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Nascence - Aelin - 05-23-2020
Our love bore the wildest sea
Islands spoke to her as a lighthouse upon a pier.
Were she a lost ship, it was inevitable that she would catch the flickering eye of a crimson glow upon the horizon and come crashing into their bay, a moth to the lure of light. Islands beckoned her in tongues of hearth and home, reminding her of an archipelago that’d been left behind, or a continent awash in shadow. The kiss of a seaside breeze, or the pad of a fabled wildcat’s paw upon the shoals of a beach.
In so many ways, they were a trap to her ocean foam eyes. And she, like the sea, lapped insatiably at the welcome invitation of their shores.
Even wreathed in fog, Aelin knew she would not be denied. Neither an issue of safety nor the wondrous terror of the unknown could keep her at bay, and the leagues that spanned between she and nostalgia were nothing the finer nuances of her curiosity couldn’t map to memory. Or so she told herself, when the ocean spray at last kissed her skin upon the cusp of the sea and the void.
Arrival had been simple enough, but it was peering into the vast, impenetrable unknown that left her motionless. It was in her nature to question everything, to pepper the roiling fog with voiceless queries after its origins, its purpose, its intent. To ask if it would swallow her whole, were she to dare stepping too near—or if its endless miasma might cleanse her of sin and shortcoming. There would be no telling, no answer, unless she dared to take the leap.
Once, she had been a girl that threw herself into the throng of the sky with little more than a thought. Once, she’d possessed enough faith in her own strength to catch herself.
Somewhere along the lines, Aelin had lost her assured nature. And peering into the opaque wall that billowed with preternatural liveliness, she knew she would, one day, be steeped in courage again.
When to start, other than now? She had come this far, after all.
A giggle that rode upon the bridge of hysteria bubbled from her lips, and her silvery tail dusted the earth beneath her as she dared a step forward. Forward, forward, forward.
Nightmares had taught her to never look back.
Two lengths in, and the world had faded into a grey abyss of nothingness. The fog was damp upon her skin, saturating herself in the brimming question of whether it should be panic, not keening interest, that overtook her. The world turned directionless as she pushed onward, and Aelin was left with the dizzying expectation to be spat back out the way she’d came. It would be too simple to be turned around in here, or else lost forever.
And Aelin knew too much of magic, of otherworldly whims, to believe this was any ordinary fog.
It spanned onward, and the Fair lost track of how long she’d walked. The grey unfurled like a blanket, an impenetrable fortress of the world’s nothingness come to fruition, gathered at a crux of absolute emptiness. It was unfathomable; inevitable in how it consumed the ground beneath her. Telling, however, in how harmless it hugged her silver hide, swallowing up the ethereal glow of her wings.
She had never felt so uncertainly small, and though the tiniest itch prickled upon hoary hide, Aelin did not heed the compulsion to turn back. Something called to her beyond the void, a sing-song melody that tugged upon an invisible cord. It yanked beseechingly upon her navel, ushering the track of her slate hooves to match up with the opaline ringleader.
It was a testament to character that she might be hypnotized, even, by the untold splendors of nothingness.
A forelimb reached, seeking contact with the ground, and her delicate face pushed through the curtain—
Aelin yelped.
“Oh!” At long last, the fog unveiled her hunted prize, and the silver woman was suspended in shadow.
Her knees ought to have knocked in terror, or a spasm of reflexive fear surely should have seized her croup in preparation for flight. Panic was the feeling that instinct sang to her, and yet her body answered the blackness pliantly.
For it was so much more than just the darkness she had known. More than snatchers or demons, more that an abysmal cloud that sought to suck worlds into its hungry jaw. It was starkissed and wondrous, and though the moon was mysteriously absent from attendance with her children, Aelin was drawn into the irresistible question of what dream she’d been swept into.
Had the night finally descended upon the world, to take up residence on this lonely island and swaddle it in jet, sun-spattered cloth?
