the Rift


[OPEN] Vertices

Kipling Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#1
Earth teach me regeneration as the seed which rises in the spring.

Where does a year go? One moment, it’s Tallsun and the world is all bright colors and sunny days. Then the days get shorter, and all of a sudden everything you love is overwhelming, and the changing leaves taunt you with the reality of your own mortality, and you are crushed. You are crushed by the need to escape; the need to observe every last possible thing before your ephemeral existence is blotted out into nothing. So you go, and time marches forward – mercilessly forward.

Who knows what happens next? You hibernate somewhere in the recesses of your muddled mind. Eventually, months pass and the thoughts quietly gather themselves. And then it’s Birdsong again, and equally suddenly, it occurs to you that it’s time to return. It’s instinctual, inexplicable, this nomadic blood that drives such frustratingly fickle tendencies. But you obey without question.

And here we are.

The lanky red unicorn appears small against the vastness of the icy steppe. It is early morning – as apt a time for transition as any – and Kipling’s long shadow accompanies him as he meanders across the glittering wintery wonderland. He walks somewhat aimlessly, pausing occasionally to drag his muzzle contentedly through the snow. Flakes cling to his whiskers and chin, melting slowly.

His coat never grows particularly thick thanks to his hotblooded lineage, and what little he had acquired has very nearly shed out by now. He is still a gawky figure – all legs – but he grew into himself more as he turned five. He has filled out and developed topline from his long travels. His boyish looks have become decidedly more adolescent; while he still looks younger than his true age, the discrepancy is diminishing.

“Where to?” Kipling asks aloud to no one in particular. He halts, not grasping how the action contradicts his stated intention of going anywhere, and strares intently at the snow. Grinning broadly, he contorts his neck and drags his brassy horn through the fluff, drawing meaningless squiggles. Occasionally, he steps back to admire his work and giggle happily at his creations.

Ah, yes. This is how a year disappeared.


OOC: Open! But also @Tiamat @Imonada @Ki'irha @Rikyn

Imonada Posts: 61
Hidden Account atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Pegasus :: 14.1hh :: 3 (Frostfall) HP: 58 | Buff: NOVICE
Byrneve
#2
Heart and mind set upon the hundred waterfalls, their glittering rushing torrent in the hundreds as they feed into the lakes and ponds and water-ways from which the myriad of lush life sprang, it was time for Imonada to head home. Home; not unfamiliar with the concept, having been sheltered by serene meadows and their evergreen palisades in her youth, but ascribing the Hidden Falls the denomination was strange fruit, its taste not unpleasant, but certainly of the acquiring nature. In her vast delirium, she had wandered too far south from the herdland, then guided out by a wisp of a zephyr into the thistle-clotted meadows.

Now? The roiling oceans of sun-faced poppy, masked pansies, bursting star lily, golden-crowned reedgrass, stalks of bluestem, and sundry; they're edged out gradually as she begins to approach great foothills dusted with snow, pine ringing their bases. Dwarfed by these white-capped mammoths, where far in the distance of a lifetime even more monstrous mountains like sleeping giants loom along the horizon forbidden and untouchable, Imonada is but a black speck on a trail that disappears beneath the frosted carpet. The sun just peeks over the tops of the sierra cedar, turning the snow into a silvery cold fire.

You're going the wrong way, shitbird.
Silence!

But it's right, that tingly transgression in the abysm that is her soul. Pausing, unnerved, nearly up to her knees now in the ivory powder that turns the view pristine and aloof, the comparative warmth of the spring season slushing it ever so slightly so each step feels mired, Imonada clears her senses and sharply hones them to hunt for her. Long, velvety ears prick forward and strain when they catch a faint giggle.

It takes her some more trudging to catch up to the laughter; Kipling becomes revealed to her in time, playing in the snow like a foal experiencing its first Frostfall. She is quick to note his coloring, a mottled cream russet juxtaposed against the the pearly world frame; his spectacularly long and spiraled horn a golden lantern in the crystal light of the morning. Although lanky, he is massive compared to her; the little silkshadow mare refrains from calling his attention, preferring to suss out a bit more information on him before making contact. Her useless left wing is unconsciously allowed to droop awkwardly as she takes a rest from holding it against her side, but other than the occasional breeze playing with threads of her lavish ink hair, she is motionless and stalwart.

