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04-20-2016, 05:16 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
[ Boo, party-crashin'. ]
So, he had finally stumbled outside of the Edge. He didn't even remembering doing it, not really—he had been tired, staggering along as usual as his emotions nipped at his hocks and rode his too-sharp spine, and then, all of a sudden, he had found himself in the Thistle Meadow.
A snow-covered, frosty Thistle Meadow.
Which made absolutely no sense as the snow had begun to melt, spring was on the way, days were growing longer, he had begun to shed his somewhat fuzzy winter coat.. but no. The Thistle Meadow had been reclaimed by winter, and for a good long while, Mauja had stood out in the open and just stared dumbly at the wintry landscape, wondering if something had gone awry. Had the Gods gone mad? Was he sleep-walking; dreaming? Had he been spirited away (again)? No answers, no clarity, had come to him, and instead, he had fallen asleep.
Upon waking, he had continued east, because, why not? He had spent enough time moping and fearing and running and starving—now that he was actually outside of the Edge, he might as well go and be useful (that word, his curse, his salvation—). As usual, the owls flew with him, silent and thoughtful, and the smooth crystal staff lay along his spine, wedged in underneath the leather satchel.
It was still mostly empty; d'Artagnan's trinkets lay undisturbed within, joined by a few more he'd found, and the startlingly cold dagger Diego had claimed near the Basin. He had never used it.
d'Artagnan.
He had been.. everything—and now, he was nothing but a dull throb sitting in Mauja's heart and an empty space by his side.
Loss had piled upon loss over the years; his first unit (Isir), his parents, most of his siblings, Torasin, Psyche, (Kahlua), Aviya, d'Artagnan, Snö... One shadow to deepen the next, until the void within his soul grew into a howling abyss threatening to undo him.
He wasn't yet sure if the darkness had swallowed Tembovu, too.
"I don't know the way better than you do," someone was saying nearby, and without thinking Mauja angled in their direction. His body was a husk, his flanks sunken and his hips too prominent, yet he moved with grace—a pale ghost straddling both realms, reality and madness. A couple of turns, and he found himself not facing two strangers. One, the girl, the one who spoke, who so earnestly tried to lure the other home, had been skulking about the Edge once. A child of Tyradon, apparently, and Ophelia's niece. Mauja still didn't know her name, but he couldn't help but think of her, too, as Skullface. But the other...
He would never forget the deep, black coat, the vivid blue eyes, the blood marring ear and eye and flank, nor would he forget the red fox by his feet and how she'd tumbled into a world blanketed in darkness, fear, and misery. Despite the circumstance of their last meeting, it burned in his mind like a symbol of happier times—
(Rescuing him from the darkness in the north, from those rotting, foul bodies, and their putrid hearts pumping dust through stale and broken veins—)
"Sacre," he whispered before he knew it, sadness in his pale blue eyes; Skullface forgotten as he fought the sudden urge to plead with the young man to come home with me.
He just knew that his heart ached, and that his bones ached, and that something in that ache was burningly bittersweet.
[ @Sacre, @Nymeria ]
So, he had finally stumbled outside of the Edge. He didn't even remembering doing it, not really—he had been tired, staggering along as usual as his emotions nipped at his hocks and rode his too-sharp spine, and then, all of a sudden, he had found himself in the Thistle Meadow.
A snow-covered, frosty Thistle Meadow.
Which made absolutely no sense as the snow had begun to melt, spring was on the way, days were growing longer, he had begun to shed his somewhat fuzzy winter coat.. but no. The Thistle Meadow had been reclaimed by winter, and for a good long while, Mauja had stood out in the open and just stared dumbly at the wintry landscape, wondering if something had gone awry. Had the Gods gone mad? Was he sleep-walking; dreaming? Had he been spirited away (again)? No answers, no clarity, had come to him, and instead, he had fallen asleep.
Upon waking, he had continued east, because, why not? He had spent enough time moping and fearing and running and starving—now that he was actually outside of the Edge, he might as well go and be useful (that word, his curse, his salvation—). As usual, the owls flew with him, silent and thoughtful, and the smooth crystal staff lay along his spine, wedged in underneath the leather satchel.
It was still mostly empty; d'Artagnan's trinkets lay undisturbed within, joined by a few more he'd found, and the startlingly cold dagger Diego had claimed near the Basin. He had never used it.
d'Artagnan.
He had been.. everything—and now, he was nothing but a dull throb sitting in Mauja's heart and an empty space by his side.
Loss had piled upon loss over the years; his first unit (
He wasn't yet sure if the darkness had swallowed Tembovu, too.
"I don't know the way better than you do," someone was saying nearby, and without thinking Mauja angled in their direction. His body was a husk, his flanks sunken and his hips too prominent, yet he moved with grace—a pale ghost straddling both realms, reality and madness. A couple of turns, and he found himself not facing two strangers. One, the girl, the one who spoke, who so earnestly tried to lure the other home, had been skulking about the Edge once. A child of Tyradon, apparently, and Ophelia's niece. Mauja still didn't know her name, but he couldn't help but think of her, too, as Skullface. But the other...
He would never forget the deep, black coat, the vivid blue eyes, the blood marring ear and eye and flank, nor would he forget the red fox by his feet and how she'd tumbled into a world blanketed in darkness, fear, and misery. Despite the circumstance of their last meeting, it burned in his mind like a symbol of happier times—
(Rescuing him from the darkness in the north, from those rotting, foul bodies, and their putrid hearts pumping dust through stale and broken veins—)
"Sacre," he whispered before he knew it, sadness in his pale blue eyes; Skullface forgotten as he fought the sudden urge to plead with the young man to come home with me.
He just knew that his heart ached, and that his bones ached, and that something in that ache was burningly bittersweet.
[ @Sacre, @Nymeria ]
Mauja
the white queen
