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Several days have passed, and with them the winter sheds its ugly self from the fields and in the forests. It gives way to warmth. Dawn, so accustomed to the stifling heat of his lands is grateful for this change. He is more than grateful. For there is too much to be happy for, and in all rights he has found a simple kind of paradise in Helovia. It seems false almost; it is not all quite true. There beyond the borders of the Edge, perhaps even within them, the slights that existed before continue to roam unguarded. And this can never change, he thinks, why would it?
The days he spends are often filled with wandering. He travels with the mists, compelled to keep company amongst the fallen clouds wasting across the landscape. The youth feels naked with merely trees to join him. And before the edge where the sharp rock dives forever into the ocean, he fears he might feel the overwhelming desire to jump. It’s too easy… and he was too curious for his own good. So he avoided the cliff side and admired it from a distance, before he would dive back into the mists and keep moving. He couldn’t help it, his legs would hardly settle down. And while the throb in his head had nearly disappeared his head would hurt every so often. A pain that could last for an hour or a mere minute; the world would blur, forcing him to sit down with his head to the ground, eyes clenched shut. It was the only way he’d be able to sleep. Otherwise, his legs would grow restless, his mind overactive and tense. With hot white pain the dreams would take him.
It was in the same way he found rest that day, but awoke before the sun started to rise. Several stars could still be seen, and the distant haze of light barely touched the sky. There was no use trying to go back, in the depth and nothingness of sleep. And with that the charcoal stallion arose another day, thinking that perhaps, he would be guaranteed another few months of life if not more.
He was not afraid of the dark however. It hid things, it kept things, and somehow Dawn felt included inside its domains. A substance, much like the mist, that had drawn itself all over and filled everything within it. Dawn could not be distinguished from what was and wasn’t. Perhaps this was what led him out from the protection of the Edge.
Dawn, an old voice resonates from deep inside. That is a nice name- It is still dark outside, the voices continue; the figure that produces these memories remains a blur. For some reason he longs to see her once more, if only to reassure himself that such things had happened. Or perhaps he is lonely, and beyond his hardened surface he yearns to connect in some way. But he wasn’t sure how, and if he could.
The shadows seem to be moving as he races through the land. Sometimes there are outlines that shift in between trees, bushes, or appear and dissolve into the flat field. The random glow or a light, perhaps eyes or a mere reflection sends a startling, tingling sensation into his limbs that makes him run harder. He starts sprinting into these moving manifestations, a swirl of delight quickly spreads into his limbs for a second time urging him to run faster, run harder!
Dawn, they coo. His name rolls out like a labored sigh. Dry and thirsty.
Dawn. He is running for his life, he is afraid. But it makes him smile just slightly; it makes him laugh inside as he breaks into a forest.
He twists, darting between the moving figurines from tree to tree, while dodging unseen predators. The ground is twisted here, uneven; the youth begins to slow down. But the voices continue their pursuit. Dawn. They sound familiar, they come from one voice, different from the first one he had encountered. The young stallion quickly halts his flight and stands in the quiet of a dark and crowded forest.
He should know that voice and yet, it doesn’t strike him with a name. A name! Dawn. His eyes are wide, they search the depth surrounding him. It no longer thrills him, scares him, the voice is alluring and sweet to the boy. He knew that voice- what was its name?
“He… Here… I’m right here.” The stallion’s voice is supple, soft and careful. But no matter how much he searches for the voice it does not reveal itself to him. This voice that was once nurturing to the boy, beloved.
By now the sun lines the horizon. The sky appears to be bleeding from the east; weak rays barely hit the edges of the trees. Darkness remains, a soft veil.
“I am Dawn!” His voice cracks, it beseeches the voice. It reaches out, and he can’t help but feel his soul lurch out into that statement, hoping to be caught in the arms of something so familiar and safe. There is only silence, and the irritating noise of birds shifting in the background.
His breath heaves, the urgency in his eyes dies out, there is nothing.
Dawn. It is stronger now, vibrates in his whole body. It comes from one direction, his movement is immediate, swift and sharp; the trail of his tail flags away with the ivory silk strand. Many trees pass by Dawn, he fails to recognize the odd gashes that stream past him. There is only one thing on his mind, one task that binds him to that voice.
But he cannot go any further. The water before the fir tree halts Dawn’s chase. There is a moment where time seems to stop as he marvels at it. Though his hazel eyes are quickly drawn to the dark crimson stones underneath. They form red eyes.
Red. His eyes are red. His sooty reflection shifts into a brilliant pure white. He swears the creature, a unicorn with a full horn, is there beside him when it whispers his name. Warm breath and all, before those same eyes rip through the flesh and consume the illusion.
