The shadow creatures don't waste any time and attack like they are protecting something. Or perhaps they're keeping you away from the troubled spirit so you cannot save her.
For those equines who hid or tried to dodge the beasts attacks, you will find yourself engulfed by the creatures. In the blink of an eye, you will have been transported back to the outside of the forest as if nothing had happened. Somehow, the forest looks more menacing than before and clearly does not want you to re-enter.
Luckily for those who move to fight back, it proves to be the right choice. With one swipe of an attack, the shadow beasts dissipate like the fog that blanketed the forest earlier. In seconds, the shadow reforms itself into light. Its form will take the shape of something different depending on who is looking at it. You may see a small imp or a simple ball of light. There is no rhyme or reason to their forms as they possess the special magic of illusion.
As the will o' wisp lights dance and float in the air in front of you, they act much less menacing than the creatures from before. They take a moment to be near you, almost as if they're studying you. It seems tempting to touch one as they shift into different forms. They may appear as a loved one you lost.
In whichever form the light appears as, it will gesture for you to follow. In doing so, you will come upon a fork in the trees with two paths. The will o' wisp floats in the center, looking on curiously at you. Both paths lead into shadows and it's impossible to see what might be on the other end.
The faint sound of crying can be heard, but it sounds like it echoes off the trees ahead. One path surely must lead to the troubled spirit, but which one could it be?
The shadow creatures have changed into the form of will o' wisps- some type of creature of light that can change its form depending on who looks upon it. For those who did not attack the shadow creatures, they have been engulfed by the shadows and transported out of the woods and cannot return. Those who are still in the forest follow the will o' wisp to a fork in the woods showing two paths. One path will eventually lead to the troubled spirit, but it's unclear which one because they're both covered in shadows.
Your character has two options:
Choose the path to the left
- Or - Choose the path to the right
Which will they choose?
Please mark your character’s choice clearly at the end of your post! A random dice roll will be done to determine which choice allows you to move forward. You have until 11:59pm EST on Monday, November 11th to reply.
With a smooth push forward, Castalla weaves to the left at the last second, striking out with her teeth as she dodges past one shadow. Icy cold bites at her mouth where it clutches the dark nothingness, but the creature dissipates all the same. Without even losing a beat the assassin uses the momentum of her movement to pirouette upon her front legs, twisting away from the grasping claws of the second shade and slicing her jaws once more through the dark mist. Her eyes are calm, her heart beating in tandem with the thump of her hooves as the world narrows down to nothing more than the Wolf and her attackers. Catching onto her speed and grace, the dance like way with which she always tore through a battlefield, the final beast glides out of her reach and pauses. Coming to an abrupt halt she faces the swirling shape of darkness, hooves spread apart, body lowered, ready and waiting. A smirk plays slowly across her lips as the adrenalin floods her veins, the feeling of power that coursed through her was freeing.
Deciding to test the creature, Castalla slowly rises to her full height, eyes fixed on the shadow, and takes a step in the direction the shade creatures had been guarding. It does not move, but instead watches her from lidless eyes. This time she takes a leap, and sure enough the spirit moves to bar her way, reaching out with fingerless hands. Expecting this, Castalla’s leap is cut short by her fore-hooves slamming into the ground and she pushes her weight back onto her haunches, striking out with her front hooves. The final dark creature dissolves into the mist. Not one to waste time gloating when lives are at stake, the White Wolf turns to the forest, still shrouded in darkness and mist and makes to resume her canter. However a flash of light draws her to a halt, a suspicious and guarded look crossing her features. Slowly the light takes the form of another horse, its visage becoming clearer and clearer. A breathe escapes her lips, sapphire eyes widening as she takes an unsteady step back.
“Skender.”
His name falls like a prayer from her lips, utterly disarmed by the appearance of the one who once held her heart. But her mate was dead, and there was no coming back from that kind of death.
“Please… don't wear his face.”
Her voice is empty, shattered, so unlike the smirking warrior she had been only seconds before. How did it know her? How did it know him?
