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EVEcuriosity killed the cat
Eve, admittedly, wondered if she had said something wrong in the silence following her comment. The stallion froze up abruptly, and the dragon gave her a look; prior to that, however, he’d puffed up under her gaze, much like a preening bird. She tilted her head in a gesture of doggish confusion, casting a pleading glance at the small reptile, as though she could tell the little mare what social misstep she might have made. He seemed to snap back to reality after a moment, and offered his polite thanks, which only furthered her confusion - it had been an observation, not a compliment, though she swallowed down the urge to correct him. (Had that been her mistake? Wildlings had a certain, shallow adoration for flattery, which was why she preferred to avoid it. He was certainly not magnificent like a Wildling - rather, she thought of him as more of a blooming flower or a sunset, not that normal plants grew in the Wildwood or she could often see the sky through the trees. His was the fleeting, temporal magnificence of something completely new and natural. You could tell the sunset that it was magnificent, but it would never feel the need to respond, and she’d expected that to be the case with him. This was the first time that she considered that perhaps she didn’t understand other mortals as well as she’d expected.) He continued with a polite reply to her own introduction (Lady Eve. Her mother would laugh.) and a compliment of his own, which was met with a somewhat questioning, “Why, thank you,” and another dazzlingly pleasant smile to hide her confusion.
She was so distracted by first contact that she didn’t notice the approach of another creature until she heard her voice; she turns to face the newcomer and her feathered companion with the same long, searching stare and broad smile that she’d given the stallion, lavender gaze almost unnervingly meticulous. Eve barely caught a glimpse of the bird before he fled - Raven, the mare had called him? She’d heard the word before, and she’d seen “ravens,” but they were always Wildlings in thinly-veiled disguises. The bird that fled away into the trees in a flurry of glossy blue-black was a real bird, and the sight of him made her irrationally excited, though not so much as his companion. The mare - Weaver - was a lovely! A crown of obsidian horns, curved back, rested on the back of her skull, with a longer, solitary one towards the center of her forehead. Her coat was a glistening patchwork of blue-blacks and whites, and her great, glossy wings are as replescent as Raven’s. She was beautiful, certainly, but there was a power to her beauty, a defined musculature to her feminine shape - there was a fierceness to her that made Eve think that she could hold her own in a fight, though she was neither especially tall or especially bulky. “A pleasure to meet you, Weaver,” She said softly, then, unable to resist, added, “Your wings are marvelous - the feathers gleam such a pretty blue!”
Weaver explained that this land was called Helovia, (”Helovia,” She echoed, largely to herself, rolling the name around on her tongue - it felt foreign and odd, though she imagined she’d get used to it. This was home now.) they were standing in a place called the Threshold, and that she was from one of the three herds - Aurora Basin, to the north. “Aurora Basin? It sounds beautiful,” Eve remarked, inquisitive as ever. Her mother had told her of auroras in the land outside of the Wildwood - bright, flickering displays of colorful lights in northern skies at night. She’d rarely been able to catch a glimpse of the sky through the trees, and the north was conceptual, a land covered in frozen water called snow with air so cold that it made your breath come out white. The flapping of feathered wings drew her attention away again; her eyes came to rest on Raven, who’d returned with a brilliant blue feather clutched in his talons. He deposited it neatly on the ground near her hooves, and she bent to examine it eagerly, paying little attention to his companion’s words. “It’s no bother, really,” She said, somewhat absently, “What a beautiful shade of blue!”
Astarot spoke again, then, inquiring about her entrance into this realm - she faced him again, gaze meeting his own steadily. “Oh, yes,” Eve said, bobbing her head in reply. “No one can enter - or leave, in my case - the Wildwood by normal means. It is a place of pure magick. Reality itself is fragmented there, and the creatures in it...the Wildlings, and the gods...can warp and change it on a whim. My mother and I were the only mortals in the Wildwood, and even that wouldn’t have been very permanent - if you stay in the Wildwood for too long, you become a part of it. I didn’t want to. I wanted something else, so I used forbidden magick to leave. No turning back now.” She smiled, somewhat sheepishly. (Did her insatiable desire for some nondescript more imply the unconscious, desperate desire of her body to remain mortal, rather than becoming one of them - like a drowning man swallowing seawater while seeking air? Possibly.) “I’ve never met anyone else like me, before you two.”
Eve shook away any lingering thoughts of her homeland as Astarot continued to speak. The herds were in competition? She didn’t know much of society, admittedly, but she supposed that it made enough sense. He went on to describe his own homeland, the “Dragon’s Throat” that he’d mentioned in his introduction. “This home of yours sounds wonderful,” She offered, voice seeped in something akin to genuine, uncertain awe. Deserts and islands and oases were all blurry concepts to the mare - her mother had told her of the world outside of the wildwood, from time to time, so she knew that the three combined meant heat and bright light and sweat, but, if she were asked to conjure an image of the landscape, she would have nothing to draw from. She thought that she’d like to see it, at the very least. Her mind had little time to wander, however; he wasn’t done speaking yet.
