The celebration draws her in as moth to flame, and Fever's been prepared - brought things carefully contemplated, finding places to be and soak in the mood, enjoying the food and laughing at the general merriment. There is no fuss, no bother, and she intends to enjoy herself as she can. Enough happens to observe, and for the most part, she's either got a seat on a couch or sitting on the floor to get into conversation with people or give a little cheer to someone enthusiastic for some reason. Children laughing, people smiling, warmth. It's a good time. There is dancing she joins, there is sparkling conversation to join in, there is the sense to linger.
But still, every now and then, she quietly disappears from the gathering, to go out whatever door she can, to go stand in the wind and the snow and try for balance. When the tips of her fingers and ears feel numb, she'll move back in, having soothed herself to being up for the next round. If nothing else, she'll manage like this.
Tonight is for peace. It will remain as such, at least from her.
mourner's night.
It's time. She's done all she can, and now it's time to play the role. Clad in black, heavy veil obscuring her face, Fever summons all her courage, and drives on. Just like she practiced, steady along the road, telling herself that no one will hear her heart beating hard in her chest. The horses know the way, and people are following, and all she has to do is be steady and breathe in the stillness. Silence like a shroud, and she might have been leading the town, or a fraction of the nameless souls who cling to her shadow.
People grieve who they lost, who they loved, the selves they had to let go of. And while one part of her heart clings to wickedness, protests the idea of mourning, finds celebration and liberty in death and loss and ruin - oh, she has grown, in strife and quiet, inch by inch, stretching herself enough to know where absence pains. The long healed cut on her palm still bears a ghost, where blood answered blood, and Fever makes herself remember. There is a list of names, after all. There are so many without names.
When the bell chimes, her voice is one of the first to lift in song, as she had known she would do this entire time. Unfaltering, clear, blessedly steady.
People move to reunite, to go, and Fever does not. Not yet. Not until the last soul departs will she even think about it. Her vigil isn't ended. This night is far from over.
(But occasionally, she softly hums a fragment of a different song, one she hasn't allowed herself to forget.)
fever (dark urge) | baldur's gate 3 | ota
The celebration draws her in as moth to flame, and Fever's been prepared - brought things carefully contemplated, finding places to be and soak in the mood, enjoying the food and laughing at the general merriment. There is no fuss, no bother, and she intends to enjoy herself as she can. Enough happens to observe, and for the most part, she's either got a seat on a couch or sitting on the floor to get into conversation with people or give a little cheer to someone enthusiastic for some reason. Children laughing, people smiling, warmth. It's a good time. There is dancing she joins, there is sparkling conversation to join in, there is the sense to linger.
But still, every now and then, she quietly disappears from the gathering, to go out whatever door she can, to go stand in the wind and the snow and try for balance. When the tips of her fingers and ears feel numb, she'll move back in, having soothed herself to being up for the next round. If nothing else, she'll manage like this.
Tonight is for peace. It will remain as such, at least from her.
mourner's night.
It's time. She's done all she can, and now it's time to play the role. Clad in black, heavy veil obscuring her face, Fever summons all her courage, and drives on. Just like she practiced, steady along the road, telling herself that no one will hear her heart beating hard in her chest. The horses know the way, and people are following, and all she has to do is be steady and breathe in the stillness. Silence like a shroud, and she might have been leading the town, or a fraction of the nameless souls who cling to her shadow.
People grieve who they lost, who they loved, the selves they had to let go of. And while one part of her heart clings to wickedness, protests the idea of mourning, finds celebration and liberty in death and loss and ruin - oh, she has grown, in strife and quiet, inch by inch, stretching herself enough to know where absence pains. The long healed cut on her palm still bears a ghost, where blood answered blood, and Fever makes herself remember. There is a list of names, after all. There are so many without names.
When the bell chimes, her voice is one of the first to lift in song, as she had known she would do this entire time. Unfaltering, clear, blessedly steady.
People move to reunite, to go, and Fever does not. Not yet. Not until the last soul departs will she even think about it. Her vigil isn't ended. This night is far from over.
(But occasionally, she softly hums a fragment of a different song, one she hasn't allowed herself to forget.)
wildcard.
[want something not covered? go for it.]