Inkling stood frostily in her room, slowly taking in the plain, but comfortable bed, and the thick red drapes that hid the domed window and sunlight, clothing the stone walls in shadow. She was perched close to the door, her wings kept clasped near her body as her red eyes, glittering with steel, roamed the humble sanctions. There was matching wooden dresser, chest, and wardrobe, along with a broad, sturdy table of alder that looked as though it had seen much trauma. It's surface was scratched, and chipped in some places, but very clean. In fact, the whole room was polished immaculately; not a fleck of dust floated through the air, and the sleek floor shone a glossy orange color from the flicking candles that dripped hot wax on the wooden dresser, and from the single torch that burned on the wall.
She stalked with considerable disgust past the fires, swiping them away with a toss of her hand, which whisked harmlessly through the flames, extinguishing them. It was noon, and she'd asked them to close the window so she wouldn't be burned by the light, but their weak eyes hindered them in the new-found dark, and they'd lit the flames without her request. She could see fine, her razor-sharp, horizontal pupils revealing in the black. And besides, the heat from the blaze was unbearable. Much too warm for her taste.
She stalked with considerable disgust past the fires, swiping them away with a toss of her hand, which whisked harmlessly through the flames, extinguishing them. It was noon, and she'd asked them to close the window so she wouldn't be burned by the light, but their weak eyes hindered them in the new-found dark, and they'd lit the flames without her request. She could see fine, her razor-sharp, horizontal pupils revealing in the black. And besides, the heat from the blaze was unbearable. Much too warm for her taste.
She set her pack in a lonely chair near the table, and walked slowly, firmly, about the room for a moment, taking in the white sheets and the red quilt on the bed, and the ancient authority of the wardrobe, which was well-crafted, with elegant clawed feet. Taken by an impulse, she strode over to it and pulled it open to examine the inside. It was empty but for a long copper bar that would hold any articles of clothing she cared to hang there, and a silver plate that was clasped tightly to the inside door. A mirror. She stared into it for a long moment, then closed the door and turned away.
Some crazies said that you were never really alone as long as you had yourself. They were the ones in mental institutions, hunched in the corner, even clutching a mirror to their nose, staring into it with wide eyes, or they were the ones that feared their own reflections for loathing of themselves.
Inkling ran her hand compulsively over the budding horns that grew near her temples, and thought grimly that she really was alone in this new place. She knew nobody personally---she'd only heard of some of the teachers before, and knew none of her fellow students---and she was so far from home. She figured she would have to keep her wits about her, because without her mind and intuitiveness, she really was lost in this brand new end of her life. She didn't even know what she looked like, besides what she could see of her body with the turn of her head. The mirror would offer no comfort, no reassurance, no answer to her many questions, and she feared that she would lose herself in the crowd of unfamiliarity.
Some crazies said that you were never really alone as long as you had yourself. They were the ones in mental institutions, hunched in the corner, even clutching a mirror to their nose, staring into it with wide eyes, or they were the ones that feared their own reflections for loathing of themselves.
Inkling ran her hand compulsively over the budding horns that grew near her temples, and thought grimly that she really was alone in this new place. She knew nobody personally---she'd only heard of some of the teachers before, and knew none of her fellow students---and she was so far from home. She figured she would have to keep her wits about her, because without her mind and intuitiveness, she really was lost in this brand new end of her life. She didn't even know what she looked like, besides what she could see of her body with the turn of her head. The mirror would offer no comfort, no reassurance, no answer to her many questions, and she feared that she would lose herself in the crowd of unfamiliarity.
Inkling decided she would take the mirror down later, after she'd settled, because the thought of it being there bothered her. With it there, it reminded her that she could deteriorate and become a mere reflection of herself in this strange place, and that is---absolutely nothing.
