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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


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    [open quest]  will you dance with us? ROUND I
    #1

    You don’t know it yet, but this is my story. It’s not always pretty, and it’s not always nice, but it’s the only one I have. I’m not even certain you will want to hear, but I am going to tell it anyway. I hope you will learn as much from it as I did.

    ------

    In a distant land, a chime stirs the breeze. It is so soft that it could be easily mistaken for the sound of wind rustling through the leaves and branches of the forests. So easily dismissed that most would never even notice.

    Those who do, well, those are the ones who, deep in their hearts, still believe the fairy stories of old could be true. The ones who know magic is more than what they see before their eyes. Even the jaded ones, they still have that kernel of hope kept alive. That tiny spark that allows them to turn their head when the think they may have heard a sound, but aren’t quite sure.

    And when they do, out of the corner of their eye, they might see a flickering light. So small and ephemeral that one would almost question if it had been real. But the longer one stares, the more intensely that light seems to flicker.

    Perhaps some would choose to ignore it.

    Others though, they might follow. Their curiosity might get the better of them, and would feel the need to discover from where the light had come. It always seems though, that the moment you get close enough, it flits away. Skittering beyond your reach to appear further in the distance. A tantalizingly impossible trail for those with bravery in their hearts and a lingering belief in ancient, childish magics.

    Until, finally, the trail ends as mysteriously as it had appeared. And there, just before those daringly intrigued individuals, a door stands. Looming and dark, surrounded by vines, and not nearly so inviting as one might hope.

    Do you dare cross the threshold?

    ***************************************************

    Hello, and welcome to this story. In this introductory round, the rules are simple.
    You have three days to respond. This round will expire Monday, September 23rd at Midnight Central Standard Time.
    Please tell me about your character’s experience finding the door and how they come to the decision to cross the threshold.
    There will be no eliminations this round.
    This quest is intended to be thought-provoking and will focus more on creative thinking and responses than writing ability. Be clever, be unique, be silly, but most importantly, have fun! And don’t worry so much about perfect sentences and grammar. We sure won’t Wink

    Reply
    #2

    You don’t hear a lot of chimes anymore, you know? So it kind of takes me by surprise when I think I hear one. At first I think I’m dreaming it, which wouldn’t exactly be out of character, but it takes me a moment to realize that I can’t be dreaming it – because I’m awake! I’m pretty talented at daydreaming but usually those don’t involve hallucinating noises so I’m at least 50% sure that I’m not hearing things.

    I do the only logical thing and twist around wildly looking around for the source. I love chimes, I realize in this exact moment, and I’m hoping that they’ll continue forever but instead I see a light.

    And man, this light is clearly up to something.

    It might be up to no good or it might be a new friend – that’s the fun with Beqanna, you never can tell about lights here – but there’s only one way to find out. I’m hoping that this light will show me where the chimes are coming from and as I approach with slow, deliberate steps I call out to it, “Um, excuse me, light?” BUT THEN the light skitters away and I have to scramble after it again.

    I try several more unsuccessful attempts to get the light to talk to me or maybe even chime at me when it just straight up disappears. “Well that’s rude.” I inform the now-absent air with a small, disgruntled huff.

    I don’t notice the door at first as I stand there, spinning in a couple circles for good measure to make sure the light is well and truly gone. On my second spin, I notice the door and on the third I finally stop. My head is a little woozy and I just stand there like an idiot for a few more seconds trying to figure out if I’m seeing an actual door or if it’s the product of turning around.

    It’s a whimsical thought that enters my mind and I narrow my eyes at the door – playfully, of course. I don’t want to hurt the door’s feelings.  “Do you know where the chimes are?” I ask as I move forward and through the door with a flick of my tail and no hesitation whatsoever, eyes already widening and ears perking up to catch whatever I might find on the other side.

