Private Hunger, Thirst


 5  8.5  7  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Kirin 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
50ʜs
HS

Ryo

Commoner of Morthalion




Emptiness.

This, among the paradox of space and time, he hangs. Endless, with not even the resounding beat of his heart to keep him company. He stands still within the void, for even if he wished to move, to run, to gasp and breathe, there was no will in his bones to help him. He was not stuck in place yet something enforced him to keep still; an invisible force, a thought, a vow? It was as though gravity itself was weighing into his back, that a mountain was keeping him grounded while the possibility to move was a mere thread away from him. Just out of reach. Never in his grasp.

Yet still, where would he go if he could? Everything and nothing laid out before him, almost as though his memory was taking a step back, further, further, farther away from himself and wherever he was, wherever he had been.

No panic sets in. No denial, restraint, or anger - only acceptance.

Holding fast to himself, the only thing he knows with any certainty, his eyes shut. Relief, as though he had just silenced the world around him even if no noise had been ringing in his ears before. He can see the different colors and stars playing behind his vision, and for a moment he believes he had not shut his eyes at all. He takes in the sights for what they are, his memory once more receding with each moment of thought, backtracking further and further again until-

Cold. His heart beats slow and powerful as a drum, jarring him into being. His eyes widen open. Stuck in place, sights suddenly surround his vision, he gasps out in heavy pants, the temperature of his surroundings shown on the clouds thrust out of his nostrils, his mouth agape. His hooves ache with the sensation, his body tenses against the sudden exposure, the sudden feeling. There is no weight upon him anymore, only a weightlessness to his lack of thought, his bearings impossible to gather. He blinks hard against everything; confused and appalled, taken aback, disorderly. Had there been anything he was certain of before, it was gone now, and he was here - lost.

Out of breath, as though he had run here himself - yet from where?

But there - a faint feeling, a sound like birdsong only he can hear. It comes in a different direction than he was facing. His neck cranes and trembles with the strain as though it had first been used in millennia. The cold atmosphere does little to help him, but he forces himself against the obstacle. Moving to the right as though pulling against something, making light hoofprints in the small amount of snow in a complete circle. Stopping, waiting, turning the other way as he still failed to heed and find this source of sound. He makes another circle, and then as he lifts his head again, catches something. Something he's not sure why he hadn't caught before; droplets of red upon the snow, a path that it shows with such a subtle hint.

Something tells him that is where he must go. And he blindly follows the instinct.

It does not take long, or it does and he cannot tell, for him to find the source of his search.

A maiden wrapped in reds, of silk and flora and grace, stark against the snow on which she lay. He experiences a pull, almost physically impossible to resist, and allows his legs to take him onward, closer to the figure. His mind begins to clear... As though he were stepping through fog. Memories begin to play back to him, and there is eventually so much that he has to force himself to stop, to blink and finally, finally, find his bearings.

His heart races, slowing only as realization begins to fall over him like a blanket against the frigidity of this land. Of understanding.

He looks upon the red woman and he knows. He knows everything.

Remembers... everything.

He would protect her. His purpose. His lifestring. His hearth.

His voice finally penetrates the air between them, once more ghosting onto the air from his lips as he presses out the single word he is guided to speak; precise, deep like the groan of an oak tree, soft as a whisper between trees and wind.

"Awaken."





Speech, @Freesia



ART BY ELIZAHVETA



 4.5  11  5.5  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Pegasus 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
230ʜs
HS

Freesia

Wanderer



I walk in a ring; a groove
of old faults, deep and bitter


Amid a chasm of black stars there hung a single, glittering ruby. Suspended on her sunset wings and weightless in the void, ebony ribbons curled around her limbs like the fine dresses of court ladies. She was wreathed in the darkness, a blooming rose swept out to the abysmal sea—a smattering blood spread over a canvas of starlit black. She drifted endlessly, her destination aimless, and time was a figment of her own imagination. How long had she been here? Did it matter anymore? A season passed with every beat of her heart, and she was perpetual—she was immortal, in this lovely blackness.

