DOCTOR SAYS THE INCISIONS WILL ONLY HEAL IF I HOLD WARM SALTWATER IN MY MOUTH. SO THERE IS A WOUND INSIDE ME AND I AM BATHING IT IN OCEANS OF SORROW IN ORDER TO MOVE FORWARD. REPEAT AFTER ME: SOMEWHERE THE MOON RISES OUT OF THE RAIN. SOMEWHERE ICARUS CRAWLS OUT OF THE SEA, UNBURNED AND ALIVE.
The waves crash mightily against the shore and nearby cliffs; the roar is repetitive, nearly soothing, if not for the ominous clouds overhead and the way snow has begun to fall in lethargic, spiralling flakes. There is a straining within the sea and the sky, an aching just within the realm of wordlessness, where something contends beneath the dark surface of the ocean and the clouds. All reason suggests one should not be out much longer in the evening, as the sun wanes on the distant horizon behind the blanket of winter clouds.
But a white figure walks the rocky beach beneath the cliffs, an ear cocked curiously toward the clamouring waves. More often than not, his vermillion eyes are turned toward the sand, and he watches with pragmatic fascination as the snow begins to settle against the earth and the sea rushes in to wash it away.
Lyr is there for a reason, however. He looks out toward the sea in earnest, both ears erect and pointed forward. It is a perfect evening to see them…
When he was a boy, his mother had told him stories of Terrastella. It had been her homeland. There is a nuance one feels in regard of the place they were raised she would whisper to him as he fell asleep to stories of cliffs and swaying fields, a hospital and a citadel. Then she would sing to him songs of the sea. Lyr thinks of it now; the endless prairie which, at times, undulates like the ocean itself. The dark cliffs stretch above him, a natural fortification to whatever darkness lay below. His trek to the beach beneath them had been treacherous and unsteady; the pathway that cut its way down winding, narrow, and often unstable.
Lyr had thought he would never live here.
He had thought a lot of things would never happen.
But they did.
And in their own way, these occurrences—fate, chance, whatever they may be—had led him to the bottom of the cliffs that evening. He stands there attentively—nearly at attention—and listens for something beyond the sound of waves. He listens to that realm of wordlessness, straining to become a language eligible to men. Lyr scans the water for a sight of the legendary Gealach, wondering if his ancestors would recognise him as their own blood, or view him as prey.
There is a part of him that has grown comfortable to city-life again. It has been many years since he ventured North; and there is a bit of arrogance in his search for the monstrous that evening. He nearly gives up the hunt, when down the beach five of the legendary horses surface from the sea. Their arrival is magical, flourishing. They come running from a spiral of white-water as the wave breaks, collapsing in on itself.
There is nothing plain about them. They stand painfully still as they assess Lyr, as if slightly surprised by his presence on the beach. They come in an array of colours but the scent that wafts toward Lyr is alien and frightening; dead fish, rot, and salt. Their long manes tangle about their legs and drag against the sand, interwoven with bits of bone and kelp. Lyr is momentarily dazzled by their fierce beauty; then one steps forward, and another, and they are running. Lyr realises he has outstayed his welcome and with deft and nearly panicked swiftness, he begins to ascend the same treacherous path he had ventured down on.
His second mistake: Lyr underestimates their swiftness. In an increasing flurry of snow and darkening of the sky, two of the Gealach are at his heels before he can make the ascent.
He wheels on them with a snarl, clipping the air with his blunt teeth. One of the Gealach laughs; the sound is as musical, sharp, and crystalline as breaking glass in silence. It cuts Lyr to the quick.
The moon is sacred to them, his mother had said. They run beneath it and hunt for horses to turn or eat. It is dark now, and they make sharp and striking silhouettes.
Lyr realises, as they surround him, that the stories had been more romantic than their actuality. He begins to speak, but stops, pinning his ears. He doubts it would do much to confess they are his relatives, in their own way. They make a game of toying with him as a pack; one may lunge at his hock as another snaps at his long hair, as Lyr scrambles to face each in turn.
Yet, a strange and strategic calm comes over him. There is a certain light that enters his eye as he assesses various escape routes; there is a firm resolution within him that he will not die today, and as he thinks it he lunges to the nearest water-horse, nearly ripping an ear off. The Gealach back-peddles, snarling, and then resumes the circling pack.