A comet streaked by, impossibly close and yet painfully out of reach, and Aelin stepped after it with the invigorated desire to touch it. It was gone too quickly, riding upon the wake of its otherworldly swiftness, and her heart stuttered with joy.
The tether invited her to leave, and though pungent sorrow crept upon the vacant places in her heart, she dared to stay a while longer.
She thought of so much as she chanced a step forward, waiting for the night sky to swallow her whole; to deposit her upon a frothy white cloud.
And yet the ebony plateau upon which she stood, whether upside down or right side up, remained sturdy beneath her soles. It felt as though she stood upon water, and for a breath, Aelin dared to wonder if her wings would even be needed to fly through this heaven.
"Quid est hoc mundo," even the lyrical eloquence of her native tongue seemed frail in beauty when juxtaposed with such wondrous starlight, "ut inter omnes vos ambulare?"
They did not deign to answer, and yet Aelin hardly minded. To have come so near and bless the mortal world with their breathless virtue, she could ask nothing more of the constellations than to enjoy their company a while longer.
As tempting as it was to lay upon her side and watch them drift idly onward, she dared instead to walk forward, mingling in their company with soft spoken words.
The pieces of her that still sought wholeness wondered if answers lay here; if the invisible lines of distant suns might connect to create the face of her miscarried child; if she might see the billow of her father's crimson cape written upon the infinite, ebony fields.
Though her wonder remained, it coexisted with melancholy.
"Or are you here to show us what we have lost...?" she wondered aloud. An airy, humorless laugh left her lips.
"I am happy to meet you at last, my many friends."
Islands spoke to her as a lighthouse upon a pier.
Were she a lost ship, it was inevitable that she would catch the flickering eye of a crimson glow upon the horizon and come crashing into their bay, a moth to the lure of light. Islands beckoned her in tongues of hearth and home, reminding her of an archipelago that’d been left behind, or a continent awash in shadow. The kiss of a seaside breeze, or the pad of a fabled wildcat’s paw upon the shoals of a beach.
In so many ways, they were a trap to her ocean foam eyes. And she, like the sea, lapped insatiably at the welcome invitation of their shores.
Even wreathed in fog, Aelin knew she would not be denied. Neither an issue of safety nor the wondrous terror of the unknown could keep her at bay, and the leagues that spanned between she and nostalgia were nothing the finer nuances of her curiosity couldn’t map to memory. Or so she told herself, when the ocean spray at last kissed her skin upon the cusp of the sea and the void.
Arrival had been simple enough, but it was peering into the vast, impenetrable unknown that left her motionless. It was in her nature to question everything, to pepper the roiling fog with voiceless queries after its origins, its purpose, its intent. To ask if it would swallow her whole, were she to dare stepping too near—or if its endless miasma might cleanse her of sin and shortcoming. There would be no telling, no answer, unless she dared to take the leap.
Once, she had been a girl that threw herself into the throng of the sky with little more than a thought. Once, she’d possessed enough faith in her own strength to catch herself.
Somewhere along the lines, Aelin had lost her assured nature. And peering into the opaque wall that billowed with preternatural liveliness, she knew she would, one day, be steeped in courage again.
When to start, other than now? She had come this far, after all.
A giggle that rode upon the bridge of hysteria bubbled from her lips, and her silvery tail dusted the earth beneath her as she dared a step forward. Forward, forward, forward.
Nightmares had taught her to never look back.
Two lengths in, and the world had faded into a grey abyss of nothingness. The fog was damp upon her skin, saturating herself in the brimming question of whether it should be panic, not keening interest, that overtook her. The world turned directionless as she pushed onward, and Aelin was left with the dizzying expectation to be spat back out the way she’d came. It would be too simple to be turned around in here, or else lost forever.
And Aelin knew too much of magic, of otherworldly whims, to believe this was any ordinary fog.
It spanned onward, and the Fair lost track of how long she’d walked. The grey unfurled like a blanket, an impenetrable fortress of the world’s nothingness come to fruition, gathered at a crux of absolute emptiness. It was unfathomable; inevitable in how it consumed the ground beneath her. Telling, however, in how harmless it hugged her silver hide, swallowing up the ethereal glow of her wings.
