+- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum)
+-- Forum: OOC (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=24)
+--- Forum: Archive (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=81)
+---- Forum: Mountain Archives (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=112)
+---- Thread: [open quest] Día de Muertos - round 2 (/showthread.php?tid=25349)
Pages:
1
2
Día de Muertos - round 2 - Rhy - 10-26-2019
<link href='http://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=IM+Fell+French+Canon+SC' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'>
<style type="text/css">.rhylion_container{position:relative;z-index:1;width:550px;padding:0 15px;background:#030013;font:12px 'Times New Roman', serif;box-shadow:0 0 10px #030013;}.rhylion_border{position:absolute;z-index:5;width:10px;height:100%;background:#985470;}.rhylion_right{right:15px;}.rhylion_left{left:15px;}.rhylion_container p{margin:0;}.rhylion_container img{width:550px;}.rhylion_message{text-align:justify;padding:15px 25px;color:#D5C9E3;}.rhylion_quote{text-align:center;color:#985470;font:14px 'IM Fell French Canon SC', serif;padding:8px 0px 0px 0px;letter-spacing:2px;}.rhylion_name{position:absolute;z-index:10;width:550px;text-align:center;color:#FDAE73;font-style:italic;letter-spacing:6px;font-size:26px;}.rhylion_parents{position:absolute;z-index:8;width:550px;bottom:330px;text-align:center;color:#985470;font-family:'IM Fell French Canon SC', serif;letter-spacing:1px}</style><center><div class="rhylion_container"><div class="rhylion_border rhylion_left"></div><div class="rhylion_border rhylion_right"></div><div class="rhylion_quote"><p>and when i breathed</p><p>my breath was lightning</p></div><p class="rhylion_message">The first one to find her asks a question that brings a soft smile to her lips. <i>Is it you I’m looking for?</i> he asks. <font color= > “Only in this moment, but not truly. You know who you seek,”</font> she says, voice soft and kind because she understands. Understands the pain that her call has brought forth in all of them, understands what it takes for them to come here now. Her eyes scan the group as it grows; more than she expected and certainly more than she’d even hoped. Perhaps she should not be surprised though. Everyone knows loss, the only difference is the details.
A boy joins the group, asking for his mother. The question rips her heart in two because she cannot answer it. In her own life, she would have taken the boy home, she would have searched for his mother until there was nowhere left to search. He would not have been the first.
<font color=#985470> “I know your pain,”</font> she says, her voice soft but loud enough to hear through the gathered group of horses. <font color=#985470> “I have loved and lost, and now watch those I love from the other side, unable to talk to them. I can be here now only because the veil between our worlds is thin and because Beqanna allows me, which I take as her approval for this. There is a way to create a ritual that will allow communication between the realms of life and death on particular days when the veil is at it’s thinnest, as it is now.”</font>
She pauses for a moment, finding the words she will need to ask them to face the impossible, to die and come back again. Most likely, they could cross back, but she had no proof that this would work. There was no way to guarantee anything. Even if she could, the request is no small thing. Rhy lived part of her life with one foot in each realm and she was never the same as she had been when she’d known only life. Death changes you, and there is no way around it. <font color=#985470> “The ritual is simple. Anyone who wishes to communicate with the dead must come to the beach on the correct day with a token in hand, and their loved one will be able to find them. For this first time though, it is not so easy. Your token will allow you passage through this tear between the two worlds, and it will help you navigate the afterlife to find your loved one. You will be able to see them, talk to them, and journey with them to finish the quest.”</font>
Again, she pauses, letting the weight of that sink in. Perhaps seeing their lost loved one is worse than the pain they feel now, and she will not force anyone to go. <font color=#985470> “The choice is yours. If you choose to help, step through the rift and you will find yourself on my side of the veil. I can help guide you through the steps of the ritual, but otherwise, you will be on your own.”</font> She’d been thrown through the crack between worlds, but for them, the rift lowers, yawning open just before the ocean, inviting them in. Whether they choose to go is up to them. </p><p class="rhylion_name">rhy</p><p class="rhylion_parents">the electric lioness of riagan and rayelle</p><img src="https://k.nickpic.host/BkXyGY.jpg"></div></center>
For this round you must journey into the afterlife (or choose to leave if you don’t want to go) and find your loved one. Your post should detail your journey through the afterlife (it can be anything you want) and meeting with your lost loved one again. Be creative and have fun with it.
<b>Posts are due Wednesday, October 30th at 9am EST</b>
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - kensley - 10-26-2019
<center><table bgcolor=929292 style="border-color:#929292; border-width: 0px; border-style: solid; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 10px"" cellspacing=10 cellpadding=10 width=600><tr><td><center><p align=left>
<font face=times size=4 color=black><i>( i swore the days were over of courting empty dreams</i></font>
<font color=929292>------------------------------------------</font><font face=times size=4 color=black><i>i worshipped at the altar of losing everything )</i></font></p>
<p align=justify><font color=2f2f2f face=times size=2>
<i>You know who you seek,</i> the ghost says.
His breath hitches and his heart lurches and twists.
The useless heart reorients itself into a different pulse altogether – Kei-ran, Kei-ran, Kei-ran – and there is one quiet moment of stunning realization when it occurs to him that he has never know pain this acute. Because he knows that the ghost is right and that he’ll spend the rest of his life looking for her.
Others begin to gather around them and he recognizes the first face to join them, Agetta, but he does not speak. There is another stark white mare but he is oblivious to the fact that her blood, diluted now, courses through his veins. There is a disorienting weight in the air that makes his head swim and the most he can offer is a tired smile that splinters and fades as his gaze falls heavy on the child. Surrounded by their loss, the pain in the center of his chest compounds until he can barely breathe around it. He swallows thickly and shifts his weight, thinks briefly of the way he’d looked for his own mother, how he’d flung himself at her feet to tell her what he’d done – or hadn’t done. His eyes – dark and brooding – close against the hurt as he draws in a thin, shaky breath.
The ghost speaks again and he forces his eyes open, studies the soft outline of her face. Anticipation builds at the center of him, thumps against his ribs, sets fire to his nerves. His pulse quickens at the thought of being able to visit the beach and have Keiran find him. The idea that he might be able to apologize. And then the useless heart stutters and stops – for just a split second, but what difference does it make when it is not the thing that keeps him alive anyway? His gaze flits between the soft edge of the ghost’s face to the tear and then back again.
He feels absolutely no hesitation. There is nothing to consider, nothing to contemplate. He will go. He will go and he will find her and they will walk side-by-side again. Even if he does not come back, it is a price he is willing to pay. He will gladly give his life to see her again, to apologize, to kiss her head and pull her into a sweet embrace.
The ghost says that she can help through the steps but that he will otherwise be on his own but this does not deter him. He is moving before she’s finished speaking, glancing over his shoulder to leave a whispered “<b>thank you</b>” in his wake. He pays not mind to the others as he steps through the tear. Everything anticipates the feel of the surf crashing against his shins but it does not come.
The heart stops then. But he feels absolutely no sense of panic. He continues to breathe, but only out of habit. He blinks down at the ground and finds that the ocean is gone. He is surrounded instead by desert. The same desert he’d traversed to find her the last time. If the heart still functioned, the pulse would have quickened. Anxiety would have polluted his bloodstream. But he feels nothing but peace as he sets off. He is alone now, thinks that the afterlife must present itself differently to everyone.
He walks but sweat does not gather along his flanks. The breathing does not quicken and the muscles do not tire. He does not know how long he walks but he supposes it doesn’t matter. He turns his gaze to the hills in the distance, studies throngs of horses who move slow across the terrain. The desert begins to give way to lush green and trees gather in clusters. He glances up to study the birds that alight on their branches, singing wildly, uninhibited.
