There comes to her, in the chilly morning breeze, a thin sort of…
Emptiness. An emptiness that is not calm, nor peace. It never could be. But is an absence, and for that, she is grateful. New light spills over the horizon, bathing her sturdy, pale form in buttery light. As always, she notes the time of day by the warmth and the direction; knows when dawn ekes out a place over night by the way she sees light not in how it looks, but how it touches her.
She hates the aching, uncertain absence of Grímmunder. She would rather have his vision than not but she is well attuned to her darkness. It had been her life, her home, for years before the gods made him out of clay and feathers and branded him alive with their breath.
Without him, she could persevere in the cautious, guarded way a sightless one must—but she does so with a heavy heart and a wild anxiety in place of knowing just where he is.
They are all—all four of them; for, yes, she believes Eirlys lives somewhere, protected among the unliving—lost on the stranger tides of this seething existence. Pulled to and from by a moon, unknown; parting and colliding as waves in sprays of white and hopeful water. But she wishes they wouldn’t. She wishes they could anchor themselves to each other, if not to somewhere. At least to the vague notion that they could be afforded their happiness one day, that they could be allowed to be and not fear the next parting glance. That they could be given a sliver of peace upon which to build around.
If she can’t have them, she can never be content. Not really. But she takes a moment—her gut pitted with a whisper of guilt as she does, that thing that suffers no respite until the search is done—as autumn rolls crisply over the expanse of softly shifting grass to meet her in the middle. In the distance, she hears the soft footfalls of a herd of animals; the sound of a bird calling—not Grim. She is small and delicate, despite her hale shape, the pale, piercing gaze cast out across a world she cannot appreciate for the way the dew glitters in the peaking sunlight. The way she fits in it like a wild pearl; a queer and quietly lost soul.
Her eyes flutter shut, though they don’t need to, head dropping to nip at the thick-growing grass, its edges burnt by the pressures of seasonal drifts.
Emptiness. An emptiness that is not calm, nor peace. It never could be. But is an absence, and for that, she is grateful. New light spills over the horizon, bathing her sturdy, pale form in buttery light. As always, she notes the time of day by the warmth and the direction; knows when dawn ekes out a place over night by the way she sees light not in how it looks, but how it touches her.
She hates the aching, uncertain absence of Grímmunder. She would rather have his vision than not but she is well attuned to her darkness. It had been her life, her home, for years before the gods made him out of clay and feathers and branded him alive with their breath.
Without him, she could persevere in the cautious, guarded way a sightless one must—but she does so with a heavy heart and a wild anxiety in place of knowing just where he is.
They are all—all four of them; for, yes, she believes Eirlys lives somewhere, protected among the unliving—lost on the stranger tides of this seething existence. Pulled to and from by a moon, unknown; parting and colliding as waves in sprays of white and hopeful water. But she wishes they wouldn’t. She wishes they could anchor themselves to each other, if not to somewhere. At least to the vague notion that they could be afforded their happiness one day, that they could be allowed to be and not fear the next parting glance. That they could be given a sliver of peace upon which to build around.
If she can’t have them, she can never be content. Not really. But she takes a moment—her gut pitted with a whisper of guilt as she does, that thing that suffers no respite until the search is done—as autumn rolls crisply over the expanse of softly shifting grass to meet her in the middle. In the distance, she hears the soft footfalls of a herd of animals; the sound of a bird calling—not Grim. She is small and delicate, despite her hale shape, the pale, piercing gaze cast out across a world she cannot appreciate for the way the dew glitters in the peaking sunlight. The way she fits in it like a wild pearl; a queer and quietly lost soul.
Her eyes flutter shut, though they don’t need to, head dropping to nip at the thick-growing grass, its edges burnt by the pressures of seasonal drifts.
Voice | @Maeve
MUSONART
MINOR POWERPLAYING IS PERMITTED
