the Rift


Twisted Sorrow

Ashamin the Clovenheart Posts: 426
Outcast atk: 8 | def: 11.5 | dam: 5.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.2 HH :: 5 [Frostfall] HP: 79 | Buff: NUMB
Lochan :: Plain Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Rakt :: Common Cerndyr :: Starpast Jen
#1
A S H A M I N
on his own
Ashamin was not used to being so alone. He had known only one other--two, if you counted the presence of gasping breath and a body growing cold beside his nascent understanding of life. And in all the time that he had lived, which felt now to be so long, he had never met anyone else.

He had held auditions for a new friend with the small birds tittering in the trees above, but none had fit the bill. The mice crawling around his feet as he slept were poor companions. The wind, the sky, the endless breathing of the grass as it rustled between the clefts in his hooves, even these all came up short to the memory of his father. And it was just as well, he assured himself, for seeking replacement for something lost would do nothing but deepen his sorrow.

But what was sorrow? He wasn't even certain of that. As he dragged his body slowly into the forest of this unfamiliar land, cold in its season but still warmer than the land he had called home for so many years, he pondered the question. He turned to notice the faint lines his dragging tail had left in the dirt, and stamped a hoof with light frustration. No, there was simply nothing to do about himself now. He was alone, he was an ignorant, sloppy mess of a colt ever still. His eyes may have aged, his pockmarked horn may have twisted with the passing of time, but his face and his body were young. His mind was young.

He found relief in the wide, rough side of a tree trunk. He had been walking for so long, and had seen nothing to give him hope--nothing but this very tree. As he pressed his flank against it, forcing his weight against its ringed strength, he closed his eyes softly and took in the weak scents around him. His horn scratched his lip as he raised it to take in the air, but he was so used to the sensation now that he couldn't bring himself to reflect the twinge of pain as the scab from the last time was knocked from his flesh. He resigned himself and lowered his head instead, taking comfort in the slight shifting of the stone encased in his horn. If he was to lose everything, his family that had been his life for three years (so many, he thought to himself again, knowing full well how few they really were,) then at least he could remember them like this.

As the warm sun began to set, and the chill drew closer to Ashamin's fast-beating breast, the young stallion looked up. His heart was heavy, his horn was a leaden weight pulling his muzzle to the earth like a stone. What was sorrow, he wondered again. Was sorrow the call of the downtrodden or simply the lonely? And were the lonely forgotten or simply never known?

And what was he, he thought with fear as the wide orange stretches of fading sun cast long shadows over the threshold woods. What was he now, in the wake of his sire's death, if never by anyone known?

[[OOC: Ashamin is brand new to me and I am still working him out, so apologies if my posts aren't particularly poetic at the start, here. I have nowhere in mind for him, so all are welcome.
Best, Jen]]

(table by tamme)


See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
Do not tag me, please message on skype instead


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
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire Heather
#2
The Songbird didn’t stop running. She followed one duty after another, giving chase to the changing winds, rising past foggy outcrops, staring down chilling veneers, racing across hillsides until she could find something else to distract her, divert her. Placing her attentions on one trial and tribulation to the next meant she wouldn’t have to think about her own, and for once, she truly did hide from all the troubles weighing across her shoulders. Today, she wasn’t brave. Today, she wasn’t courageous. Still resolute, still determined, still passionate, but to the degree of concealment, hushed depths, unsaid quandaries, and meandering footsteps hovering over the boundaries of fragility. Like a fleeting fragment, a sliver of interludes and hysteria, the Mender and her kitsune drove through terror, through horror, and plunged away from calamity – stoking out the woodwork of the Threshold instead. The pair slunk silently amidst the forest, the canopies, the undergrowth, and Lena didn’t listen for the chirping of tropical birds (not here Imogen reminded her, the gateway was certainly not utopia), didn’t shift wildly as shadows crawled across tree limbs, as leaves rustled then fell in their hellbound spiral. She was merely a quiet presence in the halls and corridors of more wayward, lost souls, and she could likely join them, just as forlorn, just as desolate, just as confused and befuddled. Not a word slid from her throat, not a song, not a warble, not a croon, and suddenly the silence was all the more deafening, and she could take no more of its haunting, poignant memories pressing across her spine, her skull – her melodies danced and waltzed from the harmonic chords woven along her tongue. The pieces never cracked, never frayed, never rumbled and rambled into discord, following her, preceding her, as she ventured deeper and deeper into the void, into the veil, into the hollowed stretches of the unknown.