    Should I have hesitated? Probably. But as much as I love the sunshine, I’ve never been afraid of the dark. It’s rooted deep within me, after all.


    artwork by space1993
    Reply
    #3
    Demetyr
    Stars paint the night sky. Vibrant and beautiful, they dance in ethereal delight as the young filly stands in awe of their beauty. Never before had she seen such a wonder. It is breath-taking, truly. Alone in the night, her eyes scan throught the wilderness, searching - though, for what, she is unsure. For most of her life the pale hued creature had been on the hunt for her life's purpose. She is young yet, however, and does not quite understand that she has many more years ahead of her. Though she refused to acknowledge such a thing, there was a sense of urgency - one that she could not explain even if she wanted to. 

    Glancing around herself, starlight dances upon the blush of her coat creating a halo effect upon her. She is beautiful and the flowers entwined upon her close themselves up in their slumber. Springtime incarnate, she is a contradiction amongst the slowly waning snow. 

    Something lingering on the edges of her peripherals quickly catches her attention. Turning her olive eyes in consideration of it, she is given a moment's pause. There, flickering close to the ground, a dim light sits as if it is waiting for something. It flickers and pulses and Demetyr's heart pounds hard in her chest. Nostril's flare as her mind attempts to wrap itself around what it is that she is seeing. Its as if a star had fallen from the heavens and now called out to her. The longer her eyes remain still upon it, the brighter its glow seems to grow - soon, the young filly realizes that it is meant for her. One hoof moves forward, followed by another until her body is drawing nearer to the single orb of light. 

    Just as she is almost upon it, the light fades completely and Demetyr is forced to stop - her bewilderment quickly giving way to disappointment. The feeling is short-lived as, a second later, it is reborn several lengths ahead of her. It is leading her. A broad smile spreads across the filly's face as she continued forward, far less hesitant than before. The next time the light dies she continues - always keeping her eyes peeled for wherever it might be reborn. 

    This pattern continues until Demetyr has wandered an impressive distance away from where she had intended to spend her night. Surrounded by trees she is only aware of one thing, the light - that is, until, it is no more. Halting, Demetyr snorts, confused as she glances around only to see a door. A centurion lost among the thick of trees. It is an old door with cracks in its wood and vines claiming its frame as their home. For a moment, the filly is tempted to turn back to where she had come from. Instead, however, she feels a pull forward and, before she can reconsider, she finds herself crossing into the unknown. 

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    #4
    I wasn't born into a childhood filled with fairytales and happily ever afters. Whatever capacity my mother had once had for that sort of thing, it had been used up on my brothers. Maybe my sister's death had crushed the last bit of whimsy she'd been capable of. 

    I'm the youngest, the baby of the family. Traditionally, the one doted on. A little treasure. I can't even imagine what that would have been like. Sure, I had my brothers, eventually. They did their best with me, I suppose. But by the time they interceded, the damage was done. 

    I realized that knights in shining armour were not my lot in life. If I was going to do anything in life, it'd be under my own power, damn anyone else who got in my way. I was learning that not all princesses get happily ever afters handed to them. Some princesses take their stories by force, and I guess that's who get condemned to be called "evil queen" long after their sins fade into legend.

    I didn't care if others found me evil, or heartless. I don't think I ever will. Playing the villan is much more fun than anything they could find acceptable. My script is the one I write for myself, and it's not one decorated with shining fairies and dewy eyed maidens. That's likely why I ignored the light when I saw it at first. 

    It was there, in the corner of my sight as I grazed the thick grasses filling in the landscape I had begun to settle into. It hadn't been an easy transition, and the last thing I needed was more kingdom nonsense. There was also the niggling idea in the back of my mind that this was it. The onset of my mother's madness come to call. She often saw things that weren't there, called out to long dead horses when she couldn't sleep. This could well be the start of it. 

    Fear gripped my heart as the light stayed in sight, not vanishing like I'd hoped it would. Now I looked at it full on, forgetting my occupation with filling my belly, and instead feeling my old friend anger begin to prick my throat. I would not be intimidated by a glowing whisp of light! 

    "What do you want?" I growled at it, not really expecting any answer. And I didn't really get one. The light just bobbed and shimmered, drifting a few feet away. "Oh, don't be cute." My eyes rolled as the light throbbed in a way I'm sure was meant to be tantalizing. Experimentally, I stepped closer. As predicted, the light bobbed away just as far as I'd closed the gap. Oh boy. It was going to be one of those days. 

