Isra who is poetry missing words "you seem like a galaxy of stars, just waiting to be explored and loved.”
If I am a rhythm, if I am notes of music strewn across the sky like dewdrops and rain...
If I am a rhythm...
I am one without a beat, a melody, or poetry. There is discord in my bones, and blood, and sharp altos that curl around my heart like spires and thorns. Nothing in me is elegant on its own. Nothing is soothing, or motherly, or sweet as sugar on the tongue. I am brine and blood. I am a drumbeat of thunder echoing on crags and cliffs.
If I have ever been a song, or a poem, or a story without ink blots, I have forgotten the curls my body must make to become it.
But perhaps there is a almost-melody in my steps as I walk through the marble streets of Denocte. Perhaps there is a forgotten stanza of poetry in the bell-chime of hoof on precious stone. Or maybe the almost-music is only in the opal flowers rising in the wake of my shadow like the gardens of the underworld where there is only stone, and darkness, and nothing of blood-red sunlight or rain.
Even the music playing around the bonfires does nothing to settle that discordant sound of my heart. It makes me feel torn, empty, and cracked. And each time I inhale and fill my lungs with jasmine and cedar a bit of me strains to relearn that poetic beat I have forgotten how to gild myself with. I want to be frost on the leaves again, or sunlight dappling the forest floor, or bell-song in the church tree.
I want to be. Oh,
I want to be something else now that I'm in my city again.
And maybe tonight, with the opals at my feet like the underneath risen like a sea and a filigree mask of butterfly dust and diamonds around my face, I might remember how.
It starts with a step lighter than the others and a breath deeper than the shallow ache my lungs have become accustomed too. Someone's poetry fills the forgotten cracks of my own and their violin turns my drumbeat heart into something mellow, something more ember than wildfire, something with a fermented sweetness. I smolder with their music and I let myself fall into the crowd. I dissolve into the heat of mortal skin against my own like I am something as fragile as the rest of the herd.
The tide of this place, of the wholeness of everyone but me, tugs me along into the ebb and flow I have almost-forgotten. My discordant notes start to reshape themselves. The blots of ink scattered across my pages run together and start to paint curls, and dots, and language. All the spires around my heart, and the thorns, start to bloom and leak something other than sea-water and magic.
And when I see the curl of his neck, and the endless eternity in his gaze, and the way the hollow of his throat begs for me to curl myself beneath it like a doe---
The second harvest festival is rolling along smoothly as night begins to fall. Almost too much so-- Anandi is secretly a little disappointed there is not more mischief going on. This is not the first time she's found herself bored by all the wholesome celebration, and it's not likely to be the last. She sighs heavily at that thought as she hikes from the apple orchard to the cliffs, absently hoping that she might once again cross paths with Apolonia this evening.
As she draws closer to the bonfires, there is a familiar face illuminated by their blaze. How perfect, it's someone she had been meaning to catch up with. “Elena!” Anandi waltzes over to where a tall grey stallion is leaning in, hawkish, to Elena’s wide, sorrowful eyes. “May I borrow you?” She bumps her hip against the other girl’s, smiles sweetly at the stallion, and leads the palomino astray all so easily and succinctly, it almost seems polite. Behind her shoulder she calls: “So sorry, sir! You may have her back later!” She had a gift for bending the world to her whim and making it seem like a kindness. Part of that was to keep the conversation moving, keep events flowing. Without sparing a glance back, Anandi tosses a coin to the crestfallen grey. Maybe he’ll buy himself a nice drink, forget the doe-eyed palomino. Or not. She really doesn’t care.
“So, my dear...” She leads them away from the bonfire, closer to the cliffs, where moonlight illuminates the sharp, steep ridge in silver light. “How are you adjusting to things in Terrastella?” She doesn’t mention, of course, that she knows Elena has adjusted quite beautifully to her new role here.
In truth, Anandi had been keeping an eye on Elena. She was very careful about it, as you should be with these things. Her questions-- harmless inquiries, really-- were discreet. Her Eyes and Ears, the network small but steadily growing in number, were tactful. Most of all she was very careful to ensure that her agents not alter the ebb and flow of court life. Terrastella was the same as always; quiet, sleepy, and unassuming. Under the emissary’s tenure it simply was better observed.
So she doesn't reveal that she knows the new medic has already made a number of friends in Terrastella. In fact she was quite popular around the court, for reasons the emissary very much understood. There was something so very captivating about Elena. A rawness to her that made you want to hold her tight, protect her... or, even better, extend a hand and raise her from the dirt. Show her she did not need protecting. Fire could warm and comfort, but my how it could burn!