It cradled her as a lover might, tender and caring, and she writhed in the embrace as she always had. Too much; too long. The fetters of darkness bound her to the emptiness, and her peaceful drift transitioned into panic.

Where am I, where am I, where am I?

Her queries were unheeded by the dark, which whispered loving limericks in her ear—you are safe, it cooed, stroking her hair; and she resisted, thrashing in its grip.  She wondered if anyone had noticed.

This was not the darkness she had once loved—it was foreign and cold, its soothing cradle forged by a parasitic lie. It was devouring her, enveloping her in bitter frost. Soon, she would be no more than a shell: a rose drained of its deep red, thrust back into the world as no more than fractured, crumpled petals, and a stem robbed of its evergreen. She snarled as she fought, her hair a rippling, molten pool around her, and the tethers that bound her to the abyss slackened. Harder still, she thrashed, her limbs tearing into the dark, until those chains finally snapped free.

Her lips parted in a gasp, the noise swallowed by the void, and she struggled for the surface. A voice, guttural and unused, called to her—a proverbial hand stretching out into the depths, pulling her into the light of day. Oh, how she ached to scream; her soundless words howled through the chasm, resonating across pure nothingness, and she could not think of a time in her life that she had felt emptier.

Yet still she fought, for a life she had not known she wanted. Fatigue weighed upon her, and again she wondered how long it had been since she’d arrived in this desolate nothingness—since the dark had swallowed her. How long had she been left to atrophy, to mummify within the complete and utter silence?

Her eyes snapped open. Igneous and yellow, stark against her blood-red coat, and her thin body was splayed across snow. The cold had seeped into her bones, a chill that soaked through to the very marrow of her being—she did not know if she would ever be warm again. Her lungs strained in the open air, as though she were a babe, thrashing for that first gasp—would it come if she did not wail? Again, she fought to scream, but her horrors were hauntingly quiet.

That single, commanding word resonated through her, just as it had pried her from the gnashing teeth of the midnight chasm. Awaken. Who had such power over her?

The woman’s eyes darted to the stallion; a pallid creature who struck her with such deep familiarity that her heart beat just a bit steadier. Reflexively, her lips curled in a snarl, her brow drawn over her golden eyes.

But snow dusted her pelt, and her wings shivered through the chill of the mountains.

She was alive. She was free—how?

“Where,” she breathed, her voice a hollow rasp—she would not stand for it. ”Where,” she repeated, sneering, her voice stronger now. “Am  I."


Speech, @Ryo

ART BY SILVERFANG
(This post was last modified: 12-12-2018, 08:23 PM by Freesia.)



 5  8.5  7  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Kirin 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
50ʜs
HS

Ryo

Commoner of Morthalion




As though in perfect harmony, in perfect response, the mare’s body reanimates with the single word.

And although he had not known just how much power the single word would hold, and likely never would, a part of him expected the response, was entirely confident in her rising from her snowy, blanketed slumber. From his insecurities just moments before coming upon Freesia’s form, he now seems so much more confident, more purposeful, stronger in his position here.

The cold is hardly more than a nagging sting to his hide now that his hearth is before him, warming him with reason, with familiarity; a light he may follow and a meaning to guide.

Yet he does not move from his position. He is still as a statue, again, as though having been meditating, stuck in that silent abyss for who knows how long was bred into a habit hard to break.

He gazes knowingly at her as she sees him and offers him that noiseless snarl; indifferent to the reaction and even, in a way, familiar with the mannerisms she shows. The gesture has him easing, out of relief of her awakening just as much as it is to see that the fight in her had not left.

He’d wager it’d strengthened in that time of restless drifting, wherever she was before she was here.