The sun sank between eaves and branches, painted majestic colors against the dappled horizon, gave bright hues to her sienna frame as it molded and blended with pines, firs, and faltering, deciduous pigments, continuing her singsong even as the scent of another trickled and whittled its way through the thick columns and ancient abyss. The ivory vixen by her side gave the slightest of chirps, and the minstrel, the fairy, the nymph, quirked her brow, slid the pieces of a smile across her lips; altering their path to shadow the newcomer’s appearance. They marched over roots, over moss, over ferns, composed faint arias, sanguine and amiable, angelic and blissful, even when the most virtuous of benedictions felt far, far away – her eyes ran, fixated, on a stranger leaning against the trunk of a tree, nestled between labyrinths and pathways, painted in twilight hallelujahs. The sylph maneuvered in petal soft contortions, light, airy, delicate, a shimmer of fey audacity, a glimmer of her stolen elegance, bestowing a smile along with compassionate hymns, altering the tunes slightly, adjusting the mellifluous frame. “Hello! I’m Lena!” Then she ceased, close enough so he may see her in the dimming light, may reach for liberation, laurels, and roses, but far enough so he had the ability to flee, the notion to shirk. Her gaze, her stare, warm, delightful, pleasant, noted the sword buried between his eyes, reminding her of roots, of ash, of stone and rubble, if he was one to seek growth in one location, or travel a great distance, hoping to find a rendering from nothingness. The gentleness of her absolution, of her deliverance, of her liberating, satin notions, continued, like spring blossoms, like Birdsong raptures and reveries. “Welcome to Helovia! Who are you?”

her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
LENA
Credit URL

Ashamin the Clovenheart Posts: 426
Outcast atk: 8 | def: 11.5 | dam: 5.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.2 HH :: 5 [Frostfall] HP: 79 | Buff: NUMB
Lochan :: Plain Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Rakt :: Common Cerndyr :: Starpast Jen
#3
A S H A M I N
on his own
As the shadows darkened, a familiar feeling came over the young buck. It was as if he could feel the darkness growing, and with it, the danger. But when he opened his eyes, though he could see deeper blacks cast by trees rippling over his coat, covering the scattered white patches on his flank and around his knees, the sun was brighter still. It blinded him when he turned to see its source, and he winced, stumbling away from the tree that had been his safety like a fool.

Was this how the sun set here, on the tops of hills covered in trees? He found himself wondering how long this endless stretch continued, wondering if it would last forever, hoping it would not. He traced lines on the ground with his right fore-hoof absently, attempting to distract himself from the thought that he could never find a place like home again. Were there even lands where the sun set over mountains all around, and the earth glittered with white each frozen evening?

Maybe it was better that he would never find such a place again, he thought with a nervous huff. His father would never be there waiting as he wished.

A set of sounds, troublingly unfamiliar, sharpened his mind and forced him to focus. The mark of hoof-beats was undeniable, but by default unrecognized. He heard fine chirps that scattered the birds above him, causing him faint alarm, and as he reflexively lifted his lion's tail, resting the end around one ear and over a brow, the sound that startled him most of all came through the back-lit trees. It was long and low, then at other times a series of staccato sounds that he'd never before heard. A manipulation of whinnies, perhaps, but something he was ultimately unsure of. He searched his thoughts for some reference point but found nothing. What was like this sound, this chilling, heavenly call, that he had ever hear before. Surely nothing. He remembered his father telling of the sound of his mother's voice, when the two were alone in the low-lit evenings. Was this just like that, another voice of someone else, someone he hadn't ever met?

Was this, he thought with a shudder, how they communicated in this land? As the sounds grew louder, he pulled himself away from the trunk of the tree and edged backwards with high, soft, delicate hoof-steps. As the trees and the darkness better obscured him, he thought about the sounds coming closer. If this was the language of this land, he was sure he would have to leave. Not for fear, he assured himself falsely, but simple misunderstanding. He had never heard these sounds, didn't know if he could categorize them as joyful or if they were something else. Perhaps it was the sound of sorrow, he realized with a start. His ears perked and he sought out its tones. Perhaps it was the sadness he struggled so hard to express, the outpouring from the empty still-beating heart that signaled hope, or something that could change.