The being of light ignored her request, or perhaps it didn’t hear, and simply turned and began to glide through the clawing trees, taking a path invisible to all else. With a soft growl, the assassin regained her composure, recalling the reason she had entered this forsaken woodland, and followed the will-o-the-wisp, unable to fully look at the form it had taken.
The faint sound of fearful crying taints the air once more, still in the distance ahead of her, and Castalla picks up her pace, even as ghost-Skender continues to weave gracefully at the same pace. Slowly a path is uncovered, the leaves and mist dispersing enough that she can make out a deer-path, obscured but well-trodden. Ahead it splits and the light-creature stops, hovering demurely between the fork. Both paths were laden with shadow, disappearing into darkness as the voice continued from the dead centre.
Once more, Castalla settles her pained gaze upon the pale creature, hesitantly meeting the gaze of her former lover. The familiar feeling of loss and guilt weighed heavy upon her shoulders, but with a sigh she turns away. She takes the left path for no reason other than the fact that her dominant hoof was left.
DARK
Castalla is taking the left path
11-09-2019, 07:40 AM - This post was last modified: 11-09-2019, 05:43 PM by Castalla
Katniss charges forward, intent to attack the shadow creatures and protect herself. But as she strikes the shadow creature, it dissipates into a fog that slowly creeps away. It is strange to see herself standing idle in a dark forest alone again, but Katniss cannot help but feel like something is wrong. The shadows dissipated far too easily, leaving before the fighting had even begun. It causes Katniss to feel unsettled, uneasy.
But she is not left in the dark for long. Soon, small little wisps of light travel towards her, first coming from all angles until they converge into a small ball of light just in front of her, studying her, begging her to reach out and touch them. The ball of light reminds her of the one that fallows Kibou around, the one that once belonged to Metaphor.
But soon, the lights take on the form of an Arabian stallion, one that resembles Metaphor to a “t”. Her heart stops in her chest before beginning to beat rapidly. This was not her lover. He had died so she and Kibou could live. But the form looks so convincing and it makes her want to scream.
But there is nothing but silence in the woods.
The form of her lover turns suddenly, walking down the path with a slow and easy pace. Katniss follows, unable to stop her feet as they take her down the path and towards the fork in the road. Metaphor’s figure changes once again, going back to small orbs of light dancing in the air just out of reach. She looks to the left and then to the right, wondering which path is the correct one to take. She stands there for a moment, contemplating her choice, before she takes a deep breath and begins down the path to the right.
Below Zero
my frost philosophy will put no curse on me
Bel had strong opinions on her perceived lack of confidence in the face of danger - a response cultured by the life of run and hide instead of stand up and defend. But in these woods, Bel's potential stirred in the shallows of her personality and being, it churned the still waters of her mind, and promised of a storm that she could one day brew up that would carry the waves with fever, and flatten the boats that attempted to hold her hostage in fear and dismissal. She was growing stronger in these woods, fighting for history to not repeat itself. Fighting for another soul, so they wouldn't be lost like her dear Pol had been.
And so she ignored generations of taught behavior, and she lunged at those shadow beasts - even if she was built more for defense than offense. Her curved horns protected her skull, even as her muzzle seemed to unhinge in that moment, elongating in the way that may have reminded another of a snake, or perhaps more appropriately - a dolphin, her smile stretching farther back to her cheeks than might be suggested by the more closed mouth form used when talking and not on the hunt. She lunged and pushed, and struck, and watched as the shadows dissipated like the smoke they resembled. And suddenly her attacks changed - less on aiming to harm, more towards disrupting. She burst through them in fits of speed, the charge of a shark. Her tail crashed through them with the force of an angry whale. Her hooves struck out towards the targets, and as the shadows seemed to come undone, dissipating and tainting the air like a blanket of oil in the water. But this oil didn't stay to poison.
