Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
Touched and scorched by fire, caught and trapped in a vicious cycle, the nymph spiraled through the heavens and clouds, dappled by cherry blossoms, sprung by petal soft feet, hovering on puffs of lavender and clover, entrenched and ensnared by her newest mission. For the present, she felt like a snake hovering across the dainty tulips and winter violets, a sliver of vermin, a toxic incantation of the most vile, bloodied, beaten, battered without a bruise, singularly positioning herself amongst the gallows. A bestial opus, sung low and deep, into the fathoms of gods and goddesses, where their bellows hung somber nothings and deep, ricocheting laughter, where they postured justice in the fluid request of mortals, she’d been strung up by her own morals, and was left in the parallels of her appeal. Protection and sacrifice, immolations and sanctuary, bid a fluid wake of anxiety until it fluttered past her stalwart heart and poured over her seams; she was a bird, flapping her wings and tapping on her gilded hutch, clipped by her demanding, merciful flight, damned and doomed to experience pain because eventually she too would unravel it, use it, compose it, wield it, to ensure another would feel the same misery. The doubts folded over and over in her mind as she traversed amidst the holy light, because a portion of her felt she’d tread down the wrong direction, flourishing into the demonic trances and traces instead of the virtuous, the proud, the unsullied, and the other side knew she was too damned to stray away from it anyway. What was she to do if another intruder marched into their home, demanded for their children, for their palace? What was she to do if one more monster beckoned outside their door? What would happen to them when more of the ghastly, haunting images appeared, became real, became corporeal, with more than just forest kings losing their thrones to wolf skulls? How many times could she send Imogen to fight, to be mauled, to be massacred, amongst the other heathens, the other infidels, while she sat back and sang for absolution? The twists and turns were a bloody befuddlement, and as she launched over pebbles and rambled past waterfalls, she wished for a sign, a comfort, a way to ease the pain – and detested her frame even more for weakening. Eventually, she ceased movement and motion, listened to the idle chirps of her ivory kitsune, pretended not to be the rabbit, the prey, the slaughter beneath an executioner’s knife, pondered over where to find a creature willing to set her aflame, how to ensure her survival…the whirlwind divided and conquered, until she was breathless with anxiety, with apprehension, and quaked in the wind.
The sylph dipped further into her sentiments, and realized her selfish ideals, her inconsiderate thoughts, didn’t cease, distorting into never-ending shades of the despicable, yet, she couldn’t stop following them. With little resistance, Lena began another primrose path, dancing through the divine quarters, torn apart in finesse, in elegance, seeking, searching, requesting, begging, yearning for a center of serenity, for a vow of tranquility, for a composed, level head when the darkness pounded against hers. And because of his endless support, because of his unfailing encouragement, because he kept opening all of her locked cages, she chased after only one individual. As if she needed to confess her sins, the lithe laurels followed the dying remnants of his scent, balanced her gaze across their prior, shadowed dance floor, before the winds had changed, altered, left them reeling, before she slipped away to bow at the Sun God’s feet and revel in his mercy, and wondered how long he’d been gone. Had he vanished into the surroundings too, drifted away from all the horrors, all the terrors they’d witnessed, not longing to be left in the wake of the relentless (and would he frown at her slide into the audacious, so sprung by foretold images and pictures)? Had he pieced together the mysteries? Would he abandon her for her ridiculous follies, or somehow coax and kindle the starry promises from her lungs, the dying flames of her fumbled request? Would he laugh or mock her fears (for after all, she could heal herself, surely she could handle a burst of pain, coax it into a strain, an aria, a beat of time)? Or would he merely listen, a conduit, a catalyst, to extinguish and dissolve the nervous tenacity, the rampant misgivings, and the bristling hostilities brimming and shuddering through her veins?
Her eyes thought they caught a fragment of gold, and like a hungry urchin, she followed the flickering of bright hues and ambrosial champagne, prayed in ardent deliverance for blue eyes and crimson dapples, wrapped her heart and soul in tender wishes and invoked aspirations. A vibrant whisper, a hesitant murmur, a subtle croon, bubbled and burst from her lips, danced and sauntered in abysmal fortitude while her flanks heaved and her hopes burned. “Roland?”
