyone the right to tell others what to worship?" She growls, her voice low and annoyed. "Even the Garleans do it, but they outlaw it entirely..." She shakes her head, and instead thinks on Orella's words about the king declaring himself Nymeia's decendant. "Was it just a whim? I heard him be referred to as a 'mad king' before..."
She hopes she's not dreging up bad memories for her companion.
"Who knows," Orella says, shrugging. Helisent's mood doesn't change the past. "None of us were privy to his thoughts. I don't know if he thought it was true, or if it was a calculated move. ... Could have been either, for a lot of things," she says, thoughtful. "After the Fist was crushed, he forbade entrance to the temples under pain of death. This is the first time I've been so close since... ever," she realises, and she even sounds surprised. "Do you want to go in?"
"Are we allowed to--" She cuts off, flushing. "Right, he's not around anymore, nevermind the Garleans aren't around. I'd love to, actually. I may pray to Oschon, but I'm still interested..."
A quick spin on her heel, an a gust of wind forms under Hel's feet, carrying her up the stairs -- some fifteen yalms -- in one smooth motion.
The gust of wind takes Orella off-balance and she staggers, not expecting that. "... Well, shit," she mutters to herself, and starts the climb up the stairs - slowly, so as not to aggravate her knees. "... I don't know what kind of things might live in the temple, so be on your guard," she says as she rejoins Helisent, craning her neck up to get another look at Rhalgr's likeness. "Stay behind me."
Hel nods at that, the winds beneath her feet depositing her easily. She follows Orella closely, and stares as they head inside.
Orella Steelhand can't help but let a little shiver run up her spine as she crosses the threshold.
"It's ... like a tomb..."
Orella swallows. It does feel discomfiting. "... Right," she agrees, and keeps on.
As the light gets dimmer, the air feels evermore oppressive - only hints of the outside world glimmer through as thin pillars of light. It's majestic, almost, but strange, as though it belongs in a different world entirely, and Orella's heart is hammering within her breast. She can't make out much more than long-since extinguised sconces and a winding path, and - movement. She waits for it to creep closer, muscles tense in a way she's not had to be for a while, and then relaxes when she realises what it is.
"A bhoot," she murmurs softly to Hel. "A... spectre, of sorts. Probably one of the old monks."
Hel stares at the ghost, the shimmering of the aether in the air not unknown to her. She's encountered ghosts and voidsent before, especially with Gridania's affinity for the beasts. She watches it float by, and sighs. "If I was a better Hearer, I might be able to send them on, but..." She grimaces.
At that, Orella simply shrugs, and knows it seems a callous movement. "It's been well over twenty years. If it hasn't let go of its grudges, there's nothing short of a blade that'll free it." She shrugs again. "Maybe."
Hel snorts softly in wry amusement. "Yeah.... I know that all too well. Do you want to leave it, or do you want to take care of it?"
Orella knows old Abanian temples. There'll be another chamber where the true prayers would have been held, where - this she knows instinctively - more ghosts will roam, trapped here decades after their slaughter. And still, she itches to know.
"Wait," she says, and draws her blade, although as she approaches, the ghost is content to ignore her. She holds the greatsword at the ready, muscles tense, and the bhoot simply drifts by, pausing only to turn its lifeless eyes upon her, and then turns its back. That, more than anything else, is enough to persuade Orella that it poses no threat, despite the old stories, and she beckons Helisent down the stairs, to follow close as they enter the cloister proper.
All that remains is His presence, His stony eyes looking down on them as they approach. In the shadows, the ghosts watch , and their weapons, and a couple even drift closer, but at their reverence, they hang back. Orella wonders if this is how the temple has been since its fall, with its monks still holding vigil, gatekeepers of the believers and invaders both.
Hel can't help but shiver slightly at the ghosts wandering around, but they've done no harm, and she's not a 'real' conjurer anyways. Even still, she sticks a bit closer to Orella, just in case. "This place is gorgeous...." She murmurs, taking in the intracate stone work and the carvings of Rhalgr. "It's a far cry from all the greenery from where I grew up."
