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+---- Thread: [AW] battleborn. (/showthread.php?tid=2609)
battleborn. - Mathias - 07-11-2018
@
RE: battleborn. - Seraphina - 11-10-2018
☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
I have burned & burned, but is it burning
if there’s no one there to see?
The sun beat down on Seraphina’s shoulders as she wove atop the great canyons of the Elatus, kicking up great clouds of sand and dust that glittered as they caught in the brilliant sunlight. It was scalding, as usual; she’d expected some kind of change, like Tempus had promised, but Novus seemed to be the same as it had been before the gods had shown themselves, if a bit more knowledgeable – a bit more jaded. However, even as she patrolled the sands, she couldn’t shake a prickle of anticipation. Perhaps it was simply her paranoia getting the better of her, – these were paranoid times – but she couldn’t rid herself of a heavy, uncertain feeling that weighted down her chest like a pile of stones. Something was coming, but she didn’t know what it was, and she wasn’t sure why she knew it, either. There was simply something in the air, something in the way the sunlight rippled off the canyon walls and gave off waves of heat; it felt as though the land was tensed up in anticipation, the air as tense against her raised hairs as it felt during a thunderstorm. The feeling had followed her since she had left the peak, and, while she’d expected it to subside once she reached her desert home, it only seemed to be reaching some terrible crescendo.
The world would change. But how? And what could she do to stop it? (Or, if not to stop it – to survive it?)
She catches sight of a patch of darkness against the landscape of gold and tan and slows to an easy halt. He is a worn, pitiful creature – a hermit, or a weathered stone. He stands alone like some watchful sentry, dark and severe and stark against the sands. Patches of dull darkness and dirty white, and masses of scars; she wonders if he earned them through war or tragedy, given the frailty of his frame. It crosses her mind to leave him to his vigil, but she is sure that he has seen her now, and, besides, she has no desire to turn back just to avoid passing him.
She supposes it would be poor form to offer him no acknowledgement at all, and, though somewhat blunt, Seraphina is rarely impolite…at least intentionally. “Greetings,” she says, simply, with a dip of her head. As she waited for any response out of him, the sun continued to beat back on her shoulders, harsh and scalding as a blacksmith’s hammer.
In Solterra, there was no drowning out the sun – it would eat you alive if you tried.
----------------------------------------------------------
tags | @Mathias
notes | Finally - so sorry for the wait on this <3
I have burned & burned, but is it burning
if there’s no one there to see?
The sun beat down on Seraphina’s shoulders as she wove atop the great canyons of the Elatus, kicking up great clouds of sand and dust that glittered as they caught in the brilliant sunlight. It was scalding, as usual; she’d expected some kind of change, like Tempus had promised, but Novus seemed to be the same as it had been before the gods had shown themselves, if a bit more knowledgeable – a bit more jaded. However, even as she patrolled the sands, she couldn’t shake a prickle of anticipation. Perhaps it was simply her paranoia getting the better of her, – these were paranoid times – but she couldn’t rid herself of a heavy, uncertain feeling that weighted down her chest like a pile of stones. Something was coming, but she didn’t know what it was, and she wasn’t sure why she knew it, either. There was simply something in the air, something in the way the sunlight rippled off the canyon walls and gave off waves of heat; it felt as though the land was tensed up in anticipation, the air as tense against her raised hairs as it felt during a thunderstorm. The feeling had followed her since she had left the peak, and, while she’d expected it to subside once she reached her desert home, it only seemed to be reaching some terrible crescendo.
The world would change. But how? And what could she do to stop it? (Or, if not to stop it – to survive it?)
She catches sight of a patch of darkness against the landscape of gold and tan and slows to an easy halt. He is a worn, pitiful creature – a hermit, or a weathered stone. He stands alone like some watchful sentry, dark and severe and stark against the sands. Patches of dull darkness and dirty white, and masses of scars; she wonders if he earned them through war or tragedy, given the frailty of his frame. It crosses her mind to leave him to his vigil, but she is sure that he has seen her now, and, besides, she has no desire to turn back just to avoid passing him.
She supposes it would be poor form to offer him no acknowledgement at all, and, though somewhat blunt, Seraphina is rarely impolite…at least intentionally. “Greetings,” she says, simply, with a dip of her head. As she waited for any response out of him, the sun continued to beat back on her shoulders, harsh and scalding as a blacksmith’s hammer.
In Solterra, there was no drowning out the sun – it would eat you alive if you tried.
----------------------------------------------------------
tags | @
notes | Finally - so sorry for the wait on this <3
RE: battleborn. - Mathias - 11-18-2018
He is made of scars and bones and dust, a mere fraction of his former self, and as the sun beats down upon him he almost feels like he is the mirage in the distance. He is a fractured mess of parts, all angles and sharp edges meant to drive away anyone who ever got close enough, and he is so bitingly lonely he feels it like a pit in his chest where his ambitions used to rest. Once, he’d had great plans for himself -- the bastard prince who had craved a crown, the dark soldier turned away at the door, the mercenary with a bag of coins on his hip -- once, he had existed on something more than the madness that threatened to consume him every day. He knows he cannot continue on this path and survive, and yet, he doesn’t know how to turn around or forge his own path elsewhere. A shimmering mirage in the distance moves in time with the sands, and even while he watches it solidifies into the shape of a woman wearing a collar around her neck and the color of fog upon her coat. When she draws close enough to speak, the statue finally moves -- his head swings slowly to face her with his good eye, one ear tipping forward. “You’re a long way from the Courts,” His voice, cracked and hoarse from lack of use, is still something closer to polite than his usual harsh rage. Quite honestly, he’s too tired to even be angry at this unexpected intrusion. |