11-09-2015, 08:52 PM
I have two - two very different things, I think. I'm actually bummed that I lost all of Seera's stuff except this one post. Must of accidentally trashed the Google Doc drive D:
Morphine's death post:
the world whispers
The near millenium the mage spent drifting aimlessly left an indelible mark; fire and water and earth and wind engrained itself in the framework of her soul. They passionately kissed each other in her body, defying logic and the natural order in the way that she defied both time and death and the world’s darkness. Fire came to water and earth again and again, while air touched and touched and never stayed still. Theirs’ was a paradise few had ever known.
They were one.
Morphine and the world. The world and the mage.
The elementals’ union was bliss. The better part of an orgasm, dark chocolate, the best year’s best wine, and sensual caresses all wrapped into a singular moment of being that replicated itself over and over again. She lived in an eternal heavenly cycle, so long as she never took a physical form. So long as her atoms and ions could scatter to the corners of the earth. So long as she saw without her eyes and laughed a laugh that no one could hear. So long as they (everyone, her children and lover and kingdom) never knew her as she was.
So long as the weight of the ages lay upon her shoulders, the choice was crystal clear.
How many had died on her account? (The golden girl could not make up for them, nor, unfortunately, her position as Guardian and whatever retaliation her presence might have discouraged)
A dragon
A general
A piebald king
A lesbian ex-queen
A blue boy and his jungle lover
A child
A flying midget
An amnesiac
A gentle Ima
A black queen, beloved mother
An ambassador
The unnamed wretches of the pit
The list was never ending; the grim, grossly grinning angel taunted her nightmares and thanked her for his nightly feast. Night here held no peace, the stars could not calm her and the moon wouldn’t listen as it had before. It was in league with the grim angel, a silent onlooker without compassion or consternation for her worldly woes. She was earthbound now, wasn’t she? And therefore of no concern. She (la luna) was as tricksy as the illusionist, promising her ears if only the mage would join them again. Coaxing her with words of understanding (because their limited mortal minds could not fathom what the moon knows), she bullied the rest of the world to join her in anthem. Combined, they were more than she could resist, and they knew it. Oh, the wicked world knew it! And still she selfishly called her changeling horse-born child back again, brutally and proud of all her tricks.
The mage knew; and the mage could not help but eventually buckle (it was the dragon that did the trick, the straw that broke the mage’s back! they cackled) to their persistent whimsy.
The sun is high overhead when she makes her way out of the Desert. She keeps the heat of it upon her back long after it slips down, a small comfort on her death day. The raven woman is alone, as we all are when we die, and though she could have had a number of spectators at her exit, she doesn’t want anyone there. It is… too private. Too weak. Too hard for her to face Brennen and Yael and her daughters. She doesn’t want to count the pain in all those eyes or hear Kerowyn’s cry of confusion. She doesn’t want to be tempted to turn back.
She passes the cliffs where Grim Reaper met her death (the first notch on her skin-leather belt) and proceeds with a measure and stately grace down to the bone-white sand of the beach. The world is watching her funeral procession and she has every intention of putting on one hell of a grand finale for it. As the grass gives way in clumps to what can only be called a beach (though it is not sand beneath her hooves, but the crushed body parts of a million horses) the residual energy of all the deaths over all the ages assail her senses; she can feel their pair and hear their deaths and smell the stench of long-gone flesh (were her parents somewhere in the cacophony?). She continues to the water’s edge and watches the waves lap against the sand, sucking it out from beneath her hooves until she is buried up to her front hocks. She seems entranced by the repetitive movement, breathing in time and never blinking, as if her bottomless eyes could memorize the last moments of the symbol of life. Then with no more than a thought, she stops the sea water in an arc around her and pulls herself free.
This is no time to linger on the beauty of the world when she could be a part of the beauty in no time at all.
Her gaze travels from the water and she turns slowly in a circle, looking once more to the cliffs and the beach, back to the forest and the greenery that emptied out to the sands, and then to a lone ribcage that lay gaping up to the sky. She would not end like that. She inhales deeply, and then begins.
the death of a star
The ebony clad mage slowly pulls energy into her heart. She pulls and she pulls and she pulls, tugging not only at the muscle and skin that hold her together, but the very magic that ties her to the world. She draws upon the veins of the earth, the ley lines that criss-cross the land and make plants grow and die and diamonds form and spring water spout from bedrock. She pulls, and the light around her body begins to dim as she absorbs everything into her black coat. Whatever breeze comes off the sea is stilled, though tendrils of her mane rise and float around her, energized by an unseen force. Her slight frame begins to rise of its own accord until it is a few feet off the ground, electrified with the same power that causes her hair to have a life of its own. The darkness expands as she continues to pull, pull with all her might until the whole of Beqanna is plunged into darkness for a moment and her body is consumed, every pore of her skin punctuated with a silver light. It pours out of her eyes and mouth and from the top lines of her hooves, out of her ears and begins to split apart the inky husk along what once was her spine.
