Author Games: Dawn of Nameless Desires

Task Three Entries: Ghairia

Josepheline Ksanyu

Who are you?

Don't make me tell you things you already know.

Why me?

Don't make me tell you things you still have to find out.

...

You ate of the apple. I did not force it upon you. If anyone knows, it should be yourself. But I know it is not because I know.

Am I a bad person?

Am I?

Don't make me tell you things you already know. :P

I did not ask for you to repeat my reputation to me. Surely you have spent enough time out of your False King's court to realize your people's concept of the good revolves merely around want. God is want. I am not want. Whether we are good or evil depends on the person praying. When the mist descended upon you and you prayed not for the wealth or safety offered, but for the fall of your False King you saw as collateral, it was not God who answered, but I. We are nothing but the same.

When you say God, which do you speak of?

All of them and none of them: A creature called Desire.

When next I curse, who shall I address?

A man named Satan.

Ooh I like that, it's pretty! Tragically, I must go now. Quin and Anterra don't know these drinks are sterile and judging by their looks, if I go for another they will bash the chalice from my hand and stab me with the stem :000 Anyways, talk to you 2nite!

Good luck Josepheline.

A sting of sour coats the back of her throat as Josepheline empties her sixth sterile cider and tonic of the evening. She blinks between the others seated at her table - a cadre uncomfortable on the whole. Smashed between glitz and glam is Quin, reserved, in a stately green gown still saddled with swaths of leather armor she would not relinquish, as well as Twyla and Jo, dressed as they are oft, but not as they ought. Of the table, only Anterra is. The dragonborn is stuffed into a tumbling tube of orange and inferno, threads fray as they chafe against her squirming scales. Jo has seen sausages appear more comfortable, and they were on a spit! At least Anterra tried, for what it isn't worth, Jo raps her finger on the tabletop, causing muted rings of cool iron. Light flickers as the spread of sea salt scented candles at the center of the table quake. The flighty fairy flames strewn above do not waver, such is the construction of Castle Trokya.

For all the breath and sweat and drink and dancing and not that has lasted the night, the hall retains a cold. Something about the elven kingdom has always alerted Jo, and she finds it more frosty than even Mirrymydr. Diamonds drip down decorations like icicles. The string orchestra is frigid and the dancing even as it dwindles is dawdling.

"I can't breathe."

Josepheline turns to Anterra, her face a sour apple, as she prepares to chastise her for whining all eve, but the dragonborn is turning to someone else herself. Twyla. "Satan," Jo mutters, jumping from her seat. The genasi is struggling, her breath shuddering on shuddering satin. "Why didn't you say something sooner?" Jo asks as she drags Twyla up by her shoulders. She's supposed to be the one stumbling around making a scene. Best laid plans. She scans the room looking for an exit that isn't under surveillance, but something else jumps out at her. The levity it begets is hard to stifle. "You'll despise me for this." When Twyla sees it too she gnaws at her lip and suddenly becomes heavier to walk.