the Rift


[PRIVATE] Boy with a broken halo

Öde Posts: 145
Aurora Basin Disciple atk: 5 | def: 10 | dam: 5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hh :: 4.5 HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE
Blu
#1

Ö_D_E
I'M FRIENDS WITH THE MONSTER_UNDER MY BED

"Lena."

The call is soft, lacking any urgency or intent. He is searching for her, but he isn't worried, so he looks without earnest, set to wandering the wilderness of the winter land and throwing her name out to the wind with some sort of mixed hope. She is a busy mare, his mother, and he does not demand her time lightly. Her job makes her invaluable, and its often the reason he seeks her, now that he's grown, but he looks for her now in the ways he once did as a child, seeking the guidance and wisdom and gentleness she had always possessed.

Öde had loved his mother. How could he not, when she doted on him so, served him as the king she whispered he was into his ear? It made him spoiled, selfish, arrogant - traits he still carries, parts of him he doesn't feel anything towards but recognizes all the same. He chooses not to speak of them though, so many find them ugly, and it reminds him of her.
He had been angry with her, when she left him, when she let the darkness consume him.
He had been angry for a long time, and it had kept him as a wraith for longer then was healthy. She had never been healthy though, he saw though now looking back on those memories, fond or not. She had been mad, and he had gladly run down into the madness with her, then beyond (if it were possible) until he got so lost in the dark he couldn't pull himself out.

He did though, and then he'd found a different sort of darkness in death. It lacked the power and the rage that being a wraith had heralded; death was freeing though in its own way, but it was cold and distant and void of things that mattered. Death was defeat, and he had hated it too. She saved him though, and though he wanted to hate her still, he loved her for that sacrifice, for that love. He loved her for all that she had done, good or bad, because she had done it for him - on good nights he even thought perhaps she let him become a wraith so he could feel like a good.

Then he thinks, wraiths are not gods. They were more like demons. Powerful, terrifying, otherworldly; yes, but not godly, and so it was beneath him.
He snorts.

Then there was Lena. His other mother, or something.
She had saved him too. She took him in from the wilds, gave some meaning to his wandering hooves, some purpose to his beating heart, a head for a crown to sit one day and a crown to covet in the mean time. She had given him gods too, and not just the DemonKing, but the Helovian gods that met him in life where Oblivion met him in death. She gave him laurels by way of manners, teaching him in ways she didn't even realize that a king, a god, was so much more than authority and cranial adornments. She smoothed the rough edges and made him into something suitable.

He smoothed more and more each day, and he sought her now for more of that.

"Lena," he called again, patient, curious, hopeful.
He stalled before the green house that was not so green, head tilting back and forth as he sought her out amid the flurries.


bg- resurgere.deviantart.com

@Lena I've been wanting a thread for them for a while! No rush :3
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, including death - no decapitating.
Be aware active magic doesn't work in his vicinity due to his magic!


62.5/62.5 HP
Helovia Hard Mode

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


They’d spent the winter quietly strung amongst the hedges and the remains of bright, vivid hues, blocking out the taut, binding lines of barbarity and severity – forgetting and forgoing, nurturing the diligence of mastered dedication. Instead of clinging to the wares of the despondent, the nymph lifted her head and tossed aside melancholy, took to smiling with friends, to laughing and regaling, to watching midnight hues turn to golden mornings, to witnessing forlorn surfaces spring eternal bonds. She preferred movement to listlessness, she preferred reflection to laments and dirges, she preferred anything and everything else than the mounting rise of desolation bordering and bottling her throat; together, amidst her compatriots, along her kingdom, she was alive and free and rarely done in. It was just, it was right, it was what called her back to glacial spectrums and enigmatic wonders – the Basin was comfort and security, sanctity and refuge, from even the most burdening of woes.

Incapable of being battered, of being trounced, of being pummeled to the chilling winds and the binding frost, the pair had settled amongst what little greenery was still left amidst the pines and firs. Beneath their laden boughs, beneath their stark, cold embraces, the Songbird and fox dug amidst layers of snow and dappling of snowflakes, finding small, tiny christenings of herbs. The smallest were not plucked, but comforted by no longer being surrounded by ice, carefully acknowledged with a small and a dabbling of warmth, maws pushing snow aside or marking branches with telltale signs to return in the spring for the moss and berries, for the leaves and fronds. The Songbird smiled and wished them well, that they remained, surviving, thriving, even in the depths of Frostfall; promising them the sun would melt away the frost, the rime, and soon, they would all flourish again – because they always found a way, time and time and time thereafter, to rise from ashes, from dilemmas, from trials and tribulations.

They would’ve embarked further, down into lanes, roads, parlors, and copses furnished by naught but spells and crystals, had she not heard her name echoing across the threshold. She stopped, ceasing movement except to arch her brow, except to maneuver her head, her ears, in the direction of the noise. The tunes had not been cast in woe or pain – she wasn’t being directed to a source of sorrow, devastation, or danger. There was no treachery laced in the whims of her calling, naught but a listless, onyx familiarity with a boy who’d grown and reached for things he wanted, things he cherished. Her grin, if possible, grew ever bolder, ever prouder, ever embellished with a sense of reason and purpose, and her limbs followed suit, forever enticed by the journey of the curious, by the notion of another.

They followed, two beings eclipsed, brandished, and branded by snow and still reigning in warmth, guided by the curls of his voice and the fractures of sentiments burrowed underneath. She hadn’t had the chance or opportunity to speak to him in ages, perhaps either had been too busy with their ideals, with their battles, with the wars waging in heads or frames; but the quiet nuances and tranquil entities must have guided them to these singular moments of repose and renewal. The sylph cherished it, tilted her head to see him standing before the beginnings of the greenhouse, calling out across the void with a touch of song, a warbling of a melody. “Öde,” she rang like a beatific carillon or a dutiful bird, graceful and dignified. The duo neared, in rapture, in opulence, grinning and adoring. “How are you?”



Lena</style>
where there is love, there is life.</style>

image by safetylast @ flickr.com


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