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trans_92009-07-04 03:29 am
worm-dancer.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92009-07-04 03:29 am
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What do you hate? [Locked to Ghanima Atreides]
A Crysknife, of course. Sheeana hadn't batted an eyebrow at the beautifully inlaid blade that had awaited her in the possessions chamber. Intricate spiral inlays and some of the last remaining pieces of hagal quartz glimmered in the hilt. She remembered yanking the tooth from the big one she'd called in her eleventh year. She'd used Ixian power grips, and those sycophantic Rakian priests had fallen all over each other to call in the most expensive smith they could afford and had it set thus.
Then there was the Van Gogh. She'd spent so many hours staring at it for inspiration, feeling it draw out that wild thing within her, the thing the Sisterhood feared and yet needed most. Order bled away at the end of the cottages and things became smudged and vibrant. It resonated somewhere inside her.
Her own artwork, the sculpture she called The Void was nowhere to be found. Oh well.
That had been on the bonelike shelves within the dim claustrophobia of the possessions room. The room seemed as if it were designed specifically to provoke awkward encounters, unwanted contact as people shuffled past each other in the narrow spaces to retrieve the things precious to them.
Sheeana had simply waited until everyone else had taken their things.
The next chamber was even narrower, straight and down two paths. It was like a locker room in any other educational facility, like the one at Chapterhouse where the acolytes had enacted their youthful parodies of sisterhood politics and made fun of the old proctor-teachers (what they thought was) away from supervising eyes and ears.
Doors like the shells of great beetles occupied most of the space. It was uncomfortably humid, but she found her beetle-door anyway, touched her palm where it was indicated. The beetle-door swung open with a hiss.
Inside she found only a single black container, granular textured, shaped like an egg and made of the same stuff. She pulled it out, finding it very heavy even for her trained musculature, and set it on the bony bench. She sniffed experimentally at it...Again no poisons, but it carried the cinnamony smell of Spice~.
Inside something kicked, and the egg bobbed side to side...
(The man was awakened inside a dark chamber. His feet were numb but he could just barely feel sand underneath them. The temperature was so mild as to be completely unnoticeable. A total absence of light. And of clothing. Everything was dull, numb, hazy. He felt insubstantial, like a wind trapped in a jar, a potentiality, a tendency imprisoned within a psuedo-body...
His mouth was dry and raspy. He felt as if he'd slept for millenia...He could recall no names, not even his own. Only phrases (Did I say this?).
...My skin is not my own.
...a lesson their bones will remember...
...safe path leads ever downward to stag...
...I have achieved Siona...
Each time he would venture to the edge of his chamber, he would feel his feet touch water (just as mild as the temperature, only distinguishable by the change in texture and that..).the pain shot up bare shins.)
Sheeana froze. She knew that motion, that sound. "It'sss you!" She hissed, angry, triumphant, terrified in the same breath.
Then there was the Van Gogh. She'd spent so many hours staring at it for inspiration, feeling it draw out that wild thing within her, the thing the Sisterhood feared and yet needed most. Order bled away at the end of the cottages and things became smudged and vibrant. It resonated somewhere inside her.
Her own artwork, the sculpture she called The Void was nowhere to be found. Oh well.
That had been on the bonelike shelves within the dim claustrophobia of the possessions room. The room seemed as if it were designed specifically to provoke awkward encounters, unwanted contact as people shuffled past each other in the narrow spaces to retrieve the things precious to them.
Sheeana had simply waited until everyone else had taken their things.
The next chamber was even narrower, straight and down two paths. It was like a locker room in any other educational facility, like the one at Chapterhouse where the acolytes had enacted their youthful parodies of sisterhood politics and made fun of the old proctor-teachers (what they thought was) away from supervising eyes and ears.
Doors like the shells of great beetles occupied most of the space. It was uncomfortably humid, but she found her beetle-door anyway, touched her palm where it was indicated. The beetle-door swung open with a hiss.
Inside she found only a single black container, granular textured, shaped like an egg and made of the same stuff. She pulled it out, finding it very heavy even for her trained musculature, and set it on the bony bench. She sniffed experimentally at it...Again no poisons, but it carried the cinnamony smell of Spice~.
Inside something kicked, and the egg bobbed side to side...
(The man was awakened inside a dark chamber. His feet were numb but he could just barely feel sand underneath them. The temperature was so mild as to be completely unnoticeable. A total absence of light. And of clothing. Everything was dull, numb, hazy. He felt insubstantial, like a wind trapped in a jar, a potentiality, a tendency imprisoned within a psuedo-body...
His mouth was dry and raspy. He felt as if he'd slept for millenia...He could recall no names, not even his own. Only phrases (Did I say this?).
...My skin is not my own.
...a lesson their bones will remember...
...safe path leads ever downward to stag...
...I have achieved Siona...
Each time he would venture to the edge of his chamber, he would feel his feet touch water (just as mild as the temperature, only distinguishable by the change in texture and that..).the pain shot up bare shins.)
Sheeana froze. She knew that motion, that sound. "It'sss you!" She hissed, angry, triumphant, terrified in the same breath.
no subject
Sheeana inhaled deeply, clearing herself of her internal emotional debris. "Your brother...ate my village."
no subject
"Your words ring truth," she finally spoke, her voice soft, yet at the same time firm. "You claim my brother became a product of a sandworm. If that is so, how can you remain angry at him? Surely his basic instincts would have slowly become that of a worm as well."