@Kipling
elizabeth: you're not telling us everything.
red: let me put your mind at ease; i'm never telling you everything.
--blacklist

force allowed
plotting prior to death/maiming please

[Image: a0jmns.png]
line art by jennyleigh

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#3
The sound of laughter draws more than one’s attention, though I am certainly less clandestine in my arrival than the winged, ebonite dwarf which stands in the outskirts. I pass her some many yards away with a cursory glance, fleeting – she is not worth my time, an aberration best ignored, and so my attentions focus instead on the copper figure tracing yet unseen images in the powder of the Steppe (though one ear tilts back as I pass the onyx bird, her body elaborately feathered and baring only one wing – interesting things, hooks which dig into the furthest of my thoughts and linger – I hold her in a corner of my thoughts and listen for her approach or departure), approaching him with long steps that glitch as my left fore is pressed into the snow.

The wounds, a triad scabbed with dark, almost black ridging, are pretty gruesome looking; the largest of them all, a downward puncture which ends in a large, almost L shaped severance which has healed mostly flat along the rest, occasionally seeps clear liquid. Despite the hurt it causes, the wound is mostly superficial – it had taken me a day of resting to regain my lost blood, and now I chose to let it heal, to wear the scar which, surely, would be impressive. I’m only coming home to rest for a while in the warm waters of the spring, to ease the ache in the deep bruises the silver maned damsel had left behind.

The closer I get, the more I notice that he is wiry, not built for battle as many of our kind are, and while I have less use for him than I might another for this difference in our structure, I do not immediately discredit him as weak. Xynia had been delicate and lithe, as well, and her mind was as sharp as any blade, perhaps more deadly in its precision, its quickness, and while etching doodles into snow doesn’t immediately foretell of any great intelligence, I know better than to judge anyone before they open their mouths, at least not a judgment given to anything more than that which is immediately discernable from the physical truth.

Tall, his extensive horn is a burnished, metallic color, twisting upwards to a point in a tight spiral such as my own. I pause at a friendly distance, some three, four feet or so, my own golden crown held high and aloft, the thick tangles of my unkempt mane gently tugged along by the brisk mountain wind, the curl of my leonine tail slow and leisurely as a single, golden hoof cocks to its tip in a display of confidence, trust.

"Afternoon," I say, letting my eyes run across the indiscernible squiggles in the white, wondering just what the erratic lines are supposed to be – even as a foal, when we had painted leaves and delivered them to the herd lands of Helovia, inviting them to dance among our kin, my friends and I had displayed much greater skill than… whatever this is – and so I ask a logical question, "what are you drawing?"




@Random Event

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Kipling Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#4
Earth teach me regeneration as the seed which rises in the spring.

Art clears the mind so effectively. Even these meager doodles have easily quieted Kipling’s disjointed thoughts, although their objective value as ‘art’ could certainly be debated. It doesn’t matter. This whole scene will melt into slush soon enough. Besides, his creations are not made for anyone else. He is enjoying himself, and that is enough. This hedonism, of course, is what got him into his present predicament (even if he will never have the self-awareness to acknowledge this fact). Indulging his every whim and shirking his responsibilities had led him to disappear to the most isolated recesses of Helovia, doing… something. Gods know.

The ruddy unicorn is so engrossed in his task that he completely misses the duo’s arrivals. The three of them might have stood there all day if the nearest unicorn had not spoken. Kipling snaps to attention, almost dazed from staring at the bright white snow for so long. Crystals of snow cling to his horn, occasionally melting and dripping down onto his face. He blinks, and the two dark figures materialize, stark against the wintery scene. Closest to him, the speaker is seen first. It is a tall unicorn bearing a coat like ebony wood accented in ornate gold, decidedly better built than himself. Confidence and proudly-worn wounds effectively mask his relative youth. Meanwhile, the diminutive pegasus does nothing to draw Kipling’s attention, but even this most obtuse stallion cannot avoid noticing the pitch black frame standing against the snow white terrain. Either the smallest pegasus or the biggest bird… No. Four legs. Pegasus.