He sees her before she sees him. Standing at the base of some great waterfall, her face turned into the mist. He stops short, swallows his useless breath. The peace he’d felt evaporates and he feels that same great sadness bloom in his chest again. There is something else, too. A warm flood of relief, a happiness he does not deserve.
“<b>Keiran!</b>” he calls. She does not turn and he quickens his pace. The lungs do not burn as he tears across the great swath of land that separates them. “<b>Keiran!</b>” he calls again and despite the peace that loiters in his veins, he can feel panic beginning to spread. Has something gone wrong? Is he stuck behind some kind of veil? Why can he see her but she cannot hear him?
“<b>Keiran!</b>” he cries and desperation cleaves her name clean in two. It is only then that she turns. Her expression, serene, dissolves around sharp surprise. ‘<i>Kensley?</i>’ she says and then frowns, turning to face him. He chokes out something that sounds like a sob or a laugh, sinks to his knees before her before he forces himself to his feet again.
“<b>Keiran,</b>” he says again and staggers across the ribbon of meadow that separates them. He pulls her into a fierce embrace. ‘<i>What’s happened?</i>’ she asks, ‘<i>why are you here?</i>’
It doesn’t matter, he thinks. It doesn’t matter why he’s here, just that he’s here now. He holds onto her, hard and fast. There is no warmth but he can imagine it. He does not realize he’s weeping until he takes one shuffling step back away from her. “<b>Keiran, I’m so sorry,</b>” he says and shakes his head. “<b>I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.</b>”
She studies him with that same frown a long moment before her confusion softens around a smile. ‘<i>Kensley,</i>’ she says and reaches out to press her mouth to the cool plain of his forehead. ‘<i>It’s okay,</i>’ she whispers and his knees tremble with their want to buckle as he drapes his neck over hers, pulls her back into that embrace. He does not deserve her forgiveness, he knows, he does not deserve her mercy. ‘<i>It wasn’t your fault,</i>’ she murmurs and he shakes his head fiercely but he does not let her go.
“<b>I love you,</b>” he tells her, “<b>I miss you.</b>” The things he’d wanted to tell her the last time he’d gone to see her. The things he’d never been able to say to her. The things that had been stolen right out of his mouth by the blood and the violence and the bone-deep fear. And then the rage. And the agony. The absolute devastation he has carried with him ever since.
“<B>I brought something for you,</b>” he says and finally steps away from her again. He roughly shakes his head until the braided hair slips away from the place he’d hidden it. She smiles, exhales a breath of laughter as she nudges it with her muzzle. ‘<i>I’ve looked for her,</i>’ she muses, ‘<i>but I haven’t been able to find her.</i>’
He kisses her head. “<b>She’s alive,</b>” he tells her. And then, with a greater sense of urgency, “<b>I don’t know how much time I have. I just needed you to know that I’m sorry and that I love you and I’m going to carry you with me as long as I live.</b>” <p align=right>
<font face=times size=4 color=black><i>( but you had a halo made of diamonds resting on your head</i></font><font color=929292>----------------------------</font>
<font face=times size=4 color=black><i>i should be dealing with my demons but i'm dodging them instead )</i></font>
</center></tr></td></table><img src=https://66.media.tumblr.com/bf3389c60f0751bac0afcff05bee7280/e916798fa53fb2c5-00/s640x960/7036f9882581995c755e6d898bff90f7e6288390.png></center>
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - Agetta - 10-26-2019
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Old+Standard+TT' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .agetta_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #faf7fa; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 2px #5e6167; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .agetta_container p { margin: 0; } .agetta_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .agetta_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 550px; margin-bottom: -100px; border-left: solid 1px #5e6167; border-right: solid 1px #5e6167; } .agetta_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #5e6167; padding: 25px; } .agetta_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; bottom: 5px; left: 180px; color: #5e6167; font: 30px 'Old Standard TT', serif; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 20px; opacity: 0.7; }</style> <center> <div class="agetta_container"> <div class="agetta_text"> <p class="agetta_message"> Others come – she recognizes Kensley, and a soft smile appears in her eyes. But it does not last long - she freezes when a familiar form joins the growing crowd. The grin that Atrox gives her causes such an overwhelming rage to flash within her that a deep, malicious growl escapes Agetta in response. It is certainly not the noise of a horse, but from another one of her shapes – evoked by her anger, her hatred. There have been a lot of awful things to happen to this small white mare in her lifetime, and he certainly was not the first – but it is not difficult to trace this stage of her life back to him.
She would not even be here, standing in this white once-dead form, if it had not been for him. She would still be in the afterlife, be reunited with her love. Be at <i>peace</i> and all of the nightmares that have happened since she crashed back to Earth to balance out <i>his evil</i> would not have happened.
Surely, she shares some of the blame – there isn’t a day that goes by when she doesn’t hate herself for not being strong enough to fight him off of her, for not being smart enough to take their son and hide him away so Anaxarete could not steal him away to the Chamber. For not being good enough to win Abner back with her love. For being weak and stupid and falling for trap after trap of the shadow mare. She has spent lifetimes hating herself for all of her shortcomings – it’s refreshing to have another face to direct her loathing towards.
Another form slides between them, and Agetta is so angry that it takes her a moment to recognize her friend. But the other mare’s presence does nothing to sooth her - she’s furious at Ryatah for playing the peacekeeper, as though every pound of flesh that Agetta could carve from the black stallion wasn’t well deserved, but she does not shove aside her friend to get at him.
Not yet, anyway.
Her attention isn’t so much diverted as it is divided when the ghost-mare begins to speak, explaining why they have all been called here. It is only, finally, when the mare says that they will be able to travel to the afterlife – will be able to see and talk to their loved one – that the anger rushes out of Agetta as though someone had pricked her and she deflated within an instant. A tremor goes through her
She has died and returned before, so the going does not frighten her. What frightens her is what she will find. Her insecurities bubble up within her until she is choking on them. What right does she really have after all these years to go and bother him in the afterlife? Is it even possible for there to be a tether of love existing between them? Agetta does not remember if those in the afterlife can watch those still living, but she finds herself hoping there is no such power. She cannot stand the idea of Plume seeing how far she has fallen, how much she has failed since she has returned to life.
But fighting her insecurities is nothing new. Of course she will go.
Agetta takes a single step and pauses, her gaze flicking momentarily to that adversary of hers. One of a set. “If you need some assistance getting into the afterlife, Atrox, I’d be more than happy to give you a push.” She hisses through clenched teeth, and though she certainly means it (preferably with a more permanent ending than a short trip), her attention isn’t fully on him any more. The anger is there, always there, but it slides off of her like rain now. There are too many other emotions swirling like a tempest within her she does not have room for that fire at the moment. She’s already moving forward again, her heart hammering so loudly within her she can’t even hear the noise of her own hooves on the sand or the crash of the waves.
When she is through the gap, she is slammed with two realizations.
That returning to the afterlife feels <i>good</i> and she is only very distantly uncomfortable with that fact. Agetta knows she should be more disturbed by this realization but she cannot manage it. She does not think she is ready to return permanently, but… she knows this place. She’s spent time here before. Knows the sensations, or lack thereof, and cannot find any discomfort.
And the second thing that hits her like a bolt of lightning - this is the Gates.
The rolling hills are awash in moonlight and there are so many stars above her that Agetta feels dizzy with their presence. It’s her home at her favourite time of night, the night sky she has hazy memories of from her last death. The feather she carries, now in her mouth, heats when she turns her head a certain way so she moves. Now that she is here, she moves more easily. There are no more hesitations, just small alterations to her path depending on where the feather leads her. She’s lost in her thoughts, remembering memories on every hill and beneath every tree she sees.
“You’ve come back.” His voice is as gentle on her ears as the starlight is on her back but she almost buckles with the weight of the emotions she feels when she turns and sees him.