Anandi shrugs a wine skin from off her shoulder, takes a sip, and offers it to the palomino. “Meet anyone cute?” Her eyes light up wolfishly as she takes another drink from the skin, and passes it back to her new friend.
Hunger corrupts, and absolute hunger
corrupts absolutely,
or almost.
Tell me something nice
Like flowers and blue skies
She watched Edana burn, watched it fall into disarray as the darkness spilled out over the wall, creeping into the safety of the main region, bringing destruction in its wake. She had fled with it hot on her tail, had pleaded with higher powers, with Cosmos and Halla, to let Pyrrha be safe. It was déjà vu, panting and screaming until her throat was raw and bloodied, wielding Ruinam against the dark tide. All she had wanted was to see Pyrrha to safety, to see the Southern people of Edana to safety, to do what she could not in Nordlys' final moments. But fate had different plans for her.
In an instant was returned to the wretched familiarity of an open, empty expanse, filled only by the twinkle of starlight. Her arrival was met with nothing but deafening silence, not with the tormented cries of her gods nor the cries of her slaughtered people as it had been before. She couldn't decide which was worse. She had wept for eons within these confines, listened to the hollow sobs that rattled her ribs; she watched the twinkling starlit tears slip from her cheeks and into the endless black, wished them luck as they joined the billions of others she had shed. And returned to her purgatory, the tears began to flow once more, her cheeks stained with her sorrows, skin crawling with glistening stardust— she had thrashed and screamed, had hissed and snarled like a cornered animal as the void had swallowed her up, taking her away from the chaos of the death of a world.
She had tried to bargain, to plead, begging to be returned to Edana, to burn with it, it's ruin hauntingly similar to that of Nordlys. Was she truly so cursed, that she had to witness the demise of two homes? To witness the deaths of thousands, millions, mortal and god alike — oh the things she had seen! How marred and heavy her conscious was, dripping with the golden ichor of her gods. Why had she been chosen to survive and endure such hardship and heartache, why had fate cruelly selected her to torment in this starlit hell? These questions had rolled from her tongue, from quivering lips broken sentences were spilled, but there was never an answer.
She cannot tell how long she was there, adrift in nothing, waiting for something — she only knew that her tears had run dry and that no matter how much time passed, the sharp pain in her chest would not dissipate. She was tired and weary, weighed down by her survivor's guilt, by the idea that she may not escape a second time. She held Ruinam in her grasp, the only thing to keep her company, the cold bronze tip resting against her skin, the pressure delightful to her tarnished mind. But she never went farther than that, for she valued her life too much, valued the chance that she would be freed someday. And she had convinced herself Ruinam didn't want to pierce her flesh either, loyal to its wielder. What a horrible fate immortality is, condemned to witness the deaths of your people and gods, to outlive them all, to exist in nothingness. Never to age nor rot, left only with memories of worlds now ruined.
Was she the last of her people? The Final Daughter, the Last Matraan, sentenced to eternal solitude. She knew it so, fate cruelly crushing her hopes of finding survivors, of rebuilding her tribe on foreign soil. For the survivors of Nordlys' ruin had been scattered, few and far between, sent to lands beyond her reach, likely to die horrible deaths in unfamiliar lands. She thought of Pyrrha, whose fate was unknown, proud and beautiful and fiery as the desert sun. She tried not to think of the antlered warrior's untimely death, of life wrenched from her grasp by shrouded shadows and hellfire, ashes burning up with Edana. And she thought of the beauty of the North, draped in fine furs and worn leather, a daughter of stars and snowy peaks. She thought of Cosmos and Halla, whose existences ceased to be millennia ago, and yet her prayers were still for them, hoping by some miracle her gods and escaped their horrible undoing.
There is a moment in time where her prayers are answered, either by pure coincidence or a purposeful act by a benevolent deity — before her, a tear in her void, a rip in the starlit backdrop she has been suspended in for eons. It sizzles against the black skin of her purgatory, ripped open by invisible hands, a toothy maw agape before her. It opens to reveal a prairie, golden and green fields and rolling hills, gloriously familiar to her desperate mind. Frantic limbs kick and thrash at the sight, a slate muzzle reaching out, straining to touch the tear in reality. Something nudges her forward, through the rip in the fabric of space, and she is tumbling out, free at last.
