the Rift


[PRIVATE] Fathers, be good to your Daughters

Graasvoel Posts: 97
World's Edge Artificier atk: 3.5 | def: 7.0 | dam: 8.0
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 17.0hh :: 6 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
smitty
#1
graasvoel
Wings soared over the thermals of Orangemoon; though, as the days slowly shortened, the massive vulture was finding thermals powerful enough to support his massive body only further and further south. So he left the depths of the Forest (and his Queen with her partner), flapping into the skies and sought the warmer south.

Sharp, red raptor eyes narrowed on the gathering of bodies that were more just shadows against the blinding mirror that was the salt flats he flew over. While the vulture enjoyed soaring for the relief from the heat it provided and the opportunities it usually brought him to, he lately had avoided it. He had avoided most anytime to be alone with his own mind—too many conflicting thoughts and emotions warred within the confines on his starkly white skull.

So, he slowly spiraled down from his great soaring height, seeking a distracting amongst this curious gathering of equines. Who gathered in the midst of a salt flat? In a spray of crystalline droplets that scattered mahogany polkadots on his thick russet hide, he landed in the shallow and briny water.

His ears perked forward, wings folding loosely to his sides, allowing the light and cool breeze to still reach the patchwork of sweat on his flanks—but all movement ceased at he spotted one particularly small and winged form amongst all the others.

His ears tipped back, mind screeching to flee; but the guilty weight in his barrel was too heavy to allow him to fly. And his heart—the great organ beast so fast that he felt it would burst in his chest. So he stayed, head dropping slightly (more to her level), as his eyes did not leave her.

“Hallo, hommelby,” the gruff words were a choked whisper—but they showed he had listened to the last time she spoke. He had heard every word; his mind had replayed them. She liked bees better than butterflies. Her name—her name was Melita. But he couldn't quite push that out of his tight throat.


hommelby = bumblebee
image

@Melita Following the SS drop?

Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.



Melita Posts: 35
Dragon's Throat Filly
Filly :: Hybrid :: 16 :: Newborn - Birdsong
Sila :: Plain Zephyr :: Wakiya Heather
#2
The little honeybee child marveled at how the world worked. Instead of becoming daunted by the strange transgressions, by the weird, exotic quests, by the swiftly-changing tides, she simply absorbed them – took their wares for her own benefit, melded them into her mind, processed, thought, and dove into their curious depths when the time was fitting, when it seemed right. Otherwise, her headstrong nature was never quite guided by a strong hand – grasping various concepts and chasing after them with a bold finesse, promising to remember the hows and whys later, perhaps right before she slept, or while she dreamed. She’d been streamlined by audacity and short fuses, exploding and ablaze at the first sign of light, at the first shifting of shadow, at the glorious expression of color, of sight, of sound, of life, breathing into its glow, into its harmony, with such a feverish zest, with such a passionate frenzy, yearning to grasp and take hold of anything (everything). She’d done so much and so very little all at once, had pretended to be a sea monster in the oasis, had explored with Iskra and Clementine, had marveled at the beautiful wall of embers with Vaskra, and she knew, she understood, that there was more eternally awaiting around the bend (something marvelous and exquisite, something delightful, opulent, something to fill her thirst, her avaricious need).

But she spent her time basking in the puddles and pools, admiring their reflection of the midnight sky, the clouds, the dynamic galaxies, almost shifting her head and asking one of the many gathered there how it all worked, before another’s appearance hastily forged its way into the flats. It was distinct, a potent, powerful tug and pull, a catch and release, and her eyes followed the pathway, a moth to flames, to thunder, to lightning, climbing its numerous lines, etchings, and carvings until her gilded eyes landed directly on the beast in front of her. She only knew him seasons before, when her investigations and thoughts had brewed and burst out of her lungs like embers, like ash, and he’d fled, escaped, with only one word. Her stare widened, then quickly looked around to see if anyone else was nearby (perhaps he was addressing them), in disbelief that he’d arrived in front of her – this big, hulking, bulky man of stone and fur. But his glance seemed entirely fixated on her little, lithe form, and she was rooted to the spot, suddenly without movement or motion, still as a statue, only daring to breathe when her lungs craved it. She wasn’t scared, but riveted again, just as she had been before, enamored by his shape and strength, by the sculpted outline of brawn and power; she wanted to know everything about him, why he’d run, if he really did prefer butterflies over bees, what her mother and he had discussed before he’d flown into the sky, like he’d just escaped from ghosts and wraiths. The child’s head tilted, before her voice finally stoked back to life, remembering him only by his single reverberation. “Oh! Hi Geen!” She had no way of comprehending his prior exclamation, that it had not been his calling, not even close, but she continued on with her chirps and sprite-like qualities, chattering away as if they were lifetime friends (hommelby; she stuck into her mind, for later reference and pondering). “What are you doing here?” The girl forged on ahead, chattering, eyes glimpsing along the horizon, heavens, and then the ground. “Is it because of the puddles? They’re very pretty. Do you like the puddles more than butterflies or bees?” Then she gasped, astonished, as if uttering the finest of declarations. “That must be it! Your favorite things are the puddles.” Then she nodded, in firm agreement that the little pools were mystifying, enchanting, and worth the bias.

