the Rift


[OPEN] We fly as high as the flame will rise

Maren the Crownless Posts: 264
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.0 :: 6 HP: 70 | Buff: NOVICE
Mr. Teatime :: Siberian Tiger :: Sing Yewrezz
#1


She had held onto hands cold and warm, but both had never hold her vast enough to make her stay. Not like the golden grains and fires birthing cinder and smoke had been able to. She had her sanctuary. Now they needed theirs. She looked how the mists leaned and spun in the shadows of the forest. Fluorescent crawlings and dances around her figure in the silent symphony of a by the night composed moonlight. Because whatever the moon had done, in the deep shadows of their little chapels – and playing good and evil with the god, they would need her vigilant embrace, whenever she would return. . . But of course Maren had nothing much to do with something that was – for her – so irrelevant. She had her own religion to uphold, her own church to lead and her own god to worship and please. Still, balance was such a fragile thing.

The season of the Sun had come and gone and the moon shone through the canopy of the forest as the doorstep to this new seasonal darkness. Even as a worshiper of the light, she admired the gloom and silence that was its company, for this was how the circle and balance that embraced the world – with its concealed soft cushions and pointy claws – worked. Deciding against that was stupid and idiotic and short-sighted and would be prove that their kind had gotten lost in the gift of evolution. But evolution had its edge and Helovia was walking it now, wearing its red stained cloak. It left her unsure where to categorize this conflict without letting the scholar and priestess within her fight over the weights of their judgement, too.

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness some time ago and the tigermare looked around. She liked to wander without knowing to where, and that was how she had found herself in a reflection of unfamiliar silvery waters. She stood in the silence of thought as the white smoke danced around her. The mists – not her mists – simply added the mystery that some minds needed to come to certain visions. Of course her always pondering mind knew that she was close to the World’s Edge, and a nibble of curiosity tried to wallow her only further into that direction. After all, she had witnessed enough of the selection of the new King and Queen that she had developed quite an. . . interest in the politics that had hold the land in its unsteady grasp after the invasion. But she hadn’t spoken to her Sultan about a spontaneous friendly visit, and thus she would not linger and, like a good girl, be gone along with the mists by morning.

Still, the stenches from a land left to rot were hard to ignore.

Marens eyes pierced like a wind-rose through the shadows of the dense vegetation. Something made her stand as still as possible. She felt the weight of the light above her head like she was a small version of the lighthouse they were trying to construct at home. Nevertheless, stains tended to make her curious, as she liked her carpets in holy white and shiny marble.



@[Mauja]
Maren
BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY

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Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#2
.. and in the darkness, our blackest thoughts awaken.

On silent wings the owls cut through the air, feathers whispering a subtle, predator hymn. Their eyes were washed-out and gray in the foggy night, their movements muted—and those too weak of sense would not live to see the morning's light.

It was the way of the world. It was as it should be, wing-tips almost touching in jest and love (that deep, platonic kind), because yes, they were creatures of different pasts and different ages, but their hearts beat next to one another, just like they did with his.

He came in their wake, cradled by the mist, slow and regal and thoughtful, burdened; wasn't he always? Haunted by the past and present, and afraid of the future? He was trapped in limbo, in a world he both adored and loathed and feared, and no matter where he sought refuge he could never lay his head down to sleep.

His eyes just kept spinning, snapping open, looking this way, that way, and if he ran to the past he faced all of his mistakes; if he lived in the present he lived with everything he constantly allowed to go wrong; and if he dreamed of the future.. it daunted him and scared him and it stole the hope out of his cooling heart, and besides,

he didn't even know what to dream for.

So he fled the Edge on that night, left it behind in the curling, concealing fog, and tried to leave his heart and worries beyond too.

But that never works as intended. They came along for the ride anyway, heart pounding uselessly in a tight chest as his mind spun, freewheeling in the dark. And he didn't just think of everyone, he thought of everything too, ranging from Ophelia and Roskuld and Kahlua to.. alliances, Torleik, the Basin, family, Gaucho, the past, Lena, d'Artagnan, dandelions and fucking sand.

Everything kept flashing before his eyes, so he stopped looking where he went.

Moths are drawn to flame.

There was a subtle change in the sounds his owls made—a shear between feather and air, the sensation of a swerve tugging weakly at his heart. And then.. equilibrium, as they floated, circled, all sharp edges and stark eyes in the light of a halo.

Mauja's gaze dropped to its shadow—the mare with the wings upon her crown, and washed-out-to-wine red stripes cutting across her body (like old wounds; what did they tear out of you?). The one.. who was not alright. The one who had steered a boat across the Throat's strait. The one who had watched in silence.

The one with a reservation in her eyes he could only label judgment.

But of what?

"Hey," he breathed, a sound so soft it barely stirred the night air at all.

[ finallyyyy @[Maren] ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Maren the Crownless Posts: 264
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.0 :: 6 HP: 70 | Buff: NOVICE
Mr. Teatime :: Siberian Tiger :: Sing Yewrezz
#3


Unsure what kind of itch was rolling past her skin, the mare stood as silent as the trees, a single droplet of light leaking from her halo like a falling leaf. She glanced past the shrubs and long grasses, polished by the fluorescence of the heavenly circle above her head and then continued to dig through the cloudy darkness with the thick pupils of her eyes.

But what was she expecting, except the ghosts of her conscious; the phantasms of her mind? There was nothing left in this area of the world, whatever lies had been told - whatever new Kings and Queens had been putting themselves before the fogs as marionettes to keep continuing on the charade that the herd-land was still fulfilling a purpose; was still holding the burning candle of prosperity. How can anyone believe that?

And the land was not just dying, it had already died: Back when the Goddess had put her last victim into the lights of the forlorn. The face of the moon buried all the love for herself; all the faith in her moonlit-embrace and the reassuring rakish dancing of her shimmering starlight. It was gone because of the stains left by the darkness. On the priestess' isolated shimmery gaze spread again the distraction of the labyrinths of thoughts and objections which continued on to circle her mind.

Then, entering the faint light that surrounded her, a surprisingly familiar figure floated into her quiet company. Like a deja vu or a distant memory preferably being forgotten from troubled times, it was just like before. Her eyes turned to the silvery water above which the tragic faint lights of fireflies hoovered. Then her eyes returned to the unicorn, the one who had the ashes of the insect that burned themselves on his coat. He had been many things in her head before. But he was King now.

And, just like then, she wasn't sure what to make from the glaziers in his eyes: cold nor warm; neither happy or sad, were just a solidified haze of stillness and quiet. And somewhere inside her she was glad it was still this way. Because, just like then, it made her feel calm in some way, unchallenged. Then she had been troubled, shaken, unable and desperate. But that was then and this is now. He was not the divine King of Fireflies anymore and through the night's cold autumn air she heard his voice before she noticed his lips moving.

