The meadow is immaculately groomed, obvious care having been taken by someone, or something, to trim the shrubbery into measured angles and smooth, flat planes. The emerald green grass is cut short and with perfectly even edges to separate this small staging area from the rest of the forest and thin wisps of fog drift up from the dense turf, dissipating around chest-height and making everything feel small and close, limiting the mules visual field to a mere meter in front of his nose.
Though he can't see the source, he can hear whispering, voices and syllables too low to sort into words or phrases from where he stands, his oversize ears swiveling fretfully. Restless and unsure, he paces back and forth along the threshold of the clearing, unnerved by what he's heard of this unnatural place, that it's an entrance to a shifting, labyrinthine path that appears only once annually to those who enter the whiteout. They say there are tests, mysterious gifts, and an enchanted tree at the trails end, but they also say that the dead speak to you along the way, ancestors and lost loved ones and those who would pass on wisdom or warning.
Having just recently seen another such wonder on the Eleutheria Plain, Willfur's eager to explore more, almost painfully curious, but the stallion hesitates. He's a stranger here, born far away and too young to assume that either of his parents might have passed on yet, or that they would even appear here if they had. He worries that it might seem disrespectful of him to enter, irreverent to whatever unseen powers act behind the scenes. What right does he have to come gawking and asking questions when a native might only have this one, brief chance at closure, or peace, or... well, anything personal and meaningful, anything more than a purely academic interest.
He sighs, too wary to go on without encouragement, but too entranced to give up so easily. "I don't suppose I could ask for a sign of permission?" He tries softly, one ear tipping forward, guarded, but hopeful.
With most questions of a spiritual nature he assumes that intent is more important than execution, but he's only just begun to read the many tomes describing Tempus and his children in the Dawn Court library. He's not familiar yet with what manner of deities rule over Novus, other than that they are very real and very present, both novel and untrodden ground for someone accustomed to religions based entirely on personal, unsubstantiatable faith. It's both fascinating and terrifying, so for now at least, he'll err on the side of caution, even if it does strain his composure.
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
Minutes - how many? - slip away in unbroken silence at the center of the meadow, the absolute lack of acknowledgement, encouragement, wearing against the mule's restraint and weakening his composure, so strong is his desire to see, to know. He stares into the slate colored fog and the matte black of the forest beyond, his oversized ears straining forward in a desperate attempt to find something, anything, that might excuse his intrusion, in his own mind, at least, if nowhere else, but no such sign is given. No unseen entity reaches out to stroke his sense of decency. It becomes apparent that if he is to make this choice, he must do it for himself, consequences and guilt notwithstanding.
With a sigh, he steps forward.
Insects, birds, and small mammals stir in response. The sounds of wind and water rise through the foliage in quiet symphony. It's almost as if the whole scenario is staged, like he's activated some hidden pressure plate or trip wire to run the cogs and belts of a forest-themed funhouse. There's something - unnatural, artificial - about the feel of it against his senses. Lamplight replaces sun and moon, and the air begins to feel close, cold. Apprehension darkens to paranoia. Was that a hoof-fall? It wasn't in time to his own...
He's just beginning to falter, courage wicking away in waves of heat from his skin, when the fireflies come.
They dance and flicker around him, playful and perfectly ordinary at first, until some unknown command is triggered. Then they begin to organize, coalescing into the shape of a horse standing opposite him, golden and glowing. It waits as the mule stares, trying to blink away his astonishment, then turns, steps away, and dissipates into a loose cloud of fireflies once more, drifting back into the trees.
"W-wait!" He calls, and he thinks the golden form tightens in on itself in response, condensing just enough to make out the shape of head and neck and legs again as it winds its way deeper into the forest, away from the lamplit path.
It's encouragement enough for the mule.
"talk talk talk"
OOC: Willfur follows the fireflies
P.S. Thank you so much for continuing this. <3
@Official Dawn Account
10-31-2020, 01:25 PM
Played by
Callynite [PM] Posts: 75 — Threads: 22 Signos: 50
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
The firefly-horse seems unbothered by obstacles or footing as it slips silently through the forest, cantering smoothly, only its outline wavering slightly to accommodate trees and brush where Willfur, comically ungraceful in comparison, zig-zags and crashes noisily behind, struggling through darkness and vegetation to keep apace. Huffing in effort and annoyance, he yanks himself free of a prickly holly bush for what must be the fifth time when the glowing figure rearranges itself into a perfect illustration of a gallop and begins to pull even farther ahead. The mule groans, resigning himself to a day spent rubbing thorns and prickly seed pods out of his coat as he mutters testily, "I'm coming."