Despite the opening of his mind, when the strange caller at last appeared he was struck with fear just as brilliantly paralyzing. It was another unicorn, perhaps equal to his height but more impressive in her stature. He wondered for a moment if this was how all mares appeared in this land before dismissing the thought. Of course not, that would be ridiculous. Well, it seemed like it should have been. But then again, he had no evidence otherwise.

He struggled to recognize her expression, and his own fumbled confusedly. She seemed excited, perhaps? It was hard for him to make it out. For his entire life he'd known only the faces his father had made, and his subdued personality had forced Ashamin to remember only a few. Her questions were bright and jarring; he squinted at the thought of them and took a nervous step backwards before recovering himself. At least he understood them though, he realized. The ability to communicate was a relief.

Slowly, he bent his head and plodded forward to meet her where she stood. His legs shook and his ears flickered anxiously, but he had no intention of being rude. He greeted her as he knew to greet others, as he had greeted his father: with an extension of the neck, an attempt at a soft touch of the side of his face with hers. It was strange, he she been his father he would have only been brushing the base of her neck. But she was different, a bay that seemed dappled in the fading sun, with a tail like he'd been told his mother had borne, and that strange, unknowable call.

"I'm Ashamin," he answered quietly, close to her ear to begin with. When he looked down he noticed a strange, fox-like creature, and stiffened visibly, pulling his face away from hers and balking at the sight of the unfamiliar creature. His ears twitched again, rapidly, and his tail slid from between his ears to land with a thump on the darkening earth. A few strands of hair, white and long, remained caught in his horn.

He stared at the small creature for some time, trying to make sense of it, hoping it was kind, before looking up at the mare with a look akin to desperation. He lacked the confidence to ask her, just a stranger, to make sense of the little white being at her hooves, despite knowing that she could have possibly afforded him a wonderful answer. He struggled too, to inquire about helovia, about her strange call, or about any of the many things around him that confused him. He could only hope she was one to talk, for he was one to listen.


[[OOC: Thanks again for greeting my boy. :)]]

(table by tamme)


See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
Do not tag me, please message on skype instead


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
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire Heather
#4
Lena recognized his dance: apprehension, consternation, the shifting, the fleeting, the bounding for another world, another time, another place. The familiar pattern fell like stars, rippled through the darkness, fettered and shook into the brambles of vulnerability. With no wish to be his thorn, his nettle, his serpent, the nymph remained perfectly, stoically still, a stone in the sinking, midnight oils, hastening naught until he’d found peace (and if he could reach for it, discover it amongst the armaments, she’d love if he could share its hiding place). While he reigned in confusion, she composed serenity, layered amiability across her features, tried to echo refinement and sanctuary in the desolate, contorted corners of the shadowed world, a beacon on the rocks, a light in the storm. The earth was a wild, untamed land, grasping and clenching and posturing, never having its fill, always seeking more and more, and she had no ability to discern where he’d come from, what he’d seen, if he resented or if he guarded. The unknown could be a terrifying place, too wide, too vast, too consuming, threatening to devour, overwhelm, douse, but the lithe creature, with her opulent grandeur, with her beatific grace, didn’t want to channel anything but whimsical fortitude, anything but warm, compassionate alms. Her smile radiated, a blooming, unrelenting vow against treachery, against savagery – harpsichords bounding over calamity, melodies flushing away the echoes of acrimony. The sylph’s heart would be one of the many seeking laughter, instead of triumph, or merriment, instead of conquest. She waited, patient and resolved, a tenacious, lustrous, idealistic canvas painted across ruses, schemes, and stratagems, tilting her head the slightest fraction to read him in the darkness, in the flickering of repose. After he managed a few steps forward, suddenly unrestrained, expression morphing, altering, she drew a few, fine breaths of air from her lungs, watched the ample puffs scatter in the growing chill. To her surprise, the stag inclined his body close to hers, his features tracing over hers in a simple, greeting caress – eyes widened for the most minute of moments, then she returned the favor, presuming it was a custom of his country, a world she was unfamiliar with. Her cheek brushed lightly against his darker, sable one, and she attempted to press an assortment of sentiments through the touch: strength, endurance, fortitude for the augured future, courage and bravery for the incoming instances.

