Audience With Njorlifar (4/30)

[22:29:30]
The academy is silent again. Its halls no longer filled with the chaotic bustling of students moving to and fro from classes, or the idle shouts of instructors shepherding eager learners to classes.

Or, as sometimes the case was, errant gun fire and screams. Good old fashioned Sarean learning at its finest.

With a nostalgic craning of her head, Dura enters the centermost court yard. Unadorned by a crown. She arrives just as she is.
(Dura Levante)
[22:39:04]
Gunshots and maimings, whilst not exactly on any of the course outlines, were a vital learning experience for any of the students -- especially the ones who had the audacity to exist in the presence of others who didn't like them, for no reason.

Still -- the idleness of the Academy made it a perfect roosting grounds for a Dragon, after all, Nera held its own Spirit, and the Academy served as an excellent series of fortifications.

Despite the fact it was, ostensibly, a school.

"Child of Man."


Words ring out in the empty courtyard, as now waking Dragon raises himself up, staring down the Nephilim. Said Nephilim, of course, gains herself a squint and a pointed stare.

"...'tis bold for one of your kind to venture upon these grounds, alone. Is this another attempt upon my life, in which I have to smite more Rhystians unto the dirt?"


Eyes squint further, as Njorlifar cranes his head forward.

"...hm. You are a different Nephilim. I see. What is it you seek, accursed one?"


Body language is hard to discern, especially of another species, but the words ring with enough ichor to let Dura know that she isn't exactly smiled upon for being here. Even if its, by law, her land and island -- the writings of Man do not oft apply to demi-gods.
(Njorlifar)
[22:48:15]
The Dragon is still here, roosting in the hallowed halls of learning. Dura approaches - eyes forward, shoulders straight, hands visible. She holds no weapon, and the shield fragment she carries with her from the accursed Gaol lies resting on her back.

Of course, she is always armed, but she isn't approaching with any obvious intent to harm. Even with the lukewarm reception and the narrowed, reptilian gaze.

"'Bold' is one of the nicer things I've been called," she comments idly.

"But no. I don't treat with the other Nephilim. I'm not here to kill or harm you. Not that I think I could." Dura might be driven, she might be ambitious. Foolish? Maybe, as mortals can be, but she is not that brand of foolish.

Of course the writings of men weren't highly regarded by Dragons. They were barely regarded by other men. Fetters that, as time wears on, she grows increasingly aware of the frailty of.

"I heard you were here, Njorlifar. I won't talk in circles, for both our sakes.

I seek to prove myself worth a Blessing and- " And far more importantly. She pauses before re-squaring her shoulders, gesturing to the horns atop her head.

"And and end to this Curse."
(Dura Levante)
[22:53:57] Dura Levante has picked up 1 Wood into their inventory.
[23:04:33] Chat command attempt: /who
[23:05:20]
Claws tap against the loose cobble of the pathway, each sharpened to an absolute point, each measuring beyond the size of the Nephilim. The assessment that Dura gave was more or less correct, she couldn't.

...but why try?

"Ah."


Wings spread outwards, stretching to their absolute seams -- though not intentional, the very air grows heavy with static, ready to burst forward in an electrical discharge.

"I see."


Words are mulled over, and the Dragon lets out a low yawn, bringing a claw up to scratch at his chin.

"Why should I care?"


Teeth are picked through, blasted with a powerful wall of wind -- they don't make toothpicks, or brushes in the size of 'Draconic', so other methods have to be resorted to, of course.

"There are many men and women who would seek mine Blessing. There are many, upon these leagues of Rhystians, who have done all they can for Rhyst, whose ancestors are not amongst the disgraced peoples."


Njorlifar snorts, letting out a powerful exhale -- almost enough to kick someone off their feet. Almost.

"There are many who champion the cause of Rhyst every day they wake, who ask not for recognition, only for more good to do. Thy crown is not present, and yet it weighs upon you, regardless. A servant of Nevanerro's machinations, in title and duty -- alongside form. You wear the garb of Man, and yet this is nothing in the face of opposition."


"...for you do not stand here as your own, but rather, a representation of Nevanerro's Empire -- Isegrad. Your lands, a cold mockery of the Deserts that used to be Zahhak's domain. I struggle to see why mine efforts and powers aught to be used for one who openly waves the flag of the Betrayer."

