AISLINN
SHE TASTES LIKE MOONBEAMS AND LAVENDER
TRIGGER WARNING.
Violent night terrors, grief, and anxiety.
Her gaze is crafted of blue flames and falling stars; but instead of a quiet tower room, she sees fire.
Red hellfire rises and licks the stone walls, eating away the oxygen that filtered the room, heavy smoke being left in its place. Her lungs are coated in ash and dust, her throat sand paper as she coughs, craving sweet, clean air. The stench of burning flesh floods her nostrils, her cries caught on her dry tongue. Her legs are caught in a web, and she is on fire. Blood pools beneath her, boiling and bright crimson as she is scorched alive. She cannot move, cannot speak, cannot scream as an all-too-familiar man comes forward and twists a wretched blade into the center of her chest.
She screams, broiling lifeblood pulsing around the dagger, and as she looks down to stare at the wound that pierced her heart, her soul. No longer is she blessed by night-kissed ebony skin, but of moondust and soft stars. The color of her mother; she is her, and the man before her the same one who had taken her mother dame's life. Her life. White hot pain trembles through her veins, her bones, her burning body like swords of lightning. And then, she is falling, her long legs kicking out as she crashes into the cool stone floor beside her mattress. With a loud crack her crown smacks violently against the rock, the flames encasing her extinguished as darkness claims her instead.
The soft tinkling of bells pulls her, a beautiful melody that tugs at the edges of her waking soul. She frantically grabs at the silver thread that dangles before her, pulling herself to reality and out of the shadows of her nightmares. At last, she is awake; no longer caged in the terror her memories have crafted in her sleep. With slow, uneven breaths, the gypsy woman shivers; her skin slick with sticky sweat, autumn night air blissfully cool against her coat and feathers. She blinks, her gaze surprisingly bright and shining blue despite her tears, as she searches frantically for the source of those beautiful, silver bells.
She nearly breaks as a sigh of relief looses from her velvet lips, her eyes landing on a small, familiar barn owl on her windowsill.
Her heart weeps at the sight of the little bird, and with a great heave she pulls herself to stand, untangling her limbs from her soaked sheets. She sniffles, shaking free the last tears that have fallen from her eyes. The bird is lovely, and solemn, as it stares at her with wide obsidian eyes and it's feathers illuminated by the moon's glow. Her gaze softens and breath hitches in her throat at the sight of its precious cargo — a neatly folded piece of parchment with a golden wax seal.
She does not need to see the fine details of the seal to know who had written the letter. Without looking, she already can see the finely detailed owl taking flight, a crescent moon at its back and open cupped hands holding the sky at the lowest curve of wax.
With a low hoot, the little owl chirps at her as she gingerly pulls at the silk ribbon around one of it's legs, tugging the letter free. She cooes to the familiar bird, a sad smile a ghost on dry lips as it crooned back to her in answer. The bird hops on the windowsill, and then with a tremble of bells — nearly harsh in the sudden quiet — the owl is gone. The gypsy is left with the note dangling in the air, held with tender tendrils of her mind. Her eyes flutter close, dread overwhelming her, before she forces herself to open the note and see what is written inside.
Our Storm Maiden —
She is gone.
The Great Goddess has claimed her;
and when the blue moon wanes,
she will finally return to our Mother in the stars.
And in small, barely legible ink at the very edge of the note, she reads:
Come home to us.
Fresh tears welled and threatened to spill over her eyes before she forced them shut. She might have abandoned them — her beloved home, her tribe — but she would not, could not, leave the call unanswered. Their Maiden would at last come home.
She knew of whom the letter spoke; the shadows and smoke of her dreams a beast that she — the Champion of Battle — could not even tame. Sorrow rippled through her, piercing her, leaving what little part of her that was left cracked open and raw.
Her thoughts did not think of her tribe then; instead, they fluttered to another gypsy whom called the Court of Night home. To him.
In seconds, she had rushed from her room, flinging open the heavy oak doors in a flurry of feathers and tears that fell from her eyes like liquid stars. But she did not care; she was a storm of emotions that could have caused hurricanes, and before she knew it, the gypsy fae stood at his closed door. One rasp of a knuckle would have him answering; in the dead of night, her orbs wide with regret and pain. Her heart had been broken because of he, but it had begun to mend because of another. The once shredded organ now slowly sewn together with threads the color of twilight and cold stars. Her breath was heavy, the letter floating to her right, as she gulped and braved the encounter that might warm her, comfort her.. when at one time, it would have cleaved her in two.
And with a quick trio knocks, Aislinn stood, praying that her king would answer the door.