@[Roland]
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
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| Aurora Basin Phantom atk: 7.5 | def: 10 | dam: 2.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16 hh :: 8 yrs HP: 60.0 | Buff: NOVICE |
| Glo |
never take advice from someone who just admitted to being devious and just confessed to treason
Ever since their celebrations had been interrupted, every insinuation of a shadow against the already seething darkness seemed cause for concern, every unfamiliar noise the risk of a new debacle on their hands, and in the waning moonlight the Thief could see little as it was. His mind still lingered over the festival; the success of the riddle game with Thranduil, the initial thrill of his dance with Lena until the dying beast had stumbled into their midst. He knew nothing of what it could mean, what omens and portents it might have spelled out in its bloody path. The Thief couldn’t shake the thought that it was a warning. But a warning of what?
So he tried not to dwell upon it. It was not his place to find a remedy for the danger, though if he could have he would, and aside from the disturbance he had grown to like the island. At first it had seemed unstable, uncertain, perched upon a knife’s edge, and he had only to wait until it overbalanced and sent him skidding off its edge; but no matter how long he waited for the consequences to reveal themselves, they never came. He no longer paid mind to the fact that beneath his feet, through the earth and stone that made up the island’s foundations, there was a void, a chasm of nothing but the cloud and wind that buoyed Caela Insula, and raised it above the lands he had grown so familiar with. He did not contemplate the impossibility of it, floating, air borne above the ground. Instead he enjoyed the mild weather, and attempted to appreciate his lack of responsibilities.
Roland had taken, uncharacteristically, to standing near the edge; looking over, pulling stones from the bank and throwing them, watching them fall. He always expected a sound to follow, some indication of impact, and yet time and time again was met with nothing. Some aspect of him was perhaps toying with the danger of standing upon the precipice, toeing a line he hadn’t dared cross some time before. The idea of tempting fate, of falling, no longer seemed such an inevitable possibility, but a simple risk. It brought an amused smile to his lips, that so much might have changed within him simply from looking into the empty air that spanned the distance between himself and his home.
He so easily became caught up in his thoughts, lost in a maze of speculative threads and extraneous cobwebs, but before he could become too entangled in his own imagination a voice drew him from his musings. It was more familiar than most, and though he was caught off guard by the interruption, he was not alarmed. “Lena,” he answered, turning to face her with concern in his gaze. Did she bring news? Revelations or new discoveries, another clue to the macabre mystery unraveling before their family? Regardless of why she had appeared, he was happy to see her. “Are you well?” He asked carefully, for with all the things that had happened lately he had to wonder, had to worry, that she did not necessarily come bearing good news. He would have to hope for the best.
@[Lena]
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Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
The guilt ate and rankled at her heart; the Time Mender watched as she interrupted his repose, his musings, for her silly inquiries and bestial nature. For a few, scarce moments, a little hope bristled in her core, yearning for the clouds to open up and swallow her whole, restore the concept of evasion and leave her reeling elsewhere, she’d been mistaken in her egocentric festering, she’d asked and taken too much of his time already – but the concern etched across his gaze made her feel ever more errant, offending, sinful, and her noble, regal head fell, incapable of looking at him any longer. She pursued the sentiments of escape with even more persuasion, of forging onward through the shadows and the mist, of beseeching and coveting rightful scorn upon her flesh, of tending to her imminent wounds alone as she’d done time and time before, of bending into the bracken and beckoning corruption with only her wiles, with only her potency. Daring had lent her strength and mercy in the flood of her goals and aspirations, but it failed her now, lost in his compassion and confusion, and she believed above all else that she didn’t deserve his presence. Wilted and withered all over again, dropped petals and ashamed blossoms, her pulse raced and her thoughts fused into a messy decree, flittering, hovering, languishing, and demanding, crawling with avaricious exploitations and the demand for deliverance, for ears to listen, for catalysts to crack, and for some reason she thought he would lend his guidance as he’d done before. Had he not knocked open her cage in the underground chambers, where only the memories of ice and caverns kept her dreams alive, she could have still been drowned in the denizens of upheaval, misguided, deluded, forgotten in the midst of panic and despair. (And what had she ever given him in return? Smiles? Grins? Laughter?) She felt like she was racking up an enormous debt to the gilded Thief, and this one would be one more she had no hope of repaying (because who was she to give him her troubles when he certainly had some of his own). The nymph nearly paced, frenetic, wild, frayed at the edges of her once exotic bliss, bestowing naught but reverence for a listener of her woes. Like the sea, like the waves, like the flames of an inferno, her tribulations spilled forth despite her misgivings, uttered towards the puffy, winsome ground, as inane as she felt. “I fear I’ve been foolhardy.”