"Hey", and it was really soft.

Maren simply stared at him, confused, even if only just slightly. Her eyes evolved, from the eyes that had been judging the world inside her mind, to a questioning one of the here-and-now conflict between what she had been expecting and what she was seeing. With her pupils small and the purples in her eyes shimmering around them, she looked at the stallion standing before her in the mist. "You say that like you carry the whole world on your shoulders," she whispered . . . And not like a King at all.

She had already weighed out that the way the new rulers had been chosen had been unholy and undemocratic. But somehow, after she had heard him convince even Gaucho (and she knew how hard that was) there had been a small high-pitched ringing whisper echoing against the waters of her mind, whispering in wishful words that perhaps it would be alright. Perhaps these creatures were smart enough to figure out the violation of the godly laws that had been broken - and fix it. The former herd of the land had fled, and if it would've been her, she would've put the land under the government of preachers and loyal worshipers of the Moon so that they could fix what was damned by those ignorant of worlds ways. She would let it stay that way until the Sanctuary would be restored and the Moon would have drawn the lights of the night once again.

So what had been that hopeful wishing song, once upon a moonshine? Why couldn't she recall the words of that high-pitched whisper anymore? "But isn't it just the edge of it . . . King?" She stated with foreign tongue, warmth nor cold attached to the silent flames of smoking words. Around her the mist danced a perfect ballet.

Another droplet of light fell like a blurred raindrop through her vision, but her eyes only saw the King of Fireflies. I thought we had both changed, but I guess that's just me. And she couldn't help feeling lonely thinking that.



@[Mauja]
Maren
BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY

yewrezz | x x | larfsalot
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Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#4
He wasn't sure what he was to her—midnight intruder, false angel, some ungodly King perched on a distant mountain, a silhouette against a storm-wracked sky..? Because if he thought of their oh so brief time spent together again, with his side merged with Kahlua's, and all the rancor of his distaste thick upon his tongue and that wary, reserved look in her eye as she watched the proceedings

What am I to you? his heart wondered, but he did not break the silence again, because he would know in time. It was just that.. with the softness of the way she had lain, cradled by an old oak's roots and with the halo dripping light (like tears) in the gentle fog.. she was a gentle memory, one of softness, one he could not reconcile with the events of the past week, and it frightened him because he had gone into this, greeted her, as he would a friend—someone who would not seek to punch sleek daggers in between his ribs.

But what are you to me? Her eyes seemed searching, questioning, like she did not know what to make of it—of.. of him, he guessed, all washed in pale, cold light. "You say that like you carry the whole world on your shoulders," she whispered to the frost revenant, who felt a twitch run over his shoulder blades—they all say that, he wanted to whisper back, with bitterness arcing across every word. It's never wings, is it? Only when the sun rises behind me and it stretched out .. pure, gilt light .. but it's never mine.

The sun keeps on rising and they see, it was just a trick of the light.

And still she gave nothing away, watching him with a purple-edged quiescence that, frankly, scared the fuck out of him. He was used to being the frozen one, the one who gave nothing away, the one who watched and drank in and analyzed

But suddenly, he was the prey, caught in the irises of a beautiful predator. It did make him uncomfortable, even though she wore a deceptive halo over her sleek face.

I'm not sure I carry anything .. except my demons.

"No," he said, quietly, the blue of his eyes soft, washed out to silver. "I'm not—I'm not..." And his voice groped hesitantly in the dark, searching for words it could not find, or not frame, he didn't know which—did he search for honesty, or had he found it but hid from it? "I'm not King," he finally said, soft and quiet still. King Mauja had been full of sharp, hard edges, visions and ambitions, dreams and morning-bright glory

This.. this was something else.

Something softer.

He shifted, slightly, the owls losing interest and settling in a tree, sharp talons gripping branches.

"I just.. am."

[ @[Maren] ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Maren the Crownless Posts: 264
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.0 :: 6 HP: 70 | Buff: NOVICE
Mr. Teatime :: Siberian Tiger :: Sing Yewrezz
#5



In long forgotten childhood times she had understood that the night was meant for sleeping, but she had found that in reality that rarely was the case. Under the night's veil for some the running started; from their own scourging demons, chasing the light of what was promised, but rarely ever achieved. In the distance owls flew off. The mare had not even noticed their shadowed figures against the darkened sky. Now she could vaguely make out the softening sounds of their flapping feathers just before they were taken with the stillness. Maren only watched her company gleaming subtly in the halo-light. His shadowed features dark in the deepened contrast.

But in the impalpable seeming droplets of his eyes had welled up a softness she had not seen before; the lips of the stallion moved again to form words alike. "No." Slowly the tigermare's cautious silver head lowered itself, while in her eyes the cinders of curiosity flickered into sight. "I'm not King," In the sweet greyed darkness the tigermare's body gave in, mist giving way as her feathered legs stepped forward very quietly and with a hesitant trembling. From her lowered perspective she glared up, perhaps in the hope to see the same idiotic individual that she had seen that night, when she had been laying on the ground and he had seemed so large. In the deepness of her eyes still lay her judgement as a dark cloud, but an old-rooted kindness lined it with its bright silver. But she stopped her movement when she had only yet moved a single step forward towards the Frostheart. As if forgotten what she was doing and why – what would she get? She could seek endlessly for silver linings, but at some point all was simply lost. All was simply unreachable and unfixable by her own claws – or perhaps his, too. But the opening of the gates to the King's softer side had showed her only new paths for her thoughts to travel. "I just.. am." So there she stood, thoughtful gaze returned as he denied her whispers.

You are a king, even though one made by mistake.

Nevertheless what her eyes were looking for was neither simple or solid. Why would he stand still on a path he choose to walk himself, even though he must have knew the hardships and objections that would come along with the ride and why – why were his eyes so frightfully soft? It took her some time to reply on his statement, as she wasn't sure what he was trying to point out with it. Or make her say with it. "Yes," the sun-priestess then said eventually, agreeing vaguely with tunes almost softer than the rustling of feathers in the far.

She pulled up her head and let her gaze walk over the silver waters, wherein the night sky gleamed. “What is there left to want? Life is a gift.” But she was sure that had not been the point the stallion had been trying to make. No, of course not; his silence and softness - and those unspoken words lingering which she couldn’t decipher – echoed in her ears as a cry for help. Help…

But she was unable to do so. However much she wanted to; she simply did not care enough.

