![[ CLOSED♥ ] NOVUS rpg](https://novus-rpg.net/images/logo.png "[ CLOSED♥ ] NOVUS rpg"){kind=logo}
+- [ CLOSED♥ ] NOVUS rpg (https://novus-rpg.net)
+-- Forum: Realms (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=5)
+--- Forum: Ruris (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=6)
+---- Forum: Archives (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=96)
+---- Thread: [P] a million tears in a salt bottle (/showthread.php?tid=5985)
a million tears in a salt bottle - Willoughby - 12-28-2020
the road less traveled
It was not the first time she had seen the ocean, let's be clear about that. She had seen countless ones in her travels, but Ruris' one took her breath away every time. Standing on the sandy beach, Willoughby breathed in salt water scent slowly and deliberately. Terminus Sea, that's what the locals called this place. She could think of many other names for it too.
But that wasn't important. As the Pegasus stood on the shore, she blinked as a new scent hit her snout. Turning, she was faced with the wonder and excitement of a stranger's face. She brightened as they came closer. "Hello" t'was a new day, time wise. The morning sun soaked the waters below "have you come to see the ocean too?"
@ for syndicate / speaks
RE: a million tears in a salt bottle - Vercingtorix - 12-28-2020
hubris is deadly
yet you wore it like armor
yet you wore it like armor
It is strange to me, to see a woman with wings so close to the sea. She belongs to the skies, not the salt water and sand. I am there to return—and she is there, watching.
Hello, she says, brightly. have you come to see the ocean, too?
I do not recognize her; this should not strike me as strange, being how long I had been in Terrastella and the hospital. “No,” I answer. And admit, in words that do not fit comfortably in my mouth, in words that do not sound like my own: “I live in it.”
For a moment, I envy her incredibly naivety; the brightness of her expression, the morning sun against the white-capped waves. The sea, today, does not speak in anger, but in gentleness. She beckons with a soft touch, with small, lapping waves.
I step forward, from the edge of the beach and toward the water. I cannot disguise the long slit of my mouth, that betrays me as the thing I hate most: a water horse.
(Or, myself. I am still not sure).
The silence does not settle; and the thing within me roils, roils in the way I can smell the salt-sweat of her skin, and nearly feel the running beat of her pulse in the air. "Your name?" I ask, to fill the void. Just for a moment.
Hello, she says, brightly. have you come to see the ocean, too?
I do not recognize her; this should not strike me as strange, being how long I had been in Terrastella and the hospital. “No,” I answer. And admit, in words that do not fit comfortably in my mouth, in words that do not sound like my own: “I live in it.”
For a moment, I envy her incredibly naivety; the brightness of her expression, the morning sun against the white-capped waves. The sea, today, does not speak in anger, but in gentleness. She beckons with a soft touch, with small, lapping waves.
I step forward, from the edge of the beach and toward the water. I cannot disguise the long slit of my mouth, that betrays me as the thing I hate most: a water horse.
(Or, myself. I am still not sure).
The silence does not settle; and the thing within me roils, roils in the way I can smell the salt-sweat of her skin, and nearly feel the running beat of her pulse in the air. "Your name?" I ask, to fill the void. Just for a moment.
RE: a million tears in a salt bottle - Willoughby - 12-28-2020
the road less traveled
"Truly?" she says in quiet awe as he rounds her to go to the water. The man seems... not at ease here. Almost uncomfortable. She does not know how to feel about it. Perhaps it is her imagination. Perhaps she is mistaking his unwillingness to speak much for something else. Willoughby thinks it is quite exciting to see another world beyond where she can survive.
The depths would kill her before she was able to swim deep enough. "I am Willoughby, sir" she says to him at his inquiry. Her head lowers somewhat - she was still a free horse - and it was out of politeness than anything. She owed her alliance and allegiance to no equine. "who might you be?"
