Anything but the wings
Closed Starter: @wrestmeridian Location: Near Kyngeshed
Destarin can be a dangerous place to live in, especially for those who don't possess a natural affinity for fighting, weaponry or magics. It takes a particular kind of person or creature to traverse the winding streets without fear. That particular kind of person would need an attentive eye perhaps, or an intimate knowledge of the residents, and the cultures, they would know the unspoken rules of survival.
Even with her golden brown wings which afforded Kalliste defence against most magics and weaponry, Kalliste knew to be careful. She was never seen out after dark, and even during the day she walked through the streets with her wings wrapped about her like an undulating set of armour shields. That is to say, Kalliste knew her vulnerabilities, and she compensated for them, perhaps a little strictly. But Kalliste is not without her flaws, and even the most safety conscious of Harpies could fly up into the rafters of an old decaying temple in the middle of a town like Destarin to explore, sit down for a breather and awake four hours later cloaked in the night's dark cloak.
It was cold when the Harpy opened her eyes and released her wings from the cocoon they had formed around her sleeping body. She sat up immediately, pushing away from the stone cold wall she had rested against, and at once saw how dark it was. Half of the wall of the temple had been torn down at some point during it's long history, and buildings had shot up around it, crowding it. The noise from outside of the temple was significant. It was clearly late enough for the Kyngeshed doors to be slammed open every minute or so, by patrons coming and going, hollering and singing, fighting and embracing.
The sound of life should have been reassuring, given the hair raising stillness of the temple remains, but the sounds of the streets hustle and bustle darkened Kalliste's heart with fear. She had never been caught out so late. She had never been out so late, so far from the room she rented, so far from the few friends she had made since moving to town.
It was as if the thudding of the Harpy's heart were as loud to the rest of the world as it sounded to Kalliste, because she heard a rough chortle. Kalliste flinched, looking about her, rising from the marble bench she was seated on. She was not alone.
Without a whole roof to provide shelter, moonlight should have lit up the room, but there were clouds in the sky that night, cloaking the moonlight. Instead, Kalliste relied upon her average eyesight and the flickering candle lights from neighbouring homes, and the Kyngeshed open windows.
A coarse whistle from the intruder sent Kalliste flying from the room. Panic surged through her, clouding her common sense, as her feet hit the stone, marble floors. Laughter followed her now, several voices whistling and cat calling, enjoying the sight of a frightened winged creature. When a hand reached out to grasp at Kalliste, claws tearing out feathers, Kalliste released a raw shriek of terror, surprisingly loud for the softly spoken harpy.
Somehow, Kalliste managed to avoid further grasping hands, and she escaped down a flight of steps, tumbling when she failed to spot a missing step in the darkness. Bruises would show within minutes, and Kalliste could taste blood in her mouth from where she had bit her lip upon landing. She was no runner, no athlete of any nature, and the intruders seemed to sense this. They gave her time to fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, and cheered her on as she dragged herself towards the exit.
"Help" Kalliste pleaded softly to no one as she clambered up, a boot missing, her hair dishevelled, her eyes shining with tears, and her cheek bruised and swelling. Pitiful, pathetic, Kalliste lifted her round eyes and stumbled forwards, headed for the exit, Kygeshed entrance doors in sight. Sharp white teeth ground together in determination, Kalliste's unsteady feet stamped desperately. She was so close to the streets, to potential freedom or aid, but her hopes were not realised. When she saw a looming figure or what looked like a familiar face through her teary eyes, Kalliste called out again in a hoarse whisper "Help-" before a large net was thrown over her face and she was dragged abruptly backwards.
It had not yet occurred to Kalliste to use her wings, to swat her attackers away. This was her first time in a life and death situation, and if she was lucky she would punish herself deeply for her delayed responses, her failure to utilise what the Gods had blessed her with. But Kalliste did not think she was going to be lucky. It is hard to feel lucky when a group of hooded figures are forcing you to the floor, wrapping a harsh, untreated, hemp rope net around her. With each twist and turn Kalliste gave attempting to fight the restraints, the rope cut deeper into her sensitive skin.
It wasn't the net however that brought a final silent shriek from Kalliste's lips though. Instead, it was the shining, silver sheers being passed between the assailants. Horror choked Kalliste who fell silent, freezing beneath her binds.
There was a point in Wrest's inevitable cycle where his prodigious and prolific hyper-focus became unbearable. One minute, he was locked-in, productive and high-functioning, and the next: everything was totally amplified, sharp, oppressively present. Lights were not just too bright, they were blinding. Singular sounds morphed together into some mutant, stentorian wave crashing against his own thoughts & rendering them unintelligible. Once he passed into that realm of sensory overload, the world was simply too much. More than that, his reactions to the stimulation were often unreasonable. Conflagrant temper, hostile words, even grand delusions usually followed.
Having a logician's mind, he had experienced this cycle enough times to know when it was coming. Charted it like the heavens. Like a self-perpetuating flame or a phoenix, he would spark from ash, burn brighter than the sun — even go as far to almost touch it — before combusting and drizzling into a pile of ash once more. Unfortunately, understanding the way his mind worked was but a battle in the lifelong war Wrest knew he'd never win. It was poetic, really, that his personal nature so poetically reflected that of the rift in his sternum. He was always so deadly close to eclipsing himself in one way or another. A cure for both of these problems was underway but yet undiscovered.