Having taken stock of his surroundings, Kipling smiles broadly. "Hello!" He announces with far more volume than necessary. It's been a while since he has had to regulate his speech, and it's obvious, although his voice lacks the characteristic rust of disuse. In fact, he has been speaking to himself almost incessantly since his departure. He motions excitedly to the pegasus, eager to include her in the conversation, and cries pleadingly, "Come see."

Beaming, the unicorn steps back to allow a better look at his creation. "I don’t know what it is. What do you see? Do you want to draw things, too?" He asks, all genuine curiosity and simple pride. As an afterthought, he hurriedly adds, "Oh! I’m Kipling! What are your names?"

There is no self-consciousness in his scrambled speech; it is sincere in its child-like honesty. All the while, he smiles, unabashedly delighted for the company.


OOC: @Imonada @Rikyn Do you want to be tagged?

Imonada Posts: 61
Hidden Account atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Pegasus :: 14.1hh :: 3 (Frostfall) HP: 58 | Buff: NOVICE
Byrneve
#5

The dark stag with his striking gilt accents is not overlooked; another swarthy beast diverging from the conformity of their frosted-glass surroundings. Imonada is already shamelessly staring at him, adorned with an expression that betrays nothing, even as they lock onto one another for a fleeting moment as he sends her a disinterested glance entirely functional in nature. But when he turns his attention to the other unicorn whose saccharine laughter drew them both, the tip of her cherry-pink tongue peeks out between two rows of neat teeth and soft lips, her pokerface rapidly dissolving as her shiny doll eyes bore holes into the back of his skull. Or try to, at any rate. Hundreds of voices, tumbling down the thread of history from ancestor to parent, had vowed her betrothal to the crown of her old country's monarchy; passing through countless generations, a vessel of cognatic primogeniture now irrelevant, lost to the other myths of her tribe the day the dynasty finally crumbled. It wasn't as if she was raised to expect status; it was a detached concept for her, from some rigorously dogeared page in their bible that promised many, many things. But she was the child of leaders, and to receive such blasé acknowledgement and easy disregard was like lighting a fire under her ass.

It would not be precise to say that she shoves Rikyn aside, for their bodies do not collide, but she certainly pays him no homage as she trots past him pointedly; even if it isn't the easiest of tasks with the snow, she picks her feet up timely and strongly enough to begin gliding through and forward toward Kipling, her banner of a tail cocked high and regal, black and undulating tacitly with the force of movement like a pirate flag hoisted high above the seas; flicking it once near Rikyn as she does so, tossing those inky tendrils with absolute disregard for any surface they might manage to ghost across. Imonada does not seek to overtake his position with Kipling, however; instead, her context a seamless integration into the fold. She was prone to not bring about attention, but perhaps influence from the incredible myriad of colorful personalities in this new land has eased the way, allowing her to room to branch out; to behave in ways that strengthen her resolve, her sense of self. For now, she has a taste --a dollop on the tongue, really-- of freedom from her own self made cage. Whether or not her cautious submissiveness rears its needy little head again depends on how the two handle her. As for Rikyn alone, it wasn't as if he directed much other than a baleful, dismissive glance tossed her way like one does balled up trash. He wasn't posing much threat, yet, aside from his size difference -- which was too common in her experience to fret about, aside from those that would even tower over him.

Peering down at Kipling's picture carving in the snow which had been thrust aside by his spear of a horn, she makes a theatric show of pondering, but responds frankly and assuredly. "It looks loch a turtle." She gives Rikyn the infamous side-eye through a fan of sooty lashes, admittedly curious to hear his answer, but she addresses Kipling again. "I'm Imonada." Is that a tiny ghost of a smile she offers him? His unrestrained exuberance is contagious, rubbing off on her and charging her with new energy; taking his suggestion in mind, she cranes her head back to neatly pluck out a massive quill feather from her lame wing before using its tip and shaft to begin marking for her own piece of art.