And then she remembered their oh-so-silent meeting. When few words were spoken and when she had lain in the sharp edges of her own crumbling idiocy, unknowing stupidity and dust - while lit-up tears of something she was not rolled down from her crown. She remembered that when she needed it the most, he had filled her head with distracting thoughts. He had been what her gaze had clung to in her fragile despair, for his faceless eyes had been the ones to keep her from falling through the darkness of the shimmering anticipation that waited on the other end of him. Her light had fallen in dusty clouds towards his pathetic, indifferent and unholy figure. It was like a twisted line in her perfectly thought-out story, and she wondered if he knew she was in his debt.

She had not meant to make him look this way with her greeting, had not meant to hurt him with any of the words spoken. She had simply wanted to let him know that she could make a joke now, too. Like Rei had done then. Perhaps she had wanted to show to him that she was doing better than the last time they had… ‘talked’, even though the mare from that time was gone. But the stallion of then was now gone, too. “But you don’t sound like you are happy with it.”

Unchallenged by the unicorn as she had once been, she was now. And no longer could she pretend she was a leaf on a tree, while clearly she was the water easing it – and in the end the fire that would burn it. Unlike then, the unicorn was no longer something to cling to. But that was okay, because she didn’t need anyone’s hand to save her from the end of a crumbling cliff now. From the corners of her eyes she glanced once again at the marble fault in her perfect little story; still and quiet in her halo-light. Looking slightly uncomfortable. “You can’t decide who you are and be sure that is how others see you, too. That’s something your people do for you, like how I decided who I saw on our first encounter.” But she wondered what he had wanted her to see.



@[Mauja]
Maren
BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY

yewrezz | x x | larfsalot
on deviantart
Please tag me 
Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#6
As he spoke, her head lowered, coming down closer to the ground—and the fog curled and danced around her legs, around her body, so eager to hide her and hold her, halo dripping light all the while. But as she extended a leg, leaned forward, shifted weight—they held her back, and her tentative movement ceased. Mauja remained motionless, watching her with the same softness in his eyes—still wondering, with what intention do you approach me?

He couldn't help but feel like he'd let her down in some way, too—like that darkness lingering in the depths of her eyes, that weight hidden among the stars falling against him—

Was it something I did, or something I did not?

"Yes," she finally said, and he couldn't help but feel like he'd somehow failed her again—come up short again, against whatever measurement she used.

What did the world want of him? Greatness? Ice and monsters? A twitch ran along the skin of his back, nerves contracting in frustration (but nothing changed in his eyes). What do you want of me? he wanted to ask, to shy away from the lilac judgment, what do you expect of me?

He would remain in his limbo until he learned who he was. It was that simply—in theory.

Slowly, his head shifted, moved slightly sideways, almost like a tilt but not quite; and he watched as her head came up, voice speaking silence, lungs breathing moist air and whatever quivering pressure lay between them. For some reason he did not speak. It felt like she was not done, like there were more words laying just behind her teeth, and he wondered if she would grace him with them—if he even wanted to hear them.

But the beautiful thing is that he had no choice in the matter.

She was looking at the pond, but what did she see? The stars, or something else? For a moment he let his gaze follow hers, shrugging when she assumed he was not happy with it, and then looking back to her. She seemed so.. fragile, almost, but it was the strength of her gaze that frightened him. He was almost glad she was not looking at him.

"And who did you see?" It was the natural thing to ask, his voice a deep murmur turning to smoke in the fog, disappearing into it—and much as the power of her eyes made him want to squirm, he wished she would look at him when she replied.

If.. she replied.

[ @[Maren] <3 ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Maren the Crownless Posts: 264
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.0 :: 6 HP: 70 | Buff: NOVICE
Mr. Teatime :: Siberian Tiger :: Sing Yewrezz
#7



Once, his head tilted - almost. But that had been the only expressive movement she had noticed him make before her gaze had wondered of again to watch the lake bathe in the night sky. "And who did you see?" Maren's alabaster head turned back at the stallion for a moment, paused there in a thoughtful anticipation, and then returned to the waters to hang there again, sinking almost so low that the tips of her mane almost rippled the surface. Somehow, even despite his quietness, he had been able to figure out the point she wanted to make.

What do you want me to say, her pondering mind thought. But the game was done and it was time to show herself what cards she had been hiding. On them were the answers she sought, but they were answers she already knew. Who did you want me to see? She questioned again as two different versions of answers circled her mind – And why did she care?

Because, no matter how many times she denied it – how many times she failed, she still tried. For deep inside she wanted to care, wanted to be an anchor - trusted and depended upon. But what she had seen then at their beginning had not been the truth; a phantasm of the mind. So she had to question herself once more: For what did she see – really – behind the veil of her own troubled mind, behind the drapes of her own idiotic desperation and her dramatic longing for salvation? Back then, when she had lain there in her own shattered sanctuary; when he had stood there, who was it that she had seen?

But it's not like I didn't expect you to ask this question.

And she wouldn't have asked it if she didn't know the answer – unless this was the final test from her subconscious. To be or not to be? For perhaps she had asked herself more than she had asked the King of Fireflies. So, still pondering, she looked at the silvery waters and watched the darkness, the deep stillness, below the shivering and slithering snakes of the falling light over the water surface: Like how the winds had fallen into her sails and had then whispered that she was in his debt. And thus, after a silence in which the forest was able to finish another of its night-time symphony’s, the eyes of the mare in the mist turned to the stallion once again. He stood there, still, glimmering in the quiet light. The Ice prince, the King in the mist, the ash-flecked stallion, the King of Fireflies, the fake King, the King made by mistake – and whatever other names he had returned to as in her mind. What was he really when she took it all away? Her lips parted, ready to form words, but then she hesitated for a moment. Then suddenly there were new whispers as she looked at him with the same pale purple gaze.

“I remember that there was nothing left to see.” Fragile words sounding too breakable compared to how they should've sounded – and had – in her head. But then she remembered that she had been a tragic marble doll waiting to be smashes against her own holy white marble walls.

“It felt like my sanctuary had shattered, my mountains of reasoning had turned to dust. I knew I was being childish for not trying hard enough to understand. Stupid, unreasonable, but I was gambling with faith. And one does not gamble with faith, and I had forgotten that. I was hypnotized by it, couldn’t look away. Not from the path I had broken and build up all by myself with all the truths and wisdom I had found. But it was breaking me now and I still couldn’t look away.”

In her irises arose the vague smoke from memories better left forgotten. But her eyes kept silent, even with the far-away emotion as they crowned words whispered into the thick misty air. Like a cloud floating by. But her voice changed, if only just slightly, for it was softer, and although just slightly it had a strange layer underneath. One she could not explain herself.