Her first thought is to reach for Ruinam, to arm herself with the bronze headed spear, to find comfort and safety in the familiar wooden shaft. But as her mind reaches, she comes up empty handed, grasping at air and grass and dirt instead. And somehow, this feels so much worse than being alone in that endless void, than watching her gods unravel before her very eyes — she is alone in unfamiliar territory, with nothing but tooth and hoof to defend herself and tears she didn't know she was crying. Hunched over like a pathetic babe, she weeps crystalline tears that fall like dew drops into foreign grass.
This is not the Nord Prairie, this is not her home.
She doesn't even feel at home in her body, unable to stand as her knees buckle, as her stomach growls and her skin blisters beneath the sun. She doesn't feel whole, doesn't feel right, something is missing that she can't quite place. She would wretch if she could, mouth agape in some silent scream as amber eyes wander the beautiful field she's been placed in. The sun is hot against her back, having been comfortable with the chill of her starry prison. Her forehead brushes against warm dirt and rests there, laid down in defeat. "Item non, commodo non iterum," her words are nothing more than a hoarse whisper in her native tongue, a plea made to her gods and the gods of this realm, to the sun and the dirt beneath her, to the tears she sheds that lack the stars of her past.
usic rose from the vineyards, and with it, the party had begun. All around, there are candlelights and jovial sounds – it is the type of crowd Mephisto generally ignores. But she cannot help herself, curious as she sidesteps the overindulged, sipping gingerly on warm spiced wine as it blossomed against her tongue. The taste of it is somewhat bitter, somewhat sweet, and entirely pleasant as it warms her to the core. It reminds her of fall, with the spiced herbs and harvent scents, and even the dark Pegasus has to smile at the celebration. Autumn was upon them now, and she was certainly ready for it, welcoming the cooler days and longer nights with earnest.
Visitors took advantage of the spectacle, stomping on grapes and dancing together beneath the harvest moon. It wasn’t really her scene, so she does not join in, but instead she stands near the edges of the vats, watching quietly and enjoying the festivities in her own reserved way.
Alone, the warg is left to her thoughts, even as she shifts slightly to allow others to crowd in around her. Their touch is warm, but she does not shy away, grateful for the company and the energy it brings. “Good evening”, she murmurs to those who press closer, “Welcome to Terrestella.”
While she didn’t usually find herself to be a welcoming type, these sorts of celebrations were different. Now, she knew their doors were open in camaraderie with their fellow courts, and so Mephisto had decided to be more social than usual. She even allowed the wine to fuzzy her mind a bit, closing her bright blue eyes to sway with the music, allowing a moment to lose herself in the energy. “What brings you to our autumn harvest?” She offers the question to a stranger to her left, deciding to open herself up to the possibility of company – if only for the night.
For the celebration brought out the bits of herself that Mephisto hid deeply – the girl who longed for touch and companionship, usually subdued by self-resolve and stoicism. Tonight, she simply lets herself be, free and exposed by the firelight.
ogether, they walk through Terrastella’s orchards.
They have been walking for quite some time, without much conversation. Orestes pauses now and again to appraise, and then pick, an apple. Their shared whicker basket has become more full as they’ve progressed, and whatever awkward lulls might have happened due to their silence were compensated for when they stooped to plant a handful of seeds. The King cannot help glancing at her, every so often, from the corners of his eyes; there is something enchanting about these moments, stolen away in a ruse of normalcy, as if either of them has the time to pick apples. He wants to speak on this, but knows doing so breaks the intimate spell.
And, besides, Orestes's deeper thoughts are hardly acceptable. Orestes, who has dedicated himself utterly to Solterra, admits to himself that the orchards make his heart ache. Although he has grown accustomed—and even affectionate toward—all that is Solterra, from the heat to the violence to the politics, this is his more natural state. Orestes is surrounded by beauty. The rich odour of mulch and fruit perfumes the air, a smell of life. The orchard is humid to the point of being unbearable for a man so accustomed to the arid desert, but—
it is all so lovely.
Orestes steels glances, occasionally, at Marisol. He wonders in a way quite boyish exactly what she is thinking. Orestes wants to ask, but also fears being intrusive. They continue on like this until the midday light slinks into the quieter aura of her people’s time, dusk. First, however, the sun hangs heavy and pregnant upon the horizon, larger than life. The orchards dance with beautiful, golden light.
It is here, when many of the other patrons have already left, that Orestes begins to speak. He does so with the sun dappling the leaves, and their bodies, and his blue eyes light and full of curiosity.