She had never felt so uncertainly small, and though the tiniest itch prickled upon hoary hide, Aelin did not heed the compulsion to turn back. Something called to her beyond the void, a sing-song melody that tugged upon an invisible cord. It yanked beseechingly upon her navel, ushering the track of her slate hooves to match up with the opaline ringleader.
It was a testament to character that she might be hypnotized, even, by the untold splendors of nothingness.
A forelimb reached, seeking contact with the ground, and her delicate face pushed through the curtain—
Aelin yelped.
“Oh!” At long last, the fog unveiled her hunted prize, and the silver woman was suspended in shadow.
Her knees ought to have knocked in terror, or a spasm of reflexive fear surely should have seized her croup in preparation for flight. Panic was the feeling that instinct sang to her, and yet her body answered the blackness pliantly.
For it was so much more than just the darkness she had known. More than snatchers or demons, more that an abysmal cloud that sought to suck worlds into its hungry jaw. It was starkissed and wondrous, and though the moon was mysteriously absent from attendance with her children, Aelin was drawn into the irresistible question of what dream she’d been swept into.
Had the night finally descended upon the world, to take up residence on this lonely island and swaddle it in jet, sun-spattered cloth?
A comet streaked by, impossibly close and yet painfully out of reach, and Aelin stepped after it with the invigorated desire to touch it. It was gone too quickly, riding upon the wake of its otherworldly swiftness, and her heart stuttered with joy.
The tether invited her to leave, and though pungent sorrow crept upon the vacant places in her heart, she dared to stay a while longer.
She thought of so much as she chanced a step forward, waiting for the night sky to swallow her whole; to deposit her upon a frothy white cloud.
And yet the ebony plateau upon which she stood, whether upside down or right side up, remained sturdy beneath her soles. It felt as though she stood upon water, and for a breath, Aelin dared to wonder if her wings would even be needed to fly through this heaven.
"Quid est hoc mundo," even the lyrical eloquence of her native tongue seemed frail in beauty when juxtaposed with such wondrous starlight, "ut inter omnes vos ambulare?"
They did not deign to answer, and yet Aelin hardly minded. To have come so near and bless the mortal world with their breathless virtue, she could ask nothing more of the constellations than to enjoy their company a while longer.
As tempting as it was to lay upon her side and watch them drift idly onward, she dared instead to walk forward, mingling in their company with soft spoken words.
The pieces of her that still sought wholeness wondered if answers lay here; if the invisible lines of distant suns might connect to create the face of her miscarried child; if she might see the billow of her father's crimson cape written upon the infinite, ebony fields.
Though her wonder remained, it coexisted with melancholy.
"Or are you here to show us what we have lost...?" she wondered aloud. An airy, humorless laugh left her lips.
"I am happy to meet you at last, my many friends."
Art by Rhiaan, Table by Rayoflight
RE: Nascence - Stellanor - 05-23-2020
It furls and unfurls – as lithesome fingers of an in-between-land – that cinereous, unformed nimbus. It beacons, drives her not from the sightless morass of fog, but into it – an ill-begotten balefire, minding the shores of a fathomless black.
It purls and moves, spitting motes of soft mist from its mass that caress the base of her lavender throat, soft as a lover’s touch on bruised skin. Her eyelashes flutter closed, lips parting, an invitation. A surrender, for if she should be lost, perhaps she should be lost forever.
What had called her here, from the mainland of this new territory, is Universal. Cosmic. Constellation windroses and galactic navigators. Ushered forth to provenance, as a ship through still, sable oceans, Stellanor had followed.
Moored, now, on the margins of something unknown – unknowable, but for the primordial, elemental way in which it is kin and kith – she lingers. Suspended, feeling the susurrations, like plaintive prayers, murmured through soft, ashen lips against her skin. Neck, chest, knees. She takes a tentative step forward, feels it welcome her. Want her. Mark her as its own. As prey or as long-lost bairn, she cedes herself to it, subsumed inch by inch by the pallid weight of that concealing outskirt.
