[AW] The Court of Dreams

[Miette]

Miette The billow of smoke draws her forward - a moth to the flame. Curiosity burns her innocent heart and without the willpower to deny, eager limbs carry her ever forward, beyond the gasp of parental concern. No amount of reprimand can divert that vivid, exciting centre of all focus and as one giant wing slips around to soothe, she resists. At last they relinquish that bind and free her baited tread of all shackle. The swallow flits forward, swift and spry, with wings riding the curve of the wind rushing by. She arrives first, beneath a star-spangled sky, stepping tentatively upon the stone path which rises as though from nothing, beneath a shrug of grass. Fluttering, panting nostrils slip downwards but fall short, and knees crook to grant her careening, craving mind full access; scent lies thick upon the strange, stiff surface, like a winter’s worth of snow, and it is cold when she taps soft lips against it. The chill is a shock, more so than the taste, and she recoils like a startled butterfly into refuge arriving behind. Words, she finds, are tricky, stubborn and seldom follow the pattern of each thought, so the babe instead relies upon the language of expression. Imploring eyes ascend, searching the face of Papa first and then Mama; they beg for reassurance, for the steadiness of age and experience; for guidance. Ahead, illuminated dimly in the lure of dancing firelight, many had gathered together and from them, the jubilant, boisterous sound lifted to cancel the numbing caress of night.   @Nora

[Nora]

Their voices swell; buldging, celebrating. Toddler ears wouldn't be coaxed or coerced, they've become saturated with animated indulgence; her tiny soul overflows naïve passion. Miette’s young heart (flawlessly trusting our environment and mundane expectations) has become lured by the possibility of unique thrills…as foreign voices tug her attention, hindering our reach…like a waxen leaf, she repeals his correction. Another uneasy sigh is born from the loins of exasperation. Noah's loving affection idles softly against my liver cheek…but the superficial comfort he breaths to life with those whispering lips has already begun to cool. The same utterance which invokes joy in the youngest of our hearts, also invokes my ashen ghost of fear. Dread crawls from brackish, previously undisturbed waters...and when my mate finalizes our approach, taking his natural cue…my throbbing courage instantly shrinks. ...already I'm regretting the suggestion and his agreement... Mini me steps clear of her figurative corner, a somber frown decorating her otherwise passive expression, ‘we are stronger now.' She growls in the face of our misgivings, 'braver.' ----- Firelight (unnaturally tame) shoves aside our tranquility; forcing us to surrender the comforts of known. Wide, unsure focus ventures rearward; aching for the peaceful dips and gullies we've left behind. Ahead, and nearing with every step, the false cavern. Grey stones (once emotionless sentinels) are decorated with pulsing, vibrant amber – foreign silhouettes dissolve like spectral beasts, their outlines snake through glowing cracks…teasing the dew speckled turf below. With ears titled, my crown hovers protectively toward our darling, excitable cherub; feathered arms jerk from their sheath, panting gently and resettling into their irritable coil. Corners inch into a furrow, highlighting my uncertainty should it be missed in the strained utterance emerging from these quivering lips, “reste à côté de moi et papa.” Marble cutouts score the earth with their gradual elevation. Anxiously, the quivering tip of my muzzle reaches to graze the honeyed flank of that beloved guardsman for reassurance as we pass with clicking toes into the nearest corridor. Papery nostrils extend, inhaling a stew of contaminated perfume; smoke and the unsettling assortment of bodies...my pulse hammers, electrifying those hyperactive threads until they bristle. Disorientation quadruples as the narrowish passage unfolds to reveal a room filled to the brim with musky bodies. Aside from the overpowering stench of unfamiliarity, a sweet, sticky and unappealing fragrance swells in my lungs…hindquarters quiver. Tentrils lash quickly against the firm layers of muscle upon either hind-cheek. Even as I stand fast, every fiber is itching to retreat, cower into the shadows...vanish against the furthest wall to escape those strange, new titans. @Noah [hover over text for a translation!]

credits

[Dvalinn]

their celebrations carried; their carousal was not something of great import to the witchling. but their voices carried, and enticed nevertheless. something of a loner, she'd been far more enticed to remain beyond their reach, their eyes. but, of course, there came a needling within.

a worm of discontent.

it burrowed and writhed, it seeded within an urge in her heart to join the raised voices, the laughter. the glowering little stormcloud was not a being who took joy in such behaviour, but it was her place among their court that bade attendance. so it went, she approached them. quietly, and without much aim. perhaps, it would have been better to approach their sovereign, offer him many of the best wishes. but, there was hesitance still that blighted the sage. her steps faltered, and came to a halt beyond the jubilant crowd -- and though they weren't many, they to her, were still a faceless crowd. a murder of crows, sired by night and pride. pride, perhaps her most prized possession aside from the gruesome trinket beneath the generous cut of her cape -- a companion, that seemed strangely quiet now that she stood among her peers, her tribesmen, her... kin?

no, she had a very keen dislike of such a word. 

of even the idea. 

still, there had to be some manner of kinship with these beings, their boisterous and absolute living creatures. they, in their entirety, shades brighter than her own constellation of quirks and ideals. unmoved, she allowed her brumous eyes seek those of their king, offering but a nod of acknowledgement out of her (begrudging) respect of him and his position in denocte. 


ooc: late to the party  as always, don't mind cool kid d'va as she glowers from afar.