    Looking around me, I realized I didn't have any real reason not to follow it. No friends, no family. As usual, I was alone. As usual, no one would miss me. Why not, then? Another step, another annoyingly cute jiggle of light. God's, I really must be crazy. But here we go, off into the wild blue yonder. Just me and a self satisfied ball of pixie dust. 

    And what a merry chase I'm lead. Like, a stupidly long way before I'm ready to give up, but by then it's too late. I haven't got a clue where it's lead me, and even if I flew high enough to orient myself, the sun set a few minutes ago. I wouldn't see a damn thing that could be useful. "You did that on purpose." I groused to it, stepping hesitantly over the now overgrown earth. There's no path to speak of anymore, just the narrow circle of light the whisp casts to guide my way. It could be lead off a cliff and I wouldn't see it coming until it was too late. 

    But there are no cliffs, or deep bogs. No sudden falls or hidden traps. Just eerie silence that I break with ever more nervous comments and the dull hum of magic getting stronger on the air. I hardly notice until the glowwing orb suddenly halts, spinning its ball of light until I stop too. Patiently, it holds position while I look around, and take in the murky midnight view. 

    My eyes are adjusted by now to the dimness, and I can make out the field of spiring stones I've been lead through. It is a hopeless maze, and I get the sick feeling I won't be getting out the same way I came in. An anxious twitch of my wings betrays the sudden return of my earlier fears. This was a stupid, stupid thing to do. 

    Turning to the light, I pin my ears to my head, half expecting ambush now that we've stopped. But before I can fly at it, try to stamp out its insubstantial light, it bobs again, and drifts through a gap between two stones. It doesn't reappear on the other side. Cursing the dark and my own gullibility, I edge nearer to its vanishing point, starting at the stones it slipped between. 

    This is no accidental fall of rock. It is a henge of ancient grey stone, overgrown with lichen and moss, the carefully placed edges softened with age. There might have once been things carved into the surface, but now only faint smudges remain to suggest it, and the hum that's been growing since we arrived now brings a chill to my spine as I become aware of it. 

    This is no mortal place, and I am far out of any depth I thought I had. But my only guide has vanished through what I now see is a gateway, and I am running out of options. I can see the stones and scrubby plants beyond the henge, and maybe this is all some bizarre dream, and I'll wake up disoriented and crabby, but none the worsev for the wear. Or maybe this is real, and a challenge, and I will come away from it greater than I entered. Or I could die, I guess. Only one way to find out. 

    Step by step, I hold my breath as the old stones rise over me. I don't come out on the other side.
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    #5

    I never cared for anyone so much. I was born with a bomb inside my gut.

    Maybe someday Sylva will feel like home.
    Maybe someday she’ll feel like she’s meant to have a home.

    And she won’t feel the pull like a fish hook in her belly.

    But she has stolen away in the night, drawn back to the meadow, the forest, the edge of the river where the ice had shifted beneath her feet. Because it’s the only place that’s ever felt like home, even if it’s not really much of a home at all. Because she is no one here and that is all she’s ever known how to be.

    She heard once that, when you drown, you hear music. So, when she hears the chimes – so distant that she wonders if she’s really heard them at all – she thinks that maybe she’s drowning. That maybe the ice really had given way beneath her feet and she had not thrown herself back to the shore in time, no dark red stranger came along and shouted her down about what a fool she was, that every moment she has lived between now and then has been some delightful fever dream.

    She is drowning in the river and this is part of the dream, too.

    She lifts her weary head and peers into the darkness. There is something melancholy in the music, something that tightens a vise around her heart and she allows it to draw her deeper into the darkness. But the volume never changes. It never grows louder or softer, it maintains its steady hum, as if it is coming from her own head.

    And then, finally, the chimes fade just as a flicker of light catches her eye. She thinks it a firefly, flitting in the darkness several yards up the trail. She watches it tumble and dance and, as it does, it grows brighter.

    It pulls at her belly like a fish hook, too.