“You walked into the mist, but somehow you stopped at some distance. I never understood why you didn’t just came fluttering to me, like some moth; pushing some caring words in my face and obliging me to tell you what was wrong.” Because somehow the world worked in a way that that would’ve been the humane thing to do – Because that was what she would’ve done in a world where she would’ve been perfect. “But you didn’t. And, I think it was then, I began to realize you either didn’t care or didn’t see.” But she was not – he was not.

Because, just like him – in all of her perfect imperfection – and unlike Rei, she would have been blind to both seeing and caring as well.

“But somehow that night you were still the angel I needed.” It didn’t sound like a compliment (for that would’ve been strange) as much as an observation from the past; a tribute to a memory that she now knew had been a lie. Looking back: It was a phantasm that had saved her that night. She still looked at him, but now the smoke in her eyes had cleared out as the memory was gone from her vision; now forever locked away as a lie in the back of her head.

“You were not a king, but neither a servant, a slave, a hero or a saint. Not an angel – not a demon.” She concluded in the end. "You are what I saw you as the first time: A figure in the mist.” How many times she could call him her saving grace; the angel that pulled her away from the darkness. Without the veil of her clouded judgement all that she had seen was not there anymore to cover up; left naked by the world. For what she had seen was untrue in the eyes of anyone other than her. Existed only in her own judgement. He was just like everyone, and she could not make it sound otherwise without a veil of her own stupid desperation.

So she shrugged childishly, almost teasingly.
“You just are.”

And with that she turned her tiger-striped body around to the pond once again, and this time dipped her head to its surface – still glimmering with snakes – and drank as her throat had gone dry from the talking. But in the back of her mind still echoed one little sentence as she watched a frog flee into the dark deepness of the below.

... I just.. am.

Have you, too, fled into that darkness?



@[Mauja]
Maren
BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY

yewrezz | x x | larfsalot
on deviantart
Please tag me 
Ascended Helovian

Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#8
She—she wore her holy perfection so well, fine mist droplets clinging to the white garb and making her sparkle in the faint wash of light from stars and halo—and it was like everything conspired to make her divine. The mist waved with her every movement, like trails of thought and memory, and whenever she turned the light struck her, outlined her in a faint shimmer, and all he could think was—

I'm dancing with a tiger.

The holy and pristine had always frightened him—awed him, with its sacred perfection and hallowed air, but frightened him to the core—rank upon rank of white-robed acolytes, but it seemed so cold.

That was why he had taken up the bloodied executioner's axe, instead; he had left the priests to their holy rites and clean, sharp lines, and had hid behind the bloody visage of Judgment. He had worn it like armor—the only defense he had had against them.

And he had done filthy work before the world caught fire and he fled before he burned in the pit he had dug for so many others.

Who was she, this angelic mare lost in the fog, looking back at him with violet eyes and speaking hesitation for a second before solid words came out? What did she want—of him, and of the world? He could only see stars in her eyes—armor, a shield, as solid as his.

He wore confidence as a shield over pale blue eyes and a fragile soul.
She wore mystery as a shield over pale lilac eyes, and.. whatever she hid beneath it.

He had heard stories of sages, maybe even met a few, but none of them had had her rock-solid, iron-hard eyes. Even when they softened they seemed to burn, unforgiving, with some kind of fire.

But maybe she wasn't holy at all.

Maybe she was just another of his ilk—hiding behind whatever armor she had grabbed and put on, and it was just the shadow of her wings, the light of her halo, that screamed divine so sharply in his ears it made his skull ache.

“I remember that there was nothing left to see.”

If it was her judgment—she, the pristine white and he, the one clad in black-iron armor spattered with blood (is there bloodstains on your robes, priestess?)—if it was her judgment, it was.. depressing.

I don't exist.

All there was to him was the black-marked white fur, the ice on his horn and hooves, and pale blue eyes imitating life.

She had seen his body and there was nothing left to see,

because there was nothing else underneath.

But she kept on talking, the soft sound of her voice drowning out the ragged, rugged edge to his breath—few things hit as hard as the cruel words of strangers—and he listened, black-rimmed ears shearing softly through still night air. She—did she trust him? Or was she simply so secure in herself, that sharing such deep moments of her past did not lay her open for someone's straying knife to find?

She was a bastion of light and strength. She was a fucking fortress and he had never felt smaller weaker, more insignificant and stupid. He was Mauja—he was nothing. He had amounted to exactly nothing. He—

“But you didn’t. And, I think it was then, I began to realize you either didn’t care or didn’t see.”

“But somehow that night you were still the angel I needed.”

Night-angel, until the sun rises and burns the illusion away.


He wanted to cry, listening to the words of this mare covered in the scars of her birthright—because the softness of her voice was unforgiving and deadly, and because the words she spoke—he had no words for it himself, the blackness yawning wider in his soul, the sensation of falling, because—because

A figure in the mist. Ethereal, a vision, but ultimately, heartless—there was nothing underneath the dew-on-his-skin, nothing beneath the pale lights burning in his skull, just, just a figure in the mist, a false-angel,

“You just are.”

His breathing was quiet, if just slightly too fast, and his eyes were the same frosty lights in the darkness, but the heart in his chest had cracked and blood spread over the thin ice. He felt.. empty. Dirty. Filthy and foul, violent and merciless, insensitive; what was he doing in the presence of something so powerful and secure?

She drank with her back turned. She drank the water soaked in starlight.

"You frighten me," he finally said, small and quiet, wariness and despair warring with the faint, flickering light of hope in his chest.

[ @[Maren] ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Maren the Crownless Posts: 264
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.0 :: 6 HP: 70 | Buff: NOVICE
Mr. Teatime :: Siberian Tiger :: Sing Yewrezz
#9



In a mirror of blackness she watched how the frog slipped underneath the liquid, into a place her vigil eyes could not guard. And she thought, slippery like the frog – with his icy trembling and grip, the Frost King had already fled to the other side, too.

Pale shimmering thoughtful eyes had fallen stuck on the water’s surface. For that lonely, regrettable moment she was hypnotised by the darkness.

With all the things she could do, with all the things she was capable off – but with a heart incapable of caring too much for the things she was meant to love, there was nothing except the gods that had her in her grasp. She had devoted herself to a liberation of belief. Yet, unlike them, she was like the fog, free to twist and twirl in her mortal captivating swaying. (But what was her caress? What did it feel like; she questioned). She did not follow paths walked by the lost. She did not follow streams as old as time. In the end, all that she followed – tonight – was the dancing of pearls in the blurred sparkling of moonlight falling upon her alabaster head. For, with her Lord as her witness, perhaps tonight she was made to enlighten that darkness.

”You frighten me.”

