Posted by: Maxence - 09-25-2017, 07:02 AM - Forum: Archives
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MAXENCE
HEAVY LIES THE HEAD THAT WEARS THE CROWN
Solis' farewell was only just visible beyond the canyon walls and crowded sky, an orange light the only evidence that Solis had ever blessed their lifeless land that day, and like windchimes in a storm the ambience of howling winds and pounding sands had drowned out the precious chirp of locusts and cicadas - there was naught to be heard but the screech of air over each dune.
The task that fell upon the commander's shoulders was one grievous and cold; the kind that the lion king never wished to undertake, but for the benefit of the court and it's people it seemed a necessity.
"Oz!" Maxence boomed from the heights of the eastern tower, though in truth the sovereign was quite convinced that his summons would not reach the ears of the prematurely promoted Champion of Healing. Had the stallion already ran from this land and all it's devouring sand? It had been weeks upon weeks since Maxence had last sighted the peculiar stag - Not since weeks before the defeat of the Teryr at least. Had their champion of healing abandoned them?
They were a land of warriors and switchblades, spears and poisoners. If there was no healer to tend to their battle borne wounds and ilnesses how were they to thrive as a court? It was this frustration that turned the commander's summoning boom into a furious roar, the kind to make any weak at the knee and pause in reverence for the lion creating it. "Prove you have not forsaken us! Return to us in the fortnight, resume your position as chief healer and your position of rank will hold"
@Oz hasn't posted since July, so Maxence is calling across Solterra for him! The court needs a healer, so if Oz is not up to the task Maxence will find another in the coming months to fill the position of champion of healing in Oz's place <3
Posted by: Only - 09-25-2017, 02:41 AM - Forum: Archives
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It was midnight when Tinea received him, Summer blew warm air in from behind and filled the glades with his smell.
Stranger, it wheezes, the grove trees wail and the water rubbles its stones from the mud in quiet murmurs. Animals silent and still when they sense the invader - the ratfink who dares to upset the peace. To steal it somehow, some way.
Go home, Tinea seems to say with its eerie silences and darknesses far beyond the depth of Only's sin.
Stephan.
The wind sighs its warning to all of those who will listen. To the pale girl he tracks - she is down wind of him. Her hunter is smart and impressively seasoned. He is a part of night that no star can attest to - he is a danger to them all and to himself as well.
The swamp shudders knowing what it has let in this night, if it could chase this kind of predator out it might have tried to by now. Florentine, the pale one he has chosen, drifts like a phantom through the wet woods. She glows like andromeda and he is a dark, vaccuous space closing in all around her.
A killer hides in the glades of Tinea tonight - there is blood on his brow. With his exhausted mind he clutches a knife to his chest that he has stolen along the way, one he's used not more than an hour ago - one he's not ready to give up to the black murky water just yet. Alligators may come to eat him - lord knows they've been waiting for a sinner like that. But even they know that a man like Stephan won't go away just like that.
Even the gators know he'll find a way to make them scream before he kills them.
His mind is a division of feelings and sensory details, half of him knows where he is going while the other blindly follows. Stephan walks with his head low as if his heart is full of sadness, no one can safely assume that it isn't. It is just filled with blood and it beats for no reason other than to keep him alive. He remembers his moonwhite hydra, the red cup of wine that felt bottomless when he drank from it. When he sees Florentine float in thin air he thinks of her.
That sick, sad, angel of death.
A merciless mauler, that girl.
That unfeeling bitch.
Faida.
Stephan thinks he sees ghosts tonight as Flora floats like a memory, a broken, feverish one that ended all too soon. Her wings attract him in all the wrong kinds of ways. She is a canary to the prowling panther. Stephan licks his lips and slides through shadows and lithely sails over slumps, he is incredibly light on his feet when he wants to be. Florentine goes between wandering and waiting and Stephan both watches and wonders, curious, his attention to her acutely focused.
You are abnormal. Only manages to say.
Stephan laughs outloud in the dark and gives himself away entirely. His barking laughter is loud enough to scurry the vermon from the surrounding brush. They race away, dashing off towards Flora as if she will be the one to save them.
