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[P] liebesleid - Printable Version

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+---- Thread: [P] liebesleid (/showthread.php?tid=4692)



liebesleid - Mesnyi - 03-10-2020



Mesnyi
a light like ghost of silver on the sea


L

In all her wanderings across Delumine, Mesnyi didn’t make it a point to visit the library. She had gone once or twice before, but it had taken her some time to get a decent grasp on the written language of Novus, so there wasn’t much purpose to such outings. The Benevolent had little use for books; theirs was mostly an oral tradition, and only a select few dove into the literature of the lands they passed through. In some ways, it was a shame, as literature opened a doorway to new songs and stories, but the Benevolent had got along just fine without it. Mesnyi didn’t know how long she would stay for, or if anyone would come to get her before she turned old and gray. It was a sobering thought. She decided to dive into the myths and legends of Novus, if she could find them, instead of contemplating a potentially sedentary fate.

With a little help from the positively delightful foxes, she was directed to the section she sought. The library was grander than any she’d seen before, all trunks and roots bound up together, leaves dusting the floor like a carpet, and its shelves seemingly built into the trees that formed its walls. Mesnyi was no stranger to monumental architecture, but there was a different beauty in that which came from the natural world. It was almost enough to simply wander the endless corridors, until she spied a glimmer out of the corner of her eye. The book’s spine was slim and dusty lavender, with silver filigree swirling down it. It looked just like her, in a funny sort of way. Perhaps a thinner book would be better to start with, she thought. Just in front of the shelf stood another equine. ”Excuse me, could you pass me that book there? The lavender one.” 



CannonLove's Sorrow || I Know It Will Be Quiet When You Come | "speaks" | notes: whoever u want
rallidae



RE: liebesleid - Hugo - 04-05-2020

"Tell me about despair, yours and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.”


Hugo,
You used to visit more--not much more, maybe once or twice every season. Your life used to be full of the simple desire to do, to create, and you would come to the library with wide eyes and your face cracked with a smile.

Of course, there was nothing here that you would not find at home. The Arkwright family had written or owned every book about smithing in all of Novus, but you liked to brush the dust off of shelves as you passed, to open a tome that creaked as the pages flipped and to see each carefully rendered instruction drawn in ink on bound parchment.

You liked the wood smell, the damp air of Delumine. You liked that it rained and that it did not smell like saltwater. There was not always the drone of the ocean in the background, or the clang of metal.

It was quiet. Unhurried. You felt at peace.

You do not stop to ask yourself where that went: the happiness, the peace, the open-armed need to come. At this point you have not been to Delumine in a year or so and all you can think is your shuttered windows, your locked door, your quiet forge that sits like a low-burning stove in the dim light of your lanterns.

You know where your mirth went, what happened, why you are gripped by this crushing weight that tells you to sleep, and sleep, and sleep or else drink so it is not quite as heavy--it is just that you don't want to know, so you say you do not.

Today, you are directionless. Around you are shelves stacked high with books you don't read. You know that, around the corner, down a dimly lit hall, your family's books are neatly tucked away with the rest of the artisans -- it feels fitting, somehow, in a way that you can't quite place. You might wonder if it ever had a place at all. You wonder this more than you care to admit, and you doubt it more often than that.

Your directionless wandering drags you to the back of the room, points your face at a wall of shelves made from clean, dark wood, and you are thinking to yourself: the shop could use some new ones because every second of your life circles back to the shop, to the glow of molten iron and the distinct clang of your hammer.

There is a girl behind you - she is not watching you examine the shelves and you barely hear her at all when she says could you pass me that book? You pull it gently from the shelf and hand it over your shoulder, like it never mattered, like nothing has ever mattered, and it worries you that when you see her, purple like the first blink of a sunset, like spring, like coming alive, that you are as you always are-- unstirred.

After a moment you force a smile. The part of you that hopes she notices is not nearly as large as the part that's begging her to turn a blind eye. "Are you color-coding, or...?" you ask, shuffling your wings over your back. "What's it about?"

It never occurs to you that anyone else might not know what they're doing, who they are. You have always felt alone in it. You have never quite noticed that you are all, collectively, at least a little lost.

