Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[Repentence Tyrathlion]

There is a nightclub.

There are parts of Sinq Laison that comfortably flirt with the extreme, with crossing the line.  The Sani Sabik faith is by no means illegal in Gallente space, but it is frowned upon, and a place like this functions better out of the public eye.

People come here for many reasons.  Some for curiosity, a desire to taste the macabre fruits of the faith.  Others are believers in the tenets of Sani Sabik.  Many simply enjoy the wild, primal atmosphere cultivated within, an escape from the niceties and civilised world of the everyday.  Certainly what happens here would raise eyebrows in polite company.  Never have there been deaths, or disappearances, or any scandal in Blood Fever, but many would be quick to condemn such an institution.

There is a girl.

She owns Blood Fever, but it is no secret that the day-to-day business of money and paperwork bores her.  Others are employed to manage such things.  Some say that the club is not even a business in the true sense, that she has no interest in money; merely the entertainment she can derive from playing and watching others play there.  She looks like a Minmatar-Gallente mix, writhing with tattoos and fierce energy, and more often than not at the centre of attention, but she never seems to quite fit in.

She often vanishes for long periods of time, and none know where she goes.  Sometimes she takes people with her, people inspired by her, and those that do never speak of what they did and saw.

There is a woman.

She prowls the walkways overhead in the club.  She never gets involved, and none speak to her.  Her blank, blind eyes seem to see more than they have any right to, and to be the focus of her attention is to feel like an insect before an entomologist.  They say she manages security, and despite the shady parts the club lurks in, there has never been any trouble.  Those who have tried to hack their way in tend to suffer unfortunate accidents, and those who offer violence to the club or its patrons vanish in the night.

There is a lady.

None see her up close.  There is just a shadowy figure that sometimes watches proceedings, her attention always on the girl.  She only visits rarely, and when she does, the girl will soon be leaving.  Those who have caught a glimpse say she is Khanid, with short hair and a terrible intensity to her gaze.  When she is spoken of, they call her the Watcher, and most suspect that it is she that funds the club.

There is nothing to connect these three to events far off.  One is thought dead.  One was never truly known.  One simply vanished into the night.

With the brains and the resources, it is easy enough to start a new life in New Eden.  None here would have any reason to know of a somewhat obscure Khanid bloodline, or its sudden apparent demise.

Sometimes the girl just sits quietly, her mind elsewhere.  Thinking of past lives.  Thinking of the runaway, the miner, the industrialist, the Holder... all those lives where she had held a different face.  Of the Achura who never quite let go of her, of the Intaki who clung so tight and loved so hard.  The fire that burned that life away and purged her history.

But soon enough she leaves such reveries behind.  She has a new life now.  Two new lives.  One where she wears a face that she grew and designed to be different, to relax and unwind.  And the other one, where she wears her old face.  Side by side with her sister, practicing Shardalan Ashal, the final truth.  The logical conclusion of Amarrian faith.  She is immortal, and she shapes the world as she sees fit.  What else is a deity?

There is a security report.  It tells little, because it knows little.  The organisation in question is like a ghost, leaving its touch seldom.  Rumours of illegal cloning experiments and perverse faith lurk.  It is thought to be of Amarrian origin, but few would make the connection.  Even if they did, it would gain them nothing.  There is nothing left in Khanid for its creators.  Shardalan Ashal is free of roots.  There is only its future, the evolution of humanity into something far more, for those with the will and the imagination to do it.

The Gryphon Sisters are patient.  They have lifetimes to achieve their aims, and they know it.  Human society still operates on human scales, and those are too small for such ascended creatures.

Their time will come.

But for now, the girl can relax, and enjoy herself.  She fought for her freedom all her life, and now she feels that she has it.

The name Repentence will some day mean something again to the wider world.  But not now.

For now, there is only Blood Fever.

[Repentence Tyrathlion]

Well folks, that's it.  After months of 'presumed dead', this is Reppy's curtain call.  I don't foresee returning to Eve, and if I do, it will not be in the roleplaying guise of Repentence Tyrathlion.

She's come a long way from a naive chatterbox that I threw together as a freighter pilot alt, and it's been an interesting ride.  All good things must end, though.  I suddenly felt that she needed more than just a tailing off into nothingness, and so this is her epilogue.  It was fun, folks.

[Repentence Tyrathlion]

Oh yes, and credit for the art goes to my dear wife, who inherited the character of Charity Tyrathlion and drew that coat of arms while we were discussing heretical matters a while ago.  You can find more of her stuff at http://bonzaibobart.tumblr.com/.