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| Burgundy Sands; [P] Taiaka | |
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| Topic Started: Wed Sep 1, 2010 6:35 pm (89 Views) | |
| Rosaline | Wed Sep 1, 2010 6:35 pm Post #1 |
 
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A responding topic to: Stampede The aged scent of soot and tobacco from the evening’s campfire still lingered in Rosaline’s nose as she stirred from her fitful slumber. Her waking breath, laden by the illness that rocked her frail frame, suddenly threw her forward in fitful coughs that rattled her bones. She pressed a raw cloth against her parched lips as her chest heaved, each cough straining her stomach, chest, and back. She felt like an animal had been trapped inside of her and it was now ripping its fleshy prison apart. Her ears began to ring in a monotone drone and she found herself gasping for precious air as the fit took its toll. But soon even her coughing had been exhausted and she guzzled the dusty desert air to quench the burning of her lungs. Her eyes, red and covered in a flaky glaze, slipped open to see speckles of blood spattered across the bundle of fabric in her hands. She felt a wave of sad realization wash over her as she tucked the evidence beneath the stuffed linen padding of the bed and tried to forget. Rosaline became fixated on the stale layer of sweat that had formed a film across the back of her neck and shoulders. She pulled her hair away from her back and felt the long, brown strands peel away from her sticky skin. A wandering hand found the crudely carved wooden stick that would be impaled in her hair to keep it from straying back down. Her skin now freed from its only drapery, Rosaline ran the bottom hem of her fraying, green dress across her chest and back. The dress’ fading color, its vibrancy tormented by hard travel and the unforgiving sun, was briefly revitalized by the dew before it was stolen away by the dry air. Briefly contented, Rosaline laid back and looked around the small tent; her dress was bundled at her side like a sleeping lover, doing nothing to preserve her modesty. The morning sun had not yet climbed from behind the horizon but the sky brightened in preparation. Scattered holes worn into the meager tent after years of travel let in the first rays of light and Rosaline watched them dance across the opposite wall. The morning light had also brought with it new clarity, and Rosaline looked over the bizarre symbols that were painted in all corners. Some were so densely packed that she could not discern where one symbol ended and the next began, but one set of large, swooping strokes stood uncontested on the opposite side of the entrance flap. The deep burgundy inking was faded by time but remained prominent; the large circular swirls were still distinct against the plain backdrop. Protection, she had been told its meaning when she was first brought to the tent. Rosaline wondered what protection the symbols offered. They had done nothing to protect her from the dangers that followed her. She glanced down at her exposed body and she noted how pale she had become since she began her journey. Even the small hairs on her arms had become almost translucent, a stark contrast to the leathered skin of the gypsies that hosted her. A sharp pang of embarrassment took hold of her as she ran a finger across a solitary spot of sunlight that rested on her hip and suddenly felt the urge to hide from the world. Her body protested as she found her way out of the bed; her joints ached and a sour iron taste grew in the back of her throat. Her breath felt hot as she steadied herself. As the dress fell over her head and down to her ankles she heard the scream. The camp grew chaotic as she heard mixed shouts of the gypsies among hectic footsteps and an otherworldly noise in the distance. She swore she felt the ground drum in protest in beat with the growing racket that had sent terror through the camp. Rosaline’s blood pumped hot with adrenaline and her throat clenched, sending her to her knee in another raging fit. She took in hard, loud gasps as if she were drowning while she tried to keep herself upright. Even as the sound grew louder and the mysterious horror outside of her tent fell upon the camp she found herself entirely consumed by her own demon. She clutched her neck with one hand, finding the pressure the only way to keep her breathing steady. Her other quaking hand snatched at the raw cloth that she had tucked away and feverously began to tie it around her throat and face, trying to chase the heat and sudden fever away by wicking away the dripping sweat that had covered her body once again. She meagerly limped to the tent flap and fought to part the canvas so she could see out into the world beyond. Strange, terrifying horses of dark complexion and matted manes tore through the camp in a blind stampede. Rosaline felt like she could not believe her eyes as the sheer number of strange creatures became blinding. She felt detached from the creatures; they felt unfamiliar to her, almost as though they were somehow unnatural. Through the blur of hooves and muscular bodies she saw a body. The loosely woven and stained fabric was unmistakable of a gypsy, but she could not see his face. His body had fallen into the still cool desert sand, but he seemed to clutch at his chest even in death. Rosaline nearly toppled as a horse almost collided with her tent. She leaned on the flap for support and nearly tore down the entire structure. As she moved her feet back beneath her she looked up to see a new detail. A strange man, somehow as frightening as the horses that continued to push past without fatigue, stood alone. The too-familiar glint of metal caught her attention just as she saw an arrow lodge itself in his gut. The dark-skinned man fell and so too did the terrible whinnying of the horses as they ran off into the distance. Rosaline stumbled forward as her knee buckled and she found herself in the open. She looked away from the dark skinned man and found the comforting sight of Emile, the kind-hearted man that had found her unconscious in the unforgiving sands. Beside him was Eva, and Rosaline was glad to see that she and the baby appeared safe. Emile’s expression was pained and solemn as she looked at Rosaline before turning away from the camp with his wife. Curiosity tickled the back of her mind and Rosaline turned back to the horrific sights she had just witnessed. She slowly moved to the fallen gypsy, red blood marring the sand next to his body. She bit her lip and gasped lightly as she saw his face. It was Yurin; she had spoken with him for several hours the night before about the vastness of the world. She closed her eyes in sadness, knowing that he would now be unable to explore it for himself. His hands covered a single wound in his chest, one large enough to let his spirit slip away. Rosaline ignored the two other gypsies that she now saw collapsed upon the sand. Their silent protest to the injustice of the world was enough to tell Rosaline of their fate. She instead moved toward the dark-skinned stranger. The decorations across his body reminded her of her tent, and she knew none of the strange markings would offer him any protection either. The dagger, blood across its blade and dripped onto the man’s hand, took all questions from her mind. The single arrow sticking out of his stomach was a source of pride for Rosaline. She let her lips peel back into a sick grin as she drew pleasure from the retribution that Emile had inflicted on this man. Her anger now fueling her, she took a sure step toward the fallen foe. She hesitated as she watched the dagger again, a memory startling her, but she continued until she was opposite the weapon on the other side of the stranger’s body. She pulled down the cloth that covered her mouth with one hand and looked at him for a brief moment before spitting at his face. |
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1:19 AM Feb 10
