the Rift


iii. determination renewed || open

Kirottu Posts: 40
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 :: 9 HP: 66 | Buff: NOVICE
Youmna :: Royal Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Lamplight Whit
#1



KIROTTU
__________________________________


What could it be about a landscape, so perfect and pristine, that draws the stallion out tonight? Was it the way in which the nights sometimes felt like they lasted forever here? No, it could not be that, for the season meant that it was the days that stretched on for hours longer than they should, encroaching upon the time in which the stallion could spend in his true form. Perhaps it was the way which the cold set his senses on high alert, making him feel alive? Or perhaps it was the way in which the beautiful Lady Luna shone above him, her gentle smile radiating down upon the icy shelf of the Arch, reflecting upwards so that her ethereal glow graced him from multiple angles.

The stallion stood on the outskirts of the icy cavern, his long tail swaying in the cool breeze, his horn glistening in the moonlight. Eyes of the deepest violet stared out across the lands, the thick, muscled nape of the steed tilting his point of view with ease. The stallion sighed, lost amongst his thoughts, as he so often was. How many months had he spent, hiding here, using the darkness of the cave to shield his ugly carcass from onlookers during the day. It was rare for him to allow others to potentially glimpse him, so rare that his own eyes hurt from the effort of looking to the Moon - that is how long they had been locked away behind his eyelids, refusing to see the beautiful world around him, mocking him, rejecting him.

Suddenly, he was in motion. Limbs covered the ground with a swift ease. The loam was soft, slippery, it squelched beneath each footfall, for the temperate weather f TallSun had caused the icy ground to defrost, at least a little bit. While the Frozen Arch still remained solid, it dripped every now and then, less so at night, however. With deep, snorting breaths, he trotted, the Spaniard lifting his knees high and stretching his stride wide. He was magnificent, he was stunning, breathtaking, elegance, strength and poise defined. Dawn was still many hours away yet. It was time to move again, time to investigate his condition further.

Time to rid himself of this wretched curse.

__________________________________

THE CURSED ONE




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


Lena melded and molded her frame back into the whims, the fancies, and the ornate deities of poetry. The evening hours lent their brooding flesh, their crawling shadows, their slithering, sinuous, haunting design, so that as she roamed it combed her virtues, left them secret, kept them safe. The twilight songs bestowed their grief, their laments and their tortures so that she may find words to their dirges and requiems, so that as she scoured for runes and ruins she could place the phrases into ethereal contentment. The nocturnal reverie allowed her to escape into midnight quandaries and queries in silence and hushed tranquility, accompanied serenity into the sculpture of radiance and beneficence, polished the divine scriptures of her tunes until they became background harpsichords, whispers woven into the sky, the air, the earth. The muses imparted their wisdom upon her silly, compassionate mind, so that when her mind tried to unravel the mysteries of the dawn and dusk, she’d be sheltered from their cruelty, their misery, their woes, and tied back to her persevering, passionate strength. The earth granted her a path of gentle, harmonious rays to follow, tracing the lingering courtyard of the moon as it blossomed, bloomed; the ivory flower of gloaming oils, Stygian veils, surreptitious, specious exploits. Swept away by the wind, on strings, pearls and lace, she was carried into the flickering, icicle abyss, wandering, traipsing along the walls of frozen rime and nonchalant brawn. She’d lost angelic fragments in the caverns, scattered them amongst rock, rubble and hardened stone, misplaced their smiles, laughter and delight, sacrificed their unguarded warmth for determination and valor. Even now, as she became a seraph in the dwindling eventide, in the hushed breath of quiet and rapture, she did not search for them. Pieces of her had been rendered to ashes, and she gifted them to the ambience of another chiseled reverie, gone to find its place in the lulled snippets of time. The darkness crooned its feverish, selfish leisure, its tumultuous, turbulent design crooked its delicate, bony fingers over her features, and she turned away from the bowing embers of yesteryear, of tears unshed, of prayers never heard; ceased chasing cobwebs. Innocence torn asunder and shed for the might of a nation – it made her stronger, it made her mightier, it gave her light when the tainted coils strangled, and it gave her hope when the kingdom seemed to run out of such bleak convictions.

Imogen tried to find those little moments, scouring the cave floors for charms and tokens of blessings unsung, of grins she’d never seen or cries never uttered. But her stalwart companion traversed onward, bound for repose, restless for adventure and bombarded by some strange nuance of justice and ardor. The fox followed, too young to dream of magnificence and beauty, too small to cling to elegance and refinement, but watched as the sylph exuded, proclaimed, the triumph of such wiles, wildness and allurement to the temples of skyline, horizon and mountains. Lena drifted into tombs of the unknown, embarking across ice and danced along stone, arching to shadow and clinging to light. Her attention was soon enraptured, beguiled, entranced, by the distant magnificence of argent and silver. It blended into the corridors of ambient light, streaked across land like a star shot from the heavens, a moonbeam driven from its creator to travel amongst the mortals. The nymph ceased movement to stare upon its motions, and the kitsune did the same, gawking amongst the forest of still hooves and columns. Only when the fey narrowed her eyes and stared for a lengthy time did she realize that the creature was not made of luminary forces or forgotten mercury, but of the same sword, shield, as she, brandished by horn and beauty.

Incensed and enticed, she followed the path laid by the stranger. She embarked her own elemental dance, because where he lined the world with lunar melancholies, she offered the holy embrace of the sun, the remarkable trance of the shadow, the cloak and dagger lined pinnacles of covert, furtive enigmas. Hooves carried her along the trail of lustrous, scintillating poise, finery elongated by sharp, exotic motions, movements given to the summer’s edge, the arch’s mist and snow. Imogen glided thereafter, and they became pieces of earth and wind, lithe flutes, limber harps, willowy fixtures and instruments designed for harmonious, mellifluous adornment. When she reached his side, she brushed by, the stroke of vivid, intense rapture, the steady haze and gaze of a florid, influential wave, smiling, grinning, giggling, forelock splayed upwards in a bobbing tail and trail of untamed beauty. A call, a shout, pulsed from her musical mouth, a trill, a warble that flowed past the encroaching darkness. “Hello!” Then she continued her waltz, a thrilling, heady flow of travel comprised of swift bursts, riding the wind, soaking in its power, its fluidity, sparking the zeal for him to follow, to play, as a fellow beam of light and air. Imogen chirped behind her, then at his feet, so that everything around them felt like bells, carols and laughter.