He had been traveling for some time, yet still this land proved itself a mystery, it's inhabitants queer and its foreign nature terrifying for him to behold. He felt adrift a sea, lost and disorientated, unsure of what to do next, his desires unable to be fulfilled by his own uncertainty and insecurity in gaining a foothold in the world. He knew not where to tread, what to become with 'Vasher' being but a simple guise, and this ignorance only unsettled him further. It was easy to declare that he would seek vengeance, it was easy to aspire to it. Reality was much crueler and much harsher. As he journeyed, he listened whenever he passed others, learning but snippets of what was new to him and what was commonplace to the rest of the folk that resided within the lands. He knew now that within these lands resided four courts, aligned to the time of day and overseen by a single patron deity per Court, but he knew not these deific names nor even the locations of the Courts themselves.
Oh, he could but ask any commoner he passed, but that would unveil his immigrant status more easily than a flag declaring it. As it was, his vocal patterns set him apart, and that he had veiled by simply feigning muteness or a simple reluctance to speak, and thus far all those he had but briefly passed had taken it at face value. He could not afford to let his ignorance be shown, and thus relied upon his wits to fill in the gaps of what he knew and what he did not. Gradually he learned the names of the gods, by curse or joking plea, though knew not what name belonged to what god. He learned the rough mentalities of each of the Courts, of the tension between Day and Night, and after finding a map on a drunken equid's person, he knew the locations of each Court. He had spent several days digesting the information he had gathered as he walked, mulling over the options that lay before him. As much as it galled him to place himself once more under the thumb of another, he would need allies for his vengeance and that would require aligning himself to a Court.
It galled him, oh how it pestered him like a thorn beneath his skin... but it was a necessary evil, one he could see no way around. So he settled down upon a bluff overlooking the sea to ponder his choices. He currently resided near the border of Dusk and the sea, so should he desire the swift option, that was the blatant choice. Yet the Court of Dusk did not seem to appeal much at all to him, and although he could perhaps achieve the information he sought within Dawn, he strongly doubted his violent outlet for his retribution would be favorably looked upon. Granted, he doubted it would within any of the Courts, but within Dawn he would not truly be able to veil his actions. Which left Day and Night, polar Courts that each beckoned a different path. With Day it would be difficult to garner the information he so desired, but within the desert.... so many did go missing in those sands, after all. With Day's predilection towards violence and strength, it would be easy enough to don again Gracifilis's guise and become the warrior bent on revenge.... but he was loathe to return to that man. It was too easy to trick himself into believing he truly was Gracifilis, and the thought of using such a name again made his chest ache with the echoes of a pain he didn't wish to remember. Which left him with Night Court to find his solace and lair within. It was not the perfect fit, but it would suit his needs as it drew gypsies and roamers into it's embrace, many of which souls were loose to allegiance and preferred solitude. He could very easily become one of those many wandering, barely-known faces that came and went like the leaves of autumn blown away on winter winds.
His mind decided, Ammon returned to the world around him, gazing out upon the crashing waves before allowing his legs to fold, sinking his ebony bulk onto the soft grass, allowing himself to relax for the remainder of the evening with the scent of the sea in his nostrils and the weight of purpose in his heart.
I am the villain of this story What else could i ever be?
Battle Type: Battle Prize: Bragging rights and CONFIDENCE
Character #1:Seraphina Bonded: N/A Magic: N/A Armor: N/A Weapons: N/A
Character #2:Ammon Bonded: N/A Magic: N/A Armor: N/A Weapons: N/A
You do not fear me as I should be feared
He had grown no closer to obtaining a purpose than he had in the time since his arrival, wandering aimless adrift a sea of uncertainty and uselessness. He was a bird stripped of it's flight feathers, a snake of it's fangs, and all too easy prey for the cruel talons of his own thoughts and despair. Oh, he had his thirst for vengeance, this was true, but the daunting task of slaking that desire was insurmountable, impossible for him to achieve in his current state of solitary existence. He would need allies, would need eyes and ears to serve him for he could not be everywhere and anywhere, and with his magic gone from him either by divine sorcery or simply a side effect of his curse... Ammon was just a stallion. While this served him well enough as being an easy to forget face, a simple man, it chafed and gnawed at him, his lack of power and ability.
