rip and smash through the hornet's nest
do you understand I deserve the best?
but you'll do what I want, do what i please
and do it again til I get what I Need
do you understand I deserve the best?
but you'll do what I want, do what i please
and do it again til I get what I Need
Organized fellowship had never felt genuine to Fever; forced community was just a band-aid placed on much deeper wounds. The conception of the Spring Festival was no different – a guise of peacekeeping and chivalry, invitations serving as a good omen, a dove, encouraging all kinds of people from different walks of life and serving different kingdoms to all gather and revel in their wares and talents. Coerced, by the promises of grandeur, feasts, and merriment, citizens of each court would come together and cast aside their differences in hopes of cultivating meaningful, lifelong bonds.
It was a crock of shit.
The chimera minx wasn’t convinced this festival served any other purpose besides getting to better know your enemies. Do you ask the wolves in the wild to forfeit their territory borders in order to mingle with other packs? Do you approach a mighty gryphon and request they donate their feathers to all the flightless creatures so that they might all be equal? Do you beg the spider to change her nature as she wraps her silk around the butterfly?
Sovereigns could converse and fraternize gayly all they’d like – but they’d be lying through their teeth if they said they were here to help unite all the people. People were their pawns. They’d pretend that the scholars of Delumine didn’t gatekeep their knowledge and libraries, or that Vespera’s people in Terrastella didn’t covet their precious elixirs and tonics; they would pretend Solterra wasn’t overrun with bloodthirsty barbarians who answer questions with the blade of their swords, they would insist that followers of Caligo actually wanted to be here instead of bedding down with their secrets in the hole they crawled out of.
In slight appreciation, Fever thought it befitting to host the first annual festival in the Dawn Court.
Afterall, mornings are for war.
A thin veil of mist curled and twisted around her fetlocks as she made her descent into the meadow, an abstract shape of a woman, as wild and cruel and giving as mother nature herself. Dew collected on the fresh blades of grass, a glittering display as the sun crested the bordering tree-line and illuminated the mundane activities of vendors establishing themselves. Those early rays would ignite each flaming poppy and wildflower, reflecting off the oils Fever anointed herself with every morning: a mixture of shea butter, amber, and spices from distant worlds that would entice the nares of any passerby, and in any amount of light, she would be sleek and metallic. Yet, it was the smell of fresh pastries that would arouse Fever, the promises of something melting on her tongue and filling her stomach would remind her to behave.
The atmosphere felt heavy, as if these people were not sure how to interact with each other yet – Fever included. Yet, Fever had no familiar faces in Solterra, as she had just returned to her home after hiding away on the outskirts last season. Her journey would lead her here, because just like the ruling powers, she thought it valuable to have allies in different courts.
And more eyes to find her mother.
Temper would love to be here at a Festival. She’d probably marvel over every tent, spend too much money on donations, laugh fearlessly at the entertainment, gorge herself on all the treats she could find. She would have softened Fever, would have gently pulled her from her thorny shell and shown her all the joys she was missing out on.
A scoff left the mare’s nostrils in a puff of air, discarding the day-dream of her mother being fancy-free and happy.
There was no room for her mama in her head: she had to remain focused, she had to put up those walls, who knew what kind of snakes made their den here.
So instead, Temper was moved to Fever’s heart.
A tent dressed in royal violet fabrics and dangling charms caught her attention, her aurum eyes eagerly digesting the fine needle work of the throw pillows and the way the tassels reflected morning light. Fever always appreciated beautifully made things – not only because they were simply enchanting, but because she would insist only a clever and artful mind could find a way to make tangible, awe-worthy items out of seemingly nothing. She would halt in her progression, the chimes of her jewelry playing against her skin as she now moved towards the entrance of the tent, allowing the silks to caress her sinuous back as she stepped inside.
Perhaps she had been distracted by all the glittering and the gold, for she finally redirected her gaze to the beautiful creature that sat at the table; she would remind Fever of deserts of her home, a wisteria-grulla but reversed, inky purples and night tones would mix on her body and bleed into warm daylight on her face and limbs, long ears tipped with gold, and joints that might suggest she was crafted from the finest agate.
As a feminine, captivating creature herself, Fever found herself most comfortable around equally enrapturing company. For a brief moment, she imagined leaning forward and getting to know if all of her skin smelled of lavender, or just the delicate areas.
Inappropriate.
Fever would quickly recall her sign: Tarot Readings. For all Fever knew, she could have been speaking an alien language as she was unfamiliar with what that would entail. Using the context clues of the astrological signs and the cards on the table, she would believe it was some sort of future reading.
She reached back and gathered a few coins, placing them delicately on the table. She would look up at the stranger with desire, yet not of the physical sense, but glamorized by the possibility of this fate-reader being able to give her much sought-after answers.