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

image by safetylast @ flickr.com

Kirottu Posts: 40
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 :: 9 HP: 66 | Buff: NOVICE
Youmna :: Royal Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Lamplight Whit
#3



KIROTTU
__________________________________


When control was some fleeting, passing ideal, something that one did not possess, it became an obsession to find it, to wield it as expertly as the stallion might wield his magnificent horn in a fight to the death, especially so for a brute who was a prince, a monarch of a land where he would have controlled everything. The fact that he had only a little control over his appearance was boggling for him, it frustrated him more than he could have ever imagined possible, it reminded him consistently that while he could enjoy his true body when the moon graced the skies, as soon as the sun's fiery rim lit up the horizon, he was forced into the prison of an ancient, decrepit body, rotten and falling apart. Always and forever, he watched the motion of the moon across the sky, waiting for that moment where he would lose the grip upon his body, and fall into the dark chasm where everything about him was warped to reflect the true, inner, selfish self he was. The stallion pushed himself on, a snort vibrating the nostrils of the Spaniard as each step became more elevated, more exaggerated, more designed with a flourished purpose. He would lose control soon, yes, but at least while he did have some semblance of control, he could flaunt what he had, use it to draw others towards him, to sate that silent plea for company that was forever churning within him.

Footfalls echoed, muffled by the synchrony with which they attempted to match his own. A tilt of his crown allowed the violet hued eyes to behold the gleaming mahogany hide, the rich and shadowed hue a pleasant contrast to his own metallic sheen. By her side ran a most sleek and pale fox, but it was a curious creature, not a normal fox, nothing like what he had ever come across before. He wondered if it ran alongside her much like the other creatures he had seen lingering by the side of fellow equids, though he knew little of the intricacies of the relationship, the bond that bound them together by the very heartstrings of their souls. It was doubtful that he would ever experience such a thing, for it was unlikely for him to ever seek it out, and the chances of one finding him were as remote as his chances of breaking the wretched curse that plagued him. The magic that changed his very body was like a dark shadow, always at the back of his mind, always consuming his thoughts, destroying what flashes of happiness he rarely allowed himself. Even now, as he felt the brush of silken fur stroke his own flank, he felt a quiver of excitement run through him, but it was dampened soon by the harsh reality that had he been in his ugly form, she would not be treating him with such kindness, such easy acceptance. It caused a frown to mar his otherwise clear façade, wrinkles creasing the quicksilver smooth skin about his brow and mouth.


The melodic hum of her voice altered the frown into a softer expression however, as he allowed himself to hear it, to cling to it, to absorb it and to try and ignore the constant hulking shadow of his curse. He flicked an ear, a motion of instinct, an attempt to dismiss the darkness that tried to steal his attention. The young pup bounded at his feet then, and his long strides were interrupted, altered into a more bouncy, jaunty pace, as he leaned back upon his haunches to raise his forelegs in a half rear, playfully snorting and pawing at the air near the fox cub. The chimes of laughter that filled the air helped to dispel the remnants of darkness that threatened to consume him, and his own baritones rumbled from his throat as the carefree happiness was finally allowed to step up to the forefront of his mind and soul. "Hello!" He bellowed happily in return, giving chase with an enthusiastic surge of power and energy in the plump, firm hindquarters. "What is your name, fair maiden?" He called after her dancing form, allowing the curiosity burning within him to overcome the usual focus upon his self to allow his intense, bright violet eyes to swallow her elegant, dancer's form, all the while he moved his own bodice in time to the rhythm she wrote with the hoofbeats that pounded onto the damp earth.

__________________________________

THE CURSED ONE




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
#4


Some laments, hymns and requiems subjected them all to the torrents of darkness, the sweeping, glittering gallows of shadows and inky fixtures. They were not feathery conjectures, not streamlined honey, not sanguine serenades from silken silhouettes, but the daunting shades and shivers of a turbulent world. Fostered by grief, by hopelessness, by the sinking, tremulous decay of a heart that had long lost its mercy, the wounded, the bleak, the miserable traversed the world as woebegone art – when melancholy ceased, there was only the spiral of withering infamy to remember their decline into despair. They all suffered in their own perilous way, clattering amongst the runes and ruins of their twisted, distorted souls, seeking what life had to offer until what had been bestowed was taken back and they were then only given their true test of character; how to survive when all had been lost. She’d watched the earth bind blood into chaotic bedlam, she’d witnessed the tides roll into crusades and campaigns, she’d heard the outcries of dirges sprung from forlorn lips, she’d listened as echoes of the ruthless pierced, lacerated and destroyed the nuances and sentiments they’d come to cherish, and she’d fought to have them saved until they perished in the idle winds and rain. Portions of her had eroded and become messy, disturbing little rancorous buds, and when she’d held them up to the light they refused to bloom, forever encased in the wilted state of her harmony. They were cunning barbs and nettles, flourishing thorns that poked and prodded in the dangerously spun moments of silence, when even the mute glow of stars couldn’t hold onto snippets of tranquility, blossoming in the distress of inadequacy. Perhaps that was why she lingered along the archways and passages of ice, in the glade of glacial secrets and frigid, furtive chimes, where the mysteries did not echo back, where disappointments were not layered and lacquered at every turn, why she danced with a stranger instead of fixing her smile to the valleys and hills. In these chasms, she was not hopeless, in her spins and twirls, she was not worthless, and in the chilling courtyard of rime and stone, she was not inept, useless or inefficient.

She didn’t slow, didn’t break stride, and didn’t falter in the flow of time and space. She liked the touch of the wind upon her face, cold, crisp and clean, an unwavering force that told her to stay strong. She cherished the cool grace of snow at her hooves, daunting and challenging, a whispering fortitude that whispered to remain graceful. She lingered in the slinking promenade of twirls, left pieces of herself for someone to find in the rubble and ruin of hoof prints and elegant waltzes – junctures of self-doubt that could melt with the sun. Instead of touching upon the sentiments of powerlessness, she drifted in the waves of enigmas again, springing and sprouting with the caress of the moon, unchained, unbound, unwavering motions and movements of fairies and fey. Lena thought of the earth, the sky, and unfamiliar bits of the world that lingered near her, perhaps, just as resolute as she. He sparked more queries, more quandaries, more riddles and mystiques across the firm, determined set of her mind. Where did he come from, what did he seek, why did he cling to these same lands, herald the icy kingdom for his travels? Would he vanish before her eyes, too beautiful, too magnificent, too brilliant, and too poetic for the moon to let slip through its fingers? Where did he chisel his grace and finery (could he help her find some to erase the clouds that sparked across her eyes)? What did he encompass, alone in the wilderness, shielded by mere clouds and atmosphere? What did he hide, shambles of decay and darkness like her, or the towering might and dominion of so many others, holstered to his chest so that one day he’d be able to pierce the threats bound to his existence?