As the smokey fog started to reform, Bel took a step back, watching as the form shifted, growing lighter, and lighter. Once it was no longer a shadow, but a light, did the form take shape. The soft eyes came in first, warm with the glow of the softest blue, so light it was almost white - and Bel's breath caught in her throat. The face came next, slightly unhinged and opened wider than normal - she'd always been fond of full mouthed smiles. Her long horns curved back much like Bel's did, but they twisted in a ways hers did not, curving in a larger spiral as well. Her white face seemed to glow, and Bel never noticed the vapors from her back pitch lower, never noticed the tear as it touched her features.
The creature moved closer, seeming to grow more into shape with each moment, and as Bel stood there with uncertain the light-shining mare smiled reassuringly, nodding for her to follow. Bel didn't move, "Mother . . ." Her voice was pained, uncomfortable as she stared at the figure, but then another image suddenly seemed to become super-imposed, the creature with red rivers flowing over her form, eyes on seeing, bites taken from her hide from a feeding frenzy spurred on by the touch of crimson-hued waters. The mare who'd defended her and Pol after Pol's tail had been bitten while they escaped. And Bel's heart hardened against the light, "She's dead, and you should not disgrace her with that face. She is with the stars now." She whispered, her voice suddenly sharp, her body suddenly tense. As if understanding, the wisp shifts, and becomes a beacon of light again, but with her mother's vibrant glow, and Bel nodded, "Thank you . . . ." The glow was warm, and welcoming and a glow she hadn't seen in so long.
She followed it almost wistfully . . . a part of her wishing she could see her mother's form again, but knowing that for a healing heart - it was too soon. The creature floats through the air, drawing her through the forest and up to a fork in among the trees - to paths to choose. She doesn't know how she knows but she senses the wisp look back at her, as if curious for her choice between the two. Both show shadows, and she can hear the crying again now, echoing ahead of her, "You're not going to help me are you? Point me to the right one?" Bel asks, not expecting the answer: she wasn't surprised when the wisp stays in place firmly between the two.
Bel takes a moment to sigh before she turns towards the sky, glancing towards the stars as her cyan glow seemed to lighten the shadows closest to her. She had to trust in her own judgement, hope she could help the one who cried, and so she turned to the left, her hooves carrying her forward with determination. She'd find them, she'd help them. She had to . . . . Where was the crying coming from?
Thoughts Speech
Notes: Bel chooses to go to the left.
i feel no cold, i feel no fear inside my mind Now I'm full of energy
It is a strike that could have been fatal, those charming lights ready to slice through shadow and flesh that came near. Just as her phantom spears were about to meet the menacing wraiths, slice them down where they stood, they charge, they morph. Fog becomes thick behind and she senses more than hears the being she protected being hoisted into the air. Like before, those that chose wrongly were pushed back to where Moira knows not.
She only knows that she is right again. Moira tries so hard to be right.
But that phantom ready to tear her limb from limb, it stops and changes. Light blends into light and her weapons disappear. The will o' wisp flickers between from and form - Estelle stares at her for a moment before disappearing. Asterion frowns at her and turns his head away. The twins laugh soundlessly before dissipating as well. Finally, finally the face of Eluoan settles on the flighty creature.
The phoenix nearly stumbles, stopping for a moment. It wasn't him. He would not have those bright, bright eyes to twinkle at her.
But it is her old teacher, the man that was more a father than her own father. His home had always been a sanctuary, his teachings vaulting her into an irreplaceable position. Because of Eluoan she had survived the Tonnerre Estate, and when she's lost everything again (her heart, her will, her reason) he shows himself once more. Even when he turns and reveals two paths, there is not one he hints at more than the other.
She sighs, feels the sting at the back of her eyes, and pushes it all down. Logically, the phoenix looks left and then right, assessing, gleaning differences. Is one way clearer than the other? Can she hear the child screaming? If she could, she would have gone that way.
There is only silence.
On an inhale and slow exhale, Moira Tonnerre turns to the right. It is this way she goes, wings gently pushing fogs away, eyes intent on the retreating form of her once-mentor, once almost-friend. Eluoan does not look at her again, but she feels his teachings, his presence, in everything she does.