“Can you tell me my future?” she breathes out her words in a sultry and naïve fashion, unable to hide a bit of desperation in the question, forcing her brow to fall softly and reveal a gentle face underneath her sheer mask.
@Nefertari
It was a crock of shit.
The chimera minx wasn’t convinced this festival served any other purpose besides getting to better know your enemies. Do you ask the wolves in the wild to forfeit their territory borders in order to mingle with other packs? Do you approach a mighty gryphon and request they donate their feathers to all the flightless creatures so that they might all be equal? Do you beg the spider to change her nature as she wraps her silk around the butterfly?
Sovereigns could converse and fraternize gayly all they’d like – but they’d be lying through their teeth if they said they were here to help unite all the people. People were their pawns. They’d pretend that the scholars of Delumine didn’t gatekeep their knowledge and libraries, or that Vespera’s people in Terrastella didn’t covet their precious elixirs and tonics; they would pretend Solterra wasn’t overrun with bloodthirsty barbarians who answer questions with the blade of their swords, they would insist that followers of Caligo actually wanted to be here instead of bedding down with their secrets in the hole they crawled out of.
In slight appreciation, Fever thought it befitting to host the first annual festival in the Dawn Court.
Afterall, mornings are for war.
A thin veil of mist curled and twisted around her fetlocks as she made her descent into the meadow, an abstract shape of a woman, as wild and cruel and giving as mother nature herself. Dew collected on the fresh blades of grass, a glittering display as the sun crested the bordering tree-line and illuminated the mundane activities of vendors establishing themselves. Those early rays would ignite each flaming poppy and wildflower, reflecting off the oils Fever anointed herself with every morning: a mixture of shea butter, amber, and spices from distant worlds that would entice the nares of any passerby, and in any amount of light, she would be sleek and metallic. Yet, it was the smell of fresh pastries that would arouse Fever, the promises of something melting on her tongue and filling her stomach would remind her to behave.
The atmosphere felt heavy, as if these people were not sure how to interact with each other yet – Fever included. Yet, Fever had no familiar faces in Solterra, as she had just returned to her home after hiding away on the outskirts last season. Her journey would lead her here, because just like the ruling powers, she thought it valuable to have allies in different courts.
And more eyes to find her mother.
Temper would love to be here at a Festival. She’d probably marvel over every tent, spend too much money on donations, laugh fearlessly at the entertainment, gorge herself on all the treats she could find. She would have softened Fever, would have gently pulled her from her thorny shell and shown her all the joys she was missing out on.
A scoff left the mare’s nostrils in a puff of air, discarding the day-dream of her mother being fancy-free and happy.
There was no room for her mama in her head: she had to remain focused, she had to put up those walls, who knew what kind of snakes made their den here.
So instead, Temper was moved to Fever’s heart.
A tent dressed in royal violet fabrics and dangling charms caught her attention, her aurum eyes eagerly digesting the fine needle work of the throw pillows and the way the tassels reflected morning light. Fever always appreciated beautifully made things – not only because they were simply enchanting, but because she would insist only a clever and artful mind could find a way to make tangible, awe-worthy items out of seemingly nothing. She would halt in her progression, the chimes of her jewelry playing against her skin as she now moved towards the entrance of the tent, allowing the silks to caress her sinuous back as she stepped inside.
Perhaps she had been distracted by all the glittering and the gold, for she finally redirected her gaze to the beautiful creature that sat at the table; she would remind Fever of deserts of her home, a wisteria-grulla but reversed, inky purples and night tones would mix on her body and bleed into warm daylight on her face and limbs, long ears tipped with gold, and joints that might suggest she was crafted from the finest agate.
As a feminine, captivating creature herself, Fever found herself most comfortable around equally enrapturing company. For a brief moment, she imagined leaning forward and getting to know if all of her skin smelled of lavender, or just the delicate areas.
Inappropriate.
Fever would quickly recall her sign: Tarot Readings. For all Fever knew, she could have been speaking an alien language as she was unfamiliar with what that would entail. Using the context clues of the astrological signs and the cards on the table, she would believe it was some sort of future reading.
She reached back and gathered a few coins, placing them delicately on the table. She would look up at the stranger with desire, yet not of the physical sense, but glamorized by the possibility of this fate-reader being able to give her much sought-after answers.
“Can you tell me my future?” she breathes out her words in a sultry and naïve fashion, unable to hide a bit of desperation in the question, forcing her brow to fall softly and reveal a gentle face underneath her sheer mask.
@Nefertari
![[Image: 45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png]](https://f2.toyhou.se/file/f2-toyhou-se/images/45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png)
i am a forest fire; i am the fire and i am the forest
and i am a witness watching it