DAWN
stallion of world's edge
i could live in hope
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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 |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
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L E N A
black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead
Muse; influence and inspiration deriving from the honeyed, ambrosial qualities of life, where the winds arched and crooned, where the sun cast its radiant rays, where the dawn met dusk and whispered serenity, tranquility. Finesse in the silken twilight, artistry in the satin rise, finery lavished into the splendid opulence of an impulsive catalyst, a laureate’s favored subject, an author’s particular word, a sonnet’s blessed stanza – and she longed to ensnare it all. The divine waltz, the beguiling, alluring bolero, the sinuous, serpentine curve of minuets, the crown of regalia driven into the core of her lissome, elegant oeuvre, all yearning, hoping, to be contained, encompassed, embraced into the sanction of her nymph soul. The harpsichord rhapsody, the taffeta wings and strings, the grandeur, the resplendence, the dulcet designs due to bloom from her aspirations and convictions, all brushing, caressing, soft, light motions of a sanctified creature, enlightening the world with her own rapture and reverie. Varnished and lacquered to the hallowed, enticing whims and fancies of warmth, of defiance, of prevailing beneficence, where atrocious turmoil seethed and simmered and the twisted glade of her boughs fought against bewitching, beguiling misery, the hush, the fall, the blossoming floret riddled by melodies of morality and sin. She scoured the prosperous eaves for the capricious benedictions of innovation and insight, visions scattered amongst the smooth pieces of lilies and persimmons, petals and copses. Longing to mold them to her lips, to incite mellifluous chords, to awaken assuaging restlessness, to kindle the unyielding invocations and grace of her beautiful crusade, quest, odyssey. To conspire against the wicked doldrums, to banish the flames of iniquity, to enliven the senses of morality, she touched the sinew of sins, drew poison from their barbs, unleashed the toxins with the brilliance of song, with the absorption of a smile – tender, enchanted affection. A purpose from the straying whims and fancies of a capricious world, wholesome and magnificent, crafted into assurances of belonging.
Emboldening another restless genesis, she strayed from familiarity and procured inquisition to the halls of majesty and regal lace. Pressing her form along the pines and leaves, the mysticism and enigmatic twist of the labyrinthine deeds, the licentious pull, the alluring tragedies, the beams of luminescence sprinkled from heavens to reign over purgatory, enticed her and the stalwart, valiant drive for absolution and innovation. She intertwined the rich sienna hide of her ethereal entity into the remorseless thickets, movements swift, quick, lissome amongst the brambles, becoming immersed in the haunting temptation of darkness and light, visions of the past flickering, billowing flames against the grandeur of her beneficent mind. The firs sheltered and hindered, the needles scraped and protected, the fronds crowned and brushed, pulsed and withered, stroked and embraced. Was that what enamored her to these carnivorous boughs now, the ravenous, consuming turbulence of another time? Was that what she could draw her enchantments from, not the creeds of present, but the sorrows of yesterday? She thought back to the glimpses of her childhood, the youth spent in despair, isolation and forlorn desolation, shaping her into the unyielding, sanguine heart she was now - no, perhaps not. How could one heal when they always evoked the melancholies of preceding days?
Her motions and sentiments ceased momentarily at the sound of a voice shouting amongst the formidable glade. A wraith pressing its terrors, a knife, a blade, in the shadows? A ghost in the convictions of coveting, bestial delusions? A hallucination? Noble head raised, ears swiveling in various directions, trying to pinpoint the location of the howl, cracked, remorseful, a bellow sent into strands of nothingness. Curiosity sought the strands of her deliverance, beguiled and ensnared all over again, and she forgot about brambles and barbs, thorns and quills, and ushered the refinement of her sylph essence once more. Earth and air, lithe and limber, the fae from the midst and mist, the fairy made from cruelty and optimism, motivated by vitality, by interest, by strength and perseverance: affable, amiable, ardor of life and sincerity. Lined by stalwart, intrepid motions, the silken strands of her movements followed the tangled clamors, breaking into the radiance of sunlight as her gaze finally settling upon a beat – corporeal, real, true, not a spirit awakened by immorality. His horn marked him as the same species as she, but it had been disassembled – broken, snapped? The scent that wafted from him caused her heart to leap for one slender second, gave her pause, made her yearn for that turbulent Edge, those ferocious waves, the fearsome, powerful cliff tops that bowed to no one. In the next instant its gone, and she studied him further, the stag drenched in ether, in the elegiac posture of the pool, where illusions heightened and crimson flowed. She looked away from its core, the quelled brew of ichor and death, and attempted to resolve the chimera, stepping from the thicket, layering the world with her humming, mellifluous tones, wondering over the nature of his derision, the weight of his scorn, the beat of his ailments. Where was the muse now, lost and tangled within his trance? Could she find the right words, the right melody, to reassure, heal, him too? An innocent whisper, a sincere smile, a dip of a regal head, a warm, springtime gaze, and the influence of integrity and resilience, plaited into her confident core. “Are you well?”