However, the black stag was a clever fellow, his current situation simply one he would grow and adapt to, and eventually evolve beyond. Of this fact he was certain, his belief in himself shaken by his own traitorous flaws, but he trusted in the wit of his sharp mind and his intuition to guide him well. Himself was the only one he could trust, after all, that he had learned so clearly so long ago.
With that settled within him, Ammon traversed the Steppes with intent, a rare humor sparking within his breast. Although he had come to the acceptance that his mind would never fail him even as his sovereign, magic, and gods had, there still burned within him that flame for vengeance, that rage that pulsed through his veins and drove his dreams to bloodshed and triumph. He yearned to scream his wrath to the heavens, to drive forth the spawn of his foe from the earth with whips and chains, to revel in their misery and despair all to appease the vengeance boiling in his heart. He would see the world burn for the wrongs that were wrought upon him. He whipped himself into a fury, until his hooves hit the ground with force and haunting eyes rolled in his head, searching with red-hued vision for an outlet. His rage screamed through him, demanding to be let free, but he bit it back and wrestled a measure of control. Never had he lost his head in battle, and he would not let this be the first time rage overtook him. With care he moved through the Steppe, passing over patches of battle-torn dirt in search of the place he would make a stand, to have his rage answered or to meditate in his solitude.
He did not stop until he found a section of trampled-down grasses and bared, rocky soil, riddled with gopher-holes and crevices worn by drought and baked hard by heat. He tested the earth once, twice, pawing it with his hoof until he was certain of it's firmness, of the grass slick with it's own juices from broken stems. It was treacherous footing that all would consider a wretched place to fight in... and that was why he chose it. Perhaps the land would bite back against him, yet if even he whom studied the locations of the holes swiftly and thoroughly was able to be unsettled... he could all but taste the cries of the one whom charged in after him only to meet their doom by the land's own hand. His mind felt calm despite the brimming anticipation that made the skin on his spine twitch and quiver, that made nostrils flare to expose red flesh and teeth champ behind bared lips.
Swiftly the black anger of his vengeful desire burned like liquid fire up his throat, building and bubbling until he could bear it no more, and his scream rent the air. It was the stallion-squeal of defiance and challenge, of anger and it bore to mind the clashing of bodies and the lashing of hooves. It demanded blood and fury to match, and the black stallion paced the stony space he had chosen, awaiting a call that would answer his own.
You do not know the first note of the music that moves me
Summary: Ammon has a hissy fit and decides he wants to vent, so he finds a place in the Steppe to set up a battle. The ground is hard and dry by the summer heat, the grass trampled down flat and the earth riddled with gopher holes. He quickly checks where the holes are before screaming like a banshee rather than calling out like a normal sentient horse.
Dawn Court held many things, but sometimes... one needed a break. Ptolema found herself in the Eluetheria Plain, as she had many times before, grasses attempting to tickle through thick feathering on her legs, catching and pulling on the hairs gently. The large mare made her way through the thickest parts of it, feeling tall grass on her belly (unusual, considering her height), before she finally came to a stop near a bubbling stream. It wasn't that fast, or deep, and she stepped forward slowly, mostly to submerge her hooves in it and duck her head, allowing her lips to touch the moving surface and smiling against the cool liquid.
Her reflection looked back at her, the soft bumps on her nose and the mess of her mane wild around her head. She looked tired, but she also felt tired; it had been a tough day when she had helped a sick patient earlier. They had rested well though, once she had finished helping, and she had sighed and made her way here. Pregnancy was common for her to see where one would be sick, it came with it. She couldn't help but suddenly frown a little to herself at the thought, orange eyes closing as she drew her head up, and absently lifted a hind leg to scratch at her belly.
She could never conceive, herself. Cursed in the wrong body at birth, it was something she constantly seemed to fight with. Some days she was happy, others... well. Other days reminded her how she had been born, and she loathed it.
Shaking her head, she dropped her hind leg with a splash, huffing out instead and trudging a little further up the stream, to a deeper part. That didn't matter. It didn't matter if she would never carry a foal herself, she could still help raise them and help them grow. Help the orphaned ones toughen up a little and dote on them when they were sleepy.