I don't mind if you do or don't dear :3
Loch = Like
@Rikyn
elizabeth: you're not telling us everything.
red: let me put your mind at ease; i'm never telling you everything.
--blacklist

force allowed
plotting prior to death/maiming please

[Image: a0jmns.png]
line art by jennyleigh

Random Event Posts: 1,286
Helovian Ancient
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
#6
Kipling has contracted GLL

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#7
I am met with a broad and cheerful smile, any sort of strangeness between the man and myself seemingly lost in his almost childlike delight at having company. His words are half shouted, causing my ears to pull back and my features to scrunch in a wince, yet I am unable to remove the smile which finds its way to my lips almost magnetically – bringing to mind the phrase, “laughter is contagious,” though I don’t recall who said it.

A light cough breaks from my lips, the endless slip of black from lips and nostrils half dried on this day, for whatever reason, dried, crispy flakes lifting along the edges of the tear track traces they’ve left on my face, ever since that long ago hour in the Labyrinth, among the wolves. Perhaps the universe consoles me for having been deluded into attacking a herd mate, for even the strange side effects that alter my vision, scent, and hearing are oddly absent, and have been most of the day.

To my dismay, the man-boy calls the bird over to us, my smile faltering ever so slightly, a hard shine taking root in the gold of my eyes as she, regrettably, takes him up on his offer.

I pay her little mind, even as she approaches, and so I rather surprised to find the haughty little bitch has the audacity to strike at me with her dark tail. Almost immediately, my eyes sever from the playful stag to her diminutive, ebonite frame, gilded eyes narrowed with absolute outrage. The hoof that had angled in ease now slams down into the earth, all four limbs prepared for more than just conversation at the touch of her black tassels.

"You," I dictate quietly, for her ears alone (not wishing to disturb the good cheer of the older male present), a bold arrogance unusual in one so young filling the rich tenors of my voice, "don’t touch me again."

Threat laces with each note, hopefully with enough clarity that she gathers I will swiftly adjust this gathering of niceties and pictures in the snow to one of violence, blood rather than indentions tracing images across the white cloak of the Steppe.

Yet, as offended as I am at the audacity of the crownless blight, I am lured away by the innocence and delight of the ruddy stag, and so swiftly I let the hostile defenses of my figure melt back into the nonchalance of conversation.

He wants to know what we see in the snow.

I see squiggles, and frown.

At least the mare alongside me has more creativity available to her; a turtle, she answers, and I find that I am forced to look more closely and play along with this odd guess what game – missing the tilt of her eye to look upon me as she answers the stag’s second question with her name.

"Wind," I decide at last, for surely the invisible stuff looks as erratic as this, my tail curling about behind me absently as I let my gaze lift upwards to look at Kipling – I refrain from paying much mind to the bird even as her small figure stands directly next to my own, "it looks like wind."

"Rikyn," I answer truthfully, not lying as I had to Volterra, to so many others before him – mostly because the bird is no threat to me, small as a mouse, and I have little to hide from my horned kin.

It is then that they both take to drawing things in the snow, my golden eyes glistening with desires I struggle against. It is childish to draw pictures, and I am no longer a child – but the lure calls to me, beckons, it taunts and tempts, until at last I am drawn into the ethereal, sparkling world of youth, of innocence. With a sidelong and mostly hidden glance alongside me for any one who might recognize and mock me later, I lower my crown and begin to etch the lines of a tree alongside Kipling’s squiggly wind turtle.

Like an old man, laughs Xynia in my head, with a beard to match, even!



[ OOC: I prefer not to be actually. ^^ Do you like tags? :D ]



@Kipling

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Kipling Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#8
Earth teach me regeneration as the seed which rises in the spring.

Whatever subtle conflict is playing out between unicorn and pegasus, Kipling remains blithely oblivious. Maybe if they started actively trying to kill one another he would notice something had gone amiss… Maybe. As it is, the muted and unspoken barbs being thrown about reach their intended targets without ensnaring the cheerful unicorn in any crossfire. He takes no side because he does not realize that lines – more meaningful lines than those in the snow – are being drawn. They are having fun! This is delightful, utterly delightful. Why had he ever left? Everything feels so much more gratifying when it can be shared; when he can rope others into his silly little worlds and enjoy this pristine omnipotence, at least for a while.