“We have been busy with our kingdoms,” Orestes admits. They have not seen each other as feverishly or as often as they had during their initial courtship. Now, their visits with one another were much more measured, much more mature. Orestes adds, “I would like to spend more time getting to know one another. I know we’ve talked family in the past, but what about the future? I’d like to known more about your mother, about—“
and here Orestes smiles, a small and brilliant smile, slightly shy. Private. He does not smile that way for anyone else. “I want to know everything that makes you who you are, Marisol.” The light plays off the leaves all around them; the effect is not unlike a chandelier in that it reflects brilliantly off all it touches. They are in an equilibrium of dark and light, of sunshine and shadow, and it ignites within him a strange longing. Perhaps because it all seems so transient. Even she, mottled with the light of the orchard, seems as if she might disappear if he were to blink.
A small, delicate note rolled up and sealed with pale, yellow wax. The sign of a three-tailed scorpion pressed into the center. Off handedly passed to him in the busy street, by a messenger who hadn’t cared to look back or acknowledge him.
It read:
Meet me at sunset, dear brother.
Let us share tea this evening.
Signed – MH
He threw it away in a nearby pit. The flames consumed the parchment quickly – for a moment he could afford to stare at it for some time. Watched the small thing evaporate into smoke, dissipating with its last breath – a sense of giddiness quickening his heart. Aroused, for just a quick second, at the prospect of gaining new orders.
The meeting at the teahouse was always brief. The female – she called herself Mata Hari, ‘the light of day’ – always assumed the face of an entertainer. Of silks and detailed jewelry adorning her otherwise plain canvass. She had since lost her amusement of Noam over the years. Her kind words always followed a hint of irritation and revulsion for Noam that he couldn’t quite place.
“Alam Masih. Recognize that name?”
“Yes.” “He’s wanted. Dead, rather than alive, if you ask me…”
“Do they care?” “No, but there’s a bonus if you manage to bring him in alive.”
“Why’s that?” “Oh – you know… He’s been tipping the authorities to his advantage. I imagine they want to know whom he might be working with. That sort of thing.” She smiles with a giggle. Her eyes glow momentarily in the dim light. A viper poised to strike.
“My, my, we’re full of questions tonight aren’t we?”
“Hmm,” he takes that as his cue to leave.
“Try not to mess this one up.” Her restrain is delicate. It’s hard to fathom this lithe creature is capable of any real harm.
He takes one large gulp of tea, and licks his lips as he exits the shop. Savoring the sweet cardamom flavor while he could.
He wondered briefly how many other informants Mata Hari had hired for the job. That her faith in his abilities had waned over the past couple of months was fair at best. To think his usefulness might prove detrimental to them, merely nailed him further into his coffin. Perhaps, he thought on a whim – this is the best-case scenario. And that was how it should be – death was inevitable. Noam had cheated its grip for too long. Mata would poison him one day.
He went about searching for the target’s location. Spent the days leading up to the present to observe from a distance. Alam was wealthy, but he’d been smart enough to flaunt it elsewhere. Followed by hired guards.
It was worth noting the change in his patterns day-to-day. Watch, as the target on his back enlarged – and his paranoia increase in bouts of half-thought out plans, and impromptu decisions. Many of which included getting rid of as many slaves in transit; but by then, none of his regulars wanted to purchase from him.
Then there was the buzzing of the sands, the chaos of the earthquake and Solterra splitting at its center. Gaping wide in a wake of discarded bones, and vengeful spirits.
Amidst that chaos, Alam had fled the city. Perhaps shaking a few of his pursuers in the process.
Patient, Noam followed the stallion at the fringes. He imagined Alam would seek refuge in a hidden cavern if he could, or in some forgotten recess of the desert. The guardsmen he managed to bring with him, and the slaves – began to turn on him in time. Until at last, Alam struck down one of the guardsmen in pure luck and ran off into the desert night.
The sparrow had lost Alam's figure from his vantage point. Alam's camp regrouped between themselves, and seemed to not care for the mad man running towards his death.
Noam took the opportunity to sleep. A moment of respite, under a canopy of familiar stars – abed the shifting sands. Leaving Alam’s fate in Solis’ hands.