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The illusion invokes so much inside of Dawn, feelings foreign and isolated in a deep and hidden space. No longer lost, these treasures of precious, sweet memories echo out; though they fail to grasp any coherent connection, the plethora of emotions continue to frighten the young stallion regardless. This echo of a past life is quickly being absorbed, and all he can hold on to beyond the thin surface of the water are the ruby rocks beneath them.
The voices; that one voice drew out all at once. Its vile venom retreated, dissolving somewhere that didn’t quite exist anymore in a rapid sting. Leaving him exhausted and tired. Slowly his hazel eyes drifted, and now all he could see was himself with the broken horn, the blood that dried against his cheek, and the hollowed out eyes staring straight through him. The mare that looks on is far from his mind. A boy so sensitive of his environment flounders, recovering from an unexpected walk with old friends. Her voice is calm, compared to the lyrics tossed seconds ago however, they appear cold and distant.
“I don’t know.” It’s a statement, bold and rough around its edges. Has he ever been well? As much as he could make it to be, as much as he could believe it was. Dawn pauses quietly before shifting his gaze to the voice, certain that it is not a ghost that gnaws and drills against his skull. There is not enough lacquer to goad his soul forwards, not anymore; it settles and it freezes. What he sees perhaps is not quite concern, at least, he can’t tell. Dawn finds intrigue absorbed into her features, caution; but not the sort that prevents her from poking, testing the heat from the fire. It’s there in that smile that blooms and illuminates.
“In fact…” He laughs shortly, a huff, a chuckle that jostles his core for a mere second. It makes him smile and darkens his eyes briefly. “I am well. I am very well off. I should be dancing, but I’ve decided to run instead.” Dawn tries to admit a simple truth, warmth permeates with genuine joy. But the last statement cuts off, dull and rancorous. He smiles regardless, quite opposite to his tone as he glances back across the water.
“What do you think?” She wouldn’t have said it unless she had a reason to explore his woes. Perhaps he wouldn’t have allowed such thoughts to seed and grow. But he is curious about her question, and what her definition of wellness might be. The cool smile softens regardless, it becomes more hospitable before he draws up his focus and places it neatly upon her façade, watching as though nothing had happened moments before the encounter. To say it has ebbed away is an understatement, and to suspect that the boy has brushed the occurrence off is a poor assumption. What has been revealed is layered underneath too many skins, the boy resumes an easy mask that pinches just a bit on his face; but it will work all the same. He can adapt, he can ignore the small pains to pull himself through. It has always been this way.
And yet, amidst the freedom that lays before him, tempting that there is a chance to rest from all this play, he cannot distinguish the masks from his own face and the lies from the truth. What else can there be besides love in this life, and without love what does a creature live on? Is it to crumbs, where mice are made to steal and hunger like wolves?
DAWN
stallion of world's edge
i could live in hope
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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 |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
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L E N A
black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead
She knew about illusions, ones of compassion and deceit, ones of betrayal and tenderness, the comfort in warm absolution, then the broken, fragmented pieces of it. She’d been witness and victim, stifled and suffocated, torn and then reassembled, grown and blooming, the blossoming floret in the shades of darkness and mantles of heresy. She knew strength and conviction, and the ghosts that flourished from the tides of trembling insurrection, the wraiths that billowed from elegiac distortions, the poltergeists that maintained prowess in dreams and reality. She knew remnants of another world still held resolution in this one, and the next, and the next thereafter, streamlined into psyches that once corrupted, once distorted, always carried the weight of that savagery tucked into their souls, where it waited, submerged into veins and ire. She knew because she’d lived it, felt the desolation, felt the despair, felt the strangling whims of capricious endeavors and piercing, puncturing claws that ripped and tore, and she pushed the savagery down into the base of her form, made it move, made it dance, made it ripple into mellifluous chords and exotic raptures. Her petals had flourished with specters, had thrived with apparitions, had sprouted from glimmers and semblances of haunting dissolutions, and she’d overcome, she’d prospered, she’d fought and won in the springtime haze, the summer sonnets, the crisp fall and the chilling winter. And this one, this stag before her, reminded her so much of otherworldly things, the spirits in the mist that tugged and tangled their fibers into hearts, that rendered them tormented beings, that disheveled and dissolved into anguished souls. Was he the latter, driven against the wall of these apparitions, collected into their heinous grip, poured and pervaded into the senseless, cracked, split, withered and decayed anarchy of the forest, of the realm, of the palisade? His voice told her, floating chords of uncertainty, grating doubt, audacious clamor in the midst of silent pariahs and courting presences - he didn’t know. Her eyes searched the bounty of his face, the youthful glow captured by indecision, hesitating, then chuckling into the distance, and all at once its cold.
