O.D. 1.26.2001 [12:24 p.m.]

(Erk. I notice the spacing got fucked in the previous C.O.M.B. Oh well. Heh.

This here's a scene Maddie and I played...those are Silent Striders. The guy is a Philodox, the girl is an Ahroun.)

***On a Barge in the Atlantic, traveling from South Africa to the States***

[Saankh Irenamon]

Fri 01:08 EST He is already at the bow. He has never left the bow through the storm, his hands wrapped around the steel railing, his eyes staring into the black storm as though he could see what others could not. And perhaps he could.

Those eyes turn to Genesis now as she rises from belowdecks. They are a misty, translucent gray, the color of mirror-silver. The heavy scent of salt and water hangs in the air and spray from the ocean wets his simple garb, catches in his hair. He has a smile for her; he always does. And as always, as his smiles do everyone, it makes her sad. And then he is facing the storm again...quiet. Feeling, hearing, seeing what cannot be seen.

[Genesis]

Fri 01:22 EST It is instinctive by now - the turning of her eyes to meet his. Like a magnet - turning, spinning, quivering - centering on due north. Her own eyes a soft, warm honey brown. Her own lips curing softly - just slightly. He could perhaps count the time he'd seen her actualy grin on two hands... Not an overbearingly somber countenance.. just.. quiet...

They suit one another...

She moves to his side - as instinctive of lookign to him is the sense to flank to his left side. Her worn feet oblivious to the cold wet metal below them. Her eyes slipping out to the dark night - made living only by the still thunderous pitch and pull of the waves.

"The sea didn't take you."

A soft sound - softer than her scared complextion and lean musceled appearnce might suggest. It is in her genes to be beautiful... it was in her fate to have that beauty altered. The wind makes the wet curls stray and dance, hiding away her expression. Is there a twinkle in her eye? A smile? A scowl? Her voice fails to carry much infliction to hint at anything...

... but he will understand. He always has... so far.

[Saankh Irenamon]

Fri 01:32 EST She moves to flank his left side, the vulnerable side, opposite his dominant hand. He does not move closer, but something in his unreachably distant demeanor reaches out and includes her. Embraces her.

If it was in her genes to be beautiful, then it was in his to be equally so. And if it was in her destiny to have that beauty altered (shattered? No...he didn't think so), then it was in his to have his cooled. It is almost abstract now; his face is a thoughtful, distant mask, something lonely, something sorrowful, something unreadable. He did not wear his emotions on his sleeves. He did not hide them, either; they were just as the rest of him--elsewhere. Higher, perhaps. Removed. Detached.

But far from cold.

He raises his chin a half-inch, still studying the blackness, still scenting the salt, still feeling the spray. Slowly, he uncurls his hands from the railing and balances on his two feet, swaying gently with the breakers that pound the bow. He looks at his hands, studies them for a long moment, and sets them back down.

"No," he replies, simple and quiet, and he smiles into the storm. "She did not."

[Genesis]

Fri 01:45 EST It is a rare occurance in the Atlantic - for the sea to be raging with the full gale of a strong Northeastern (Eurokladyn)... and then, as it slowly hushes - for the skies to clear so pristine.

As it does now. Orion hovers well above the southern horizon, and Luna shines down, slowly waxing towards full. And she is found to be so beautiful, that the ocean holds up a mirror. Albeit cut and shopped with the still rasping waves.

They need not touch - they need not look at one another - but the bond is there. Solid. Sure. Silent.

A keen rock - the sky cleared but the ocean anythign but done - and she shifts her feet, keeping balance with the motion. No, not of the water - but hardly defeated by it. Goosebumps raise up on her soft olive skin - those which haven't long ago been stunted by the burns - and a shiver runs through her as a chill wind brings with it icey spray. Beyond that, she makes no motion of understanding that her body is cold.

"Did She try?"

[Saankh Irenamon]

Fri 02:04 EST Somewhere in the middle of the Sargasso Sea, a thousand miles from any land on an ocean two miles deep--somewhere out there, he gazes into the face of the moon-sister and is secure. Faith is a powerful thing. Sometimes, it is the only comfort one has in a world doomed.

And he, too, is doomed, as all are. And he knows it, accepts it. One day he will die. It will not be glorious. Death never is. One day the world will die, consumed not by the Wyrm, but by its own hatred. And bitterness. And pain.

And still the moon shines on.

"No," he says, again. "She knows I belong to another."

It might be the words of a lover. And indeed, they are. Child to mother. Knight to liege-lady. Guardian to Gaia.

[Genesis]

Fri 02:18 EST A droplet forms between her brows, trickling slowly down the ridge of a finely defined, if small, nose. Beading at the tip of her nose - the sea spray providing tears that long ago ceased falling from her own ducts.