Two days had passed since then, a day now since Alam’s footsteps disappeared. Noam hovered in the air past midday, far above the stagnant drawl of the desert – carving through the prevailing winds high above. He kept his bearings – familiar dunes too large to have completely shifted form. A working log of the Vitae Oasis, Day Court, the Elutheria Plains, the Arma Mountains – Denocte…
Thoughts crawled back to the earthquake interrupting his focus. The familiar buzzing – while long since gone, had the uncanny effect of humming behind his eyes now. Screams, children and adults crying – it made his skin crawl briefly, made his muscles twitch in old remembrance. He had the burning desire to turn around then. Pull away from these subtle delights. Coaxing the idea that those secrets belonged to him too. A part of him had caused the same nauseating buzz inhabiting his head. And momentarily, he needed to know why.
Noam’s head swam; he took a breath that he’d been holding. Began his descent. Making a sharp and halting land against the crest of a large dune, kicking up the sand. His eyes searched for the Day Court on the horizon. Muddled out from the heat that bent the light, too far to distinguish any buildings.
the salt is on the briar rose, the fog is in the fir trees.
It is early evening and Caspian has a full belly, a pleasantly fuzzy head and purple-stained feet. The young stallion has enjoyed both the first and final stages of sweet Terrastellan wine today, laughing and singing with others as they pressed grapes beneath their hooves, drinking last year’s bottles in between.
Now he lays with his back to the cool grass, staring up at the emerging stars and giggling over no more than the whisper of the breeze. Lights are strung throughout the vineyard, criss-crossing the grapevines on their posts; they swim like fireflies at the corner of his vision. There’s a band playing somewhere across the green, a lively fiddle and a voice too distant to make out the words (or maybe that’s just his drunkenness, too, softening everything).
Benvolio is fluttering somewhere above him; occasionally, in quiet moments, he can make out the small, high-pitched click of the bat’s radar. Horses drift by in clusters, some laughing or stumbling or both, but none down the paint’s row. His eyes are drifting closed when Ben says Someone’s coming, and sure enough Caspian squints up to see a silhouette approaching, to which he gives a lopsided grin.
“Good evening,” he calls up to them, and giggles at the the slight slurring of his greeting.
Posted by: Regina - 06-07-2020, 11:36 PM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
It had been the sound of music that called Regina towards the festivities. Like a siren's song it beckoned to her. Music, unlike many things she'd encountered in this strange land, was something both familiar to her, as well as dear to her heart. Many nights had been spent out in the desert, singing and dancing as the wandering nomads had crossed paths with other groups. The elders would sing and tell their stories while the children danced and played until it was time to sleep. There was an intoxication that had nothing to do with wine swimming between her ears as she mingled through the crowd.
That wasn't to say she did not plan on partaking in said wine of course. She was slowly starting to accept the fact that this place was full of strange customs and strange habits. She'd watch has horses trotted and stomped violet berries beneath their hooves for a short time. Humming softly in time with the music and smiling to herself. It looked fun, that was for sure, "Maybe later." she muttered to herself. Her desire to not run around such a gathering covered in sticky filth winning out over youthful whims for the moment being.
Pulling herself away from the spectacle she moved to inspect a bottle sitting nearby. Others seemed to be drinking out of them? She lowered her head to give it a good sniff, drawing back for a moment when a surprisingly bitter scent stung her nose. Everyone seemed to be enjoying it greatly however, "Well, I guess I won't know until I try it." maybe it was the music, maybe it was the general atmosphere of joy and laughter causing her to put aside any sort of caution. Gingerly she took the stem of the bottle between her teeth, the glass feeling strange she awkwardly threw up her head in a surprisingly successful attempt to drink the liquid inside. The wine was sweeter than she expected. There was undeniably a bitterness too it still, but it wasn't half bad. After gulping down a few mouthfuls she just as awkwardly set the bottle back down on the ground in front of her. It clanked loudly as she dropped it with a little too much distance between it and the ground but fortunately held its integrity. Smacking her lips she let the flavor on her tongue sink it. "Not bad, but I don't see what all the fuss is over grape water."
The music might have been familiar, but she was in for a surprise. They never had alcohol in the desert.
There was still so much of her new home Regina had yet to explore. As a foal she would have already explored at least half of these new homelands by now, but then again she'd likely already be getting ready to move on with her herd as they followed greener pastures. There was something liberating about the knowledge she had decided to settle down there for the foreseeable future. Life seemed to slow down in recent days. Finally now the jet black woman could spare a moment to simply be. There was no where to go, no one edging her away just as she began settling in. Quickly she had decided this more sedentary lifestyle was greatly preferred to her former nomadic ways.
