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+---- Thread: [AW] Stories that are Read (/showthread.php?tid=6159)
Stories that are Read - Lovis - 01-13-2021
Lovis
I am made of
Memories
A field of gold. Lit by sunlight golden. In it Lovis stood haloed, allowing it to paint him too. His heart and soul were spun of gold. His voice was of silver.
"Cedoc," Lovis' spoke to the golden morn. A name offered to the gods, so that they may too remember the boy that it called. Lovis knew them to be present, for the mist; breath of gods invisible, lingered. He hoped Oriens was one amongst them.
His son's grave was humble. Time had taken for itself the grandeur the burial had once been decorated by. Flowers planted had long since grown free, reaching for the companionship of their cousins wild. The stone that had Cedoc's doings in life inscribed upon it, had given in to the desire of the elements, to nature's yearning to remove all that had not been drawn by her own hand. Split and crumbled the grave marker called to passerby with the riddles broken sentences made.
Lovis did not have need to see the words made whole. They were carved into his own being. As though if one were to look hard enough at him, they may find the celebration of a being he had so loved, spelled out by the freckles upon his own flesh. If they just looked hard enough. He carried Cedoc, his beloved son, with him no matter how the time passed.
Never had Lovis claimed the boy, nor the man Cedoc grew to be, but he had known. They both had. Too alike they had been to ever deny the connection. Lovis lay himself against the stone and pulled out a book. Readily the book bore its pages to him, worn by many a hand. The tale writen within nearly lost to time. Each year it became harder to find a copy. Each year he paid a bit more to obtain it.
He began to read from its pages. Brittle was his voice. It was Cedoc's birthday. Every year he would seek out a copy of the same story, one that Cedoc had loved as a boy and then as a man, and he would read it to him. Unmoving until the tale was done.
"Cedoc," Lovis' spoke to the golden morn. A name offered to the gods, so that they may too remember the boy that it called. Lovis knew them to be present, for the mist; breath of gods invisible, lingered. He hoped Oriens was one amongst them.
His son's grave was humble. Time had taken for itself the grandeur the burial had once been decorated by. Flowers planted had long since grown free, reaching for the companionship of their cousins wild. The stone that had Cedoc's doings in life inscribed upon it, had given in to the desire of the elements, to nature's yearning to remove all that had not been drawn by her own hand. Split and crumbled the grave marker called to passerby with the riddles broken sentences made.
Lovis did not have need to see the words made whole. They were carved into his own being. As though if one were to look hard enough at him, they may find the celebration of a being he had so loved, spelled out by the freckles upon his own flesh. If they just looked hard enough. He carried Cedoc, his beloved son, with him no matter how the time passed.
Never had Lovis claimed the boy, nor the man Cedoc grew to be, but he had known. They both had. Too alike they had been to ever deny the connection. Lovis lay himself against the stone and pulled out a book. Readily the book bore its pages to him, worn by many a hand. The tale writen within nearly lost to time. Each year it became harder to find a copy. Each year he paid a bit more to obtain it.
He began to read from its pages. Brittle was his voice. It was Cedoc's birthday. Every year he would seek out a copy of the same story, one that Cedoc had loved as a boy and then as a man, and he would read it to him. Unmoving until the tale was done.
Link to Artist
Link to Table Base
Feel free to make any assumptions of what the story is. It is probably a fable of some sort.
Link to Table Base
Feel free to make any assumptions of what the story is. It is probably a fable of some sort.
RE: Stories that are Read - Willoughby - 01-14-2021
willoughby lovelace
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit.
Sed vitae sagittis justo. Etiam porttitor urna neque.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit.
Sed vitae sagittis justo. Etiam porttitor urna neque.
The day was still young in her eyes, even if the time didn't have to be. Willoughby knew there was so much more to do than sit around. She had to perform more for coin, but she had succeeded in getting her flute. The bard had it on a chain around her throat, dangling there happily until it was used.
The silver-with-ivy etched instrument was a masterpiece. Though it could easily float around her, Willoughby didn't want the magic to wear out so quickly. She could only use it for a few songs before it had to re-calibrate. Spotting someone ahead, she walked a bit faster. They were grounded, as Novus civilians were. She hadn't found many pegasus around.
