"Where brilliance is good and madness is better..."
Helovia Info
Helovia opened in February 2012! We are an active fantasy equine RPG
Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.
Site Wide Plots
Kaos :: The Beginning of the End ☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.
Kisamoa :: A New Kind of Kaos ☼ - 3/2017 - Kisamoa asks Helovians to help him restore the Spectral Marsh. Which side will you choose?
Invasions :: All Out War ☼ - 5/2/16 - New layout and the brand new invasion rules are up! Thank you for your patience and we look forward to getting started with this new adventure.
The Rift :: Gods Do Die ☼ - 8/2015 - Helovia Gods are saving the Rift from corrupt gods! Can Helovians band together against these foreign deities?
The Literal Ship ☼ - 2/8/15 - Oh no! You have to pair up for Valentine's day!
Sky Island :: Murder ☼ - 10/25/14 - Vesta has been found dead on the island, and the gods have called to you to solve the murder!
Sky Island :: Peace ☼ - 7/7/14 - An island has appeared in the sky! Clouds carry Helovians from the Veins to the sky.
Restoration :: We Welcome the Dawn ☼ - 9/21/13 - The sun has finally risen on this day, giving the land new light, but the Time God and the Sun God have yet to be seen.
Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot ☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.
☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.
Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot ☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.
Doppleganger Plot ☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.
ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.
Cotm
Character of the Month for
June, 2017
WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!
Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.
Inside a glass of water
With riddles and the rhymes
Will I see heaven in mine?
She divided her time between pretending and dreaming, trailing away from the ghosts of presaged treachery and into the snow-laden willows of promise, of opulence, driving hope into onslaughts, harnessing beneficence into horror. Her eyes found the stars and counted bright, blinking constellations, her ears listened to the chilling wind and imagined summer breezes and firefly gatherings, her frame bent and flowed beside the Thief’s, feigned that she too was garbed in gold. By and by, as they drifted down warrens and sea foam, prospered unsung lyrics and rhymes, trilled and chirped into darkness and dawn, the nervous, apprehensive edges showed their clawing features, dragged their fangs down her spine. Her songs, her imagination, her arias, her chimeras altered and changed, morphed and reshaped, into anxious hymns and brittle hallelujahs, painted runes and enigmas with crisp, restless strokes. Her strides moved out of rhythm, possessed no elegance, forgot how to shuffle in petal-soft motions, stumbled into dunes and damp sand. Her breath shuffled into agitated curls, puffs composed and manifested in overwrought fronds, coiling back upon themselves, too unsteady to survive in the midnight twirls and morning light. Her fairy gaze scanned the horizons and choked back trepidation, waiting, waiting, waiting endlessly for danger to find her, cloak her, damn her into the furthest reaches of pain and torment. Once, she’d marched into war and welcomed it with a vicious, wild embrace, and now she wandered into peril without a mask, without a veneer, without a façade, demonic fathoms wasted, infidel capabilities forgotten. Every noise was a sign of impending doom, an augured fortitude, a frothing mouth, a glittering, glimmering sheen of embers tethered and embarking for her figure, without a single individual making their presence known. Like monsters in childish nightmares, they simply existed everywhere, with no space or time defining them, chained and shackled to nocturnal oils and diurnal splendor, lacing and weaving their shadowy frames around her frightened sector, preying upon the first taste of fear, the first relish of dread. The disquiet haunted her bright thoughts, her candid, affable being, bade and burned, scarred and bestowed, the silent channel of swallowed souls and poignant, elegiac statues fallen into the abyss. She printed and carved her wake into the shambles of the shoal at the morning’s early beams, stretched across the ardent reaches of the ocean, marveled at the strength, the seizure, the composure, of the elements and how she could never capture the substance, the spirit, of its nature; she bent, she broke, she withered and wilted in the surging promise of pain and torment. Her eyes swam over to Roland’s, bestowed a wan, dim smile, drenched the unwieldy gaze towards the sand, then returned to the biding wiles of time, forced to stray back into its macabre hands – and like an immolation, like a sacrifice, like the lamb beneath the executioner’s knife, she marched ahead, pressing into the shore as a gift, as an offering, to augured tyranny, blazing blades, and towering infernos. The Songbird sought the heat, and paused in its unrest, an impending phoenix with only one set of ashes.
Ever since the Aurora Basin had held their festival, the Thief had made a temporary home out of the island in the clouds. Leaving its dubious promise of sanctuary was unnerving, and once they had descended Roland could feel the increased pressure digging talons into his skull.
Their search had taken them to a familiar shoreline, thin shards of light rippling off the edge of every white-foamed wave, the glassy crunch of sea shells beneath his hooves punctuating the rhythmic beat of water upon sand. The silence should have been disconcerting; it crowded and clamored around them in every shadow, in the space between every muffled footfall and the crash of waves as they leapt towards the shore, as if stretching for something that was always out of reach; the Time Mender was tense and reticent at his side, a fragmented shell of her usual self. There was no laughter or song to break the monotonous quiet, but for once it seemed oddly peaceful. Roland wondered if Lena had brought them to the ocean by fault, or if it had been chosen because of its abundance of fire repellent. He knew that there was a chance it would be required, but hoped things would not escalate to the point where it was needed.
The ocean had never been a popular haunt of his. Standing upon the shore with salty waves lapping at his feet only brought an uneasiness upon him. He had known his concerns to be well founded when he had last stood upon that very shore, interrupted by a strange creature that had, thankfully, done him no harm besides subjecting him to the sharpness of its tongue. But he had always suspected the sea could hold unconventional things. There was no telling what it might harbor now, with a sickly darkness sweeping over the lands once more.
The Thief should have been afraid. He usually was of these things, boasting little courage in the face of the unknown or uncontrolled. But for once- for now- he was not. With his attention so deftly focused upon the labyrinthine path before them, he had forgotten to be afraid. And it was liberating, to feel instead the smallest spark of courage; though, there was no doubt that the mare at his side was far braver than he. Roland spared another glance in her direction, reluctant to press at a matter that was perhaps better left unmentioned. But he could not help but break the silence for at least a moment, to breach the disconnect between them. "Are you alright?" He murmured, always reluctant to raise his voice when unquestionable dangers lurked around every bend. He was not eager to find what they sought, but with Lena's tenacity he was certain they would be upon a solution soon enough.