While all these thoughts swirled and swarmed around her, she voiced none. They were overwhelming, plentiful and snagging, and she feared being the bramble to catch his mane and tangle it in heathen coils. Instead, she embarked further into the intrepid stature of their minuet, listened to Imogen’s chirps and kind gestures, laughed into the breeze and hummed in the darkness. She bestowed more light and grandeur as the nocturnal reverie became a shroud around them, splendor, happiness and delightful fixtures embroidered into gallant hopes and charades. When he spoke, she caught the words and giggled again, answered with the torrent of glee postured from her lips. “Lena!” The melodic sounds ran into the wind, entwined and curled into air, warmth and rapture, a burst of music floating from the tips and strings of a harpsichord. Her head gestured to the ivory creature behind her, awakened by the harmonious cheers of freedom and bliss, watched as the kitsune took the directional shift and glided amongst them once more. The nymph turned in his bearing again, swiveled and swayed in the honeyed decibels of their drumming beats, touched rhapsody and polished it for her own use. “And yours?”


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

image by safetylast @ flickr.com

Kirottu Posts: 40
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 :: 9 HP: 66 | Buff: NOVICE
Youmna :: Royal Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Lamplight Whit
#5



KIROTTU
__________________________________


Such was the life of privilege the stallion had known before, this tortured sense of unease was new to him - even though he strode with faux confidence and exuded nothing more but a deft co-ordination of the smooth, elongated dance they weaved, he was increasingly growing more paranoid, more worried and concerned that the mask he wore in this brilliant bodice would fall. He tried, again and again to forget it, for just a moment, to share in this blissful display of joy and energy transpiring into -what? What would become of this meeting? Would he ever see this maiden again? Would she yearn to call upon him as a friend? What if he ever felt a need to defend her beauty from a cruel hand? What if she was struck down during the day, when he was hidden away in his dark cavern of despair and depression, disabled from normal action by the crippling curse for which he was named? Again and again he pushed them away, forever throwing glances to her, forever forgetting to wipe the frown from his façade away to reveal only the true wonder he felt at her presence. Surely he could focus upon her beauty, her laughter, the name she gave him - Lena - surely for just a few delightful moments, he could forget his affliction, and simply exist?

It was not to be so, for even as the clouds of doubt settled behind his violet eyes, he heard his demeaning accursed inner voice falsify everything she did, everything she said. And of course, she longs to hear my name, she longs to learn more of me, and what would she do if I allowed that to happen? Run from me, as so many others had? Laugh and mock me, for this affliction that wretched creature placed upon me? The stallion tried, truly he did, to hold onto the enthusiasm that he had found filling his strides before, he flattened his ears in a display of the inner war that took place upon him. He could not be blamed for missing that the mare carried a weight of her own upon her slender shoulders - he was too focussed upon himself for that, too selfish and introverted, and hardly perceptive or caring enough of others to recognise a silent, genuine plea for company when he saw it. All he saw were the lies that his mind orchestrated, the harsh glares, the misinterpreted words that dripped from others' lips. He struggled, once again, to place the smile upon his pewter muzzle, to continue on this dance they had begun, to cling to whatever happiness he could, while he could.

"Kiro!" The tones that replied were rich in volume and portrayed none of the battle that was waged behind the violet eyes. She means well, she means well, he repeated to himself, grinding his teeth behind the chiselled cheekbones with a determination to believe those words. He kept his full title to himself - he was ashamed that his name had become a joke among his people, the cursed one, a joke that he happily participated in - until the time came when he truly became the cursed one. During the day, he was Beast, but at night, he was Kiro - perhaps one day he would be blessed enough to rid himself of both names entirely, to start anew. Muscles flexed and relaxed in a complex display of motion as the elegant step he wove brought him closer to her dark hide once more, his intentions were to allow himself a better view of her - the curve of her smile, the light behind her eyes, the dark tendrils of mane that framed the carefully carved façade from a pelt of shimmering mahogany hues. She was beautiful, he realised all over again, and he felt a pang of longing enter him - followed swiftly by a bitter thought. Why couldn't she have been presented to me as a choice for mate, instead of that witch?

It cascaded into another jumble of thoughts and dark emotions, of distraction that led to his ears swaying down to his nape for another moment, as if to scare the darkness away. But it never left - always when the Sun rose, did the darkness consume him, change him, destroy him. Almost as if it were a nervous twitch, he glanced to the Moon, to track its travels across the sky, and ground his teeth once more as he felt the impending change, that was hours away still, but that number was forever decreasing, and forever dreaded.

"And your friend?" He tried again, to summon the faux happiness into his tones, to show interest in the mare, to distract himself from, well, himself. The crown that held his crumbling façade gestured towards the kitsune that accompanied them on their gallivant across the field, as his motion steadied into a more rhythmic pace, a smooth trot that would still require motion from their legs (to utilise this glorious body to its full extent while he can) as well as give ample opportunity for words to be exchanged (to distract his mind from his accursed situation) - that is, if his newest comrade decided she wished to match his stride and share her voice in conversation too, of course. His ears were tilted towards her now, his tail sweeping a graceful arc behind him with every stride.

It was only his eyes that did not stay constantly trained upon her, distracted as they were by the Moon's glowing trajectory across her midnight sky.

__________________________________

THE CURSED ONE




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
#6


Sometimes she felt lost. She wandered down paths strewn with convictions, promises and assurances, and despite her unwavering might, her sterling tenacity and intense dedication, the world seemed to forgo her tender nuances, her sweet sonnets, her warm warbles. They were forgotten, brushed over, florets watered for one day then ignored for eternity, desperately clinging to that sparkle, that chance, at air, at sun, at life. Strangers smiled in return, but never placed the winsome caress within their hearts, or nestled the compassion in their chest, watching as it diminished into nothingness. Her concerns were easily washed away by the passing rain or the altering tides, the sweep of listless air, the hush of a heady brow, becoming naught more the neglected repose and tranquility. She wavered over ice and rime, she battled demons for the chance at order, and she pieced together portraits of serenity so that the creatures of this earth didn’t always have to look tirelessly upon sin, day after day, night after night. She invoked arduous passions only to have them composed into silence, she ignited and kindled soothing songs only for their warbles to die in the roll of the wind or the piercing of the sky. She weaved tapestries and canvases of gold, of satin, of sugared, honeyed thoughts and sentiments sprinkled over the horizon until she thought them perfect tidings of happiness, and subsequently altered by the heady rations of her compulsive wishes. She composed symphonies of joy, of ecstasy, of freedom and whimsy, only to have them destroyed by the clash of war drums or the beats of clamoring swords and shields. She gave her life to a land of ice and solemnness, a world of ice and enigmas, and wondered if one day she’d be another mislaid, wayfaring soul overlooked and astray on the glaciers, frozen into rubble and ruin. Would she be bled dry, until each radiant portion of her glow had been consumed and devoured by the contorted vapors of unholy disregard? Would she eventually be a carcass, a vessel, of misgivings, of dread, instead of hope, guidance and deliverance? Would she be robbed of rapture, of reverie, of elation and delight, discarded to the granules of sand, earth and clay? Even when she refused to dim, to wither, to decay, there were still the strangled seconds where she thought herself a stranger in the midst, in the abyss, of chaos, destruction and vehemence. And in the end, she remained perfectly useless to the stars, the heavens, and the sovereignty she pledged her soul to, adrift in the grand scheme of turmoil, turbulence and tension.