Surprised by this totally random accusation she let out a single snort. Eyes, pulled wide open in shock, the air from her outburst rippling up the reflection of herself in the water. From Mauja’s perspective he might have only been able to notice her shoulders shaking, while Maren attempted to restrain the remainder of her giggles. For all the things his dully draped soul had brought into the world over his icy cold and quiet lips, these three words certainly were the most fifty shades of dramatic she had heard – perhaps ever, in her life. So, totally from her à propos, she turned her white, haloed head to the stallion again, foremost interested to see what face he had made while putting the words in his mouth. But as she crossed his stare, she remembered. She remembered that this wasn’t a play, this wasn’t a silly stupid unlucky joke to enjoy. He still stood there, unmoved – keeping the light of her halo captive in his eyes. And again she recalled the softness of his voice as a coldness started creeping over her skin. She swallowed her dried out laughter, which had quickly started rotting away in her mouth anyway.

Why?

The priestess felt the dust of the world, the quiet music of the forest vibrating in her ears and the late autumn winds stroking her cheeks. The figure in the mist, silent in his fright.

Why can’t you fix his own problems? He was King. He was powerful (right?), he was smart enough (right?), he was loved by others – right? He had no right to tell her he just was, he had no right to tell her how she apparently frightened him.

I am too selfish to help you.

But somehow she really – really wanted him to make some kind of unfortunate joke, one that would make a room full of people frown and fall quiet. She wanted that, like last time. All was better than this hopeless view. He made her feel this aching scrubbing in her chest again, reminding her of the chaos she had felt then, at that time and place – and how he must be feeling like that now. And she hated that connection, she hated knowing how fucked up and foul he was.

"I don't frighten you," the priestess confirmed in an amused whisper while still looking into his icy eyes, the ones she couldn’t decipher, not even now – but she hadn’t needed his eyes. "You frighten yourself." Then her head turned around, halo-light moving along with her, casting light on what was in shadows before as her hooves started wandering along the silvery pond's shore. She had seen them on her way, shimmering in their velvet, slippery coats. The berries hang in small little bushes close to the ground, draped in Maren's mist. "I once had a friend," she started in her outlandish hymn. "Who told me these berries were excellent for relaxing. You can recognize them by their circular leaves and asymmetrical veins," she explained. Then she cut off a branch with her teeth and took them in her mouth as she wandered back to Mauja. Attached to the stem berries shimmering blue as a songbird dangled happily along with the mare's movements. And, still having to talk through her teeth: "Here – take one, just to try it. I promise you it won't kill you." she hold the berries in front of the oh so troubled stallion. Perhaps to prove her point she managed with her flexible tongue to get one into her own mouth herself. Then she put down the branch with all the berries, chewed, then took another of the blue berries from the tuft. "By the way, I was only mocking you. Of course you are a king: The fearsome King of Fireflies," and she stretched out her wings like hands, casting longer shadows on the ground beneath her, to show him all the fireflies surrounding them with her exaggerating movements, dramatic voice draped in sudden enthusiasm – perhaps already slightly influenced by the bold blue beads of berries. "Don't you feel feel their wrath? I do." she smiled. " Just trust the diviner – this stuff really helps." Or something.




@[Mauja]
Maren
BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY

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Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
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Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#10
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
And just like that, it shattered.

His hesitation, his reservation, the fragility of fear and illusion—everything came down in his head with a crashing boom and a cloud of dust. Like fuck, how stupid could he be? Hadn't he learned, over the years, to keep his fucking nose in reality and not wander off into dreams?

Dreams weren't real. Dreams hurt. One way or another. It hurt when they broke. It hurt when they weren't real. It hurt when you recoiled from your state of star-struck halo-lights and creeping mist and fucking hell, drinking starlight? and realized you were nothing but a stumbling fool so lost in his own thoughts and misery you had completely slipped into some half-dream state of mind. Sacred holiness. Priestesses. Holy lights and Inquisitions—bah.

The awed fear that had ridden him had dissipated with her snort. That had been the catalyst, his wake-up call; it was a sound too mortal, too normal, too filthy and dirty and graceless. She wasn't some kind of creeping, crawling goddess in disguise. She—well, fuck, what was she? Her shoulders rippled with light and motion, and for a moment it wouldn't have surprised him if she'd sprouted wings, or burst into a demon of darkness, dripping blood and slaughtered souls, but—nothing happened. Nothing like that happened, because, hey, you know what, Mauja?

You're just two fucking mortals standing in a glade on a delightfully beautiful night.

The savage voice kept chewing at his thoughts, rampaged through his skull with all the reckless fervor of a maddened bull—but it only had a single target. If he smeared her holiness in his thoughts it was through no fault of her own.

Violet eyes came his way again—still sparkling with stars and mysteries but he tried not to see it, tried to make them drab and gray, fuck, tried to make all of her drab and gray.

Why? he finally spat into the void. Because he'd sort of made a fool of himself, all dreamily thinking her a priestess, so afraid of her tiger-dance and words? Afraid of having his theory of himself not existing being confirmed? Afraid of, well.. being measured and weighed, tried in her judgmental eyes, and found wanting?

Since when.. since when had he cared what others thought of him?

Since always.

When he had built his castle upon fear, he had relied on the impressions of others—he had relied on his reputation. It.. damn.

Back at square one. Mauja didn't exist. Wasn't it natural to fear the concept of nothing? So perhaps he had his answer there: she said he was frightened by himself, and whether she meant the void in his soul or the dreams he'd spun about her—well, he didn't know. Nor was he sure if he wanted to know.

Weakness.

He wanted to flatten his ears, snap at the cool night air, make faces, anything to get the fucking voice in his head to shut the fuck up

But that just fed the monster. So he smothered it with ice instead, drowned it in heaving, glacial seas, next to the corpses of all the other facets of his self. He would keep burying and burying and burying until there was only ice left.

Eyes closed off, heart closed off but bleeding something dark and clotted beneath its coating of frost, he began to drift in her wake with little conscious thought. What was she seeking? What was she saying? The word seemed jumbled and disjointed, like she was talking about something he couldn't remember changing the subject to—launched into a conversation halfway over, and suddenly she was brandishing a branch of late berries, of all things, in his face. It was too pathetic to be a sword, so with a moment's look of pure confusion and surprise he stared at the offending object. If she hadn't wanted him following her, she could've just told him, instead of sticking berries in his face.

Then that half-remembered conversation from seconds prior came back, and he simply said, "Oh," and took one. Like, good job eating things a stranger you potentially just insulted offered you. Last time he'd eaten something like this it had been his good friend d'Artagnan seeking to knock them both out for a night, and it had had some..peculiar events attached to it. But it was too late and the berry was already down his gullet, and if not for Irma's bemused assertion that it wouldn't kill him he likely would've panicked on the spot.