A blinding silver light quickly followed by a seismic thunderclap cut through the momentary darkness, and daytime is restored.
A smoking crater now smolders where Morphine once stood. The immediate tufts of beach grass are aflame, and whatever whole bones were left are now pulverized to smithereens. But what might be interesting to any onlookers (though their ears should be ringing and they might be crawling back up from their knees) is that a decently sized amber ball of energy is floating where her heart would have been. It pulses and crackles and vibrates with liquid, molten magic, radiating heat and a soothing, warm feeling. It bobs in place for a bit, and then, as if it has received some sort of divine instruction, zips off inland. As it flies to its destination it dodges trees and rocks and creatures, and with every change of direction, a small bubble is flung carelessly into the world. Freed from their original orders, they seek their own hosts.
They find new homes in Kerowyn and Caeli, giving them the eternal presence of their mother, a link to her flitting subconscious that remains at their beck and all. Her apology for leaving them so soon.. Bubbles fly up their noses and settle with a whiskey warmth in the center of their breasts.
In Kreios, a boy so thoughtlessly damaged by his twin. It is not his fault his mouth and mind are not properly linked. A bubble hits him in the forehead, hard. And is absorbed where the the damage is most done.
In Corvi, an innocent passerby. He is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and a rogue bit of magic comes flying out of nowhere to hit him in the back of the head.
The majority of it, however, seeks the golden Queen.
the world spins madly on
A quiet calm settles over the beach as the waves lap at the edge of the crater and slowly begin to fill it with sea water. The birds cautiously resume their chirping, and the sun still shines in its summer way, as if nothing had ever happened. But the world is different now; her essence soars on the blue-tinged harmonies of the wind and swims in the white-topped waves. She nestles in the blooms of tulips and buzzes along the backs of bees. She is everywhere at once, filled with the glory of the world, and always… always watching.
Morphine will always be a Guardian.
----------------
When the birds the rocks the trees the dirt and sky and clouds and allthethings began to whisper to her, she knew (knew in that it was something that had happened way way back, before this second, miserable life) the end was near. Nothing is without a price; the price of reanimation, of circumventing the fates was a second bout of insanity. This time the bastard didn’t take her heart out and shred it into steak tartare - oh no - this time the whole world chattered on with voices unseen and faces and shadows at the corners of her eyes (have you ever spent your days trying to find whatever it is behind you, whatever it is that’s chasing you and stalking you and huntingyouliketheprey you are with tiny, silent (persistent) footsteps.
But she could feel them. Ohhhh, she could feel the hot and cold breath on her flanks, their tugs at her tail strands, the way their forked tongues licked at her hocks. They were all slimey, wretched creatures with scales and fangs and had somehow followed her from the cliffs of Hell itself.
Waiting for the day she let her guard down. Waiting to slowly wear down her defenses till her eyes rolled white and sweat foamed upon her skin - till her breath came in hyper gasps and she was a broken, sorry creature like she was meant to be.
Oh Jester - Oh Rhys! Insanity was worth it for a moment (be it ever so imagined in
facades of brocade silk
and perfumed lace
dreaming of one more night when a warrior Queen stands alone
atop her iron throne and the fall is EPIC -
though all trace of her is lost
save one;
one girl more)
She lives like a beast in the wilds of the Meadow; he has left her and Abel has left her and her daughter is safe - so who the fuck cares what she does and who she talks to? The long-stemmed grass is noncommital, only talking when the wind blows, and yet that goddamn bird can’t shut up about his fucking eggs. Who cares about eggs? They crack (or don’t), and ugly little crying shitting SCREAMING unfeathered brats pop out. Worse than suckling foals, they are. Nagging, biting, clamoring for attention when all you want to do is kick them in head. It’s a good thing Lagertha -
Then the grasses part and that silver creature (with the lighting and the sparks dancing and metallic blood and metallicfire, she seemed something out of the god’s realm - but there were no Gods, so of course not) steps into view. The old gray mare scrambles to her feet, teeth bared and ears glued to her skull. Equal parts fear and anger, Grimmy pushes all the voices aside and lunges at her - all caution gone to the wind, for HOW DARE SHE intrude upon her hidey hole (the words, the curses, the commands were lost and she heard nothing but the blood pumping furiously through her heart and ears).