She was lost again when their dance slowed, followed by the calm, sullen trickling of silence. Like an overcast evening, a fond farewell of bliss, driven away by incorporeal, stagnant melancholy, the joy slipped into unease. He frowned, he flattened, his soul bitten by a scar she couldn’t see, and for a moment she thought herself to blame. Had her fanciful movements, her glee, her delight, been rendered something else entirely? Had her motions soured, rancorous, bitter or acerbic to his movements and motions, another disheveled, discordant haze that she’d punctured? Had she ruined this juncture, like so many others? Had she missed something altogether, the fragment of a star-crossed waltz, the ruptured, unraveled torrent of tension? Had she pierced his inner battle, his silent war, by the uttering of a name, a chord of querying for his? Had she bestowed something that he didn’t wish, didn’t like, didn’t cherish as she did? For a moment, she thought to escape into the wilderness, to falter as she had as a child, to run into protective glades, flee into the boughs of shade and oblivion, become washed once more in the bed of moss and leaves, rejected, abandoned, desolate and forlorn all over again. She was stronger now, wiser, bolder, braver, but the notion remained the same – desertion was a cruel, harsh and unforgiving weight. The nymph made no disguise of her confusion, a countenance once containing bliss had been moved into uncertainty, a brow arching, a smile dwindling, stitched together only by the mighty veil of a mare grown from her moments of solitude, of disregard, of strength and valor. Fey and fairy bewitched by befuddlement, sways, twirls and whirls slipping into a sedate, passionless flicker, the quiver of a limb, the staggering of a stride. She stilled altogether when he strung together his name in a series of forced decibels, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a game she was unwilling to play. Kiro. Lena watched as the stag seemed enamored with the sky, the torrent of stars and the moon, and wondered if her error could be patched up from the segments of galaxies and constellations. Was he staring at their brilliance, at their magnificence, pondering over how she’d managed to demean the luminescence of the evening? Her eyes cast downward, stared upon the ground, and then upon the kitsune that brushed against her legs. Were she not worried for her blunder and delusion, she would have laughed and smiled at the ivory kit that sauntered, chirped and cajoled, dearly wishing to bring her bonded one happiness. The sylph did not wear a frown well, and after glancing at her companion, molded it back into a simple grin, one that conveyed all the inquiries of her error, and all the essences of her ethereal hold. Lena lifted her head to the wind, to the evening, to the nocturnal delicacy of the strange situation, answered his question with a warm gesture to the fox. “Imogen.” A pause, a tilt of the regal cranium, and the fragileness of a query softened the corners of her mouth, until they became a series of worried fragments, a wandering of her wretched soul and how to provide comfort when she’d seemingly rendered it vanished. Would a song ease the discomfort, or increase the twinge, the pang, with the trill of her soul? “Does something ail you?” Are you just as lost as I? Because I’d like to find a path someday.



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

image by safetylast @ flickr.com

Kirottu Posts: 40
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 :: 9 HP: 66 | Buff: NOVICE
Youmna :: Royal Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Lamplight Whit
#7



KIROTTU
__________________________________


A glance to his feet, and the stallion's thoughts were a jumble again. How far had those cloven hooves taken him, how far had he wandered, absent from his home, cast away, banished until he could cure himself of this wretched condition? It was self banishment - he had fled before the others had a chance to call him to stay, deaf to their pleas of patience, their calls of help. They chased him only to turn him round and bring him home, but he ran further away from them, seeing their hasty motions as acts of hatred and scorn, assuming they felt the same about his affliction as he did - disgust, abhorrence, revulsion. How long ago was that now? How many turns of the season had he seen through eyes that never changed? How many winters had he suffered through with thin, ragged skin and no muscle to insulate his frail bones? And still, no revelations as to a cure came into his path, no hints or whispers of a change that would restore his control, gift him with the ability to say goodbye to that old form altogether. He wanted nothing more than to see that old body rot, die, disappear, to shed it one night and not have it return the following dawn. He thought he had tried everything - starving, breaking, wearing that ancient corpse of a body, but even as the Moon rose and his pristine, perfect, youthful body took over, he always returned to the hopeless state of a withering old man by dawn. Where he once loved himself, he found himself full of hate, hostility and antipathy at his old self, and so he that was all he saw thrown in his direction. Even now, as his body clung to its youthful night-time promise, he felt as if he was being stared at with spite, with a loathing that simply was not there. Was it his eyes deceiving him? Or was it something deeper? Had the stallion, in his journey across the world, not only lost himself physically, but mentally too?

The movement slowed, became less buoyant, less demanding on the body that could withstand so much more. He was lazy, perhaps, in that he enjoyed to show his bodice off only for as long as it took for a light pattering of sweat to darken his hide - any more than that and the sheen caused by the perspiration would mar it instead of enhance it. By the moon's glow he was radiant, stunning, and the long, flowing trot that his legs paced out beneath him, while a downgrade from the dancer's motions he was performing before, still utilised the magnificence that was his true body, without tiring it out so speedily. His partner came to a halt altogether however, and he followed suit, the pace of his trot smoothly transitioning down into liquid halt, the momentum of his body carrying him a stride past her. He curved himself around, ears pricked, eyes turning his crown to find her, curious - for once willingly looking away from the moon's trails across the midnight sky above. Imogen, she spoke, responding to his query, gesturing to the strange fox that danced about them with an almost palpable fondness. He looked to the creature with a hint of wariness - it was a predator after all, and he was naturally usually a prey animal - but seeing the way the canine interacted with the belle, the way the belle looked upon her with glorious happiness, he was able to maintain face, uphold the relaxed but energised state of being. The change in motion had given him a distraction, for that was what he needed to most - something to distract him, to steal his attention away from the inner battle, the everlasting fear of what would come when the sun's rays crept up over the horizon, to keep his vulnerable mind busy with something else, anything else.