Either in response, or maybe just for the joy of the movement, more fireflies gather and tighten into glowing, galloping figures around him, like a bright, ethereal hunt that funnels him forward, casting more than enough light to see by and safely accelerate, which he does, letting himself be swept up in the excitement of tossing heads and whipping manes, watching sidelong as individual fireflies repeatedly slip loose and dive back into the whole of the churning figures as they rush on.
It's a shock when they finally break through the tree line and into the meadow, the firefly-horses skittering and romping to a halt, coronas of light stretching unfettered between them and across the open space. Again, Willfur copies as best he can, stopping and blowing hard where he stands. What now? He can only stare dumbly as the mist and the fireflies swirl around him, syllables he can't quite discern or organize into words rising and falling with the wind, his oversize ears no help for once as they pivot atop his blocky head.
Perhaps he should be more wary, more concerned with having been led to a secluded area and surrounded by otherworldly beings of unknown motivation and intention, but once the mist condenses and settles into a recognizable shape, one that he holds an especial liking for, all the mule has space for in his heart is joy and tenderness.
He's always loved children. He admires their candidness, their lack of any agenda but fun and interesting and exciting. If the mist-foal or its companions have any maliciousness in them, he's willing to let the first blow land in demonstration before he condemns them simply for being specters. None of them can help what they are, mist or mule.
"Hello, little one." He breathes in welcome, and when the mist-foal rears and dodges away from him, dancing and playing across the meadow, he smiles broadly in answer, his dorsal stiped back arching and sending him hopping along behind, ears flapping like wild flags of indiscretion in their wake. This is a language he understands.
A shiver seems to run collectively through the spirits, when they realize you are here to stay. They press in eagerly, closer and closer, until their fireflies brush their wings against your skin and mist wraps around your legs. A dozen pairs of glowing eyes stare at you solemnly. And still they whisper.
The ghost foal alone dances through them all, spinning and careening, hooves flashing brightly before disappearing into indistinct mist. Its little hooves never touch the ground, and yet the silver grass bobs and weaves beneath its steps. And the more it dances, the more the forest and the grass and the sky above seems to fade into fog.
They say on this night, the line separating the realm of the spirits and the realm of the living begins to blur. Unbidden, a phrase you don’t remember hearing repeats itself in your mind: when the spirits are allowed to walk in the land of the living for the night, so too can the living become trapped in the spirit world…
The color begins to bleed from the moon.
Little by little, the color is drained from the world surrounding you. Perhaps when you look down, you are surprised to see a once-bright coat reduced to shades of white, and grey, and black.
All around the spirits seem to be changing, solidifying: the mist pulls away from them, and moves to you instead. The edges of your hooves disappear into the mist twining around your body, as your form becomes less corporeal. And then bit by bit, you begin to fade. The voices of the spirits become louder, laughter breaking through the small clearing as one by one, they turn and disappear into the forest. ”Thank you,” they say, in voices that have turned unsettling cold, ”it has been so long since we last felt the breeze upon our skin…” Perhaps it is only now that a pit of dread settles in your belly, watching as the spirits become the living.
The dancing mist-foal, now a grulla colt, is the last to leave. He turns and smiles widely at you, sweeping into a bow. ”It’s not so bad,” he says, as if to console you - but he is already stepping away. ”They say there’s another way back, if you are true in spirit. They say the waters of the Rapax can reverse the curse.” He stops and looks at you from over one shoulder, with a look that is hard to place. Perhaps it is one of sadness, or hope - or perhaps there is only something feral gleaming in his eyes. ”But only if you make it there before you lose your body.” With a laugh, he bounds away. And the mist creeps further up your body, as if to emphasize the little time you have left. And yet you can’t help but feel there is another way, and that the little mist-foal is the key to it...
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 ghosts have tricked you. The longer you tarried with them, the more the magic was allowed to work: it gave the spirits their bodies back, while stealing your's! Slowly, you are being turned to mist, cursed to live in the spirit realm. Unless, you find a way back... As always, be creative as possible! Is the foal, in his own way, trying to help you, or show kindness? Or has your character lost all hope in them?
Choices: chase after the spirit, or race to the river
Disclaimer: there is no wrong choice here, and effects from this quest will only be as permanent as you desire! This will be your characters final choice in this thread, if you have any concerns or questions, please reach out to @sid!