It should've been a sobering thought, but it was just despairing—how far he had fallen from his icy heights.

"Fearsome?" he queried, something blue in his voice, something—disappointed, hurt, sad? He couldn't place it, staring at the shadows of her peculiar wings. Mauja the Fearsome King of Fireflies. They danced in the darkness she had created for them, but it just made his heart ache; fearsome"I don't want to be fearsome anymore," he went on after a moment, barely aware of saying it out loud as he lipped at the dropped branch, not at all sure why he was there for more, or what it would do to him, or to her, or anything—but it seemed better than fear, better than insulting this prickly, gorgeous creature, and.. well.. better than his usual misery, right?
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Blu the Bootyful Posts: 443
Administrator atk: 99 | def: 99 | dam: 99
Mare :: Other :: 5'7" :: 25 HP: 99999 | Buff: TWERK
Blu
#11
unarchived per request
 HP: 1100

Helovia Hard Mode

Maren the Crownless Posts: 264
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.0 :: 6 HP: 70 | Buff: NOVICE
Mr. Teatime :: Siberian Tiger :: Sing Yewrezz
#12


Shattered in her sanctuary she had lain, then. That was before he had broken through the mist; had her fortress shattered, too. And yet.. A savior. Back then, he was the one who had pulled her back into the light, saved her from something she had not wanted to become — and even now it was still picking her insides like a lost rat: Guilt and the agitation for the abduction of her pride. 


I want it back — I want it all. Hatred was a big word, just like despise, but nevertheless she was that selfish. And that was how she figured; Only through the support of these azure pillars she could stand with what was left of that stolen dignity... and with the help of a turquoise tongue, she could deny what was not there.


The berries were as much for the King as for the crownless.


She veiled herself in mist, hid behind her pretty eyes; but there were some parts of her she could not retain. Maren just wasn’t sure anymore how much longer she could handle this, talking to him without showing who she really was. For; so filled with shame she was on the inside of her mortal vulnerability, her fragile soul was so easily taken. 


As he was so lost himself, Mauja took a berry too. However, next thing he started questioning her sense of tasteless humor. Tasteless, because in fact she did feel a strange kind of fear for him, something she only just now admitted to herself —and immediately felt peace with, also. 
Which was weird. Weird in that blue kind of way.


"I don't want to be fearsome anymore," he said.


She frowned in a slightly spastic angle, blinked a couple times to much. She couldn’t help it, her gaze was starting to feel a bit.. washy. “Maybe - if you throw a coin in me I will fulfill your wish.” she mumbled as she harvested another blue berry herself. She remembered to seriously think about his question and looked up to him with a tilted head. “But it would seem you have found a good beginning to a fairy tale,” she then added after thinking a few munches longer. The words had a very positive tune to them, but her voice sounded hazy, as if it was tripping over itself as it was trying to find its way through an seemingly endless fog. 


But Maren had managed to find Mauja's glacier-eyes. And for some really important specific, but unidentified reason she was now watching how the glimmering pupil within the frosted frame melted and ignited into light and sparkles. It turned, it turned and it turned around again — and suddenly his whole eye was the freaking universe. She was there; in a boat, sailing the melting core of the planet Mauja and she was imagining how the atmosphere was turning into his breath; pushing into her sail as the boat started sliding through the water. She was space-pirating his eyeball, in search for new lands. 


Somehow, somewhere within that time-frame, Maren’s nose had traveled to Mauja’s and she realized she had found a new land where their whiskers met. 


Her hazy eyes watched how the moon enkindled them in silver, making them look so long. Yet they were linked, for she could feel the trembling of his breath — feel the wind in her sail —  vibrating through this connection. She only felt the genuine interest in him and the mysterious tickling on her body she suspected was him, because they were the only ones here. Again, Mr. Vowels tripped over his own fancy feet, but she didn’t notice through the pretty blue haze. "If you would not be fearsome, what would you be instead?” And his eye; his eye was still blue and so much closer; the universe so much bigger. It was all there, all the atmospheric fumes, all the layers on layers of the same — but so different taints, of blue. 

She plundered she plundered she plundered, because. She wanted it, she wanted it all. 


Talking


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Notes: ^ this is not an attempt on poetic writing, this is Maren being stoned.  

@Mauja
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Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#13
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
"I don't want to be fearsome anymore," he said, lipping at the branch, teasing the blue into his mouth. It tasted dry and tart and sour all at the same time, but he forgot all about that—he forgot all about everything as he glanced up from beneath white lashes. She was.. well, damn, she just was, draped in moon-gray and celestial scars, her eyes full of starlight and fucking infinity.

She seemed softer, somehow, like the knives in her gaze had gone dull, or been hidden away again—like.. like she'd taken her armor off. Like she'd let go of something, something she had clutched so hard to her breast she probably hadn't even known of it, like a weight being lifted after so many years that it simply felt like soaring

Like he had felt, standing before the Council and finally admitting his mistakes.

He had lived with that guilt and shame so long he had not known how hard it had been to bear, and yet he was stupid enough to keep bearing it because he didn't know anything else. Habit was a powerful and damning thing.

What clung so closely to her? Which shadows veiled her eyes, and gave the stars in them such razor sharp edges? And yet her breath was soft in the fog, just a deepening of the white, proof of her mortality—just like the gentle curve of her back was proof of her sin shut the fuck up.

There were no sins here and would be no sinning.

His heart had turned to ice for a moment, a deep and dark plunge through the planes of his mind, but—but there was something there, something in his veins (—something in his mouth), something soft and slow and lazy and something so resistant he felt numb for a lot longer than he thought was necessary.

Probably a good thing, because the celestial being peering down at him said “Maybe - if you throw a coin in me I will fulfill your wish.” and the only thing he could think was what in all seven hells did you just say?.

And the infinity of stars kept looking at him.

The violet of her eyes studded with burning crystals, so smooth now, smooth like the slow warmth moving through his veins with each sluggish beat of his heart. “But it would seem you have found a good beginning to a fairy tale,” and still he wondered what it had to do with him being fearsome. Was she talking about redemption? Of how the tarnished Knight in his blackened armor had to go on an epic crusade to cleanse his name, and scour the blood and scars from his sword?

Maybe he wasn't doing enough. Maybe he wasn't good enough to shake off his villainous past, to clear his name for good and break free from the black-iron shackles keeping him in the dark—

Her halo was dripping light, like tears or sweat or falling stars, gilt droplets falling into—nothing. His eyes widened, and the halo shimmered in the focus of his gaze—wobbled, bled, moved, glowing brighter and brighter as it came closer, each exhalation forcing the fog—the shadow—up and brightening its light with a backwards kind of logic that made perfect sense to the warped tunnels of his mind.

