all things are poisons
for there is nothing without poisonous qualities.
Iris did not know the ghosts of the Afterlife. She had no access to that place, only the ability to hear the tales of the dead that did not leave. So many did not, so many clung to this world. And of course, there were those like this stallion who traversed between worlds. Death was no god in Beqanna, hardly capable of containing its own. The lines here were a blurry sort, one that was particularly blurry for a girl like Iris who lived with one foot in life and one in death. Not that she minded - quite the contrary. Iris rather liked it that way.
Iris knows no stories of a Chamber that railed against magic. Her mother’s stories paint a different picture - one of a land with a heartbeat of its own, a tree that burned perpetually and told the future, one that gave her mother much of the power she’d inherited. Iris does not know of the Chamber Tatter had once ruled, and she cannot really imagine a land without magic. Not in this world, not in this Beqanna. Magic ran rampant and the powerless were few, a reversal of the Beqanna that once existed.
He answers, and she wonders if he’s proud of that fact. Maybe back then ruling was something to be proud of, though in her lifetime she’s seen that leadership seems to have become something of a joke. Beqanna had so many lands, always shifting and changing, and those that called the shots shifted and changed even moreso. Though she knows her mother’s tales of ruling as well, and it was something different even then.
“My mother once ruled it as well, though not so long. Straia. Her name was Straia.” She’d left the throne to Killdare, and without her the Chamber had fallen into disrepair, though it hadn’t mattered for Beqanna itself had changed then. It had called magic back to itself, pulled it all into the mountain and wiped the slate clean. ”I’m Iris,” she offers, still imagining she’s talking to a total stranger.
Iris knows no stories of a Chamber that railed against magic. Her mother’s stories paint a different picture - one of a land with a heartbeat of its own, a tree that burned perpetually and told the future, one that gave her mother much of the power she’d inherited. Iris does not know of the Chamber Tatter had once ruled, and she cannot really imagine a land without magic. Not in this world, not in this Beqanna. Magic ran rampant and the powerless were few, a reversal of the Beqanna that once existed.
He answers, and she wonders if he’s proud of that fact. Maybe back then ruling was something to be proud of, though in her lifetime she’s seen that leadership seems to have become something of a joke. Beqanna had so many lands, always shifting and changing, and those that called the shots shifted and changed even moreso. Though she knows her mother’s tales of ruling as well, and it was something different even then.
“My mother once ruled it as well, though not so long. Straia. Her name was Straia.” She’d left the throne to Killdare, and without her the Chamber had fallen into disrepair, though it hadn’t mattered for Beqanna itself had changed then. It had called magic back to itself, pulled it all into the mountain and wiped the slate clean. ”I’m Iris,” she offers, still imagining she’s talking to a total stranger.
it is only the dose that matters
iris
@
Tatter