| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE |
| Bluey |
12-20-2012, 12:16 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-20-2012, 12:16 PM by Larkspur.)
l a r k s p u r
Loose ends, they tangle down and then take flight.
|
Nestled amongst the rises and ridges of the mountain side, a dark mare grazes beneath a starry night sky, her form a near shapeless shadow as she saunters from patch to patch of tasteless tundra grass growing amongst the rock and hardened earth. Overhead the Aurora Borealis shimmers and dances in its vibrant and extravagant array of colors, casting a soft, warm glow on the otherwise frosted landscape. Larkspur raises her gaze momentarily as the wind blows at her back, sweeping in a gust funneled down the mountainside, sending her storm stricken mane into a brief mess of wild, waving locks. Golden eyes linger at the starry spectacle above her, imagining the twisting of constellations, the formation of strikingly dazzling nebulas and the collecting of stardust into the vivid, clear streaks that sparkle and glitter against the velvet black of the night sky.
Larkspur chews on the last stems of grass that hang comically out of her mouth, whiskered lips making lazy attempts to keep the stray strands of greenery from escaping her teeth, all the while imagining what it might be like to walk within reach of those shining, luminescent objects that reappear with every setting of the sun. If she touched them would it burn, sear the flesh from her bones? Or perhaps their incandescence stems from an unimaginable cold, the king that would freeze a mortal where they stood. The wind blows yet again, a gale that whistles persistently in her ears, creating a voice in her head like that of a persistent, irritable child, demanding to have its way. She contemplates returning to the shelter of the cave she has claimed from amongst the many in the mountain side, where a soft bed of moss and dead leaves would offer some reprieve against the frigid draft. But a restless obstinacy drives the cerulean unicorn to do just the opposite, and in the dead of the night she moves down the mountain side toward the valley floor. She is a wraith in the form of dark, stormy shadows against the gentle glow of the moon and star lit surroundings, a silent, practically unnoticeable figure that passes without so much as a whisper from the rustle of her hooves gliding across the ground.
For Larkspur sleep never came easy. Real sleep, the deep and most restful kind, was something unattainable. Rambling, racing synapses that never seemed to rest were a constant source of unwanted worry and troubled thoughts. It was not strange for her to traipse through the night in quiet, solitary contemplation, a prowling, growling, grumbling lioness lost in the uncertainty of life’s many concerns. She let her conscious mind give way to tracing and remembering the lay of the land, trails and paths committed to her vivid memory in practiced and precise detail. She enjoyed the pull and screaming strain of her muscle as they worked to navigate long, stout legs through the more treacherous crevices and routes of the scattered, rocky mountainside, and she reveled in the rush of her breath, in and out, a steady rhythm that echoed with the thrumming beat of her heart.
She was alive. Alive in the way that she can feel the energy of the earth in each hoof step, churning up the soil and crushing it beneath her as she moves, an undeniable specimen of strength and powerful elegance as she maneuvers through the night, complete and whole in body; a breathing, living, thriving creature.
If only she could say the same for her mind.
The rocky shelf that frames the hot springs comes into view, it’s layered ledges of stone and earthen clay visible in the soft, ethereal glow cast down from the heavens, courtesy of a cloudless sky. The dark, storm colored mare moves toward the water in smooth, fluid strides, her cobalt coat glimmering with the same intensity as the stars scattered in abundance above her, the sharp edge of her black and white brindled horn glinting in the deep of the darkness that envelops her in it's familiarity. Gilded eyes linger attentively on the calm, still water, and Larkspur marvels at the reflection that stares back at her as she comes to rest at the water’s edge. A tired, feral face glowers back at her, yellow-gold gaze stricken with an unexplainable ferocity, a wild, desolate radiance that makes the mare’s heart even heavier than it was.
Who is this? She wonders in muted despair, allowing a single hoof to slide and shift itself into the black reflectiveness of the water, breaking the image that had been there.
