the Rift


[OPEN] the star to every wandering bark

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
#1
L E N A
It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken


The Songbird wandered; out of tune, out of touch, pierced and woven with snapped and tangled threads. Were she a dove she may have burst from the horizon and clung to the heavens – were she a butterfly she might have glided towards nectar and ambrosia, drank until she was full of virtue instead of misgivings. But she was without wings, clipped and broken, living off of hopes and dreams never meant to come true, dancing and teetering off the edge and dregs of a world she’d always cherished, always loved, with naught else to guide her but the chipped portions of splintered aspirations. Her spirit, beneficent and compassionate, warm and tender, faded in its discarded chords, withered without light and sea, flickered with a saddened, despondent glow – because she’d fallen again, stumbled and fumbled and scraped away everything she’d worked so hard for – a hypocrite amongst thousands of oaths and creeds. She’d watched her comrades march into battle. She’d taken part in stealing away the lives of creatures, monsters, Gods, just as merciless, just as ruthless, just as decadent and barbaric and savage as the rest of them, becoming another soulless heathen; a healer, brought into the folds and sanctions of war.
 
No matter how hard she fought, she always managed to sink.
 
And maybe, just maybe, a little part of her who’d always been renewed and revived by the gilded countenance of a beloved Thief suddenly felt the sting, the lingering particles, of heartbreak festering and brooding, brewing past besotted lips and out into the corners of her chest – because he wasn’t here and he wasn’t there and the harder she looked the less she saw, the less she knew, the less she understood…her heart had been carried off into the wind and void. Perhaps, even then, she simply hadn’t been enough for anyone or anything.
 
The rolling tides failed to take away the charred fragments of her essence; sadness curled around her like a veil, distant and aloof, eyes staring over the patchwork of isles with no more than a trace of enticement. Breaths loosened in shuddering, stagnant sighs, and her harks twisted in various directions, honing in on the cries of gulls and the constancy of waves, cranium low, bent and angled towards the warm sand. Poor Imogen, unsure of how to tend to the natures of a cracked soul, chirped and clambered her way alongside her mistress, two whittled fairies losing their ability to fly. When they reached a cluster of rocks, a shamble of boulders a little ways from the sea, the fallen seraph, the shaken nymph, lowered herself upon the dunes, curling her forelegs and allowing Imogen to tuck into her side.
 
In the sun, Lena began to sing – bright and stark, striking and vigilant, coiling the deepness, the vigilance, the vehemence of her sorrow, of her confusion, into a lingering symphony. She sang to the birds with their matching trills, she sang to the palms tossed about in the wind, she sang to the listless mist hiding them from the world, and she sang to the beings she helped to destroy, begging for forgiveness (sorry, always so sorry for the lives lost and the souls shattered and the essences buried deep into the earth, never to be seen again).
 
She wished and she dreamed and she yearned to be so much more.


[Open to anyone! ^__^ Hoping to use this for character development. <333]


Sikeax the Sea Soul Posts: 355
Outcast atk: 4 | def: 9 | dam: 6
Mare :: Hybrid :: 16 hh :: 5 years HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Hobgoblin :: Common Rougarou :: Water & Seoul :: Plain White Dragon :: Toxic Breath Zuno
#2

la mer détient pas de beauté

It’s hard to think of a time when she could actually find a place to hide off in. Caves are always lovely, but the majority of them are easily accessible and anyone could crash into her hideaway and do what they please with the place. Her tree in the Dragon’s Throat(well, it wasn’t really her tree, but it was a tree she enjoyed) was easily seen by any Pegasi that happen to fly by.
But this was her gift. This was, at last, the place where she could get ignore them, a place where she could turn a blind eye to everything and choose to ignore every little thing. Her own small cave, tucked away in the sea-beaten cliff walls, guarded diligently by the waves.
The only issue was that the scent of blood made Hobgoblin excited. It made him ruthless, hateful and easily triggered. Birds split their flocks in his presence, crying with screams that fall upon her tired ears like endless cacophonies. She even goes to wonder if it’s her own doing, that the bitter temperament she’s taken on has finally begun to weigh down on his marble shoulders, crumbling them til his pillars fall.
Sweat coats her honey hide and paints her in a deeper shade. The increase of humidity is enough to make it difficult to breathe, taking lazy, shallow breaths when her chest feels like a thousand pounds have been added on. All she can care to think about is sleeping in her happiest of holes, pressed in against the dark, stone walls with a cool sea breeze to fend off the heat, but that’s all too far off right now, and armed with glazed eyes, a dive was the last thing on her mind.
Through all of this, she could almost fall asleep on her feet, mid-stride as if her world suddenly decided to stop at that exact moment. Deep within, she longs for the brutal, dry and burning hot heat of the desert island further south and to the west. Sunburns are easier to treat than lethargy, and when you don’t know the lay of the land and any of the herbs residing within a labyrinth of dangers and the unknown, there’s no hope for an immediate cure.
Black fuzz builds up around her circle of vision. Eyelids just happen to feel slightly heavier when the noise collects in her ears, rising above the squeals of pain brought on by Hobgoblin’s reign of terror to the local wildlife. Curiosity sparks in his mind when the word ‘Siren’ crosses her thought train.
While he has no what this ‘Siren’ is, he can’t help but be intrigued. For her, it’s a stone she hasn’t been able to inspect enough, one that turns over and over again in her brain til she’s managed to grind it down. There’s something about the song that brings a slow ease over her features, something calming, nurturing in a way that she believes only mothers could manage.
In a flurry, he’s gone, driven by the urge to claim the source of the sound in whatever way possible. It’s his and only his. Something so beautifu-
Don’t.
Scraping stone, a long hiss fills up any empty space left in her ears and boils in her eardrums. Scales trade themselves in for fur, pressing a black stomach along the stone and glaring with yellow eyes as Sikeax takes her sweet fucking time arriving.
Lena.
The bay mare is a sight for sore(or should we say sleepy) eyes, tucked away in the warmth of the sand and singing a song of such elegance and beauty that a Nightingale could find themselves damned to envy. It brings a smile to her hard face, that for once there’s someone she can trust to have good in the soul.
Her visit with her sister in the medic tent had gone well, or was it the fact that Lena had found herself in the boundaries of ex-enemy homeland that kept her from acting of true nature?
Sikeax would just have to make the leap. If things had been good in the past, she can see no reason now that they would not be the same.
“You have a voice like an angel." She tries to remain calm, serene and gentle when she is so obviously nervous that even Hobgoblin’s tail bounces back and forth, striking the air and stone with violent lashes of a whip. His laughter plays on repeat inside the confines of her skull. A number of insults tango with his teases.
Against all of her better judgement, she hesitates on her first step forward, silently agreeing with herself that if Lena does make the choice to attack her, that she’ll have to do nothing more than accept fate. The humid has drug her into the depths of hell and there’s not enough strength to pull herself out.
“Would you mind if I joined you?”
Some company never hurts, does it? She spares a moment to think over how Hobgoblin is meant to be her permanent companionship, how they’re supposed to keep each other from being lonely and safe from harm. It seems the exact opposite from what she expected. His yellow eyes are dark and hateful, claws gripping the rock that he spreads himself over as if he threatens Sikeax’s hide as their next victim.
A little kind companionship won’t kill me if I’m careful.
He smirks. He smirks because she is always at the mercy of others and too weak to live without his strength. His pride strikes her small, frail attempt at courage, wounding it so brutally that it shatters and cuts her with jagged edges.
When she doesn’t care to make eye contact with him, he leaps from his throne, landing softly atop the sand, placing himself beside her as if she will show him off like the king he is to yet another face she knows.