    There had been music and now there is brilliant light and she feels she has no choice but to follow it. It stays just beyond her reach as she staggers after it. And then it is gone. Just as quickly as it had appeared and she blinks into the darkness.

    It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the murky shadows and she does not notice the door until they do. She considers it a long moment. Even here in the dead of this moonless night, it radiates its own pitch darkness.

    This must be it, she thinks. She doesn’t want to go, really. But there is no point in staying either. There’s nothing for her beyond the edge of that river, she knows, there never has been. She thinks of the flowers a kind stranger had tucked into the tangles of her mane and allows herself the ghost of a grateful smile as she drags in a shuddering breath and steps across the threshold, resigning herself to this end.

    lilian

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    #6
    Stories.

    Stories were rooted to Kha's existance. His mother's sweet voice drifted across his ears once upon a time to tell him of his parents rule. King and Queen of the forbidden dale. Voices of familiar but lost equine drift slowly through darkened, changed forest of new land tell stories of angered fairies ripping magic from their grasps. The mark across his ghostly cheek speaks stories of a lost child amongst chaos, stuck on a plane between the dead and living floating silently. His presence had been caught between lovers and traitors alike telling stories of their lives in quiet whispers. For ages the forgotten ghost boy drifted between stories, often becoming the center of his own. Stories of a child haunting the otherwise uneventful forest.

    So, when he hears the melodic chime and sees the flickering light blink lazily infront of his bored, dull eyes he does not dismiss it like many would. After all if he could remain as a child after years of adult hood in this dull, translucent form why couldn't other mystical, magical beings exist in a world full of white light. His eyes snap to attention as the light begins to bounce away from him, flickering like a bulb tightened to quickly that it didnt quiet connect with the energy that fueled it. His tail flicks softly at his legs as he moves from his perch for the first time in days. What could it hurt to follow?

    The closer he seemed to get the farther the light seemed to wander. A distant story of it's own, told through a melody of soft lingering music, lying in its wake. The light seemed to pull him in which only picked at his curiosity more and more. Nothing in all his years had eluded him quiet so easily, especially in his own forest. It left feelings of wonderment, contentment, happiness, sadness, uncertainty,  and possibilities crawling through his ghostly nerves.

    His hooves fell against the earth silently in utter chaos of nerves. Until suddenly the light blinked out of existance. A life there and then gone. Memories flooded his mind as he continued into the vast darkness of heavy tree limbs infront of him. His mothers face, his fathers face, the existance of Beqanna there and then gone, the lone mare upon the shore calling him from existance, the soft face of the girl who existed in the living world, the many faces of those he haunted out of his forest so that he could live in solitude, the face of the only possible friend he could of  had had he not grown bored - or maybe scared - and chased her away too. 

    He pulled up short as the door appeared before him, crowned with vines of ghostly darkness. Confusion wrapped around his mind and his eyes grew wide. How could this be? This what not apart of his world! He crushed his eyes against each other as his breathing became unsteady - that is it would of if he actually needed to breath. He forced his ghostly head into the dark, broken wood before him, searching behind the lonely door. 

    Nothing.

    Darkness.

    He yanked his head back, his ears pinning to his head. This is not how it would work. If he wanted to know what layed beyond the bouncing white light, and the haunting door he would need to allow himself to accept what was and what is. He closed his eyes one last time, softer this time, and took a slow steady breath allowing himself to feel the earth beneath his hooves and the wood upon his nose. He became one with the living and the door opened slowly as if it had never been closed to begin with, and with out a second hesitation in he went.
    KHA
    it doesn't matter what world you live in; it only matters what world lives in you
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    #7
    Some might think it would be quiet in the wilderness where no one but they are passing through, but it is not quiet in the Taiga. The forest is alive with spring, birds trilling and fluttering, claiming their territories and their mates with bright songs and bright feathers. Just as bright is Popinjay, small and laughing and wild, dark eyes shining as she chases the finches as they swoop from tree to tree and tossing her head against the scolding brown wrens. One and a half years is an awkward age, less a child than before, and yet, not nearly an adult, others still begin to have expectations of behavior. It's not as acceptable these days to steal a feather from Lepis' wing, or to lead her little brother on a questionable journey. She should know better. The real problem is that they know better. Every day her companions grow, and grow more serious.