Then, the Songbird retreated, fanning the flame of her grin again, listening to the short, hushed decibels of his answer, Ashamin, billowing across her ear in blinding syllables. But he stiffened again, and her eyes fixated upon his newest tribulation, catching the impish delight in Imogen’s gaze. Perhaps he came from an empire with no companions, no bonded beings, no beloveds sworn and tied to more than just the heart (the soul), had never felt, had never seen, the strange and wonderful creatures allied to so many. She bent low, stroking her maw over the delicate, porcelain hairs of the kitsune, listened to her vibrant, welcoming, amiable chirp ascending towards Ashamin – pondered over how many times the bright, vivid being had saved her life, had coaxed her away from the dimmest of moments, and drove her towards strength again and again. Where would she be without her? The fairy lifted her head, aiming to complete introductions with singsong motions, with fey ambience, with whimsical ministrations. “A pleasure, Ashamin. This is Imogen, a kitsune. She is my companion.” In response, the anointed, consecrated, little beast bowed and chirruped, flicking her numerous tails back and forth. Lena’s smile brightened, enlightened, and the depths of his gaze told her he wanted to know more, but didn’t proffer the notion by voice, by song, by bellows. Where to start and where to begin; she could wax poetical on many foundations of this grand realm, from the sights to the sounds, to the plots manifesting in cruel, savage minds, from the wishes resting in dreamers and paragons. But she was eager, ready, fervent, willing to capture any essence of note, any wild topic, and proffer it at his feet. The Time Mender began with the harmonious whims of confidantes and comrades, and would allow him to steer the subjects, the themes, the rhymes and reasons that mattered to him the most. “They come in many different forms, bond and protect, remain by one’s side in constant harmony. I’m sure you’ll see all sorts of unique beings accompanying others on your journey.” She paused, sketching out the remnants and ruins of the chilling vapors, of the fastening night, then refined her stare deep into his, and persevered. “This land is immense, but I can try to impart pieces of it – what do you wish to know?”


her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
LENA
Credit URL

Ashamin the Clovenheart Posts: 426
Outcast atk: 8 | def: 11.5 | dam: 5.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.2 HH :: 5 [Frostfall] HP: 79 | Buff: NUMB
Lochan :: Plain Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Rakt :: Common Cerndyr :: Starpast Jen
#5
A S H A M I N
on his own
The strange mare's gentleness did not go unnoticed. Ashamin was thankful for the way she soothed her voice and steadied herself before him. She appeared to be a rock, something sturdy and well defined, even if Ashamin was only just learning how she was like this. But he appreciated her perceptiveness and felt his own self ease as she took to answering his internal questions, slowly and simply. She spoke with words he understood to explain things he'd never seen; he could tell she had a teacher's heart, as his father had.

Once Lena explained the creature at her side, and once the creature greeted him directly, he began to lower his guard. A companion--that was something he could understand. It was the same thing he had been seeking, though a specific creature such as this kitsune had never occurred to him. He had seen deer in the distance, bird and small things that glided and scurried around his feet, but he had never noted anything so unique as this mare's Imogen.

Cautiously, he lowered his head to the kitsune to proffer the same greeting he had given to Lena. The way that Imogen had so gently touched Lena left him feeling safe in the small creature's presence. As long as neither meant each other any harm, he didn't see why he couldn't treat this new discovery as a friend.

He kept his head low for the Kitsune but his ears swiveled back and up to catch Lena's words when she spoke again. He looked up at her with his large, inky eyes, taking in every scrap of knowledge she offered him with a hidden joy. At his side, his tail snaked with the only intimation of his pleasure. It was good for him to be told things. It was easier if he was guided or commanded in some way, even if only in the matter of knowledge. He noticed the mare's expression, this time recognizable as a gentle smile, and did his best to match it.

"It must be nice," he mused aloud, pushing his muzzle slightly closer to the small creature by the mare's fetlocks. "To never be alone the way you two are, it sounds so safe."

The chill of the air began to settle on Ashamin's back and he shivered. It was strange how his body adjusted to the climes of this land so quickly. He slowly pulled back from the kitsune, straightening his long neck and stretching to look into the distance. In the light, his white spots glowed a faint orange, and the stone within his horn seemed to glow softly. When he turned he felt it shift and his smile widened unconsciously. For a moment he stood with his face in the warm open light, forgetting his company, forgetting his sorrow, forgetting his place. When Lena spoke once more, he was almost surprised to find that he was not alone. How strange it was, to have gotten so used to being without company.

