"Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you, the right person is still going to think the sun shines out your ass." - Mac MacGuff, Jun
Born: Darjeeling, India
Birthday: December 10th
Age Range: 27 to 32
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Height: Five foot seven inches
Weight: 150 pounds
Body Shape: Pear
Hair and Eyes: Black and Hazel
Language(s): English, Nepali, and Hindi
Occupation(s): Student (Astronomy) / Tea Shop
Hobbies: Yoga, reading, swimming, guitar
Time of Day: Night owl
Nervous Ticks: Playing with jewelry
Weakness(es): Jasmine scent and petha
Pet(s): Cat, Raben
Blinking Yasmeen took a breath, the cool breeze from the fields washing through the window as she looked over the books in front of her on the shelves.
“I hope I have a thousands answers for you snow prince,” she joked playfully. Still looking over the books she heard his question,
thinking quickly on his words as she ran her fingers through her hair.
“I am not sure – the optimist in me wishes they are still thriving. They had such a connection to the world, and rode dragons as if they were a part of themselves.” Turning her eyes to look at Morton. “If they do still live, they would have your answer,” she whispered. Turning she looked again at the books,
the paper and bindings feeling as if they were pulling her forward.
Suddenly her eyes rested on a small bound journal. Starring transfixed at the binding her eyes blinked quickly as she reached out and slipped the item into her hand. Opening the pages they cracked in protest to the action, Her eyes dragged over the ornate handwriting that scrawled on the pages. It was her mothers.
How had she never found this journal before? How many hours had she sat within reach of something her own mother had written?
Stepping back the room seemed to fall silent as Yasmeen sunk into a chair her hands holding tightly to the journal, the cover bulging slightly against the
leather tie holding it together. With a gentle breath she pulled at the leather tie and flipped the pages, the book falling open to its center where a long,
flat object sat – reflecting the color of the room. Yasmeen recognized its smooth surface as it shone up at her.
Slowly she reached out, tracing her fingers along the aquamarine dragon scale.
Gasping Yasmeen felt her body go numb, dropping the journal to the floor as her hand held tightly to the scale. Slumping in the chair her hand
not clinging to the scale hung from the side of the chair, fingertips grazing the ground. Closing her eyes a heavy thud resonated in her head.
A beat. A pounding, deep from beneath her feet as if the world itself spun around a living heart.
Frowning she shivered slightly, unable to open her eyes as her hand still gripped to the scale, her knuckles turning white. Her face appeared pained
as she took labored breaths, her mind slipping away into the sounds of the ocean. Of the coast, the image of a neglected temple on the beach filtering
into her thoughts, the ocean washing around it. Salt rushed to Yasmeen's senses as she fought to open her eyes, though still enthralled in the imagery of the
coast, the sounds and smells accosting her brain as she clung to the old relic.
Groaning she managing to break through, her eyes fluttering open and looking up at Morton in shock. Sitting up she took in a sharp breath of air,
the sound whistling across plump lips. Setting the scale aside she starred at the item, an echo of the tides ringing in her ears as the scent of salt clung to her nose.
“The coast,” she whispered, a weaving thread of thought trying to make sense of the images. “An old temple, ancient,” her voice trailing off,
the odd words not having any connection. Picking her eyes up she looked at Morton, “I remember seeing it somewhere, vaguely, in one of the books.”
Quickly with excitement she placed her delicate hand on Morton’s shoulder, pulling herself from the chair and fervently returned to the shelves.
Looking over the ornate books she yanked a small, well-loved volume down and came to the table. Flipping through the pages she found the image,
an illustration of the old Temple of Mahetat seeming to blossom from the pages in a vibrant blue.
“The dragon temples,” her eyes looking at Morton, “when I touched this,” her voice hesitant as she traced a finger over the scale and plucked it off the table.
No visions - just the cold, smooth surface of the dragons armor gleaning between her fingers.
“I saw the temple, that journal was my mothers… she hid it, but why?” her face pushing into a slight frown as she looked back at the shelves.
Running fingers through her hair she dropped again into the chair, biting on her lower lip in thought.
Sighing she reached down, scooping the journal from the ground and looking at her mothers writing, her finger tracing over the soft pages.
“The land is diseased,” her mother wrote, Yasmeen's voice translating for Morton, “a sickness has taken over the heart of the world, soon it will spread.
It will envelope the world in fire,” her eyes jumping up to Morton before returning to the journal.
“You will know the time is near when the gods act as demons…” at the last sentence she pushed her brows together.
“When the gods act as demons?” she repeated, looking at Morton, confused in a sense at the words