Allowing her the time to steady herself, for all her words to leave her, he waits in sturdy patience for her to finish the question. Finding that it is so strange that he had hardly remembered her and her story, let alone her face just moments ago - and now he was remembering things about her as though he were a close friend, family, intimately familiar and recognizing of who she was.

"Nordlys, the word falls from his lips seamlessly, in - again - a way he feels was pulled out of him rather than him speaking on his own volition. The next ones, however, deepen; they are more true to him than any forced-out, mindless response could ever be. "A place far from the sources of your pain,” he paused. "No one may hurt you anymore.

The words are naive, he knows; but he cannot stop them perhaps for his own belief as well as his entire purpose for being here - so that she would not be so hurt and experience so much pain as she had before, whether he held the ability to prevent such a thing from happening or not. In that same breath, he supposes it may all just be wasting air to say it; what she had experienced was enough pain to last her more than a few lives, for longer and deeper than a resurrection may offer her.

He waits, then, lost to his thoughts until she speaks or does anything more; attentive to her reactions, and not so much overbearing as he was simply curious, obedient. The kirin does not assume her to want any help, and as such, would take a step back to allow her the space (and even privacy, if ordered) for her to, like himself before, gather her own bearings about this place, about this sudden and drastic change from emptiness to something whole.



Speech, @Freesia



ART BY ELIZAHVETA



 4.5  11  5.5  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Pegasus 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
230ʜs
HS

Freesia

Wanderer



I walk in a ring; a groove
of old faults, deep and bitter


Her eyes shifted to the splatters of blood against the snow; a pathway that lead to where she lay fallen. Her nostrils flared, and droplets fell to the stark white below—ivory inlaid with rose petals. She sneered down at them, her feathers twitching against the frost.

Too slowly, Freesia forced herself to rise. Her head roared, her ears rang, and her legs quaked beneath her. Yet still, she stood; defiant of the odds. Rivulets of blood streamed over her lips, the coppery tang sharp against her tongue, and she wondered how much magic she’d expunged to free herself.

As though in answer, liquid midnight pooled at her feet, an undulating spectre of night that coiled around her fetlocks. It coiled in greeting, a waiting viper that lingered hungrily, awaiting her bidding. She paid the cloud no mind, even as it shuddered in longing for her embrace.

Cool air filled her lungs, and she welcomed the crisp verglas air. Swaying where she stood, Freesia turned her lily gaze towards the stallion. She beheld him as an impeccable creation, fashioned by something not so unlike herself, and her lips curled in bitter admiration. Perhaps she did not know his face, but his soul—his origins—peered back at her hungrily. Like calls to like.

But then he looked at her with such care—it was nearly laughable. Did he know what viper coiled at his feet? Her red scales glittering in the sunlight, perhaps she was beautiful enough to dilute the danger, but a snake was a snake. She was no different. You are safe, she barked a short, crisp chuckle, her lips curling to reveal the flat white of her teeth.

When she spoke, her words spilled like venom pulled from a festering wound; capricious and cold. “I am not in pain,” she drawled, her vermilion tail lashing against the snow. But that was all she would say, for now. Her head tipped back to admire the hoarfrost sky, the white capped mountains that rose around them. Nordlys. The word hardly tasted familiar, and the air felt new against her skin, leaving her raw and vulnerable. Her expression turned derisive and snide, damning the summits.

On teetering feet, the woman brusquely turned and made for the nearest path. She paid no mind to whether Ryo followed or not, nor to the fact that she hadn’t the slightest idea what to call her companion anymore. She didn’t care.

That iniquitous cloud still billowed at her feet, pulsing hungrily as it followed her, weaving between trees and winding around her limbs. It seemed to whisper to her, a lingering effect of the void, no doubt—but she was begrudgingly uncertain if she imagined its taunts or not. When she cast a look over her shoulder, her molten countenance was hooded and beguiling.

“What am I to call you now, love?” she would allow him that ounce of free-will; if nothing else, the entitlement to a name of his own. She walked on, heedless of a response and knowing he would follow, her thin hips swaying and her shoulders squared. 