@Vercingtorix / speaks
RE: a million tears in a salt bottle - Vercingtorix - 01-08-2021
hubris is deadly
yet you wore it like armor
yet you wore it like armor
Truly?
For a moment, I recognize I can be anyone. I owe her no truth, no actuality. And so I turn with my old charm, my eyes bright, and say: “No, I am only joking. Although I know of those who live in the sea—“ I know I sound as if I may add more, and yet, I refrain. The sentence ends lamely, and I glance past the pegasus to the tumbling waves.
The lie tastes like nothing. I expect it to be bitter; instead, it seems gray, lackluster. I live in the sea, but the water will never be my home.
I am Willoughby, sir.. I nod, politely. “Vercingtorix.”
For a long moment, I say nothing; instead I step forward, ever forward, and try not to let my mind be drawn into the tumbling surf. “Are you a wanderer, here?”
For a moment, I recognize I can be anyone. I owe her no truth, no actuality. And so I turn with my old charm, my eyes bright, and say: “No, I am only joking. Although I know of those who live in the sea—“ I know I sound as if I may add more, and yet, I refrain. The sentence ends lamely, and I glance past the pegasus to the tumbling waves.
The lie tastes like nothing. I expect it to be bitter; instead, it seems gray, lackluster. I live in the sea, but the water will never be my home.
I am Willoughby, sir.. I nod, politely. “Vercingtorix.”
For a long moment, I say nothing; instead I step forward, ever forward, and try not to let my mind be drawn into the tumbling surf. “Are you a wanderer, here?”
RE: a million tears in a salt bottle - Willoughby - 01-08-2021
“You have a lovely name, sir” she compliments innocently. Willoughby notices he pauses, halting his words, and she does not press him further. For her, the sea is an unknown. Perhaps one day she would be blessed to meet the ocean but she does not hear of it happening... Only in stories. Only with magic.
Magic she does not have.
“For the moment” she answers him easily enough. Daring to move a bit closer, she sharply turns away from the man to view the waves lapping. She is closer now to him, but not close enough to hiss at. “I've spent a few months in Novus... but not enough time to make a decision about settling anywhere particular.”
So they called her vagabond. She accepted it. “Do you belong to one of those courts?”
if you don't want to see me dancing with somebody new
RE: a million tears in a salt bottle - Vercingtorix - 01-24-2021
hubris is deadly
yet you wore it like armor
yet you wore it like armor
Would my name be so lovely, I wonder, if she knew who I was named after? A barbarian chieftain who rebelled against an empire, later held prisoner and executed by strangulation? The story, told as my father unclasped the leather ties of his baldric, resonates with me even now. I wanted you to understand loss, my father had said. Before you will ever have to feel it.
He had thought the naming, the story, the depth—he had thought all these things compounded into an experience, a lesson, that I would carry with me through life.
(Even now, face-to-face with a stranger who has no stake in me, I find the entire thing ludicrous. I feel, on a level so deep it seems ingrained within the fibers of my being, that I will never escape the legacy my father left. That I will always be him, stitched together innumerable, irrevocable experiences).
Externally, I do not miss a beat. “No. I am also a wanderer. I find it difficult to align myself to any particular nation on a basis of what time of day they worship.” My lips twist into a wry smile. She has stepped toward me; and now I step forward, toward the lapping waves and spreading sea-foam.
“And where are you from?”
He had thought the naming, the story, the depth—he had thought all these things compounded into an experience, a lesson, that I would carry with me through life.
(Even now, face-to-face with a stranger who has no stake in me, I find the entire thing ludicrous. I feel, on a level so deep it seems ingrained within the fibers of my being, that I will never escape the legacy my father left. That I will always be him, stitched together innumerable, irrevocable experiences).
Externally, I do not miss a beat. “No. I am also a wanderer. I find it difficult to align myself to any particular nation on a basis of what time of day they worship.” My lips twist into a wry smile. She has stepped toward me; and now I step forward, toward the lapping waves and spreading sea-foam.
“And where are you from?”