She was fine the way she was. She would change for no one.
He knew not what had brought him to the summit of this mountain, that carried his hooves into a temple mount dedicated to gods unknown. He had heard this was a place of blessing and curse, where gods might deign to visit, and certainly no place for a man who did not even have a name for himself. Yet still Ammon's hooves carried him inwards, past alcoves where candles had been lit and melted to stubs. Past other quiet worshippers, no doubt keepers vigilant of their precious deities' temple of worship. Why was he here? What could he desire from these nameless and faceless foreign gods, when his own had forsaken him as well? He had never been a devout man, but he had always obeyed the customs nd bowed his head for the dead, whispered a prayer of protection in his dark hours, sacrificed momments he had made upon the equinoxes. Yet still his own pantheon had never once responded to his prayers, nor did they ever respond to his silent worship with anything but frigid absence.
What would be different here? Ammon stopped when he reached the altar room, gazing upon the shrines for each of the gods. He knew not even their names... though, he supposed, it was quite fitting, as he himself held no name. For a long time he simply stood, gazing upon the offerings others had left behind, his mind slowly turning, digesting the whispered information each sight gifted upon him. There, a wrapped mommet in the vague semblance of a foal, a prayer for a safe birth perhaps or the wish of a grieving mother that her child be safe in the embrace of the gods. Another was a pinch of grain, for good harvest perhaps, either thanking for or praying. So many objects left for gods who held no need for them, yet still treasures and sacrifices were heaped upon the altars.
And he brought with him nothingness.
Not wholly true, for within him raged desire and thirst, a starved man clawing for the fruits of vengeance even as fate dangled them just beyond his reach, an eternal cycle of torment he was doomed to. That was his bleak outlook of truth for the task he had set himself to, a fate he resigned himself to with acceptance and that vicious flame within him. He would set the world afire, if it purged those whose ancestors had wronged him so grievously from the face of the earth. He would bring chaos and ruin, if to appease his own drowning despair. He would become an instrument of destruction, if it would just but give him purpose he had lacked from the moment of his awakening. He mulled over his thoughts silently, over what purpose may have driven him to seek out these gods he knew nothing of. He was a creature of knowledge, perhaps that is what he sought, knowledge of these gods and these people. Or perhaps he sought restoration of the magic that had once flooded his veins. Or perhaps he sought to merely see whether these deities were true gods, or false beings of foolish faith and insubstantial dreams as he grew to suspect his former patrons had been.
Therein he faced a choice, to pick which shrine to speak his prayers to and feverently hope for a sign. Yet knowing this decision lay before him, Ammon's feet refused to move, and he continued to stand in silence before the altars of the gods. How could he pick a deity, whence he knew so little of any? He could very well not give his patronage to any, yet then should they prove to be actual forces of power then he was without spiritual support. Hand in hand, should he pray to the wrong deity, to a god he knew not the domain and scope of, he risked the ire of another god as well as his prayers being unheard at best, twisted at worst.
Finally Ammon breached the silence, his breath breaking the quiet in a deep, resigned sigh, his weariness overcoming him. He yearned for his simpler years, for the life he held before even as it had been fraught with betrayal and turmoil, at least then he had known the way of the world and had held his purpose true and dear. Now he was set adrift, alone and wretched, a forsaken raven drowning in the sea of his own solitude. "I shall return unto thine benevolent presences, mine heart too unsteady for prayer for thine blessings." Grief swelled within him in a wave as silence rushed in to fill the gap left in his words, and despair so black it threatened to crush him nearly buckled his knees and sent the black stag crashing to the ground. Ammon stood strong against these powerful emotions, resolute to become a boulder defiant and unmoved admist the chaotic maelstrom of his own feelings.
He had learned his lesson on that beautiful marble floor so very long ago, and would not reveal his weakness even unto the very gods themselves.
She had awoken early, the sky still dark, but slowly turning gray, then purple, pink, and finally…blue. She watched the sunrise through her button eyes, awe evident in her face. She had seen it many times, but it still never ceased to be awed by it. It was then that the filly decided she needed to seek out the god that Aislinn said belonged to the dawn. Oriens. If she remembered correctly, that is. The filly rose from the chilled earth and stretched her muscles, shaking off the dirt, and sending her mane and tail into a mad disarray. She looked around and decided here was as good a place as any to see if she could call forth one of the gods she wished desperately to speak with.