Like everything today, their interpretations of his work please Kipling immensely. Unable to widen his already face-splitting grin any more, he instead prances his front hooves in place, apparently so thrilled he cannot physically restrain himself. “I love turtles and wind! What beautiful answers! Did you meet the turtle in the sky? He gave everyone presents. He’s probably my favorite turtle.” Kipling is about to launch into a diatribe about the many turtles and winds he has observed in his five years, but Imonada and Rikyn are spared. As they finish their introductions and settle into their drawings, his broad smile gradually begins to fade and he falls oddly still, the happy energy no longer vibrating off of him. He has remembered his initial task and all the unpleasantness it entails. Suddenly faced with the reality of others who actually exist and who he must now convince of his worth, he feels trapped, ashamed. They are unfamiliar feelings to the sunshiney Kipling, and he is immediately struck by the urge to run. Admitting desertion and begging reacceptance seems anathema even to him, and the knotted sensation in the pit of his stomach distresses him.

He stares at the markings they are drawing in the snow, searching for an answer in the cryptic designs. For once silently, he begs his hooves to remain planted and not take off for the mountains. He does not realize what he is doing when he blurts out, “I just had to leave, okay? I had to…” They are not privy to his thoughts and his history, but Kipling does not realize this. Offering no further explanation, he bulldozes on, “I want to live in Helovia again. I really want to. Am I in Helovia? I didn’t mean to leave, but I had to…”

This garbled half-confession does not make Kipling feel better. Now he is scared to exhale, as if the expulsion of breath will propel him away again, perhaps forever this time. He has to stay; he knows he has to stay. He has forcibly put himself and his potential future in Helovia at the mercy of this pair. It is likely this is far more responsibility than either one sought when they tracked down his happy laughter on the steppe, but Kipling has made his decision, and what anyone else might want rarely factors into his decisions. Now he waits, distraught, bronze eyes flickering nervously between Imonada and Rikyn, entirely convinced he will explode if one of them does not speak soon.


OOC: I'm fine with or without tags. I'll drop them for the rest of this thread if neither of you mind. =)

Imonada Posts: 61
Hidden Account atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Pegasus :: 14.1hh :: 3 (Frostfall) HP: 58 | Buff: NOVICE
Byrneve
#9

When Rikyn leans down to hiss in an uncomfortably intimate and none-too-friendly tone, she is about ready for him --or so she believes-- and pans her face toward his, but then his harsh words halt her. Those plush sheath-like ears of hers quickly swivel back, the sheer magnitude of the painful blush exploding beneath her skin forcing her to crane her head away. Whatever firebrand streak that shone earlier is neatly tucked away again, someplace safe, cowed and loathing it. Butchered under her mumbled breath, with her giant ebony feather 'marker' clutched tightly between her teeth, a susurrus of heavy accent is ground out; "Ne'er in thes' life." Intimidated by Rikyn now, a shrewd line of thought fires instantly after the first, doubting that this other stallion would intervene should the dark, gilded unicorn turn upon her with more than unkind words. Fortunately Kipling's shining, heartfelt confession in all its warm honesty melts the ice that threatens to frost over the budding seedlings of her confidence and goodwill.

There are possibly worse things than turtles or the wind.
Unless they're giant snapping turtles or it's a hurricane.
That's just great.

Wait. What the hell did this guy just ask me? The cringe she inadvertently feels is somehow in her lame wing, one strip of muscle there tightening painfully, but she speaks gently and understandingly with naked truth. "I cannae fly, Kipling. I dae love the sky, tho'. I've nae seen a turtle up there, but I ha'e seen a dragon," she stage-whispers conspiratorially, emphasizing the 'dragon'. The feather in her mouth hangs at the corner of her lips, precariously, allowing her to speak without sounding garbled -- never mind the accent. Again she performs that inconspicuous side-eye toward Rikyn's drawing, but watching him craft a rather decent tree turns her expression beaming and friendly. "Wa, sair Rikyn, good choice! An artist's touch, tay, I see."

