[Katya]

This ball rotates in its orbit,
Even though sometimes every world crashes.
It's useless to think, that we are waited for..
Arise from the pit of creation, because everyone goes
to this battle in turn..
 
We balance on the tightrope
and another time, our eyes are directed downwards
Can any of us trust the other?
Stay lying on the floor for pity points.
 
Look into my eyes, say: We'll cope with this.
Although the two of us were sent onto the dark way,
Towards a place, where even the strongest don't feel their strengths
When we were doomed, to the ultimate hell.
 
In the darkness and blindfolded
We're searching for the finish line on this way
I know, that this is the final journey
and for sure not as beautiful as the song of a swan.
--Raaka-Aine


She stood, a languid hip resting against the thick wooden beam of Emlyn's dock; shielding her amber eyes from the brightness of the sun as she gazed out at the little port. The sunlight played across the relatively calm water in spangles, and her lips curved into a faint smile at that. 

The tall ship was eminently grand, one could not deny; her mast rising just over fifty-four meters into the clear azure sky. The sides were painted in brilliant colors of crimson, gold, and ochre -- almost taking Katya's breath away to see shining in the sun. The port bustled with her various hirelings, rushing back and forth down the gangplank and loading various bundles, heavy chests, expensive rugs and tapestries, and elaborate furniture items aboard. It was truly going to be grand, she noted to herself with a fair hint of pride. Her own. 

Using her wings for just the slightest touch of extra lift, she perched herself atop the beam, closing her eyes in bliss at the warmth of the sun upon her creamy skin. Putting the brilliance of her wings on full display, she stretched them to their limit and let them spill across her bare shoulders. Letting her eyes fall closed, she remembered. 

Lies and uncertainty. So many. More than enough to get lost in for ages. 

Or at least, for seven hundred-odd years. 

Every one emblazoned on the smoothness of her skin, to remember. To change. Never the same lie twice. 

Changing your face. Changing a hat. Donning what isn't yours, and making it your own. But never, ever, changing underneath. 

Until the first time that you are changed. 

What, then? When the stage is bare. The footlights are out. The audience has gone. And you are only left with who you are. 

What, then? 

When the game is played out. When you've taken yourself outside of it. Just you. Always there, across the crowd. Staying. 

Unavoidable. 

What, then?

With a hissing sigh, she opened her eyes, coming back to herself. She smiled, then, bright and sudden. Content. 

The hirelings had nearly finished the wingéd figure; perhaps by twilight, she had been told. 

The carved wooden figurehead rose above her, a lithe and luscious figure carved of the finest birch that her hirelings could find. Wooden wings spread wide on the maiden's back, oh-so-similar to Katya's own. The figure wore nothing but foam from the sea, and intricately-carved wooden blooms of exotic flowers. She had tattoos, running down both upraised arms and across her back -- various fey scripts that clearly marked and denoted her as Whore. 

And still she smiled.