@Mesnyi


RE: liebesleid - Mesnyi - 06-18-2020



Mesnyi


H
e is flashy, with a pumpkin-orange burst of feathers like an exotic cockerel, his wings black and white striped as some salamander saying danger danger danger. Do not eat. She finds it funny, then, when he hardly even acknowledges her to pass the book. He towers above the mare, so the lavender tome must drift down, down, down to Mesnyi before she can take it in her grasp. She’s about to say something to draw him in - she can’t take in anymore - when he finally speaks. 

”Are you color-coding, or…?” Mesnyi cracks a smile and dips her head coyly. A shrug wouldn’t have been her style. ”What’s it about?”

She looks down at the book thoughtfully. ”Metalworking for the Aspirant Jeweler. Not very exciting, is it?” She huffs. ”Truth be told, I was color-coding. I can’t read your language very well, so I thought I might pull something out and read it. I was rather looking for something on local song and dance. Perhaps the foxes led me astray.” The lavender mare lets her gaze travel up, up, up to where the stranger’s head is, and to the books beside it. The Blacksmith’s Encyclopedia. Alloys of the Worlds Over. Oriens’ Hammer.

”Are you a smith?”


@Hugo | "speaks" | notes: ☽☼☾
rallidae



RE: liebesleid - Hugo - 07-03-2020

"Tell me about despair, yours-- and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.”


You don't see her, when your back is turned and she looks at you like you are at the center of some great mystery. You do not see her draw a breath to speak before you turn to look at her. You do not see all the small thoughts that roll into the one big decision: that you are worth her time, little as she may give you.

Ever since you were young you've wanted to be some great mystery. You'd imagine yourself in your shop, sharpening blades as your uncle charmed the populace from the counter. Excuse me, sir, someone might say from beneath the canopy outside, as the forge chugged along in her endless patience, that young man, in the back-- I must take him on an adventure of grave importance. We need him. We need him desperately.

You think all you might want is to be needed-- and, barring that, just chosen--which is why it is so terribly, terribly sad that you do not see her until the moment has passed.

The book floats into her grasp, chased by another smile that creeps across your mouth at a snail's pace. She smiles, too, in one motion that takes her eyes from yours to the book between the two of you. Not very interesting, is it? She asked.

Your smile widens. You like girls that don't ask hard questions. You like girls that look like a dreamscape fog and girls that smile like a morning glory folding itself for the evening and girls that huff in libraries.

"I don't know," you start-- and shrugging is your style, so you do. "You might get points for having been literally color-coding. I say that's interesting." It is a welcome stroll away from the storm in you, the strong winds and the dark and the rain. You walk out of the cold into the bright meadow full of wildflowers and lilac trees that is--- anything else, honestly.

She asks you, are you a smith? And a cold breeze blows through before the sun breaks over your face again. Is it exhausting, to be this way? How long can you go on, worrying like this? How sustainable is it? You skirt over the question with a quick, "I am, but first, where are you from? I'm curious what you think of the language, in that case."

You smile, again, wide enough that it seems exactly as real as it is, which is to say not much. "If you'll indulge me, that is."

@Mesnyi


RE: liebesleid - Mesnyi - 07-18-2020




He looks at her almost, almost like most other boys do but there’s a sadness to it, and a far away-ness, and she knows that not only has she not yet wormed her way in, but that she has only sent a ripple across his surface. If that. He is not here, nor there, and she can only ever be here. She has known a few boys that live their lives this way; some of them give in to her advances and pretend - or perhaps they feel, she wouldn’t know - and some recede back to their shadow lives, alone. It could be argued that she lives her life this way as well. That she has wormed her way into someone’s heart has - almost - never meant that they have done the same to her. But Mesnyi gives him her show of joy, as she thinks he ought to have, and giggles at his comment on literally - literally! - color coding. ”We should try to match our surroundings when we can, though I’m not sure it’s easy for so many of us.” Her eyes glance up to the tuft of neon orange, and she smiles, just a little.