(Njorlifar)
[23:29:09] Dura Levante says, "(sorry i had to step away a sec"
[23:31:28] Njorlifar says, "( you're fine "
[23:34:32]
Dura stands tall and watches him, knowing full well a single claw, a flap of wings, a bolt of lightning or a gout of wind. If the best wanted to harm her?

It was more than capable. That single snort is enough to make her stumble to catch her footing. Her expression, though still tight, begins to sober.

"I don't have this Curse because of my ancestors." She takes another step back forward to regain the footing she lost in the miniature gale.

"I'm not going to pawn that blame off on them. I have these because of something I did," Dura emphatically jabs a finger over her heart, against the cured magma hide of her armor.

"I was not there on the final push, but I was in the Goal on the first excursion." She shifts to lift and show the back of her hand where an old scarred mark still lies - as if the giant Dragon might see the comparatively small detail.

"And in His Game, I fell. Devoted to the cause, I did what I could to rise again...It was a price I wasn't aware of at the time. It was stupid. It was my mistake. No one else's." A point she drives home. The blame lies with no one else there.

"...I know there are many men and women like that." She starts to reach for the crown where it's hitched in a loop at her side on a strand of leather. Dura looks at her reflection in the sapphire, refracted, with a grimace. "I am blessed, more than I deserve, to share my life with one of them. But that's neither here nor there."

"I didn't come here to be a champion of the Empire and the cold wastes. Those lands aren't mine. My lands are Kal Azul, and my people are why I came here." She takes in a long breath, eyes closing. This has been a subject already of much pained rumination.

"...I have let this place, these people, put me in a cage. Even when they have betrayed me. My real people, whether they are the ones that I share my life with or the ones of my home. They deserve better.

I can't do that anymore." Her eyes open and she exhales.

"I want to break the things that have betrayed me and my people. I want Freedom. For me. For them. Every minute I keep this Curse and earnestly wear this Crown on behalf of Isegrad, I am betraying everything and everyone I hold dear."
(Dura Levante)
[00:17:55]
Wings fold back in, and the Dragon goes back to resting against the cold stones below -- explanations are given, right, wrong -- just, or not. Humanity simply does not apply one to one to a Dragon.

"Too afraid of Death, that you petitioned the aid of an Eidolon, not of this World. Of Rhyst. Honesty is a virtue -- but not one I will respect you more for."


Earnest words are boiled down to their utmost basics, any advanced meaning simply discarded. To act, out of fear of death was Human, more than not. To risk your life, for those who would never recognize you, and to damn yourself in the process -- most would think it noble, in a twisted sense.

"Should've died there. A handful did. Even a machine, crafted by Nevanerro, embraced its Humanity, its Nature and died for it, rather than returning unto its Maker."


An eye opens, to observe the Mark. It is one that the Dragon recognizes, of course, and the visage -- sans the Devil affair, is one the Dragon did recognize. Unable to attend the second bout in the Gaol or not, each and every single participant was recognized.

"Is the stolen breath that you yet wield, worth it? If you drew your terminal breath, upon that Gaol, would you not have been better for it? To knowingly live as a pawn -- and to continue to do so, is not only disgrace, but 'tis miserable. You dishonour not only yourself, but those who would call you kin, and those who yet tolerate your presence."


"Mine duty here, is not to help you. 'Tis not mine place to interfere in the works of Man, for mine parents did agree that Humanity had its own path, to blaze itself."


The Dragon raises his head up once more, staring down the Nephilim.

"If Humanity and Life still yet stirs in thy chest, then you will break free of your own Volition. The bindings and chains of Nevanerro, and Isegrad, are wrapped around your neck, but it is not an unseen figure, nor a looming presence that tugs it against thy neck. You, and you alone hold the chain, and the key, to yourself."


"Do not grovel, and curse upon yourself -- that you want to break free, and be rid of your Crown. Simply remove your own bindings, and be done with it. Onto matters of thy Curse, or, more accurately, upon matters of thy own doing --"


At some point, a...map made its way to Dura's hands? Hands are firmly grasped around it, despite never once issuing the order to do so.

"There are many a shrine upon Rhyst, places of Trials and Tribulations. To prove one's self worthy. Of Mother Wind and Water, of Father Earth and Fire. If thy truly wish to stand upon your own, then gather a loyal retinue. This map will guide you to lands abroad, to a Shrine of Fah'nadir first, then Melusine, and finally Zahhak."