dont make a lame joke about his using his horn dont make a lame joke about using his hor--

Without much warning, the mood shifts -- cripplingly sensitive and empathetic, Imonada catches it practically immediately, and her heart begins to race with warning. Suddenly a thread of fear worms its way around her throat; these were strangers, what the hell was she doing? Away from the herd that had taken her in? But poor Kipling's defeated stance, burdened and broken voice, his tangible fear -- it softens her. Carefully calculating her next words, imagining what he needed to hear before he escalated, she nonetheless forms them peaceably, intending to soothe. "Kipling. We are in Helovia. You and Rikyn and I. Tis your home an' someone's home welcomes them back unconditionally, nae? Ye can always live here."

A very concerned look is shot Rikyn's way, her almond-shaped eyes silently pleading with him to confirm her reassurance or, even better, offer his own. Maybe handle what may turn into a delicate situation, too... All stallions were to be treated with some measure of respect and wariness, in her mind, least of all for their potential strength; she drew a line at a certain point, especially when they seemed distressed in some manner.

"Kipling," Imonda makes sure to firmly, albeit with great care, address him each time in hopes of holding his attention. "I think ye draw much better than me. Will ye teach me?" She smells faintly and shyly again. "Please?"

elizabeth: you're not telling us everything.
red: let me put your mind at ease; i'm never telling you everything.
--blacklist

force allowed
plotting prior to death/maiming please

[Image: a0jmns.png]
line art by jennyleigh

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#10
I am glad that whatever unpleasantness had to pass between the raven and myself, it was swiftly ended, and that the russet stallion seems to take little if no notice. That the wench is so easily pushed, that she knows her place, it eases the tensions I’d felt towards her almost instantaneously.

And so the day continues in a positive light, one in which I feel superior to everyone who stands around me – for while the stallion is older than me, and perhaps has seen more of the world than I have, my initial suspicions that he is slightly mad are revealed as more than likely true as he brings to mention strange things (and that he is mad doesn’t really bother me – the snows of my youth had harbored many moony eyed and dreamy minded characters, and, despite my family’s intolerance for the hornless, their understanding and compassion towards the less fortunate of their own kind seemed, to me anyway, evident in even the darkest heart; I suppose I only hope that he is not violent).

Sky turtle?

It is somehow familiar, even though it’s weird. My golden eyes narrow in thought, tassels swaying gently behind me as I ponder why I would feel like I understand the strange thoughts of unhinged men. And, while I think, the soft sound of the strangely lilting accent that the dark mare carries breaches the air, her words drawing a smirk of mockery – we’ve almost all seen a dragon. This is Helovia.

But, the snarky thought seems to dislodge whatever mental blockage lay in the way – and suddenly, the image of a floating island bleeding pink petals fills my thoughts, a blue tent and a race in which we had all been goats! flooding the reels of my memory.

"The Earth Turtle?" I ask, using the name my mother had called the creature by – I don’t believe he’d told us as much, when we’d begun the race at the foot of the magical appeared mountain in the floating realm (the realm we had reached by clouds, much to my childish glee), "I met him once. He turned the unicorns all into goats, and we had a race."

The memory makes me smile, gilded eyes sparkling with bright joy found in the remembered upward rush, a faint chuckle absently playing about my lips – how I had almost won, even though I was still only half the size as most of them, my little goat legs bounding and leaping with such freedom that I almost wished I could stay that way, then.

"I guess now that I think about it, he’s my favorite turtle too. Though, I’ve only met one."

In good spirits, I actually manage a smile as I turn towards Imonada, her voice directed towards me as she praises the tree I sketch in the snow; I find that the smile lingers, what resentments I’d felt toward the little winged thing ebbing further away from my active imaginings (she’s so small, I think again, wondering how on earth the wind doesn’t throw her from the heavens when she flies; Aithniel was strong, and muscular, proud of baring in comparison to this diminutive creature).

I am about to respond to her complement when I find my words stolen away by the sudden, and desperate, explanation from the cheerful loose screw; the pleading tone stirs something in me, something that I quickly steel away behind masculine sensibility. I refuse to let any sort of pity soften my thoughts of him - though it is there, still, fluttering against its bars.

