Blindness, she has learned, matters less in the air.
Massive violet wings snap in at the mare’s side as she dives along the sides of the cliffs, snapping them out to catch her only when she hears ocean spray thundering against the sharp rocks and feels the cool rush of droplets catching on her feathered coat. She spirals back up, then, wind whistling through her feathers. It isn’t quite like Virun to go cliff-diving; she is a rather delicate creature, not inclined towards an adrenaline rush or the nauseating jumps that her stomach makes when she crashes towards the open sea. Nevertheless, there she is,
free falling.
She wants to sit herself down on the cliffside, look herself firmly in the eyes (an ineffective but somehow amusing sentiment), and tell herself Virun, it is all going to be fine. If you would stop throwing yourself off of cliffs and instead direct your energy to summoning Celes, it would be better than fine, and faster. However, Virun knows that is a fool’s venture – she can’t feel the darkness, as she used to. It is blank and stale again. When she felt it, she could see into the other realm, the one that existed outside of sight; it was never the world in front of her, but she could make it into her world if only she asked her beloved companions. Now, there is no world but the one of which she has been robbed, the tangible, unseen world that pumps salt and sea into her lungs, a world that she can barely believe exists for her sightlessness. The sounds and the sensations are a disconnect. She can never quite piece together the puzzle, and- You’re thinking too much again, Virun.
So much, in fact, that she nearly cascades into the sheet of (presumably) sharp rocks when she takes the next fall; she feels her primaries brush against their jagged tips when she pumps her wings to pull herself back up again. Silly, silly Virun. This is why they never let you outside – you can’t take care of yourself at all, you know. Grimacing, she rides the wind back up to the cliff’s edge, ears twitched forward to try and pinpoint where land meets sky by nothing but the sound of the wind howling against rough stone. She swoops down, down, down, long legs extending as she nears what she thinks is the ground. (From where she hovers, she can hear wind whipping through grasses.) Tentatively, she outstretches a long limb, and, finding solid ground, comes in for an uneasy landing; you’ve forgotten how to live without them, haven’t you? (It wasn’t as though she’d ever spent much time outside without them, either.)
At some point or another, she knows that she’ll have to make her way back to the Court; it’s only her own stubbornness and need for independence that pulled her from it in the first place. (She can’t stand being confined any longer – she feels caged, like her wings have been clipped off, every moment she spends constricted by those old stone walls.) For now, however, she stands on the cliff’s edge, long hair billowing in the wind as she stares out towards where she imagines the ocean meets the sky with eyes that cannot confirm or deny her suspicions.
It was surprising really, how loathe he suddenly was to leave the cliffside. He simply paced back and forth along the edge, seafoam eyes cast ever out to sea, as if by sheer determination he could bring back the ship that had abandoned him here, if only to prove that he had made it. They may have wanted him dead, but he was far too proud to let something like death inconvenience him and his plans.
True, the path up the cliffside had been long and hard, and he had nearly slipped in more than one instance. But, no one else needed to know that. He would lock it away in the recesses of his brain, out of sight, out of mind. He was practiced enough to know that eventually, even he would forget such a small, insignificant detail. It would be as if it had never happened.
The roaring of the waves filled his ears, and he let himself believe they were roaring because of him, because he had escaped their clutches just in time. The thought brought a smile to his face, triumph thumping in his chest—or was it only his heart? Did it make a difference? He thought not. The two went hand in hand, he was sure.
He stopped his pacing and faced the sea, a statue of defiance and recklessness. Here he stood, close to the precipice, as if willing to throw himself down at any moment, without a hint of fear or trepidation in his stance. He had made it free from the beach below already—why not try again, with a more interesting twist to it..?
So consumed in his thoughts was he that he almost didn’t notice how far he’d gone down the cliffside, having wandered into a new territory where he was not as alone as he’d first thought. There was a pegasus here, one who seemed to mirror his thoughts—only she had the wings to be able to stop herself from crashing amongst the sharp rocks awaiting their bodies below.
But he saw her now, landing in a less-than-graceful way that made him think that she had not grown up using her wings to their full potential. She stumbled and barely caught herself, but still she managed to, and something about the way she didn’t look around, didn’t seem to care if anyone saw, impressed him.