Melita
diamond in the flesh
art | codes


@Graasvoel

Graasvoel Posts: 97
World's Edge Artificier atk: 3.5 | def: 7.0 | dam: 8.0
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 17.0hh :: 6 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
smitty
#3
graasvoel
The vulture’s sharp gaze watched every movement, the bright gold of her eyes as they stretched and glanced side to side—it was comical, and brought an unbidden, lopsided grin to his muzzle. Her earnest, guileless gaze and movements and expression slowly eased his racing pulse. And, for a breathless moment, they both were frozen in place; staring at each other—

But then she was motion and life once again—brimming with it. “Oh! Hi Geen!” His great skull cocked slightly at the word she used for him…then again, it was the only thing he had said in the brief moments he had discovered her and her sister’s existence. Her sister. His hot eyes glance around for moments, but they cannot find the butterfly filly. And he cannot stand to look away from his hommelby for too long.

A part of his chest spasmed that she would call him ’No’, but another part of him was too enamored to correct her. And it was a reminder: “I won’t have them hurt.” He would not hurt her. Or her sister. He swore it.

But such serious thoughts were quite at odds with the effervescent chatter flowing from his daughter (a quiver ran through his thick, tawny hide at the word). And a grin crossed his muzzle as she exclaimed about puddles, “I do like puddles quite a lot, hommelby. Do you know why?” A mischievous gleam came through his yellow-and-red eyes, “Because they are perfect for—SPLASHING!” And on his exclamation, his great limbs struck into the warm, salty brine, sending a wall of water up at himself and at the little filly.

A deep, rumbling guffaw sounded from his barrel—any fear or anxiety forgotten in the face of childhood innocence. But it was simmering just beneath the surface, biding its time to resurface.
image

@Melita

Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.



Melita Posts: 35
Dragon's Throat Filly
Filly :: Hybrid :: 16 :: Newborn - Birdsong
Sila :: Plain Zephyr :: Wakiya Heather
#4
The tiny honeybee babe found she quite liked staring and watching him – he had a peculiar motion that made her want to laugh, want to chuckle, want to continue chirruping and chirping. Perhaps it was the way his presence took up the whole earth, pervaded, surrounded, so much that she’d forgotten what she was doing there in the first place, and her entire being centered and focused on him. Her eyes etched their way across the heaping mounds of hair and mane, and her mind bristled with a million questions for him (including how he’d managed to acquire so much fur and tassels, if it was all for show and maybe he was more muscle and brute brawn underneath those layers), but her voice, her actions, her impulsive nature, took on a life of its own. As he spoke, she found herself leaning in, absorbing each and every intonation, the ruffle of hommelby and how that seemed to represent her (and she liked it; the way it pushed past the clouds, the air). She caught the impish gleam in his glance, but it was entirely too late, because in a sudden, swift turn of events, the water splashed over her in radiant, blissful droplets, cascading down the length of her nose, her chin, her mane, and her wings.

Then she laughed – a blissful, silly, melodic sound, tossing her head back, reeling in the barrage of vibrant hues, and subsequently ruining the entire serenade with a vigilant screech loud enough to wake the dead. “Geeeeeen!” She bellowed, a heinous shriek that likely echoed through a better part of the reflecting pools, tarnishing the beauty and wonder with audacity, silliness, and spirited, ridiculous pluck. “You’ll pay for that!” The child pronounced, nothing sinister, nothing nefarious, but still vengeful, still vivacious, vibrant, a scorching zeal of ferocity lingering amidst her veins, painted across her furrowed brows and exultant motions. The youth plotted her revenge immediately, she’d had experience in the realm of splashing (especially in the oasis, where she’d reigned as a sea witch for more than two minutes), raising her tiny body skywards, flapping her wings, and then driving them down, down, down into the nearest pocket of water. It wasn’t nearly as powerful as his, but it still got the point across – that she was not be outdone, that she was not to be conquered, that she’d fight back with equal aplomb until the world rendered her incapable. She felt the drops ricochet back upon her, settle along her hair, her whiskers, her eyelids, but none of it mattered – only the diversion, the amusement, the silliness, the strength forged between her muscles, her skin, her soul, and the strange, ethereal connection within the cherubic girl and the virile beast.