“A...displaced god?” She inclined her chin very slightly, brow creasing in a puzzled expression, although she did not appear especially daunted by the idea. “And…’doesn’t look very trustworthy?’ Does that mean your gods can lie?” The concept was foreign to the mare. Her gods had always been many things - some were tricksters, and some twisted the truth, but none of them could genuinely lie, and they were always fair. They were incomprehensible, and they cared for nothing, so they always gave and took in equal measures, more akin to corporeal storms than sentient beings. There were rules to dealing with them, of course, and those always stood, but they were largely unpredictable. It did not trouble her that a god would hurt or kill. That was natural. Rather, the implication that the divine could have motives left a sour taste in her mouth. He added that she’d be welcomed in the Throat at any time, should she desire it, but she was far too preoccupied with this bizarre conflict to give it much thought, for the time.
She was so distracted by first contact that she didn’t notice the approach of another creature until she heard her voice; she turns to face the newcomer and her feathered companion with the same long, searching stare and broad smile that she’d given the stallion, lavender gaze almost unnervingly meticulous. Eve barely caught a glimpse of the bird before he fled - Raven, the mare had called him? She’d heard the word before, and she’d seen “ravens,” but they were always Wildlings in thinly-veiled disguises. The bird that fled away into the trees in a flurry of glossy blue-black was a real bird, and the sight of him made her irrationally excited, though not so much as his companion. The mare - Weaver - was a lovely! A crown of obsidian horns, curved back, rested on the back of her skull, with a longer, solitary one towards the center of her forehead. Her coat was a glistening patchwork of blue-blacks and whites, and her great, glossy wings are as replescent as Raven’s. She was beautiful, certainly, but there was a power to her beauty, a defined musculature to her feminine shape - there was a fierceness to her that made Eve think that she could hold her own in a fight, though she was neither especially tall or especially bulky. “A pleasure to meet you, Weaver,” She said softly, then, unable to resist, added, “Your wings are marvelous - the feathers gleam such a pretty blue!”
Weaver explained that this land was called Helovia, (”Helovia,” She echoed, largely to herself, rolling the name around on her tongue - it felt foreign and odd, though she imagined she’d get used to it. This was home now.) they were standing in a place called the Threshold, and that she was from one of the three herds - Aurora Basin, to the north. “Aurora Basin? It sounds beautiful,” Eve remarked, inquisitive as ever. Her mother had told her of auroras in the land outside of the Wildwood - bright, flickering displays of colorful lights in northern skies at night. She’d rarely been able to catch a glimpse of the sky through the trees, and the north was conceptual, a land covered in frozen water called snow with air so cold that it made your breath come out white. The flapping of feathered wings drew her attention away again; her eyes came to rest on Raven, who’d returned with a brilliant blue feather clutched in his talons. He deposited it neatly on the ground near her hooves, and she bent to examine it eagerly, paying little attention to his companion’s words. “It’s no bother, really,” She said, somewhat absently, “What a beautiful shade of blue!”
Astarot spoke again, then, inquiring about her entrance into this realm - she faced him again, gaze meeting his own steadily. “Oh, yes,” Eve said, bobbing her head in reply. “No one can enter - or leave, in my case - the Wildwood by normal means. It is a place of pure magick. Reality itself is fragmented there, and the creatures in it...the Wildlings, and the gods...can warp and change it on a whim. My mother and I were the only mortals in the Wildwood, and even that wouldn’t have been very permanent - if you stay in the Wildwood for too long, you become a part of it. I didn’t want to. I wanted something else, so I used forbidden magick to leave. No turning back now.” She smiled, somewhat sheepishly. (Did her insatiable desire for some nondescript more imply the unconscious, desperate desire of her body to remain mortal, rather than becoming one of them - like a drowning man swallowing seawater while seeking air? Possibly.) “I’ve never met anyone else like me, before you two.”
Eve shook away any lingering thoughts of her homeland as Astarot continued to speak. The herds were in competition? She didn’t know much of society, admittedly, but she supposed that it made enough sense. He went on to describe his own homeland, the “Dragon’s Throat” that he’d mentioned in his introduction. “This home of yours sounds wonderful,” She offered, voice seeped in something akin to genuine, uncertain awe. Deserts and islands and oases were all blurry concepts to the mare - her mother had told her of the world outside of the wildwood, from time to time, so she knew that the three combined meant heat and bright light and sweat, but, if she were asked to conjure an image of the landscape, she would have nothing to draw from. She thought that she’d like to see it, at the very least. Her mind had little time to wander, however; he wasn’t done speaking yet.
“A...displaced god?” She inclined her chin very slightly, brow creasing in a puzzled expression, although she did not appear especially daunted by the idea. “And…’doesn’t look very trustworthy?’ Does that mean your gods can lie?” The concept was foreign to the mare. Her gods had always been many things - some were tricksters, and some twisted the truth, but none of them could genuinely lie, and they were always fair. They were incomprehensible, and they cared for nothing, so they always gave and took in equal measures, more akin to corporeal storms than sentient beings. There were rules to dealing with them, of course, and those always stood, but they were largely unpredictable. It did not trouble her that a god would hurt or kill. That was natural. Rather, the implication that the divine could have motives left a sour taste in her mouth. He added that she’d be welcomed in the Throat at any time, should she desire it, but she was far too preoccupied with this bizarre conflict to give it much thought, for the time.
but satisfaction brought it back
@Astarot @Weaver Sorry for the book & the gratuitous use of parentheses /headdesk/
-Please tag Eve! - No permission is required to do anything to Eve short of permanently maiming/killing her
