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Private  - it's an old song [fall]

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Played by Offline Cannon [PM] Posts: 94 — Threads: 19
Signos: 10
Night Court Entertainer
Male [He/Him/His] // 8 [Year 497 Summer] // 15 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: // Secondary Magic: // Bonded:
#1

“A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.”


Last time he saw the swamp, the cliffs, the vineyard, the sparkling city, it had been snowing. Michael had gone to the coast for the winter, as he is often pulled to do, pulled along by the chains of nostalgia that invariably sends him right back to the sea again and again. Michael suspects he is not alone in this. There is not a world he imagines where old men don't stare out at the waves capped in foam and the blue-gray of the ocean and feel bitter, almost acidic longing.

And, more than that, last time he attended a festival it was exactly a year ago, in the streets and then the woods of his own city. He vaguely remembers it as the first time he looked at Isra and felt fear creeping in at the edges like radio static.

The far more salient memory is following a sad girl into a corn maze with a stranger-- he remembers the twist in his heart (jealousy?) and a bottomless need to see her smile, to see her live, and laugh, and---

To see her; that's all Michael wants. That's all he ever wants, he thinks.
And he does-- see her, I mean. Looks up from the thin road that snakes its way from the city toward the orchard to find her: bright as the changing leaves, and sometimes as brittle as one, too.

"Another festival," he says, conversationally, though he's already picking up baskets for each of them and holding the larger one out for her to take. "Please come pick apples with me. I'll tell you a secret if you do."

Michael smiles, like all warm autumn things: leaves that crunch underfoot, apple cider, yellow straw, will blankets and a fire crackling in the hearth.

@Moira





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Played by Offline e-cho [PM] Posts: 230 — Threads: 25
Signos: 2,420
Night Court Emissary
Female [she/her/hers] // Immortal [Year 498 Spring] // 15.2 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 38 // Active Magic: Light Forger // Secondary Magic: // Bonded: Neerja (Malayan Tiger)
#2













M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud







One year ago, he followed her into a maze with a strange man from another court. One year ago, she met a ghost who inspired her to be more. One year ago, he left her without a whisper of goodbye.

Autumn is as sweet as it is bitter, just as Terrastella still tries to shatter her, taking battering rams to her walls, every time she comes back. But her love of the cliffs and the smell of the sea salt air is greater than the cringing of her heart, the twinge of her skin as it withdraws, trying to pull her away with every inch that covers her. She cannot be pulled off the course she chooses, a stubborn, oafish woman with too much heart and not enough thoughts to accompany them.

Too many memories buzz around for her to focus and choose just one, so she lets them hum and focuses on the tapping of her feet as she moves along the winding path. At the end, an orchard awaits. Moira misses the taste of apple pies baked with her family's recipe, and she can't seem to find the right orchard, the right apple, the right taste in all of Denocte. Perhaps it has something to do with the experience of picking your own apples - the Estate has its own orchard she could run through and gather fruits from for her mother. When she was younger, Gizelle would always bake her sweets, enough to keep her kind, keep her soft despite the rest of the family's displeasure. Those moments when she'd spread flour on her mother's nose instead of the counters kept her alive.

Now, she goes towards a new orchard, a new apple pie on the horizon.

Then, instead of the sound of her own feet, Michael's voice comes like the rustle of leaves and the feel of smooth pumpkin pie on her tongue. Unbidden, unwanted, and welcome all the same. She looks over to him with wide, golden eyes. Tilted head and thoughtful lips, she pauses before nodding. "This time, I follow you."





@Michael :P


space







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Played by Offline Marisol [PM] Posts: 11 — Threads: 9
Signos: 505
#3


event roll


The afternoon is cool and crisp. It will be a cold night, fine for huddling near the bonfires and sipping fresh, warm cider. 

Somewhere in the apple orchard, a nest falls to the ground. The three chicks within have barely begun to grow soft brown feathers in awkward little patches around the shoulders. One of them proudly sports a terrible teenage hairdo; at the very top of his head an off-center clump of white feathers. They all call out, loud and urgent, for their mother. 

For a long time, the cries echo in the seaside air. Mother never returns and the chicks grow quiet, hungry and tired. Not resigned to their fate, just… too tired to fight, for the moment. Their calls grow quieter, marked by long silences between the shrill chirps. 

Will Moira and Michael hear the baby birds? Will they help them, or leave the chicks to their fate? 








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Played by Offline Cannon [PM] Posts: 94 — Threads: 19
Signos: 10
Night Court Entertainer
Male [He/Him/His] // 8 [Year 497 Summer] // 15 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: // Secondary Magic: // Bonded:
#4




H
ere they are: Michael holds out the basket and Moira takes it and it feels strangely final, like something in a machine that clunks unexpectedly into place. She pulls it close to her chest so that it hangs at an angle. Michael smiles at her like it is easy, like he is not all broken glass. Like he has missed her his whole five hundred years of life and just now realized it.

It has not even been long since he's seen her. Since he returned Michael spends much of his time trailing Moira, following her to this shop or that, to buy pigment or a new brush or fine fabric. Michael will always ask how she is, and if she's eaten, and Michael will always brush the hair away from her face and touch her cheek with his muzzle and feel more real and present than he has ever quite managed before.

Michael does not say much, but he says enough, and he's there, which is more than he can say for most people. And so, for most of fall, Moira becomes his small little world-- as if she were not, already.

--Which brings us back to the orchard, to the baskets, to the red and gold of their skin and the blush that rises to his cheeks when and nods and walks his way. He thinks he will never tire of seeing her for the first time in a day. He holds his breath for a second, then turns to walk into the trees.

"How have you been?" he asks, "You look well."
And for now that is all. Michael lapses into a surprisingly comfortable silence, during which he is trying to remember how to breathe without gasping, or laughing, or some awful combination of the two, pulling a branch down to pluck a fat, golden apple from the first tree. He follows it with another, then another, then turns back to Moira.

She is much the same as he always remembers her, bright against the gray-green of the swamp, the same color of the next apple he pulls, so gold it's almost orange and so red that in places it looks almost plum-colored. He smiles to himself and hopes she doesn't see.

"What are you going to do with yours?" he asks after a pause, "I'm partial to apples themselves, if I'm honest." 



I am soft again.
There is water and it surrounds me.
There is feeling and I can feel it.

@Moira





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