”Oriens…if you are the god of the dawn…I wish to speak with you.”
She wasn’t sure if he would appear and speak with her, or if she was just supposed to talk and hope he heard her. In her last home, the gods were real, tangible creatures. Like Maaemo who had given her Pandora, and Fantome, who had burned her home to the ground. She wondered what this place was like – if the gods were real, or if they were imaginary things that someone thought up to keep the herds in line.
She explored the citadel that she had found Aislinn in the night before. It had large pillars, and was beautiful to her, even if her sight was blurry due to the buttons. She moved to the edge and looked over, watching the landscape change colors as the sunlight reached its fingers out to touch everything it could. Yes. This world was by far the most beautiful she had ever been in. She only wished that Mew could be here to see it, too.
ooc: sorry...my laptop took a dive and I have no HTML right now. Will work on it. :/
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
There were many, many times in his life where Apollo had been terrified. It had started young, following the death of his parents and the bickering of his herd. From there, it turned into an encounter with a monstrous sea-beast upon a hot summer day, a brush with a growling, snapping pack of wolves, followed by battles, by invasions into distant herds. 'Terror' was a shrill, unstable cry of 'Apollo, face me, coward!' bellowed amidst a thunderstorm by the devil herself, 'fear' were shadows and infections robbing away the sanity of the ones he loved and turning them into ravenous wraiths, 'heart-stopping' was the insurmountable grief of the loss of his loved ones, so, so, so many of them, Phaedra, Andreas, Midas, Lakota, and the ultimate, inevitable, damning end of the world.
'Pass through or die.'
There had been no ultimatum, no other choice. He could have stood with his brothers and sisters and fought, could have died at their sides, but for what? A land already doomed and rotting? A soldier he had never been, and a soldier he would never be, but Apollo would never have the courage to fight, and die, for something that held him no promise. Helovia was dead. Gone. Forsaken. There was nothing left, and he had passed through the Portal with Zola tucked neatly within the leather satchel about his shoulders, praying to Gods now dead and gone that safety would await them on the other side, and now...
Now...
Honey-brown eyes shot open, wide, bulbous, and rolling. The sound of screams rang in his ears, the stench of panic and death cloying his nose. He was frozen, splayed out upon the grass on his side like a dead thing, legs flailing, limbs thrashing, trying to find his footing but for some reason, he could not seem to find the ground. The sound of screams continued, until Apollo realized with a start that he was the one making such a terrible sound, shouting until his throat was raw.
Terror. Fear. Horror.
All at once, the Merciful stallion grew still and silent, flailing legs collapsing into a heap upon the soft grass. He lay there, chest heaving, monochrome hide drenched in sweat, reeking of fright and dismay. Fever cloaked his skin, burning hot to the touch, but slowly the overo's mind seemed to settle within his body, awareness seeping into his pores, the cushion of soft grasses seeming to hold him in a soothing embrace and doing wonders to calm him, to reaffirm that he was, indeed, alive.
Was this... The Rift? Had he made it? Were they safe?
"... Zola?" The cracked, warbled question hardly escaped his maw, but nonetheless, Apollo was startled by the sound of his own voice. Mentally he searched for the blind feline, reaching through the mental void of love and adoration, the mental bond connected in both heart and mind to try and seek out his precious ball of earth, but... There was nothing.
Instead of Zola's warmth, her love, her soothing voice reverberating in his ears, Apollo was met with the cold, heart-numbing black void of nothing. That was true terror. Never before had he felt such fear. No event in his life could even compare to the fear that he felt then, unable to feel the precious bond with Zola, and so with a desperate wail, uncaring of his physical well-being nor the fever that ravaged him, Apollo hauled himself upright, legs trembling as they lifted his considerable bulk. He wavered but for a moment, legs threatening to give out, but the stallions honey-brown eyes darted frantically around, trying to spot the black cat. "Zola!" Louder, more desperate, terrified. No, no, no...
Kaos could take his home, but he could not take his heart. Apollo wouldn't survive it.