Speech, @Ryo

ART BY SILVERFANG
(This post was last modified: 12-12-2018, 08:45 PM by Freesia.)



 5  8.5  7  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Kirin 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
50ʜs
HS

Ryo

Commoner of Morthalion




He watches wordlessly as she rises, remaining as still as he had been before, and further back still. There is no pull to help her as she is so inclined to stand on her own - and perhaps if she could not do that one, simple thing alone, what would that say?

I am not in pain. He does not deny the possible-truth that spills from her lips. If she was not in pain, she was not in pain - and there was little to say on that matter anymore. He was not here to fight with her, but for her. Silently accepting of her response, and as she wordlessly starts on her departure, begins after her a few paces behind, tracing the dark fog at her hooves with his eyes for only a moment before accepting the harmless new company and moving on to watch ahead and around. To remain diligent of their surroundings; of sounds and sights and smells.

She turns back briefly to throw back a question and he’s taken aback as he walks; his mind a blank slate for all but what he knows of her. A name?

His eyes trail down before ultimately raising to the trees, sky, the Heartwood around them in his stumped state. It takes him all but several minutes for there to be some semblance of an answer that rises in him. He does not know why it took so long this time; certainly he had known the word to speak to her, the name of this world to answer her, but for himself? It was as though his memory kept receding again, once more out of his grasp, blocking him away from any reminder of himself that he knew.

Ryo, the word is forced and hard stone against the cool air and frostbit terrain. Ryo.

Still, he follows onward.


Speech, @Freesia



ART BY ELIZAHVETA
(This post was last modified: 12-12-2018, 08:46 PM by Ryo.)



 4.5  11  5.5  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Pegasus 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
230ʜs
HS

Freesia

Wanderer



I walk in a ring; a groove
of old faults, deep and bitter


His silence was deafening. Before long, her rapt attention had turned elsewhere, consumed by the soul-rending howl of the wind through the barren snowscape. Its screams wound between trees and drug nails through the very core of her being. The white noise was unbearable, her grip of reality slackening as she was dipped back into the void, as she succumbed to the perpetual tempest of her mind. Freesia’s lips curled into a noiseless snarl, a heartbeat away from harshly reprimanding his delay, when he answered her—Ryo.
 
With no indication she’d heard him at all, the Ossuary continued to walk. Her golden hooves cut through the snow, slipping beneath her, though her head remained elevated with elegance. The darkness beneath her coiled, an unscaled serpent that slid through the snow; seeming to hiss and spit at the frigid air.
 
Or perhaps that was all in her imagination—perhaps it was not there at all.
 
“Ryo,” she repeated the calling with venom, her ears flat against cerise curls. There was no warmth to her angular shape, the lines of tension drawn across her body decimating any hopes of pleasantries, sans her outlandish flirtations. Perhaps she had known him once, but he was now housed within the temple of that which she hated and coveted most—the body of a man.
 
She wondered what devils had conjured her here—what demon could bring such a blight as she to this astounding land of ice? Nordlys, he’d called it. How could he possibly know? Had her magic deliberately brought them here, or had it merely cast her out the moment she’d defied its all-consuming hold? Audibly, Freesia laughed. The sound bordered on hysterical, fringed by her manic fears of ignorance. Was she to be a pariah of her own powers? Outcast by the one thing she’d truly come to love…
 
It was almost poetic.
 
Abruptly, the woman halted in place, whipping around to face her companion. Flakes of snow scattered at her feet, and the spreading black mist that pooled around her rippled in time with her, the most perilous of dance partners.
 
When Freesia spoke, her voice seemed to splinter the heavens—a resonating bellow, edged with obscure amounts of fear. “Why have you brought me here?” she addressed no one, and yet spoke to everyone. Her shouts rang through the valleys, forcing the white capped mountains to bend. She waited for a response, one that inevitably would not come.
 