@[Lena] @[Gaucho]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
Amazing isn't it? Just how easily thoughts of sabotage and foul-play can be so deeply ingrained based on one singular event. Well, perhaps the event that caused Gaucho's distrust of Unicorns was not singular - there were two inciting incidents - the entrapment of Mauja and the invasion of the Throat. Both events weighed heavily upon his mind, and Gaucho was reminded of the tyranny of the Basin Unicorns each time he saw a horned creature, regardless of where they called home.
But the Basin was the worst. Even after all these seasons, Gaucho hadn't received a satisfactory answer to why they had invaded his home and killed his people. He doubted that he would ever get one, but should the chance arise, he would surely take it.
Given these thoughts, it isn't surprising that as the view of the two unicorns below sharpened, Gaucho descended. On wings that burned with fire, Gaucho dropped from the frosty skies towards the frigid sands. Strange markings covered a body that was muscular, feral, and marked endlessly with scars. His antlers pulsed with a glowing light bleeding out of markings placed there by the Sun God himself. In those antlers curled a white snake, trying to steal as much of Gaucho's body heat as she possibly could. Large black hooves landed nearly silently, spraying sand in clumps as his body left the air and began to move on land.
He was taller than both, and given the state of their bodies likely older as well. Gaucho's dark ears flickered backwards, noting the horns upon their heads but not recognizing their scents as being from the Basin (given that it had been some time since he had been in that area).
"Yewwneekorns" He called after them, his voice rich and deep, but clearly not comfortable with the native language of Helovia.
Please tag me in every post! Magic/Force is allowed on Gaucho at any time.
Inside a glass of water
With riddles and the rhymes
Will I see heaven in mine?
She listened to the shore and the beat of the waves against its placid shoal, she stared across the endless bounty of blue, and she marched amongst the dampened sectors, searching, scouring, waiting for the moment when she’d be set aflame. A strangely passive muse, sunken into the rituals of augured moments and presaged lights, a flickering glow, a waning glimpse of her acceptance into more further hardships: she’d taken it readily, a seed planted, a blossom awakening, and the nymph would soon be tangled in its fiery path, in its seething, searing petals, in its illustrious, hazardous wake. The fragile vestiges wore off across the shore, and for brief instances she was a waltzing paradigm with endless enigmas in sight: virtuous and kind, compassionate and beneficent, hastened into vigilance, into violence, threading her needle into the callous abyss. A steady drum, a steadfast heart, a tranquil entity floating along dunes and across brine, tossed into the inevitable, frayed, shorn, mauled beyond honeyed recognition; aligned back into the malicious fold. Fate toiled and tangled with determination, with audacity, with boldness and tenacity, until she wasn’t sure which one she mired and tethered herself to: feeding the flames, kindling the fire. Once or twice the sylph beckoned a hum through her throat, listened to the singsong melody billow and pervade the surroundings, a siren, a beacon, to embers and coals, then permitted it to fade into the void, into the silence, quiet, foreboding. Drawn deep into herself, Lena’s movements and motions were only dictated into the realm when Roland broke the stillness, turning and twisting her head to capture the beautiful hue of his eyes and the laced concern brimming amongst the ocean’s current. The Mender looked away, back across the rippling surf, wishing for salvation and choking back her fears, returned to gazing with rapt fondness, with earnest graciousness, upon the gilded Thief. Therein, she forced the bright beam of a smile, the curled depths of her cheeks, a swell of optimism not quite reaching the inner contortions of her eyes. “Everything will be fine.” The notion registered into the unknown, coiled and wound into taut bits of ignorance and incomprehension, but she heeded it for his sake, nurtured the sentiment, tossed it into the air in hopes it’d stick – for wouldn’t everything turn out well in the end? Past the toils of agony, past the tribulations of terror and horror, wouldn’t she be christened with ways to protect, ways to safeguard?
Imogen chirped, a high-pitched wail flooding through her mind, a system of alarms blinking and registering – her attention was stolen away from Roland’s stare and upon the other creature landing nearby – and all at once her body froze into a rigid, inflexible frame. Apprehension slithered down her spine, anxiety pummeled through her chest, and her heart beat in rapid convolutions: the stranger approached, massive, antlered, winged, smelling of sand and cliffs (the Throat?), overwhelming, overbearing, hinting at derision and disdain with flattened ears, with a proclamation of their species. She, perhaps more on instinctual bravery than actual thought, raised her crown, her stare, to glance on the mighty, dominating steed, posturing affability despite Imogen’s warnings flailing through her head. “Hello. I’m Lena. Who are you?” Delving into the protective manner she’d forged and sewn throughout the measure of her existence, she moved to stand in front of Roland, deliberate preservation and refuge as she considered the other figure. Her gentle, well-meaning gaze, for she had no intentions on provocations, landed upon the ivory serpent woven through his antlers, and grinned at its appearance: for snakes meant wisdom, meant cunning, symbolized intricate designs and machinations. Was this stallion a great calculator, some wise, all-knowing Machiavellian? She didn’t press any further, merely smiled and commented upon his chosen beast. “Your companion is beautiful.”
The Thief had never been fond of winter. Even though he was away from the Aurora Basin, free of its tempestuous winds and heavy drifts of snow, he found himself missing the hollow, stormy comfort of home. Too many times he had wished himself out of its stone halls, and only once he was removed from them did he realize how much affection he held for his home. The shoreline was bleak, offering no colour or intrigue beyond the faded, cool blue of the water and the grey of the sand. It was a desolate place. Lena hummed the odd few notes as they walked, almost lost to the voice of the sea, quickly stolen away, bowing back into silence as if dictating the turbulent pattern of her thoughts. He noticed that she evaded his question, answering instead with a statement of her own, but try as he might he could not be assuaged by her encouraging words. It was not he that needed motivation, after all, but he said nothing further on the matter. Instead his gaze lingered once again over the waves in disheartened contemplation, eyeing the frost gathering at the water's edge, forming along the sand like a fragile barricade between the land and sea.