She is reminded, and she feels his calmness settle in her nerves as it had when she'd first met him.
One day, the Tonnerre girl vows, she will go back and thank him properly.
The ethereal light forms lead their charges down their chosen paths, whisping away into nothing before they can reach the end. One moment, they are there, and the next they are nothing but swirling light drifting off into the forest before disappearing out of sight. Now, there are just the equines and their paths stretching out before them, guiding them deeper into the forest.
Or so they think.
Those who have chosen the left path will find it opening back where they began: outside the forest. With no way to re-enter, they have clearly chosen the wrong route and been led away from their goal and back into the world. It is as the forest deems, and they will have no choice but to forget the spirit within, and the supposed riches the mystery holds.
For the ones who picked the rightward trail, it is clear the forest is not done with them. It begins to change, shifting even more around them. Are they imagining it? The leaves on the trees are soon no longer leaves but crystals, and the trees themselves almost seem to be encased in a glimmering gemstone.
A strong breeze begins to wind through the trees, and the quiet forest sees a change.
Life and sound are breathed into the crystallized woods, the wind brushing against the thinner crystals and leaving them tinkling together in a mystical song. The chiming is pleasant but somber. The lonely tune of the singing forest is peaceful and mysterious; caught somewhere between a lullaby and secret whisperings.
What moonlight filters through the crystals leaves a mosaic effect on the forest floor; sparkling purple and blue lights dancing along branches, earth, and everything that moves beneath the canopy. It is beautiful, and so eerily alone.
Where the path ends, it opens upon a small clearing. Ahead, crystals sprout from the ground like the ones covering the trees. They rise up like a beautiful, strange gravemarker in the middle of the woods. They glimmer, and beckon. Do they dare approach?
Strangely, the voice that seemed to have been calling the equines here has stopped. But something… something has been awakened within.
Soundless, her hooves drag across the ground, and pupil-less, tired white eyes drop ephemeral tears. Her silvery form seems to wisp about as though her hair floats lightly; looking intangible as though she went in and out of existence. Sprouting from her neck and shoulders are crystal clusters that thicken on her shoulders and gradually become smaller down her spine.
She seeks them, the equines who have come this far, and oh how long she has waited. Her movements are strange, heavy, as though she does not have complete control over her limbs. She moves ever closer to them, a keening, high-pitched humming coming from deep within her chest. It almost seems like she doesn’t see them there, doesn’t know she isn’t even alone.
But then she stops, and her head lifts, and her milky white eyes lock onto them. “Two have come… but which of you is worthy? Which of you is true inside?” Could this be Alyndra, the rumored spirit that roams these woods, searching and calling for help? The spectral mare doesn’t look away from them, where they stand, although at times it seems as if she looks through them, beyond them. Or perhaps into them.
There is something lonely about her, something lost and searching. How long has she been here, trapped? “Answer my question, and we will see… yes,” her voice is softer, echoing, and clearly matches the voice that had brought them here in the first place. “Answer my question, and I will know which of you is good, and true.”
She moves in closer to them, almost too close. So close that it is easier to see the trees through her translucent form. So close that a cold chill drifts off of her phantom form. At this distance you can see that the tears that drip from the curve of her cheek never reach the ground. You can hear that there is no breath from her lungs.
“If you were gifted unparalleled power, how would you use it?" She asks her question, and she waits. A world of possibilities, so many paths to take. So many turns to make, and one wrong turn could lead to ruin.
The characters who have chosen the left path have been led out of the forest, unable to return, while those who have chosen the right path will find themselves in a transformed wood, where the trees appear to be made out of crystal.
The path opens up to a clearing, where there is what seems to be a gravestone made of large crystals sprouting from the ground. Here, the remaining characters encounter Alyndra, the spirit trapped and wandering through the forest. She approaches your characters, and seems convinced she must get to know if they are truly good. She asks them a question.
How will your character answer?
This round is a little bit different! Alyndra will choose only one of the character's answers and they will be rewarded with her gift! You have until 11:59pm EST on Friday, November 22nd to reply.