Melita
diamond in the flesh
art | codes


@Graasvoel

Graasvoel Posts: 97
World's Edge Artificier atk: 3.5 | def: 7.0 | dam: 8.0
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 17.0hh :: 6 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
smitty
#5
graasvoel
His wall of sea water did, indeed, soak them both—as he intended. Although, perhaps he hadn’t quite factored in her small stature into his massive splashes, for her small form (from wingtips to nose) was saturated with salt water. At first, a frisson of concern coursed through him— was this alright? Was this good? In the millisecond between breaths, his grin faltered as he watched water stream off his little bee.

And then she answered his qualms with an absolute answer: she laughed. It was a glorious sound, bright and carefree; without the worries or weight of the world. And it was infectious, luring out a rough chuckle of his own. A broad smile crossed his muzzle as she shouted his name in playful rebuke.

As she began to repeatedly plunge her hooves into the pool of water, he accepted the onslaught of water (but did raise his head slightly to avoid the brunt of the brine); however, his wings spread out and arced down, aiming to encase the little filly in their semi-circle. And then, acting on pure instinct and her vivacious energy, he reached out to playfully hook her beneath his chin in an attempt to pull her tightly to his chest.

But, even as he did this, his entire world slowed. What was he doing? He did not know play—perhaps this was what his childhood dreams had been made of. Playful, fun, loud outings with his parents. Splashing in puddles, wrestling with wings—

His anxiety and fears seized this moment of uncertainty, resurfacing with a vengeance as he froze. His wings slowly drooped down, head slowly rising as he awkward looked down at the little filly he had both yearned and feared to see: his daughter. Again, his mind begged to flee—to find some waiting and warm woman to lose all of this responsibility in.

But he still remained; playfulness dying.


image

@Melita SORRY IF THIS IS BORING, I prob should've rested the muse and waited to write it BUT here it is anyway <3

Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.



Melita Posts: 35
Dragon's Throat Filly
Filly :: Hybrid :: 16 :: Newborn - Birdsong
Sila :: Plain Zephyr :: Wakiya Heather
#6
The sound of laughter pulsing into the landscape was harmonious and silly, a reckless endeavor sparked by similar facets, features, and figures – she was wild in her freedom, in her ardent, unabashed movements and motions, and he presided in the same stead, varnished and lacquered amidst dynamic chuckles. The child would have calculated her play and impulses until the ends of the earth, energetic and coaxed into oblivion by the singsong paradise of diversion and amusement, led directly into flames and fire because it was everything she wanted, intoxicating, tempting, inveigling. But he moved again, and all of her riveted pieces had to cling back to his motions, watching the long-drawn arc of his massive wings and their eminent plumage (somewhat like hers, marked by some of the same hues, and her eyes were scorched on their marks, on their patterns, on the similarities between the two – almost stretched hers out to see if they matched, to see if one end could fold into another). Swiftly, before she could even react, the feathers swept beneath her chin, hoisted her jaw upwards, and her stare was pinned directly into his before she was smothered, pushed into his chest.

She understood none of it; but held her breath against the thick hair and the layered tassels, suddenly very still, very rigid, very taut, unsure and uncertain of what was brewing in the midst of their shuffles and chaos, from splashes to embraces. However, she could’ve sworn when her gaze had met his, that she’d seen fear and apprehension: ghosts of ill-confidence sauntering, shifting, slithering into the jubilant refrains, encasing them in the unknown. She knew what that was like, had considered the sentiments on more than one occasion (for she enjoyed peering into the obscure, but was never sure of what would come from it), yet, couldn’t puzzle over why he’d reflect the measures of foreboding. Curiosity, an eternal spark in her churning, brewing, brimming cauldron of a mind, stoked and fed the inquiries, the questions, billowing, flowing, echoing past all the oddities, the strangeness of the movement. Then, seemingly as abruptly as he’d cloaked and veiled and shielded her with the strength of his frame, it all flickered away, spread down toward her sides, leaving the girl rattled, addled, confused. There was something between all these layers and nuances, a spread of sentiments she couldn’t quite fathom and understand. It was like a spider web, and she pushed her way through the maddening, ivory threads, striving and reaching, because that’s all she’d ever done. She dug into the earth, stubborn, obstinate, a bristling little Titania in the making, with her fairy wings and gossamer potential, with her brimstone abilities lying in wait. She stayed there, raising her head again so her stare solidified on his (gold and red, like bleeding, gilded marks of rubies and stones), and wondered; fed the frenetic blend of yearning, of longing, of pondering until the question pervaded through her mouth and blossomed into the air; staying there like an anomaly, neither hushed or deafening. “Did I scare you?”

