the Rift


More satellites than shooting stars

Lysander Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#1
One thing frostfall had taught him was: Never eat yellow snow. Ha! No, seriously though- winter was something that Lys enjoyed above all things. Cold never seemed to bother him, it was questionable as to how that was the case, but he tended to bite the bullet and just ignore the nipping of cold at the edge of his lips, and the tips of his ears. The snow had fallen; there was no doubting that for a second. The world had turned into one huge marshmallow coated wonderland, where sounds were muffled beyond recognition beneath a thick dusting of ice-cold frosting and corners had been rounded and edges softened. Here and there, bare twigs pierced the white veil, and grass blades stabbed holes through areas that lay thin. Regardless of the covering, the shadows moved ominously, perhaps more ominously on this one occasion than normal.

There was one shadow in particular that bled as ink over crisp white paper, kicking up dusty crystals in his wake as he strode out with the confidence of a creature entirely in the knowledge of his surroundings, and steadfast in his footing despite losing the massive plates of his hooves deep with each step he threw out before him. All the excitement and zeal of a colt, his heels kicked up and his tail held out as a proud banner behind him. The coat, a mish-mash of speckles and daubs of white and a sheen of health that rippled over the serpentine movements of muscles writhing beneath velvet. To say that the creature was formidable from a distance would be perhaps, selling him short. Lysander had spent so much time in one place that getting out and enjoying stretching his limbs was attractive in ways that he had never deemed possible. He tore through the flake laden breeze in a flurry of crimped silk threads that spiralled and bounced away from the muscle of his swan arched neck. The arch was such that his chin practically pressed against his brisket, with his ears pricked firmly forwards, and the tip of his twisted horn pointed towards the ground before him.

With each fluid, graceful forward punching of limbs, the powerful bellows of his lungs heaved frigid air through dilated nares, air which he expelled in violent snorted streams. Those that were allowed to leave of their own accord rose in spiraling tendrils of silvered breath that dissipated far above his head.

The sound of others in the vicinity rang like a dog whistle against his eardrum. It brought his carefree gallop across the scrubland to a brisk halt. He dug the massive concave bulk of cloven hooves deep into the frozen earth beneath the snow and pretty much skidded to a stop. Snow was sprayed in various directions, along with clods of earth with its attached grass, and his mane and tail finally caught onto the fact that they were to stop. The momentum gained meant that they overshot their normal resting place resulting in his vision being obscured just at the wrong moment. He flicked his head curtly, and snorted as he made several attempts at focusing on the horizon through the thick, unkempt strands of his forelock and now, dishevelled mane.

He tossed his head again, this time releasing a soft throaty nickering sound of curiousness that vibrated the edges of his nostrils and pulled his muzzle into a momentary sneer. It was a sneer which erased itself almost as soon as it had materialised, he practically shook it off along with making yet another attempt at rearranging his mane and forelock by bobbing his head.

The keen, mismatched hues of his eyes, all encompassing to their glassy depths, had picked out a scene just meters from where he’d ground to a halt. A snowglobe's scene beyond where his hooves had literally carved tracks deep in the snow and frozen soil like hot knives through butter.

The mottle stallion lifted his right foreleg, raised his muzzle to the breeze and sampled it with a deep inhalation and slow exhalation. Whatever was present through the haze of flakes and beyond had come to a stand-still, and the scents that tainted a fitful breeze were some that he committed to memory, for safety's sake. Lys stepped forwards gingerly before hopping and plummeting gracefully into a steady trot to intersect a path that wildlife had repeatedly carved through the undergrowth.

He passed a thicket at a long, even paced trot with the length of his tail flagging behind him. It was as the long, loosely waved fibres of his tail snagged against a bramble tendril, and said vine pulled forwards and lashed back at him, that Lys jumped out of his skin. Indeed he, quite literally, leaped to the side as nimble as a ballerina and threw his hind legs out with all the strength he could muster, only to canter forwards a couple of strides and throw his weight into the air, his forelimbs boxing out, shaking the feathers that adorned his fetlocks in the breeze as he bellowed in both shock and terror at whatever had slapped him over the back of his legs-

“OH, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL F---???” He whinnied, crashing through the shrub on the furthest side of the thicket and getting himself into a further tangle.

He tossed his head, and lashed out with all four massive pillars before managing to clamber through the thorns and thickly entwined branches to land on the grass just a meter away from it, and he paced irritably back and forth, snorting like an angry boar with his ears firmly plastered against the back of his skull... like it was all the fault of the shrubbery. Which in all fairness, it probably was.