How long does she wander through that eidolic fog?
Alone.
Apart.
Severed from the world entire, held abeyant in the hands of a godless, shapeless purgatory. How long? As she is made and unmade a thousand times over in that crucible-fog, preparing for her visitation. Forever. Timelessness. Unwound clocks; clocks ticking backwards. She walks, never sure if she is retracing her own muffled footfalls, swirling, circling, displacing only the fog that makes way for her passing. “Hello,” she whispers, but it goes nowhere, dying instead in the thick air.
Finally, the fog thins out, becomes sparse, spectral throngs dancing against a revealing plain of black. Black, not like the charcoal clouds that clutter the night sky, hiding behind them bounties of stars. Black, not like His body. Not like the trembling darkness that takes shape as dreamless sleep. Black, in its essence. Black, distilled, in unfathomable quantity, containing a trillion pin-pricks of blinding light and wide, splaying, colourful gaseous bodies.
Breath catches in her throat, her heart hitches, as she stands on the sill of the universe, dizzy as a woman come to meet her god. “Hello…” she whispers, but it goes nowhere, dying instead in the endless void. There is no fear, nor hesitation, though her stomach holds itself tight as she steps forward, silvery hoof breaching the cosmic dark. Gossamer-thin strands of fog trail after her elegant strides as she finds the queer firmness of oblivion beneath her, holding her as upon some unseen, extent plateau.
She wanders.
How long does she wander through the mimic-universe? Through star nurseries, dust clouds, planetary rings? It matters not, for she feels timeless here. Ageless. Reverential and small. Contained beautifully in a realm of no decay, but great, fiery star-deaths and bright, vivid births. Shed most mercifully from the moorings of the left-behind, earthly realm. And so, she wanders, humming trapper’s songs to galaxies and moons, consumed wholly by the solitude of this pilgrimage.
When she spies her, pallid and shining against the dark, many lightyears away, Stellanor becomes still, curious of whom she shares the cosmos with. And, perhaps, she remains still for a million years. Or mere moments, but by the time she is close enough to the ethereal woman to hear her voice in the vacuum, she has caught small, radiant suns and pale, placid moons in her orbit. Her thin, fluted ears perk, dully moved by the familiar tongue – creeping down her spine, fingers of a bygone time and bygone world.
“Salve,” she intones, with a serene smile on her sable mouth, long, snow-white hair floating and settling about her. “Vos es vultus parumper responsa...” she bites her lip, brows furrowing, eyes casting down where blackness meets nothing. Nothing at all.
Something unwelcome blooms by her breastbone, a tight, knowing feeling – feeling where she wishes for none at all. “Do they answer?” she wonders, “...do they know?” But she knows the truth. That they are eyeless, mouthless beings, the inchoate denizens of a careless distance.
“It is beautiful, all the same,” the stargazer admits, after a small silence shared. “I am Stellanor.”
It purls and moves, spitting motes of soft mist from its mass that caress the base of her lavender throat, soft as a lover’s touch on bruised skin. Her eyelashes flutter closed, lips parting, an invitation. A surrender, for if she should be lost, perhaps she should be lost forever.
What had called her here, from the mainland of this new territory, is Universal. Cosmic. Constellation windroses and galactic navigators. Ushered forth to provenance, as a ship through still, sable oceans, Stellanor had followed.
Moored, now, on the margins of something unknown – unknowable, but for the primordial, elemental way in which it is kin and kith – she lingers. Suspended, feeling the susurrations, like plaintive prayers, murmured through soft, ashen lips against her skin. Neck, chest, knees. She takes a tentative step forward, feels it welcome her. Want her. Mark her as its own. As prey or as long-lost bairn, she cedes herself to it, subsumed inch by inch by the pallid weight of that concealing outskirt.
How long does she wander through that eidolic fog?
Alone.
Apart.