He doesn’t want to talk about himself. It’s fine, she thinks; she spends most of her time talking, anyway, performing and such, and so precious little of it listening, these days. She wants to know his story. Everyone has one, and if it is good, it’ll be retold, and what sort of immortality is better than that? ”I aim to indulge,” she says, tipping her head briefly, flirtatiously. And she thinks: Perhaps I should tell my own story, just this once, and not someone else’s. Just a little bit. And then, maybe, he'll tell his. ”I’m from somewhere far away, a little glade where misfit children have their own misfit children, and among them…” She breathed in, ”I was a misfit. Can you imagine?” she smiles, but it’s wounded, ”No one expects that of pretty girls.” But she sighs and says, ”Like a fairytale, a magical caravan of singers and dancers took me away, and since then I have seen many worlds and learned many languages, and perhaps even seen a fair bit of metalworking.” Mesnyi looks back to the book in her grasp. ”That's the abridged story, anyway. Your language isn’t hard, I suppose, it’s a bit like one I’ve seen before, and since I realized that, I’ve been able to make the connection between the two and pick it up more easily. But that’s the way it is, isn’t it? Being a linguist already tends to help, even if I’m no scholar.” 

@Hugo




RE: liebesleid - Hugo - 07-19-2020






“I resent that,” you say, feigning offense. One wing folds dramatically over your chest as if clutching your mother's old pearls for comfort. It is almost like a magic trick, the flash of black and white and black and white and black, like an old TV screen. “I'm a sight to behold in the fall, I promise. I'd bet money you couldn't pick me out of a crowd.” 

It has always been easiest to smile-- someone once told you, when you were far too young to consider such things, that anger is the easiest emotion to fake. It is, as they said, as easy as raising your voice, narrowing your eyes and gritting your teeth. In the absence of everything else it will always be the most simple to pretend you are mad, like crackling fire or an oncoming storm. You look at her, this girl who thinks you are mysterious and so terribly dull though you don't know it, and you know in your ever-slowing heart that it is far too hard to be angry, or really, truly sad, when instead you can smile, almost like you mean it, and laugh, and sing.

It turns the eyes away.
(You still do not see the irony: that you waited all your life to be seen, to be wanted, and now that all eyes are on you it is far too much to bear.)

You are both very good actors. Mesnyi smiles though she's angry, the kind of frustration that just singes the edge of each word, enough that it's there but not enough that you notice. She smiles and you smile, though you're so terribly tired, though you look at her book and her face and her horn and something in you starts draining faster than you can identify it. 

I aim to indulge, she says, like a songbird, light and flirtatious and beautiful, and in spite of yourself you lean in to listen. Because it is easiest to smile.

In the absence of anything else.

First you ask, “Is that a true story?” but don't wait for the answer, then add, “You've lived quite the life, it sounds like. How do you find the time?” You say 'time' like it pains you; it rings again in your head, over and over. There is a voice saying time as she searches your face, expecting your life in trade for hers. She wants to read you, you think. You wonder vaguely if she will like what she finds.

“I was born in Terrastella.”  you say, simply. “I come from a long line of 'makers.' The Arkwrights. If you haven't heard of them they'd be sorely disappointed to know. I myself would be elated.” 

You smile, again. It does not quite fit like the last-- there in the corner of your mouth is some bitterness, an uncommon tightness to your lips that you feel and turn away from her in a quiet whf of your feathers, and a shuffling noise as you lift another book off the shelf. It is plain, bound in brown leather, with a title stamped in plain, black font on the cover: ARKWRIGHT MASTERWORKS. You set it on the table.

“We aren't known for our humility.” 

And when my time is up, have I done enough?
Will they tell my story?

@Mesnyi


RE: liebesleid - Mesnyi - 09-05-2020

"Often one writes 'execution' and pronounces it 'song.'"

Mesnyi laughs at the drama of his reaction, the over-reaction, the flash of black-white-white-black. It’s true: they are both very good actors, and it is a greater shame than either of them can know. Or perhaps they do know. What does it matter, anyway, if you do not intend to change? 
“Is that a true story?” he asks, and she is composing an answer when he continues, “You’ve lived quite the life, it sounds like. How do you find the time?” And when he says “time” she hears “not enough,” so all she says is, ”Sacrifices were made,” like it’s a joke, like it isn’t true, like this all came about as the natural way of things and not the outrunning of all fears, beginning at dawn and ending at dusk, when there is distraction and lovemaking to do the running for her. Mesnyi listens intently to his short, short story, and he brings her a book. “We aren’t known for our humility.”

