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02-23-2016, 06:30 PM
The stars have all aligned
A brighter day is coming my way
A brighter day is coming my way
They were marching fairies along setting suns and rising dawns, streaking against the sky for what felt like a lifetime. They raced, the molded, they melded, they scalded, and amongst the layers of hope and finesse, they acquired the esteemed, precious boldness of icy dwellers; who feared but never showed it, who dared, defied, and forged audacity within their very souls. A song swallowed her breath and collided with the atmosphere, drawn to light, puffy fumes of air, crossing and weaving in whimsical lines and curls. The Mender and her fox might have spent ages in the confines and collections of spruce, of fir, of cosmic, otherworldly designs, striving to stay afloat in the arches and palisades of a much grander realm – had something else not snagged their attentions entirely.
At first, she thought the loud bird sounds a match to her aria, and she proffered another tune, a bit more gentle, a bit more fine. But the swell, the rush, the tirade of screeching and outcries left her dismayed, spun into silence. Their stares were drawn and etched towards the skies, expecting a monster to float amidst their abyss (and her heart pounded, not yearning, not wishing, not desiring to be present amongst demons and infidels again). But what came, what flew, what scurried along their wake was familiar and not at the same time; her head tilted, curious, inquiring, because she recognized the shape of his wings and the depths of his hues, all the brilliant, beautiful markings (as if he’d been carved out of the moon, alongside crescent waves and ebullient tides). Yet, there was no name to be given, naught granted; too much hysteria was laced amidst his dirge. Her ears pricked and her thoughts pinpointed in a variety of directions (what could it be, what had happened?), but Imogen, cunning and wily, bestowed the streamline of sentiments and notions through their bond. The communication was a panic-laced lance: Hotaru hurt, ask for Lena, and a thousand quandaries burned into her heart, her lungs, her soul, but none of them were voiced. She trusted the bird, she trusted the kitsune, and she had no time to spare in the lost, lingering annals of what might have been and what could be. Her vocals sprung across the chiseled, icy void, immersed in only strength, only vigilance, only ritual benedictions. "Take me to her."
It was as if they flew next to the great beast, so quickly, so swiftly, did they reach over rock, rubble, rime, and ruin, pressing their reverence, their prayers, their raptures on inhales and soothing fluttering nerves on exhales. The nymph asked for time, precious, precious time, for she didn’t know how injured the Lady was, she didn’t know how much repair would be in order, she knew naught at all but the virtue of rapidness and the harsh, glaring balms of the moment. Her eyes scanned the horizon, eventually coming upon two shapes – both eerily familiar, both fallen pieces, but only one truly broken.
The sylph stepped beside them, and looked down at the whittled, huddled mass of blood, barbs, and thorns. She didn’t have time to despair over how Hotaru had come to be naught more than frayed roses and snapped stems. She didn’t have time to ask how this had come to be, which cruel creature had dared to maul, mutilate, and ravage their Queen, or why the world decided to brutalize everyone and everything around it. The Songbird merely stared death in the face and closed her eyes.
An ethereal essence closed over her mind, sketched, twisted, around her soul until it was a gilded, golden wave of calm – hours spun, songs chimed, and echoes of the past began to come undone. Like streams, like rivers, like valleys of woven, silken lace, the rich elements of time and space coiled together, breathing in unison with their commander, with their wielder, as she urged them along their rapturous course. In streaks of billowing, luminescent satin, they stretched their ribbon of soothing, assuaging alms over the length of their pale Queen, shattering over the weight of bruises, of broken bones, of fractured feelings and torn ligaments. They spiraled over gaping lacerations, sealing them shut, stitching them together as if they’d never been touched, never been maligned, never been so perilously broken. She took a breath and pervaded the surroundings with beautiful, blissful, bountiful song, allowed it to soak the world in its riches, in its lacquer, in its sweet, cordial devotion and diligence, reducing wounds and ailments to mere memories, to vacant, distant marvels, to faded shapes and faint scars. Only when everything seemed over, complete, mended, and whole (perhaps not in mind, but at least in body), she opened her gaze to the lingering shreds of light and a gods’ machinations, bestowing a small smile to Mesec. "Thank you for calling me," for it’d been his companion, his bonded, who’d been able to drag her from the reaches of ice and snow. Then, she lowered her maw, touching it gently to the Lady’s cheek, ascertaining some damages had been taken, snagged, and snarled away – successfully stealing and poaching from the grim’s masterful scythe for one more day, one more night. Not today, she thought. You shall not have one of mine today. "Are you well now?"