She took and took, stole and squandered, absconded and pillaged the wares of his kindness, yearned to crawl away, back into some devouring crevasse where she could only be surrounded by her shame, remorse, and disgrace. Once the words flowed from her mouth, past her tongue, across her lips, they seemed unending and eternal, another sacrificial immolation caught in the brushfire of her inadequacies. “After we witnessed the strange event at the dance, I requested the Sun God’s assistance.” She recalled the feast of flames, the bright, vivid, presence of a deity, being in awe of his power, his prowess, wishing for her own means of safeguarding, of preservation, and the notion of a price slicing across her hide. Lena spoke only once more to the floor, deluded and sketching out the rough conjectures of her impending disaster, of being spurned and turned away by a dear friend, of uttering broken hallelujahs and stolen consecrations. “I wanted to make sure I had magic to protect others, in case something unfortunate happened…” Her voice broke off, cracked, frayed, strained, unraveled at the end, blighted with a touch of panic, a hindrance of alarm, anxiety, and apprehension, and as if she were warranted his derision, his contempt, his disdain for her idiotic actions, she raised her eyes to meet his, waiting for the first of many burns.
@[Roland]
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
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| Aurora Basin Phantom atk: 7.5 | def: 10 | dam: 2.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16 hh :: 8 yrs HP: 60.0 | Buff: NOVICE |
| Glo |
never take advice from someone who just admitted to being devious and just confessed to treason
The Thief’s inquiry went unanswered. Lena approached as a shifting shadow amidst the darkness, her footsteps light against the grass. Roland’s questioning gaze fell upon her, expecting to find some indication of catastrophe within her expression, a hint of what news she carried. But instead of a warning, she withdrew from his sight, recoiled as if burned from the weight of his stare alone. Roland might have believed she had mistaken him for someone else and was turning to leave, if he had not heard her call his name. It only served to coax the anticipation burning in his chest to a larger flame, for he had never seen her like this, so hesitant and insecure, no longer bestowing upon him her vibrant smiles and jubilant laughter, the trademarks he had grown so used to. Instead there was a tense reluctance about her, something almost hidden, furtive, but there was no mistaking the discomfort in her shuttered stance, the avoidance of her gaze.
And yet her words did not insinuate rejection, or the prelude to some imminent disaster. What she divulged was just a hint, a fraction, of what seemed to Roland an excusable mistake. He tilted his head as he listened, though the dilemma came no clearer to him. Why might she have come to him for guidance? He would happily aid her in any way he was able, but it would be a poor comfort when so many could offer her more. The Thief knew how to damage, deceive, and manipulate, but if she sought direction then he worried he would be little help. Shifting uneasily upon his feet, he swallowed a feverish demand of what have you done? After all, how could Lena, always insightful and astute, be reckless?
The quiet of her voice carried a dejected, worried note as she explained further, and the disconnect between them made the Thief wish she would meet his gaze. He could not read her emotions when she hid her face from view, ducked back into the shadows as if already refusing his counsel. But her fragmented answers were not substance enough, and a plethora of questions still clamored inside his head, all demanding solution. At a loss, Roland moved closer to her, grass and wildflowers tugging at his knees and hocks, until he could stand before her and lower his head in a cautious attempt to meet her gaze. She moved of her own accord, finally lifting an auburn stare to meet his worried frown. Was she troubled by something the Sun God had requested of her; had she angered him in some way? Certainly things were not as bad as they seemed. The Thief was determined to believe it, even if he did not often adopt an optimistic outlook. Where was the misfortune she spoke of within her tale? What evil waited upon the trailing ends of her confession?