But Seera hears her. Seera hears everything. Seera talks, and Seera is waiting.
And Grim Reaper hasn’t the logic (anymore) to run. The hot (so hot, they burn, they sear her very soul to the core) bolts lace up and down her body, racing to cleave foreign matter (like antibodies and chemotherapy, they must destroy anything foreign, any malignant infestation) from good.
She doesn’t even know what hit her, the body crumpling mid-leap to the ground at Cordis’ feet. The body is now an empty shell. Its eyes are glassy, but it breathes and beats and waits to be infused again.
Seera rejoices, screaming at the top of her lungs, hoping against all hope that the silver magic girl could hear her.
Hm. Even now, I think I could do better, given the time to do rewrites ,and without hundreds of document pages to go through :/
Morphine's death post:
the world whispers
The near millenium the mage spent drifting aimlessly left an indelible mark; fire and water and earth and wind engrained itself in the framework of her soul. They passionately kissed each other in her body, defying logic and the natural order in the way that she defied both time and death and the world’s darkness. Fire came to water and earth again and again, while air touched and touched and never stayed still. Theirs’ was a paradise few had ever known.
They were one.
Morphine and the world. The world and the mage.
The elementals’ union was bliss. The better part of an orgasm, dark chocolate, the best year’s best wine, and sensual caresses all wrapped into a singular moment of being that replicated itself over and over again. She lived in an eternal heavenly cycle, so long as she never took a physical form. So long as her atoms and ions could scatter to the corners of the earth. So long as she saw without her eyes and laughed a laugh that no one could hear. So long as they (everyone, her children and lover and kingdom) never knew her as she was.
So long as the weight of the ages lay upon her shoulders, the choice was crystal clear.
How many had died on her account? (The golden girl could not make up for them, nor, unfortunately, her position as Guardian and whatever retaliation her presence might have discouraged)
A dragon
A general
A piebald king
A lesbian ex-queen
A blue boy and his jungle lover
A child
A flying midget
An amnesiac
A gentle Ima
A black queen, beloved mother
An ambassador
The unnamed wretches of the pit
The list was never ending; the grim, grossly grinning angel taunted her nightmares and thanked her for his nightly feast. Night here held no peace, the stars could not calm her and the moon wouldn’t listen as it had before. It was in league with the grim angel, a silent onlooker without compassion or consternation for her worldly woes. She was earthbound now, wasn’t she? And therefore of no concern. She (la luna) was as tricksy as the illusionist, promising her ears if only the mage would join them again. Coaxing her with words of understanding (because their limited mortal minds could not fathom what the moon knows), she bullied the rest of the world to join her in anthem. Combined, they were more than she could resist, and they knew it. Oh, the wicked world knew it! And still she selfishly called her changeling horse-born child back again, brutally and proud of all her tricks.
The mage knew; and the mage could not help but eventually buckle (it was the dragon that did the trick, the straw that broke the mage’s back! they cackled) to their persistent whimsy.
The sun is high overhead when she makes her way out of the Desert. She keeps the heat of it upon her back long after it slips down, a small comfort on her death day. The raven woman is alone, as we all are when we die, and though she could have had a number of spectators at her exit, she doesn’t want anyone there. It is… too private. Too weak. Too hard for her to face Brennen and Yael and her daughters. She doesn’t want to count the pain in all those eyes or hear Kerowyn’s cry of confusion. She doesn’t want to be tempted to turn back.
She passes the cliffs where Grim Reaper met her death (the first notch on her skin-leather belt) and proceeds with a measure and stately grace down to the bone-white sand of the beach. The world is watching her funeral procession and she has every intention of putting on one hell of a grand finale for it. As the grass gives way in clumps to what can only be called a beach (though it is not sand beneath her hooves, but the crushed body parts of a million horses) the residual energy of all the deaths over all the ages assail her senses; she can feel their pair and hear their deaths and smell the stench of long-gone flesh (were her parents somewhere in the cacophony?). She continues to the water’s edge and watches the waves lap against the sand, sucking it out from beneath her hooves until she is buried up to her front hocks. She seems entranced by the repetitive movement, breathing in time and never blinking, as if her bottomless eyes could memorize the last moments of the symbol of life. Then with no more than a thought, she stops the sea water in an arc around her and pulls herself free.