This is not the pseudo-Plume she had enjoyed a brief reunion with in the meadow years ago, Anaxarete in a cruel disguise, but the real thing - her king, her friend, her lover. Now that she sees him, she cannot believe she was fooled by the falsity. How could anything created by that twisted mare recreate the lines of the face before her, the eyes looking at her with a smile that will be her downfall?
“Plume.” His name escapes her as nothing more than a whisper, and she, finally, cannot bring herself to move any more. The feather she has carried all this way falls from her mouth and all she can do is just <i>stare</i>, even her thoughts have stalled out. He seems to sense this and a small chuckle escapes him and he closes the gap between them. First, he stops to pick up the feather she had dropped. She is certain that she can feel her heart break when his dark muzzle ghosts against her neck, burying into her mane to stick the feather there.
This is too much.
She doesn’t deserve the happiness swelling with in her.
“Hey, Agetta.” His smile can be felt against her skin. It must be a trick of her mind, she’s not sure it makes sense that she could feel his touch, but when he pulls away from her she misses the ghost of that feeling. He does not retreat far, however, and their muzzles bump gently together. “You’re a lot whiter than the last time I saw you.” And she cannot help but laugh, shaking her head. Of course it was true - she was a black mare, dark as the night sky, the last time he had welcomed her into the lands of the dead. The laughter feels wonderful but it falls quiet and he looks at her and sees why instantly. “You’re not here to stay this time, are you?”
“No.” And, again, though she says no there’s no real conviction behind it anymore. That warring of desires is rising and she can no longer recall any arguments for her to return to the world. It would be so easy to just stay here, wouldn’t it? She has been feeling like a ghost ever since she returned to Beqanna and this could make it permanent. She could just stay here, living beneath the stars in the Gates forever until she fades away from memory. But she tries to focus, tries to remember why she is here - because she’s going to need his help. She remembers that much. “A… a ghost called us, to help…” Her rational brain finally breaks before she can explain what she is there for. She steps forward until she can press her head against his neck, feel the tickle of his feathers as he unfurls one of those beautiful limbs to drape it across her trembling back.
“Oh, I’ve missed you so much.” She sobs into him, overwhelmed by this experience even though it has only just begun. They haven’t even gotten to the reason she’s here, haven’t helped the ghost with whatever she needs done. It’s only making her feel more fractured, more disconnected with herself and with the world. If she leaves this place, if she leaves <i>him</i> again, how much of herself will she be leaving behind this time? Sure, if they accomplish what they need to she’ll be able to talk to him once a year.
Standing here with him, she does not think that will be enough.
Her first death was so violent, so random, she wonders if choosing this is a fitting second death. As peaceful as stepping through a doorway into her beloved Gates, stepping into the embrace of someone she loved. “Would I be awful, if I stayed?”
“No.” It’s a simple syllable and yet so reassuring. Or, it would be - except even before he says it Agetta swears she can feel the next word coming out of him. “But… I don’t think it’s time for that.” She has been expecting some form of rejection from him but it still stings. She pulls back so she can look him in the eyes. They’re kind, softening the blow - easing the ‘he doesn’t want me here’ thoughts whirling through her mind, though she knows she doesn’t deserve his love. Knows that it probably only exists because time doesn’t exist here in the afterlife so it cannot rot.
And she certainly doesn’t deserve the brush of his muzzle against her cheek as he whispers the next words.
“Not yet, anyway.”
</p> </div> <div class="agetta_name">Agetta</div> <img class="agetta_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/C5NM2zT9/agetta.png"> </div> </center>
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
also Plume's parts blessed by Laura
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - Rajanish - 10-27-2019
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Barrio|Pacifico|Padauk' rel='stylesheet'>
<style> .Rajcontain {width:460px;background-image:url('https://c1.staticflickr.com/8/7615/26376942823_7c401f9d5a_h.jpg');background-repeat:no-repeat;background-position:bottom;background-size:200%;background-color:#F8F8F8;padding: 20px;} .Rajname {font-family:'Barrio';color:black;font-size:22pt;} .Rajquote {font-family:'Pacifico';font-size:12pt;color:black;text-shadow:1px 1px 3px white;padding: 300px 20px 0px 20px;} .Rajtext {background-color:rgba(248,248,248,0.3);font-family:'Padauk';font-size:10pt;color:black;padding:10px;}</style><center><div class="Rajcontain"><div class="Rajname">Rajanish</div><div class="Rajtext">The bay appaloosa colt had always been way too curious for his own good. Or, perhaps, for the good of his friends.
He remembers joining the other boys in the forest, a secret hideout, and he remembers creeping up on the guys that came too close that day. Light purple and metal stood out, and Raj had always been excellent at being silent on his hoofs, almost unnaturally so (in reality, if was something he had done all his life; it was more or less the precarious way he had placed his hoofs, softly on whatever surface he walked on). Slow at first but rather good at it as he became older, he did not know any other way of walking than… creeping, that’s what the overly loud piece of metallic horse had called him. A creep. Or a freak? Frankly, Rajanish had been pretty pleased with such a name. He’d been even happier if someone would call him a ghost but, apart from his silence and his see-through appearance, it wasn’t the same as this mare. A pity - he could not travel to the afterlife to investigate it.
Either way, in the case of the squirrel, curiosity had killed it, and not himself - and yet Raj had always carried a kind of guilt with him that he now got a chance to get rid of. And sate his endless curiosity as well - what was it like to be dead? What did the afterlife look like?
Yes, he would pass through. If he couldn’t come back, then that would not be an end to his experiments - he’d just have to find a way to occupy himself in there, and he didn’t think that it would be hard. He could be wrong, of course - finally something in his life that he had absolutely no clue about! Or in his death - the veil being so thin, it was hard to understand what one would be if they went inside.
He dove into Carnage’s pit once, nearly reckless. Ready to give it all to prove to his father he was worthy of his choice. Gotten a most marvelous gift in return - even if today might have a totally different outcome, the risk would be worth the knowledge.
It’s easy for him to embrace the unknown, and so he does not hesitate where others might. The gifts he had received from the grey squirrel, he will return. They’ll bring him to his dead pet. It’s what happens next that is uncertain.
Rajanish enjoys the trip like a small child would a field of unknown wildflowers, marvelling at the colours and smells and the different shapes. Here, there is hardly any smell, and the color spectrum is dull. Much like twilight, but then again, perhaps it is only the twilight zone where he is now. Deeper and deeper he delves, continuing his walk and for a heartbeat, almost forgetting why he is here.
There are less and less words to describe the afterlife with - grey, dull, monotone, eerie. But Raj is only excited when the contrast between his spots and the white patch fade; when the colourful stones he had brought turn into almost regular-looking grey ones. He wants to know more, speak to more than just his friend. But he may not have that chance again if he doesn’t return on time, he reasons. And so he splits off of the group - they’re all looking for horses. He is not - towards an area that somehow calls to him.
An autumnal forest - how could it not. He smiles as he slides through the trees like the ghost he is now (finally for real?), where grey leaves rustle in a wind that should not exist. Yet it does - he reaches his former home, the place where his mother loved him and encouraged his odd behaviour as a child, rather than call him names like other horses did after her. He spies some movement in the corner of his eye, and finds that this is not the place he should be. No, this is his old home, but not the squirrel’s. Not really, anyway.
It’s an ironic realization. But he follows the strange ghost-instinct given to him by the token he had brought, and moves deeper into the woods. Here, a trail of blood, bones and organs lead him, and curiously, the bay appaloosa moves on.