Then again, she might have just assumed she was alone, just as he had moments ago.
He watches from afar as she draws herself up, standing on the cliff edge as he was, staring just as defiantly as he. Without giving himself a chance to second guess himself, and turned and made his way over to the spot she stood upon.
As he walked, his expression and demeanor changed, morphing into a new persona entirely as he walked. The name of the person he’d stolen from escaped his mind—not that he cared who it was—a jovial man, with a beaming smile and sea-tangled hair that looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in days (and truly, it hadn’t.) He slipped on the new face like a favorite suit, comforting and form-fitting.
His smile almost faltered when he saw the blindfold tied around her face, obscuring her eyes. Almost. Toulouse recovered quickly, pretending the hesitation in his step was due to a rather large rock that he carefully stepped around.
“You know, I’m sure it’d make for a far more interesting sight without a piece of cloth in the way,” he called out, a good few steps away still. “Only if you enjoy the ocean though, of course.” His tone was lighthearted still, as if there was nothing unnerving at all about a blindfolded mare cliff diving out here, all alone.
the motherland don't love you,
the fatherland don’t love you.
so why love anything?
the faithless; they don't love you
the zealous hearts don’t love you.
and that's not gonna change.
Movement.
Her ears twitch in the direction of the sound of hooves against dry grass, barely audible over the whip of the ocean breeze. “You know, I’m sure it’d make for a far more interesting sight without a piece of cloth in the way. Only if you enjoy the ocean, though, of course.” He (or so she assumes) speaks with a voice like freshly-spun silk, and Virun knows that is dangerous. For her, all the world is a sea of illusive noise; until otherwise proven, everyone and everything is a gaping unknown, and she cannot trust it. There is nothing more dangerous in all the world to women like her than seeming, than assuming. Nevertheless, Virun is not the type to automatically assume a threat in a perfect stranger – she is not so paranoid as to assume every pleasantry hides a barb. (Perhaps she will be soon.) “I’m sure it would make a very interesting sight,” She says, rather dryly, “were I able to see.” Somewhat bitterly, a vindictive tangle of thoughts that do not come out in her tone: The blindfold is for your convenience, not mine. That is quickly pushed aside to make room for more pleasant commentary, however. “I don’t think I’m terribly fond of the ocean, anyways.” Water was not kind when you could not swim. The ocean was not kind when it only served as a reminder of waking up on the shore, wing mangled and bloody and mind black and fuzzy from time spent in a hellish limbo – a hellish limbo that you nevertheless wish that you could return to. (Any backwards movement is somehow more comforting than pushing forward into the unknown, alone.) The ocean, she thinks, is probably never kind at all. It might be beautiful or it might not; it’s not like she’ll ever know. Even if you were to describe the ocean to Virun – the white grains of sand and the frothing, dark waves – the words will mean nothing without a point of reference. Images are empty. It might be beautiful, or it might not be beautiful, and neither matter to her – it is always dangerous.
She is not here, however, to wax poetic about the ocean that she’ll never see. She doesn’t mourn the darkness anymore – it is what it is. The only thing that she presently mourns is the loss of most of her independence, and here she is cliff-diving in spite of it all. She inclines her head, slightly, at where she is reasonably sure that he is standing, and asks, “Are you here to see the sights?” Perhaps it is the adrenaline or perhaps it is the power of small talk or perhaps she is simply a pleasant creature; whatever the reason, her tone is light and inquisitive, and she sounds genuinely curious about his intentions. This is a new world, after all, and Virun cannot make heads or tails of it. Any opportunity to learn of the creatures that occupy it is one she must take, even though a large part of her would rather just be left alone.
(It seems that Celes’ disappearance has caused her social skills to take a plummet, as well. She used to cherish conversation. Now it feels like survival.)
Her bitter response took him aback—but only slightly.
Toulouse was nothing if he was not adaptable.
His reactions shouldn’t matter; she was blind. She would never see the slight down curl to his lips, the way his ears flinched back a centimeter in response to the dryness of her tone. The tension he held in the serpentine arch of his neck would forever be lost on her, as would the rigidity of his spine.