Severed from the world entire, held abeyant in the hands of a godless, shapeless purgatory. How long? As she is made and unmade a thousand times over in that crucible-fog, preparing for her visitation. Forever. Timelessness. Unwound clocks; clocks ticking backwards. She walks, never sure if she is retracing her own muffled footfalls, swirling, circling, displacing only the fog that makes way for her passing. “Hello,” she whispers, but it goes nowhere, dying instead in the thick air.
Finally, the fog thins out, becomes sparse, spectral throngs dancing against a revealing plain of black. Black, not like the charcoal clouds that clutter the night sky, hiding behind them bounties of stars. Black, not like His body. Not like the trembling darkness that takes shape as dreamless sleep. Black, in its essence. Black, distilled, in unfathomable quantity, containing a trillion pin-pricks of blinding light and wide, splaying, colourful gaseous bodies.
Breath catches in her throat, her heart hitches, as she stands on the sill of the universe, dizzy as a woman come to meet her god. “Hello…” she whispers, but it goes nowhere, dying instead in the endless void. There is no fear, nor hesitation, though her stomach holds itself tight as she steps forward, silvery hoof breaching the cosmic dark. Gossamer-thin strands of fog trail after her elegant strides as she finds the queer firmness of oblivion beneath her, holding her as upon some unseen, extent plateau.
She wanders.
How long does she wander through the mimic-universe? Through star nurseries, dust clouds, planetary rings? It matters not, for she feels timeless here. Ageless. Reverential and small. Contained beautifully in a realm of no decay, but great, fiery star-deaths and bright, vivid births. Shed most mercifully from the moorings of the left-behind, earthly realm. And so, she wanders, humming trapper’s songs to galaxies and moons, consumed wholly by the solitude of this pilgrimage.
When she spies her, pallid and shining against the dark, many lightyears away, Stellanor becomes still, curious of whom she shares the cosmos with. And, perhaps, she remains still for a million years. Or mere moments, but by the time she is close enough to the ethereal woman to hear her voice in the vacuum, she has caught small, radiant suns and pale, placid moons in her orbit. Her thin, fluted ears perk, dully moved by the familiar tongue – creeping down her spine, fingers of a bygone time and bygone world.
“Salve,” she intones, with a serene smile on her sable mouth, long, snow-white hair floating and settling about her. “Vos es vultus parumper responsa...” she bites her lip, brows furrowing, eyes casting down where blackness meets nothing. Nothing at all.
Something unwelcome blooms by her breastbone, a tight, knowing feeling – feeling where she wishes for none at all. “Do they answer?” she wonders, “...do they know?” But she knows the truth. That they are eyeless, mouthless beings, the inchoate denizens of a careless distance.
“It is beautiful, all the same,” the stargazer admits, after a small silence shared. “I am Stellanor.”
Hover for translation
@Aelin @Drune
@Aelin @Drune
☽
RE: Nascence - Drune - 05-26-2020
blessed be the one
whose lips spill the truth of gods
whose lips spill the truth of gods
They see much but, apparently, not all.
Drune didn't know this; he didn't know that there were some things that the Gods the denizens of Sohorn and even beyond worshipped and prayed to couldn't see. They had shown him much, after all — death, decay, birth, and regrowth. It did not matter if he wished to see none of it.
Once again though, apparently, they couldn't see all.
Opaque, obscure. There is nothing there — wrong. There is something. Hidden, waiting, calling. They cannot see and therefore do not like; they are uncertain.
For once the Oracle does not stomp an irritated hoof, bow his head and press against the ribbon wrapped neatly around his neck. No sneer takes over his face and no snort escapes his nostrils. No, this time Drune smiles.
It's a small thing, harmless in appearance. Innocent, really. That faint smile portrays how intrigued he is, though. Against the boundaries the locked away Oracle likes play. How far he can get away with things or alter an outcome are what he enjoys trying to do. The Gods can not see and that is all it takes for the metal of his hoof to dip into the misty barrier. It parts easily for him.