“You cannot be faulted for wanting to find ways to protect our family,” he consoled quietly, almost afraid to raise his voice. Whatever plague itched along the edges of their society seemed more terrifying, more corrupt and nefarious, than whatever curse had brought the wraiths into their threshold, and he was loathe to disturb it. There was a certain false safety to be found in denial, and the Thief was quite comfortable, to a degree, in his ignorance. “What is troubling you? ”
@[Lena]
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Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
She couldn’t have a been a bigger fool if she’d tried, standing amidst clouds of satin and shrines of deities, afraid she’d become an inconsiderate ogre, a feral friend, a maelstrom of idiocy and ignorance. The maiden was frozen in paralyzing contradictions, and her gaze swiftly churned and swiveled from the floating beams of light to the charades of shadows, wondering how to piece together the remaining shards of her purpose. Too greedy, too avaricious, the Songbird had plunged too far, continuously plucked her feathers, mumbled her arias, fumbled her tunes, until they unraveled in a bestial knot and she asked another to fix it. She stared at her feet and yearned to disappear, but ultimately failed at turning back the hands of time for a silly, noxious situation she’d put herself within, remained an unworthy fiend gesturing for one more benediction, a beggar for alms. The Thief shifted and she thought perhaps that would be the end, the culmination, another bitter, rancorous reproach, a derisive sneer, a title harpooned to her chest ( witless child, useless buffoon, disgusting, stupid, pathetic, worthless, worthless, worthless), but naught came. Only a soft tread of footsteps, a foot resting closer in a bed, in a nest, of wildflowers and waving grass, a lingering, concerned stare patiently stoked and confined; she blushed but met the deep set of blue, almost laughed for the sheer nonsense of it all. He held agonizing faith in her, and it hurt the walls of her heart, for she’d been utterly inept and trifling, a capricious, mercurial blend of confounded befuddlement, disappointed in her actions, motivated and stirred into agonizing masses, and she’d forced him to listen to the confusing chords. Where was her bravery? Where was her mettle? Where was the spirit, the perseverance, the persistence kindled and instigated throughout her days, the means of survival she held onto with a firm grasp and an illustrious heart? She’d never been apprehensive, nervous, confined for herself in any token battle, in any merciless strife – she’d eternally reached out her capabilities, her motives, her aspirations, her hopes and dreams and actions, to anyone who had need of them, with little regard for her own safety. Her body, her livelihood, mended others, assuaged patriots, tended to the ailing, the weak, the downtrodden, the beloved, and now that she knew it was her own deeds placing it in harm’s way…her ruminations circled and curled, coiled and distorted, until her brow furrowed and the pluck forever entangled in her being toiled out of the layers of misgivings and doubt.
“I’m scared.” She whispered, muttered, and murmured, crooned out the finality of her fears, pondered over how he’d managed to somehow untangle, unravel, the lingering knots. Blinded by gold, her eyes settled deep into his as she poured the ambrosial sway of her sentiments and passions, as she wove the riddles away into the abyss, stretching out the etchings, the sketches, of her trepidations. “I asked to wield fire, and in return, I must be engulfed in flames.” Imogen pulsed from nearby, a streamlined, ardent cry of safety and guarding, but no matter the zealous display of sanctuary, Lena knew well the results of infernos. Her bravery surely had a peaking point, a pinnacle, a summit, and perhaps it ended here, in the augured gallows, in the haunting, portended catastrophe of her broken body, of her burnt figure, of her fallen form left in the bleak, desolate world – a healer demised, discarded, held no place on earth. What good would she be to her brethren if they lost her abilities, and was that selfish in thought as well, to believe herself worthy of their presence? Features still perplexed, still ripe with disquiet and corporeal unease, her gaze tethered and snared his, held onto it like a desperate lifeline, a safe, secure threshold, free of judgment, liberating and sublime, and her beatific lips uttered a request; charged with one more appeal into the fathomless depths of grasping, mercenary threads. “Would you come with me?”
@[Roland]
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
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| Aurora Basin Phantom atk: 7.5 | def: 10 | dam: 2.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16 hh :: 8 yrs HP: 60.0 | Buff: NOVICE |
| Glo |
never take advice from someone who just admitted to being devious and just confessed to treason
A late evening wind tracked an uneasy chill down Roland’s spine, and with unrest saddled upon every word spoken between them, agitation breathed like a predator down the back of his neck. What answers Lena supplied did nothing to assuage the electric buzz of his nerves, or the agitated twitch of his tail against his hocks. He did not consider her the type to scare easily, and the Thief knew he possessed considerably less courage than her. Whatever burdened her could be no trivial matter. When she finally lifted her eyes to meet him, Roland saw desperation and reluctance in her gaze, an amalgamation of things he could not read. The explanation she offered served to clear the confusion from his mind, but the words fell from her lips with an iron weight, an anchor of uncertainty wearing her down. The gravity of it settled like ice in Roland’s stomach as he listened, choking back a wave of trepidation. How could a God possibly demand this of her? Why must she scald and scar herself for the sake of his gift; why must she suffer in order to protect others, when she had always been there to heal the wounds of their fallen soldiers and guardians? If there was penance due, surely she had already paid it. What good was a God that harmed its followers, that accepted pain as a form of currency? Was it the only acceptable fare of a deity, the ultimate sacrifice in exchange for a granted wish? Did Lena need to prove anything to him? The Thief fought against his growing frustration, knowing he had rarely questioned his faith in the Gods until now; it was not his battle to fight after all.