|
 |
Image Credits
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 |
|
L E N A
black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead
She dreamed in raptures and reveries, abandoning the abhorrent quandaries of villainy for the opulence, the splendor, of convictions and assurances. But, sometimes the ghosts loomed behind her eyes, wafting, waiting wraiths that coasted and glided across halls, specters of the past, things she could never be and creatures she could never save, blinding objects casting an eerie glow upon the shelter of her heart. Forms of the present floated, rims of stolen, disappeared, captured brethren, and her soul would become crushed at the sight of them, alone and forlorn, twisted into the arms of a world she couldn’t reach. What friend was she, awake in the midst and mist of auroras and radiance, when they were riveted and ensnared in traps and deceptions? The notion sickened her, turned her stomach into knots, and she sacrificed slumber for contemplation, for the nuance of sentiments, how to reach, how to liberate. Lips pulled into a thin line, brow furrowed, curled legs unfurled by the banks of spring and light, not deserving of their humble presence. Worry turned so easily into self-loathing, and self-loathing into damnation, and though the idle wares of corruption courted her frame, she drove them away with the finery of absolution, of virtue, of divinity. How does one recover a friend lost to the hills of the desert? How does one release a companion from the binds of oubliettes and prisons, when they too could become entombed in the sepulcher? How do you bring it to a leader whom you do not know? The thoughts refused to rest, tense, uneasy, agitated, because she’d always pledged perseverance and strength through each and every portion of her frame, but couldn’t commit the same for Aurelius? For Mauja? For all the other hearts burdened in prisons, in shells and cells, vessels of the damned, hallowed auras hollowed?
The phantoms of the moonlight trickled across the pathways of her hooves, and she followed them blindly, uniting with the beams of stars and apparitions for a singular piece of understanding, knowledge, capacity to undermine ravaging, destroying clutches. Lissome architecture obeyed the elegance and finesse of nymphs and sylphs, a vicious, conniving waltz that betrayed the grandeur of day, crossing into twilight, nocturnal adventures, where the blessed weren’t always blissful, where the hopeful weren’t always valiant. Limbs pulsed in a bolero swing, pushing, prying, against the corridors of the frozen eaves, fluid, lustrous bounds and bounties conquered by illumination, drifting in the aimless sea of broken daydreams. Regal, noble head caressed the wind and air, gifted with its arching wiles, its simpering artifices, pledging to soft doldrums of assurances and morality. She whispered the silent chords of a lost fay to the brambles of wilderness, allowed them to echo in the harboring, hushed qualms of the present. What can I do? Who will help me?
And amidst this dawning enterprise of gypsies, of wavering, wayfaring souls, her troubled, honeyed eyes found the lonely entity wading by the water, reflecting ferocity, relinquishing brutality, and Lena’s movements ceased. She spent several moments gazing along the horizon, watching, witnessing, the stranger, before advancing towards the foreign essence, elegance and grace, ambitious and aspiring, wishing, hoping, praying that resolution would march into her thoughts, humble her into action, spur and incense the anarchy to diminish so that her friends, companions, and comrades may have peace again. For now, she would be the provision of tranquility, bowing her head against the rivulets of the mountain breeze, immersing serenity when she felt none of it flowing into her veins. A smile enlightened across her lips, and the welcoming generosity of her heart bloomed for a tender, compassionate moment, for this femme too deserved sanguine sentiments, not the tumultuous, morose and melancholy shards of her vexed mind. Her vocals ensnared the grasp of beneficence and melody, harmonious, dulcet, the soft croon of an arduous fairy. “Greetings - I'm Lena. Who are you?” Another query, unspoken, sparked across her soul, and subsequently, just as quickly, dissipated. What do you seek in this realm – repose or violence? Because I can see the chaos in your eyes and the quiet in your limbs.
|
| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE |
| Bluey |
l a r k s p u r
Loose ends, they tangle down and then take flight.
|
The atmosphere of the night is bewitching; it encircles her in an embrace of veiled secrecy, shadows that build sanctuary from the toils and trauma of the day’s trials, an invitation to slip away into the illusion of a fantasy. Larkspur longs for the comfort of the darkness to remain with her for all hours, an escape into an obscure oblivion, void of existence’s chaos, the constant bedlam and pandemonium that came with the arduous task of living. She is a soul lost, tangled and ensnared by the monsters and demons of the past that clamber and claw their way up out of the deep wells of her memory, phantoms and wraiths that hiss of her inequity, harken to all her flaws and imperfections. Savagery dissipates; ferocity flees, leaving in its wake a fragmented, saddened imitation of what was, but no longer is.
A stranger’s voice, unexpected, trills alongside the whisper of the wind, the sound a flicker of light disturbing the enchantment, breaking the hypnotizing fascination of the evening’s gloom.
“Greetings - I'm Lena. Who are you?”
