is it too late? ; straia

[Straia]

i am the violence in the pouring rain

i am a hurricane

Her hands are clean. Blood does not stain them. She never set foot in the Gates, though she watched through the eyes of her ravens. She didn’t kill the wayward girl that Gryffen brought back, though she watched with unblinking eyes as the blood drained from the girl at Cellar’s touch. She didn’t rape the Gates Queen, though she never sent a raven to stop it.

Oh, her hands are clean. But that’s part of the mask she wears. Like Weed, she is beautiful on the outside. Head high, something wild laced into her beauty. Her mane falls haphazardly on either side of her neck, long and tangled, though she purposefully leaves it this way. The effect is simply that she doesn’t care, doesn’t try. She lets the ash settle on her, doesn’t mind as it streaks black against her white coat. But of course, she knows exactly what she looks like. A Queen. Power and beauty all rolled into one. But beautiful, unlike her insides.

Her heart is black. Of course it is, with Rodrik as a father. Her own father was nothing but a rotting, walking corpse with his own personal vendetta’s. She was not so cruel, did nothing that at least the majority of the Chamber did not condone, and kept no secrets from them (except a few, and only because they were necessary). But still, she was her father’s daughter. She would give him the girl, but she would feel no remorse that the girl does not want him. That was never part of the bargain, and it is far outside of her control.

She laughs at his words now as the ravens are set on fire. They cry, but their cries are short lived. It doesn’t take them long for their feathers to embrace the flames, for their blood to turn to lava. They become the fire, and leave the ground with wings alight and spread wide. One settles on Kingslay’s back, perching there with a caw. The rest take to the skies, disappear into the clouds.

“You left her, Kingslay. What was she supposed to do? Sit around and wait for you?” Her words are not meant to be harsh, but she sugar coats nothing. Never has. Never will. He may call her a liar, but she is not. She never promised the girl wouldn’t change.

“And I cannot make her love you. You’ll need Eight for that, and his prices are higher than mine. All I can offer you is the chance to burn the world. There will lightly be a war, and you can lead the way with burn down every piece of Beqanna if you want.” What other answer can a monster provide. In the end, there is only destruction.  

straia

the raven queen of the chamber