He snorts, before elaborating on one forgotten name.

"The Devout of Paludrex, this Legion and His people -- I am not so ignorant to be unawares to the fact they hold some belief in you, as a Rhystian. Paludrex would do much the same, to see the good in Every Man and Woman -- as do his followers. 'Tis why mine judgement does not order thyself  upon a Shrine of His worship, for His answer is already known."


He rests his head once more, relaxing -- as best as he could -- against the cobbles.

"Prove your Humanity, and thy Worth. Break your own chains, that Crown upon which finds itself wrapped around thy neck. Prove thine worth upon the Shrines of Rhyst's Dragons, and show to thyself, and thy companions, your Humanity. Prove that the Humanity, that which rests within thine bosom, still yet exists, and return, with the effects of each and every Shrine."


An eye shuts, and he huffs.

"Thy end may be met upon this pilgrimage, and thy host you bring, may falter and fade from this Mortal Coil. If one wishes to be Free, then one must face down Destiny and Death alike, not with Fear, but with the Volition and Determination that all Humans hold within their Hearts. Even if Death is upon the line, for one's self, and for one's companions"


A pause.

"If thy own judgment deems this too heavy a price to pay, you may wallow in thy own filth, disgrace, and pity. Drown thyself in the sorrows thy have inflicted about thyself. Or, if the Spirit is willing, return renewed, and a new Woman."


"Or do not return, at all."

(Njorlifar)
[00:18:06] Njorlifar says, "( damn "
[00:18:10] Njorlifar says, "( that was a bit longer than i thought"
[00:22:14] the war says, "( enjoy your paper"
[00:22:53] Dura Levante has picked up 1 Evershifting Map into their inventory.
[00:29:14] Dura Levante says, "(glorious...."
[00:41:17]
And she had thought the same once. Better to have died on that moon a miserable death among the crystalline walls of the Gaol. Yet...

"I could have. If I had, the Undead might've gained more purchase over Sarea. The resources of Providence could've fallen into worse hands.

Regardless. I can't undo what's already been done."

"It is worth it. I am going to make it more worth it. Every breath I take to defy His will is worth it." She might have had the horns, but her heart and her will were still her own. The concern did still lurk - it fretted over a day where that might not be the case any longer.

She looks down at the circlet again. Not at the Sapphire, but at the thing as a whole. What is a chain can still yet be a tool to be expended. And yet that's not the matter at heart here. Her power lies in the breaking of that and in a certain retribution.

Dura meets the reptilian eyes, then feels an unfamiliar parchment in her other hand. How? Who's to say.

There is a condensed and atmospheric weight to the words that she absorbs. Their gravity is not lost on her. Her hand tightens around the map and wrinkles the parchment. Somewhere, faintly, she feels the echoes of a long forgotten Paludrexian prayer on the eve of a terrible war.

"...I've had my time to wallow. Too long of it. You will see me again."


Maybe as a new woman. Maybe as a ghost. But either way, she'd be Free.

"Rest easy for my return, Njorlifar."

And unless the great beast had anything further, she dips her head into as close a bow as she will allow to start south and out of the courtyard where he has chosen to roost.
(Dura Levante)
[00:54:23]
"Very well."


The woman is observed for a while longer. The air loses the weight it once had, and the Dragon lets out a long sigh. Speaking as tradition dictated was never easy -- especially for a notably young Dragon.

Relatively.

"A single year. 'Tis all the time that will be allocated. Discounting travel, this leaves little under half a year to perform the duties given."


A few taps --

"In a year's time, the expectation is set. The death which you cheated, will swing back around, or mine eyes will set upon a Nephilim who has gathered the fruits of their Trials, and has broken the Earthly Chains of Nevanerro. Of His Empire."


"Until then, there is naught for me to do, but wait."


With paper in hand -- the Nephilim was free to go. It's a minute gesture, by as she turns to leave, the wind is at her back. Fleeting, but so is everything related to the Wind.

Goals are set -- results are expected, but the methods to achieve them are for the Nephilim to figure out. To break free of the Duchy, to give it up, or find another solution. To gain the favour of three Shrines.

It wasn't a simple task. But it never was going to be.
(Njorlifar)