The sight of the mother squirrel is downright frightening. Not because she is dead or ugly - but she is huge. Sharp-looking rodent teeth tear through the limbs of something that looks disgustingly like a horse - one of Rajanish’ shape and size. He backs off slowly, hoping she has not seem him, and turns a corner. Perhaps it’d be better to just go…
But his grey squirrel friend does not let him leave his horrendous forest. No, as Raj takes another path, he finds a clearing with something that looked like a disturbed nest - in it, his once-pet, is now his own size (thank hell, this one isn’t as big as the mother squirrel). Yellow eyes pierce at the bay appaloosa, until the stallion drops his token for his friend on the forest floor, that he may take it. ”I wanted to see how you were doing-”, Rajanish starts. He hardly ever speaks, and his voice is rather hoarse, in a way. But the squirrel hisses at him, interrupting, and takes the stones away from the spotted stallion. Ears fall flat on his skull as the horse then backs away - clearly his former friend dislikes him - but there is no way he is fast enough, and is grabbed by the furry giant’s claws. Normally made for climbing trees, these dig through the horse’s skin easily at this size. Yelling out in pain, the bay horse struggles against the grip, but realizes he cannot die again, here.
No, this is hell and he’ll know it.
And he realizes his mistake in coming here.
”Please, let me go, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have killed you.” But nothing he says seems to work. He feels things - things like pain and fear - that he had not expected to encounter here. Dead horses weren’t supposed to feel, were they? But here he was. His heart getting ripped out of his chest, and no-one to help stop it.
”I shouldn’t have taken you with me.” Not on purpose, not with the purpose of experimenting.
And then it stops as fast as it had begun. Whole again, Raj stands in the clearing, the now-grey stones at his feet, and squirrels leap over bushes and trees chasing each other. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d think the sun was shining through the canopy.
Seemed like his squirrel had all but forgotten him, and that it was for the best, this way.
He turned around to find his way back, if it was still possible.
Some experiments were better left alone.</div><div class="Rajquote">No cost too great. No mind to think. No will to break.<br>No voice to cry out suffering.</div></div></center>
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - atrox - 10-28-2019
<link href="http://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Nothing+You+Could+Do" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"><center><table border="1" bordercolor="black" width="600" bgcolor="6E6E6E" cellpadding="30" cellspacing="0"> <tbody><tr height="0"><td><div align="left"> <font color="000000" face="Nothing You Could Do" style="font-size: 40pt"><i>a t r o x --</i></font></div><div align="justify"><font color="black" face="times new roman" style="font-size: 9pt"> Atrox has no great desire to go back to the afterlife.
He has spent plenty of time there. Paid his dues. Fought back from it when the veil was thicker, when such a thing was rare, and he paid for it with his very heart. The panther that lives beneath his skin now, a second being, is testament to the price that he has paid for his life—this extended period of time that he has cheated an inevitable second death. Even Twinge, for all of the ways she sunk her mangy paws into him has not been enough to tempt him back. But, then again, Atrox has always been supremely selfish.
So he scowls a little as Rhy speaks because his face so easily falls into such patterns.
He scowls, handsome face pulled into a frown, brow knitting, and feeling an annoying pang of want, of almost need, as he looks past her and into the beyond. A ritual? It sounds like he will be asked to carry the burden of work so that others may enjoy the fruit, which is exactly the opposite of what he enjoys. His scowl deepens but, in a move that surprises even himself, he stays. He remains rooted, watching her.
For a second, he is distracted by Ryatah who slips between himself and Agetta. He winks at her, thinking of a thousand things to say, but keeping it simple. “I don’t know if now is the most appropriate time for a round two, but, by the looks of you, love, you don’t have much time left. May as well make the most of it.” Then, he cranes his neck just in time to catch the hiss of Agetta and his laugh is warm and deep.
He always did enjoy getting a rise out of her.
“Easy, kitten. There’s no Gates for you to protect now. Just you and me and a splendid cat fight.”
A pause and a wink.
“Unless you’d rather spend your time in other ways.”
But this quest isn’t about the three of them and their shared history or the somehow impossible ancient age of some of those who have answered the call (who else but the ancients have lost so deeply?) and even Atrox in his impossible arrogance can only think of himself for so long.
So he sweeps by them, nodding briefly at Rhy, before slipping through the rift.
Perhaps his heart would hammer with fear if he had a heart.
Instead, he makes the choice that was always the only choice available to him, and feels the sand and the saltwater begin to fade as his feline eyes adjust to this familiar world. It is as he has always remembered it and something like fear or panic or annoyance settles into his gut and winds around his throat. He takes a deep breath before he remembers that he doesn’t need to breathe here and laughs under his breath.
The laugh is the only thing that keeps him grounded, he thinks.
When he feels confident that he can move forward, when his head is not swimming with everything that he feels but doesn’t know how to voice, he does. His vision clears and his throat loosens and he realizes that, like before, the place is one of no description and all of them. It is both a blank slate and a brilliantly painted canvas. He can look into the depths and see nothing while also seeing a thousand stars reflected around him, a million oceans washing up his side, a thousand lives being played out in infinite color.
He tips his head back, gathering himself, before dropping it down, yellow eyes nearly glowing as he begins to search. His tail flicks behind him, but he does not shift into his panther form—she wouldn’t know it anyway. He doesn’t call out for her either. She wouldn’t trust a version of him that did.
Instead, he just walks.
For hours, maybe.
Or days.
Or weeks.
It’s difficult to keep track of time in a place where time is meaningless and his body does not grow weary. He has no idea if he’s moving in the right direction—moving at all—but something like a hook in his gut tells him that he’s close. So he keeps moving. Swimming through the endless dark, the endless light.
Until, suddenly, she’s there.
He exhales, he thinks, feeling that nothing in his chest tighten as she begins to form before him. Twinge is shorter than he remembered—uglier, too—but it doesn’t stop the way that he suddenly feels the need to swallow. The need to fall apart and then pull her close. Forget every damned thing but her.
She doesn’t smile or rush to him. Doesn’t weep with joy.
She just tilts that feline head, eyes so impossibly sharp, and whispers.
“Atrox.”
And, suddenly, this void is home.
<div align="right"><font color="000000" face="times new roman" style="font-size: 9pt"><b>panther-stallion | ex-king | forever chamber guardian</b></font></div></font></div></td></tr></tbody></table></center>
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - Ion - 10-29-2019
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Roboto+Slab&display=swap" rel="stylesheet"><style> #ionic{width:600px;} #ionicwrapper{ position:relative; z-index:0; border:1px solid #142c33; box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #142c33 inset; background:url('https://i.postimg.cc/P5ztx8kX/IonBG.jpg'); border-radius:100px 100px 100px 100px; padding-top:40px; padding-bottom:40px; margin-top:-90px;} #ionicimg{ position:relative; z-index:1;} #ionictext{ width:450px; border:1px solid #142c33; box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #142c33; border-radius:90px 90px 90px 90px; background-color:#67a1a5; padding:35px; color:#f2e0d0; font-size:14px; font-family: 'Roboto Slab', serif;}</style><center><div id="ionic"><div id="ionicimg"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/mZ0p5X1q/ion-by-insane43-ddb4hg5-pre.png" width="600px"/></div><div id="ionicwrapper"><div id="ionictext" align="justify">He doesn’t know how long he stares into the crashing waves as they reach almost gently for hooves buried in the sand just beyond the water’s reach. He is only recalled to the present when the woman begins to speak. The one who had called them here, bringing such a vast array of equine together, from all walks of life, all seeking the same goal. She is ghostly and hollow, her voice echoing in the most curious of ways. But he barely notices, his heart hammering in his chest too loudly for him to appreciate such nuances as the tremendous weight of what he is doing crashes around him.
He is here, ready to walk into death with barely a second thought, and he has no clue where it might lead or whether it would claim him as it’s rightful due.
In all honesty, he cannot help but believe that it is perhaps for the better. He had stolen the life from his brother, his own twin. It seemed fitting it should be stolen from him as well. Perhaps he might even find a way to give Atom back everything he had taken from him. Perhaps he could give his parents one final gift worthy of their love.