She asked him about the lands, and in an indirect way, about himself. What did he want to know? He wasn't sure. And the way that she asked the question, open and inviting as it was, still made him nervous. How immense was this land, this endless wood where the sunset burned orange and the sounds of the songbirds fell silent to the chirps of strange companions? He turned back to Lena, taking another step closer to her, as if to signal his faint but growing trust. It was clear now, in her demeanor alone, that she meant him no harm. He had no need to flutter with indecision by her side. And yet, he still struggled to express himself.

Ashamin tilted his head curiously, his mane brushing along his neck and his black eyes staring in a way that could never be anything other than blank. A few of the hairs from his tail, caught in the tangles of his horn, floated gently to the earth. What did he want to know? He asked himself again, fussing on all four hooves as he tried to decide. "Well... what should I know?" He asked at last, his heartbeat steady but his mind feeling lost and restless on an uneven keel. He could only hope she'd take to his indecision, his nervousness, kindly.

(table by tamme)


See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
Do not tag me, please message on skype instead


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
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire Heather
#6
The pale vixen lavished and swooned in the coveted attention; vain and confident, she pulsed and pervaded amidst the riveted audience, proffering her soft whiskers to grace the stag’s cheek, then curling a puff of smoke from her parted jaws for a bit of show. She waltzed in the limelight, puffed out her fur, fluffed her tails, curled every frond and plume in place, ensuring her refinement, grace, and power was beheld, spies enamored, riveted, enticed. Lena tried, with great difficulty, not to laugh, muffling the score of giggles threatening an exuberant barrage from her throat, feigning a whimsical smile when Imogen glanced her way after indulging the spectator. While Ashamin absorbed, like an ample scholar, like a kind, quiet observer, the nymph speculated on his tones, on his own understanding and comprehension of companions, of bonded creatures. Never alone, always safe - a consecrated oath of constancy, of endurance, of power and love uttered between silent vows and quiet terms. Truthfully, the nymph was unsure where she’d be without Imogen, perhaps a little more lost than she was now, slinking and hovering between the cracks and crevasses of life, hoping for some grand whimsy to grasp and pull her from doldrums, from gallows, from entrails and machinations. More than once the kitsune had been her savior, and the fairy had returned the favor, consumed in their endless cycle of protection and devotion. Her gaze settled upon the painted figure, piecing together her musings, her sagacity, snatching at lilting harmonies and teasing, tilting whirls. “Its lovely. I couldn’t imagine my life without her.” The fox chirped in response, perhaps a likewise reply, or some teasing sentiment unnoticed. Their connection was like the multitude of others traversing the surface of the earth, timeless, potent, and wonderful, granting an endless source of ambience and contentment. Before she could sink further into the ruminations, her kind eyes floated along the black and white slate of the stag, watched as he seemed to fade away, drifting off to another time, another place, revisiting ghosts, memories, and wraiths. Ever composed, she waited, adrift in the falling leaves, in the crisp, autumn light, hovering on the brink of moonbeams and shattering stars; gloriously fey, belonging to elements of old and new.

When he flickered back into the present, she was still there, hovering on the edges of shards and slivers, tenacity and permanence, never straying. The stallion presided closer and closer still, until she had to tilt her head, draw her inquisitive eyes towards the tips of his ears and the sway of his motions, watch the tracing, the sketching, of fine intelligence eager and fervent, inquisitive and reaching, wanting and yearning for the wisdom of this land, but not knowing where to start. She grinned all the more, sank into raptures and reveries, spiraling off into dulcet chords and layered taffeta, basking in the breathless hymns of laced, archaic enigmas, brandishing deliverance and liberation through the wayward croons and beatific murmurs. Like a storyteller, she polished words with grand finesse, delving closer and closer to delightful tempests and tranquil trances, scars and triumphs, blossoms and ferocity – starting with the roads to sovereignty. “Helovia contains four empires: the Aurora Basin, where I reside," here she itched to lavish poetry and sonnets upon the framework of its name, on the beautiful strands of prowess and peaks, but carried on, saving it for later moments if his interest was piqued, “the Dragon’s Throat, Hidden Falls, and the World’s Edge.” She spoke each and every one with a lacquered layer of calm, as if each one did not contain haunting, poignant edges, as if each one did not have a horrifying claim, as if each one was alluring, beguiling, and wonderful. For half a moment, she dared to include him on the latest wars, the dastardly invasions, but at the same time, she also didn’t want to frighten him into leaving altogether. So many secrets, so many flaws, so many duplicities: between every wall, every corridor, there were crushed dreams and harmonious glories. Instead of bridging that gap, rolling over that stone, the Mender played to the notion of magic, of enchantments, of invocations, another overwhelming juncture of this fantastic, cruel world. “You may also find creatures within that are capable of wielding magic.” The last word was pressed into a light, fond whisper, eyes glittering, fanned by flames incited and invoked behind their gilded effervescence (one of the fey, one of the fairies, one of the pixies, impish and delighted, brilliant and dazzling); wondering which bait he’d take, or if he’d tear into both, grasp and clench for the entire, vivid portion of enlightenment.



