[P] A Stranger in a Strange Land

[Orias]

M

aybe it comes to no surprise to the wandering mind, that beauty attracts those who are intimately acquainted with it. The nature of it is as varied as the individual who is often posed the question, what do you find beautiful, some will follow the inevitable and often tragic trend of following the masses. Subscribing to the trend of popular, in order to conform and seek appropriate and objectively manufactured approval by those who would sooner watch paint dry than attempt to obtain a name to a carbon copy face.

Beauty is subjective, and Orias finds the abstract even more so. Things and souls whose magnificence is sharp and startling, otherworldly. Things which persist to defy the conventional, make the mind question whether the depths of the universe's creativity and diversity have an end. Whether the being in front of them is truth or the sum of a magnificent illusion. They wouldn't question the validity of the latter, as they wind through crystal formations, their gait smoothe as silk. Hair flowing as the maiden of the sky's angora tips liquid starlight into the cosmos.

At the beginning of their excursion into this palace of mirrors and wonders, they had seen only reflections of themselves. Winking back at them, others no more than a smirking countenence of mirth and curiousity. Judging, they'd like to say, measuring the sum of their adventures. Briefly, he hopes that it's rather bland on their palate, even if reflections typically do not have taste for fine things and adventuring. Slowly however, as the crystals had changed shape, so too had their own reflection staring back. There are glimpses of his younger self, bounding out of view and back again, all long legs and no coordination.

Then of course, there are glimpses of their future self — arguably the most tragic thing of all to find in an otherwise pristine palace of glass — eyes listless and legs crooked, there is no orb between their gold crown to glean the secrets of the cosmos. Just them, stripped back, watching the sand in the hourglass turn to dust. Orias has only an annoyed huff of breath for those mirror images, at least they keep their cheekbones. It's somewhat of a palm, the same way one shadows their face as they slip away from a rather unsightly altercation. Orias walks until they're surrounded by crystal structures. Some smooth, others jagged, each one strange and brilliant by design.

They gaze deep, and watch as their life gazes back. A gilt hoof raises upon it's sharp tips as they play the image of a relaxed adventurer, but they're anything but. There are secrets here.

"Why?" Spoken a tthe end of a wondering exhale, an ear crooked in thought. An ever changing island is a mystery to be sure, but islands don't just change shape and if it is the work of the Gods, seldom do they often do things on a whim. But what do they know, these Gods are not theirs by design, by blood and by loyalty and the Gods of their homeland are far more tempestous. Playing with an island seems rather quaint.

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TAG: @Ruth
NOTES: brb yelling rusty at clouds.

[Ruth]

☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות

"In dreams of you, the trees are always thrashing, / the doors have been left open, leaves / blowing in the hallway. Everything has come apart, / but you are not here to see it."

I’ve lost Ishak.

In this strange place, it was altogether too easy – the landscape is disorienting, jagged, wholly unnatural. I have not been to the island before, and I did not come because I particularly wanted to. No, I didn’t want to come at all; but I’d heard of the nature of the island, and I’d come here primarily in search of medical knowledge, to find new herbs and plants and potential remedies. I thought that it was worth the potential danger. Ishak did not agree, but he followed me regardless. I told him that it is likely no more deadly than the Mors, and he looked like he wanted to argue with me, but, in the end, he didn’t. Unfortunately, he seems to have been right.

I’ve lost Ishak, and I don’t even know where to begin looking for him.

Everywhere I look, there are jagged, reflective crystals, like shards of glass; they don’t shatter beneath my hooves, and I am grateful for it, but the sound that they make is unnerving, like they might, they just might, at any moment. I am careful to avoid each knife-edge shard – I am sure that the cut would be nasty – but it is difficult to see where they are. No matter where I look, I see a kaleidoscope of my own image, refracted out across the landscape, like the world has become some troubled mirror. I struggle to differentiate it from the sky, though I am sure that I shouldn’t.

My own face is stretched, or my body is made too short – with a too-long neck. There is another me, vaguely recognizable as a child, running in the opposite direction from the way that I am walking. I stare at my face reflected in the mirror across from me, and the Ruth-in-the-mirror smiles in a way that I envy – it is a smile that goes all the way through and reaches her eyes, but it is sick, and it is twisted, and her teeth are as sharp as the mirror shards. There is another me that I only catch a fleeting glance of as I turn a corner, and, when I look back at her, she is changed, wholly normal; but, for a brief second, I thought that I saw her with scales that were dark bronze and copper, like Pilate. I can barely imagine what it would mean to be so special.

There are other Ruths. Ruths with flowers braided into her mane, Ruths with sweet eyes that are so wholly unlike mine. I can barely stand to look at all of them, but there is nowhere else to look-

Until my eyes finally find a reprieve. There is someone else in this desolate, glimmering landscape. Someone else. I almost mistake them for a part of the landscape, at first, with their delicate and pale and fragile physique – but those gold scales are cutting, those gold horns a sharp aberration.  (They look more godlike than any of my siblings; Pilate, I am sure, would be green with envy, but he does have his snakes.) My stare lingers on the orb between their horns, or is it there? In the sea of reflections, I can barely determine which figure of the stranger is real.

I keep my distance. Ishak is gone. I am not sure that I am wary by nature – but he urges caution, always caution, and I know (though I hate to admit it) that he has good reason for it. Why, I hear the stranger say, and I tilt my head, slowly, not sure who they are talking to. Surely, they haven’t noticed me already.

There is a certain – intellectual – curiosity (and desire for directions) that presses me a few, careful centimetres forward and opens my mouth. “Why?” I repeat, my gaze on the figure.

Our reflections cast out, cut and angled and sharp enough to cut; they mingle.

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@Orias || <3 || katherine maurer, "thylacine"