[open] oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - Printable Version +- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum) +-- Forum: Explore (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: The Common Lands (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=72) +---- Forum: Forest (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=73) +---- Thread: [open] oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any (/showthread.php?tid=22465) Pages:
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oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - brigade - 01-05-2019 oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone. RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - irisa - 01-06-2019 and the walls kept tumbling down in this city that we love She is grown, now, but there remains something childish about her. She was dream-grown, see, raised in a strange fantastical world, a dream made flesh. (What it had cost her mother, she doesn’t know, and will likely never learn – this is no doubt a secret Heartworm will take to her grave.) She is more acquainted with reality, now, knows the world for what it is, but the world has not yet robbed her of a certain whimsy. She looks the part of whimsy, white with a rainbow sheen, wings fluttering at her sides. Like something dreamed. She has been absent from Beqanna for longer than she’s realized, when she returns it’s changed, sickened, but this does not make her hesitate. (There are dreams, sometimes, of her in another world, her first iteration. There was something like a plague there, too. She remembers a castle crumbling, birds falling from the sky. But they’re just dreams, is all.) She sees the boy, or perhaps he sees her – their eyes meet, and then her rove over his wine-dark body, the wings at his sides. Her own wings flutter as she pulls them in closer, moving towards him. She does not know if he wants company, but there is a smile bright on her face, and she nods hello as she nears him. “Hello,” she says, “my name is Irisia.” Irisa tarnished x heartworm RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - brigade - 01-09-2019 oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone. @[irisa] he has N O social skills i am so sorry RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - irisa - 01-13-2019 and the walls kept tumbling down in this city that we love She is intrigued by him. She is intrigued by everything, to be honest, that same whimsy giving her a curiosity that’s lingered still. She is intrigued by the look in his eye, faraway and somehow steely, by his tone; the whole windblown look of them. She feels strange in comparison, white and rainbow-sheened, entirely too cultivated, even if that cultivation took place in a dream world. “Nice to meet you,” she says, smiling, unfazed by his terseness. She steps closer – only a bit, and cocks her head, examining his wings. They’re different than hers, clearly, and she is captivated by the shape of them, the shimmer she sees where they briefly become something else. “I like your wings,” she says, and her own move, as if to emphasize the word, “do they change?” She’s seen such things, wings melting into one thing or another. She loves her own wings well enough, but she thinks it might be lovely to change them every so often, when the mood struck. She extends her wings, then, brushing the feathers against his wings. It’s too much, perhaps, overstepping boundaries, but she is so curious. Of course, the feathers do not transmit much in the way of sensation, only that there is a thing there, but any part of her skin would have surely been too strange and intimate for this stranger. “Sorry,” she says, withdrawing them, “I don’t always think before doing things.” Irisa tarnished x heartworm RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - brigade - 01-17-2019 oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone. @[irisa] RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - irisa - 01-20-2019 and the walls kept tumbling down in this city that we love She has not been tested, and it is thus unknown to her what she is made of. Her mother was weak. Irisa does not know this – she mostly knew her mother in a dreamland – but she is. She broke under what was given to her (and it was a fair breaking, the adversity heavy enough). Irisa had not been so unfortunate, she has been able to skate through her life without knowing much in the way of pain – a skinned knee there, a thorn-cut here. There is no telling what lies beneath her, or if indeed, there is anything – perhaps she would simply crumble to dust and be gone. She watches with curiosity and fascination as his wings change, from feather to stick to bone, and there is a lick of envy in her throat. Perhaps she could have done something similar, in the dreamworld – she remembers mother tweaking her, shifting her color, until she nodding to herself, murmuring that’s right. But not now, where magic is a scarcer thing (at least to her grasp). Now, she is stuck as she is, which she doesn’t entirely mind – but ah, wouldn’t it be interesting to shift and warp at will? He asks a question, a common one that she has an entirely uncommon answer for. “From here,” she says, “but also not. Mother mostly kept me in a different place. A more magical one. She liked it, there, and kept me with her.” But that hadn’t lasted, as Irisa grew, as she became more herself and less such a malleable thing. “But that place is gone. So now I’m just from here.” She misses it, and she doesn’t – she liked the world, it suited her (of course it did – she was made from ad for it!). But it was not hers, it was mothers, and there, she was ultimately a pawn – a decoration. Here, she is herself, wholly. (Whatever that may be.) “What about you?” Irisa tarnished x heartworm RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - brigade - 01-21-2019 oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone. @[irisa] RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - irisa - 01-27-2019 and the walls kept tumbling down in this city that we love They are a strange pair, to be sure. As he envies her delicacy, her web-spun qualities, she admires the rough edges of him, the antlers protruded and the wings shifting, his wind-chafed features that look at her with something that she thinks is curiosity. He asks what happened to her world and she doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps the world still exists, perhaps Heartworm is still dreaming (she doesn’t know – she hasn’t seen mother in years, now). “It was my mother’s dream,” she says, though she doesn’t know how this logic translates, how many are aware of that particular power, know how to make sense of it. “It was hers, and she woke up one day and couldn’t take me with her.” There’s more to it, but she doesn’t know how to explain it further, save for one more admission. “Maybe I didn’t want to go. I didn’t learn about this world for awhile.” There had been anger, when she learned. She is not angry now – she is a forgiving thing – but sometimes the betrayal comes back to her, a sour note on the tongue. He’s brief, on his own lands, and she nods, as if she understands. “Do you live there still?” she asks, curious, but he’s given her another question, circles her back to her own strange world. “It was…magical. Mother could control anything in the world – the animals and plants and weather. It was always beautiful. Always sunny. She didn’t like the darkness, so it was always daytime. I couldn’t change things, but almost anything I asked for, she would give me.” A pause, a breath. Her mind whirls in its remembrance. “But it was hers. It wasn’t mine. Everything lived by her rules. It was hard to be autonomous.” A word she’d learned not long ago, and when she had, it had struck her like a weight. A word she’d been searching for. Free to govern herself. To blaze her own trail in this world. Irisa tarnished x heartworm RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - brigade - 02-03-2019 oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone. RE: oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any - irisa - 02-04-2019 and the walls kept tumbling down in this city that we love She finds herself smiling, and warm beneath his gaze in a way that is unfamiliar. None of her connections have lasted, she’s been a ship passing them in the night. Yet he’s still here, still speaking to her, still looking at her with his grey eyes and shifting wings, and she does not want it to stop, she does not want to be on her way again. “Me too,” she says, and she feels the gladness distinctly. She’s wondered, sometimes, if she made a mistake in striking out for her independence, in choosing to grow (mother would have kept her as a foal forever in the dream, she suspects). She’s done so little on her own. But in this moment she feels wholly justified in her choice. Perhaps you will have your own world, he says, but she feels a moment of sourness at the thought. She lacks her mother’s ability – she knows this, and does not lament it – and even if she had such power, she isn’t sure that she would use it. (But then, if she had such power, could she resist the temptation? Surely not. She is not so strong as that.) “I like this world, and have no desire to create my own,” she says, “I’m happy here.” Here. It could mean so many things. She isn’t sure. She steps closer. She is more cautious, this thing, none of the easy brashness from when she had first touched his wings. Her mind tumbles over itself, trying to find something to say and coming up blank. Here. “You’re very handsome,” she says, and she knows it’s wrong before she says it, because he’s young and he’s practically a stranger and she’s touched him once, just her wing to his, and he’s young, and she is a ship, passing in the night. Maybe she has overstayed. “I’m sorry,” she says. Now the words stumble from her tongue. “I shouldn’t say things like that.” Irisa tarnished x heartworm |