Surprise draws the cerulean lady away from her thoughts, causes her to move in anticipatory instinct, shattering the stillness of the water, the brief illusion of serenity. Immediately she withdraws to the familiarity of suspicion, easily falls into the assumption of misgivings, mistrust, and doubt. Golden eyes, like beacons against the shaded cobalt of her uncharacteristically softened expression, watch with jaded caution, quietly observing the mare that has appeared before her, composed of the colors of the earths, russet hues that match the warmth of her voice, the evident kindness of her lingering gaze. History generally repeats itself, so too do individuals fall into the practice of habit, but for once Larkspur finds that the vexation of unplanned company does not strike her, nor does her preference for solitude drive her to vacate the premises. So she acknowledges the new comer with a cordial dip of her horned brow, deference that she has yet to offer to anyone else in her time in the cold, star strewn valley. None had been deserving until now.
“Larkspur.” Her name is given like an offering, filled with brief glimpses of what might be considered hopefulness. Her voice is absent of its usual biting malice, and the wilderness that often drives her is partially quelled, her spirit softened, perhaps tempered by the uncanny quiet of the midnight hour they linger in.
Loneliness creates a cavern in the hallow of her chest, voids her of contentment, allows her to long for the satisfaction of another’s understanding. But this is something she would never admit to, never speak of, for things like weakness and insecurity do not exist in the foundations of her moralities. Dependency is for the faint and feeble, and she will not be chained and bound by the admittance to the enslavement of reliance, the weight of fickle things like fate and faith. Lena is privy to a momentary glimpse of relinquished obstinacy, a rare occasion of reaching out, a dangerous compulsion to traipse across the boundaries of her own reservations.
[OOC: You make me aspire to be a better writer Heather!! *flails happily* <3]
|
|
Image Credits
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 |
|
L E N A
black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead
Lena waited, watched, ruminating on the delicacies of the evening, the fineries of finding another soul, soaking in the rays of the heavenly body poised along the horizon and hoping for a slight drop of absolution to break, caress, the cycle of distortion. Suspicion crossed over the other femme like unfortunate normalcy, the one of blue and upheaval, of cerulean and turmoil, mayhem laced across her brow, and the gentle sylph still remained, witness to venues and views. Why was their so much distrust in the world, so many aching hearts, so many punished by tragedy and anarchy, so many bowing to the cumbersome yearnings of avaricious whims and fanciful aspirations sullied by greed, corrupted and contorted into the void of wariness and misgivings? Her buoyant realm of optimism and confidence, brought forth from her own chains, longed to chisel and scrape away the abhorrence in souls, in bodies once too forlorn, show them the serenity of their palisade, of their potential, of their freedoms and liberties. She wished to unwind the hope in ailments scarred and fragmented, pale and indistinct, give them life, give them color, offer hues that spoke of rhapsodies and triumphs, not the dusty clamor of failure, defeat, murky traipsings that rendered calamity. Could they not see their own blessings? Could they not see their virtues? Their divinities, their goodness and moralities? Were they so fixated on the crisscross workings of the Devil that they couldn’t visualize their own capacities, forthright and unique, beautiful and breathtaking? Was this mare too consumed as well? Had she forgotten how to fly amongst the stars and breathe in the fanciful ambitions of youth, of folly, of purity? And how, she wondered, she inquired, she marveled, could she proffer this to her? The slip of her smile, the channel of her benevolence, the generosity of her ethereal, otherworldly grace - because she’d survived the primrose path of savagery, of destruction, of calamity and woe, and longed to save another from the shambles of its merciless decay.
Then, the femme transformed before her eyes, the gilded, narrowed stare no longer as persecuting, no longer piercing, no longer ferocious and clawing, and Lena eased the scintillating sigh of relief, smile still enshrouding, encompassing, the wholesome regality of her being. Softened, tempered, for now, the mare of ocean and sky prospered her name, and the nymph graced it into her memory. Larkspur, of songbirds, spikes and flowers, a name well fitting for someone assembled in muddles and jumbles, unsure of what world to traverse. Lena bowed into this rapture too, seized the moment of glory, of absolution, of softened chords to ring her own dulcet qualities. “A pleasure, Larkspur.” She meant it, with that lovely, loving, ringing nuance of sentiments ringing about the midnight veil, draped in honor, dignity and beauty, and she drifted closer to the mare, a wake of willowy, slender movements, silken threads measured by petal soft beats and fallen daydreams, until ultimately, she stood right before her, yards within, reaching and pulling the weight of the mare’s tribulations upon herself. The grin, enlightened and cherished, bolstered the luminescence, the glow, the radiance of the realm unto her and her newfound companion, focused upon the gold, the blue, the stars and the ice burrowed, melting. “What do you seek in the Basin?” Strife? Love? Hope? Ruin? There’s a moment for each, but only a path for one.
|
| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE |
| Bluey |
l a r k s p u r
Loose ends, they tangle down and then take flight.