“I was meant to die! Freesia went on, her distressed shrieks bordering on petulant. Yet tears, genuine and true, lined her yellow eyes with silver. Silence fell, and even the birds seemed still upon their perches.
 
There was no response. Or perhaps there was, and she simply did not deign to hear it.
 
Freesia snarled, whirling where she stood, and struck the nearest tree. Snow fell around her, jagged icicles skewering the earth in time with her rage. She was a whirlwind of pure, unabashed pain—the very suffering that she had denied moments before. Again and again she struck, at times shouldering the frozen bark until her crimson skin had been torn raw. She would not allow him to stop her, if Ryo dared to even try.
 
Only when the ground suddenly swept away from her, the slick ice buckling the carnelian Pegasus to her knees, did Freesia pause her assault. Her breaths came feverish gasps, fogging the frozen air in short puffs. The surrounding snow, freckled in her blood, was cool against her skin. The fire within reared for her attention, pawing, shrieking—but she settled into the frozen terrain, her eyes closing, her head tipping back as snowflakes coated her lashes.
 
Minutes passed, and the woman seemed to join the frost; permanent in her impermanent calm. A storm, biding its time to awaken once more.
 
Without looking to him, she spoke once more.
 
“How do you know what this place is,” her voice was hoarse from her shrieks of rage, her lips already chapped from the cold, and she lacked the strength to inflect her question.


Speech, @Ryo

ART BY SILVERFANG
(This post was last modified: 12-13-2018, 03:53 AM by Freesia.)



 5  8.5  7  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Kirin 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
50ʜs
HS

Ryo

Commoner of Morthalion




He can sense the distress, the tension, long before it takes solid form.

He carried on after her regardless of the knowledge he possessed. Following. Waiting. Even as she returned his name with venom; his mind nowhere and everywhere, lost to thoughts both his own and not. Learning.

The sound of her laughter fills the air. His ears flick forward attentively to the change, yet not once does he think to interrupt the manic sound. Then, she stops. As though in synchronization, his limbs halt in place just as her own do, and he welcomes the stillness. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting-

He looks upon her as she, almost with the swiftness of a cobra (and perhaps that comparison is not all untrue), sets her eyes upon him, turned in the snow. And just as fast, screams a harrowing cry to the air. To him. To the trees, to the mountains, to this world. To whatever forces above watched, if any at all.

He did not believe in them. He believed in her.

The question nearly begs to be answered, and yet something tells him that she was not listening to anything but an answer that would not come. That she, perhaps, did not want answered. An answer that, even further, she was afraid of hearing? He cannot be entirely sure.

She sets herself against the nearest tree in a matter of moments. He can only watch, remaining stuck in his place, his head only turning to follow her movements, to assess the damage, to try and read her emotions further. To listen to her cries: her emotion as raw and untamed as it had always been. Displaying the gore beneath her constructed exterior, red as the pelt she wore, as the heart that beat so fast, so hard now. Her voice could quite nearly tell her story if she herself never gave the gritty details; in but those screams and cries, the questions to an audience that does not answer, has never answered, and is just as unlikely to start now. He finds there to be a measure of something felt in his gut at the display; something he cannot place, but it is warm and twisting and protective. Knowing, understanding. He offers her the privacy, no matter how prying his gaze was; how prying he would not realize his eyes truly are.

Only when she has stilled and her hoarse voice delicately, roughly is sent out against the newfound silence after she had fallen back to the snow does he move again. One step after another, he carefully and precisely picks his way to her side, saving a feet or two for her own space and never daring to interfere closer. He looks upon her for a few careful beats before his voice becomes the next to interrupt the hollow quiet.

"Feel the splinters in your wounds, Mother. You live now," his gaze directs itself to the stains upon the tree, upon Freesia herself; the term he gives her is not of any familial affection to himself, but it is one he knows she is, and one he personally feels fits her. One of many. To her question, however; "I do not know. The word echoes through my bones. Colors and sounds visit my inner sight, fleetingly, but I do not know why, nor how."