”Ah!” she exclaims, ”Neither am I. How perfect.” She takes the book from him and skims the table of contents. ”A maker,” she repeats. Her gaze flicks up to him like it means to leave, but it sits intently at the reading table. ”I may be ashamed to admit I envy such artisans. My trades are not of the making kind. I can paint but it’s - you know - not smithing. And I suppose we must all look up to the masters like gods.” She shuts the book and swallows. When she looks at him again, she is not smiling, and something about her stare suggests she is peeling back his barriers like skin from a potato. She is not. She thinks only of herself at the best of times, which is why she says, ”I’d like to see your work sometime. And you should see me perform. I’ll be around. Everywhere.” She pauses. ”Our lack of humility grows from being rewarded more often than not, wouldn’t you say?”

"Speaking."

@Hugo



RE: liebesleid - Hugo - 09-21-2020

My brother once showed me a piece of quartz that contained, he said, some trapped water older than all the seas in our world. "Listen," he said, "life and no escape."

The door opens, and for just a moment so short it's a cruelty, you see Mesnyi, and not the Mesnyi she is trying to be, because for that single, cruel moment you are the same.

'Sacrifices were made,' the girl says like it's offhand, like it is not the answer to every question you could ask of her and that he could ask of you. You try not to smile sadly, just tucking your mouth into place and nodding with your eyes closed.

You know this feeling well. You often wonder because you cannot quite remember, if who you are is some cruel trick of fate or a deliberate choice. You think, if it had been a choice after all, someone should have held out their hand and said 'no.' Someone should have stopped you. Someone should have stopped them.

A father, or a mother, or anyone, should have protected you, because you are not going to protect yourself. You know this, now more than ever. Sacrifices were made.

"I'm sorry." you say, in a rare moment of vulnerability, in a brief flash of solidarity with this girl you don't even know-- and then, just as it began, it is gone. She's looking down at your book and grinning, and you try to stuff your too-large body back into its shape and call your waning motivation anything but what it is. Your body still stubbornly refuses to dissolve on cue.

She comments on your family's distinct lack of humility--a trait you like to think you don't share--and you tip your head to one side with the quiet whf of your feathers. Mesnyi looks at your for a long moment, like she's reading again. You wonder if she is. (She isn't, not really, but when you look back down at her, her eyes are so large and so soft that it makes your head ache, and the stillness with which she eyes you has you internally writhing to escape it-- so perhaps she succeeds unintentionally, in the end).

You take a deep breath, to steady yourself. It doesn't help, much. "I suppose we must," you agree. "though, if I'm being frank, I think you might have me beat. I'm unbelievably clumsy."

Mesnyi asks to eventually see your work; you do not bother to point out that some of it is in the book that you hand her. You are not so sure you want to show her at all. "If you insist," you say, "but I'd rather stroke your ego than my own. The Arkwrights don't need less humility, by any means."

@Mesnyi


RE: liebesleid - Mesnyi - 09-24-2020

the goodbye look;

“I’m sorry,” he says, and all she does is smile vapidly in response, as if he hadn’t reached into the nightingale’s cage, palm outstretched. She acts as though she does not understand, does not feel as deeply as he has gone and assumed, silly boy, she is stupid, don’t you see?
 
“I suppose we must” - look up to the masters - though, he says, he’s unbelievably clumsy. She grins, huffs a little in disbelief, an almost-laugh. She wants to say something about his wings, and thinks better of it, but not because she knows anything; she simply does not want to say out loud: I will never fly, and because of this, I am far clumsier than you will ever imagine yourself to be. The thought is there. Perhaps it thrums in the library like a heart. Perhaps it doesn’t; after all, they are both grounded birds.

“If you insist, but I’d rather stroke your ego than my own. The Arkwrights don’t need less humility, by any means.” Mesnyi dips her head, crystals flashing at the end of her horn. She looks up at him through a silver cloud of hair. “I expect plenty of stroking, then, to make up for it.” She winks, offers a flash of teeth, and slips out of the aisle without another word, Arkwright Masterworks tucked close to her side.

Somewhere else in the library, a unicorn settles into a pile of cushions, walls of books around her. She flicks through a wide tome, pausing at an intricate drawing of a dagger. Hugo Arkwright is written below. She doesn’t know who that is, but she thinks, what a sensitive mind.

"Speaking."

@Hugo | closer!