her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
LENA
Credit URL

Ashamin the Clovenheart Posts: 426
Outcast atk: 8 | def: 11.5 | dam: 5.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.2 HH :: 5 [Frostfall] HP: 79 | Buff: NUMB
Lochan :: Plain Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Rakt :: Common Cerndyr :: Starpast Jen
#7
A S H A M I N
on his own
As the little fox danced below him, making a show of herself and radiating affection, Ashamin mused on Lena's reply. "I couldn't imagine my life without her." He snorted softly, kindly, towards the little creature and stamped his forehoofs as playfully as he could muster, hoping that he wouldn't startle the white furred nymph.

Was there anyone Ashamin couldn't imagine his life without? He had thought, once, that that had been true of his father. He had never thought his father would die; even as Veril began to age and grow ill before him, he had not thought much about death. Yet it was strange, he thought, to not think about death. Death had been the site of his birth. Death was everything he was, in an odd sort of way. His life became nothing more than a product of the end of another.

And if it was true that his father had died of a slow, longing heartbreak, a deep and incurable pain, then hadn't he caused both of their ends? He could feel no pain for the loss of his mother other than his father's pain--could feel pain for his father in every waking moment, set deep in his bones. How could the stone, cold and white, be a reminder of the mother he had never met when his father had fastened it to his horn as a colt, and watched it grow into his horn? His mother's legacy was caged in him, his mother's name on his lips with every introduction, and yet his father's memory was all he had, and everything he loved.

But Lena loved. He could tell in the way she spoke of the kitsune beside her, and the light he saw in her air. Ashamin, too, wanted to love. So when she went on, speaking of the herds in the land with equal excitement, he could think only of the Aurora Basin, where she resided. If she held so much love in her heart, surely, was it not from her homeland? He had learned from his home, his father, more than he had learned from anywhere else. His upbringing had been his foundation. From his father he had learned empathy, curiousity, and yes, though he felt it now for no one, love.

The Basin had created the mare before him, hadn't it? He wasn't sure. He wasn't going to ask. But if he was right, and if her love and light truly came from her home, then he wanted to see it at least. He turned his gaze away from the active creature at her hooves, straightening the tilt of his head and attempting to let off an air of certainty. Still, there was nothing certain about the young buck; even the way his tail snaked against the earth, conveying nervous agitation, was unsure.

Just as he gathered himself and prepared to speak, the mare stopped him in his tracks with something more.

Magic?

It couldn't be. His features shifted, expressing a fear, a wonder, and an impassioned curiousity. Magic was a story, nothing more. It was stuff of the legends his father had told him in the dark hours before sleep fell upon them. Magic made up tales of ever-burning fires to keep one warm on the coldest nights of winter.

But when Lena spoke Ashamin couldn't bring himself to deny her. Perhaps it was his innocence, perhaps his consuming loneliness, but he trusted her. He trusted her too quickly and too much, he knew this, but he made no effort to stop himself. He tried to muster his thoughts again and form a reply, but the idea of magic was too shocking. After a moment he simply shook his head, the stone shifting in his horn and the mess of his mane catching lightly in the air.

He walked past her, his communication silent and perhaps even failed. With his father, he had spent days in complete silence but knowing everything his father wanted him to know. Spending an entire childhood with one stallion only led to an intense study of body-language and emotion--a full and devastating understanding of the saddened curve in his father's back, a realization that the only reason Veril stayed by his side was because he was his mother's living remains.

