i am angry. i have nothing to say about it.
i am not sorry for the cost.
S
omeone smiles. Someone hands Andras a glass of hot apple cider and claps him on the back. Someone else laughs as he takes it–warm laughter, friendly laughter. Andras never quite learns their names but he likes them, as much as he can. He likes this, as much as he can.
And though Andras tries, though he smiles or else schools his expression into one of quiet nonchalance, though pride swells in him to see the streets full for the first time in–months? years?–he was not born with emotional stamina. It is exhausting to be a bubbling cauldron from the day he leaves the womb to the day he dies but it has never been more draining than the simple act of enjoying himself. The man with the cider turns to say something over his shoulder.
When he turns back, the warden is gone. His friend says, “I hear he does that.” Both of them shrug, and continue their celebration.
From here the cheer of the city is quieter than the wind blowing through, and the winking lights of the lanterns are yellow specks in the sky. Andras realizes now just how tired he is. Andras realizes, too, that it is a comfortable sleepiness, that he breathes out a sigh and it is not in anguish but contentment.
–and that contentment turns to icy fear, which grows and grows because he doesn’t know what it is and it hurts in the pit of his chest–
–but that is a journey for another time. It is a stitch to undo at another moment. Andras breathes (in, hold it, then out) and Andras tries not to think that contentment is so close to that feeling that rules him when he thinks about snakes and gold and the Solterran sun.
‘Do you hear them?’Andras turns his head to hear it, turns his head to look. It is almost familiar. It is almost like someone he knows but can’t pick out of a crowd. And at first it’s so quiet he’s not sure he heard it at all. What he finds is bright eyes, like molten gold, and a shape that steps out of the woods like it’s been there for years, haunting them. Watching. Waiting.
Andras purses his lips and draws his brows together. Andras leers down his nose at the shape in the dark. Andras quietly thanks Oriens for something to haunt him that is not his own heart running away with him. At this point he’d take anything–he had meant to go home, sink into bed, and curl in on himself until the sharp pain of being subsides–but he’ll take anything.
‘They’re only the voices of the lost,’ the shape says with that voice that he almost remembers but isn’t quite sure he hears at all. ‘Some say they only sing to those who are also lost.’ Andras clenches his teeth and tucks his lips tighter. There is anger growing in him. Comforting anger. Safe anger. So much safer than everything else.
‘I suppose you’ve come for the festival path?’ The stranger begins again. His voice is a whisper in the warden’s ear though he’s so far away. When he speaks Andras feels the rising and falling sun, the cool mist of the woods. Each sentence is punctuated by some effervescent glow that sets his teeth on edge. His anger turns to vague fear before shifting back. Andras steps forward dismissively, breaking his stare, and ducks his head.
The voice follows him still, like it’s just behind his head. The voice tells him of ghosts and their secrets. The voice tells him there are old things in the woods, things made of dust and satin, things with quiet mouths that smile or cry–and then, like it had never been there at all–everything around him is silent.
Andras sets his jaw. Andras narrows his eyes–the bright sun is a speck in the distance, weaving its way between trees. He regards it for a moment, before refolding his wings over his back and saying “Fine. I’ll play your game.”
As you begin the pathway, the forest around you seems to come alive. There are birds of every size and shape flitting from branch to branch overhead, vibrant blue butterflies dancing around your hooves, rustlings in the nearby bushes. Perhaps you are familiar with the woods, and they seem peaceful to you; or perhaps every creak of the branches makes your senses jump, and every shadow dancing just out of sight has your skin crawling.
Or perhaps it feels as though the forest is watching you. Maybe the woodland animals are not the only things alive here.
Regardless, as you venture further into the forest, the festival noises are replaced entirely with the sounds of flora and fauna, and the glow of the lanterns placed along the pathway is greater than what little sunlight manages to break through the canopy. It feels intimate here, and whether you came with company or alone, you begin to feel acutely aware of how alone you are walking in the woods.
It is not long before the rustling in the leaves grows louder, and another set of footsteps begin to echo your’s. But when you turn to look, only the empty forest path greets your eyes. The trees shiver, the light in the nearest lantern begins to waver; and from the shadows, a new light begins to shine as a thousand fireflies wander down the trail.
For a moment, they seem to form the outline of another horse. But when you blink the image slips away, and the fireflies swarm together. They drift near to you, almost shyly, cautiously; the wind seems to be holding its breath, waiting, waiting. The fireflies reach out to you like an old friend, their light falling across your face. And then as one they turn, gathering once more into the likeness of a horse. And without turning, without caring for the old man’s warning, they step off the forest path and into the forest. Without the warm glow of the lanterns, they make their own light weaving between the trees, casting strange rays of light that seem to linger too long in the darkness, reaching back to you.
As if beckoning to you to follow.
To continue the quest, you must reply to this thread with your character's choice. There is no word limit, and you can be as creative with the prompt as you'd like! In this round, it seems as though a horde of fireflies are trying to show your character something...