When the rift opens, he hesitates only a moment before stepping through. His only worry is that his token would not be enough. The strands of hair he’d plucked from his own tail seem hardly sufficient in light of the meaning meant to be imbued into them. Still, he has nothing more to offer.
He pauses briefly in surprise when he feels no resistance to his passage, the only indication he had moved from world to another manifesting as a chill that races discomfitingly down his spine. And when he looks forward, he sees not the crashing waves he’d been staring at, but an almost ominous fog swirling before him, parting only briefly to allow glimpses of something beyond.
He pushes onwards, refusing to turn back now. Refusing to prove himself a coward in the face of his many other sins. He does not know what to expect of death, but his youthful imagination can conjure nothing good. As though the dead spend eternity wailing miserably, drifting aimlessly through an endless fog.
Perhaps he should not be surprised to learn that this is not the case, and yet somehow he is. For as he continues onward and the mist begins to clear, he finds himself in a place that curiously resembles the home he had just left. Except it is much more. As though whim and fantasy had built this realm rather than any sort of reality.
His eyes are wide and wondering as he meanders slowly onward, hardly paying any mind to where his feet take him as he tries to absorb the incredible nature of the landscape surrounding him. Even as his surroundings begin to change the further he walks, it becomes no less incredible. Before long, he finds himself standing amongst the wide trunks of the most enchanting forest he had ever seen. A golden light filters through the foliage, suffusing the space with a warm glow that seems to almost glimmer in the air around him.
He startles when a small bird flutters down from the branches, chirping madly at him, as though scolding the intruder in it’s wood. Ion takes an uncertain step back, but when the bird darts at his face, the volume of his chips increasing as small talons pluck at his forelock, he shies backwards, head tossing abruptly as he snorts in surprise.
The bird, seemingly unphased by the sudden movement, flits away briefly before returning to repeat the process. It takes Ion more time than he cares to admit to realize the bird was <i>not</i> attacking him, but rather trying to communicate that he should follow. A realization confirmed when, after taking a few steps forward, the bird seems to bounce excitedly above him before flitting forward once more, down an invisible trail. Emboldened, Ion presses forward, picking up a trot as he tries to keep pace with the small wren. Though in all likelihood, that wasn’t necessary, given the way it flitted back and forth continuously, appearing to ensure he followed.
It occurs to him only after some time that perhaps he should not follow random birds through the afterlife. Still, at this point, he’s committed. And since he has no other reasonable ideas, following his newly found feathered friend seems the lesser of two evils.
They continue along a path Ion is entirely unable to see or discern, but one the bird seems quite certain of. After a while, he grows more uncertain, beginning to question his poorly thought-out choices, when, abruptly, the bird is trilling at him once more, small body smacking lightly into his forehead he stumbles to a confused halt.
It’s only when he glances at the bird with a frown that he realizes they are not alone. For the first time since he’d entered the deathly realm, he had found another soul within. It only begins to occur to him how odd that is when every thought within his head scatters as recognition sets in. The wren is silent now, resting comfortably within Ion’s dark mane, satisfied with a task well completed.
For a long moment, Ion can only stare at the horse before him. A perfect reflection of himself.
The image stares back, seeming as surprised as he. He wonders for a moment if it is indeed merely a reflection. But when the reflection steps forward, the illusion is shattered even as it whispers <i>“Ion?”</i>
For a long breath, Ion is entirely at a loss for words. He isn’t sure what he had expected when (if) he found his brother, but he knows it had not been someone of an age with him. Were he able to think logically, it might have occurred to him it would make sense. For they are indeed of an age. But logic has no place in this particular moment. Not when his only memories of his own twin were the warmth and weight of him followed by the press of a chill, breathless body.
The image takes another step forward, nose pressing against the bridge of his own. <i>“You’re real,”</i> he whispers, and the soft breath across his skin jolts Ion into awareness. <b>“Atom?”</b>
Atom pulls back, a smile spreading across his lips as he stares at Ion. Ion’s own expression reflects the shock, filtered through a veil of pain, he didn’t even realize he felt. <i>“I thought I dreamed you,”</i> he says after a moment, pressing close to Ion, breathing out a sigh at the familiar weight. Ion’s own body remains immobile as he struggles to comprehend reality. But after a breathless eternity, he finally manages an abrupt shake of his head. <b>“No,”</b> he replies slowly, voice rough and thready. <b>“Not a dream.”</b>
<i>“I’m glad,”</i> he replies easily, drawing back once more, a bright smile curving his lips. He continues, a trill of excitement in his voice that Ion hadn’t known possible. <i>“Come with me!”</i>
It takes him a moment to collect himself, but when he does, he moves into a stilted gallop as he attempts to keep pace with his twin. With a burst of bright laughter, Atom peels off, springing over a boulder as he leaps jovially into a nearby pond. It’s such an idyllic setting, the water clear and glimmering, a small waterfall burbling down into a basin that appeared perfectly designed for swimming.
Ion does not leap into the water though, instead stumbling to a halt on the bank, brows furrowing as he peers sadly into the crystalline surface. The wren flutters briefly against his neck before settling back into place. When Atom surfaces, he does so with a burst of laughter before turning to peer at Ion with merry eyes.
It takes him only a moment to notice that Ion does not seem to share his joy, and slowly his laughter fades as he wades to shore, a frown replacing the grin. <i>“Ion?”</i> he asks, suddenly troubled, <i>“What’s wrong?”</i>
Blinking rapidly to clear the tears from his eyes, he looks at Atom, attempting to smile. An attempt that falls much too flat. Atom presses close once more, nose brushing his brother’s cheek in concern. Ion barely notices that somehow Atom is dry despite his dip in the pond. He shakes his head once. Twice, before finally managing to utter. <b>“Atom, you’re <i>dead</i>.”</b>
There is a moment of silence, but when Ion hears a low chuckle escape Atom, he turns sharply to look at him in surprise. Whatever he might have expected, it was certainly not laughter. Ion’s surprised expression seems only to inspire <i>more</i> mirth in his brother, and a faint scowl draws his lips down until Atom finally gathers himself enough to respond. <i>“I know,”</i> he finally says through a wheeze of laughter, causing Ion’s brows to once more scrunch in confusion. <b>“What do you mean, you <i>know</i>?”</b>
After a few steadying breaths, Atom is able to speak more clearly. <i>“I’ve watched you, you know,”</i> he continues, his tone becoming almost thoughtful. <i>“I’ve wanted to see you again for so long.”</i> He butts his head gently against Ion before adding, <i>“I tried to tell you I’m fine. To stop being sad. But you never heard me.”</i>
For a moment, Ion can only stare at him, looking rather like a fish as he tries to formulate a response and fails. <i>“It’s really nice here Ion,”</i> he continues earnestly, expression growing serious. <i>“Everything I could ever want.”</i> His mouth twists wryly for a moment. <i>“Well, almost. But now you’re here. And someday, mom and dad.”</i>
Ion drops his gaze then, unable to hide his sorrow. Everything Atom told him, it seemed too good to be true. <b>“What if,”</b> he finally manages to reply, <b>“you could go back and be with mom and dad?”</b>
Atom seems to think about it for a moment before shaking his head. <i>“No, I’m not supposed to be there. And I’m happy Ion.”</i> He sighs then before pressing his cheek against Ion. Ion returns the gesture, eyes closing as he tries to stem his tears. <i>“You’re not really meant to be here. You can’t stay. But I’m happy you got to come. And one day, we’ll get to see each other again. I’m ok Ion. And you’ll be ok too.”</i>
As his brother speaks, there is no stemming the tears as they leak from his eyes into Atom’s shoulder. He doesn’t even try anymore. For a time, they stand like that, each pretending it could last forever even when they knew it couldn’t. Finally, as the golden light filtering through the trees begins to fade, Atom speaks again. <i>“Ion, can you promise me something?”</i> When Ion doesn’t reply immediately, Atom continues with determination. <i>“Can you promise me you’ll stop hiding and try living?”</i>
Ion swallows a tight knot in his throat, not knowing he could make such a promise. With a sigh, Atom presses, <i>“I know you’re using me as an excuse, but it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. I think you should tell mom and dad that too. But please, if you really want to try and make it up to me, promise me that?”</i>