They are edging him further from the cliffside and closer to the sea. Lyr knows it, and begins to wonder in a detached sort of light if this is the way he will die.
SOMEWHERE WE ARE POLISHING THE WORD ABSENCE WITH OUR TONGUES AND LEARNING NOT TO BE TERRIFIED OF ALL WE LACK. ACHE FIRST, YES, BUT THEN LET THE CUTS CLOSE. SPIT OUT THE BLOOD. WATCH YOUR BODY PULL ITSELF BACK TOGETHER, IN SPITE OF THE LOST WINGS, THE STOLEN BONES, THE HALTED SONGS. WATCH YOUR BODY PULL ITSELF BACK TOGETHER, THEN LET YOUR SOUL DO THE SAME.
Rhiaan @ deviant art.com
01-07-2020, 12:48 AM
Played by
del [PM] Posts: 16 — Threads: 4 Signos: 195
Living on the move has ingrained a wanderer’s pair of wings within Noëlle’s soul. It lurches out within the confines of a steadfast city. It pulls and chafes against the cage of cobblestones and erected buildings surrounding Terrestella’s capitol. There are times when the noises and smells of the other inhabitants become all together deafening. And the masquerade of pleasant smiles and ‘how do you do’s’ invoke the desire to turn away, and seek refuge in the unknown.
The unknown is the land interrupted only by the breeze coming off the ocean. Or the stillness of a forest covered by first snowfall, giving way to the clack and screech of burdened tree limbs snapping in the distance. There is too much space for your soul to even take flight, to be aware in the vast wilderness ahead. One becomes nothing at all. Perhaps Noëlle savors the authenticity of it all. Danger can be avoided by most precautions but not by all – and despite our best efforts, it raises its head and it has a face and a smell easily discerned by sharp teeth and ill intent.
It doesn’t weigh heavy behind one’s eyes, planted deep on some other plane. Unavoidable, or persistent; seizing control without a moment’s notice. The young woman, or girl – whichever the world believes satisfies the mold – finds the opportunity to explore beyond the city’s grasp. She continues on like she has done since her evacuation from the lands of Nordyls. Neither denying nor realizing the weight she carries for the one she left behind.
Noëlle borrows a small sled for her travels, paying by the day. Wooden boxes take residence on the sled, cushioned by straw and covered by a tarp. Second-hand fabric resides within the boxes, stowed away for the time being. She expects to return in a few days, and packs for the luxury of having a fire or two along the road. Provisions are a luxury she cannot spare the funds for, and sets her way beyond the city gates. While there remains a heaviness beside her, she feels lifted by the quieting noise and the smell of encroaching cedar bark. Memories flood of similar travels, pressed close against her father’s side, reassured by his heavy footfalls leading the way. It saddens her that she cannot place the scent of his hair, or the oils of his skin – the way they flooded her senses with a powerful comfort. Perhaps someday, she will smell him again in a flower, or in the acrid heat of melted iron and soot.
--
Two days have passed by the time she reaches the Praistigia Cliffs. She’s left her things under the cover of a fallen tree, and the bushes surrounding it. Instead, taking a small satchel as she ventures forth. The day is too late to try and carry too much. The idea of scouting ahead appears more feasible and efficient. Before the sun sets she can return to her hiding spot and rest.
The cliffs waft of saline, and fill her lungs with an unforgiveable sharpness. It bites with the moisture; it clings and sticks to the skin. The view is worth every bit of frigid breath that the sea offers. Otherworldly; the young mare stands at a precipice, a gate to the skies and a sudden, jarring death to the underworld. Thick strands of off-white hair lilt and whip past her ashen face, considering the chorus of wave hitting stone. Lulled into a siren’s song, that weaves a rhythm slowly picking up her pace. Everything seems to be vibrating, coiling with energy – the lilting, pull and ebb of the snow is a deceptive cadence showering ahead of the clouds taking station.
Before she can pull away – if she could – she spots a phantom figure below. Surprised at first by its swift movements, and even more so, what could have ushered the urgency that fills the scene. These creatures on the chase reminder her of the Kelpie folk, and even then she can’t be sure or confirm their species. Despite all her travels she has rarely seen or interacted with such people. Their appearance is entrancing; wet, glistening flesh of colors rarely placed on equine form.