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
Masters of dance, of minuets, of boleros, of waltzes, pulsed and crusaded along the winter’s icy path, polished rime folds with laced, dulcet whims, wove brilliant, blinding finesse through their rhythmic beats and their timeless raptures. Like doves, like nightingales, like sparrows, they glided, they manifested wings, they perfected unique, blessed movements and motions – and sometimes the nymph even sang, accompanied their artful, graceful strides with arias, strains, and symphonies. The winter’s vestiges didn’t plague them, didn’t churn them, didn’t maul or scorch or maim their hides; and so they offered up blessings and invocations, beneficence and well wishes, chastised the wayfaring might of nefarious qualities and brandished wholesome heights. Refusing to sink into the melancholy of passing seasons, refusing to delve and dive and drown in unrelenting angst or bitter, acrid sorrows, they molded to the framework of pines and firs, made portraits of snow and icicles, grew stark and vivid against constant ivory scenes. The vixen chirped and the Songbird chanted, and together they were one and the same, beautiful, blinding beasts and naiads, elements of the earth, the moon, the sky, the inner light, the tender, tranquil warmth of the sun, and the frantic beat of benevolence. Perhaps, one day, they’d be able to pluck the sinister, savage beacons away, croon over vicious sirens, embolden and incense more of the charitable; but this hour was made for assisting those left to the unknown, fledglings with more burdens to bear, with shells, with vessels, seeking absolution. Sweets to the sweet, they twisted and turned in unison towards the locked routes and the gilded trails, winding down familiar roads, murmuring nothings and everythings, flicking an ear, raising a head, widening nares, hoping, praying, to find someone to take back to paradise.

All they heard, however, was a quick, discordant crash.

The pair, fox and nymph, followed the strange cacophony, listened to the brief grunts and snorts echoing across the tundra channels, the wild, desolate groves, too entrenched and segmented into curiosity to do anything but track the insistent sounds. Quiet, silken, taking in slight, miniscule breaths, they wandered past shrubs and bushes left to Frostfall’s chill, and came upon the source. A varnished stag, spotted and segmented into particular, crisscrossed hues, embellished with a fine horn, a blade mired in contorted, distorted design – like crooked hands or gnarled branches, reaching and snagging – but his movements were all the more inquiring. He maneuvered like a cretin, intent upon scorching and summoning and obliterating someone or something, irritated, vexed, and scorned. She glanced towards Imogen for a moment, and they shared a mutual shrug, both deeply unsure of the possibilities layered and lacquered within the clearing, of the man who bristled and brandished words with the rest of the world. But her compassionate nature, her giving graces, summoned all the determination, all the resolutions, chiseled and sculpted to her bones, to her muscles, to her features, so when she and the ivory vixen stepped within the threshold’s embrace, there were only smiles, there were only hopes, there were only whims and fancies scattered across their faces. The sylph dipped her head in greeting, though she was likely unnoticed during his stomping, amidst his tirade, and tilted her head in slow, regarding fashion, amiable, honeyed eyes searching for his. She carried a simple sonnet, a beautiful, harmonious flute, providing mellifluous bounties along the crisp, belligerent tones. “Are you all right?”

her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
LENA
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Lysander Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#3
The snow and mud had churned into an oatmeal mess beneath the stamping of massive hooves. Lys paced and powered through the tangle of thorn vines only to burst out of them scattering shards of wood and leaf in various directions. With the long, waved tassel of his leonine tail and disheveled mane now littered with foliage and fractured branch, he’d lifted his foreleg and had slammed the hoof, hard onto something more forgiving than frozen soil. The roar of a whinny all but drowned the 'squeek' that was barely noticeable over the sounds of a large body crashing around in the undergrowth. He was sure he'd unwittingly stomped on a rodent of some kind.

The leaf silhouette of his ears pressed firmly against the back of his skull, and he narrowed his mismatched eyes as he stared down scornfully at the rhythmically swaying mesh of organic matter that had seemingly attacked him. It had been the culmination of a day filled to the brim with irritation and general angst. This being said, the massive form of the varnished stallion suddenly became motionless, and his ears shot to the summit of their normal position, pricked and almost kissing at the tips as his massive roman nosed features whipped round to follow the haze of colour that appeared just a few yards from the thicket.

He struggled to focus on whatever it was, straightening his posture and squaring his shoulders to better align his head and neck. With the warm hues of his eyes narrowed, and his nares dilated to better sample the breeze that betrayed pretty much anyone that it touched. It was a pale mammal, with the most piercing sapphire eyes. A canid type judging by the scent of the creature, a scent that hung warm in the otherwise freezing breeze. Lys blinked curiously.

Then the familiar sweet musk of a unicorn, followed by the steadily sharpening silhouette of pending materialization.