|
Happiness is so often sought, yet the majority of the populace spends more time fretting over how to acquire it than they do enjoying the joyful moments, reveling in the brief flashes of mirthful serenity, choosing rather to obsess and preoccupy themselves with the idea perfection and solemnity. Larkspur is one of them, an individual lost in her own abyss of aversion, tangled into the intricately woven web of guilt and disparity that taints her courage, darkens her ambiance, makes up the storm of uncertainty and insignificance that roils and festers, disparaging in quality, destructive in its intensity. Washed in the obsidian shadows of the night, like ebony silk fingers stretching their way over her skin, Larkspur watches Lena in curiosity, not knowing how to return the mare’s vibrant smile of affability, unable to reciprocate the generous, benevolent sincerity with which her trilling, musical voice reaches out to her through the haziness of the night time murk. But she remains in place, perhaps drawn to the merriment of the lady’s warm, inviting eyes, the ease with which she seems to exist in her world, content and already having found life’s simple bliss. Dark cobalt ears rotate atop her head, the mess of her stormy forelock hanging in lacey, tangled wisps and obscuring the gilded glow of her eyes as she watches, a moth contemplating the flame.
What do you seek in the Basin?”
The question surprises the mare, catches her unprepared and off guard, because it is a topic of indecision that she has not been able to answer even in her own persistent meditations. She doesn’t respond right away, and her voice of reason begs and demands for her to shy from broaching into such a conversation, to revert to reclusiveness and ambiguity, where she knows how to hide so well. She justifies her distance in her head as a means of preservation, validates her seclusion with walls built around her heart, constructed with foundations of doubt, mistrust, and foreboding that completes the tumultuous anguish that haunts her. Hope is a thing with feathers, but she feels that she is far too weighted down to aspire to catching it, too scarred by her history to ever consider forgiveness, jaded by an ingrained arrogance, an unwavering audacity fueled to her as an impressionable child by a father’s blazing intensity, his fiercely determined passion. And now she wallows, drowning in her scornfulness, submerged in the calamity of the disquiet that rages and riles her spirit, turbid and tempest like as it squalls across the substance of her soul.
“If I knew, I would be sleeping instead of traipsing through the dark.” Her sarcasm means no harm, but the cynicism in her voice is unfettered, the biting tone to the bitterness in her words as normal as the sun rising and setting each day. She shifts, trying to settle with the feeling of discomfort lying on her shoulders at the prospect of conversation. She had grown used to her own company, to being alone, and she stands before Lena in a configuration of awkward insecurity, unable to discern how to treat a perfectly amiable stranger. Diplomacy has never been a part of her disposition, and likely never will. In normal circumstances she would have fled the scene, avoided further embarrassment, but she does not. Instead she watches the bay mare with the glimmering curiosity of a child, unknowingly fascinated by something – someone – so different.
“What troubles you?” She asks without reservation, with more sincerity than she has ever bothered to muster. “Not many linger in the midnight hour , at least without reason.”
|
|
Image Credits
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 |
|
L E N A
black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead
Lena had woven many canvases in her short life, unraveled torn strings from their looms and untangled the mass of knots coiled within predacious shadows. Courage and confidence stemmed from these impasses, shards of remorse and regret, rue and melancholy, roughened by the masses of brutality, the searing, coarse patches of savagery. For, if she had not gathered audacity, pluck and daring from the sinuous, serpentine shades of those hollowed fragments, there would be an entirely different being standing in her place: varnished and lacquered with vicious rancor instead of hope, carnivorous pursuits instead of dreamy aspirations, coiled loathing instead of blessed tranquility. Was that where this Larkspur was now, treading the foundations of another path – one of iniquity, one of ardor? What would pull her in either direction, the harpsichord ambitions of a stalwart songbird, the licentious creed of immoral passions? Lena could say nothing to such an affect, couldn’t push, couldn’t pull, couldn’t drive the finite wisdom of her croon, both ideals brewed in her body, former created, latter inherited, and ultimately, it would be the mare’s travels that shaped her world, that sculpted her purpose, that framed the sinew she embodied; catacombs or pedestals, shrines or tombs. She offered conviction and assurance, because if she could bestow anything to the world tenacity was what she knew best, enlightened from the fallen castles beyond her eyes and the ruins captured by her daggers, all the stages she’d ever viewed from the covert boughs of her childhood. She could heal a wounded soul with the strength of perseverance and determination, the sweet, lingering smiles of a life not torn asunder, but afresh, anew, a slate cleaned and washed from the sins of yesterday, glowing with the hints of tomorrow. The chords of the past haunted, but the bloom of the present blossomed more vividly.