"Zola!" With growing alarm, he realized that the leather satchel, Zola's carrying satchel, was no longer slung around his shoulders. It was not there, it was gone, not on his body and not on the ground around where he had been crudely deposited, and that meant... It meant...
... Had she not made it through? Was she gone forever? Was she lost, terrified and alone, without her sight to guide the way? No. No. He couldn't think like that. First? Apollo needed to find out where he was. Chills darted along his frame, his sweat beginning to grow cold, but he couldn't simply stand there and do nothing. Maybe she had wandered off? Their bond was severed, meaning that something had happened... But she couldn't be gone, couldn't be dead. Apollo would not accept it, could not accept it.
Wide eyes absorbed his surroundings to the best of his abilities, given his reeling thoughts and difficulty focusing, nostrils flaring as though to place the scent all around him. Tall green grasses arose from the earth, sparse trees dotting the otherwise empty prairie. The sun shone to the west, late in the evening but not yet robbing the sky of a beautiful, vibrant blue. It was picturesque, almost. Normal. Nothing like the shadows and wreckage of Helovia. There was a breeze in the air, that soothed the heat of the sun but chilled his feverish skin, and for a brief moment the Merciful stallion wondered if he was dead.
Maybe he had died and gone to heaven. Apollo had never believed in heaven, not really, but looking back on it, he would have thought it to look a place like this... But if he was dead, that definitely didn't account for his pain, nor his fever.
With considerable strength, the overo took a step forward, pulling his bulk along the grasses, wide eyes desperately seeking some form of familiarity.
Please, please... To anyone who's listening. Please let me find her. Let me find someone.
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
His arrival was not heralded with the flight of crows cawing into the air, nor did the earth darken in his wake. For all intent and purpose, the ebon man was surprisingly lackluster and average; he was no hulking behemoth, nor elegant dancer. He moved with the weary stride of one who had traveled long and bore heavy burdens, with his crowned head low and his thick neck flecked with sweat as he moved through the heat of midday. He was seemingly innocuous, another weary, normal, traveler out during the peak of the sun's reign.
To believe that was foolish.
It was true that he was weary, but he was in no way average nor so beat-down as his posture would suggest. Perhaps it would be a wise warning if the world harkened his passing, for with the hatred simmering in his heart and the calloused intellect behind his haunting eyes he was one whom should be trusted less than the serpent laying in the pathway. It was merely suiting that he bore the guise of a traveler worn thin by the hard world, it was far less conspicuous than charging in screaming his fury and wrath to the heavens above, demanding retribution for the sins wrought upon him. It was also necessary for the man he wished to become in this new land, for his old name, while unknown, might reveal all too readily his purpose and nature to those well-versed in ancient histories and cultures long forgotten. So as he walked, the Pretender mulled over various names he hoarded like precious coins within his mind, each name bearing a different personality, different physical traits that he could no longer access, but could very well use the mannerisms included with them.
He did not choose to dwell upon the past once his choice was made, but in the silence and solitude of his walk there was little else for his ever-active mind to indulge in. He did not want to remember the choking, dead air of his tomb, of bursting from the soil screaming in pain and terror. He did not want to remember the stone behemoth that drove him from the place of his rebirth, and eventually from the land therein.
Yet his thoughts would not be denied.
Bitter air, so dry and stale it may have very well been dust in his lungs, tickling with a feather-light touch that left him coughing upon his first inhale. Darkness so deep that he feared he had gone blind, that not even closing his eyes changed the shapeless blackness surrounding him with it's oppressive presence. He reeled in confusion, struggling to breathe, to understand what was going on.
And then earth began to fall-No. He balked at the memory, at the taste of fear and terror still fresh upon his tongue and heart even after months away from his prison. It was not enough time from his re-emergence into the world to dull the razor blade edge of that memory, nor the ones following in it's wake. With an iron will forged by a childhood of political and cutthroat lessons, Ammon wrestled his mind to submission to bask in the stillness as the trauma once more sank into the depths of his mind, a leviathan that would emerge again but for now allowed him victory. Ammon's gaze finally lifted to look upon his surroundings, upon the flat plains of gently swaying grass and sweet-smelling air. He was not so hardened that he could not appreciate the beauty of the land, and his confinement had granted him a sense of appreciation he had lacked before. One never knew how precious the world was until it was almost taken away.