Katniss follows the small wisps of light, wandering aimlessly in the dark, foggy night. The path is dimly lit, but this is a forest she knows all too well. But something about it is different. Even as she travels the path, she feels lost and confused, as if the path has a mind of its own and has been leading her down a path she has not traveled before.
And if the path is not unfamiliar enough, the forest changes again. This time, the foliage is turning to gemstones. The leaves begin to turn to crystals, the trunks of trees appearing to be encased in gems. There is a breeze that makes the crystal leaves bump into one another, filling the otherwise silent night with music. The notes form lines of music and the lines form an entire symphony. There is something eerie about the music that she hears. It is almost like a sirens call. It calls her forward, guiding each step she takes with caution.
Finally the path begins to open up into a clearing lit only by the full move above. Katniss steps from the forest, feeling so exposed and vulnerable. At least amongst the trees she had cover. Something makes her fur stand on edge. Perhaps it is the music the crystals are singing to, perhaps it is the chilled breeze that wraps around her, or perhaps it is what stands before her.
Ahead of her looks like a cemetery. Crystals and gemstones rise from the ground and appear to look like tombstones that are flickering in the moonlight. As Katniss steps closer, the cries for help have all but disappeared. But what comes in their place is the figure of something, or someone, that she has never seen before. The way she drags her feet make scrapping noises along the clearing floor. Her eyes have no pupils and yet, she manages to stare her down. Her hair seems to float as if she is underwater. It takes Katniss several long moments to really take in the spirit before her. Surely this was not the one calling for help. Katniss admires her for a moment, admiring the beauty that she emulates and the horror that Katniss knows befalls her.
And as she takes in her surroundings, she seems Moira just off to the left. She knows the mare well, and she only makes eye contact for the briefest of moments. When Katniss turns her attention to the spirit, the white void where eyes should be is staring back at her. It sends shivers down her spine and makes her feel uneasy. But the warrior is ready for a fight should a fight be what this spirit desires.
She listens quietly as the spirit begins to speak. At first she is confused. Which is worthy? Which is true on the inside? She looks to Moira to see if the other mare has any idea what this spirit is talking about. But before she can speak, she is speaking again, asking them to answer a question that will somehow give the spirit the knowledge of who is true and worthy.
And when she asks her question, she wonders if this is some sort of test or trap. Why is this mare asking this question of them? What will she gain from their answers? But Katniss knows her answer. She does not have to think for she knows what she will say. “I should hope to never be bestowed this gift for unparalleled power leads only to destruction and ruin. Too many times it only causes more greed and selfish acts. I have worked too hard to befall that trap.” She pauses a moment, not wanting to leave the question truly unanswered. To say that she would reject such power was not exactly the answer the spirit was looking for…or was it? “…but if such a gift was forced on me, I would use it to serve others. To bring peace where war once was. To fill the bellies of the starved. To protect those who have no one to speak for themselves. There is so much good in this world and to use the power for anything other than cultivating more good seems foolish.” So many would use the power for riches, glory, or fame. Katniss wanted none of that. She wanted Metaphor back. If she could bring him back with such power, it would only prove a difficult choice. Katniss knows that necromancy is a dark art and nothing good will come of it. Such a temptation would be so hard to resist. But deep down, Katniss knows that she can only use this power to help others - not herself. It wasn’t about her anymore, it was about the greater good.
she will learn to rely on her own sword in every battle, in every struggle, in every war
Where once cries stood out, the hush of silence falls in the misty woods. Fog clears, opening, unfurling the petals of a midnight flower to reveal a clearing, an opening, a little grotto where the grave of one long since gone from this world in body lies dormant. From it she rises, from it she drips moonlight tears that are as pale as spider-silk in the eerie glow.
A silver sheath adorns her, crystals rising, avenging stones, memorable stones, to make for a sight that the phoenix would not soon forget. And for a moment, she is brought back to the Estate again. Memories flood up, crushing frigid statues and ice sculptures as they break out of their cage, overwhelming, overcoming, overpowering all else that the Tonnerre girl knows. And they do not stop. And they do not forgive.