The reception of the femme’s biting sarcasm, sharpened brevity, found a wall pervading Lena’s chest, core, the formidable, impressive might of beneficence and composure. It slid away, disarmed and battered from its grievous assault. She’d heard worse, had been struck with more damnation, more corruption, more abhorrence, and so prospered naught from the recoils of Larkspur’s animosity. The grin remained just as she lived, intriguingly indifferent to the barbs of the midnight hour, the callous needles and prickles of the nocturnal, twilight evil, capturing the rapture of the moon, allowing the other’s gilded eyes to soak in the reverie of promise, faith, trust, and not the collected fragments of malice and menace. She didn’t reassure, didn’t comfort, didn’t soak her in the wisdom of her tender years, because this mare, durable and sturdy, would find her own way.
She shifted, uncomfortable perhaps, and so Lena slipped back, dimmed the luminescence of her smile, drenched the world in neutrality again. But the cerulean creature asked her own query, and the nymph listened, one ear tilting towards her direction, another catching the ailments of the rest of the realm. What troubles you? The air stifled her lungs for a moment, the cool breeze watching, lifting, the discord immersed in her heart, and she truly doesn’t want to unleash the vexations of her days, of her weeks, upon this newfound companion. She enjoyed remaining strong, tough, in the wake of adversity, in the remorseless, heedless whims of villains and pariahs, in the cool uncertainties of life. Even in those glorious moments of brawn and diligence, she could feel the Basin’s eaves showering her in chilling, rapier breaths, the uncomfortable shiver sliding along her spine, the dawning emblem of terror that beseeched her at every opportunity when she wondered about those lost souls she’d called companions; those she trusted, those she adored, those she strived to guide, help, and assure time and time again. Inadequate all over again, unable to assist those that she cherished and beloved; discard her enamel and she’d be the same wretched filly in the forest, drowning in the inferno of anarchy and contempt, useless, weak, trapped in the haunting veils of nothingness. She quieted, focused her warm eyes on the distant mountains, answering the femme without the butterfly whims and the songbird melodies, leaving only the tranquil essence to flow from her lips. “Missing friends.”
|
| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE |
| Bluey |
l a r k s p u r
Loose ends, they tangle down and then take flight.
|
“Missing friends.”
The two simple words fall on Larkspur softly, as genuine and warm in verse as the mare they came from, breaking past the cold night air with the tenderness of the bay mare’s sincerity, the conviction of her melodic whimsy that made the dark mare think of lighter hearts and purer minds. Curiosity begins to kindle in her waking thoughts like the growing of a fire, and again some of the fierceness leaves her, some of the cold disinterest fades into the darkness with the shadows, replaced by an expression of gentler origins. Around them the Aurora Borealis continues to cast its star strewn light in soft slivers of silver and smoky white, painting them in liquid tendrils of star frost, fleeting arrays of a night time fantasy. Larkspur remains silent for a moment, unsure of what to say to the mare, unpracticed in the ways of comforting and reassurance. The puzzled contemplation that plagues her is apparent as she watches Lena, words battling to breech the wall of her hesitation, grasping desperately at straws in attempts to find some form of freedom.
“I’m sorry.” Larkspur is not one to dwell in the corridors and palaces of empathy; she has not been of the type to linger in the snares of the sympathetic or understanding. To be emotionally invested in anyone but herself was something foreign, dangerous and precarious. It was less hassle to not worry, to not waste time attempting to gain the confidence and trust of an individual to only be disappointed, or led astray. Emotional investment was a hazardous cliff to scale, an irreversible allowance that gave someone else a piece of you to abuse and misuse as they wished. And so the dark mare kept to herself, the utmost example of self-preservation at its finest. To be alone is the only moment in one’s lifetime that might grace them with the any form or function of invincibility, but even then the heart remains the weakest point.
Lena is different though. Larkspur can sense the goodness in her, the radiating, undeniable glow of warmth and benevolence that seems to sing in the depths of her eyes, linger in the lyrical songs of her words. And so perhaps the stormy mare is persuaded to appeal to this meeting with a different set of expectations. For despite all her ferocity, her sometimes vapid personality, or the lingering stains of isolation that have tainted her spirit, there is still a longing remaining beneath the roiling waves of her restlessness, the fire of her discontent. It is not too different from the same despair Lena currently dwells in, except for the fact that Larkspur has no one to miss.
“They should be glad that you miss them,” She replies, “True friendship is not always an easy thing to acquire.”
|
|
Image Credits
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