They were saved from further silence by the sudden beat of wings behind them, the hushed sound of footfalls in soft sand stirring Roland from his mindless observation. He turned as a voice called out to them, the single word tripping uneasily off the stallion's tongue as if he struggled to pronounce it, or was not overtly familiar with the term. What he saw when he faced the newcomer took him by surprise. There were many eccentricities about the beast- for there was no other word for him. He was large, quite a bit larger than Roland himself, with a towering rack of antlers upon his head- garnished by a snake of all things. A pair of impressive charcoal wings were unfolded from his sides, and if it was an intimidation tactic, it was certainly working. He looked like he had been through a great deal, with scars and markings tattooed across his bay frame. The Thief found himself wondering where they all might have come from, what stories lay behind each and every brand.
Whether there was reason to fear him or not, Lena positioned herself in front of Roland once her introduction had been made, which was most definitely cause for concern. "I am Roland," he chimed in with a faint smile, figuring there was no harm in being polite until they figured out just why he had approached them. The Thief fidgeted uneasily behind Lena, reluctant to let her place herself in harm's way for his sake. He was nothing much, not worth her life, not worth the risk of her safety. But he stayed where he was, hooves digging anxiously into the damp sand as he watched the approaching stranger. Roland's gaze was drawn back to the white reptile curled around the stallion's antlers once Lena commented upon it, though he couldn't quite find it within himself to appreciate such a serpent when he had, in the past, had such unpleasant encounters with snakes.
@[Lena] @[Gaucho]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
Maybe looking back, after all was said and done, Lena and Roland would say that they knew what was coming. But if they did, so what? They did nothing to stop it, even as their bones itched with alarm and their skin crawled to get away from the danger that landed directly before them. Perhaps later they would say that they could tell from the look in his eyes that he would not be dissuaded, that perhaps his mind was made up before he even arrived. Words wouldn't help, and what was the point in running from a flighted giant who could shoot arch of fire? Of course they didn't know any of that, but perhaps when all was said and done, they would say it mattered.
Gaucho regarded the pair not as a mare and a stallion, not as a healer and a thief, but as objects; yewwwneekorns. They introduced themselves but their words didn't even make it to his ears. Gaucho wasn't listening, wasn't here for introductions. Mara hissed nervously, her black gaze falling uneasily upon Lena. She was unsure of what was about to happen. Gaucho's mind had been filled with darkness lately, gaps and patches of destruction and evil. Mara didn't know how to describe or reconcile what was happening within, but she felt the familiar darkness begin to stir and rise. Blood usually followed.
"From Basin?" He demanded, his voice stern and his stormy gaze awash with anger and fury. In his mind he watched as He and Midas were drawn away, and the rising panic as they returned to find dead or bleeding bodies strewn upon the sands. Since Lena his positioned herself closest to him, ultimately his gaze and question fell to her.
[Keeping it short to get things rolling along since Gaucho needs answers before FIIIIYYAAAAA]
Please tag me in every post! Magic/Force is allowed on Gaucho at any time.
Inside a glass of water
With riddles and the rhymes
Will I see heaven in mine?
The foam curled, the waves frothed, and safety felt swiftly slashed, dashed. The prickle of fear renewed, settled down her spine, punctured, pierced, lacerated along her bones, amidst her muscles, swam within her veins, and for all her bravery, all her steadfast courage, all her heartfelt exuberance and ebullience, the apprehension seared her flesh. They talked and conversed, and all she could see within the Pegasus’ eyes was disdain, derision, contempt, and the lithe nymph didn’t know what they’d done, what they’d said, to spark silent indignation. He spoke of danger without words, without speech, without diction, and anxiety dived deep into her mind, because somehow, someway, she’d caused this. The stranger’s words ground against her senses, clawed, tore, snapped, grated, From Basin? with so much anger, because they lived in an empire that sought violence, and the rest of the world combatted ferocity with their own brutal savagery, the endless, eternal struggle and cycle, villains to innocents, innocents to villains, rubble to ruin. She’d chosen to waltz upon the beach, along the shore, press her feet into the sand and court the flares, the embers, of treachery, yearned for power beyond her touch, beyond her capabilities, marched straight into antagonistic snare, dragged another with her – the once-composed gaze slid to the Thief, desperately attempted to convey the elements of peril. They narrowed, then widened, displayed essences of sagacity and wisdom she wished she’d possessed earlier, because even if she were doomed, damned, and condemned, the sylph certainly wouldn’t allow Roland to be. She opened her mouth in a soundless rhythm, a quiet gesture, a mute plea (lips parting in the solo command: run), strung, woven, laced towards his gilded frame; a nymph forged in sacrifice, granting, proffering, the gestures of immolation time and time again. Her body, her heart, would stay, frozen in menace, trapped in hazards, tripping and snagging jeopardies (then he could get away, escape) and she’d be left in the swarm, in the foolishness, of her own desires. The pitfall had opened up before her in in the wake, in the presence, of this monstrous titan, granting her the prudence she’d failed to understand before: you are worthless.
Time staggered, fumbled, toiled; she purposefully took segments and instances, junctures and moments, to give her Thief opportunity at liberation, to stare against the calm current, to wage war upon her own idiocy, to swallow and gasp and grate at her eventual answer to the draconic king. Another single demand filtered through her mind, towards her vigilant kitsune, eager, drumming in her mind for a chance to undo the frightening predicament, but with no means, no modes, no methods, instructing, urging, the ivory vixen to follow Roland. Without looking back down at the fox, without twisting one hopeful glance towards the golden brigand, she summoned her strength, her perseverance, her biting, twisting resolve, and stared back at the Pegasus. Her answer came as a blunt melody, a wondrous crescendo, a blissful carillon, as if all her pride, all her love, all her convictions for the herd that damned and saved so many, could be heard in the singular strain. “Yes.”
The silence that followed left the beast without an answer, though there was little doubt that the damage had already been done. Whatever reputation preceded them was not complimentary, even if their motives were harmless. Roland shifted upon his feet in the soft sand, gaze drawn to Lena as she turned unexpectedly towards him. The Thief could only meet her gaze with a blank expression, deliberately hiding any emotion from the Pegasus even though anxiety was building like a storm in his chest; he was only overcome with a new kind of uneasiness when he shared a reticent stare with the Mender, wondering at the unspoken message communicated in her shuttered gaze. As slow understanding came over him, he had to resist the urge to shake his head or dig his toes petulantly into the sand.