And yet, he slipped the smile back onto his lips; relaxed his spine as he stretched his neck back out. He forced his ears to swivel forward pleasantly, for one hock to bend as he shifted his weight to the other side. He was an actor and a snake; perfect in his art of deception. Body language affected speech: to smile with your lips was to also smile in your voice, it was unavoidable. And naturally a blind mare could pick up on his mood by the tone of his voice—so he masked his tone with the movements of his body, imbuing it with all the good naturedness his pose might suggest.
His mind may be a dark and fickle thing, but he could lie perfectly fine with his body nonetheless.
He let her words hang in the air between them, an extended pause opening like a valley between them. The wind whispered through the grass, tugged at his caramel curls, but he was silent. Patient.
“I don’t think I’m terribly fond of the ocean, anyways.”
“Me, either,” he replied smoothly, his eyes trained on her. “The sea spray is horrible for my hair.” It still was a horribly frizzy mess from his time spent down on the beach, hanging in ropy tangles from his crest. He would have to find somewhere to buy some new oils and fragrances to keep it manageable. Or just leave the coast.
“Am I here to see the sights?” he repeated her question back to her with careful precision, turning her words over thoughtfully in his mind. His lips curled into a smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. “Maybe. I only just arrived here, actually—my boat made a short stop down on the beach below. It wasn’t actually my first choice of arrivals, but I don’t fare well on the sea you know, so any land was better than returning to that ship.” A little bit of truth, and a little bit of lie, mixed in together to create the perfect cocktail of illusion. He had no doubt she would believe him; everyone, everywhere, had always believed his tales.
“I take it you’re from around here, then? Any advice for a newcomer?”
The wind continued to whisper around them, weaving through the tall grasses and pulling at the palomino’s tall frame. It held secrets, he knew, from all the places the wind had blown; he had only to convince someone to decipher them for him.
the motherland don't love you,
the fatherland don’t love you.
so why love anything?
the faithless; they don't love you
the zealous hearts don’t love you.
and that's not gonna change.
Black – violet, in the light – ears twitched forward to catch the sound of his voice. Virun was vaguely aware that she’d lashed out at him, and there was something strange to in how utterly unfettered and pleasant he sounded. She told herself, however, that he was probably just a pleasant person, and he understood that it was nothing personal; if the conversation hadn’t already been moving forward, she might have apologized for her tone. As it was, however, she nodded amicably to his comment. “I can certainly understand that.” As if on cue, she felt salty breeze brush through her great expanses of silver-and-violet hair, sending it billowing out in waves behind her. “I arrived here by falling into the ocean – I felt like I had salt in my hair for weeks.” She might have had salt in her hair for weeks, for all she knew. In spite of her best efforts to the contrary, her hair was something untamable. She wondered, for a moment, what the stranger in front of her looked like – she hadn’t had sight for very long, and her impression of form was wavery, at best. Was he tall? Short? Large? Small? Handsome? Beautiful? Ordinary? Ugly? Horrifying? What color were his eyes? His coat? His mane? How long was his hair? What sort of expression was he wearing, what posture did he have, how was he looking at her? She wasn’t entirely sure what any of those words meant; they all had meanings far beyond her comprehension, so they might as well have meant nothing at all.
His next comment took her by surprise. He was a newcomer, then - very new. She couldn’t imagine the confidence and self-assuredness that it would require to veer away from your intended destination and simply venture into a new one; she had, after all, only left her homeland by necessity. It must have been dangerous passage, she thought, when she considered the rocks that she had only just been diving towards below. She tilted her head at him slightly, a hint of confusion entering her tone momentarily. “I didn’t realize that boats arrived off the shore of Terrastella. I can’t see the beach, of course, but I’ve heard that it’s nothing but crags – I would have thought that it would be too dangerous.”
That was hardly relevant, however; he’d asked her a question. “Regardless, though, I doubt that I can tell you much of anything about this place. I haven’t been here for long, and I don’t know much.” Might as well be upfront with him, she supposed. If he’d come to her with questions about Roskildar, her knowledge would be practically encyclopedic, but Virun considered Novus more of a transitory point than anything – she didn’t want to stay, and she didn’t want to learn about it. She still wished that it weren’t real. Silly girl. However, considering that it was, she had managed to gather a bit of information, so, reluctantly, she added, “Is there anything specific that you’re interested in?”