His expression fell and was somewhat, perplexed for a moment. The angle of his head altered, and his ears flickered on the oblique in a querying manner. The remorse he felt for his outburst of mindlessly throwing his weight around, in that split second was deep and actually, quite uncomfortable.

“I-uh...” He cleared his throat, his gaze faltering spectacularly to the ground before the plates of his hooves.

“I am... Thank you.” He glanced up from the relative safety donated by the shadow of a quirked brow. Lys's smile was crooked, and yet charming all the same as he offered his gravel edged tone. A set of softly spoken consonants and vowels; intonations and syllables that barely rose above the flutter of delicate flakes. He shook his mane, sending a swathe of silky tendrils into the atmosphere.

Through the large, well carved openings of his nostrils, he heaved a breath deep into his core. Sucked the frigid, snow saturated air and released it in a torrent of silver ribbons that wound and knotted around one another before being carried off and dissipating to nothing. The male dropped his head to the ground and nudged at the snow curiously, taking in the finer layers of chilled scent that hung close to the paw prints that gave way to hoof-falls, his top lip drawing circles in the snow before the convex shape of his muzzle was raised, and the warm glittering green hues of his eyes settled on the form of the mare who had approached-

“I feel I may have... Over-reacted, just a touch-” He nickered softly.

“Most stallions are closet drama-queens...” He pawed at the ground, ears pointing forwards and his tail kissing at his heels ever so gently, taken only by the movement of air.

“Even the largest brute could be spooked by a mere butterfly...” His expression quirked playfully as he subtly tested the air. Nipping at his coronet casually before straightening up, he inclined his features in a polite bow of greeting- “I'm ... Lysander.”

“...And I appear to have a phobia of thorn bushes. News to me.”

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
Imogen began to chuckle first, amused and besotted and ultimately entertained by the stallion and his antics, chirping and chirruping aloud and through their connection – so all Lena felt was eternal merriment, contentment, sentiments and emotions that hadn’t floated through her senses in such a long, long time. She breathed in its peace, in its sanctity, in its sanctuary, building and forging the flickering flames of amusement and diversions. They were restless, wild coils within her, framing, painting, stroking an illustrious, luminescent, brilliant, blinding portrait, and she regaled it with her quiet, taffeta lace, drank in the serenity, in the silliness, exposing a an ever warmer grin for the stag’s efforts. Her gaze searched him, for injuries, for harmed layers beneath all the glamour, all the spots, all the brash movements; instead, she found a pair of mismatched eyes staring back at her – one for the sea, one for the earth, and the nymph could only speculate on how beautiful they were. Were they a signature of elements, a radiance, a rapture, of his potential and prowess? Did he possess skill of the forest, harbor invocations of the ocean? Was he destined for both: a creature, a cretin, of woods and pools, seizing tridents and sticks? She nearly asked, nearly pressed all those ringing curiosities and inquiries, but remembered she’d already coaxed one into the gathering, and when Imogen ceased her idle laughter, she was free to listen to his response. But he appeared rather sheepish, embarrassed by his display, and Lena couldn’t fault him for that; how many times had she been ashamed of her actions? How many times had she dove into ridiculous follies and tribulations? How many times had she paid the price for errors and mistakes? And when would she do it again?

Her smile sparked a jubilee, a hallelujah of the heavens, free of judgment, of scorn, of petulance, nefariousness or vulgarity, inclining her head to a straighter, more poised, finessed grace, peering at him as a sweet, sanguine paragon. “We’re all prone to such moments.” Understanding notched, compassion held, she continued to listen to his explanations, to his drama-queen tales, christening a grand note of laughter for herself, small, quiet delights trickling and tracing amidst her chest as she pictured an attacking butterfly, brandishing armor along its wings, or a threatening thorn bush, hastening its nettles towards unsuspecting haunches, rendering and granting him only the slightest, most miniscule tease thereafter. “They can be rather rude things. Best watch the pines too.” The nymph followed her quip with a wink, not wishing him to despair on her light taunt, continuing in the enticement of his words, of his vocals, of the silly meeting between sanctities and locked passages. The rest of her replies came on singsong arias and rhapsody strains, granting life and essence and rapture into the foolish follies, bestowing and granting the slightest, assuaging relief, an inkling of her powers. “A pleasure, Lysander.” Truly, for she hadn’t found relief or repose in such a weary time. She performed another bow for him, if a little higher, and anointed their names into the clearing. “I’m Lena, and this,” extending her soft maw towards the ivory vixen sniffing the air, rummaging closer to the spotted steed, “is Imogen.” A pause, a moment in the strands, before regarding his form, his eyes, once more, proffering her Songbird qualities all over again, beginning to summon the duties, the rituals, of the world before her. “Welcome to Helovia. Is there something you seek here?”


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