He had never refused her anything, had never wanted to, but he could not strand her on the beach with a behemoth staring her down. Roland did not boast a large amount of courage, but he was not so spineless as to leave her to the wolves, only for the sake of saving his own skin. How could he live with the guilt of standing idle while she threw herself into the flames? How could he let her sacrifice her safety to preserve his? But he could not ignore the fact that she seemed desperate for him to obey, to surrender to her silent demand and retreat. His gaze flickered to Imogen, hesitant, and with a heavy heart he took a few slow steps back, his own muscles betraying him as he ground his teeth in frustration.
He did not go far, would not turn his back or shift his gaze for a moment- he simply couldn't. If their confrontation went from bad to worse he could still interject, even if the odds were stacked against them. But he did not say a word when Lena turned back to the stranger, sealing their fate with a simple word.
((Sorry for holding this up for so long <3 @[Lena] @[Gaucho] ))
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
These two nameless and faceless creatures - for Gaucho's rage burned far too bright and too hot to see them clearly - had sealed their fate. Their home would be their undoing - the sins, burdens, and decisions of their family would ultimately be paid by them today.
Fire came hot and fast. This particular burn had been seething, singeing, and singing under Gaucho's flesh for more than a few seasons now. It had burned his heart and soul, blackened his rationality and charred his mind. A distorted impression of Mauja pulling himself and Midas away, and then slipping soundlessly into the sea. An illusion, a trick. Heartbeats, wingbeats, and the final moments of life that were pulled away as the two warriors arrived too late. Death lay on the sands, casually and carelessly.
The unicorns had come that day and slaughtered his family, then they had slunk back to their icy caves without so much as an explanation.
Today they would learn how that particular brand of injustice felt.
With a scream, Gaucho released all that he had upon the two. Fire arched from under his already burning feathers. The blast extended 30 meters before dispersing, but Lena and Roland were much, much closer to that. However the assault did not end there. As fire raced from his wings, it also bled from his antlers. Two dragons composed entirely of flame soared, snapping and swaying above. Their flaming voices screeched as Gaucho retreated into the skies. With movements as fluid as water, they burned and seethed towards the unicorns. Their bodies of light and flame moving in tandem to chase the horned creatures as Gaucho's brethren had been chased.
In the skies the Wildfire did not look back. He was sure that those who had attacked his kin without reason had not looked back. Let them wonder what it was they had done to deserve this fate. Let them ponder that.
But he had let them live as they had not let his family live. Let them ponder that as well.
Please tag me in every post! Magic/Force is allowed on Gaucho at any time.
Inside a glass of water
With riddles and the rhymes
Will I see heaven in mine?
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Mendacity, insurrection, false virtues, empty conversations, timeless speciousness capitalized and amended its chiseled shards, sculpting and molding the cataclysmic venue further down the road of sanctimony. Somewhere, amidst the doldrums, amidst the melancholy, amidst Imogen’s battling spirit, amidst the strange, terrorizing factions and tension, justice was being served and vengeance was being layered, but her mind was too conflicted, too absorbed, in the tyranny, in the flames, to puzzle or put together the pieces of their mistakes and errors. Instead, Lena's ruminations became mere punctures, pinions, of pain, of horror, of abominations pummeled and exploding upon her frame: because in her final act of defiance towards an unknown heathen, she’d brought the wrath of Hell upon them.
Premonitions and apprehensions surged to fruition. She could almost see the Sun God’s snicker behind her eyes, she could almost hear his seething tones and darkening whispers, she could almost hear his laugh; repayment for a trivial pursuit, for a dying cause. The Songbird wasn’t quick enough to scatter away from the brilliant, blinding embers, like a moth, she simply watched as they closed in, engulfed her in the luminescent, bellicose shards of molten, infernal wrath. For one, singular, fleeting moment, she could’ve appreciated the beauty, the treachery, the disastrous wake, but the sudden, shocking, blistering bouts of agony cloistered and surrounded her, and with no way to cease the torture, she opened her mouth in an unholy scream. Pierced, punctured, burned, she would’ve melted into the shoal and sand, clung to the unholy bits of anarchy, had the fire, had the dragons, had the world not seem destined to exploit her delusions and miscalculations, the funneling, voracious hypocrisy alive and well, beating across her back, scalding her skin. Her legs buckled, her limbs quaked, and her crisp, sultry frame fell to the dunes, swallowed and consumed in the throes of bedlam, in the throes of anguish, until she didn’t know whose bellows and howls erupted and flooded her skull. Her tiara, her sylph crown, her delicate, intangible nymph wrappings, ensnared and held by the inferno, tilted ever so slightly to witness the flames tangling and unfurling towards Roland, and because some part of her was vicious, because some part of her was unholy, she threw herself further into the pit of devastation.
Even surrounded in acrimony, her perseverance failed to yield. Perhaps it was the only thing driving her in the scorching song, in the heathen halls, in the shackles and shards. Maybe it was the one remaining swing of humanity crossing over her mind, away from the echoes of her own cries, away from the churning tribulation of her own fallacies. She’d asked him to come with her. She’d been scared. She’d been frightened. She’d selfishly deigned his presence to comfort her, and even if the regions of condemnation threatened to take her into their midst, she’d wouldn’t allow them to court him into their reach. In the hallowed reaches of her soul, she wished she’d never asked the gilded Thief to join her, because then he wouldn’t be subjected to this torment, because then she would’ve been alone, burned and tossed into the sea, and no one else would have suffered but her. She could have been lost and scattered, and he would have been safe, sound, well. The maiden’s selfishness had damned them both, and it broke the lively, lovely portions of her heart. You deserve this, the realm crooned, but he doesn’t, she answered.
Her strength waned, but not her resolution, not her determination. A burning goddess, an infernal deity, a forgotten sacrifice wiling its will, a smoldering immolation rising from the ashes, she pushed away from the sand, seared across the ground, blistered and charred the remnants of peace, of repose, of regret, and placed herself directly in the path of the draconic flames. She reached and stretched, extended and grasped, entrenched herself before the golden stallion, the beloved compatriot, could be swallowed by the tenors of torture. Only when the edges of its inhumane, unrelenting qualities had savored its final breath, did she close her eyes and collapse at Roland’s feet: her final worship of his generous soul.
@[Roland]
- For Sun God quest. ^_^ Thank you Aud!]