Her muscles tighten. Blood rushes to her ears with the subtle increase and exertion of heartbeat. Below it becomes obvious the lone stranger is trapped. The snapping of jagged teeth seems to break past the thunderous tone of wave, and shatters Noëlle’s focus with a jarring realization.
Foolishly the mare shifts, searching for a way down. A craggy path is all that the cliffs can offer. She dares the fates to try and take her life now, as she begins to scale the narrow way. Biting the inside of her cheek when she looses her footing momentarily. Forcing her limbs to slow, and for her lungs to breathe deeply. A grunt leaves her lips, as she jumps off the bottom edge – and into the abyss of sand. She assumes – to some degree – the monsters will be too focused on their prey to notice her approach. And if they did? The mare would have to change course – no easy task, considering the sand…
Armed with nothing but the two sharp horns protruding from her head, she focused on her speed. As she neared, she aimed her shoulder and chest into the closest of the five. Attempting to knock them from their position – possibly open a way for the stranger to push through. A loud, girlish cry broke the air.
ooc// @Lyr -- I know she ain't much but I couldn't help and reply. >P
GOD BURYING LION'S TEETH AND LILLY SEEDS IN MY HEART & ME BITING DOWN BECAUSE I THINK IT'LL BRING ME SOME DAMP SUNLIT PATH OF SILENCE? WILL IT HURT? WILL I BE COVERED IN BLOOD NOT BELONGING TO ME? GO ON THEN, GIVE ME THAT DREAM AGAIN WHERE YOU SHOW UP WITH ASH-STAINED CHEEKBONES & TEETH OF SPLINTERED GLASS. TELL ME HOW GOD IS THE SOUND MADE BY A FIST UNFOLDING INTO PETALS.
On a hyper-rational level, Lyr realises he should feel fear now.
It is an afterthought, that occurs seconds later than it ought to. Offhandedly, even, Lyr thinks: I ought to be afraid. Physically, he reacts on an instinctual level; he dodges and weaves, throwing a kick or ducking a shoulder as required. The sea hems in on him, raising at the peripheral. In his overly pragmatic state, an inconsequential and absurd definition comes to him:
Wave, a ridge or swell on the surface of a body of water, normally having a forward motion distinct from the oscillatory motion of the particles that successively compose it. The undulations and oscillations may be chaotic and random, or they may be regular.
The undulations and oscillations may be chaotic and random.
A Gealach draws blood in a shallow gash across his haunch. The blood drips like ruby beads down the length of his leg, a brilliant and offensive brightness against the pallor of his skin.
Another water horse collides with his ribs, full-force—chaotic and random—and Lyr feels the world tip out from beneath him. He kicks out with a hind leg even as his shoulder hits the ground, and he feels the hoof connect solidly with his attacker. Lyr knows it is not enough, and in a feat of impressive athleticism—fuelled, no doubt, by his body’s need to survive—the stallion is up before he fully hits the ground.
Then:
A variable.
A pale horse collides with the darkest Gealach, a large black stallion with a split, toothy mouth. His ghastly figure is met with a girlish cry and ferocious impact; Lyr sees the opening and seizes it, lunging for the gap. The kelpies initially scatter; they are utterly taken aback by the girl’s appearance, but soon recover. One—a chestnut—sports a half-moon gash under his left eye, where Lyr’s hoof must have connected to his jaw.
There is a moment he considers running. He could make it to the cliffside before the black Gealach and girl recover. He could leave her there.
Later, he will hate himself for thinking it.
Later, he will ask himself: how much?
How much does it cost?
One life.
How much is it worth?
Lyr wheels on a hoof and moves to stand abreast the girl after his brief hesitation. He does his best to stand straight, and tall, and look them in the eyes. Every Gealach draws back, reassessing the pair, save for the large black stallion.
However, after a long moment, he too withdraws. Lyr waits until the herd returns—almost magically—to the sea. There is a long pause in between when he wonders why they left, and if the reason matters. Then, the pale stallion tries to face the rose-gray mare. “Thank you.” Lyr’s voice is quiet; nearly ashamed. He jumps as a wave crashes, and cannot hold her gaze. “I apologise for being an imposition.”