Squeezing his eyes closed, Ion presses his face harder into Atom’s shoulder. But when he said it like that, he didn’t know how he could refuse. <b>“Ok,”</b> he finally whispers, his voice rough and barely audible, <b>“I promise.”</b><p align="center"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/XqGHvhXR/IonName.png" width="350px"/></p></div></div></div></center>
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - Ryatah - 10-29-2019
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Pinyon+Script|Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .ryatah_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/YS7QJVgs/ryatah-bg.png'); width: 600px; min-height: 600px; border: solid 1px #92a09b; box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px #000; } .ryatah_container p { margin: 0; } .ryatah_image { position: relative; z-index: 5; width: 600px; } .ryatah_text { position: relative; z-index: 8; width: 530px; margin-top: 35px; margin-bottom: -300px; border: solid 1px #000; border-bottom: none; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/gkTKxNhM/lace-bg3.png'); } .ryatah_message { z-index: 8; position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #21200d; padding: 30px; } .ryatah_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; font: 80px 'Pinyon Script', sans-serif; color: #6f8a8a; bottom: 10px; right: 40px; opacity: 0.6; } .ryatah_quote { position: absolute; z-index: 10; text-align: center; font: 10px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #000; letter-spacing: 1px; opacity: 0.7; bottom: 27px; right: 45px; } </style> <center> <div class="ryatah_container"> <div class="ryatah_text"> <p class="ryatah_message">If she noticed that Agetta seemed agitated, it doesn’t show on her face. She has lived and died too many times to care about old quarrels – not her own, and certainly not anyone else’s. It was not exactly a secret that Ryatah didn’t always align with what was seen as <i>right</i> or <i>good</i> – she has always been a little chaotic in her morals, even though she would never personally inflict harm. She didn’t mind when the wicked did their wicked things; what else was to be expected? And so, she cast the white mare a sideways glance, and when she meets her smoldering gaze there is nothing but the barest of placid smiles that flickers across her pale lips.
With a slight turn of her head she meets Atrox’s yellow eyes, and for a moment it seems like it would be easy to get caught up in their usual banter. <i> “This is shocking, but, I think I’ve managed to find the strength to resist your....charm,”</i> she says with a coquettish tip of her head, and she almost appears as though she is going to step towards him.
But for the first time in a long time, it is Dhumin at the forefront of her mind, and she stops. Even before the ghost-mare speaks she is reminded of why she is here, and there is something like regret that takes a hold of her heart. When her attention is drawn back to Rhy, that is when apprehension begins to settle in. The reality that she was going to see him again had finally hit her, and the chances of him even wanting her back were slim to none. The scent of another man had been enough to irritate him and cause him to pull away in the past. Now, she has bore countless children that are not his, she has tangled herself in romances that should not even exist, she has another’s brand burned into her skin – she was used and worn in every sense of the word, and she knew that this was a fool’s errand.
She has always been <i>such</i> a fool, though.
There is anxiety twisting like a knot inside of her chest, but she knows that she will go, even though the ghost mare warns them. She has been dead before – three times, actually, though the last time was so brief she doesn’t remember ever making it to the afterlife – but never quite like this. Rhy tells them that they can step through the veil, and so she does, hardly hearing if anything was said after that.
It was different to step into the land of the dead as a living thing, and not because the life had been knocked out of you. She steps through and is assaulted by a cold, lifeless air – air so still that it seemed to trap any sound that might try to carry through it. Her heart is beating too loudly in her chest, and she wills it to be quiet, to stop pounding so loudly in her ears. She has been afraid before, but not quite like this. This is not the exhilarating fear that she thrived on, the kind that she got some sort of sick high off of. This was the kind that turned her blood to ice, the kind that made shivers race the length of her spine.
The kind that makes her want to turn back, but she can’t.
She walks, following a deserted shoreline, not daring to glance out at the almost black waves that roll along the sand. The coast eventually gives way into something more like a jungle, and for a moment it almost feels like it could be Tephra. But the jungle here is dark and muted, with no vibrant flowers blooming amongst the verdant green, and no volcano glowing in the distance. It is haunted in every sense of the word, but the familiarity of it is nearly overwhelming. When she thinks of Dhumin she usually thinks of the Valley, but this ghostly land is more like where they had lived before they ever came to Beqanna. That jungle where she had fully became his, where he had sank his claws into her and taught her that his approval was the only thing that mattered.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wonders why, of all the times she has died, she has not ended up here.
Her heart begins to beat harder, faster, as she winds through the tightly packed trees and ducks beneath lengths of vine. There is that unexplainable feeling that she is getting closer to her destination, whatever that may be, and while she wants to move faster, she is still terrified of what she’s going to find. The piece of seaglass seems to throb on her tongue, guiding her with the same magnetic pull as earlier, and she follows it even though she is afraid of where this is leading.
She doesn’t expect to round a corner and come face to face with those rose-red eyes, and that unreadable face that she never learned to decipher anything from. When she nearly collides with him she gasps, the red seaglass falling from her mouth and tumbling to the ground. Here in the middle of this dimly lit jungle, with silver wisps of moonlight straining through the canopy of trees and cascading across the white of his skin he looks every bit the ghost that he was.
And for a long time all she does is stare, with her heart beating a wild pulse in her throat. She wonders what everyone else’s reunions were like. She wonders if she is the only one that came here seeking an unrequited love, if she is the only one wilting beneath the unforgiving gaze of someone she has tried and tried to appease for so long. They say that the dead can see what the living have been doing, and the heated shame that crawls up her neck and wraps around her throat like a noose nearly chokes her.<I> “I’m sorry,”</i> she whispers, her eyes cast to the ground even though this is when she should be memorizing his face. She doesn’t have to say what for. She is sorry so many have touched her, she is sorry that they have left fingerprints all across her porcelain white skin like a crime scene, she is sorry she is so worn and used and useless now. She is sorry that she had once been pristine and <I>his</i> and now she is not.
<I> “I’ve been so lost without you and I’ve been trying to find my way, and no matter what I do I make things worse,”</i> she says with a tremor in her voice, but for some reason the tears never come. This is the closest she has ever come to falling apart in front of him, and the longer he stares at her without speaking the closer she comes to collapsing into dust, but she still cannot bring herself to be fully transparent. She has done so many things he would be repulsed by, but she refuses to let dissolving into tears be one of them.
<I> “I just wanted to see you,”</i> she confesses softly, finally daring to meet his eyes, searching for a faint spark of <I>anything</i>, like she always has. Just like before, though, there is nothing. Just a stony silence, just a handsome face chiseled from marble that stares at her as though he is waiting for her to stop wasting his time. <I> “I think this might have been my only chance, and I never got to say goodbye.”</i> The moonlight again glints off the face of the seaglass that lies forgotten on the ground in between them, and the jungle is silent save for her impossibly quiet plea,<I> “Please, please say something…”</i></div> <div class="ryatah_name">Ryatah</div> <div class="ryatah_quote">even angels have their wicked schemes</div> <img class="ryatah_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/9FSpNJJ6/ryatah.png"> </div> </center>
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - Saphris - 10-29-2019
He blinks up at the see-through lady, disappointment flooding him when he reads the answer on her face. He's come so far, only to be turned away at the end. Or perhaps not. The shimmering lady speaks, and the colt draws a thread of hope from her words. He's lost his mother, does the lady mean that she knows how to find her?
