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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Ink" data-source="post: 3536392" data-attributes="member: 48069">There are cries and shouts from all about the building. Echoes of the incident boom down to the foundations, shifting torches, and attention alike. She accepts the knife without meaning to. The girl watches a perfect porcelain hand rise, graciously accepting the knife with a nod she never asked for. Es' eyes shimmer with a liquid blue hopelessness. Her actions again mastered by another. It was her mother's knife to be sure.The hilt is smooth, almost slippery, almost alive. It slithers in her mind, in her palm, and unnoticed by others yet unmistakable to herself, the adolescent clenches it all the tighter, with ten, then a hundred times the force needed to bend iron, to destroy it in her grip. Es’ countenance becomes abruptly calm as she grasps not only the blade, but the simple fact that her life is not her own. For all her training, her speed and might, Es can’t even open her hand.Dozens of soldiers hurry into formation and with overabundant torches lighting their way, they do a double march upwards towards the sound, past scattered wooden fragments along the steps. As they rush ahead, only their squad leader, a young, brash and somewhat handsome, Bardak the II, notices the twisted iron door handle along the way.</blockquote>