The world erupted in fire. Even at a distance, the Thief was hit by a wave of heat as orange flames billowed around the dark winged stallion, lashing out towards the two of them. Roland felt as if the ground was being ripped out from underneath his feet as he flinched away, fighting the urge to retreat just as strongly as he fought against the instinct to leap in front of Lena, to throw himself in the fire's path and block her from harm.
He had only time enough to turn a stricken gaze towards the Mender as she was engulfed in flames, capturing, ensnaring her in an unforgiving inferno. The roar of the blaze overpowered the serene hiss of waves over sand, an amber glow flickering across the shoreline and against the stormy grey of water. The Thief could hardly make heads or tails of the chaos, lurching towards the fire as Lena's cry of anguish cut through the barrage. But he could only hover at its edges, the heat unbearable against his face as he watched behind the igneous haze, the mare's frame just a dark shadow that swiftly, brokenly fell to the ground beneath the fiery onslaught.
Roland was oblivious to the flames now leaping towards him, ignorant of the beast that had orchestrated it all as the Pegasus took flight. He glimpsed the shift of Lena's frame, a brief flicker of hope spearing through his chest with an almost painful intensity, before draconic flames were burning a vengeful line towards him. Roland felt the heat against his face, singeing the ends of his hair as he stumbled over his own feet in an attempt to escape their wrath, barely coaxing himself to move when his gaze was still locked on the rising frame of the Mender. Before the fire could sink its avenging claws into his flesh, it was waylaid by Lena as she flung herself into its path. She held strong against their force, once again a resilient shield, always throwing herself in front of him, damning her own wellbeing. The Thief dug his hooves into the sand as he watched, despaired, as the fire exhausted itself against her unmoving frame, the rage bleeding from it until there was nothing left. Once the flames had dispersed, the Mender collapsed before him. "No."
Roland fell to his knees at her side, ignoring the strain on his limbs as he looked her over, pressing his nose gently against the heated flesh of her neck. "Lena," he urged, refusing to believe she might have drawn her last breath. There was no magic within him that could mend her, nothing at his disposal with the power to heal her wounds. He had forgotten about their assailant, but did not spare the glance needed to find that he had taken to the skies and left them to the mercy of his fire. Hopelessness crashed against the Thief like a wave, and he let himself drop into the sand at Lena's side, the breath shuddering from his frame in a shaky sigh. He prayed that someone would come to their aid, would find them on the shoreline. But a part of him already believed that it was too late.
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
Inside a glass of water
With riddles and the rhymes
Will I see heaven in mine?
Her mind spiraled in twisting, contorting convolutions, rebelling against the outer walls of peace, of serenity, and choking down molten bits of hell. No longer a hallowed vessel, naught more than a mere shell, she stayed upon the shoal and sand, clung over waves of embers and acrid smoke clogging her lungs. Behind her closed eyes, all she could see, all she could picture, were the biting, nipping, scathing rasps of fire, of burning emblems, proud, dauntless infernos, entangling her flesh until there was nothing left but shattered memories and one last song. For a few scarce moments, she gave into the pain, felt it shatter, felt it break, felt it pound across her skin, along her hide, and she was alone with the notion of condemnation, ceasing the ardent fight. The Songbird permitted it to simmer, to scorch, to flail, to remind her of rancorous ambitions and foolish aspirations, to bestow her the notion of shame, of ineptitude, of just desserts and useless victories. There was an infernal requiem cloistered to her membrane, and it floated beside the agony, alongside the misery, like a toxic flame: ”let go” it sang in beguiling, alluring bells, called to her, a welcoming, amiable siren, serenading, spellbinding her to some other mortal plain. She wanted to call out to it, to reach for it, to ask where’d they go, what’d they do, if it meant leaving everyone she loved and cherished and beloved behind, but her lungs were too charred and her limbs were too weak and she descended back into her infernal wretched world. The Mender stayed and strayed amongst her petulant gallows, floating between the waves of torture and staunch, stalwart resolution, fighting against the crackling ash and the distorted torment, yearning to find a way to return to the surface –
Parting through the waves, were voices, she was sure of it, far louder than the whimsical tides of the deadly temptress, vibrant and wonderful, eager and bright. The sylph clung to the sounds, to the hums, to the hymns, because they were more beautiful, more regal, more gallant than all the wiles of fatal enticement, providing a tether, a link, to something beyond despair and distress. Amidst the blaze and damnation, strummed a familiar beat, an aching chirp, a vigilant coil of companions and love, of bristling pride and revered crescendos, and she smiled in the wake of her misery. Come back, the little white vixen crooned and whispered, then demanded in one singular swing of desperation, and while Lena clawed, tore, and ripped through the coal shackles, another voice merely said her name. Harmonic and lamenting, it was a rasping prayer grating and grasping, a Thief’s gilded presence without cage or nightingale song, missing pieces and arias. Her body responded in kind.
The hours of time measured their idle hands, their striking chimes, reached and plucked, scoured and searched for the lost seconds and instances of ruin and acrimony. They scavenged and unraveled, bloomed and blossomed, avenged and unfolded, gave meaning, gave hope, back into a life that carried them from soul to soul, from creature to creature. No songs played, no musings courted, no raptures unfurled, but the magic, the spells, the invocations, were still wrapped and enchanted, glorified and consecrated, spilling over the edges of heated wounds and barbaric flesh. Kind, willing, and benevolent, the powers granted to her finally gave back to their possessor, and with silent indulgence, picked apart the burnt nymph and sought to put her back together again. Unsung invocations, hushed raptures, courted and rummaged, laced woven fragility back over Lena; ignited hide became pink, fresh, new, scalded and corroded, but not littered and torn in bouts of wicked monstrosities. It wasn’t an entire expenditure, for even the potent fringe of might and dominion began to fray, but the misery had become a muted glow, a stubborn ferocity clinging to the back of her skull. When they relapsed back into her soul, back into her essence, she finally opened her eyes.
