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Snippet #2642117

located in The Emberverse, a part of Broken Ocean, one of the many universes on RPG.

The Emberverse

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Character Portrait: Aves Alcott
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December 19, Change Year 4
Former Site of Pacific Junction, Southwest Prince of Wales Island, West Coast of North America


There are two different Ravens, though it is often difficult to tell them apart. One is the creator raven, responsible for bringing the world into being and who is sometimes considered to be the individual who brought light to the darkness. The other is the childish raven, always selfish, sly, conniving, and hungry. When the Great Spirit created all things he kept them separate and stored in cedar boxes. The Great Spirit gifted these boxes to the animals who existed before humans. When the animals opened the boxes all the things that comprise the world came into being. The boxes held such things as mountains, fire, water, wind and seeds for all the plants. One such box, which was given to Seagull, contained all the light of the world. Seagull coveted his box and refused to open it, clutching it under his wing. All the people asked Raven to persuade Seagull to open it and release the light. Despite begging, demanding, flattering and trying to trick him into opening the box, Seagull still refused. Raven became angry and frustrated, and stuck a thorn in Seagull's foot. Raven pushed the thorn in deeper until the pain caused Seagull to drop the box. Then out of the box came the sun, moon and stars that brought light to the world and allowed the first day to begin. Which Raven was this—creator or childish?”

No one was there.

The row of houses along the spit had been burned to the ground, not a single piece left behind. Not even the great totem that had towered watchfully over the little shoreline settlement still stood. Clearly it had been taken away as one of the trophies that had been dragged up and away off to a destination seen once before. A destination that ought to never be seen again.

A pair of dark eyes glowered from beneath a set of angled eyebrows as they inspected the smoldering black spots where the homes had once stood. Moments later a set of tall brown fisherman’s rainboots tentatively probed down from a small boat, padding down upon the slick rocks and treading slowly to the center of what had been a cluster of fortified cedar-built homes.

On the way back from Ward Cove, she had anticipated seeing her friends and Drew’s Ḵwáan greeting her at the little wooden dock at Pacific Junction, just as they'd promised. Instead, there was no dock. No Pacific Junction. No one. Nothing at all, except for the black sooty spots in what had once been a thriving place.

Her stomach burned and twisted reflexively at the sight of a little plastic-beaded bracelet peeking out from beneath a rock, something with alternating pastel colors, worn over and over like some protective talisman... like by Delilah, one of the children who used to cluster near the house to ask about borrowing books or if she could teach them how to make (translate: also eat) soup or how to play a song on the piano in the front room. The children in the village wanted to learn. Painstaking measures were taken to ensure that the group that settled this area of the inlet functioned smoothly, with minimal conflict and a high quality of life. Many had called their vision “too idealistic,” and yet they stubbornly soldiered on.

For the first time, Avery Alcott, Anderssen up until recently, could see that they were wrong, and that it had been a futile gamble… such a futile gamble that it cost her everything she’d worked so hard to build with others, and had endured so many things together over the course of over five years. And it had cost her Drew, and it had cost her Iver. And ultimately it cost her everyone else, too.

And she wasn't here to help them.

She felt her knees wobble as she spotted the site where the old house had stood. Without the nearby fenceposts or other homes, the spot itself was barely recognizable. She felt herself shudder as her feet trudged forward reflexively, like a slowly-moving magnetic force. The last time she'd seen that little house was three months ago, when she'd looked over her shoulder while a member of the Ḵwáan had piloted the sailboat out to Ward Cove. Just after that horrible incident.

Christ, Almighty. To know that what almost everyone she had known that were left over after the village had been caught unawares. How she'd lost her own and how she'd delivered on her promise to never leave them behind, and the guilt about having to accept that she could not bring them back. That there may have been nothing that they could have done… except perhaps for not founding Pacific Junction as a settlement in the first place.

But it was hard to say. She'd said as much back at Ward Cove with her head buried beneath Drew’s grandmother's goose-down pillows in her handbuilt cabin. The old woman simply laughed despite the loss that she herself had sustained from that horrible day, and said, “You did everything that you could do in your power. Dying for them isn't an expression of love. Living for them is.” At the time she wanted to ask the old woman from what level of senility she had to be at to deliver such a sappy line, but she held her tongue. No matter how she'd worded it, it had given Aves something to think about.

She finally sunk down to set herself on the backs of her heels, eyes averted downward to the charred dirt and pile upon pile of ashes that seemed to flake away like finely-ground baking flour beside her. She couldn't think. She could only stare. She couldn't wonder about where everything that couldn't be burned had gone, or how many canoes it had taken to invade and carry off goods and supplies… and people.

After several long minutes frozen in place, the sky rumbled over Aves and a plop of rain splattered onto the end of her nose. Another one followed, this time smacking onto her sharp cheekbone. Followed by many more. She shuddered as a gust of wind iced its way in. The boat was as fine as it was going to be, but the clouds overhead told her that seeking better cover was imperative. A full metal gleam caught her eye as her addled mind remembered the cellar—the lock hadn't been tampered with. She would have smiled if she knew that the world would be right by the time the storm ended and she could emerge from the hastily-built underground storage container with a plan in mind on how to move forward.