He turned his head to the side, looking back at Lena slightly, and quietly spoke a small question.

"There is magic...in the basin?"

Ashamin exhaled. When he drew in the next breath, it was with apprehension. When he spoke, his voice shook with a tremor.

"I think," he said, "that I would like to see it."

(table by tamme)


See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
Do not tag me, please message on skype instead


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
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire Heather
#8
Imogen would have liked to play with the stallion all evening, muster constant forms of entertainment and bravado, but Lena’s musings and purpose tied her to other whims and ruminations. She pranced away from each stomp of the beast’s hooves, curling her tails in various different directions, hovering in the Stygian, midnight oils as they continued gathering stars and dust for their fancies. Chirping, chirruping, cooing into the chilling atmosphere, lending light into the plunging darkness, she dashed beneath the Time Mender’s unmoving, stalwart limbs, blue eyes a welcoming, teasing beam. They may have continued, had Ashamin not been distracted by the serenity of the Songbird’s voice, and the kitsune blended back into the background, watched with keen intellect and interest, an enduring scale of justice and potency layered beneath sweetness and delicacy (bonded individuals too alike, altering and shifting with one another).

The subjects altered his curiosity, a siren call, a wayward song, and the sylph bore witness to the unsure transformation, as if he was enticed, beguiled, allured by the words, by the phrases, by the promises conveyed in her prior sentiments – but by which, and how far? The intricacies of the lands, the harmonious phrases dipped in ambrosia, candied and laced with sugar, placed without the trials and tribulations surrounding them? Or was he stirred by magic, the pleasant and treacherous invocations pieced and woven together for protection, for annihilation, for serenity? Each had been carefully cherished, doted, beloved, adored, because Lena did love, probably far more than she should. All the steps she made throughout the barbaric days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds, were for the Basin, were for her brethren, kin, and companions. They stoked fine ambition. They incensed reverent aspirations. They cloaked and hid manifestations of pride. They plaited remnants of tranquility and rapture. They gleamed with dulcet wings, prospered with absolute sacrifice. Courage, bravery, spirit, and determination glowed in the sweet essence of her presence, in the harmonious, seraphic exploits, in the luminescent bliss she emboldened through audacious splendor and varnished opulence; and she always yearned to add more and more of those benedictions, of those ounces of benevolence, into a world she treasured. Sometimes she was not repaid for her efforts, thrown into pits of misfortune, tossed beneath swinging pendulums of malady, but she never forgot the warm rhapsody of Elysium, the cool breath of the mountains, the entangling elation of peaks, of valleys – for it was heaven, it was home.

Was that something Ashamin wanted? Was that what he craved? Or was he like many of their world: tempted by the notion of power, of enchantments, of eventual triumph, devastating conquest? Her eyes searched his for a conviction, for a semblance, of his notions and wishes, but his expression shifted many times over (wonder, like a child’s, enamored and bewitched, and fear, like the unknown could destroy him), and she was only left with his strung silence. The information she’d presented was a lot to take in, to absorb, to even try to understand, so the nymph committed the same actions as before – patient, waiting, regaling nothingness and heavenly armaments, stoic and composed in the face of tenacity and liberation. Only through the quiet eaves, the hushed arches of the forest, did she finally hear the soft, faint, indistinct query indulge her, combining her preceding statements into one sanctity, one sanctuary. Her smile radiated in a warm, nourishing reverie, indulging into the beauty of repose, acknowledging truth through the boundless entities of their world. “There’s magic everywhere.” In the trees, in the ferns, in the moss, in the swell of the sea, in the hot, stinging nettles of sand, and yes, in the perils of snow and nestled rasp of ice. Petals of the free, grace and finery sown into gilded, golden compassion, burst in her love of the earth, in her benevolence of the realm of auroras and raptures, trying to chase away the ghosts flickering behind his eyes, the tremors, the apprehension, rising through his voice – casting the smallest of assuaging whispers, a minute trace of soothing arias, sweetened and soft. “I can show you.” Kind and tender, sanctified benedictions, coiled together in the eternal bliss of her movements and motions, dabbling into the shards of a pathway, hastening towards ice and snow, chilling ramparts and persevering prowess, maneuvering ahead of him and tossing her head towards the primrose trail.



her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
LENA
Credit URL


Forum Jump:


RPGfix Equi-venture