we hold them in our palms tonight
The Night Markets thrum this evening. Festival lights hang bright and gleaming from the stands of torches. They hang above the cobbled streets of the market and illuminate all those who wander in crowds below.
But to the left there is a darker path, the festival lights do not reach here. Here the shadows yawn across stands and hide the deals made within them. Here is the place that people forget, the place where people go to lose themselves. You might never have looked here before tonight Moira, but a woman waits there for you. She sees you in the crowd and rushes forward. She is so very beautiful, with dark, dark hair, curled and thick. She is adorned in crimson and her body chimes with the golden bangles that adorn her slim figure. She is one of the gypsy folk who laugh and dance and offer you potions to make your true love finally fall in love with you, to make your enemy turn from their hatred, to give you magic you only ever dreamed of and that is to name only a few.
Denocte is full of the tales of the gypsies - how they curse and how they bless. They can be as tricky as faeries and imps. The woman steps up to you, her eyes are wide within her delicate face. They are beautiful eyes, so full of worry, “Moira.” The woman breathes like a song, she dares to try to touch you, to smooth a touch across your hair. “I have been looking for you.” The woman says, softly, her eyes searching your face. She sees the dark shadows upon your cheeks where sadness reigns, she tracks the shadows of ghost tears, she knows how many you have shed for the men who leave you. She can draw the shape of your heart upon a piece of paper and track each fracture, whispering their truth.
“You still hurt, my child.” The woman breathes, motherly. “I have something that can help you… if you wish to be free from your pain.” Still she looks across your lovely face, still she whispers soothing words into the places where you hurt most. “Come.” She says at last and ushers you out from the vibrant life of the Denocte street and into the dark, dark street of Denocte’s secrets and sorrows.
She guides you through the darkness where only small, dingy lamps hang above each vendor’s stall. Somewhere someone is laughing. Somewhere someone is weeping. The woman’s stall glows a soft gold, it lights the satin and gilt cloths that drape above it. Gypsy coins chime above them, it sounds like a lullaby, a saving song.
“Here,” the woman says and places before you two sweet fruits. They are identical, each apple crimson and bright. The woman looks up and holds your gaze, her smile is gone, her eyes filled with sadness and yet, hope. “One will take your sorrow from you, it will help you forget your deepest heartbreaks. It will mend together the broken pieces of you. The other... the other will give you immortality, it will make you live forever. You will suffer your trials and remember your agonies for an eternity. I cannot tell you which is which or else the magic will not work...”
The woman lowers her gaze to the two identical fruits. They are each so sweet, they are each so beautifully ripe. They are each a terrible curse - to forget is to not remember the things that make you stronger, to forget the greatest depths of love. To live forever is to feel and live and watch those you live die around you, over and over; it is to grow weary of living.
The apples beg to be eaten.
“Which one will you choose, Moira?”
But to the left there is a darker path, the festival lights do not reach here. Here the shadows yawn across stands and hide the deals made within them. Here is the place that people forget, the place where people go to lose themselves. You might never have looked here before tonight Moira, but a woman waits there for you. She sees you in the crowd and rushes forward. She is so very beautiful, with dark, dark hair, curled and thick. She is adorned in crimson and her body chimes with the golden bangles that adorn her slim figure. She is one of the gypsy folk who laugh and dance and offer you potions to make your true love finally fall in love with you, to make your enemy turn from their hatred, to give you magic you only ever dreamed of and that is to name only a few.
Denocte is full of the tales of the gypsies - how they curse and how they bless. They can be as tricky as faeries and imps. The woman steps up to you, her eyes are wide within her delicate face. They are beautiful eyes, so full of worry, “Moira.” The woman breathes like a song, she dares to try to touch you, to smooth a touch across your hair. “I have been looking for you.” The woman says, softly, her eyes searching your face. She sees the dark shadows upon your cheeks where sadness reigns, she tracks the shadows of ghost tears, she knows how many you have shed for the men who leave you. She can draw the shape of your heart upon a piece of paper and track each fracture, whispering their truth.
“You still hurt, my child.” The woman breathes, motherly. “I have something that can help you… if you wish to be free from your pain.” Still she looks across your lovely face, still she whispers soothing words into the places where you hurt most. “Come.” She says at last and ushers you out from the vibrant life of the Denocte street and into the dark, dark street of Denocte’s secrets and sorrows.
She guides you through the darkness where only small, dingy lamps hang above each vendor’s stall. Somewhere someone is laughing. Somewhere someone is weeping. The woman’s stall glows a soft gold, it lights the satin and gilt cloths that drape above it. Gypsy coins chime above them, it sounds like a lullaby, a saving song.
“Here,” the woman says and places before you two sweet fruits. They are identical, each apple crimson and bright. The woman looks up and holds your gaze, her smile is gone, her eyes filled with sadness and yet, hope. “One will take your sorrow from you, it will help you forget your deepest heartbreaks. It will mend together the broken pieces of you. The other... the other will give you immortality, it will make you live forever. You will suffer your trials and remember your agonies for an eternity. I cannot tell you which is which or else the magic will not work...”
The woman lowers her gaze to the two identical fruits. They are each so sweet, they are each so beautifully ripe. They are each a terrible curse - to forget is to not remember the things that make you stronger, to forget the greatest depths of love. To live forever is to feel and live and watch those you live die around you, over and over; it is to grow weary of living.
The apples beg to be eaten.
“Which one will you choose, Moira?”
@Moira has a choice to make - but does she trust the market woman? Perhaps great risks do, indeed, reap great rewards...
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This Immortality quest was written by the lovely @Obsidian. <3
Enjoy!
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may post to claim the quest EXP.
This Immortality quest was written by the lovely @Obsidian. <3
Enjoy!
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