Roland might have insisted to accompany her anyways, had she not asked. He was still grateful for her request, no matter what might be required of him in the end. Consequences happened to be the last thing on his mind. How could he have simply stood idle, averted his gaze, when she might have needed help? Lena was more than capable of fending for herself, but what if the inferno got out of hand? And where were they to find the fire that would reap the Sun God’s earnings? It sent a shiver across Roland’s skin to even contemplate whether magic might be involved. But his answer to her request, at least, required no deliberation; it was upon his tongue in a heartbeat. “Of course.”
He couldn’t help wondering where this quest, this dangerous pursuit, might take them. Away from the moderate- now questionable- safety of the island perhaps, and onto the ground. What might they find there, lurking in the depths of dark shadows? Could it be worse than what they had seen at the festival? Despite what Roland knew to be true, the high point of Caela Insula felt secure and sheltered. He was no longer bothered by the fact that he stood upon a floating platform of earth and rock. Vicious gales did not cause him to wonder if the island itself might be unmoored, drawn by a windy tide away from its dock until they were left utterly stranded in its cloudy heights. There were much larger concerns the Thief could spend his time contemplating now. Hoping to calm his nerves, Roland drew a tentative step closer and reached out to brush his muzzle against Lena’s cheek, trying not to think about what lay ahead for them, for her. “Of course I will,” he repeated, a soft murmur beneath the shell of her ear, and drew back to meet her gaze.
@[Lena]
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Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
Gifted in the craft of imposed containment, incapable of escaping, embarking, into definite darkness and foreshadowed peril, the Mender, the Songbird, the empress of self-loathing sank, withered, and wilted. The sylph remained in shamed purgatory, at a loss for reactions, ruminations, or responses from the Thief, waiting to be either embellished in further remorse, indignity, or a spouting of her foolishness, but none of those things came. Her eyes ghosted over his again, taken aback to notice hidden snippets and concoctions of trepidation, of concern, ears capturing the quick, swift acquiescence of her request, and the calamity suddenly notched its weight over her again and again, a spiraling convolution of doubt and ineptitude. The multitude of her intentions, feeble but stalwart, were flanked and burdened by the monstrous debts she owed him, ones he took with little effort, little concern, and her massive obligations spiraled out of control, speckled her sights, blinded her gaze. The fairy’s heedless desires constantly brought a encumbrance upon him, and she hated the essence, the taste, the bitter maelstrom of it, coating the back of her throat, threading through her veins, seething and rippling through her chest, because he didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her melancholies at every turned stone, every ghastly ghoul, every phantom inquiry. All of it tumbled into a rancorous disappointment in herself, in her efforts, in her motivations, how it clouded another’s, how it shifted, how it stumbled, how it fumbled and faltered at each decree, each sound, each silly, foolish mistake. As much as she loathed distorting her figure into this loathsome cretin, into this abhorrent, hateful artifact, she couldn’t undo the past, the foibles, the mercurial, capricious actions she’d stirred and ignited. Eventually, they’d traverse amongst the gallows and search amongst the void for a piece of fire to set her ablaze, to seize and possess her frame until it was soaked in the ardor, in the zest, in the bright, brilliant, dangerous, treacherous coals of power: driving derision and contempt back into her soul at every moment wouldn’t help pass the time. The fey had to accept every bit of herself, either selfish or heedless, just as she’d done the Sun God’s quest, and allowed the slightest bit of breath to billow from her mouth, puff and curl against his shoulder, the barest hint of serenity and composure. Drawing, sketching, outlining the return of her beneficence, she arched the simplest of smiles across her lips, a flicker, a dream, of her jubilant, ethereal entity, settling his agreement into her heart and straining not to cast herself back into shadow, into sullen, silent refuge. His caress, his touch, bestowed an eager comfort, and she leaned into the dulcet stroke, returned it with fondness, with appreciation, with unspoken affection and endearments, with too many gratitudes and not enough repayment, and closed her eyes against the weariness overwhelming her once unwavering stature. “Thank you.”
@[Roland]
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
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