OOC: Hope you don't mind!

@Lena


you were angels,
so much more than everything

:: please tag me
:: minor force and power play allowed


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
#3
L E N A
It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken


  She lived in between lines in the sand; drawn, idle sketches of good and evil. She could balance along both, travel and twist and tumble through her wiles, her traces, her infinite, compassionate trills, until one action or another sent over the edge, and she stumbled. Some moments were sculpted in warfare, in strife, in belligerent invasions or abductions, taken from her home into another’s against her will. Some instances were carved in rapture, in utter, blinding euphoria and she couldn’t dream of anything else until that too shattered. The nymph was used to the notion, to the art of savagery and the coil of determination and everything else pulsing and distorting the way they all became so rancorously entangled, but it still hurt every time. Her dreams could be full of bliss, of hope, of ebullient, spirited pursuits, only to be dashed by reality, thwarted by catastrophe. It was brutal and soulless, the way their paths were sometimes laid out, because no matter how many times she gave every ounce of her love, of her being, of her strength into the world’s intrepid, daring whims, she was only repaid in guilt, in rue, in vehemence.
 
Perhaps she should’ve learned by now not to aspire, not to wish – but that was what separated her from the cruel, from the monstrous, from the decadent. She tried. She craved. She prayed. She didn’t give in.
 
But some days were much harder than others.
 
The Songbird’s notes didn’t end, whirling and twirling in boundless possibilities, scaling the rock walls and the floating, humid wind, spiraling in warm cascades and silly follies. Her mouth opened to the beguiling orchestra unwinding and unfurling, a beatific glade, a beautiful serenade to pieces of herself she’d forgotten or the individuals she’d understood, she’d cherished, she’d loved, never to see again. Lena painted pictures and images and tapestries with her voice: gilded, glowing, glistening, mellifluous splendor for all the things she missed. Her eyes closed, drifted shut, and she pushed the tones higher, then softer, alternating patterns of fantasy and regret – forgoing the tears building behind her eyes and the painful, barbed nettles driven into her core.
 
Then Imogen burrowed into her side again, dulcet and warm, tender and perfect, chimed along with the echoing symphony, and another voice pulled her away from the sorrows. Her gaze fluttered awake again, reacquainting her sights with the girl from the Dragon’s Throat, a compliment gliding along the breeze and ruffling her sentiments. She blinked several times, hiding her broken pieces, but not rising from the dunes, not trusting her limbs. Her smile, always elegant, always refined, always gentle (despite the heartbreak clawing and rasping against the composed remnants of her soul, despite the savage, acrid bile returning to cloud her thoughts, her mind), remained poised over the loss of life. “Thank you,” her words hovered, poised aloft like wings and feathers and threads waiting to snap, entirely too delicate. Instead of falling apart, she chose to savor the appearance of another, a worthy distinction, a distraction, from the tumbling nuances and the way she never seemed to topple her demons, gaze enigmatically drawing over amber gloss and honeyed whims, to a child who’d grown into a beauty. The Mender’s smile widened. “You are more than welcome! I trust you are well?” Then her stare pinpointed to the imp manifested at Sikeax’s limbs, felt her own kitsune stare, growl in suspicion, and the strength of her dominion rose, beating, hovering, within her chest. Gentle but not deceived, she claimed her voice again, tilting her head in curiosity, in divine inquiry. “Who is your friend?” The sylph wondered, speculated, how far demons and monsters and fiends crawled into one’s mind – and if poor Sikeax had been possessed by them too.

[Not at all! Thank you for joining me! ^_^]


@Sikeax


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