Orella has no response to that; nothing but a lump that sticks in her throat and a burning in her eyes. She turns as though surveying the chamber and takes the moment to wipe at her eyes. The solid gaze of Rhalgr has not left her since she stepped forward, and He knows all. He knows her, and so do His ghosts. She's never been a fervent believer, but this place has put a weight on her shoulders that - coupled with the knowledge of the past - can't be shaken off as lip service. "'M gonna," she says, but it comes out a hoarse whisper, and she shakes her head. "Give me a moment."
She feels the bhoots' attentions focus on her as she moves, keeps her footsteps light, careful, sure. These are not the footsteps of a Kingsguard; they are the steps of a daughter coming home to her Father, and though she doesn't remember the words - and fuck the Garleans for taking them from her; Nymeia she could forgive but not them - she still knows He will hear her words.
(I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.)
Hel watches carefully, wishing she could somehow help the woman who brought her here. She barely knows anything about Orella, but it still tugs at her heartstrings all the same, to watch someone come home to a faith and a god that they hadn't seen or felt at home with for years. She doesn't feel Ala Mhigan, watching this, watching Orella give prayer to a god that Hel never knew. She doesn't feel like she has any place here, save as an outsider witnessing something private. But even still, she can't look away.
She looks up at Rhalgr, feeling something in His gaze, and she offers up a small apology to Him, before bowing her head in prayer to Oschon. (Let her find her way back home, please,) she prays to the god of Wanderers. (She's been lost for too long.)
Orella rises when the weight becomes too much to bear, and finds - thankfully - the lump in her throat has fled, replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion she knows all too well. She schools her face into something bland, uninterested, and turns her back on Him. "I'm done here," she says simply. "Unless you had other questions, I'd prefer to leave."
Hel meets Orella's gaze, and she can feel the hurt behind it. She shakes her head to Orella's question, but leaps forward -- the winds catching her and making her float forward, right to her companion. With nary a warning, she hugs Orella tight, around the shoulders and one hand in her hair.
"Thank you," she murmurs into the quietness of the temple. "I'm sorry I keep bringing things up, but -- you're so brave, you know? I can't imagine what you've been through, but you're still here. It has to count for something."
The sudden movement startles Orella, and she tenses involuntarily, a reaction she doesn't think she'll ever be free of - but the magic doesn't disturb the ghosts, and Helisent is only offering her consolation. Not so churlish to push it away, Orella simply lets the embrace happen around her, staring at the brickwork while Hel speaks softly. /It's just brick/, she tells herself. /And these are just ghosts./
"Let's just go," she says, disengaging herself gently but firmly. She's able to meet Hel's eye, at least. "I'll feel better in the open again." She doesn't wait for a response, simply starts walking, knowing the bhoots will let them through, knowing Hel will follow.
And Hel does, quietly, with one last glance at the statue, and she offers up a small prayer of thanks to the Ala Mhigan god.
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Magdalena Schiller-Saether. PEPPARKAKSHUS. Recuperado de https://magdalenaschillersaether.com/Cinnamon-houses
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La La Land - Damien Chazelle, 2016.
Brave - Brenda Chapman, Mark Andrews, 2012.
Maleficent - Robert Stromberg, 2014.
The Secret Garden - Agnieszka Holland, 1993.
The Garden of Words - Makoto Shinkai, 2013.
Snow White and the Huntsman - Rupert Sanders, 2012.
The Jungle Book - Jon Favreau, 2016.
El entorno se desarrolla en un bosque mágico o con elementos fantasiosos como pequeñas partículas de luz, con árboles frondosos y colores saturados que comuniquen la dicha y libertad que la protagonista presenta al principio. Más adelante, el background se transforma en escenografía hecha con props que imita al bosque que se tiene en un principio (como escenario teatral) en el cual los colores pierden saturación y todo se convierte más plano dando a entender la rigidez en la que se encuentra la protagonista al ser controlada.
Practica 05 - Referencias Ambientes y Escenarios - Sketches
Los elementos que más me interesan en las referencias tomadas son el uso de las tonalidades neón y la arquitectura de grandes ciudades y pequeños lugares escondidos, como los lagos que salen en algunas referencias.
Para estos bocetos, tome varios encuadres de las fotografías y los adapte a la ciudad que tengo en mente para el proyecto.