Like gentle hands the fog parts and wraps around him, welcoming him and all he is with open arms. There is nothing to fear here, only something to discover.
Within it, he might be unable to see or to discern which way is right, left, forward, back, but that does not stop the Oracle. For once, the Gods do not know what lays beyond. It is thrilling, dangerous, exhilarating. Beyond the hazy gates rest a freedom Drune had never been able to experience. Forever, since he had first dripped from his lips words of valuable gold, Drune has always had the unexpected ripped from his grasp. They always took it, held it, and then began to mold it until the unexpected was forced upon his mind and revealed.
Surprises are not something Drune has had the pleasure to experience in a long, long time.
What awaits him beyond the fog is unknown. Such a thought sends a spike of pleasure down his spine. For once the Gods have no control here.
For once, there is reprieve.
Their uncertainty means that they cannot show him anything that might be beyond this; they cannot touch his brow and bestow upon him precious visions because they have no hold here. For the first time not only does Drune come to learn that the Gods can't see everything, but for the first time not a single vision can touch his mind.
Freedom, resounding, rebounding off the foggy prison he finds himself in. No, this is no prison, this is something so much better.
Time becomes nothing for the Voiceless. Becomes nothing — is nothing. Forever he could spend here, suspended in the fog that clings to his skin. It moves with him, smiling along and separating the man from the Gods. He has been Their vessel; their play-thing to use as they please no matter how far he walked, how long he slept, how quiet he stayed. Within this makeshift barricade a disconnection was made.
For once the Oracle truly becomes nothing. Nothing more than a man with a single eye, scars across his throat, and metal for a leg.
Drune of Sohorn was no more here, and what an absolutely wonderful thing that was.
What does it matter how long he wanders, lost, when he is so free for the first time since he was young? Dangerous, a part of his mind whispers to him, dangerous to remain here too long. It was true. To allow himself to get swept up into this was something he could not do. The world outside of this place waited for him — they waited for him and no matter how that thought made him grind his teeth together he knew he couldn't stay.
However, he had yet to reach beyond this place. He had yet to see what the Gods couldn't.
So on the man that is no oracle while here goes.
Thoughts no longer remain introspective. They turn outward, seen in how his ears stand at attention and in the sharp look in his glacial eye. What is here he does not know (exciting, wonderful) and Drune does not know if he is prepared for whatever might be beyond this blissful place.
As it turns out, he is indeed not prepared. Steps come to a slow halt and while the cosmos (cosmos, heavens, whatever one wished to call them he did not care for they are all one and the same) dance around him he can do nothing but look on in wonder. He cannot greet them, but the welcome him all the same.
Some things, in the eyes of the people who wished the Gods that touched him without consent, were meant for the eyes of the Gods only.
The cosmos were one of those things.
Yes, they could be seen from the earth, examined as much as one's heart wished, but they were never meant to truly be known. Not even by one like Drune. Their Oracle they might call him, but that did not give him access to all of their be beloved things. Suspended in time, suspended in space, he was seeing something the archons would have wept to know existed.
What have the Gods shown you Drune of Sohorn? You need only speak it, dear child — for that is what the Gods wish for you to do.
Of course, how true that archon's words had been.
None of that matter now though, for their precious Oracle was gone. Their Oracle was gone and, for now, he was absolutely nothing. Not a single thing could touch him as he gazed at wondrous stars and distant galaxies. Reach out, try hard enough, and he might just be able to graze the tip of a slow-spinning collection of shining, celestial bodies.
It was a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one.
The silent space he found himself in was wonderful, and he even found that the heavy noise of the metal he walked on was dampened to only a soft, gentle clink. Here everything was different and everything was new. Drune was undone and remade, shifted and transformed until he was left entirely cleansed of all he carried with him outside of this heavenly place.
However, he was not alone.
Gods, unable to touch him and struggling to regain their beloved son, had not been able to show him glimpses of what was to come. The unexpected remained just that, and would so long as he remained here. In his eye, it was an ideal situation. He would have it no other way.
One of them he knew, the other he didn't.