As she moved northward the area around here looked both familiar and foreign at the same time. She'd traveled through this way when she'd first come to Novus and the Dusk Court, would have had to. Or at least she'd come close to it, probably skirting along the western edge of the swampland and crossing through the fields before making it to the breathtaking sight that had been the Terminus Sea. The thought of such power still brought goosebumps across her skin. That first sight truly had been an experience that had touched her very soul.
So engrossed in her memories was she that the girl literally stumbled into the strange, wicker contraptions sprayed across the ground near the entrance to the grove. Startled she gave a small hop to the left, throwing her head in alarm for a moment before looking down at the unmoving basket. Whale eyed she stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what the strange thing was. "Is it some sort of snake?" She mused aloud, gingerly pushing one limb forward to poke at it with an ink colored hoof. It was... sort of squishy? Confused she tilted her head before extending her neck near its maximum length to sniff the basket. "Hmm... it seems harmless enough, but what's it do though?" She sniffed deeply, oblivious to the festivities around her.
for @Corrdelia, although I'm totally ok if anyone else wants to join in too :)
i am angry. i have nothing to say about it.
i am not sorry for the cost.
S
omeone smiles. Someone hands Andras a glass of hot apple cider and claps him on the back. Someone else laughs as he takes it–warm laughter, friendly laughter. Andras never quite learns their names but he likes them, as much as he can. He likes this, as much as he can.
And though Andras tries, though he smiles or else schools his expression into one of quiet nonchalance, though pride swells in him to see the streets full for the first time in–months? years?–he was not born with emotional stamina. It is exhausting to be a bubbling cauldron from the day he leaves the womb to the day he dies but it has never been more draining than the simple act of enjoying himself. The man with the cider turns to say something over his shoulder.
When he turns back, the warden is gone. His friend says, “I hear he does that.” Both of them shrug, and continue their celebration.
From here the cheer of the city is quieter than the wind blowing through, and the winking lights of the lanterns are yellow specks in the sky. Andras realizes now just how tired he is. Andras realizes, too, that it is a comfortable sleepiness, that he breathes out a sigh and it is not in anguish but contentment.
–and that contentment turns to icy fear, which grows and grows because he doesn’t know what it is and it hurts in the pit of his chest–
–but that is a journey for another time. It is a stitch to undo at another moment. Andras breathes (in, hold it, then out) and Andras tries not to think that contentment is so close to that feeling that rules him when he thinks about snakes and gold and the Solterran sun.
‘Do you hear them?’Andras turns his head to hear it, turns his head to look. It is almost familiar. It is almost like someone he knows but can’t pick out of a crowd. And at first it’s so quiet he’s not sure he heard it at all. What he finds is bright eyes, like molten gold, and a shape that steps out of the woods like it’s been there for years, haunting them. Watching. Waiting.
Andras purses his lips and draws his brows together. Andras leers down his nose at the shape in the dark. Andras quietly thanks Oriens for something to haunt him that is not his own heart running away with him. At this point he’d take anything–he had meant to go home, sink into bed, and curl in on himself until the sharp pain of being subsides–but he’ll take anything.
‘They’re only the voices of the lost,’ the shape says with that voice that he almost remembers but isn’t quite sure he hears at all. ‘Some say they only sing to those who are also lost.’ Andras clenches his teeth and tucks his lips tighter. There is anger growing in him. Comforting anger. Safe anger. So much safer than everything else.
‘I suppose you’ve come for the festival path?’ The stranger begins again. His voice is a whisper in the warden’s ear though he’s so far away. When he speaks Andras feels the rising and falling sun, the cool mist of the woods. Each sentence is punctuated by some effervescent glow that sets his teeth on edge. His anger turns to vague fear before shifting back. Andras steps forward dismissively, breaking his stare, and ducks his head.
The voice follows him still, like it’s just behind his head. The voice tells him of ghosts and their secrets. The voice tells him there are old things in the woods, things made of dust and satin, things with quiet mouths that smile or cry–and then, like it had never been there at all–everything around him is silent.
Andras sets his jaw. Andras narrows his eyes–the bright sun is a speck in the distance, weaving its way between trees. He regards it for a moment, before refolding his wings over his back and saying “Fine. I’ll play your game.”
The second harvest festival is rolling along smoothly as night begins to fall. Almost too much so-- Anandi is secretly a little disappointed there is not more mischief going on. This is not the first time she's found herself bored by all the wholesome celebration, and it's not likely to be the last. She sighs heavily at that thought as she hikes from the apple orchard to the cliffs, absently hoping that she might once again cross paths with Apolonia this evening.