    Well, Owin has always been serious.

    It is harder to lead them along, though, to convince them to join her, racing madly through the woodland, chasing fog and fey, and so more and more, Popinjay is alone among the trees and the ferns. She does not fret, however, not here among the songbirds raucously celebrating the passing of another wicked, grey, winter. The smiling light filters golden and green between the bristling needles of redwood and larch, inciting a riot of squealing and bucking across a glowing glen, and as she charges through it, insects chirp and buzz and drift into the air, sparking bright and sharp in the haze.

    But, oh! What was that? A soft chime catches her ear, faint and alluring, unlike the dry buzz of disturbed click-beetles. No, it is almost like the ringing of hard hooves on the ironstone that gathers in some of the low valleys, almost, and yet... The youth slows and turns, head high and small ears curling forward. Her black forelock is almost long enough to cover the broad star across her brow and fall messily into her eyes, but she blinks it away. She blinks and sees one golden spark flit away on an unlikely path, deeper, darker, one that leads away from sunshine, yet it shimmers still, inexplicably.

    Popinjay does not think, but follows, heart alight. It is a tantalizing chase into the core of the wilderness, to places even she does not often stray. The birds here are quieter, shyer, they don't flaunt or fly but keep to the undergrowth, shadows within shadows, flickering. The woodthrush is here, and the black-throated warblers whisper their lazy calls. Here there is a sense of silence, of solemnity, laughter fades her from throat but not from the gleam of her eye, not from that part of her heart that loves anything that is mischievous and sly. Even here the filly does not feel out of place. She, too, is a shadow among shadows, her soft baby coat having shed out almost black, a cape of starless night sky blanketing the bright cherry bay of her belly and flanks.

    Light flickers around the corner, calling, and as she has ever done, the yearling presses on into the black cavern of Taiga's heart. The sound of water dripping slowly echoes around her, droplets splashing on stone, dripping from leaf to leaf, trickling down darkened trunks. The ground is soft and smells strongly of earth and slow decay, her hooves sink deep into it, squelching softly, the liquid welling in each hoofprint tannic and opaque. There is no light here, the taunting, flickering, thing she followed is gone and before her, a doorway, foreboding and wrapping in vines. The mouth of a cave?

    Has that always been there? Would she have any way of knowing? It looks as though it has existed for eons, and no light shows beyond its threshold, not a sound, not a scent. It could go anywhere. It could contain anything.

    But Popinjay never hesitates. A door once orphaned her. A door once brought her here, to a world where magic was real and possible, where things still existed to be discovered. She hadn't hesitated then and she doesn't hesitate now.
    Reply
    #8

    i have loved the stars too fondly

    He comes alive at night. His father is the sun and the day, warmth and kindness; but the son, the son is darkness and shadow, quiet and starlight. Well, maybe not so much quiet as a colt, though he can be. On a night like tonight, he is quiet. Noise is a thing of daytime, of sunlight and spring days, of running and jumping and shouting through wide open meadows. The night is different though. The night is when the truth comes out, slinking in shadows just barely seen. If you are quiet and listen, if you are still and look, you will find the truth.

    What is the truth, exactly? The truth is the foundation of all fairy stories, the ones his mother tells him before bed each night; the ones that, like any child, he believes. Maybe he believes more than the average, ordinary child. After all, they are not painted with the stars as he is, they are not made of the twilight hour in which all those fairy stories live.

    Long after his mother sees him off to bed, he is still awake. Aedan finds sleep in the wee hours of morning, for he cannot sleep at night. It is his favorite time, it is simply his time, and tonight he lays awake staring at the stars. It is a thing he often does at night. His days are full of exploration and adventure, but his night are quiet and he rarely strays far. Tonight, he thinks, will be one of those nights.

