Tales of the Ice Harpy from Glacia

So, a few nights ago, Karla had gotten a...very interesting voicemail. Then, however, had come Anakin's distress call and hilarious voicemails had gotten ignored in favor of getting here, assessing the situation, and figuring out what to do. But now, without a wedding to distract her--it wasn't like she was paying attention to her schedule anyway--Karla figured she could use with a distraction from Thirteen's bleak...everything.

Hopefully her friends would be up for some gentle teasing. Or, well, the Karla version of that.

[For them of the drunken shenanigans, please and super SP! NFB]

Karla sat on her bed, wooden frame floating gently in the air in front of her, a pile of spidersilk close to her right hand. Normally, she had a reason to be spinning a tangled web: a project, like for the ghosts or for the fair, because of a dream or an odd feeling, like when the other world's spell had swept across Fandom. But there was no concrete reason for the desire to spin this web; just a nebulous feeling, far too faint and vague to even be classified as 'bad' or 'odd.' It was more akin to having someone's name stuck on the tip of your tongue, or the nagging sensation that you'd forgotten to do something. Even putting on her Widow's Weeds to try to get herself in a more "Black Widow-y" state of mind hadn't helped.

Which was why she was glaring at the frame, almost daring it to explain to her what she was going to be weaving and why.

The frame provided no answers, just floated in front of her, calm and serene. Karla stuck her tongue out at it. It didn't seem to care. Still, there was really nothing else to do but to go with her instincts, regardless of whether or not she knew what she was supposed to be doing. If something was telling her to spin a tangled web, she just had to do it. Doubtlessly, the answer would come about in its own, sweet time. She just needed to be patient.

Karla...didn't do patient very well.

But since everything was out and she was even wearing her Weeds, she got to work. The first thing she did was attach the silk to the anchor points in the web. It didn't matter what kind of web she ultimately wove, the anchor lines needed to be firm, steady, and in place to support the Craft flowing through the radial lines. She looped the fabric through and around, pulling it tight, checking the tension with a kind of careless grace that only came when someone performed a task they were born to do.

Had it been a normal web, one born from a specific purpose, Karla would have been paying more attention to the spidersilk in her hands. Instead, her attention was focused inwards, trying to chase down that feeling, to poke it, prod it, make it more forthcoming. Which was why she missed the length of thread that was dyed a rusty brown. That thread was knotted tightly to the main anchor point, spinning down, down, becoming the central point of the web. And from that position, Ender's blood, innocently spilled not a week before, caught at the Craft within the web and turned it to its own purposes.

Blood is the memory's river.

Karla's hands moved of their own accord now, moving hither and yon according to what Karla saw, eyes closed, in her mind's eye. It no longer mattered why she had originally begun weaving. The Craft had a purpose now, and it was moving her hands automatically. It was like hearing a wild melody, off in the distance. The web was her instrument and Karla wanted to join the tune. She opened herself to her birthright, and surrendered to the music of her Craft.

( Blood is the memory's river. )

There was more. Memories of a trial, a trip, a mirror with a treasure behind it. But Karla could barely see them anymore through the tears. She yanked her hands away from the threads as if they burned, called in the strongest wine she could, and drank it straight from the bottle. The wine burned as it raced down her throat and her shaking hands sent some of it sloshing out of the bottle and onto her clothes. The deep red liquid shimmered like the droplets of blood that had come from Bonzo's eyes and she nearly threw up.

Too much. It was all too much. Karla closed her tightly against the images still crashing around in her head, curled up into a small ball, and cried until she had no more tears left.



[Whew! That's done! Posted with permission and approval from endsthegame All scenes and text taken from Ender's Game, by Orson Scott Card. Warning: post contains violence directed at children by other children. Cause kids are mean, yo. The contents of the web are NFB, though Karla's reactions both before and after the cut are fine.

For one, please. (Though OOC responses rock my socks)]

Karla had made a wise and well-thought out plan for today. She was just going to stay in her room all day long. She hadn't slept well again (third night running), and that was just adding to her temper. Being fifteen and overly hormonal was one thing. Being fifteen, and having this be what jumpstarts your hormones?

That's just unfair.

She was going to sit in her room, alternating between napping, reading, and exploring the Wikipedia that Ender had shown her Thursday morning on the roof. She was wearing loose pants, one of Morton's old shirts, buttoned to the throat, and dealing with the heat by drinking several glasses of cool wine.

It was times like this she wished she didn't burn alcohol off so quickly.

She was determined not to leave the room today. We'll see how long that lasts.


[Door cracked, but post open]