The others look hopefully and sad too, all horses much older than himself. The colt is a drop of paint in the bucket, a child's voice in the choir of loss that was harmonizing now. These grown ups, they had loved ones too. Ones they hadn't seen in years and years. His loss was brand new, a cut that hadn't had a chance to scab over yet, let alone fade into a memory.
The fissure in the air simmered and vibrated, an invitation to him and the others. One by one they stepped through, and he knew it would be his turn soon. A gulp pushed down his throat as he realized what it meant. He was out of options. Couldn't go back, even if he knew which way to go. There was no one waiting for the little lightning boy, no home to return to. It was forward or nothing at all. The broad blue feather was picked up once more, a token of courage and love.
Shuddering with every step, he folded his wings tight against his thin body, holding his breath as the break in the air opened and shut around him.
The first thing he felt was wind. Endless, constant wind that tore feathers from his shoulders and the tears from his eyes. He should turn back, try to find someone else to help. He got as far as turning around, only to see the way back was no more. A one way door that had only been waiting for the choice to be made. It couldn't be taken back now.
It was a grey, empty space he stood in. The only reason he knew he was still there was because he could look down and see his own legs, his own body. His mother's feather was a clutched talisman now. More than a token of memory, it was his only link to both worlds. He couldn't see any of the horses who had stood on the beach with him, nor the lady who had sent them here in the first place. Just the bland grey, and they color he himself brought.
His eyes hurt from the wind. They hurt from crying, and they hurt from looking at all the nothing surrounding him. There were no landmarks, no variations of any kind. So he figured it didn't matter which direction he started walking. Even the wind seemed to defy logic, always coming from the direction he moved in. He wasn't supposed to be here, that much was clear.
It felt hopeless. He could walk for years and never find what he was looking for. He could go mad and no one would ever know. The feather shifted in his mouth, lips going numb from the constant wind and the time they had spent clutched tight. He rolled it between his teeth, knowing if he lost this feather he really was done for.
Time passed. How much or little he couldn't say, only that he was exhausted. How much could it hurt, to curl up on the featureless ground and sleep until his bones stopped aching? It was a lucrative thought, one that held the promise of better things when he awoke. Maybe this whole day had been an awful dream, and falling asleep would mean waking up.
A shove knocked into his shoulder. The whispy glimpse of a galloping horse, wind curling through its mane and then gone. A vision or a hallucination, he wasn't sure. He walked a few more paces, knowing he may as well be going in circles for all the progress he was making. And oh to sleep... Another shove, knocking into his rump and almost throwing him to the ground. Two whisps, a shade darker than the air itself and rushing with the wind.
Wait! He wanted to shout, to make them stop and listen. But that would mean dropping the feather, the one thing he couldn't do. And it quickly didn't matter as they vanished like their fellow only steps after they'd appeared.
He wanted to sob. Instead, he fell to his knees, not the least surprised when the wind revealed a stampede off souls flowing around him. Every shade of grey blended and merged in the crowd, thousands of silent hooves churning at his eye level. It was overwhelming after the endless nothing. It was too much.
It was over.
She stood over him as if she'd never been gone. As beautiful as she'd ever been, certainly in better condition than the lost boy had ever known her, Sabra looked upon her youngest child with silver tears in her eyes. The mare who had been so vibrant in life was now a wash of silver and grey. A black and white photo of something no longer tangible.
"Hello, little lightning bird. How did you find me?"
Her voice was soft and sweet, even if it sounded like it was coming from far off. It was his mother, with the cares of life shorn from her as completely as shedding winter's coat. There was no manic gleam in her eyes, no irritable twitching, no stiffly held wings. Just his mother, as she'd always meant to be. Whole, and happy.
The scrap of life he held in his jaws felt impossibly heavy after his long guard of it, and Sabra looked as though she recognized this. "It's alright. Give it to me, I'll keep it safe." She promised. His teeth ached as he released the plume to her, mouth tight from the burden he'd carried here. The petite mare tucked the feather, even brighter in this world of grey, into the soft vanguard of its fellows. It retained its brilliant blue light, a dot of life in the dead mare's grey.
When he could move his mouth without pain once more, the winged boy approached his mother cautiously. In life, Sabra had been unpredictable, as likely to bite as she was to kiss. How much of that had been her mind turning against itself? She watched him with deep sadness plain in her expression. It had been difficult for all of her children. Each of them had borne the weight of her instability, taking on far more of her troubles than any child ought to. This flickering little one was only the latest. The last.
When his little face pressed into her shoulder she knew, at least with this one, she hadn't broken the bond between them. Hadn't had the chance to drive him away as thoroughly as she had the others. He had found her despite impossible odds, and clung to her now as though she'd never left. Had never strayed into waters more dangerous than they'd appeared.
"The lady let us in. To find the lost ones. We're going to help them be less sad." He explained as well as he could, still uncertain his role in this trial. But he'd found her, and they had each other for the moment. Sabra nodded, feeling that there was more to this than the bright boy was saying. But he was only a little thing. And it seemed their world was changing yet again. She was learning to watch from a distance.
The lightning child curled into his mother's embrace, tucked beneath the curve of her wing as he'd often wanted to do. She held him, thankful that they'd been granted this chance. She only hoped the cost wouldn't be too high for her baby.
"I missed you, mother." He sighed, real happiness settling into his childish mind for the first time.
"I missed you too. Sleep now. I have someone I want you to meet later, and then we can go and sort things out. Together."
Her blushed lips dropped to his downy forehead to place a kiss, her heart twisting itself to pieces as she did. She would treasure this moment always, but it couldn't last. Life still pulsed in his little heart, and she wouldn't see it extinguished before his time.
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - Thia - 10-29-2019
<center><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/WzwTjqg2/thiamaniphtml2.png"><table bgcolor=571537 style="border-color: black; border-width: 0px; border-style: solid; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: -95px" cellspacing=30 cellpadding=30 width=650><tr><td><p align=justify><font face=times new roman color=873142><font style=font-size:9pt;line-height:12pt;letter-spacing:1px><font style=letter-spacing:3px><center><Font color=c77e63><i>did the full moon force my hand?</i></font></font> </center><p align=justify>
Thia watches, silently. She doesn’t recognize the others who have been drawn here, nor does the spectral figure bear any resemblance. Instead, she stands quietly - her black eyes wide and wary and her curled ears flickering in every which direction - betraying the sense of apprehension that burns brightly in her gut.
However as the strange, ghostly mare speaks, the sense of grief and loss seems to boil over. Her gaze falls to the ground at her feet. Grief had been the defining emotion of her experience in Beqanna. Grief had left her empty, broken. And she still didn’t know what she was supposed to fill this void that her mother’s absence had left. Perhaps that was why she had come. She supposed there were many reasons she had heard the call - allow herself to be called to this place.
However, her heartbeat quickens as the mare continues. Her eyes widen and her curled ears snap forward. The opportunity to see her mother again - surely that was worth <i>any</i> risk. She’d pay any price - just for a few moments. Just for the opportunity to see her again. To know she found peace on the other side. The remainder of what the spectral mare says hardly registers - Thia’s dark gaze has already locked upon the tear between worlds - the rift that holds the potential of returning her to her mother.
It’s disorienting - stepping through the veil.
It was obvious from the moment she stepped through the rift that she was somewhere <i>else</i>. However, this place did not feel unfamiliar to her.
That, in itself, was unsettling. This was the afterlife - shouldn’t everything about this place be unfamiliar?
But the sights - the sounds - the smells...they were all things she recognized. And it wasn’t until she saw the marble structure tucked along the sea-cliffs that she understood. This was <i>home</i>. Or, at the very least, the place that had been her home until the mountain she now stood upon had erupted and wiped her homeland from this earth.