To a time when she was a girl laughing beside her mother in the dark of night. To a time when her father would whisper of their ancestors, and tell the tales of how they guide them all still.
Moira wonders if this is what they meant.
Yet this phantom is of no blood to hers, mortal blood ties do not bind them. It's nigh impossible, the wraith that floats nearer with pursed lips, the one with judging eyes. Does she still see them the same? Alas, the woman draped in red knows not the answers. Perhaps, should she have more time, she would seek them out. But not tonight, not when questions are raised and the murmuring of words from the Champion of Battle rises.
The words are a blur, unnecessary for her to know them, as gears grind and cogs turn. Moira sees the faces of smiling children playing at the Estate. She sees them turn their noses at her for her wings. She watches as they all walk away and grow and grow, vipers born from a sea of lambs. How awful, how beautiful the process of destruction and rebirth the Estate has created; and she knows it is not right. She knows they spew poison into the blood of the young.
At last honeyed eyes focus, at last red crown raises to look from one to the other. How much time has passed? Was there a long silence between her thoughts and the world outside of them? Outside of those crushing, freezing waters does not matter when she remembers her home, the place where she hopes Estelle has returned to flourish despite her banishment.
The Emissary clears her throat, dipping her head once more as she begins in tones meant for midnight times like these. "I would wish to be selfish. My bones know loss as Katniss' do; my heart knows horrors and bears scars just as my skin does. I would want to be so selfish, but I could not," a pause, an almost-sigh on an exhale, a rueful grin. When she speaks once more, it is a woman of passion that rises; a woman with an artist' soul and healer's hands; a woman caged as a bird made to sing, set free as a wild thing left unattended, abandoned and forgotten as a broken thing learning to tape itself together again. "I have seen the horrors of this land and my own sheltered home. I have seen a King fell men and women and children with no regard to age nor gender. I have watched children run through streets, bloodied and afraid. I have cried when Reichenbach left us and his court of Crows. I have mourned when Isra was taken and came back again. But all of that starts with the spark, with the very beginning." She thinks of her childhood. She thinks of Estelle's, and the Twin's, and so many more.
How will Isra and Eik's twins grow? How will Apolonia mould herself in the future, having been born to such a tumultuous time?
Such different lives they would lead, and Moira wants to know it all, to drink it down, to learn and to never stop growing, stop knowing, but only of her own will power and successes, by no hand but her own. Not this ultimate curse, a power without end. With a wrinkled nose, she states thus: "I would not want such a terrible power, for it always asks such a horrid price. Oh, but if I could fix one thing, I would pave out a home for the homeless, a place of safety for the children, our brightest hope of the future. We are such ephemeral things, and it is the seed of hope that we plant and grow and nurture in the young. If I could, I would build orphanages and feed them. I would tend the sick for all my days and heal hearts and bodies and learn to heal minds." And then, she wonders, if that would make her happy and fill her life with something more than what she has? Does she truly need more though?
Perhaps not.
She is reminded of Asterion and his free, laughing smile; of his sad eyes; of his starlight sides that grew so thin with the weight of Terrastella on his shoulders and the pressure she put upon him, too. Moira thinks of Caine and his broken promise - purposeful or not - and the way her heart first fluttered when they'd raged at one another. At last, she thinks of Isra and Bexley Briar - a girl, a dalliance, a laughing thing who dared her to dance at a festival of flowers, who came, broken and hurting, to her doorstep for something. There were so many things she wanted to be selfish for, but the Tonnerre girl could not seize them as her family would without a second's thought. "I would want to be selfish, but I have known fire on my skin and watched darkness swallow those I hold most dear, watched their own destructions come about in a pit of snakes. I do not wish to watch this any longer, to see sorrow bloom in the youngest of eyes when they know they are truly alone."