    Ah, but the best laid plans…

    He hears them then, the chimes. In the stillness of the night he would be surprised to know that most cannot hear them. The sound is clear to a boy that still believes in the fairy stories without doubt. They are almost loud, but then, very few things in the night are truly loud. He flicks an ear first, then the other, and finally turns his head as if he’d be able to see the source of the sound. A silly, childlike notion, to think he could see something so far off in the distance.

    He does not see the chimes, but he sees a light. This is not strange to him. After all, he glows, and he’s used to catching his own glowing reflection in various surfaces. He looks around, trying to figure out what exactly could be causing such a reflection. The light just flickers brighter, more insistent, and no matter how hard he looks there is no water, no shining surface nearby. The light is not from him.

    Aedan clambers to his feet, his legs still far too long beneath him though certainly steady by now. Every day he grows into himself a little more, finds it easier and easier to travel further and further from home. Tonight is proving to be such an adventure, but he cannot begin to dream just how far he will go.

    He follows the light, a tricky thing as it flickers in and out, always skittering just out of reach and leading him further on. Excitement builds in his belly, his imagination wild with the possibilities. He becomes a character from his mother’s fairy stories, a boy lost in the wood as he followed a fairy inside. Yet he doesn’t fear getting lost (though he should). The boy in the wood gets out, after all, because Isle would never tell him the true ending of those fairy stories. The real stories rarely end with the hero winning, but he hasn’t learned this truth yet.

    Perhaps tonight, he will.

    He follows the light relentlessly, ignoring the growing, tired weight of his legs. Indeed, he becomes that boy from the story as the light leads him into a forest. Around him the shadows loom, reaching for him like fingers, monsters that creep through the night. He calls to the stars and their light surrounds him, allowing him to glow just a bit brighter, trying to scatter the monsters away. If only it were so easy.

    Finally, the light stops. Disappears, really. He sees nothing at first, the gloom of the forest too deep. He creeps forward now, letting the stars light his path until he sees it. A door.

    He’s not sure how he knows what it is. After all, there are no doors in his world, and yet he knows it clear as day. There are always doors in the stories, portals to other worlds, to the places where the monsters come from. Now he hesitates, for the first time in this little adventure he finds himself afraid and unsure. It is one thing to be a boy creeping after the light of a fairy. It is entirely another thing to walk through a door in the middle of the forest. He highly doubts such a door simply leads to more forest.

    Still, he finds himself more curious than afraid. The door, though dark and dangerous, still calls to him. There are secrets behind that door, truths that he will never discover here. He would rather know truths and other worlds then keep himself safe. Besides, it is hard to believe himself anything but invincible. There are few children who truly understand peril until they experience it and Aedan has never had such an experience. If he’s the boy who went into the wood, certainly he will be the boy who came out again.

    It is that thought that bolsters him, and he steps through.

    to be fearful of the night

    aedan

    Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission

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    #9

    beulah.


    Beulah had all but given up on her search. It was becoming plainly obvious that her mother was nowhere to be found - that she’d moved on just as the little pink girl had.  The little pink filly didn’t regret the circumstances of her life - she’d been lucky to quite literally stumble upon a family of sorts. But the lingering guilt of the mother she’d inadvertently left behind had weighed heavily upon her small shoulders the past few weeks.  Before she hadn’t been old enough to understand what had truly transpired - but as she grew in both age and maturity (well, sort of) - the guilt had come creeping through the shadows and dimmed her usual exuberance. 

    Though her search of the meadow had been fruitless, her mind quieted. She had, at the very least, tried to make things right. Truthfully, she didn’t know what else she could do at this point. So the little pink girl prepared herself for the journey home - back to Sylva and the family she’d chosen and whom had chosen her in return.  The thought helped lift her spirits somewhat and helped put some spring back in her step.

    The journey home brought the girl close to the base of the mountain.  Her gaze drew upwards. Maybe one day, when she was old enough to use her wings, she’d be able to fly that high.  She lingered for another heartbeat, watching as the mountain seemed to reach up and stroke the bellies of the clouds. However as she turned away, she heard something.  It wasn’t a bird or an animal - but the chime was soft, unnatural, and seemed to linger on the breeze.  Beulah wasn’t sure what to make of the sound.  Her ears pricked and her eyes narrowed as she tried to decipher where the sound had come from and what could have possibly made such a noise.