He wonders if he will ever learn how to keep the sadness from reaching his eyes when he says, “I’m Lyr. You just saved my life.”
EVERYONE WHO TOUCHES ME WILL WALK AWAY
UNHARMED AND SINGING
Rhiaan @ deviant art.com
01-08-2020, 01:03 AM
Played by
del [PM] Posts: 16 — Threads: 4 Signos: 195
To the girl’s astonishment, her aim holds true with a dull thud. It rattles through her bones with an unnerving force – so much that she can feel it in her teeth. The momentum sends Noëlle off her target at an angle, moving past the dark and gnarled creature. She draws her haunches in and skids briefly in the sand to face the herd.
Wind whips past her face, uncovering a tempest barring fangs and claws transformed. Eyes with the intensity of a full moon illuminate her unwavering will. This is not me, a small voice warns. But they must think it so. The stranger has broken free from their death march. And to her surprise finds his company beside her – nearly a breath too late. His muted form stands strong at the periphery.
The air becomes electric. With each heated inhale it stings her lips with salt. Heavy breaths fill her lungs – her mind – races with the possibility of an actual fight about to go down. The fear is a familiar friend. It spreads like iron in her veins, catches fire when it reaches the tips of her hooves with the sensation of sparks – then numbness. Tipping the scale in favor of shutting down, provided with enough attention. It starts with the world becoming a singular ring, or perhaps the stereo sound of the waves becoming one.
And perhaps it’s happened before, in the fogginess of that brain. In the depths and wells that go on hidden from the present. When she was weaker than she’d hoped to be, and helpless when she only desired to be strong. The kelpies finally begin to release the pressure from their pursuit. The black stallion, heralding an unyielding gaze finally draws away with his kin. His eyes are a warning, a transgression against him and his people. Her eyes follow his movements, trailing away like black ink. The moisture of his skin glistens and highlights with each pull and ripple, until the sea has dissolved him whole. As if – they’d never been there to begin with. Carrying the stench of decay, and heavy sea breathe with them.
She forgets she is not alone in that awkward silence. The intensity in her eyes bend under fatigue, and wane into a dull, forgettable color of plain blue. She lifts her head a moment too slow, and finds her gaze entrapped by his burning, sunset hues. Despite the lack of light, the contrast is stark and unforgettable.
His voice lilts beyond her. She vaguely discerns his words, a few too seconds late from when they first meet the air. Dazed, Noëlle frowns when he flinches from the encroaching wave. And twists her head, her very heavy head – to the foam pushed forward from the water. A relieved smile cuts into her vacant façade. “An imposition?” Confusion paints her voice. She shakes her head, thick strands of damp hair now sticking to her muddled neck. “Without you I would have died. What I did was foolish… It was a combined effort. We’re survivors.” Noëlle brandished a confident grin. Deflecting his praise.
“Lyr, it’s a pleasure. I'm Noëlle.” Her expression softens. For a brief moment she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and sighs. She feels ill, nauseous even. The thought of water and food is far from her mind. “You must be exhausted… Why were they chasing you?”
She takes a few tentative steps back towards the narrow path up the cliff face. Feeling out her balance, as her hooves sink into the sand. I am alive, I am breathing, feel the wind on my shoulder, the steady thrum of my heart gushing. Pausing once to see if he would follow her.
“What were they?”
ooc// @Lyr
notes// hmm, edited the ending a little bit. Something about it was bugging me too much. X'D
01-08-2020, 11:15 PM - This post was last modified: 01-09-2020, 05:09 AM by Noëlle
GOD BURYING LION'S TEETH AND LILLY SEEDS IN MY HEART & ME BITING DOWN BECAUSE I THINK IT'LL BRING ME SOME DAMP SUNLIT PATH OF SILENCE? WILL IT HURT? WILL I BE COVERED IN BLOOD NOT BELONGING TO ME? GO ON THEN, GIVE ME THAT DREAM AGAIN WHERE YOU SHOW UP WITH ASH-STAINED CHEEKBONES & TEETH OF SPLINTERED GLASS. TELL ME HOW GOD IS THE SOUND MADE BY A FIST UNFOLDING INTO PETALS.