The lesser one, that of his moods, was currently managed by ingesting a delicate balance of stimulants and depressants — whiskey, for one, was a great place to start. It took the sharp edges of reality away and blurred unforgiving lines, but it wasn't always enough to bring him down from precarious heights. In those cases, he took a dose of Mother's Milk — a viscous, pearlescent liquid he'd perfected after years of trial and error with the help of herbalists and alchemists alike. It was not to be used lightly and had dangerous consequences like addiction and dangerously low blood pressure. To answer the latter, Wrest had created a delicate citrine powder he called Vitriol. When Mother's Milk wreaked its havoc, one sniff of powder kept his heart-rate from plummeting to the bottom of a cold & deadly river. Both were kept in vials — one around his neck, the other in his breast pocket.
Tonight, he'd begun his "controlled" descent from spiraling heights with whiskey at the Kyngeshed. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to acquiesce his restless spirit, and Wrest soon found himself instigating an argument with a cocksure mercenary about whether or not free will was a thing. Even though the sorcerer's delivery was belligerent, his argument was well-formed, sound, worthy of good debate. But the mercenary's form of rebuttal was a white-knuckled fist. The back-and-forth that followed resulted in a broken bar stool and a firm one week ban for both rowdy perpetrators.
Wrest left the tavern with a nebulous bruise blooming on his jaw but a crooked smile on his face. It was just what he needed to calm his mind's whirring even if it meant drinking in rougher joints the rest of the week. A quick sniff of Vitriol enhanced the feeling of elation & boundlessness expanding in his chest.
He'd just thrown his head back to marvel at the cloud-rippled night sky when he heard it — a familiar voice and a soft yet ragged plea of "help!" quickly snuffed by the sounds of a scuffle. Bodies conquering in the dark. Spinning on his heel, he peered into the black dimensions of the old temple. Adrenaline swept over him in the form of a cold sweat. When the shadows didn't grant him any answers, he stepped forward — one tentative step, two, then three. The shriek that came next jolted him into action and he rushed the wall of darkness and found himself in the belly of the crumbling ruin.
Pathetic shafts of moonlight were all he had to follow, but that was enough to reveal the truth of the situation when he finally stumbled upon it. There were three figures clad in black-dyed leathers, their faces concealed by hoods and bandannas, eyes shining with a foul meanness Wrest had seen too many times before. There was a soullessness there, confirmed by the feathered form crumpled and whimpering in a hempen net between them. A quick second glance and he was sure it was Kalliste — the revelation was enough to cause his breath the catch, his fists to wrench at his sides.
❝ What the bloody fuck do you think you're doing? ❞ he shouted, his veins now rushing with a certain fearless substance. One of the three darted into the shadows toward him, slamming him back against a pillar. All the air was knocked from his lungs, and he let out a breathless croak as their heads banged together. Wrest felt a strange numbness from the impact then the warm trickle of blood from his nostril. Suddenly, the sorcerer was laughing and strange, dark flame had begun to ripple from his skin. It was enough to spook the assailant into backing away a few paces with a quiet ❝ what the fuck? ❞
Wrest took the opening with a grin. Arm extended, palm up, he commanded the forces of gravity to let loose of the man, lifting him ten then twenty feet off the ground. Holding him in place for a moment, he leveled his eyes on his next target. A smaller, sniveling looking weasel who looked ready to bolt as soon as he had his chance.
❝ Going somewhere? ❞ Wrest asked, his voice calm and level as if he were simply brewing tea. Meanwhile, his eyes gleamed like a star-filled aurora, his skin lapping with shadows. Then a snort of laughter. ❝ Not that he'd be of much use, but you should take your idiot friend with you. ❞ The man held aloft let out a cry of pain as Wrest closed his fist — it was as if the forces that he used to lift the man were now bearing down on him from all sides. With a swipe of his arm, the man flew in the same direction, crashing down and pummeling the other to the ground.
❝ You son of a bitch! ❞ The third man accused, drawing a dagger from his cloak that flashed hungrily in the dark. Smartly, Wrest thought, the fiend pointed that dagger at Kalliste instead of charging at the sorcerer attacking his lackeys. ❝ Oh, so you're the smart one, ❞ Wrest declared, humor dancing in his eyes. Though he appeared unfazed, he was scanning desperately for solutions. If he opened a portal up beneath the man, there was too much of a chance he'd send Kalliste down it with him; she was too close. Even telekinesis was a risk. Groans sounded as the other two began to untangle themselves and attempt to stand.
Wrest took another few steps closer, seeming to meander. As if he enjoyed the challenge of solving the problem, but really, it was to buy time. ❝ It's the wings you're after, isn't it? Don't get me wrong — you've got a good eye. They'd be worth a pretty penny on any black market, but I'm not sure you've calculated the risk. Take her, and you'll open up a whole world of trouble for yourself. I mean, her father? He's a God. ❞
❝ Tricky, tricky, tricky. ❞
His eyes dropped to Kalliste for a brief moment, attempting to assess her state — hoping she was unharmed. His fingers tingled as he began to work up the energy to stop time. All he needed was thirty seconds to grab her and flee but ..in his current state, altering time could get messy. Really fucking messy.