    But then she saw it.
    The wisp of light, hanging unnaturally in the air.

    The flicker of light sent a shockwave through her body.  "Mother!" she breathed, disbelieving. That had been her mother’s magic. Light. Her mother could bend light to her will and produce light where there was none.  Beulah had been afraid of the dark, once upon a time. Her mother used to create the smallest, most delicate wisps of light that would dance over her head as she slept - keeping away all that lurked in the darkness. 

    So obviously, in in the girl’s eyes, this light was her mother she had lost over a year ago.  She didn’t even consider any alternate possibilities. She’d found her. She’d found mother!

    Lala practically skipped towards the light. Thoughts flipped through her mind fast and furiously.  What would she even say to her mother?  I’m sorry I got lost. I’m sorry I never came back to find you. I was young and scared but most importantly I was safe. I found a family, I think you’d like them.  Her heart raced at the prospect of seeing her mother again and she began rehearsing the reunion in her head.  However, as she approached the light it vanished.

    "Nooooo nonono! Come back!" she blurted, scrambling after the little wisp and doing her best not to trip over her own feet as she did so. She spun in a panic, whirling around in a blur of pink hair and feathers until another wisp of light flickered just beyond the edge of the trees.  Beulah let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and set off in pursuit of the wisp.

    The process repeated itself with the pink girl scrambling from wisp to wisp as they appeared and disappeared. Lala paid little to no attention to her surroundings as she followed the lights - the lights that will surely lead her to her mother.  She didn’t know how long she’d walked or how many lights appeared and disappeared.

    However, she did know that she had absolutely no idea where she’d ended up. She stood, wings pulled tightly to her sides as if trying to hold herself together, waiting for the next light to appear.  But no such light did appear.  There was a strange doorway blanketed in thick, tangled vines standing alone - eerie and undisturbed. "Mother?" she called, uncertainly.  With no lights and nowhere left to go, her gaze returned to the strange door.  Indecision burned through her. But she knew she had to cross.  She couldn’t turn her back on her mother again. She just couldn’t.

    So the little pink girl stepped through the doorway with a stomach full of nerves but heart bursting with hope.


      there's nothing you can do that can't be done,
    nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
     
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    #10
    She doesn’t fully understand the wildness that creeps in her veins.

    She knows that Tephra feels small, even with that great, looming volcano that always glows on the horizon. She knows she had been born during turmoil and chaos, when the land was shrouded in darkness and the air was full of smoke and fire. She had felt adrenaline before she ever felt safety, she had known war before she ever knew peace.

    Everything after that had seemed so...quiet. Tame, almost.

    The strange tightness that coils in her chest is incomprehensible to her. Freshly turned two years old she was just beginning to finally shed the softness of her childhood, and with the sharp angles of adolescence also came with it a restlessness that was all the more potent.

    She moves through the forest without much purpose, and the sounds of the birds and the leaves that rustle in the breeze are muted into background noise. When she first hears the chime, it almost seems imaginary. It takes her a moment to realize that it was real, and slowly, she comes to a stop. Her ears swivel, and she tilts her head as though it might better allow her to pinpoint where the sound is coming from. From the corner of her eye she sees a flicker of light, and she can feel her heart jump in excitement.

    She follows it, trying her best to match the light’s flitting and erratic movements that wind her through trees and brush. Branches pull at her black mane as she leaps nimbly over fallen logs, but no matter how fast she moves the light continues to dart just out of her reach.

    By the time she comes face to face with the nearly hidden doorway she is breathless and looking every bit the feral girl she was – leaves and debris clinging to her mane, various new scrapes fresh and bright on her black and white coat. But her vivid pink eyes are vibrant and glittering with the thrill of the chase, even though the light was nowhere to be found. Instead she was faced with the shadowy door, caressed in ivy that snakes and tangles around its frame.

    She feels no hesitation when she steps through.
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