"Hello" she says sweetly enough, coming to a halt directly behind the man. He seemed to be reading something, but she hoped he was good for a chat.
The silver-with-ivy etched instrument was a masterpiece. Though it could easily float around her, Willoughby didn't want the magic to wear out so quickly. She could only use it for a few songs before it had to re-calibrate. Spotting someone ahead, she walked a bit faster. They were grounded, as Novus civilians were. She hadn't found many pegasus around.
"Hello" she says sweetly enough, coming to a halt directly behind the man. He seemed to be reading something, but she hoped he was good for a chat.
"talk is bold" | @Lovis | hope you don't mind me?
RE: Stories that are Read - Lovis - 01-30-2021
Lovis
I am made of
Memories
Sweet as her voice was Lovis had not expected to hear anything more than the whispers of ghosts. Entirely intangible beings. He flinched at the calling of a voice so solid, so true, in its sound. He paused his reading long enough for the sound of her to go quiet before continuing on. He did not answer her until he had finished the final page. The final word.
"Hello," he stood and brushed himself off. Gingerly he placed the book on the grave marker. He would leave it to the elements. The winds would turn its pages and the rains would weep upon them. The sun would fade its colors and would take the words off of the pages. His son had long ago been laid in the earth and to the earth Lovis gave Cedoc's gift.
Lovis turned to face her. A child of the sky. How morbid of a thought to think that one day the earth would take her too, into its depths. "More bird than horse. Are you not?" For the earth to take those familiar with its soils felt like taking a fair due. To take the souls decorated by feather and loved by the winds felt like death must be a being not without greed.
Lovis shook himself and with a final mournful look back to the grave he tried to free himself of the thoughts of death. He tried to focus on the woman living before him. The pulse still in her breast. The breath still in her lungs.
Though she was lovely it was on the instrument that his eyes lingered. Its curves were the ones that his gaze traced longingly. So long he had lived. Why had he never learned to play anything himself?
Lovis was not much of a man for paintings. An art piece of a meadow would be a stale offering to one who had stood amongst the wildflowers in the midst of summer. However the notes sung by an instrument well played were things birthed and made alive.
An old song would wrap itself around he who already knew it well. It remind him of who he had been. Of who he was. Unchanging though the world morphed and contorted around it.
A song new would whisper longingly into the ears of those it met. It would beg of them to remember its sounds. A song fresh on the ear pleaded for remembrance so that it might live beyond the ringing of its final note.
Lovis wondered what songs this woman carried within her.
"Hello," he stood and brushed himself off. Gingerly he placed the book on the grave marker. He would leave it to the elements. The winds would turn its pages and the rains would weep upon them. The sun would fade its colors and would take the words off of the pages. His son had long ago been laid in the earth and to the earth Lovis gave Cedoc's gift.
Lovis turned to face her. A child of the sky. How morbid of a thought to think that one day the earth would take her too, into its depths. "More bird than horse. Are you not?" For the earth to take those familiar with its soils felt like taking a fair due. To take the souls decorated by feather and loved by the winds felt like death must be a being not without greed.
Lovis shook himself and with a final mournful look back to the grave he tried to free himself of the thoughts of death. He tried to focus on the woman living before him. The pulse still in her breast. The breath still in her lungs.
Though she was lovely it was on the instrument that his eyes lingered. Its curves were the ones that his gaze traced longingly. So long he had lived. Why had he never learned to play anything himself?
Lovis was not much of a man for paintings. An art piece of a meadow would be a stale offering to one who had stood amongst the wildflowers in the midst of summer. However the notes sung by an instrument well played were things birthed and made alive.
An old song would wrap itself around he who already knew it well. It remind him of who he had been. Of who he was. Unchanging though the world morphed and contorted around it.
A song new would whisper longingly into the ears of those it met. It would beg of them to remember its sounds. A song fresh on the ear pleaded for remembrance so that it might live beyond the ringing of its final note.
Lovis wondered what songs this woman carried within her.
Link to Artist
Link to Table Base
@Willoughby
I am sorry that this took a bit to get written. Trying to get into this guy's head better.
Link to Table Base
@
I am sorry that this took a bit to get written. Trying to get into this guy's head better.