That which used to be straight, and crystalline, was crooked, blurred, like frosted glass, but somehow that made perfect sense too.

Just like the violet hold of stars he fell into when his gaze slipped down again—a rushing void in which to hide his soul, breathing into her like he had never done anything else—like his soul had never been anywhere else but slipping into her lungs like spider-silk and starlight—

"If you would not be fearsome, what would you be instead?”

What was it that you let go of, earlier? What was it that blunted the edges in your eyes? It was still there, in the way she looked, the way she spoke, the way her eyes glittered like something so far out of his reach, but—but suddenly she had become .. reachable. The pale muzzle pressed against his dark one was warm, plush, soft and solid, her breath the sweetest thing. It swam in his veins with the slow blue monster, and the stars.

"Yours?" he mumbled dumbly, unaware of the word slowly rolling off his tongue to become food for the fog.

[ @Maren <3 ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Maren the Crownless Posts: 264
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.0 :: 6 HP: 70 | Buff: NOVICE
Mr. Teatime :: Siberian Tiger :: Sing Yewrezz
#14


She laughed.


Because her eyes were cold, although not as cold; her lips in control, and yet unfrozen. She wasn’t made of stone. Her heart was a firelight, and it burned and burned like it always had. It was bright and warm… and lonely, because it couldn’t see past the light that it imprisoned.


Meanwhile her heart throbbed wildly and cried and curled itself in fluster, because letting someone in meant making space and she didn’t have much of that. Yet, it was mostly scared; she didn’t want to get hurt. I won’t, she thought, because he had already taken too much of her as it was. Stolen away, because she, that cold-eyes priestess, could feel, too. Perhaps surprisingly, her eyes were as cold as her heart was warm. Hell, she could maybe even feel like no other could, because if it wasn’t so, how else could she have managed to survive so long? How else could that wicked loneliness feel this heavy?


Her laugh echoed-echoed, echoed as if it ran away, she thought (she realized) as she hit replay in her head. From her, from him (running): Leaving behind her tongue, stripped down and left with mere silence when the sound had finally starved and gone. Away from the scenes of this strange road-twisting, skin-aching blue —night.


But nothing had really gone. He was still there; she was still there. The pupil of his eye was still a black hole sucking her in. Maren wobbled on her hooves, clumsily.


But perhaps this planet is flat, she thought at that instant, like a coin in the universe; the one she’d told him to throw. Yet, even though she had that knowledge, she kept sailing along. Maybe hoping that once she fell off the edge, fell through the fumes of his majesty, she would find a soft place to fall onto. And that was better than sailing on an everlasting sea on her own for forever.


So she sailed along further further further — plundering plundering—in search of that promised edge, that perfect fall. Her nose ventured on, trailed further along his cheek, leaving her damp sighs like a trail on his skin.


How could he be hers, she would’ve thought normally. But now, now his words… It had managed to sound rather… doable. Logical, even. As if it was something that could be easily achieved: Being his, because that was what it meant, right: When he became hers she would automatically be declared as his, too?


That’s reasonable, she concluded with wisdom prancing all over the place.


No words of protest came up at all as she felt the warmth of his skin against hers. She had simply been intrigued by their connecting whiskers: The prettiness, the sparkly-ness. Feeling his breath —Yours. Without spending words on asking for his consent, she buried her nose in the comfortable-looking gap where his cheekbone ended and his neck muscles started. Softly  pushing gently because she felt like it —Or maybe because she was touched by his wish to be hers... And yet maybe because she was somewhere aware of the fact that she felt sorry that she simply wasn’t sure it was even possible.


But alas, she currently found herself in a situation where she was heavily denying reality. She was in a state where there was no confusion, no secrets, no lies. There was only the awareness of feeling at ease with him here, even draped in veils of shadows and mist, she trusted his words, felt his comforting warmth, the aching on her skin of a more primitive concept of wanting to just exist —And thus she said, in a hushed whisper as she smiled against his white fur, “I wouldn’t mind that.”





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@Mauja <3
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Mauja the Frozen Light Posts: 1,392
Outcast atk: 6.5 | def: 10.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.2 :: 14 HP: 79.5 | Buff: HUNTER
Irma :: Snowy Owl :: Terrorize & Diego :: Eurasian Eagle-Owl :: Rage Neo
#15
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
And she will devour you, this beast of violets and stars;
she will swallow your soul,
and leave you in a hall of gold—


His mind was busy making poetry (—she drinks starlight), and his eyes were lost in hers. The gold in them seemed silver in the darkness, and each time his breath flared up in a white cloud the light intensified, a warm, soft glow cast upon her face. It never reached her eyes, so they remained silver, a mystery to which he had no solution; a secret without a key, a map without logic, where the lines ran as they wished and changed on a whim. Few times that he could recall had he met someone like her—someone who sent shivers down his spine, someone with a thin shield laying just behind her eyes, someone whose thoughts he could not read. He could only guess, and guesses were dangerous, and thus, she was dangerous.

She was elegant, and cold, and deadly, the distance in her eyes so at odds with the closeness of her body; the touch of her breath. It was a warmth that fell against his marble skin, a warmth he did not know where she housed, for by nature white is a cold color, and in moonlight the red upon her back grew dull, and also cold. And yet, her breath was soft and warm, a mortal in the body of a goddess breathing through her nose.

Or perhaps it was the other way around? A fallen star trapped in a mortal cage, burning up within the prison of her soul.

It was a sad thought, but she laughed, and it was full of things—of lightness, of the same razor edge she seemed to possess, a pain in him as her laugh touched his face with tiny needles and slipped like poison into his veins.

Did she laugh at him? His insides twisted and turned, coiled, fangs eating deeper and deeper—what had he even said, what had he even breathed, what secret had he given to this angelic demon (—demonic angel?)? What little piece of his soul had come loose and floated down her throat to her lungs, and from her lungs into her heart? Yours, the night whispered in a hushed voice, and with a hot shame burning through him he lowered his eyes from hers.

He missed the stars in them. They were beautiful.

(She is beautiful—)

But she was frightening and he was fearsome, and together they were what—white-winged angels in shining armor, and with eyes of the coldest, palest fire?

She was too beautiful to be a creature of the darkness; surely she was pure, even if her flame .. purified. Wiped the world clean. The ground by her feet swam before his vision, or maybe that was her hooves shifting like something sluggish from a dream (—is this a dream?), because it sure felt like dreaming. Distantly, he felt the echo of an echo, Irma's amusement.

