04-06-2022, 02:56 PM
i can’t stop you putting roots in my dreamland --
She is certain that he must find her incredibly ignorant, or perhaps it is only her own self-consciousness showing its teeth. Her old home was not woven with the same lore as Beqanna, it seemed; they did not have gods, dark or any other kind. Their magic was simpler, too, and she is beginning to feel as if she had been robbed of some fundamental foundation that everyone else seemed to have—an intrinsic understanding of how magic worked and how it fit in the universe.
She did not know where her magic—small and unremarkable though it is, for her wings and her trail of light seemed to pale in comparison to the fire the jaguar-spotted stallion could conjure—came from, or what the history of it is in her birthplace, and as she listens to Fyr’s recount of Carnage’s history and how it was entangled with Beqanna itself, she hopes that he does not ask. Was there such a force in her old home that could have stolen magic from her, too? Her wings shift, as if subconsciously reassuring herself that they still exist; that she had not committed some offense that would have them stripped from her here, too.
“That’s incredible,” is all she manages to say at first, her voice hushed with a hesitant kind of awe. The story is incredible, if not a little frightening—the idea that someone in this place is powerful enough to create an entire land. She looks at the stretch of red sand with fresh eyes, but the trepidation remains. “I don’t think anyone had that kind of magic back home,” she says with a small frown marring her pale face, shadowing her lilac eyes with a thoughtful kind of worry. “Does he…still live there?” she asks, cautious, as if this dark god might hear her, might materialize out of thin air at the mention of him and recognize her as an unworthy intruder in this land and smite her where she stands.
Fyr must be a brave creature, she thinks, to so willingly live where danger lurks, and though the look she casts him is an admiring one, she does not voice these private thoughts.
Her attention is drawn from Pangea at his question, and she cannot explain why, but she feels a small flame of embarrassment when she glances at the meadow. “I suppose you could say that, yes.” She turns back to him, an almost sheepish, yet hopeful smile at the edge of her pearlescent lips. “The meadow isn’t so bad, though. Perhaps not ideal, but it seems safe enough.” Though after his story of the making of Pangea, she is becoming less sure that anywhere in this land is as safe as she had initially thought.
She is certain that he must find her incredibly ignorant, or perhaps it is only her own self-consciousness showing its teeth. Her old home was not woven with the same lore as Beqanna, it seemed; they did not have gods, dark or any other kind. Their magic was simpler, too, and she is beginning to feel as if she had been robbed of some fundamental foundation that everyone else seemed to have—an intrinsic understanding of how magic worked and how it fit in the universe.
She did not know where her magic—small and unremarkable though it is, for her wings and her trail of light seemed to pale in comparison to the fire the jaguar-spotted stallion could conjure—came from, or what the history of it is in her birthplace, and as she listens to Fyr’s recount of Carnage’s history and how it was entangled with Beqanna itself, she hopes that he does not ask. Was there such a force in her old home that could have stolen magic from her, too? Her wings shift, as if subconsciously reassuring herself that they still exist; that she had not committed some offense that would have them stripped from her here, too.
“That’s incredible,” is all she manages to say at first, her voice hushed with a hesitant kind of awe. The story is incredible, if not a little frightening—the idea that someone in this place is powerful enough to create an entire land. She looks at the stretch of red sand with fresh eyes, but the trepidation remains. “I don’t think anyone had that kind of magic back home,” she says with a small frown marring her pale face, shadowing her lilac eyes with a thoughtful kind of worry. “Does he…still live there?” she asks, cautious, as if this dark god might hear her, might materialize out of thin air at the mention of him and recognize her as an unworthy intruder in this land and smite her where she stands.
Fyr must be a brave creature, she thinks, to so willingly live where danger lurks, and though the look she casts him is an admiring one, she does not voice these private thoughts.
Her attention is drawn from Pangea at his question, and she cannot explain why, but she feels a small flame of embarrassment when she glances at the meadow. “I suppose you could say that, yes.” She turns back to him, an almost sheepish, yet hopeful smile at the edge of her pearlescent lips. “The meadow isn’t so bad, though. Perhaps not ideal, but it seems safe enough.” Though after his story of the making of Pangea, she is becoming less sure that anywhere in this land is as safe as she had initially thought.
-- my house of stone, your ivy grows, and now i’m covered in you
allaire.
@Fyr