Watching the Gealach return to the sea is indescribable. It is light on water; it is the thousand incomprehensible shapes a wave forms; it is the idea that a drop of blood is one of many in a body, inseparable from the liters. Lyr marvels at the physique of the black stallion; the hard, unforgiving angles, as if cut from obsidian—and how, abruptly, those hard angles are dissolved into the soft motion of the sea. Lyr only notices after the fact that the stallion’s eyes had been an unnatural, harsh amethyst but he never connects it in his mind that, perhaps, that is the very reason his eyes are garnet. A relation. And that if the gem-stone eyes are beautiful in someone else’s face, why are they not beautiful in his own?
Lyr does not know and does not think to ask, anyways. He stands staring, breathless, after the creatures of myth. He stands until he feels the attention of the girl shift toward him and his words—what had he said again? Lyr is already forgetting—and she answers him with a smile. An imposition? she says. Without you I would have died. What I did was foolish… it was a combined effort. We’re survivors.
He nearly says, yes, what you did was foolish. But Lyr doesn’t, because something within him somewhere suggests that would be rude, even if it is true. He supposes he ought to be more thankful for her intervention, but long and cold nights in the North had taught him otherwise. People never had pure intentions; perhaps she had saved him for some type of recognition, or because she had always wanted to be a hero. Lyr doesn’t ask, however. He smiles shyly and glances toward the sand at his hooves, where he paws at it briefly. You must be exhausted.
“A bit, yes.” He grows uncomfortable with the conversation directing itself at him; he has to answer; he has to think. Lyr’s smile wavers nearly imperceivable, and he begins to head toward the cliff face alongside her. “They were chasing me because… that’s what they do. They’re Gealach kelpies, native to Terrastella. They live in the ocean and come to shore to lure horses to their death or change them.” He rolls his shoulders in a slight, supple shrug as he begins to ascend the small, twisting pathway behind her.
Lyr takes quiet note of her shakiness, of how she has to steel herself before she ascends. It makes him remember first time he felt that way; it was not quite the North, not yet… it was months before that, in a port of a distant land where they worshiped gods of war. Someone hired them the whole crew, to act as mercenaries and—
Lyr begins to ascend the trail; the rocks shift underfoot and the sea-breeze chills his skin—
—and there had been tribal people in the mountains with short, slashing swords for close combat, who gutted Lyr’s bunkmate in the first onslaught and—
He exhales. He inhales. He looks back toward the sea; and then toward her.
“Are you from here?” Lyr asks, in that quiet way of his.
As they climb the weather gains energy. The snow thickens with a feverish pitch behind it. And the wind careens all about them in a hollowed moan. Twisting strands of damp hair across the girl’s face, whipping them against her eyes. Noëlle has faith in her limbs, and the cloven hooves that take purchase over the wet path. While the fatigue draws into her bones, she can take solace in the steadiness of her heartbeat – the mechanical draw of cool air that floods her nostrils.
The information of Gealach Kelpies presses into her forethought. Lyr’s explanation fails to satisfy her curiosity. Provoking a subtle frown to form, crinkling her gaze. She mumbles carelessly in thought, "They look like us, sort of.” Her voice is soft – likely to be lost in the wind.
Are you from here?
“I’m a foreigner,” she roars back. “But perhaps I’ll make this place my home.” She casts her gaze upon him – briefly – a subdued grin now dances at the edges of her lips. Eyes alight with the prospect.
Focusing ahead she calls out, “I would like one.” Uncertain if he will hear her above the storm.
A familiar ache blooms across her chest. Home: a hollow, dead thing that could not exist without the flame her father carried with him. Home was always moving from one outpost to the other, carried on their backs and in their hearts as they set out from one world to the next. In the faces of strangers, and the uncertainties of the wilds – taking one risk after the other, in pursuit of a happy life.
They had found it once – in an idea, when they came across the great buildings they called civilization.
Noëlle crests the path with an eager trot, tossing her gaze across the churning sea. Coming to a halt. The horizon lost and muddled to the heavy weight of cloud, and fog.
“Beautiful though, isn’t it?”
A soft sigh escapes her as her grin deflates. Pausing for just a moment, not minding the silence should it awash them with the elements.
“Are you headed anywhere in particular, Lyr? If you don’t mind me asking.”