Perhaps the world had enough of the Tonnerre's ways, or perhaps it was simply time to change and be born anew as a phoenix, as she is likely to do until her last days. "There would be no thanks, and I wish not for that. I only would try to help our children, our hungry, our homeless, our hopes of the future by finding them a home and making it warm and merry for all of their days. Perhaps their children would come visit, too, once they are grown and flown the coup. I wonder what sparks we can ignite in their hearts, what different paths they might choose, if only they knew they did not have to be so scared, and sad, and alone." Finality sounds with the last word, her smoky tones fading. The impassioned girl settles again, a kite reeling in its string before it flies too high into a lightning storm. Moira is not a noble creature, she is a selfish thing and possessive, but her heart is good at the very bottom of every layer peeled back. Despite it all, she has learned to love. In time, perhaps, she will love once more.
She waits with rapture, with attention undivided from the pair of equines before her. They could not look more different on the outside, one like the earth and the trees; grounded, strong, reliable. The other burns as brightly as the sun; passionate, driven, fierce. Ah, her opaque white eyes may appear like they do not see but she sees. How well she sees, perhaps so much better than even these two horses before her.
Her questions poised, there is nothing to do but wait for their response but she cannot. Her regard is sharp and relentless, and with each step closer she makes toward them the crystals upon her skin sparkle and shine and reflect light around them in a beautiful array. She wants to beg and plead with them to show her that they are good, that she can entrust them with her gift. But she cannot possible know until they open their mouths and speak to her, until they answer her question from their hearts.
And then the first one speaks, the one with skin like summer soil. Ah ah, ah, first she denies the power but that is not what the spectre has asked. There is no choosing not to have the power, only to shoulder its responsibility and to determine what to do with it. There are things in your life that you have no control over, no matter how much you might wish it. What she wants to know is what you do afterwards, how you react to these things. This is what matters to her.
‘There is so much good in this world,’ the woman says but she wants to cry out no! No, no no! There is so much bad in this world! So many shadowy places and equines with deceit and hatred in their hearts. What good there is, if there is any left out there beyond these trees she is trapped to wander, is so often eclipsed by the dark goings on.
Is it worth searching for, if you have to search at all? A part of her, long lost to this nowhere, in-between oblivion—the part taken too young, too wrong, too horribly and then abandoned in the deepest woods—wants to turn the girl away. But she will wait. Wait for the other to speak.
The other, who is like a flame in this forest of ethereal violets and indigos, is silent for a beat, and then two. Enough that she almost considers posing the question again, just to get her attention. Oh, how it drives her crazy to see how deeply the pegasus is thinking but being unable to know her thoughts. Are they true? Is this who she has been searching for? She is aching to know, her ephemeral skin trembling with the tension she feels.
But!
She lifts her head and the spectral equine finally gets a look into those glimmering golden eyes. Please, she thinks silently, please oh please. The first spoken words are a shock to her and she lifts her head, eyes wide. But her honestly becomes her, and she cannot be faulted for the selfishness in her heart. All things are selfish at heart and will act selfishly unless taught differently, unless shown a different way. She wonders, does this pegasus know a different way?
The ghostly woman listens, and the phoenix’s words are bright and clear as her feathers. Her heart is warm and full of hope. But, it is her last sentiment that strikes the phantom even visibly, like she has been strung through with an arrow or a pike. There is a jolt to her form, her white eyes pooling gossamer tears once more.
‘...if only they knew they did not have to be so scared, and sad, and alone.’ If she were breathing her breath would come sharp and short, like gasps, like sobs. She steps closer to the winged one, bringing her chill and her softest of glows with her. “You…” she says, voice quieter than it has been since she first spoke to them.
In the blink of an eye, Katniss will find herself no longer standing within the strange crystallized wood, but outside the forest where she began. The pull to search from the night is gone, and she will be unable to re-enter. But within the woods, within that clearing of light and gems, stands Moira still, with the spectral equine mere inches from her.
Alyndra has chosen.
“You, you are who I have been waiting for. Thank you for revealing your heart to me, and for reminding me that I am not isolated,” her voice is a melody, not unlike the sounds the crystals make when the wind brushes them together high up in the trees.