He allows her a time of reprieve a few moments longer; his voice returning not long after his initial answer. It is careful and concernedly pressing, ushering, with the potential to be so much more. "Rise."



Speech, @Freesia



ART BY ELIZAHVETA



 4.5  11  5.5  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Pegasus 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
230ʜs
HS

Freesia

Wanderer



I walk in a ring; a groove
of old faults, deep and bitter


His words were an afterthought. A blade of grass that daisied from the bed of snow, evergreen against the hoarfrost, barely discernible. She refused to rise from where she’d fallen, knowing she would stumble, and thinking he might help.

She was weary of the help of men.

And so she remained, her body leaden against the snow, and she focused on the bitter cold that embedded itself in her marrows. She could no longer tell where she ended and the frost began, only that she welcomed its bite.

The Rose’s lips curled as he came nearer, thorns barbed and petals bowed in. The molten core of her eyes brimmed with hostility, and the darkness around her bucked and thrashed in time with her rage. Her silken lashes framed igneous pools, bubbling with misguided contempt, and she ached to pummel her tiny hooves into his skin: to feel the split of flesh and the blossom of bruises.

But she remained where she was.

“Never call me that,” came her sharp rebuke, her words venomous. She knew what he meant, but the title stung like nettle. He was a creature of her own debauchery, a being that manifested from the depths of her powers. They shared an origin, the both of them one with the void, but she did not dare face that truth yet. Mingled with the dark, she could see faces: spools of blonde and black hair, freckled faces and fiery eyes; bright blue flames and marred skin.

Her children were all so scarred.

Freesia's jaw ached from the clench in her jaw, dissatisfied with his response and lost in the enigma of his words. But he was confused, as lost as she, and yet he dared speak of her pain—she was primordial in comparison, an entity. She was eternal. He was lost.

The Ossuary's lips curled into a sneer, her flat teeth blanching against the snow and her afire eyes guttered. 

The woman would not rise. She would do nothing that was commanded of her. She had once been a fucking Queen—she would be still. "You do not give me orders," she barked. "And my wounds? There are no splinters in them. Infected, gnarled stitches, perhaps. But I am the only one with the power to rip away my sutures," her tongue skimmed her lips, a tigress in search of blood, and she rose of her own volition, even as her knees buckled and the ice treacherously taunted her balance.

"Take me to a city, lest I gut you with your horns, male."







Speech, @Ryo

ART BY SILVERFANG



 5  8.5  7  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Kirin 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
50ʜs
HS

Ryo

Commoner of Morthalion




The longer she stays the more the word roars in his mind; rise, rise, rise. It becomes almost physically impossible to contain the word that longs to be bellowed out, only softened when her own words of bile are thrown to him. It's ironic, in a way - that her fire could quell his own that also originated from herself.

However that was not to say what he hears causes any form of comfort from him in the same breath; the subtle traces of reactions that were now so strongly limited and reserved are but minor twitches of his lip, eyelid, and cheek. The fleeting trace of inner canines when the twitching causes his lip to slightly lift - just once - before returning to its relaxed position.

His expression remains hollow. His mind alive and reeling.

There is the conflicting interests between what he once was and what he was now; how to respond, how to react, yet he has no time to settle and try to pick apart these things. There was no time. And, if he was to be honest, it was easier to simply accept what he was given, accept this new position, this knowledge and guidance, and follow it.

Very well.

He does not help her when she finally begins to rise. Just as he could hear in him that groan rising, loud in his ears, it finally lessens to silence as she finds her footing. Sunset eyes merely watch her, offering her only silence, again. When she finally sets the order out to him, he finds himself turning curtly and suddenly on one of his back hooves to start mindlessly in the direction from which he'd come, and to the nearest path leading to Morthalion. He would not wait nor waste anymore time.



Speech, @Freesia



ART BY ELIZAHVETA



Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)