atreideslioness: (water to the dead)
Ghanima had meditated.

She had counseled herself to patience, to trusting in the Golden Path and Leto, and in the bright minds and indomitable wills of Fandom. This too would pass, brought low like all other challengers to this place.

She had been wrong.

Ghanima had listened to the message fifty, perhaps sixty, times since last night, replaying it over and over as the journal sat heavy in her hands, its letter tucked safely inside. She had given water to the dead, and sung what dirges she could, alone. She had followed the lessons of the Bene Gesserit and look what it had cost her. No more. Not this time.

Stilgar had always said that Ghanima was more Liet than Kynes, Fremen over Imperium, and in this he had always been correct. There was spannungsbogen, and then there was a time to act. And while Ghanima did not relish the path she was about to walk, she saw no other option. The Dune Tarot remained infuriatingly silent - for once - and all her meditations and conversations with her Inner Voices was gaining her nothing but headaches.

She stood, tucking the Maker-damned phone back into her sleeve, the journal going under one arm as she strode over to the medicine chest she kept in her quarters. She was not Alia; she had already mastered her ancestral memory, and Chani stood sentinel against those that would attempt an uprising. Her mother also agreed this most be done, which gave Ghanima the courage to attempt what she was contemplating.

She picked a large jar out of one of the drawers, holding it up; the Spice within it glowed radiant blue in the dim silver light of the pre-dawn hours.

There were preparations to be made. It was worth the risk. No one else.

[OOC: Establishy. NFI, NFB. DUN DUN DUN!]
atreideslioness: (water to the dead)
Ghanima had meditated.

She had counseled herself to patience, to trusting in the Golden Path and Leto, and in the bright minds and indomitable wills of Fandom. This too would pass, brought low like all other challengers to this place.

She had been wrong.

Ghanima had listened to the message fifty, perhaps sixty, times since last night, replaying it over and over as the journal sat heavy in her hands, its letter tucked safely inside. She had given water to the dead, and sung what dirges she could, alone. She had followed the lessons of the Bene Gesserit and look what it had cost her. No more. Not this time.

Stilgar had always said that Ghanima was more Liet than Kynes, Fremen over Imperium, and in this he had always been correct. There was spannungsbogen, and then there was a time to act. And while Ghanima did not relish the path she was about to walk, she saw no other option. The Dune Tarot remained infuriatingly silent - for once - and all her meditations and conversations with her Inner Voices was gaining her nothing but headaches.

She stood, tucking the Maker-damned phone back into her sleeve, the journal going under one arm as she strode over to the medicine chest she kept in her quarters. She was not Alia; she had already mastered her ancestral memory, and Chani stood sentinel against those that would attempt an uprising. Her mother also agreed this most be done, which gave Ghanima the courage to attempt what she was contemplating.

She picked a large jar out of one of the drawers, holding it up; the Spice within it glowed radiant blue in the dim silver light of the pre-dawn hours.

There were preparations to be made. It was worth the risk. No one else.

[OOC: Establishy. NFI, NFB. DUN DUN DUN!]

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Ghanima Atreides

October 2016

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