Greeting her was familiar, treasured, golden hide, masculine warmth, shuddering breaths and silent oaths. She yearned and desired to lean into its steadfast glow and be tucked into its strength, its rhapsody, be buried and smothered by its fire, but she’d already committed enough selfish acts for the day. Curled and coiled, sunken and sculpted by infernos, she yearned to ensure the brigand hadn’t met the same horrific fate. At first glance, she thought perhaps, despite her best efforts, he’d been wounded, and she opened her charred lips and crackled her scorched lungs to ensure he was well. “Are you okay?” Imogen chirped somewhere in the background, delighted and assured, expressing well-wishes and don’t ever do that again; the nymph absorbed that as well, and indented one corner of her lips in a sly grin, an angel besting death for one more day.
The Thief could still feel heat against his cheeks like a brand, a persistent, searing scar that lingered upon his skin, burned away at him even after the fire was long gone. It was a miracle that he had escaped with hardly a scratch on his hide, but he could not muster up the energy to feel relief when Lena lay motionless against his front. Had he been quicker, braver, had he thrown himself into the flames in her stead, this would not be happening.
Had she not asked him to accompany her? Bestowed her faith in Roland as another pair of watchful eyes, another shield against an army of flames? And he had agreed, he had followed her; he had bowed to her silent command to slip back to safety when she had asked it of him, when he should have stubbornly remained at her side until the end. There were not words enough to describe the grief clawing at his insides. He had failed her.
The Thief bowed his head, eyes falling shut against a wave of despair. He had once vowed to never form attachments, to drift from place to place without a care for those he met. He had done his best to craft himself in his father's image, a rogue, a charlatan, a shadowed knife and honeyed words. He had aspired to a life without anchor, without cause or reason, without affinity or devotion to any besides himself, and oh how he had failed. Mistake after mistake had sent him running from one makeshift shelter to the next, and he had no one to blame for those missteps except himself. The Thief whispered a mantra of apologies into the salty air, sick with guilt. As the sound of blood pounding in his ears faded, they were once more joined by the rhythmic anthem of the sea, dancing along the shoreline as if nothing had happened. Roland awaited salvation, held his breath, listened to the call of gulls and the jarring hiss of wind through dry grass. There was no change, nothing that hinted of a savior come to rescue the fallen healer. Where was the God that had thrust them into this situation in the first place? Would he leave Lena to perish beneath the brutality of his element?
Roland's eyes were closed against the sight of her burned body, his mind a whirlwind of sorrow and despair, frustration and hopelessness. Underneath the weight of it all, he was oblivious to the Mender's stirring, to the practice of magic as it soothed over the wounds burned into the Mender's flesh. It was many moments later when Roland opened his eyes to find her dark gaze meeting his, and the relief was strong enough to send his head spinning.
"Lena," he breathed out, eyes wide and ears perked to capture the broken, scratchy sound of her voice, clinging desperately to every word that fell from her lips. He gasped out a shaky laugh of disbelief, trembling with fear and happiness all at once. "Me?" He questioned, punctuated with an incredulous shake of his head. Before he could help himself he leaned forwards, reaching out to touch his nose to her cheek, as if he would not believe she was whole and healthy again unless he could feel the warmth of her skin. His answer was lost, forgotten for a moment as the panicked beat of his heart slowed, and with it went his anguish. "Yes. Are you?"
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
Inside a glass of water
With riddles and the rhymes
Will I see heaven in mine?
With his safety secured, relief cascaded over her features, rippled and chimed, the sweet melody of carillon tunes and rapturous chords, glowing, resplendent. A portion of her mind drowned out the cacophony of destruction and ruinous aftermath, trying to block and assail the pathways of horror stretching and clawing up her throat and down her spine, webbed and barbed like the new scars and marks punctured over her flesh. She caved into the immense consolation and solace in Roland’s sanctum, breathing softly, slowly, watching the air dissipate and collide with his forelock, gently swirling with the sea mist and spring foam. It was so much easier to see him, gracious and whole, then descend back again into the bewitching tendrils of condemnation and barbarity. The nymph preferred to be allured and beguiled by his presence, by his sanctuary, than punctured and lanced time and time again. With little hesitation, she leaned into his touch, fighting back against shards and forlorn throes, embracing the tangible sonnets of his voice and the gilded wonder at his mere presence. She clung to it, to him, to his warmth, a desperate caress of the fallen and the dismayed, assuaged and mended for thorny remnants of instances. The gravity of prior situation haunted the back of her eyes and the plumes of her mind, because she could have lost him to the perils of smoke and flame, to the whims of the monstrous and heartless, and never would’ve lived with herself if he’d perished in the midst of embers and coals. The curled, coiled sylph nearly apologized, but swallowed the foul taste when she realized that was all she ever seemed to do in his wake (but lord, she was sorry for all the ineptitudes she displayed and all the stupidity she possessed, and somehow she’d make it up to him) – and all the promises she’d assured and proffered to the Thief still hadn’t come true. Her voice, raw and fleeting, stole over the granules of sea and wind, grateful for his wellness. “I’m so glad.” Still selfish, as though she’d learned naught from the horrific experience, she couldn’t draw herself away from him, relished the fervor, the ardor, the pulse of his magnificent heart as she fluttered her head over his nape. Like butterfly wings and daffodil kisses, she carved more and more convictions past her lips in silent reveries and raptures, croons and arias, pressing them against his neck and sculpting their path as though they could be true oeuvres and masterpieces. She asked for so much and gave nothing in return. Perhaps that made her just as despicable as the demon that sought, created, and distorted their pyre.
Lena swindled her cranium away, back and lost to the melancholy of her faults. She raised her ramparts and fortifications, melded and molded over the self-absorbed dissension lining her core, struggling over how to respond to his query. In truth, she was too tired, too fatigued, too mired, to invoke any other enchantments; her body had varnished and lacquered as much as it could – recovery could be a prolonged affair. Her scars would be a rancorous reminder of defiance and its many transgressions. The Songbird’s teeth and tongue clenched down over a lie bubbling and floating to the roof of her mouth (I’m fine; you needn’t worry about me), because he didn’t deserve another molten march of deception and fabrications. Instead, she struggled to maneuver her forelegs beneath her, set herself upright, join standing legions and crusading cavalcades, itching for a chance to break into the water, to set the scalding flames to rest. The motions were akin to a wobbly newborn, quivering and fumbling, but where a youth’s was due to inexperience, the nightingale’s was out of drained portions and listless, haggard moments: a well run dry. Almost sheepishly, the Songbird’s gaze danced over to his, summoning one more request, failing in her efforts to not beg him for anything more (when would it end?). “Could you help me get to the sea?”