Her mother had been gone before that fateful day - so this would have been how she remembered it. Beautiful. Pristine. Untouched. Thia quickly made her way down the side of the mountain - gliding when her feet slipped out from beneath her. The sound of the waves crashing against the stone grew louder as she grew nearer to the temple. She wasn’t aware of how long the journey took - but she found herself staring into the entrance of her mother’s temple - the Oracle’s temple. Torchlight flickered from within - indicating to her that someone was inside. She stepped cautiously inside, folding her wings tightly against her sides. <b> “Mother?”</b> she called out, hesitantly. For a heartbeat she wondered if she was being foolish in calling out with the expectation that there’d come an answer. But the doubt evaporates when she hears a voice. A voice so familiar it’s imprinted so deep in her heart and her mind that she’d never mistake it for anyone else. Mother.
<i>“Oh darling,” </i>the woman, breathed, stepping from the shadows to embrace her daughter. Thia stood in shock, saying nothing but allowing tears to overflow and slip down her cheeks. The pale mare isn’t sure if she truly can feel her mother’s touch, or if it is just an illusion, but either way she feels more complete than she has since her mother’s body sank beneath the sea.
<i>“I’m so proud of you,”</i> the woman breathed again, which caused Thia to dip her head under the sheer weight of her grief and shame.
<b> “I don’t know what happened, mother, I was able to free myself but the others…”</b> Thia had left them behind. Wings were an uncommon gift on her homeland - only found in royal blood. Which made sense considering that her father descended directly from the ancient kings. And it was her wings which carried her across the sea to safety.
But her mother speaks again - in that same calm, reassuring voice she remembered so vividly. <i> “It was not your duty to save the others, my love, only yourself. The island’s days were numbered from the very beginning, when society sprang up on the banks of such a volatile mountain. But you were never a creature of the island, dear one, you were a creature of the sky meant to travel far away.</i> Thia swallowed thickly, for she had never for a moment considered looking to ensure the safety of others as she’d fled. Survival had been her only objective. Her mother had been <i>everything</i>, and had been taken from her before the land came alive beneath their feet. She had been kept in bondage - wings chained, doors barred - from the moment her mother met her end. There was nothing for her to save as she leapt from the cliffs - or so she had thought at the time.
<b> “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I couldn’t free you.”</b> Thia murmured, the tears still spilling freely. It had been her biggest regret - that she hadn’t done something before her father’s anger had taken everything from her. He was an angry, impulsive man. When her mother no longer produced prophecies to his liking - her mother had become disposable. Especially since Thia - born of the Oracle and the King - had grown to an age where she could take her mother’s place.
<i>”I knew my fate long before it came to pass,”</I> her mother said. They were so much alike - Thia and the once-Oracle. Both creamy white, both branded with a crescent, but Thia alone possessed the wings that had carried her to freedom. However the news that her mother had foreseen her own death was a surprise to Thia.
<b> “Why didn’t you tell me?”</b> Thia asked, the surprise and sorrow evident in her voice.
<i>"It was my burden to bear, not yours. And I knew that my death would set in motion your path to freedom. I refused to stand in the way of your future. For I’ve seen that too and it is so bright, Daughter,"</I> there is so much emotion in the woman’s voice - so many that Thia isn’t certain she could decipher all of them.
<b> “I don’t know what to do, Mother. Not here. Not back in Beqanna. I’ve been so lost,”</b> Thia mutters, ashamed to admit this to her mother. <b> “But I can’t stay here, can I?”</b> Thia asks, knowing in her heart the answer to her question.
<i> “No, darling one. It is not your time,”</i> her mother replies, offering her only child a soft smile but knowing that her daughter may draw little comfort from the gesture.
<center><font style=letter-spacing:3px><Font color=c77e63><i> thia.</i></font></font></table>
<a href="https://www.deviantart.com/littlewillow-art/">manip by littlewillow-art</a></center></center>
RE: Día de Muertos - round 2 - Mordgeld - 10-29-2019
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cinzel+Decorative|Crimson+Text" rel="stylesheet"><div style="background:linear-gradient(rgba(0,0,0,0)400px, rgba(0,0,0,1)550px),url('https://i.postimg.cc/x1tGjVKV/d177b2820f7602f336b64e3d8d65765b.jpg') no-repeat,#000;width:440px;padding:550px 30px 20px 30px;font:14px crimson text;color:#b2a89d;margin:auto;">She had forgotten what it felt like, to be afraid. Death had thrown her back and forth across the veil like a ragdoll until she learned that the end was never really the end at all. But now, listening to Rhy speak, she feels her chest tighten at the thought of seeing her daughter one more time. Would it hurt, to see her kind face? Would it rip all that gentle love back to the surface of her skin and leave her aching and raw once more? God, she used to love so easily and always came back from her disappointments, just begging for seconds. What would she become if her child’s face resurrected the parts of her that never grew back right?
Mordgeld inhales slowly to steady herself and steps forward despite the way her heart trembles between her ribs. When she slips through the veil, the waves sound more like static than anything soothing. Her amber eyes drift to the sky for a moment, watching gray clouds come rolling in and casting a sort of gray night over the realm of the dead. She never liked this part. Lightning flashes between the clouds, soundless, and each one shows a brief second of her life. She wonders if these old memories were meant to be a kindness or a mockery.
There is Adolf, handsome and kissing her face while she throws her head back and laughs. Her jaw clenches and she bites down on the edge of her tongue harshly to keep her mind from going down that path. He is never coming home, she reminds herself before turning her had back to the destination ahead. Still, in her peripheral, he is there and mouthing the promises of how much he loves her. Death could never find him to drag his crooked soul down here even when she had begged it to.
Others wander around her, head hanging low to only see the sand ahead of them, while others simply watch the sky with their mouths hanging open. Which would she become, if she stayed here forever? She always wondered, but for now she simply keeps her head held high and continues her search. Mordgeld can hear her child calling somewhere up ahead, where defiant rocks rise up for the static waves to crash and crackle against. Her heart thumps without rhythm now, only erratic little beats as it tries to brace itself to see her face again. But oh, the way it sinks when that dark face peeks out from behind those ink black boulders.
“Mother,” she says in a voice that is only breaths above a whisper. And Mordgeld can’t help it any longer. The tears come flowing down her cheeks and all that warmth floods her veins. The levy breaks and she wilts against her daughter, curling her head so tightly over Nymphetamine’s neck and hugging her close. The girl sighs into her mother’s hair and relaxes into her embrace as easily as anything.
“<I>You were alone,</i>” she chokes, shaking with each sob now. “<I>You were so cold.</i>”
But Nymph only laughs, a gentle sound as she presses her cheek to Mordgeld’s. How could she have given life to a girl so perfect, she wonders? Slowly, carefully, the child steps back and watches her with a concerned little smile.
“I lived a good life. Don’t waste silly tears on me,” she assures her, shrugging her strong shoulders. “We can’t change what’s happened but we can spend the time we have together.”
And then she curls against her mother’s side, head leaned against Mordgeld’s shoulders as the crackling waves break over them. Only now does she notice the smell of salt has left the ocean around them. Slowly, gently, she lowers her head and places the broken token at Nymph’s feet. Her laughter sounds like silver bells all chiming in perfect harmony and the sound breaks her heart into a thousand shards. She waits patiently for a story but the girl says nothing more for a while, contemplating as she stares at it.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll spend the next year after tonight coming up with the perfect story. When the year is up, bring it back to me and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Mordgeld smiles weakly and nods, pressing her lips to Nymph’s temple as she sighs slowly.
“<I>I promise. I promise I will.</i>”
<div style="font:36px cinzel decorative;letter-spacing:5px;text-align:center;padding-top:20px;margin-bottom:-15px;color:#730118;">MordgelD</div>
<center>i am the dragon breathing fire.
beautiful man, i'm the lion.</center></div>