It was rare for the onyx stallion to be caught unawares, so when he heard the soft rustle of grasses parting and the crunch of soil under hoof, he flicked back an ear, the only sign acknowledging the presence of another. Yet his heartbeat sped, irrational terror arising in his breast. What if it was him, the beast from hell that plagued him like no other, that burned him with just a glance and made the beat of his heart shift and contract in agony? Swallowing his fear, the secret-keeper turned his proud skull, laying unsettling eyes upon his new company, relief surging through him as his terror was set aside. This was not the one he feared, simply another. Such emotion did not show upon his features, his face carved of onyx for all the expression it bore.
"Thou tread the earth with heavy hooves, thus thou do not seek to unsettle one such as me. Perchance can I be of service to thee?"
You do not know the first note of the music that moves me
“It’s dark, Celes.”
“It’s always dark, sweetness.”
“It’s darker than usual. And cold. I want to go home, Celes. Why won’t you take me home?”
“I can’t take you home, sweetness. It’s too far…”
“How long have we been walking, Celes? Where are we going?”
“We’re going to take you out of this place, sweetness. You can’t be here much longer.”
“But where is out, if you aren’t taking me home?”
“It’s a place far away, sweetness. But once you get there you can recover, and then you can take yourself home. You know the way.”
“…”
“You won’t leave me, will you, Celes? I…I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone.”
“I won’t leave you alone, sweetness. Just trust me and keep moving. We’re almost there.”
“What kind of a place is it, Celes?”
“It’s a land called Novus, and, like most lands, it is full of…many strange and beautiful things. It’s no different from home, if you squint.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I know too little of mortal politics to care, sweetness; everything is ephemeral for beings like me. You know that.” A gentle stroke of damp, squishy flesh against her brow – it used to make her stomach turn, but now it’s a comfort, if a cold one. The darkness bends around Celes; she can’t see it, not really, but she thinks that she knows where it is. But this entire world swirls and loses focus, and she’s faltering, falling, fading-
“Celes,” She gasps, choking, twisting, “I don’t think I can keep walking.” Those tentacles writhe against her skin, grasp her, steady her.
“It’s just up here, sweetness.” And she feels it, now, a gentle tug against her coat, an electric hum that raises every hair on her body; she stumbles towards the gash. With each step, her legs – and she curses her perpetual frailty, her feather-boned uselessness - collapse beneath her, but she perseveres, panting, sticky with sweat, and-
“Don’t be afraid, sweetness. I’ll see you on the other side.”
And then, darkness.
---
She is lying in sand.
It clings to her limbs in a fine, prickling powder that crunches when she moves. Her wings splay out awkwardly at her sides, and her hair sticks to her sides in sweaty, disgruntled clumps that tangle in her legs. She aches - everything aches, throbs, numbs. She can hear the distant roar of the ocean – the low rumble of thunder, too, the faintest whiff of fresh water on the horizon. This all leads her to conclude that she’s on the beach.
She stirs, slowly, and raises her head as though she’ll see anything if she turns it about, ears swiveling in a desperate attempt to take in her empty surroundings. “Celes? Celes, where are we?” Her voice comes out hoarse and broken, like she’s swallowed shards of glass. She waits, patient, and-
Nothing.
Time drags on, but she finds no answer. “Celes? CELES?!” She is greeted by silence, and, as she writhes, frantic as the canary in a coal mine, she realizes that the darkness is still – it does not swirl or dance, but remains cold and void. She grasps for that spark inside of her, for that little bit of divinity that allows her to tear the world raw, but she doesn’t find it. She grasps further inside of her, down to the darkest depths, down, down, down -
But there’s nothing inside of her, nothing there, there’s nothing-
Virun is empty.
And, as she curls in upon herself, salt on her tongue and the first droplets of rain tumbling down to soak her glistening violet skin, she realizes that she is alone.
all my love won't bring you back to me and oh my god I'm wasting away PULLED FLOWERS AT MY FEET, LOST IN THE WIND