At first, she thought the loud bird sounds a match to her aria, and she proffered another tune, a bit more gentle, a bit more fine. But the swell, the rush, the tirade of screeching and outcries left her dismayed, spun into silence. Their stares were drawn and etched towards the skies, expecting a monster to float amidst their abyss (and her heart pounded, not yearning, not wishing, not desiring to be present amongst demons and infidels again). But what came, what flew, what scurried along their wake was familiar and not at the same time; her head tilted, curious, inquiring, because she recognized the shape of his wings and the depths of his hues, all the brilliant, beautiful markings (as if he’d been carved out of the moon, alongside crescent waves and ebullient tides). Yet, there was no name to be given, naught granted; too much hysteria was laced amidst his dirge. Her ears pricked and her thoughts pinpointed in a variety of directions (what could it be, what had happened?), but Imogen, cunning and wily, bestowed the streamline of sentiments and notions through their bond. The communication was a panic-laced lance: Hotaru hurt, ask for Lena, and a thousand quandaries burned into her heart, her lungs, her soul, but none of them were voiced. She trusted the bird, she trusted the kitsune, and she had no time to spare in the lost, lingering annals of what might have been and what could be. Her vocals sprung across the chiseled, icy void, immersed in only strength, only vigilance, only ritual benedictions. "Take me to her."
It was as if they flew next to the great beast, so quickly, so swiftly, did they reach over rock, rubble, rime, and ruin, pressing their reverence, their prayers, their raptures on inhales and soothing fluttering nerves on exhales. The nymph asked for time, precious, precious time, for she didn’t know how injured the Lady was, she didn’t know how much repair would be in order, she knew naught at all but the virtue of rapidness and the harsh, glaring balms of the moment. Her eyes scanned the horizon, eventually coming upon two shapes – both eerily familiar, both fallen pieces, but only one truly broken.
The sylph stepped beside them, and looked down at the whittled, huddled mass of blood, barbs, and thorns. She didn’t have time to despair over how Hotaru had come to be naught more than frayed roses and snapped stems. She didn’t have time to ask how this had come to be, which cruel creature had dared to maul, mutilate, and ravage their Queen, or why the world decided to brutalize everyone and everything around it. The Songbird merely stared death in the face and closed her eyes.
An ethereal essence closed over her mind, sketched, twisted, around her soul until it was a gilded, golden wave of calm – hours spun, songs chimed, and echoes of the past began to come undone. Like streams, like rivers, like valleys of woven, silken lace, the rich elements of time and space coiled together, breathing in unison with their commander, with their wielder, as she urged them along their rapturous course. In streaks of billowing, luminescent satin, they stretched their ribbon of soothing, assuaging alms over the length of their pale Queen, shattering over the weight of bruises, of broken bones, of fractured feelings and torn ligaments. They spiraled over gaping lacerations, sealing them shut, stitching them together as if they’d never been touched, never been maligned, never been so perilously broken. She took a breath and pervaded the surroundings with beautiful, blissful, bountiful song, allowed it to soak the world in its riches, in its lacquer, in its sweet, cordial devotion and diligence, reducing wounds and ailments to mere memories, to vacant, distant marvels, to faded shapes and faint scars. Only when everything seemed over, complete, mended, and whole (perhaps not in mind, but at least in body), she opened her gaze to the lingering shreds of light and a gods’ machinations, bestowing a small smile to Mesec. "Thank you for calling me," for it’d been his companion, his bonded, who’d been able to drag her from the reaches of ice and snow. Then, she lowered her maw, touching it gently to the Lady’s cheek, ascertaining some damages had been taken, snagged, and snarled away – successfully stealing and poaching from the grim’s masterful scythe for one more day, one more night. Not today, she thought. You shall not have one of mine today. "Are you well now?"
the songbird
@Hotaru @Mesec