Cerulean — soon, on the tip of his tongue he could feel the word. Nothing past his lips, of course. The other though, Drune has seen nothing of and isn't that strange?
Dappled lilac, wolf pelt — wanderer? Explorer? Lost? What are you?
He cannot ask, cannot - for the first time - see. Odd, but not unwelcomed. He does not catch the words spoken in a language he had never heard before, but he does catch her words that question. He knows of what she references, is too perceptive not to, but Drune is able to take that question, shift it, and transform it to relate to things only he knows of.
No, they do not answer. Not here anyway. And no, they do not know; cannot know what is beyond the veil. It makes Them uncertain and, dare he say, scared.
The Gods are scared and Drune takes satisfaction in being able to know that. After all he has endured, will endure, because of them they deserve far worse. Drune has dealt with them all his life, and so they can deal with this small inconvenience for the unspecific amount of time that he is here.
Finding himself agreeing with Stellanor in how beautiful it all is, the only way Drune knows to make his presence known among the cosmos is by letting out a more forceful sigh than normal. A stomp, a flick of his tail, a snort all seem too harsh and disruptive. He does not follow this up by moving closer to the two women, instead, he keeps his distance. Walking a half-circle (his eyes on the heavenly bodies suspended around), his steps stop only once he is in view of them.
It is then that his gaze turns to them, head subtly tilted.
Beautiful it all might be, but what is hidden within it? What does all of this hide that not even the Gods can see?
These are the things the man who is no oracle here wonders.
@Aelin, @Stellanor
Ray & Berb have permission to powerplay Drune
for the remainder of this thread
Drune didn't know this; he didn't know that there were some things that the Gods the denizens of Sohorn and even beyond worshipped and prayed to couldn't see. They had shown him much, after all — death, decay, birth, and regrowth. It did not matter if he wished to see none of it.
Once again though, apparently, they couldn't see all.
Opaque, obscure. There is nothing there — wrong. There is something. Hidden, waiting, calling. They cannot see and therefore do not like; they are uncertain.
For once the Oracle does not stomp an irritated hoof, bow his head and press against the ribbon wrapped neatly around his neck. No sneer takes over his face and no snort escapes his nostrils. No, this time Drune smiles.
It's a small thing, harmless in appearance. Innocent, really. That faint smile portrays how intrigued he is, though. Against the boundaries the locked away Oracle likes play. How far he can get away with things or alter an outcome are what he enjoys trying to do. The Gods can not see and that is all it takes for the metal of his hoof to dip into the misty barrier. It parts easily for him.
Like gentle hands the fog parts and wraps around him, welcoming him and all he is with open arms. There is nothing to fear here, only something to discover.
Within it, he might be unable to see or to discern which way is right, left, forward, back, but that does not stop the Oracle. For once, the Gods do not know what lays beyond. It is thrilling, dangerous, exhilarating. Beyond the hazy gates rest a freedom Drune had never been able to experience. Forever, since he had first dripped from his lips words of valuable gold, Drune has always had the unexpected ripped from his grasp. They always took it, held it, and then began to mold it until the unexpected was forced upon his mind and revealed.
Surprises are not something Drune has had the pleasure to experience in a long, long time.
What awaits him beyond the fog is unknown. Such a thought sends a spike of pleasure down his spine. For once the Gods have no control here.
Their uncertainty means that they cannot show him anything that might be beyond this; they cannot touch his brow and bestow upon him precious visions because they have no hold here. For the first time not only does Drune come to learn that the Gods can't see everything, but for the first time not a single vision can touch his mind.
Freedom, resounding, rebounding off the foggy prison he finds himself in. No, this is no prison, this is something so much better.
Time becomes nothing for the Voiceless. Becomes nothing — is nothing. Forever he could spend here, suspended in the fog that clings to his skin. It moves with him, smiling along and separating the man from the Gods. He has been Their vessel; their play-thing to use as they please no matter how far he walked, how long he slept, how quiet he stayed. Within this makeshift barricade a disconnection was made.