The only acknowledgement of his words the slightest of nods. The mass of long curls now completely tumbled from their braid. A hand, small - slight - well calloused, extends out in a slow, graceful sweeping gesture. A gracious motion, rending the scar twisted tissue on the back of the hand beautiful with the action. Speaking, softly still (always) - middle eastern accent a caress.

"Jehovah promised Noah - after the great Flood - that He would never again destroy with such means... and the People," Once her people - the choosen ones of another myth... religion... "Rejoiced with that covenant... Would you suppose Jehovah would regret his promise now?"

Shifting again to keep her balance. Moving not with the grace of a dancer, but of a warrior - subtle. Simple. Strong. Tossing her head a bit, to send a mass of the wild curls away from her vision - exposing the right profile.. un-marred. Lovely. Sweet, serene and youthful... if somber

[Saankh Irenamon]

Fri 02:37 EST He laughs, and it is a gentle sound, as gentle as the calming sea before them, and as full of mysteries. "Of course not," he replies, unarrogant and so guilelessly certain. "There remains, still, shreds of goodness. As long as these exist, and even after they are gone, there is nothing to regret."

He speaks patiently, without patronizing. He tells tales with every word, tales of honor and courage and, above all, beauty. The beauty of the spirit. Of soul. That which cannot be marred by flame, or even death. He lapses into silence once more, watching the darkness break before the prow.

Then: "Would you regret your promise?"

He does not call her away, but the simple turn of his body invites her to follow. He is tall and lean and strong, his limbs long, the musculature slender and elongated to match. As befitting his tribal name, his gait is leisurely and broad and soundless--as though his feet merely skimmed the ground upon which he stood. The terrestrial reflection of bright Orion, this hunter, and he strolls slowly to the staircase that would take them below again, pausing again at the mouth to turn his face heavenward.

The clouds are yet clearing. Through the last lingering drops of rain, the band of the Milky Way glimmers like spilt silver.

[Genesis]

Fri 02:52 EST The sound of his laughter - his own personal musical ring - draws another soft, slender smile. Not many grins - nor so much laughter - but plenty of smiles he has drawn from her.

They relax back to seriousness - the fuller flare of bottom lip hinting at a pout. He turns. She inhales deeply of the fresh, wild air before turning to follow his gliding steps. Her own pace gliding, if in a far more solid manner. Athletic build, surely - but the fine, strong, agile bones of an almost bird like grace. Many were surprised to find what moon smile upon her at her birth...

The wind gusts now as she reverses her direction,blowing her mass of curls away from her face - fully exposing the mixture of soft, clear complextion and scarred, twisted tissue. Her words comign when he pauses - her own eyes slipping up... gliding along the stars, as if she had divined their secrets long ago - and yet never tired of them.

"No... I would not regret such a promise." Gentle words, voice ever near a whisper - catching on the wind and to his ears. "To regret would require some amount of anger... But I would weep for them. As I fought for them." As she fights for them. Her eyes slip from the heavens - moving to his. Honey-brown, golden and rich... a sadness that matches his own. A silent determination that gives them life. "I imagine Jehovah cries as well."

And that tiny bead of water drips fromthe tip of her nose. As a reminder of those tears that had just recently fallen like manna (fury) from heaven.

And a shadow of a smile slips on her lips.

[Saankh Irenamon]

Fri 03:08 EST "Yes," he agrees, studying the scatter of stars across the filmy white of the galaxy. "There are always tears, where there is love."

His eyes slip from the star-studded vault of heaven, then, and fix fully upon her face. Glistening, translucent silver to her tawny hues, such moments of true, total visual contact are rare. Even when he looks at her, he often looks beyond her, through her, to some astral reflection of her. Such moments are precious, and when his attention is focused as it is now, he looks upon her like she is the only thing that mattered in the world. His attention is fleeting, but when it is hers, it is total.

"It grows late," he tells her. Fearlessly, unflinchingly, familiarly and--indeed--tenderly, he touches her face. Her smooth temple; her scarred cheek. To her he offers that smile, the compassion, the sadness that resonates with hers. "Let's sleep."

Well-matched, are they. One last glance to Cassiopeia above, and he

[Genesis]

Fri 03:19 EST There is a love far deeper - fuller - more complete than that of most romantic relationships. Love doesn't shine from her eyes - but rather a simple, pure emotion hums from her. Well matched they are... They ask little of one another - there is no need, for they have it all.

There is no flinching as he touches the scars. Her lips relaxed, eased from the somberness there - no, not a full smile. Sweeter. Simpler than all that.

A light nod, the wet tendrils of midnight curls slipping along his hand as he moves it away. And then she is following him bellow. The abscense of words not at all odd or uncomfortable.

Well-matched they are. So well atuned each to the other - that space is but an extention of themselves. And silence - but a continuation of the song Gaia will bless each and every one of her children with... if they would only...

...listen...