But then her own façade transformed, he sees now what he must have missed before, the concern, the unhappiness that adorns the angles of her tiara as it rises to peer back up at him. He sees this transformation, and he is unable to distinguish between innocent concern and brutal scorn. Her angelic voice speaks again, but he does not hear it as he did earlier, it is not a polite enquiry to his ears, but a demeaning, contemptuous accusation. Who was she to question whether something ailed him, what gave her the right to enquire about something nobody was to ever know about? What upset him the most was the idea that he had let some part of himself slip. A quick glance to the sky confirmed that the moon still shone, that the sun was still hours away - why then, did she ask such a query? A snort rippled through the folds of his nostrils, as the stallion's cheery façade cracked once more, crumbling beneath the weight of his anger, his sadness - all of it hiding his fear that he would be found out, discovered for the monster he was during the day. Little did he know, he was only exposing himself to be a monster no matter what body he held.

"And what would make you think that, foolish wench?!" The words were spat out with a sneer curling his lips and a deep frown creasing his brow, sharpening his gaze into a blood-curdling scowl. No longer did his ears stand upright, instead slanting down to lay parallel to his thick nape, further angling his crown to appear like nothing more than a snake poised to bite and inject his deadly venomous words. "What gives you the right to judge that I suffer from any ailment?" He spat again, huffing as his nape curled, his chest seemingly inflating, as he tried to mask whatever weakness it was that she saw fit to question him on. While his horn did not threaten her directly, it was poised in such a way that he could so easily prepare for an attack - but he would not do such a thing, even if he was riled, he was more likely to turn and run than to possibly mar his perfect hide. Leonine tail lashed from side to side, as a strong, powerful foreleg stamped a cloven hoof upon the frozen tundra below, demanding a response, an answer - when what he truly needed was a slap in the face and an angel's embrace.




[ Omg Heather, this was so hard for me to write, because I love Lena but HAD TO STICK TO HIS CHARACTER and omg. I LOVE LENA BUT KIRO IS A DICK - The end <3 ]

__________________________________

THE CURSED ONE




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
#8


This was not a poet’s whimsical prose, but a laureate’s disastrous symphony; serenity severed, reverie ruptured. Wavering on caustic lyrics: acidic, rancorous and bitter, a brutal, restless, and unwavering tempest had risen from a fiery din, a crackling fire ignited and instigated from kindness, from benevolence, ripping, searing, dousing until all that was left of her existence was the daunting periphery of a world she’d thought she’d escaped. The stag had changed, altered, from magnificent majesty to distorted duplicity, drawn up a mask he’d kept hidden so that as she stared upon him all she caught were glimpses of the past, snippets of sin. He was her father, buried in rubble and decay, dangerous and unpredictable, brutal and bellowing, tearing flesh from bone, pride from brawn, screaming, clawing, and destroying. He was her mother, asp, viper and cobra, snaking and coiling until she’d molded the sinuous smirk upon her lips, breathed croons and promises she had no intention of keeping, designed the manic bolero of heinous, merciless, monstrous upheaval along her venomous tongue. He was her brethren, depraved, malicious and heathen, reaching for the sky and everything else around it, ensnaring stars until their lights extinguished, diminished, withered and died, monsters armed for the slaughter. He was her childhood, damned, doomed and desolate from its genesis, the cloistered, the forlorn, the wretched, plucking croon of silence. He was transformed, and so she followed suit, beckoned the closed walls of her secured composure, begged, pleaded and implored for her soul to not be crushed under the weight of his words. She felt like the lonely youth again, away and awake to the rhythm of war drums, to the atrocious, villainous creeds that spilled over her ears, to the broken hymns that graced her lips like fervent, arduous prayers. There were no wishes, hopes or dreams now, no aspirations that hummed just beneath her heart to keep her alive, to keep her alive, only the mechanical beating of her soul, the ethereal essence that managed to encompass the enduring fortitude and resilience she’d built upon her graceful entity. Was this what her compassion wrought – fury, ire, and outrage? Had her words, so invoked, so influenced, by the muse of warmth, strength and tenderness, been twisted into a maelstrom of atrocity? Had she unraveled some chords of entropy, left them to simmer and boil over into this brewed malice and menace?

Her smile disappeared. Instead of angelic, seraphic glee, instead of the sacrificial, martyred offering of her beneficence, her features, her countenance, became void of emotion and reached for survival, for salvation from the grim talons snaking into her flesh. Lips, void of emotion, strung together like a taut string, eyes, radiant, honeyed glimmers of faith and trust, morphed into the strangled posture of an already ruined saint. The soft amber turned hardened stone, the sienna glow of her rapture solidified into archaic mettle, grit and valor, the posture of her dominion over the unruly, the decayed, the transformed. Without its supremacy, without its authority, control and power, she would have cracked into a million pieces, been found on the rime and ice years later glazed over into little shards of glass and lullabies. She raised her eyes to meet his, allowed the piercing, puncturing constraint to wash over her body, bestowed calm in the audacious clamor, in the thickening, suffocating hostility. For a moment, Lena waited for suffocation under its brandished weight, to be folded up like a ragdoll and tossed across the edge of the earth, left broken, discarded and cold again. In the meticulous, grinding alteration, of preparation and secrets, of furtive, specious slights, of a sword brandished towards her body, she reached for the inner puissance she’d so carefully wielded, felt the scrape, the grate, the pull of her tranquil invocations envelop her being. In the distance, for nothing existed other than the snake and the nymph, no longer dancing on laurels or peaks, Imogen growled, echoed and bristled her vexation, threatened with boldness and instinct. Her companion’s resolution, courage and daring fed her inclinations, her words brewing behind her mouth, the steel and determination to bear the haunting, looming reminders that she could never elude the pieces of her past, or the monstrous contortions of an intangible ache.

So, the syllables flowed, a composition of truth formed by years of abandonment, of demons hiding in her own blood, of salvations peeking through cracks and chinks in armor. “I know my flaws.” She breathed, ever brazen in front of potential scars, of feverish ruin, of the lingering potential behind a wounded stallion’s eyes. “You avoid yours.” She looked nowhere else but into his once luminous features, attempted to rediscover the hidden nuances of majesty that flowed from his radiance and echoed in his movement, in his motion, and if they were cutting, sharp stares, she made her vocals the same, biting tones. Dipped in passion, in candor and veracity, she strung them with no niceties, no ambrosial, cordial speeches, and let the truth slink over rigid bones. “Only the weak think themselves strong enough to not seek guidance.” Are you so far gone?



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

image by safetylast @ flickr.com

Kirottu Posts: 40
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 :: 9 HP: 66 | Buff: NOVICE
Youmna :: Royal Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Lamplight Whit
#9



KIROTTU
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There was poison dripping from his lips, as if he were a venomous snake, his fangs were bared, ready for the attack. Ears were slicked back, so that the beast's cranium appeared as nothing more than a snake made from quicksilver, framed by a sleek forelock and mane that whipped angrily at the crest of his arced nape. His muzzle contorted into an ugly, scornful twist, one that showed yellowing teeth, one that made his handsome façade look almost as nasty, as ugly, as cursed as the one he wore unwillingly during the day.

