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Private  - love's a shrine, or else a scar

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Played by Offline RB [PM] Posts: 114 — Threads: 15
Signos: 395
Dusk Court Soldier
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 5 [Year 498 Fall] // 16 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 29 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A



A bird and a letter, theoretically. 

Isra —

Isra, I — 

Hope you’re alright, and I miss you, like a wild thing; like how I’ve been missing my iron now and the smell of salt—

Isra, I’m in trouble for going to see you, and I almost don’t care, which worries me immensely— 

—like old yellow wine. Like a book I’ve read a million times.  Like how fish always know where to go home. Like flying. 

Of course none of them are sent. A bird and a letter, but only theoretically.

It’s hard to sleep. It’s always been hard for her to sleep. But now it’s worse.

She sees Ard’s face (which is Erd’s face)(which is basically a tragic mask) whenever she closes her eyes. If she doesn’t keep her jaw clenched her teeth fight to breathe outside her mouth. The smell of blood makes her drool, which is inconvenient, considering the Halcyon training schedule. When the night sets in the quiet does too, and so there is nothing to distract her, and so everything that hurts—her torn muscles, and her heart that begs to be let out, and the saltwater in her blood—hurts a hundred times more than in the day when the world is loud and bright and not so open to interpretation. 

It’s night. She should be sleeping. She wishes she were sleeping—her bones are heavy, and her drooping eyes. But now it seems impossible. 

The city is cool and dark. Spring is settling in, but not without a fight—the wind has sharp, cold teeth and dawn is still a phantom object. The moon is out of sight over the mountains, signaling the nearness of daybreak, but the sun has not quite kissed the sky yet. Instead the light that streams down is pale, watery yellow from lanterns fading out of their sconces, washing the cobblestone streets in faint webs of gold. Marisol feels like she’s been walking in circles for hours. Has it been hours? Who knows, who cares—

She wouldn’t be sleeping anyway.

There’s a bakery at the corner of two wide streets that Mari stops at. It’s small, tucked between two other shops, but feels homey; the lights inside have been turned on, as if somebody is already starting a batch of dough in preparation for the morning rush, but the store itself is perfectly still. Tables stacked. Displays empty. A vase with calla lilies sits on a lone shelf. Something about being witness to a scene so simple makes her heart hurt so bad she wants to cry.

Marisol feels like she’s floating. Her head hurts so badly it seems to have been thrown off-center from her neck. She remembers this bakery from when she was a kid, a real kid, a real little kid. Little enough o have been spending time with her parents. They had sold these pastries she scarfed down by the basket, braids of buttery dough studded with raisins and spices she’d always thought of as coming from Denocte. (Of course she had no evidence. Again—this was a kid thing. But it was a nice thought, that her Terrastellan family could eat Denoctian food without starting some kind of war.)

She can hear someone clattering around in the back. The door is unlocked, and a gust of warm wind comes flowing out, like someone has just turned on an oven. Marisol closes her eyes. She smells the spices.

She thinks of Denocte.

She thinks of the bird.

@Isra <3

"a burnt child loves a fire."

Played by Offline nestle [PM] Posts: 279 — Threads: 32
Signos: 1,405
Night Court Sovereign
Female [she/her/hers] // 6 [Year 497 Winter] // 15.1 hh // Hth: 40 — Atk: 40 — Exp: 77 // Active Magic: Transformation // Bonded: Fable (Sea Dragon)

Isra and the stepping song
“And you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots”
sra is thinking about blood, about the way her's feels like a storm that never wants to be caught on the mountains again. Even now as she's wandering the streets of a city that does not belong to her, with cracks of electricity running down her spine with wants and needs she has no name for, her thoughts are tumbling over and over themselves like blood tumbling through the same four caverns of her heart. Over and over again it tumbles, and tumbles, and tumbles.

Sometimes, when the day is the brightest and the war in her chest feels like a holocaust, she just wants all the things tumbling inside her to stop---

like the way the flowers stop swaying in the wind with teeth when she walks by and turns them to blooms of ruby, and opal, and tourmaline.

There is that color again-- blood. It's in everything she touches now.

The course of it changes in her veins with Fable calls out from above, there. It slows, it coagulates, it turns to diamonds falling through those caves in her heart. It hurts, it aches, and it pulls her towards the smell of spices on the wolf-wind. Isra follows it as if there is a noose around her neck pulling her up towards some place she didn't know she needed to reach. Her hooves are moving across the stone and they are singing sounds she didn't know she needed to sing.

And maybe they sound a little like I- clip- am- clop- sorry. But Isra doesn't notice that either, the same way she doesn't notice that she's turning all the spring flowers around her to stone.

How could she notice anything when, suddenly (like the way she wants it to just suddenly stop hurting), Marisol is there ringed in soft lantern light? How could she notice anything but the way the light snags on the blood ringing the Commander's eyes like it's lines of opal cutting through a sea of liquid bone?

Isra does not think Marisol will think too terribly of the way she's changing the word and making it still as death in the places where she grips it by the throat.  Or at least she hopes, or maybe prays, not.

"Marisol.” She doesn't mean for it to come out like a sacrament, like a wish, like an echo of all the cracks running through her heart. But it does. It comes out like a smoke signal, spiraling out from her in patterns of heat that make the space between them look like winter. Isra hopes that Marisol will be able to read the patterns of the looping spirals of her own name, of the way it dissolves in the black and the golden-light-- the way it spreads out to touch everything.

When she moves closer the city around them is so silent (silent as stone) that the only sound is the echo of their breaths, and the heavy clang of sorrow that is throbbing through her. Of course Marisol can hear it, Isra thinks. They have never lied to each-other-- not with their bodies, or the way they come together like swords on a battle-field of corpses.

But still, when she touches her nose to the downy softness of a sooty wing, she can't help but wish that all the tumbling shards inside her would just---


@Marisol | "speaks" | notes: <3


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