Melita
diamond in the flesh
art | codes

@Graasvoel

Graasvoel Posts: 97
World's Edge Artificier atk: 3.5 | def: 7.0 | dam: 8.0
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 17.0hh :: 6 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
smitty
#7
graasvoel
Pale ears that had tilted askew at the sudden uncertainty and apprehension which flooded his chest, barrel, and mind snap forward at his little bee’s simple, innocent, and candid question.

“Did I scare you?”

The smallest of grins chased away the unease that had robbed the vulture of his lighthearted playfulness. The notion of a small, effervescent girl armed with the ferocity of small, saltwater splashes scaring the hulking, massive vulture of a man struck some amused cord in the great stallion. And so his small grin grew in to a large one, and eventually in a rumbling guffaw.

“No, no, hommelby,” his rough voice managed between rolls of laughter, “You did not scare me. I…” he trailed off, wondering how to explain…whatever it was that was happening with him. Did he even need to explain it to a child? Did adults explain things to children? Did fathers? His father had explained many things about battle, about weapon making, about the many royal houses in Bahari. But never had he explained his actions—the reason he fucked whores and left his bastard son to his bitter, vengeful mother’s care.

So the vulture decided that no, he did not need to fully explain himself to those bright, questioning, confused golden eyes framed with thick lashes. Instead, he simply said, “I was thinking of something else. But tell me, little one, has anyone taught you to fly?” He knew that her mother was wingless, so she would be unable. But he wondered if any other proper sire in the hot, sandy south had took it upon themselves to teach this filly (his daughter) how to use her wings.

His hot gaze went to the lightly feathered appendages in question—they were so similar to his own; and this similarity sent an unknown (but happy) thrill through his chest. Pride—it was pride.
image

@Melita

Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.



Melita Posts: 35
Dragon's Throat Filly
Filly :: Hybrid :: 16 :: Newborn - Birdsong
Sila :: Plain Zephyr :: Wakiya Heather
#8
Melita’s relief was instantaneous, the regal innocence of a babe, a melding, molding fusion of jubilance all over again, radiant smiles and aspiring dreams. She glowed and pressed on, forged ahead of the oddities, the circumstances, the enigmas shrouding her mind, absorbing the weight of his laughter and the spark of delight pressing into her sides. She didn’t question the way he faltered, the way he distracted and deterred – she was easily riveted on other things at a moment’s notice, understood that something else was always there in the background (the shriek of a gull, the grin of a friend, the play of shadows dancing on the wall), enticing, disrupting, tempting. But the big stag had his own version of lures and beguilements, for no sooner had he shifted away from her inquiry, did he proffer one of his own, and the child nearly leaped, bounded, in mid-air.

“No!” She shouted at first, because it was true, no one had ever given her lessons on flight, and then she was an exhilarating rush of movement, motion, and sound, blustering and swift, keen and ardent, mane fluttering and flying in all directions as her wings spread out, eager and fervent, beating frantically. The youth had always presumed one day she’d just know how - and she simply hadn’t grown enough to achieve it. “I’ve always wanted to though! It looks awesome!” The little honeybee child hadn’t ever asked, wondered, or pondered the state of her differences between her mother and sister – why she’d been adorned with plumage while they weren’t, what had made her altered and morphed from their lean forms, who would ever show her the way to the skies (like so many others that she’d watched; glistening, radiant, and beautiful, free and liberated, soaring in the wind). “My mother and sister don’t have wings,” she offered in response, in explanation, trying to fathom the hows and whys, in constant, zealous waves and gesticulations, as if she’d be spirited off into the air by longing and wishing alone, as if the breeze would pick her up and show her the way. “I don’t know why I do and they don't – but I really want to use them!” The girl flapped them in time, in tune, with the swirl of the wind across the flattened landscape, hope and adoration blooming from her chest, staring at the man who’d promised this amazing gift, tossed right into the snare, snatched before she’d even begun to realize. “Could you show me?”


Melita
diamond in the flesh
art | codes

@Graasvoel


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