But the malice didn't quite reach his eyes. Behind those deep, dark, violet orbs, there was only a great sadness.

He was angry, yes, but mostly he was saddened, devastated that he couldn't seem to find acceptance no matter where he went, no matter what time of day. Surely this girl was blind, to not bow down to his magnificent form, to not worship him for all the grace and wonder he held and conducted himself with? Surely, it was not he who was defective, but she? But she saw something wrong with him, and worse still, she questioned him about it, brought it to the fore of the stage, flooded it with the limelight so that there was no other option but for him to see it there, mocking him. But what was it she had seen? Surely she did not possess the ability to see both forms of him at once?

If only the stallion could see how he made himself ugly by the temper he allowed to control him, if only he could see understand that it was not the beauty of his fine, muscular bodice that drew in the admiring glances, but the beauty of the brilliant mind he possessed, that if turned onto something more productive that his own self pity, he could learn how to move mountains with mere thoughts. The power of the mind was a magnificent thing, but Kirottu knew not how to engage his to be useful, the idea of involving someone else into his predicament had only ever been met with ridicule by his own inner voice, that dark, resounding, powerful voice which drove him into his rages, drove him into trying to destroy himself while he was in his beastly body.

The strange fox growled, simultaneous with the darkening of the young femme's face. Kiro took a step back, glancing down for a moment at the canine, his scowl softening with wariness for a breath before raising upwards again. What was he expecting when he looked into her eyes once again? Certainly not the hard, resolute stare that he was given. For a moment a fear shadowed his face, the sadness behind his eyes grew to an unsteady, unsure gaze, a stare of wonder, of perplexment. "I.. I…" He stuttered, and unwittingly his ears had risen from the silken, silver locks about his poll.

"I am not weak!" He snorted roughly again, ears attempting to bow down beneath his tresses but he had been unseated, unnerved; he did not even convince himself as his voice shook, his resolve broken. "I am not weak.." He said again, and this time, it was barely a murmur, as his features broke, the sadness overwhelming, haunting, enveloping the entirety of the mask he attempted to hold up. "I.." He didn't know what to say, how to continue his justification. Somehow, his eyes had wandered down to the level of her dark legs, her obsidian hooves. He raised his sights again, clung to hers, used them as his anchor. What could he say?

"It is not a simple matter of choice." He said with some refinement, his tones more respectful than before, but still possessed with a clipped, hard edge, a warning interlaced amongst the words. It was the first honest thing he had ever said, the closest he had ever come to admitting that there was something wrong with him to another soul. It was, in a roundabout way, an acknowledgement of his curse, and it was hard. His legs quivered beneath him, anticipating what came so often after he was forced into these sorts of predicaments, after he came so close to exposing himself, to run off into the distance, until the terrain changed, until the demons behind him had given up their chase.

But he held onto his position, locked into her chocolate gaze, pleading with those eyes to cure his own of their sadness.

And for once, he did not look up at the Moon.

__________________________________

THE CURSED ONE




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
#10


She stands in the hands of the morning dew, shivers as the chill permeates around her. Her mother merely stares at her quivering flesh, coils a slinking, serpentine smile across her lips, breathes the fumes of cold air and extinguishes them into a cloud of malice.

“Why are you still alive?”

The child has no reply. She doesn’t know how she comes to live and breathe each day, rising with the sun and settling into the shade of the trees at dusk. She doesn’t know how she survives, only that she does.

Instead, she asks, pleads the one burning question that has haunted her in the passing hours of silence and strife. “Why don’t you want me, Mother?”

“Because you’re weak.”

The mare laughs, quick, sudden, like the hiss of the forest in a violent gale. The girl shudders again, and later, in the midst and mist of the earth, she remembers, recalls, the lies the witch spoke.

“I am not weak,” she mutters to the horizon, she croons to the flowers, she serenades to the birds, she cries to the wind.


Lena faced the hour of his idle tempest, watched as it brewed, loomed, threatened, washed over in a monstrous torrent of rage, wrath and ire. Steadfast in the ardor of a consuming storm, fluid in the passion, the zeal, the feverish fervency of his malignant menace, cool and composed in the ferocity of his savage, severe squall. She met the clamor of his callous crescendo, the timbre of his temper, with the mellifluous beat of her fluttering, heartfelt wings, because that was how she’d remained, endured and persevered, stubborn and solidified into the rapture of resolution. She’d lived with the tangled cords of vehemence wrapped around her nape, she’d scattered her soul to bits and pieces at the slightest voice, she’d steeled herself for cages, damnations and massacres, she’d withered until she was naught more than ashes, then risen from the cold embers to triumph again. She’d stayed warm in the bitter winds, blossomed, and flourished in the desolate, forlorn agony of abandonment. She’d clawed at adversity and drew it across her lips like a sonnet, dulcet hallelujahs, sweet arias, orchestrated lyrics to melodies of heartache and feats to the air, to the sky, to the leaves and glades. Amongst his hideous contortions, along his sinuous, viperous distortions, against the fire and agony of his twisted features, she was still, sturdy and serene. The cadence of her disposition awaited the moment of his eruption, the pique of his destruction, the wake of his annihilation to obliterate the harpsichord raptures she’d so carefully maintained, the reverie she’d once beheld, offered, and bestowed to those that shoved them aside. She’d overcome this too, the vigor, the force, the intensity and urgency of his contempt, of his derision, of his abhorrence and loathing (but it hurt to be hated again), because she’d accomplished it before, mauled and molded her hurt, her pain, her anguish, into the fiber of her being, for growth, for renewal, for another shard to fasten upon her defenses. This too, would be tucked away, sipped and slipped into her seraphic veins, into her nymph traces and trances.

Yet, it never came.

He didn’t boil over, he didn’t singe her flesh, he didn’t discard her to the halls, to the corridors, to the masses of ancient, archaic bones beneath their feet. He didn’t embalm her with further vitriol, with extended venom or toxins. Her bravery, her audacity, her boldness, was received with the change of his features, a sad, simple, broken melancholy varnished over demon, monster and majesty. Had she struck him so severely that he’d morphed again, into some other unknown being? How many faces, how many masks did he wear? How many times would she have to encounter history, the past, the memories, the lucid, vivid, sharp poignant hauntings of a world she didn’t want to visit again? The weight of his despondency shifted her heart into taut strings of veiled armaments, assailments and assaults that struck against the billowing air, the essence, the entity of her barbed soul. His words echoed over the chambers of her mind, recalled and recollected snippets of moments passed. I am not weak. I am not weak. A warbling command, a distinct demand, a force of compelling oeuvres and sonatas that whimpered along the foundation of a durable, strong soul. Ushered, offered and bestowed to the world so that the rest of the earth may hear of their caliber, of their resolve, of their distinction to survive all the atrocities, all the animosities, all the hostilities, the torments, the tortures, thrown upon their primrose path. She understood the unspoken stories, the unsung laments, the untold hymns, and silently, fiercely, recited it to him in the sharp, piercing juncture of her ardent stare.