@reichenbach should he choose to answer the door <3
SHE TASTES LIKE MOONBEAMS AND LAVENDER
Violent night terrors, grief, and anxiety.
Her gaze is crafted of blue flames and falling stars; but instead of a quiet tower room, she sees fire.
Red hellfire rises and licks the stone walls, eating away the oxygen that filtered the room, heavy smoke being left in its place. Her lungs are coated in ash and dust, her throat sand paper as she coughs, craving sweet, clean air. The stench of burning flesh floods her nostrils, her cries caught on her dry tongue. Her legs are caught in a web, and she is on fire. Blood pools beneath her, boiling and bright crimson as she is scorched alive. She cannot move, cannot speak, cannot scream as an all-too-familiar man comes forward and twists a wretched blade into the center of her chest.
She screams, broiling lifeblood pulsing around the dagger, and as she looks down to stare at the wound that pierced her heart, her soul. No longer is she blessed by night-kissed ebony skin, but of moondust and soft stars. The color of her mother; she is her, and the man before her the same one who had taken her mother dame's life. Her life. White hot pain trembles through her veins, her bones, her burning body like swords of lightning. And then, she is falling, her long legs kicking out as she crashes into the cool stone floor beside her mattress. With a loud crack her crown smacks violently against the rock, the flames encasing her extinguished as darkness claims her instead.
The soft tinkling of bells pulls her, a beautiful melody that tugs at the edges of her waking soul. She frantically grabs at the silver thread that dangles before her, pulling herself to reality and out of the shadows of her nightmares. At last, she is awake; no longer caged in the terror her memories have crafted in her sleep. With slow, uneven breaths, the gypsy woman shivers; her skin slick with sticky sweat, autumn night air blissfully cool against her coat and feathers. She blinks, her gaze surprisingly bright and shining blue despite her tears, as she searches frantically for the source of those beautiful, silver bells.
She nearly breaks as a sigh of relief looses from her velvet lips, her eyes landing on a small, familiar barn owl on her windowsill.
Her heart weeps at the sight of the little bird, and with a great heave she pulls herself to stand, untangling her limbs from her soaked sheets. She sniffles, shaking free the last tears that have fallen from her eyes. The bird is lovely, and solemn, as it stares at her with wide obsidian eyes and it's feathers illuminated by the moon's glow. Her gaze softens and breath hitches in her throat at the sight of its precious cargo — a neatly folded piece of parchment with a golden wax seal.
She does not need to see the fine details of the seal to know who had written the letter. Without looking, she already can see the finely detailed owl taking flight, a crescent moon at its back and open cupped hands holding the sky at the lowest curve of wax.
With a low hoot, the little owl chirps at her as she gingerly pulls at the silk ribbon around one of it's legs, tugging the letter free. She cooes to the familiar bird, a sad smile a ghost on dry lips as it crooned back to her in answer. The bird hops on the windowsill, and then with a tremble of bells — nearly harsh in the sudden quiet — the owl is gone. The gypsy is left with the note dangling in the air, held with tender tendrils of her mind. Her eyes flutter close, dread overwhelming her, before she forces herself to open the note and see what is written inside.
She is gone.
The Great Goddess has claimed her;
and when the blue moon wanes,
she will finally return to our Mother in the stars.
And in small, barely legible ink at the very edge of the note, she reads:
Fresh tears welled and threatened to spill over her eyes before she forced them shut. She might have abandoned them — her beloved home, her tribe — but she would not, could not, leave the call unanswered. Their Maiden would at last come home.
She knew of whom the letter spoke; the shadows and smoke of her dreams a beast that she — the Champion of Battle — could not even tame. Sorrow rippled through her, piercing her, leaving what little part of her that was left cracked open and raw.
Her thoughts did not think of her tribe then; instead, they fluttered to another gypsy whom called the Court of Night home. To him.
In seconds, she had rushed from her room, flinging open the heavy oak doors in a flurry of feathers and tears that fell from her eyes like liquid stars. But she did not care; she was a storm of emotions that could have caused hurricanes, and before she knew it, the gypsy fae stood at his closed door. One rasp of a knuckle would have him answering; in the dead of night, her orbs wide with regret and pain. Her heart had been broken because of he, but it had begun to mend because of another. The once shredded organ now slowly sewn together with threads the color of twilight and cold stars. Her breath was heavy, the letter floating to her right, as she gulped and braved the encounter that might warm her, comfort her.. when at one time, it would have cleaved her in two.
And with a quick trio knocks, Aislinn stood, praying that her king would answer the door.
@reichenbach should he choose to answer the door <3