-
Inkling stayed in her room until nightfall, unpacking her few clothes and other possessions; but most of the time was spent storing away her few items in the dresser and chest, which she arranged to her liking across the plain, timeless room. She spread out her inks, pastels, markers and paper on the table beside a stack of old, well-used books from her home library which all had dark, musky covers and were inscribed in an ancient, foreign tongue.
She set about the remove the mirror then. Inkling inched her hard, sharp nails under the frame, then yanked it viciously from it's latches, splintering the door. With it in one hand, and her eyes diverted from its reflective surface, she strode to the formidable ruby curtain and threw open the drapes to reveal an impressive window which blurred her view of the shaded sky with bubbly contortions in the glass. She undid the primal lock, and pressed it open with a grinding creak that made her teeth grate painfully. It took an effort to open, but as soon as it did she felt more relaxed, staring out into the black sky with the full, unearthly silver moon, and her starred disciples.
Inkling stayed in her room until nightfall, unpacking her few clothes and other possessions; but most of the time was spent storing away her few items in the dresser and chest, which she arranged to her liking across the plain, timeless room. She spread out her inks, pastels, markers and paper on the table beside a stack of old, well-used books from her home library which all had dark, musky covers and were inscribed in an ancient, foreign tongue.
She set about the remove the mirror then. Inkling inched her hard, sharp nails under the frame, then yanked it viciously from it's latches, splintering the door. With it in one hand, and her eyes diverted from its reflective surface, she strode to the formidable ruby curtain and threw open the drapes to reveal an impressive window which blurred her view of the shaded sky with bubbly contortions in the glass. She undid the primal lock, and pressed it open with a grinding creak that made her teeth grate painfully. It took an effort to open, but as soon as it did she felt more relaxed, staring out into the black sky with the full, unearthly silver moon, and her starred disciples.
A nightly fall breeze slunk into Inkling's room, whispering around her body and tugging faintly at her dark wings, as if calling them into the air.
She watched the moon, her red eyes focused and intense. How strange it was, pale and ruined, like a dead woman rising from her tomb, looking down on the earth, seeking to sheath her form with a shroud of cold darkness, which gathered around her edges, littered with crippled star-flowers. Inkling admired their deathly beauty, for weren't most stars in the sky already dead? Nobody had informed them of it yet, and they continued to shine, blind to the truth, even if they were but misled ghosts.
Inkling Tenebrae took a deep breath, her ears tuned to the nightly melody. There was a song playing in the wind that called her into the open, where she could be lost in an endless void of sky and space. It sent a thrill through her blood, lighting her eyes with ardent energy, but she resisted the summoning, and with a heaving toss, slung the mirror out into the gloom, watching it spin, catching the moon's face and slinging the light to the ground. It hummed as it flew, then slowly began to descend into a chaotic fall before it cracked against the cobbles below, shattering in uncountable pieces of piercing gray dust.
Inkling smiled sadly, and leaned against the sill, listening to the nighthawk's cry reverberate in the distant gloom.
She watched the moon, her red eyes focused and intense. How strange it was, pale and ruined, like a dead woman rising from her tomb, looking down on the earth, seeking to sheath her form with a shroud of cold darkness, which gathered around her edges, littered with crippled star-flowers. Inkling admired their deathly beauty, for weren't most stars in the sky already dead? Nobody had informed them of it yet, and they continued to shine, blind to the truth, even if they were but misled ghosts.
Inkling Tenebrae took a deep breath, her ears tuned to the nightly melody. There was a song playing in the wind that called her into the open, where she could be lost in an endless void of sky and space. It sent a thrill through her blood, lighting her eyes with ardent energy, but she resisted the summoning, and with a heaving toss, slung the mirror out into the gloom, watching it spin, catching the moon's face and slinging the light to the ground. It hummed as it flew, then slowly began to descend into a chaotic fall before it cracked against the cobbles below, shattering in uncountable pieces of piercing gray dust.
Inkling smiled sadly, and leaned against the sill, listening to the nighthawk's cry reverberate in the distant gloom.
-