For once the Oracle truly becomes nothing. Nothing more than a man with a single eye, scars across his throat, and metal for a leg.
Drune of Sohorn was no more here, and what an absolutely wonderful thing that was.
What does it matter how long he wanders, lost, when he is so free for the first time since he was young? Dangerous, a part of his mind whispers to him, dangerous to remain here too long. It was true. To allow himself to get swept up into this was something he could not do. The world outside of this place waited for him — they waited for him and no matter how that thought made him grind his teeth together he knew he couldn't stay.
However, he had yet to reach beyond this place. He had yet to see what the Gods couldn't.
So on the man that is no oracle while here goes.
Thoughts no longer remain introspective. They turn outward, seen in how his ears stand at attention and in the sharp look in his glacial eye. What is here he does not know (exciting, wonderful) and Drune does not know if he is prepared for whatever might be beyond this blissful place.
As it turns out, he is indeed not prepared. Steps come to a slow halt and while the cosmos (cosmos, heavens, whatever one wished to call them he did not care for they are all one and the same) dance around him he can do nothing but look on in wonder. He cannot greet them, but the welcome him all the same.
Some things, in the eyes of the people who wished the Gods that touched him without consent, were meant for the eyes of the Gods only.
The cosmos were one of those things.
Yes, they could be seen from the earth, examined as much as one's heart wished, but they were never meant to truly be known. Not even by one like Drune. Their Oracle they might call him, but that did not give him access to all of their be beloved things. Suspended in time, suspended in space, he was seeing something the archons would have wept to know existed.
Of course, how true that archon's words had been.
None of that matter now though, for their precious Oracle was gone. Their Oracle was gone and, for now, he was absolutely nothing. Not a single thing could touch him as he gazed at wondrous stars and distant galaxies. Reach out, try hard enough, and he might just be able to graze the tip of a slow-spinning collection of shining, celestial bodies.
It was a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one.
The silent space he found himself in was wonderful, and he even found that the heavy noise of the metal he walked on was dampened to only a soft, gentle clink. Here everything was different and everything was new. Drune was undone and remade, shifted and transformed until he was left entirely cleansed of all he carried with him outside of this heavenly place.
However, he was not alone.
Gods, unable to touch him and struggling to regain their beloved son, had not been able to show him glimpses of what was to come. The unexpected remained just that, and would so long as he remained here. In his eye, it was an ideal situation. He would have it no other way.
One of them he knew, the other he didn't.
Cerulean — soon, on the tip of his tongue he could feel the word. Nothing past his lips, of course. The other though, Drune has seen nothing of and isn't that strange?
Dappled lilac, wolf pelt — wanderer? Explorer? Lost? What are you?
He cannot ask, cannot - for the first time - see. Odd, but not unwelcomed. He does not catch the words spoken in a language he had never heard before, but he does catch her words that question. He knows of what she references, is too perceptive not to, but Drune is able to take that question, shift it, and transform it to relate to things only he knows of.
No, they do not answer. Not here anyway. And no, they do not know; cannot know what is beyond the veil. It makes Them uncertain and, dare he say, scared.
The Gods are scared and Drune takes satisfaction in being able to know that. After all he has endured, will endure, because of them they deserve far worse. Drune has dealt with them all his life, and so they can deal with this small inconvenience for the unspecific amount of time that he is here.
Finding himself agreeing with Stellanor in how beautiful it all is, the only way Drune knows to make his presence known among the cosmos is by letting out a more forceful sigh than normal. A stomp, a flick of his tail, a snort all seem too harsh and disruptive. He does not follow this up by moving closer to the two women, instead, he keeps his distance. Walking a half-circle (his eyes on the heavenly bodies suspended around), his steps stop only once he is in view of them.
It is then that his gaze turns to them, head subtly tilted.
Beautiful it all might be, but what is hidden within it? What does all of this hide that not even the Gods can see?
These are the things the man who is no oracle here wonders.
Ray & Berb have permission to powerplay Drune
for the remainder of this thread