001 ♥ i'm standing on my own two feet

[fightsinheels]

WHO: Isabelle Lightwood
WHERE: The Fountain, The Inn, and probably the rest of the village, too.
WHEN: 18th.
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Your general panicked-crawling-out-of-the-fountain, some violence because she might punch some people
STATUS: Open

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The Fountain; somewhere hanging in between

She's dreaming. She's back at the Adamant Citadel, where the Iron Sisters reside and craft their weapons. This is one of the places she's always dreamed of going, wanting the meet the highly renowned Sisters and see the Citadel with her own eyes. But when she'd gotten the chance to lead up that mission, she'd managed to mess things up. This time, when she's in the water, she doesn't burn. It doesn't bubble and mark her of the sins she's committed, of the impurities she's put herself through.

This time, the water is cool against her skin, and her white dress clings to her thighs. When she opens her eyes, she can see sunlight streaming through the water's surface. She reaches out to touch it, to break her fingers past the surface. But it never happens. The pool at the Citadel isn't that deep.

Her lungs begin to burn. She reaches further, trying to push herself upwards. There's nothing for her feet to find purchase on, and she finds herself scrambling, panic beginning to set in. There's no way she can die like this. Not after dedicating her life to fighting demons. A pool of water is nothing compared to some of the things she's faced, she can't--

Fingers break the water's surface. Air touches her hands, and one last push has her surfacing complete, dragging in a deep breath. This isn't a dream — it's a nightmare. Her surroundings are unfamiliar, her clothes are unfamiliar, her hair hangs wet and heavy around her, and she can only imagine how terrible her makeup must look. But more importantly, she needs to find the others. Alec, Jace, Clary, anybody.

This has to be some sort of portal gone wrong. Really, really wrong.

The Inn; my life and the death of me

She searches. She searches, and she searches, and she searches. There's a police station holding farm animals, a hospital and a town hall that she peers into. Dozens of houses, of which she looks through the windows of. Some appear empty, some appear occupied. Some actively have people in them, and she's always quick to duck away before she can be seen. It would probably be helpful to talk to some of the people she sees, ask them if they've seen her friends.

Normally, she's willing to give everyone a chance. Right now, she doesn't know who she can trust and who she can't. Any of these people could be the reason she's here, and she needs to gather her bearings first. There was a pack with her when she climbed out of the fountain, and she's already searched it. Clothes, mostly. No stele, no whip, no weapon of any kind.

All she has going for her are the runes already burned into her body and her natural angel-infused powers.

After searching the village, she delves into the woods. Here, there are less people. Here, she calls her brothers names until her voice is hoarse. She searches and she yells until she's lost track of time, and she all but tumbles out of the woods, sticks and leaves stuck in her hair. For once, she doesn't care how she looks. She walks towards the lights of the town, and walks into the Inn. She'd peered through the windows before, but deemed it too full and busy to go inside.

But now, she doesn't care. She doesn't care how she looks, or how many people she runs into. She's tired and she's dejected and she has no idea where she is, or what's going on, and she needs some answers. It's warm in the inn, and there's a few people around. She clears her throat, and picks a few sticks from her hair before speaking up, voice strained and raw.

"Would somebody mind telling me where the hell I am?"

[ ooc: feel free to find her around the village too! ]

Comments

[3ofswords]

"My hands are fine," he says, a match for her own in all but the dark tattoos scattered over her skin, more sigil than symbol. That or she went to a shop where she and the artists were drunk, and narrowed in on a theme.

Who knows, with this place. In her world of warlocks and institutes, maybe they mean something. Kira still finds himself asking, "I can't tell what your tattoo artist was trying to bastardize, Arabic or Chinese."

In his world, they do plenty to both. It sets him up for the sigh he gusts out when she shows him the joker. "Yes," he says to the cards, "I know she's new here, and alone--so does she." Lifting his eyes back to her, he instructs, "Pull another, it can take a few with playing cards."

[fightsinheels]

Most mundane boys tend to find her tattoo-like runes sexy, as they should. She's sexy, with her long dark hair and her slim frame and tight clothes, airing a sense of danger with her weapons and boots, and her marked-up body that she's never bothered to glamour. Though, he's reaction is one she's gotten, too, and she responds to it with ease.

"They're runes," she answers, eyeing the joker she's flipped over scrutinously. "They're burned into my skin, not tattooed."

She says this like it's not weird and something that most people would find to be a sick form of self-mutilation. The joker is passed off to her free hand as she draws another one, flipping it over for both of them to see again. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

[3ofswords]

"Okay," he says, letting her doubt strip away any guilt he feels for his own attitude. Her doubt could be the source of it, and he really should be better by now at not letting things affect him, but he only has so much energy to spare. "Your scarification artist has a sick sense of humor. That, or you can cut me some slack, because your runes are just as fucked as my cards, here."

For all he knows, she's from outer space like half of his new friends, or she has to wave a wand around like the other. For all she knows, tarot is a lot more direct.

"Keep going," he says, when she pulls the five of spades--at least it isn't the three, and he doesn't have to tell her anyone's dead. As she does, he holds the question in his own mind--tell me about her. The seven of spades follows, then the ten of clubs.

This place always goes in for the swords, he thinks, letting her hold her spread while he replaces the rest in his back pocket. "You've lost them," he tells her, tapping the top of each card in turn. "You've left them behind, you're alone on a new path. But it didn't start here." He skips to the ten, and carries backwards through them: "They put too much on you, a responsibility, a debt--or you've picked up your own. Maybe you did your best, but you've fumbled it, lied and stolen on your way here."

He finally plucks back the five of spades, flipping it straight in his fingers, and he doesn't have to press it, but he's tired of being scrutinized for having the gall to come out of his house and help. "You've left in dishonor. You want them now that you're here, but you were pushing them away when you disappeared."

He might as well be reading himself from a few years ago--but that's what this place is like. Everything is double edged, and you cut yourself as much as anyone else.

[fightsinheels]

In turn, she should know better by now than to piss off somebody with any sort of magic at their fingertips. Warlocks, the fey, psychics. They're not dissimilar, in some ways. Warlocks and faeires have the same sort of demon blood in their veins, and psychics have been touched by the shadow world in some way, somehow, through some distant lineage or a bad deal or a mistake. Either way, the point stands: they know things, they can find out things, they can hurt in a way that's far more than physical.

For instance, they can worm their way into your past, not seeing memories, but feeling enough to get a clear picture. And then they can throw all your failures and mistakes and wrong doings in your face, and remind you that you're not worthy of the runes you wear or the angel blood in your veins. He was being brutal on purpose, and she wasn't here for it.

Impurities, Sister Magdalena had said. Isabelle had tainted her body with the yin-fen, and later with vampire venom. She'd made a mistake, and ruined herself for the mission she'd spent her entire life wanting to go on. She doesn't need to be reminded of it. And she doesn't need to be told how fiercely she'd fought with her family before finally admitting defeat.

Without a word, expression impassive, she throws the remaining cards at Kira's chest, letting them bounce off and flutter to the dirt. Maybe it's childish, but she definitely doesn't care.

"Thanks for your help," she says, her voice sharper and cold now. "I really needed to hear everything I already knew." She turns, heading towards the woods again.