Lena's words fell softly into the space between them, barely heard over the rush of wind and waves against sand. Roland turned his face into her touch as she brushed her lips across his neck, all too eager to surrender himself to her affection. The cries of seagulls echoed in the empty air above them, a cool breeze tugging at Roland's mane as he let out a sigh of relief. His eyelids lowered, sliding shut as he relaxed against her frame, knees digging into damp sand. Without the heat of fire to abate the wintry cold, the Thief's breath ghosted before his face like smoke. He lowered his head to curl over the Mender's back, wishing that they had chosen a different path, or a different time. Any number of trivialities might have steered them down a safer trail. Where could they go, when Lena seemed barely able to draw breath? Where was the God that should have to answer for her torment? Roland was reluctant to move from her side, to no longer feel the swell of breath in her rib cage, the tensing of muscle across her side or the brush of her muzzle against his skin. He revelled in her nearness as if it was he who had clung to the brink of dissolution, and only she could offer him salvation. But he had not forgotten his question, still hanging in the air, unanswered. The Thief felt Lena draw away from him, and opened his eyes as she turned her face from his sight, as if stowing away the truth within her chest.
Roland swallowed down guilt, remorse, some nameless feeling that twisted in his stomach and soured against his tongue. His worried gaze slid across the scarred surface of her flesh, every burn a painful reminder of what she had just barely managed to escape. How could that beast have been so heartless, how could he have almost taken such a valuable life without a second thought? Roland ought to have desired revenge, but he felt only a bone deep exhaustion and simmering anger. The confusion and frustration ate away at him in the silence. He grit his teeth against the resentment, fighting back his concern for Lena as he watched her, thanking whatever miracle had kept her alive.
He was jolted from his thoughts when Lena stirred against him, leaving his inquiry behind as she pushed her legs underneath her frame. The Thief was quick to give her space, bringing himself to his feet with a grimace. His heart sank as he watched her struggle to stand, limbs trembling beneath her own weight as if a passing breeze might send her toppling over once again. Roland averted his gaze from her wounds, unable to look upon them anymore without feeling a terrible disappointment in himself, and stepped towards her as she asked it of him. "Of course," he responded softly, infusing all of his care, his concern, his devotion into his words as he drew alongside her and offered his shoulder for support. The ocean was not far. Its water beckoned them in a lazy wave across the shore, leaving a frosting of sea foam in its wake. Roland moved towards it slowly, keeping a careful eye on the Mender as he took one determined step after another towards the tide.
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
Inside a glass of water
With riddles and the rhymes
Will I see heaven in mine?
Of course - his endless appeasement always turned into her awakening, blooming freedom, and she hastened toward it, toward him, like he was her lifeline, her anchor, her tether and chord in the midst of horror and the promise of the sea. Her quaking limbs and frustrating shackles barely braced her frame upright, and she leaned, clinging, towards his golden sanction and breathed in his rays of sun, measured the grandeur of his strength and the rapture of his existence. The nymph clung to his radiance, blinded by the stature of it, by the nature of it, swallowing her gratitude and writing in his skin, bending and blending into his wake, matching slow, determined strides for his resolute ones, gathered between the blaze of his might and the scrawled outline of blights and scars. She shivered at the first hint of cool, chilling water at her feet, murmuring sweet nothings in its earnest babble, in its feverish current. It chiseled and sculpted into the fathoms of her burns, wrapped and tied, feathered and ribboned, patterns of lace weaving over her legs, her shoulders, her spine, and she took the slenderest of moments to appreciate it, as if she’d never get the chance again. She took a massive, grating breath, gulped down the ocean ambrosia, shook between incoming tides, and hung tight to the vitality of the gilded Thief. As they inclined deeper and deeper into the waves and shoal, she listened to the gulls, she smelled the salt, sighed, and ducked her head into his shoulder. She didn’t know what to say other than the timeless thank you, but it felt so empty and disheartened, because she could express a million thank yous and never reach what he merited, earned, and warranted. Instead, beholden and ashamed, the Mender tucked her soft maw into the coils and undulations of his muscle, swiveled her ear, pressed it towards his ribs, and heard the beat of his heart. It was a beautiful, transfixing, alluring, and rhythmic sound, full of crescendos and harmonies, neither wicked nor entirely virtuous, building and brewing a wonderful, mellifluous harmony; and she could’ve been the one to destroy it.
She’d been such a fool.
How dare she have dragged him into her mess, into her trials, into her tribulations. She would have been better off dancing into the fairy mist, asking for a fire-user, and begging them to set her aflame; never yearning for Roland to travel with her, never putting him in harm’s way. If she’d been altered and morphed beyond belief, beyond the realm of pain, perhaps into the reaches and folds of another world, one murky, one grave, then it would’ve been of her own accord, her own fault. The brigand would’ve never been in any danger. He could have wandered about their caverns and summits, touched upon ice and glacier, safe, secure, shielded, and her fate unknown. In hindsight, the tapestry painted in her image was more appealing than his burnt frame, fallen into ashes, draped beside her in a coil of embers and coals. The notion choked and devoured her, and the fey nearly twisted away from him, unworthy of his presence all over again. She thought, perhaps for the thousandth time that day, how much she didn’t deserve him.
Lena, soft, quiet, and dulcet, stared openly at him, taking in every nuance, every expression, every notion flickering across his features. She memorized the angles and lines, the sweep of his brow and the gentle curl of his voice, the influence and power in his shoulders and chest, and the way his eyes matched the sea beneath them, impossibly blue and beautiful. Like a sudden storm, because she couldn’t hold them anymore and the guilt wore down on her heart more than she could understand, words tore and burst from her mouth, offered and bestowed like so many times before, eternally apologetic for all of her mistakes, for all of her errors that could have cost him his life. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.” She ignored Imogen’s chirps in the back of her mind, the frustrated swell of the kitsune’s voice reaching amidst the constant regrets (wanted you safe, just like me or he doesn’t want to hear it, I know!), because she’d been at fault, and she needed to right her wrongs. “I couldn’t bear to live with myself if you’d been-" The last segment of her statement lanced and strangled off into the distance, and her eyes fell down upon the swell of the tide and the unsung reticence of the ocean, harrowed and hollowed. She didn’t want to fill in the remorseful blank, with unknown travesties or ill-fortunes somehow rewritten; not when she’d been responsible for the horrors and terrors of the day. Had she been allowed to hide and bury herself in the churning waves, she may have done so, become some long-lost mermaid, forgotten in her shame and rue. Instead, she merely retreated back into his shoulder, the last refuge she had.