But she, the angel, did not cast him from her heaven; she did not punish him for his mortal fallibility, did not tell him he was a fool for that little secret resting in her heart now. She simply breathed against him, something hot in the chilly air, a contrast that ran along his skin like fever—he felt like weeping, for surely, surely, she would disappear soon. Find him lacking. Not perfect enough, because his gaze was not full of stars, and his body was scarred, his mind flawed, his soul a barren wasteland of ice and the secrets and blood buried in it.

She didn't. She was like a dream except she was real, a solid and tangible thing, her breath pushing against his skin, muzzle against that point where head met neck, and he felt beheaded—like she had slid a fine knife into him and severed something.

Maybe just the weights holding him down.

He shifted, and the world shifted too, a sickening blur as the heavens spun and realigned themselves, grinning. He shifted, so that his nose could touch her cheek, her neck, her silken mane, and the touch that had meant to be hesitant became firm, because—well, just because. Because she was stardust yet solid, her halo shedding light on him, so surely, surely

He didn't know. He didn't know what he had meant to think, what assurance he wanted from the light, so he just stood there dumbly, nose pressed against a wine red stripe (—scars, he still thought, scars of something divine, scars of life). It surprised him that she was soft, and warm; he had expected cold hard stone.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she whispered, and he failed to wonder when he had begun dreaming. The slow, lazy warmth in his veins was thicker, sluggish like tar; she was saying things that he could not believe, because—well, because he was he?

Who the actual fuck would want him to be theirs?

Who would want to give themselves to him?

What was he even talking about?

But the evening had a certain chill to it that demanded warmth, and the fact that he was not cold was lost to the haze—so he began to press the side of his neck against hers, reducing the space between their hearts. She was a goddess and he was a slave—that had to be it. The truth. The truth because the things unfolding in his heart couldn't be—that trembling hesitancy, the question lingering on his lips, that part of him that wished, desperately, to fall against her and feel her catch his weight—

Because it had to mean that. It—no, well, maybe—his mind chased itself in circles full of shadows and lights, golden and blue, a storm he could not comprehend nor tame. There were things in it he could put no words on, emotions he could not find a way to bring past his veins and onto his lips—she was a savior he did not deserve nor could get, because, because—because he was he and she was she. There had to be something

But it was so at odds with the intimacy of her touch, the intimacy of her sigh in his faulted memory. She frightened him; he was fearsome; he didn't want to be fearsome anymore. Did she want to be fearsome? She said he was afraid of himself—

"Then take me," he was saying, whispering, tongue faster than his brain; the logic had registered before he had known it had, courage he did not know where it came from putting the words out into her soft skin.

A dare in the darkness.

[ @Maren <3 ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
angels, they fell first, but I'm still here

Maren the Crownless Posts: 264
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 6
Mare :: Pegasus :: 15.0 :: 6 HP: 70 | Buff: NOVICE
Mr. Teatime :: Siberian Tiger :: Sing Yewrezz
#16


Where is it?
Where have you hidden it—
her shimmering, foggy thoughts mused although displeased.


Hesitant, like a boat not immediately sailing off into the sunset: He was like that. His being was simply... wandering around, his breath everywhere. Lost, he let her plunder and take all what she saw. Yet, she felt his gaze on her back and she felt his wind all around her, even though not quite close enough. Watching, without telling her to stop. So she kept plundering plundering, searching: That stolen dignity from that one mystic bug-lit night; where —where is it? How could she have let down her guard, how could she have let him run with it in his silent marble heartbeat?


His nose moved — so soft and sparkly as they were adorned with shining-in-the-moonlight whiskers that she loved to look at — touched her cheek. She couldn’t see them shimmering like the reflections in her eyes anymore, but felt them tickle her skin as she pushed back against his weighted caress.  It was bare, source-less affection —But affection still. Through white’s, blue’s and dancing polka-dot walls she let herself be carried away by the urge when, at last, he seemed to want it as much as she did. What is left of it now? As his nose traveled and pressed against her, she let her thoughts of whiskers go and found new ones of warmth and passion.

(As he watched her back she turned around, realizing that perhaps he had lost some of him, too.) 

Fine, keep it then.


But guard it; keep watch over my treasured dignity, since I can’t tonight. Not tonight.
Because she felt his wind, blowing blowing —pushing against her as the force increased and at some point embraced her so,  that the only thing left for her to want was to become the wind itself, too. And she moved her head from the gap behind his cheek. Instead, she curled her neck to nestle it under his throat. Because here there was shadow, here she could relax. Here... her muscles loosened themselves as the darkness of the world became clear before her eyes. It was like that before she closed them with a sigh and let Mauja’s scent sing its way into her head.


Even though just momentarily, in his shadow she hid away, like a lost candle on the basement-floor, for that was something she never had; shadow. She was always in the light. Haloed by her faith. —But faith, right now; please let me be, as she hadn’t felt herself in the center, the heart of the light as much as right now.


The cracks in him (in her)... It didn’t matter at this moment, for whatever broken and lost pieces there were; they were all neatly glued together to be… well, perfect by the blue paste. Which was fine: Which was enough. She would let herself become the wind, for tonight; be with him — Even if just for a little while, so that her tensed mind could release itself from the worldly pressure she abstractly felt. Letting go of logic and sense, making place for desire.


His muzzle had found its way into her mane as her lips adoringly nibbled the fur on his back, trailing her way from one dot to another through his thickening orangemoon-coat. Yet, his warmth was there, finding its way past his nose, through her fur and rising up into her cheeks... —while all the rest of the world swiftly moved past her in some kind of blur as it spun in circles in the background. "Then take me."  


Her eyes were looking into some place hidden for the world of reality and she smiled as she did. Fool, ” she teased the cliche that had come from his mouth as she let her curled striped neck lean against his shoulder. But gently, her voice soft and appreciative, because this night she would be one as well.


She felt elegant and fine as she pulled the weight, which her lazy head was, off him, started to slowly move past him dragging her long ivory tail behind her. She felt good, graceful —like... really graceful, while her hooves slowly marked the ground around the marble statue that Mauja seemed to be. She walked around him to find his nose again at the finish line and maybe more than that. "Then... let's  be the wind," she whispered, muttered drunkenly into his ear.

Taking him. With her. To...— To wherever wherever was to be.

Because she had basically concluded that the morning didn’t matter, for she craved his presence, his touch. It was as if her heartbeat was singing some kind of rhythm and she couldn’t keep up, but she didn’t seemed to care, still danced; danced, until she fell down, fell of the edge through azure clouds... so that she could find a soft place to land.





the end :|

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@Mauja
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