Then why aren’t you running? Why aren’t you skipping? Why aren’t you clinging to the barriers of this forest and waltzing in its runes? I would go with you, for I dearly love to dance. She imparted nothing to him, witness of the pool and the earth, hushed fae in the calamity of shades, phantasms, manifestations of truth, devils and virtues. His smile is cracked, dissonant serenity in the glade, like a treacherous snake or a Cheshire cat, grinning for the sake of grinning, snickering and smirking because deep within the recesses of their hearts, they know their recoiling devastation will enamor and bleed into their chosen aperture. But she is no weakling, no frightened lamb, no trembling, quivering maiden left to rot in the chilling, harbored walls of the copse; she’s been sculpted into something more fine, distinguished, strong in the valleys of mayhem and brutality. He asked her, inquired if he was truly well, and it wasn’t her place to say, not her venue to judge, so she slid the mellifluous chords of her vocals into the earth, allowed the harmony to surround, pervade, with its tender nuances and its genuine beneficence. “Perhaps.” But, from her honeyed, ambrosial stare, he changed again, the smile dissolving into cordiality instead of rancor, and her eyes narrowed briefly, pondering over the simple, quick, swift alteration. A mask pulled over his features, forgotten before, alive now? What was truth and what was fantasy? What was real and what was discarnate? What was disembodied and what was corporeal? She shifted, one hoof placed forward, the beat of divine wings, of seraphic grandeur, the soft, dulcet lullaby of rapture, of reverie, of generosity quelling from her heart. She’d find it, this inspiration, this promising influence, locked in the fancies of his upheaval. The harp rang again, feathered and laced, taffeta whims and assuaging balms. “If not, may I help you?”
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His eyes watch carefully, attention that conquers and prevails over the white image that fades. The boy’s senses start to strengthen as he tries to piece together the subtle hints, the mere indications radiating from the mare’s simplest of movements. From the surface of hazel eyes they are merely bright; the beacon that sends out a strong beam into the dark forest. Softened as they search for the answer in her voice; but how long can this second skin last? The illusion sends a weary pulse, but it can never truly separate Dawn from his course. It has been a shield well worn in the face of too many battles. Where others have fallen, he has persevered, their failures reinforcing the seams of that shield and pulling him forwards. At last it thrives, once a clothing article, a playing card, a thing, it is his flesh. And perhaps it has finally embedded itself within his soul, an attempt to stitch the seams, prevent the bleeding.
And there it is, her reply.
Perhaps.
This simple word appears sweat and resonates with a life genuine to its master. He may believe the good intent in the creature before him, but he cannot find the hope that should inspire one such as he. The initial, callous response is snuffed from its root, before it can spit itself into the air. Instead of repulsing the bland content from the mare’s honeyed lips, his smile grows into a grin. Indeed, he is amused; he turns his head and leaves his eyes quietly to the forest beside her. Considering this response with an air of lost anticipation. The previous beam dims in those orbs, a grin remains of what flickers. The young stallion disappointed, his wonder and hope, the light he was searching for weakens against the rising sun.
A curled ear twitches as she shifts. A proposal has at last unveiled the angel underneath the shadow. Beyond the confidence that strengthens the voice beyond her flesh, the offer appears tentative to the stallion. She is so careful, offering no judgment and providing reprieve, by what grace has he stumbled upon?
He raises his head and gaze to her face. The jagged ends of those lips loosen. “You can try.” He finally wills himself to pull away from the water’s edge. It’s as if claws have sunk into him, he feels cold when he slowly walks from the crimson stones, the large tree to his back. “… though, it is a curious thing you propose misses.” His brows are subtle, and move amidst thought, puzzled. “For what have you to offer?” He does not mock her. Dawn speaks aloud, thoughts that are generated between them both. “You see, this wellness of which you speak of, I cannot quite think of it as one thing. It appears to me as a web, or webs upon webs. Some that fade into cobwebs, others that ensnare memories, and some that glimmer brightly from where they are. I can declare my being, but what good does that do if I cannot align myself in it with whole hearted truth?”
The youth plays a fine line between truth and lies; at least, the ones he finds himself accustomed to. His curiosity is sparked by the gravity of his own voice, which can only make him smile again. Bashfully, as a small laugh lolls into the open, he looks away and steals the intensity away from her gaze. “Well, where shall we proceed with this then?” He had no desire to exchange names, he enjoyed dancing among the shadows, flowing along with the mists. It was not odd to him then, that they continued to be strangers.
DAWN
stallion of world's edge
i could live in hope
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