The ocean shifted restlessly around them, sand and silt brushing against Roland's limbs as he waded deeper into the water. It was colder than he'd expected, an unpleasant bite against his skin as he pushed onwards with a clenched jaw. Lena was pressed against his side, her steps slow and laboured, but purposeful nonetheless. The Thief watched his step, sinking into sand until the waves reached around his hooves, swallowing up footprints and smoothing over the trodden shoreline. He remained silent when they drew to an unsteady halt, the scent of salt filling his nostrils, churning his stomach.
He looked out across the endless expanse of water, watching as it rolled and pitched against the wind, never steady, never still. The sound of waves rushing against the bank, of the breeze skipping over the ocean's surface, should have been calming. Roland could have been at peace, gazing into the emptiness between sea and sky, wondering at what might be out there, whether some distant shoreline lay beyond the curvature of the earth. Instead he was exhausted, frayed. Lena kept him upright as much as he supported her, holding fast against the rhythmic push and pull of the tide. His mane was wet with sea spray, slicked against his neck and tracking rivulets of salt water down his golden skin. When he had taken his fill of speculation, he blinked water from his eyelashes and turned his head, meeting Lena's gaze with a growing sense of concern.
An entire sea of emotion swelled behind her eyes, and Roland's heart ached to see it there, unspoken and unalleviated. The waves rolled rhythmically against his chest, brushing icy tendrils across his stomach and stealing his breath away, but he hardly felt them. He welcomed the cold, willed it to wash away the stain of heat and flame he feared would never be scrubbed from his skin. The burn still pressed at his cheeks, his throat, as if the inferno was still thundering through the air around them, hungrily seeking out anything it could obliterate and crush beneath its ashen fist. The Thief started when Lena's voice broke the silence, lost within her gaze and the guilt he found there.
Her apologies and reparations were unwanted and unneeded. Roland tilted his frame towards her, hooves digging into the ever shifting sand pulled by the ocean's tide. A shiver wracked along his frame, but he barely paid it any mind as he met her gaze with unflinching steadiness. "The blame does not rest on your shoulders," he assured her resolutely, fiercely. He could have, he would have forgiven it all even if it had been her doing. And perhaps he would have been wrong to; the Thief would never have surrendered so much trust, so much faith to another living being years before, but he had no such concerns now. The wounds he carried were few and of little consequence when compared to the harrowing scars upon her frame, etched in dark, ashen lines across the curve of her sides. The sacrifice he had made was small, insignificant beside hers. He should have done something. No matter how foolish it might have been to blame himself, how could he be forgiven for standing back, obediently hovering out of harm's way when he had suspected the danger?
The Mender leant into his shoulder again, her gaze hidden once more from his view. "I'm glad you're alright," he murmured against her neck, hoping that she would not let the guilt weigh too heavy upon her. They had both escaped alive, and he thought no less of her because of what had happened. He had known the potential dangers that came with accompanying her on her quest, but he had accepted them gladly, as he would do again if she requested it. The Thief watched the waves froth and flow around them as he curled against her, wishing that her misfortunes could be undone.
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
Inside a glass of water
With riddles and the rhymes
Will I see heaven in mine?
He attempted to sweep the guilt away, decisively, poignantly, so it’d be released from her shoulders, another burden taken and discarded, but she knew, even with his assertions, even with his declarations, the guilt would still be harbored within her body, taut and rigid, unrelenting and vivid. Perhaps eventually, years later, she’d forgive herself for the torment and horrors she’d put them both through, but it would forever tarnish and score her frame, etchings, reminders, a tapestry of scars and imprints assuring a haunted, selfish semblance of her desires. Her strength, her determination, would endure, but the gliding, smirking hands of her succumbed whims, of her mercurial pursuits, would snicker and remain, taunting and unraveling; she heaved one more sigh against his skin, maneuvered her jaw so it rested at the top of his shoulder, and her gaze could look out across the wide expanse. Everything was so clear and bright, so dazzling and vibrant, brilliant and strong, and inwardly, she fought her emotions, she warred with shame, she bristled and battled with so much remorse she nearly burst with all of its complexities, and he stayed, tied into the cold, chilling hands of the ocean. The nymph remained scattered amidst the elements, torn and reassembled with so many strange, conflicting nuances, and she’d already burdened, asked, too much from him. He shouldn’t have to try and put her back together again either. Grateful, unsure of how to continually express her appreciation, her debts, she slid her mouth across his shoulders, nestled her lips against his withers, along his nape, in a gentle, dulcet kiss, a butterfly’s caress, a songbird’s stroke, before drawing away. Her frame immediately disapproved, but she yearned not to show, not to display, any more weakness, any more fragility, clinging to the rancorous, embittered edges of her vitality, ensuring and composing fortitude where it’d truly ran dry, bowing her head against the current, swiveling one ear towards Imogen, silent on the shore. Her voice managed to amplify across the ocean swells, the sultry, soft sea breeze, ruffling manes and hearts, the signature of their meetings, where she credited and recognized all of his blessings, he asked for nothing in return, and she fumbled about, feeling like an inconsiderate cretin. “Thank you.” Her limbs, her figure, swayed without their usual grace, without their quaint, ambient finesse, but she pretended it was the surf, the current, rippling over her weakened form. The sylph painted a grin where they normally appeared, warm, bright, sunny, not quite reaching her eyes, not quite true or tangible – and she didn’t know what to say, how to break apart without him following. She didn’t want him to accompany her again and get hurt in the process, because she’d already nearly done that once before. Her preference was woven in bearing the rest of her adventure alone, where no one else would be harmed, where her yearning, her longing, her mercenary reels weren’t so readily exposed and damaging. So she fumbled, she tightened, she harked and laid whatever shambles of armor she had left over her chest and along her burns, smiling and twinkling. “I’ll just…head to the Sun God now.” Awkward, it felt so stilted and confining, and she turned away, feeling colder than before they’d ever embarked onto the sand and soil.
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