Choices: stay on the path, or follow the fireflies
i am angry. i have nothing to say about it.
i am not sorry for the cost.
H
e concedes, fine, and the trees open up like petals, green-gold light like spears from the canopy to the soft, dry ground that crunches underfoot. Andras cannot remember a time that the woods did not feel like home, even when they were full of blood, even when they were full of fear-- and especially since then, when he has been lifting his head from his bed of pillows and staring upside-down at the thick old branches that line the library walls.
A red-breasted robin flits across the path in a hurry, taking the spoils of war home to its nest in a bed of old twigs. It is almost peaceful, if it were not overshadowed by the creeping fear of whatever it was that goaded him into its game and whatever it is in him now that feels warm and still and quiet in spite of it.
He has never known how to feel warm, and still, and quiet. He has never needed to.
The same way inland cities don't think of their homes torn away by the sea, he had never considered that he could feel this. It is like another language altogether.
Around him it grows dark, more blue shade than green-gold light, and the singing of birds becomes more of a far-off screaming after their numbers have grown to the point that they are all he can hear.
I'll play your game, he sneers, to himself, at himself, in his head. Sometimes he is profoundly stupid. Sometimes he thinks far too little and acts far too soon. Andras thinks this on repeat until the sound of old Viride drowns it out, as well. Behind him there is a sound like an animal crashing through the underbrush but when he turns there is nothing there. Behind him, the road winds on and on through the dark. He swallows. He holds his breath. The road stands, unchanging, in spite of his best efforts.
It is only when he turns back that he sees: lights, more than he can count, humming their way down the path toward him, like stars taken form and brought down to meet them. As the cloud of them passes a lantern it winks faintly, like it's laughing, or longing to join the procession. Andras wonders vaguely why it feels more like a dirge than a celebration.
It has a shape, like the outline of a horse trying to hold itself in place, twitching here and there as or light bobs too far off to the side, or too high, or blinks out altogether. Andras can't see a face, if it has one, and it does not have a voice, but it does have a hand, or a claw, or a tentacle that touches his face like the bright light of noon. For a moment Andras is warm all over, almost too warm, enough that a sweat breaks out on his neck.
And, when they pull away, when they lilt down the path and then off of it, spiraling out of shape in the dark, Andras feels cold, cold, cold. He thinks he sees the shape wink. He thinks the lights, though faint, blinking just bright enough that he sees them even as they, collectively, hurry off stage, can mean only one thing: that he is meant to come.
Andras thinks. He thinks he is so tired. He thinks he has so much to consider, and to do, and to hope or not hope-- but Andras would not be Andras if he thought things through. And he is--
so he goes, and he does not ask himself why.
Andras follows the fireflies into the woods for better or for worse. :)
@Official Dawn Account
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
07-16-2020, 07:30 PM - This post was last modified: 07-16-2020, 07:31 PM by Andras
The fireflies bob along ahead of you, leading you further and further away from the beaten trail. And as the trees close in around you, leaves whispering amongst themselves overhead, the lantern-light from the events begin to fade into the background. The shush, shush, shush of the trees start to give way to a murmur of voices, pressing in from the shadows.
The light-horse leading your way breaks into a run.
Through the forest it races, fallen leaves and forest soil shuddering in its wake, shedding fireflies like wishes. More and more fireflies appear, and form more light-horses that crash into the darkness and send the shadows fleeing. And with them, the warnings about the forest melt away when you follow.
But soon the trees fall away, and in the midst of a clearing the light-horses slow and turn to face you. Silver grass waves at you gently in a lingering breeze, waving you closer as a whisper rises from them. Mist weaves around their stalks like slender snakes, and as the fireflies begin to disperse, the mists begin to rise and take their place. A mist-foal framed with fireflies whinnies at you.
It takes a slow step towards you, breath whuffing softly over your face. The magic holding it together trembles.
And then, mist-hooves flashing as it rears, the ghost-foal begins to dance around you. The grass whispers louder and louder, as more mist-horses rise from the earth and join the dance. They whisper to you, dozens of voices that weave and blend together. Some of them whisper your name; or perhaps they repeat phrases of meaning back to you, phrases you hold dear in your heart. Perhaps you recognize the dancing foal, and perhaps it speaks to you kindly as it invites you to play a game of chase.
Or perhaps you see something malevolent in the way all those mist-horses surround you, and in the way their voices start to sound more like a hiss than a whisper.
To continue the quest, you must reply to this thread with your character's choice. There is no word limit, and you can be as creative with the prompt as you'd like! The fireflies have led you to a clearing, where dozens of mist-spirits rise from the silver grass and fog. They press in around you, whispering quietly to you - what are they saying? Are they friends or foes? Are you falling under their trance, or only unsettled by the ghosts?
Choices: double back to the path, or play with the mist-spirits