But then he spoke of choice, of no alternatives, of the brooding, twitching, intertwining limbs that gave him everything and nothing all at once. Had he left himself to the alms of destiny, to the broken balms of providence, luck, and fortune? Had he thrust his blade into predetermined folly? Had he given his problems, his quandaries, over to another beast, another world, another creature, no longer tangled in responsibility of his own life? Her words echoed her confusion, the croons still stern, still steadfast, still bleeding from the thorns of her perseverance. “Do you leave yourself to the hands of fate?” If she’d committed the same actions, followed the same trail, left herself bared to the fleeting winds, to the heightened will, to the arches of kismet, demise would have crept upon her suddenly, quickly, stolen by the forces that wished her ill. The fey and fairy, drawn from the chords of wildness, brutality and barbarity, had conquered her demons through strength, endurance and eternal, everlasting faith in herself. So why was this creature before her, so capable, so formidable, unqualified to slash at his own flaws, his own imperfections, the weight of the chains dragging him into the depths of this brimming concoction of madness and peril? Softer now, mingling with the quelling growls of Imogen, she captivated, transfixed, beguiled the essence of her relentless, implacable mind, words springing from the deep well of her being, from the core of her journey, from the idle, tracing memories of her odyssey, the beginning of his. “I thought you possessed more power than that.”




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

image by safetylast @ flickr.com

Kirottu Posts: 40
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 :: 9 HP: 66 | Buff: NOVICE
Youmna :: Royal Cerndyr :: Dark Mist & Lamplight Whit
#11



KIROTTU
__________________________________


The mare was mesmerising, bewitching with her stubborn stare. It did not waver, it did not twitch, and soon, the deep harmony of her kitsune's growls seemed to fade into the background, white noise behind a sharp, focussed array of images. The deep violet eyes clung to her own cocoa pools, reaching for them like the were a life line, and he a dying man. Isn't that we was? When the Sun rose, that was all he became, a rotting corpse, his flesh strung up between his bones, orchestrating movement like a weak puppet, with a faulty puppeteer at the helm. He grasped those chocolate orbs as if they were the most precious of gems, and he wondered, did she stare into his eyes with the same ardour? Did she recognise his need, silent and unspoken by his lips, but screaming behind his indigo pools? Why did she stand before him still, fearless, unwavering, steadfast against the assault he had thrown at her, reacting only with her calm, collected manners? Surely, if she knew what afflicted him, she would turn and run - and yet, she knew there was something wrong with him - she had called him weak - and she did not run - no, instead she challenged him, questioned him, brought his affliction into sharp focus and cut at it with a sharp scalpel, watching with caring, stubborn understanding, with undying patience and an annoying willingness to put her helpful attentions into the matter. He didn't want her help, he didn't need her help - and yet everything he had done so far was yet to work. Could it be that this girl held the answer?

She challenged him again, posing a question that his ears, standing half-cast between their alert position and his skull, heard with something akin to annoyance. The belle truly did not stop trying, her determination to bring his affliction to light was neverending. And yet, that was why he could not break his gaze away from her - she did not quiver even as he metaphorically threw himself at her, baring his soul for her to read. Even as his weakness leaked through, as the sadness, the defeat, coursed over his façade, she empowered him again, telling him that he could defeat his fate, change his destiny, alter the course of this curse - but how could she know the true weight of her words? What she was saying was false, he did not leave himself to fate, fate had forced herself upon him. He was not weak, she even said it, but he had not been strong enough to deny fate's cruel hand. Truth be told, he had invited the curse upon himself by denying her, but that was not how Kirottu saw his past. No, it was an act of cruel injustice, an insult, an unwarranted assault. He had done no wrong, and been punished for it.

"Fate touched me with her accursed hand already," he breathed, his voice holding the weight of truth and anchored down with the magnitude of his hopeless sadness. "I've no desire to tempt her again." But what if that was exactly what he needed to do? Was he meant to find that witch who stroked him with her cruel curse, and defeat her?

Was Lena to be the undoing of his curse?

Caught up in his thoughts as he was, the steed barely noticed that he had voiced, once again, the fact that there truly was something wrong with him, an infirmity, an illness that prevented him from living life the way he was meant to, the way he deserved to. The cool ice of their surrounds seemed to come into focus then, the deep rumble of Imogen's growls resounded against his eardrums once more, the chilly breeze picked at the strands of quicksilver that lined his mane and tail. Still, he did not shift his gaze, though the temptation to fall into that age old habit of tracking the Moon's path gnawed at him, tugged and pulled at him - he did not waver. The shivering of his legs had stopped long ago; he was not running away, at least, not yet. He had been snared by her conviction, he had taken the bait she had laid, pulled in by her determination, her challenge, her confrontation.

"How would you undo that which has been done unto you? How would you hope to know what lays within me?" His voice had become clipped again, his gaze sharpening into harsher lines, obscuring the sadness for a moment as the thought of this mere girl being able to help him caused him to realise the ridiculousness of it all. No, he couldn't believe, wouldn't believe it, not until it had been proven true. No, it simply was not possible, for one little girl to be the key to his curse, pretty as her face may be, resolute as her attitude may be. Still, he did not let go of her chocolate gaze, even as he continued doubting, disbelieving what was being offered to him. Why should she want to help me? The thought immediately rolled into another embittered design, if she were to see me during the day, she would not stand so bravely before me. For while Kiro was formidable during the night, during the day he was a monster, a ugly, twisted, broken corpse, gifted with animation by his sheer stubborn will to live, though that will did fade in intensity as the waves of depression lapped at his silver shores. He doubted very much that she would stand so steadfast against him then.

"You know nothing of power." The words were uttered quietly, their tone flat, delivered with an even monotone. The passion in his eyes had diminished again, as they remembered the sheer domination of the witch, the loss of control as he fell to the first horrible, wretched transformation - the same transformation he would experience when the Sun rose in the approaching dawn. He hadn’t the power to beat her then, and he still didn’t have it now. And this girl insinuated that she knew the key to his curse, the cure, the power? Let her prove it to him, then - for that was the only way he would believe it. A deep sigh expanded the soft nares upon his muzzle, as melancholy settled over him upon its exhale, and the stallion's brilliant bodice seemed weighed down by an invisible force that would become anything but invisible in a few hours time.