Blessedly, the bird takes the stage, as most women do in moments of heightened emotion, something in their motherly souls craving the ability to subdue the distraught. I gladly let her take the stage, nodding in agreement at the appropriate parts (and I agree, my home had taken me in again graciously after my wandering – I think of my father, his love, and smile), calmly going back to the finishing touches of the barren branches of my tree as she asks for assistance with her drawing.

What she could learn from the artistry of the squiggle maker was beyond me. I keep my mouth sealed on such matters.

""




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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

Kipling Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#11
Earth teach me regeneration as the seed which rises in the spring.

Imonada’s compassionate words have their intended effect with striking immediacy: the agitation passes as quickly as it had struck. Kipling exhales audibly, his wiry body decompressing back to its typically affable stance. Further bolstered by Rikyn’s more lukewarm support, he nods and mutters to no one in particular, “Yes, that’s right. Home. Unconditional…” His words sound oddly strangled despite the palpable relief flooding over him. Despite the support, his emotions are thoroughly split. Is Helovia really home? How would he know either way? He was not born here, but he was not born anywhere, really - nowhere he had any enduring connection to, at least. He has no family here; neither that of blood nor kinship. This has never bothered him before, but he feels it acutely now. Of course, he has only himself to blame. He has never actually invested in close relationships. Why would he care about any one individual over another? He likes everyone. What would it even feel like to cultivate long-term, deeper relationships? It never occurred to him before now. Is there something he is supposed to feel about home? Is he feeling it now?

This avalanche of questions churns away in the background of Kipling’s mind. The concepts are so remote and inaccessible to him that he cannot vocalize his thoughts at all. The relief triggered by both Imonada and Rikyn’s assurances remains at the forefront, but it is only partial, and he is puzzled and concerned in a vague, unidentifiable way. He no longer wants to flee; he does not know what he wants to do anymore. He tries to return to their activity, offering a more restrained smile as he scrutinizes their etchings. Imonada asks for his help, which would normally have delighted him, but now the figures are swimming in front of him; the frozen white of their canvas pains his eyes. “You’re both doing such a good job,” He announces offhandedly. Although Rikyn has not asked, he praises them both, not meaning to sound as dismissive as he does.

Kipling thus abandons his meager attempt to re-engage in their drawings. He tilts his head, his long horn arcing with the motion. Little beads of water from the melting snow shake loose and spatter lightly to the ground. Thoughtfully, he asks, “Where do you live?” The questions he actually wants to ask remain unspoken, buried in the bedlam of his busy thoughts: first, where is home? then, can either of you bring me home? and finally, please be my friend?


OOC: Sorry about the wait. I took the GRE yesterday and the process fried my brain more than I expected… Should be back on track now!

Imonada Posts: 61
Hidden Account atk: 6 | def: 8.5 | dam: 3
Mare :: Pegasus :: 14.1hh :: 3 (Frostfall) HP: 58 | Buff: NOVICE
Byrneve
#12

Imonada calmly watches Kipling's face, trying to read his emotions, concern still reflecting on her own dark cast. When that much welcomed relief melts away his tension, the minute amount cultivating within herself loosens its talon grip. Whether or not she was aware of it, she mirrored others, so susceptible to their moods and language; his sudden disinterest in the drawings is easily absorbed by her. Perhaps she was doing it in an attempt to engage him on his terms, genial as she appeared to be. "I suppose you're reit. Art is subjective, or sae I hear." Almond-shaped eyes of inky shade are pulled back to Rikyn's drawing before they sweep across the trio's combined creation with an owlish tilt of her model crown. "At any rate, I feel as if I can confidently say we all hae an innate skill wi' workin' the snow as our muse demands it." Here she begins looking at the younger of the stallions again, intrigued by his intricate gold branding and proud bearing. She sensed a yearning in him, but not unlike anyone his age. Muscle shifting smoothly beneath his black coat when he moves, the babyfat all but gone, already filling him out as any healthy stud ought to be. Given a bit more age and he would be magnificent. That tail looked utterly fun, and useful, to have, too; even if hers was a stream of silk onyx and gleaming feathers, it did not have the same practicality of a more mobile appendage.