From the gravemarker rising up out of the ground she pulls a shard of crystal. It glides through the air toward the pegasus, and floats before her, waiting for her to take possession of it. “When I was left here, somehow this is what became of the crystals that sprout from my skin. Perhaps it is the earth’s way of making sure I am never truly forgotten.”
“I want you to have it, and I hope that it brings you more wealth than those who have tried to take them unbidden.” She does not say who, and still there are no answers for the legends that have brought all the equines to this forest tonight. As the phantasmal mare steps away it almost seems as if her steps are lighter, and there are no longer sparkling tears lining the curves of her face. “Thank you again,” her voice dances around them as the wind picks up, sparking the crystals above into song.
It swirls about the pegasus mare, lifting her up and up through the trees and above into the sky. Once in the air, should she try to look down she will see that the clearing and the crystal trees are gone, replaced by the woods she knows. There will be no finding her way back now.
Alyndra has chosen!
Katniss will find herself one moment within the forest with both Moira and Alyndra, and then within the blink of an eye, transported outside it. Was it her answers or her heart that did not speak to the ghostly mare?
Having been touched by Moira's response, Alyndra leaves Moira with one of her crystals. It doesn't seem to possess any special traits but might fetch a nice price. You will be sent 500 signos for successfully completing this event!
While no exit response is necessary, if you would like to post an exit you can use this thread to count towards both completing a thread for the Harvest Festival if you post it before the 30th! Thank you so much to everyone who participated!
11-26-2019, 06:30 PM - This post was last modified: 11-29-2019, 02:44 PM by NPC Account
she will learn to rely on her own sword in every battle, in every struggle, in every war
There is hardly anything outside of the words she speaks, hardly any air left in her lungs to push out anymore. Once she is done, she only knows silence, only the mist that surrounds them and the pale glowing form that floats before them. Alyndra glides closer now, peering into the very depths of the phoenix and uttering a breathy 'you,' and this is the only warning the phoenix has before Katniss is lifted away. Panic almost seizes her, taking her by the hand to be pulled into a merry dance from which she could hardly escape. Oh, but there is no mirth and ill-wishes to be gleaned from this ghost. The phantom's tears have dried.
The phoenix does not balk when the specter is mere inches from her skin.
The chill in the air emanates from the deceased, but her words are as warm as the look in those milky eyes. "You will be remembered fondly," the phoenix says at last, almost reaching forward to offer a farewell. It is what she did when death knocked on the door time and time before; then, she would turn away after her cheek pressed to the others, then, she would walk behind Eluoan without ever looking back, ignoring the cries of those who lost a lover, a father, a brother, a friend. Then, it had not mattered.
Now, it seems more important.
As the crystal floats nearer, the Pegasus plucks it from the air. Aureate gaze looks upon it as one would a valued possession. So few gifts has she been given in her life, so few tangible things to keep memories alive. All she carries are feelings that fade and the bangles of stars and moonlight that dance upon her shoulders. Faintly the stars upon her skin thrum and hum, thanking Alyndra for the gift that glimmers gold and blue under the phoenix' light. "Thank you, Alyndra, for things I cannot begin to express. Travel safely where you go, and I will see you on the wind someday from now." It is not a statement, but a promise that rings. Small bursts within tell her that she has done well, that she healed much more than something physical.
Something akin to temporary peace and contentment settles in her belly as the trees sing, and she does not shy with her wings pressed tight to her sides as the winds carry her out of the woods. They set her there gently, and Moira could almost swear she hears one final goodbye from the phantom in the woods. Only the crystal is left to remind her of what passed, and she tucks it there in her hair. A secret treasure, a trophy, a reminder of all that she will do. "Thank you, and farewell," she whispers one last time before turning back toward Denocte and the people whom she loves.
![[Image: i-jTNwWx8.png]](https://photos.smugmug.com/BelowZeroNovus/n-X9d9fZ/i-jTNwWx8/1/e09fb6c3/O/i-jTNwWx8.png)