__________________________________

THE CURSED ONE




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
#12


Lena had fought for many things in her short life: to live, to breathe, to smile, to dance, to laugh, to cherish and devote. She’d been touched, tarnished, anguished and banished, condemned and damned, consigned to the oblivion of her own weaknesses and frailties. She’d found the roots of a withering bud and brought it back to life, she’d hastened the world around her to blossom, to bloom, to flourish under the tangible strength of her piercing perseverance, of her rapturous resolution, of her stalwart determination. She’d conquered her ethereal demons, she’d chased away the sorrows of her wretchedness, of her misfortunes, and harbored the will to survive. She’d harpooned the malicious qualities in her world and stoked them in the fire, the fury of her valor, watched while they burned into nothingness. She’d been extinguished and then prospered all over again, she’d been daunted, afraid, but molded it into the finery of her unyielding grace, of her laureate aspirations, of her sanguine love, of her seraphic hope. She’d been flooded with misery, with despondency, and felt the savage contortions of its lashes beat into her body, had felt sin scorch and scar the layers of her flesh, had felt the weight of tragedy and anarchy push down on her shoulders, threaten to drive her into her self-made tomb, but she’d conquered, she’d consumed, and she’d triumphed over the laments, the dirges, the upheaval. The nymph found conviction, carved assurance, planted confidence and certainty into the soil of her soul. Once, she’d been like him, eroding her majesty, shriveling, fading, becoming the ghost of the shade, the shadows, the Stygian oils and Mephistophelean grasps, tangled into the wounds and gloom of the despair she’d been given. But where he wallowed now, in the junctures of quiet delusion, in the restless genesis of pestilence of an alluring, beguiling trance, in the fabric of an entity controlled by something else altogether – unseen, unheard, but coiled in the midst of his body, the roll of his muscles, the keen, sharp, acidic trace of his tongue, she couldn’t fathom, she couldn’t understand. Where she’d overcome, he grew darker, contorted and distorted by the strangling chords of an ancient vehemence. So how could she get him to search for the decibels, the carillons, the chimes and echoes of his serenity, of his salvation, of his liberation when he didn’t yearn for it? How could she aid him when he didn’t want to hold it himself, when he didn’t want to clench, seize and clutch the fiber of his spirit, throw it into vigor, force and might? She’d offered him a string, a cord, a strand of deliverance and redemption, yet, if he refused to take it, then her gifts wouldn’t, couldn’t, matter.

Still, she didn’t flee, didn’t run, didn’t escape from the bombardments of his anguish, of his heartache, of his anger and indignation. Too adamant, insistent, tenacious and bold, the strong-will of her tender nuances rang amongst the clamor of Imogen’s brewing growls and hisses. Her eyes, honeyed defiance and preservation, continued to trace his, never straying, never deviating, saw the cumbersome burden locked into their depths, wished to pry it out the watery violets and destroy the ruining measures. Why couldn’t he say what ailed him? Why couldn’t he break away from the warped opulence of a specious indisposition? Why wouldn’t he free himself from the chains of his locked scabbard, of his brawny oubliette, of his sunken cell? Why couldn’t he cement her words into his skull, brandish the weight of their worth, plunge his sword into the malice, the vehemence, the wicked, the depraved sentiments of his twisted world? Why did he choose to immerse himself the grandeur of his agony, instead of treasure the magnificence, resplendence, and luminosity of his majesty? The fairy wondered, inquired in the steady silence, uttered not a single trace of her curiosity because it would mean further prying, it would mean his bones would flee, it would mean that for every ounce of her determination, he’d increase his own stubbornness, leave her with the harsh formation of another soul left without her soothing embrace. But he spoke, of tempting fate again, of not wishing for the accursed hand of her wheeling and dealing, of the misfortunes already brandished upon him. What was he to do in life then, sink, destroyed, wrecked and ruined by the calculations of another? By the proclamations of an unknown malady? Why didn’t this make him want to shed the skin of its anomaly, rise and triumph, simmer in the glory of resolution instead of the desecration of his livelihood? What ceased his desires, his yearning, and allowed him to remain diminished?

Then, he challenged her again, brought forth the brawn, the grace, the affinity of her rigor, of her control, of her safe caress, entwining and enforcing the storm in his heart, the music of her composure. So, the nymph carried her sentiments once more, extended them like a heroine, enlightened by courage, experience, nerve and daring. She didn’t sing a lullaby for him, didn’t conjure the vocals of a goddess, didn’t stroke the divine, but elegantly, poised and infallible, unfailingly, forgot whimsy and derived an unspoken promise. “I would find the answer.” Her stare, so vivid, so focused on him, bestowed a sanctuary, a refuge, as the soft, intrepid, valiant phrases continued, pausing for the mere breath of the cold wind, to remind herself that she was still tied to this heady earth. “I would pry it from the depths of my affliction.” And though she didn’t ask, didn’t query, upon his scourge, upon his plague, she knew the somber edge of his ruin could be absolved, somehow, someway, if he gave himself the merest slip, the slightest chance, to tremble in the wake of his own might and will. “I would overcome it.”

His next words, softer, murmured, a quelled whisper she struggled to hold onto, scarred her more than any of the others. You know nothing of power. Was she always to be accused of ignorance, was she always to be criticized of folly, of euphoria, of incomprehension, merely because she chose not to be pervaded by the courses of blight and villainy? Was she always to be derided, scorned, because she sought the light, the dawn, the warmth of the sky instead of the sour tilt of the shade, the shadows, the darkness? Because she smiled, because she exalted compassion, benevolence and empathy, did this lead her to idiocy, did this shackle her to foolishness, the unknown, the incorporeal? Did they see naught behind her grin? Did they believe she possessed an empty cranium, full of passions, hopes and dreams, fanciful and mercurial? Lena, nymph, sylph and fairy, denied every ounce of the declaration, of the proclamation, as she had done many times before. She stepped closer now, daintily slid one petal soft dagger, hoof, dust, into the beat of the rime and frost, stirring a stern edge to her vocals, to her arduous tones. “You know nothing of me.” Her eyes bored into his own, and she wanted him to see the strength there, the wounds, the heartache, and the succession over her trials, her tribulations, to know that she held this ability, to understand she could bind it to him too. “For I understand power, all of its cruelty, and all of its greatness.” A pause, then once more, her lips delivered a dulcet requiem, a swift, satin lacing of her benedictions. “You’ll always be defined by how you wield it.” And if you choose not to, perhaps that would be the most tragic flaw – to have the ability to change your world, and being incapable of commanding it.



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

image by safetylast @ flickr.com


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