[AW] shudder

[Pandora]

♙ p a n d o r a ♙

honey what you done, come from,
escaping so fast?

Delumine was far from the summer heat that Pandora was accustomed to.

The land was all flowers, which was not unwelcome; gods knew that it had been too long since she’d seen lush greenery. It was the city that she couldn’t get used to. She’d grown accustomed to drifting unnoticed through crowded taverns and busy marketplaces, little more than a pretty smile on an even prettier face, or, when she felt so inclined, a storyteller and dancer who captured the attention and imagination of the crowd. All the while, she remained a ghost, the fire-red subject of some drunken fever dream. In the morning, she would be gone, and all of the pretty things that she crafted the night before would be gone with her.

So, she had learned, was her place.

She slides through crowded streets, midafternoon sun gleaming off her golden scales. Children, playing in the square, meet her eyes; she offers them a knowing smile, like an old friend sharing some salacious secret, and promptly disappears back into the flood of bodies. She is a crackle, a sudden and violent burst of heat, a metallic clink, all teeth – a pretty smile that hits like a bolt of lightning. What remains is scorch marks and the smell of smoke. She wants to dance, but this doesn’t feel like the right land for a woman like her to dance. Delumine is full of scholars, and full of stories, but not her stories. When she dances, like any talented actress, she sells something. (She has long forgotten what it is that she is selling, though. She wonders if they notice.) This land doesn’t feel like it’s buying what she has to offer – forgetting or forgiveness or ignorance, maybe. Her mother always told stories to make people forget. That was a very long time ago, now.

When she sings, her mouth still tastes like citrus. That is the power of a song – she wants to make them taste the plump, fiery oranges that grew in clumps outside of her bedroom as a young girl. (But that was so long ago – she is no longer young.)

She doesn’t know enough of this land to know that it needs oranges, though. What she does know is that what remains of her brother is somewhere in Novus, and, unless she wants to finally accept her own morality, she needs to find him. Settlement has become a necessity.

She approaches the library.

As she steps into the building, she is overwhelmed by the smell of old paper; mildew and bookworms. The ceiling is high, and the room is well-lit; large windows. Quickening her step, Pandora approaches the nearest set of shelves, eagerly eyeing the rows of colorful spines. She doesn’t know exactly what section she’s stepped into, yet, but she’s sure that she can find folklore somewhere - that is what she needs, if she truly desires to step into this people’s skin.

Pandora is a chameleon, after all, and she’s desperately in need of a new set of scales to wear.



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tags | @whoever
notes | first post - attempting to figure out how to even write this girl

@

[Thorvald]

T H O R V A L D then it went dark and it rained and rained and rained Delumine is strange, it's a painter's dream, the elusive muse which flits around their paint brush and their senses. Never quite touching, it's fingers a ghostly caress of teasing. Thorvald has never seen so much color, not really. The Dawn is rich, warm and oh so inviting, it is what freshly baked bread is to the sense of smell, what silk is to the touch — the bird song's gentle proclaimation of love to the ears sharp enough to hear it. Val is the sooty smudge upon the crisp canvas, a smear of charcoal fingers where there should be watercolor kisses. He is made for cold canvas', the withered parchment hastily scribbled upon in the late hours where creativity is conflicted, afflicted. Monochromatic and out of place, the one vivid streak of red and blue against the sea of grey. The solemn muse who wails at heartbreak and misfortune, her tears the frigid oceans he used to sail upon, her steepled fingers the gates he has walked beneath. Her smile is the smile which caused his heart to beat in his cold, cold chest. Her inky tendrils animating his footsteps like some macabre marionette. In the middle of streets filled with bards and artists, he fancies himself a work of art — just not the art patrons would be so eager to buy. A book with the crumbled edges, written in the language of the waves and their mistress, a language not meant for mortal ears. They would not buy a breath from him, the story he would tell that would turn their ale stale and their wine sour. So he walked, skulked like a spectre through the streets that are alive where he is dead. He cannot bring himself to smile, to at least make play that he is still a man capable of joy without reason. It is blinding, too bright, too pure, too innocent. For a moment he saw Ymera, in the silverware upon a table he passed, her smile is a twisted thing. The motherly love dieties claim to have in abundance,  but filled with a lust for something he cannot quite name, but knows. Oh god, he knows that look. She had given it to him in those frightful grey moments where the world spun and bled to grey. For a second he almost felt her many limbed embrace coil up his legs, sweet and slow, but purposeful. Felt her words in his ribcage, the threat of an earthquake. The tremor of the sea. His breath hitched and his limbs felt fragile. Glass in a phantom hold. It left as quickly as it came, but he is afflicted now with a need to leave. To leave this street where everything is too bright, too loud and too picturesque for him. Thorvald had never dreamed or lived in a world of technicolor. The revenent is no longer allowed to hope for that, he has missed his chance for yellow summers, red autumns and even the green hope of spring. He wanted his world of grey, white and blue. He wanted the frost of the mountains and even the chilling embrace of the sea upon his bones. Instead, he settled for the quiet confines of the library which revealed itself to him. Thorvald sees, but not really, his goliath frame of obsidian ambled at a warriors pace through the winding labrinth of shelves until it met something solid. And warm, glacial eyes finally focused and allowed him to see. A creature of autumn hues and summers light. All sweetness and light, just like the very thing he had hoped to escape beyond the safety of the library doors. He drank in the sight of her until his stomach roiled and coiled, churned and hissed at stone in his bones. Strings are pulled again and he animates, rugged features schooled into something he minimally hoped looked apologetic — it has been eons since he has had to apologize for anything. "I did not see you." He explained, voice raspy from lack of use, but surprisingly melodic in it's baritone. It marked him as a stranger, if his hide did not already, his is the language of the grim and her ocean lullabies, old words from old worlds no longer explored and spoken. The land between the living and the dead, the frozen fingers of the north. "Forgive me." TAG: @Pandora NOTES: "sunshine dasies butter mellow!"

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