Kipling is not spared another good look-over and his turn comes swiftly after. Youthful he was, although she felt a bit deceived by it for some reason she couldn't put a finger on, and though awkward possessing just as hale a form as the other stag's, even if his mind was bewildered. The way the sun brought a tint of red to his chestnut, the freckled white splashed across it like a dusting of snow. Both of the gentlemen had impressive horns, as well; impervious and fae.

They all had something plaguing them, didn't they? He did not seem mentally unsound, just confused. She had known that feeling far too intimately to not desire even the most small of connection with him. But asking where she was from? She struggles with the urge to falsify or deflect the question, not always keen to lay bare any disclosure; but knowing that in order to gain Kipling's and, maybe, Rikyn's trust, she was better off being honest. Without necessarily mentioning too much. "Hidden Falls is mah home now. You're welcome tae come back wi' me if ye need a place tae rest." She nickers lightly at Rikyn, a sweet chime like that of a sparrow. "The invitation extends tae ye also, sair."

elizabeth: you're not telling us everything.
red: let me put your mind at ease; i'm never telling you everything.
--blacklist

force allowed
plotting prior to death/maiming please

[Image: a0jmns.png]
line art by jennyleigh

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#13
The golden aura of innocence and delight that had framed the wiry little stallion and the even smaller bird is lost to the worry and fear that had tensed the former some moments before, and as I look from one face to another among the gathering I find that, even to me, the sudden lack of cheer is evident as the sunlight playing on the melting white mounds beyond us.

Despite the assurance of the raven, the copper crowned stallion seems barely uplifted at all, perhaps due to the fact that I had stood there staring at his emotional outburst with the silent comfort of an ebony and aureate statue (albeit a good looking one). Of course, I’m not looking at him, and all I get is the slow, almost question like statement that Kipling answers the foreign one with – and it makes me wonder why it is he’d sound so.

Had he not done right by his home to begin with? Maybe he was some delightfully cheerful and insidious criminal, not unlike I remember the former Haruspex of my youth, Zikar Sin, to have been. Were Imonada and I holding court with a wanted murderer, an eater of babies?

Somehow I doubted it. Still, the notion was exciting enough – I even fraternize with the idea as I finish my tree and look back up upon my temporary companions, most of my looks and consideration given to the unicorn rather than the feathered wench.

They both complement me and each other, like good Helovians do. I smile, reveling in the delight of their words but sharing none of my own, finding it ludicrous to complement squiggles, and foolish to repeat that which has been said twice already.

I don’t notice when the little raven stares at me, I don’t notice in all the ways I would have basked in her stare were she horned and wingless rather than a diminutive little feathery speck like she is – she has a fine figure and baring, and surely is beautiful to eyes unclouded by familial and found faith. I don’t notice and so the conversation turns to where we are from most seamlessly, my golden eyes flashing for only a seconds passing towards the mare as she leaps to the answer, her strange drawl lilting through the mountain air.

Hidden Falls. I smirk, remembering all to well of my mother’s description of a land that had been ripped asunder by the very God that had made it, transformed from fields that rolled and rippled to rivers and falls, bound by a rocky landscape and ruled by a gallant, winged imbecile known as Midas.

That Midas is dead and the Falls is very much changed from my knowledge of the Earth’s realm is outside of my reach – no one has mentioned the land but for Erebos, who described only that the World’s Edge had taken the land for their own, and so I am left to assume that most of the former denizens either live in the wilderness, or took to the leaders who claimed by might what faith had allotted before. While I have seen death and I have seen war, I do not pause to think that, in this battle, they had rode together, as they so often did.

"I must decline your offer," I answer almost sarcastically, not interested in living in some land where bloodlines mingled and fools wore crowns, "I live just a short walk from here in the Aurora Basin.

"You are welcome to come and see it, Kipling," I say with more kindness than I had directed towards Imonada, "I myself have come home not so long ago, and can promise they hold no adventures against a fellow."


[ OOC: BUNNIE TOOK FOREVER - I hope my muse is back now and I can be more swift. ^^ ]


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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).


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