[P] not just a mask - Printable Version +- HELOVIA || The Way to the Sun (http://helovia.com) +-- Forum: The Regions (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=18) +--- Forum: The Regions (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=114) +---- Forum: Aurora Basin (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=66) +---- Thread: [P] not just a mask (/showthread.php?tid=27286) |
|
not just a mask - Lena - 05-08-2017
and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts
The hot springs were a wondrous siren during the beginning intervals of Orangemoon, where the crispness of the autumn leaves churned and swiveled, when the colors altered from a lush green to a vibrant orange, yellow, or crimson, where the air became much more glacial, chilling, lacquering down to persistent bones and enduring marrow. She hadn’t intended to venture beyond the greenhouse after putting in several tufts and greens, rescued from the incoming frost, into its wares, but the serenading, warm puffs of air from beyond, smoking plumes, rising fronds of promised heat were enough to persuade her. The Songbird and her kitsune were too often carried away by duty, by promises, by convictions, creeds, oaths, and assurances to ever have time to merely recline, pass away the hours, the moments, the minutes, star and puzzle over the stars – but she took the opportunity when she had it, trying not to feel guilty in relinquishing the nature of her occupation for the slightest of seconds. Imogen shook her head and chirped, being the first to launch into its confines from the embankment, pushing off from the side of its bubbling sanction with sturdy hind legs, splashing with a vicious chirrup – rising from beneath its foaming rivulets with soaked fur and emboldened spirit. Lena laughed from the fringes, smile forming at the thought of entering its confines, but still glanced out along the trees thereafter, expecting a summons, a beckoning, for her presence, to heal and nurture the wounded, the sick, and the tired. But the kitsune scoffed, piercing through their bond with a defiant ditty. And what happens when you’re tired? The notion hadn’t ever truly occurred to the Songbird, who had spent so many days chasing after suns and galaxies, tending to the beasts of her homeland, ensuring survival season after season, eon after eon. She didn’t have an answer for the fox, who glinted and smirked at her with those all-knowing eyes, and gave in to the temptation, sighing as she entered, humming at the immediate pleasure along her muscles and skin. Just for a moment, she pulsed and promised towards the ivory vixen, one brow arched, lips curled in a grin. She could have melted into its lovely embrace, molded herself into the spring tenderness and forgotten what it was like to have been once forgotten, neglected, abandoned, forsaken – beatific wonder and beautiful potency sketched from the regal court – and everything seemed just, fair, and right with the world. Chaos may have brewed outside, but there, amidst the hymns and strains floating from her essence, naught could break her apart. the songbird @Albrecht RE: not just a mask - Albrecht - 05-25-2017 RE: not just a mask - Lena - 06-03-2017
and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts
The seraphic minstrel had melted immediately into the tender ministrations of the hot springs, sighing, humming, and closing her eyes to the tunes and the void. She forgot about desolation and bedlam. She forgot about corruption and mayhem. She forgot about monsters and brooding, twisted, corrupted fiends breathing outside their doors, and simply existed, reaching into the vast holds of the warmth and gliding on naught but comfort and relaxation. Even in the midst of her repose she maintained a certain elegance, a veneer of poise, shifting ever so slightly beneath the churning bubbles and the unmistakable heat to ensure her shoulder muscles were granted a reprieve, and eventually, lowered herself so that only her head shown above the water. Her mane fanned out and motioned with the rest of the brewing cauldron, an enchantress amongst the invisible flames, curling and coiling, and she was utterly besotted, overcome with the relief. The femme nearly questioned why she hadn’t done this sooner, but the answer always laid in something else ongoing throughout the herd – maintaining a level of sanctuary and sanctum, a shield, a port in the storm, for her fellow beasts. There was never any doubt that she’d come to their aid the moment they requested, summoned, and beckoned for her – she’d always raced into tempests, into battles, into raging maelstroms and furious, furtive expansions, an opus, an oeuvre, for the masses so they could rush back into the onslaught over and over again. But this moment seemed necessary, right, and Imogen agreed, nearly daring anyone to come take away those sweet, few instances of peace. But then a quiet salutation murmured over the resplendence, a quick hello muffled by the brewing incantations and fortified guard – and the Songbird snapped out of her reverie. Her eyes quickly reopened, adjusted to the evening’s splendor, to the nocturnal hallows, swiveling her head towards the sound, mouth forming a round o in surprise, exhaling rapidly, attempting to calm her swiftly-beating heart. “Albrecht,” she answered, nodding her crown as she instantly regained her healer’s disposition – gaze instantly roaming along the visible contortions of his frame, pondering his health, his wellbeing, if he needed assistance or healing again for some unknown reason. When she couldn’t detect anything noteworthy, past the scars, the blemishes, of seasons and yesteryears before, she smiled, settled, and conjured her dulcet voice again, all radiance and sweetness despite the interruption. “How are you?” Thereafter, she made a move to leave the spring, shifting towards the outer banks, in effort to inspect, glance over, and hold a sharper look. the songbird @Albrecht |