This is no time to linger on the beauty of the world when she could be a part of the beauty in no time at all.
Her gaze travels from the water and she turns slowly in a circle, looking once more to the cliffs and the beach, back to the forest and the greenery that emptied out to the sands, and then to a lone ribcage that lay gaping up to the sky. She would not end like that. She inhales deeply, and then begins.
the death of a star
The ebony clad mage slowly pulls energy into her heart. She pulls and she pulls and she pulls, tugging not only at the muscle and skin that hold her together, but the very magic that ties her to the world. She draws upon the veins of the earth, the ley lines that criss-cross the land and make plants grow and die and diamonds form and spring water spout from bedrock. She pulls, and the light around her body begins to dim as she absorbs everything into her black coat. Whatever breeze comes off the sea is stilled, though tendrils of her mane rise and float around her, energized by an unseen force. Her slight frame begins to rise of its own accord until it is a few feet off the ground, electrified with the same power that causes her hair to have a life of its own. The darkness expands as she continues to pull, pull with all her might until the whole of Beqanna is plunged into darkness for a moment and her body is consumed, every pore of her skin punctuated with a silver light. It pours out of her eyes and mouth and from the top lines of her hooves, out of her ears and begins to split apart the inky husk along what once was her spine.
A blinding silver light quickly followed by a seismic thunderclap cut through the momentary darkness, and daytime is restored.
A smoking crater now smolders where Morphine once stood. The immediate tufts of beach grass are aflame, and whatever whole bones were left are now pulverized to smithereens. But what might be interesting to any onlookers (though their ears should be ringing and they might be crawling back up from their knees) is that a decently sized amber ball of energy is floating where her heart would have been. It pulses and crackles and vibrates with liquid, molten magic, radiating heat and a soothing, warm feeling. It bobs in place for a bit, and then, as if it has received some sort of divine instruction, zips off inland. As it flies to its destination it dodges trees and rocks and creatures, and with every change of direction, a small bubble is flung carelessly into the world. Freed from their original orders, they seek their own hosts.
They find new homes in Kerowyn and Caeli, giving them the eternal presence of their mother, a link to her flitting subconscious that remains at their beck and all. Her apology for leaving them so soon.. Bubbles fly up their noses and settle with a whiskey warmth in the center of their breasts.
In Kreios, a boy so thoughtlessly damaged by his twin. It is not his fault his mouth and mind are not properly linked. A bubble hits him in the forehead, hard. And is absorbed where the the damage is most done.
In Corvi, an innocent passerby. He is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and a rogue bit of magic comes flying out of nowhere to hit him in the back of the head.
The majority of it, however, seeks the golden Queen.
the world spins madly on
A quiet calm settles over the beach as the waves lap at the edge of the crater and slowly begin to fill it with sea water. The birds cautiously resume their chirping, and the sun still shines in its summer way, as if nothing had ever happened. But the world is different now; her essence soars on the blue-tinged harmonies of the wind and swims in the white-topped waves. She nestles in the blooms of tulips and buzzes along the backs of bees. She is everywhere at once, filled with the glory of the world, and always… always watching.
Morphine will always be a Guardian.
----------------
When the birds the rocks the trees the dirt and sky and clouds and allthethings began to whisper to her, she knew (knew in that it was something that had happened way way back, before this second, miserable life) the end was near. Nothing is without a price; the price of reanimation, of circumventing the fates was a second bout of insanity. This time the bastard didn’t take her heart out and shred it into steak tartare - oh no - this time the whole world chattered on with voices unseen and faces and shadows at the corners of her eyes (have you ever spent your days trying to find whatever it is behind you, whatever it is that’s chasing you and stalking you and huntingyouliketheprey you are with tiny, silent (persistent) footsteps.
But she could feel them. Ohhhh, she could feel the hot and cold breath on her flanks, their tugs at her tail strands, the way their forked tongues licked at her hocks. They were all slimey, wretched creatures with scales and fangs and had somehow followed her from the cliffs of Hell itself.
Waiting for the day she let her guard down. Waiting to slowly wear down her defenses till her eyes rolled white and sweat foamed upon her skin - till her breath came in hyper gasps and she was a broken, sorry creature like she was meant to be.
Oh Jester - Oh Rhys! Insanity was worth it for a moment (be it ever so imagined in
facades of brocade silk
and perfumed lace
dreaming of one more night when a warrior Queen stands alone
atop her iron throne and the fall is EPIC -
though all trace of her is lost
save one;
one girl more)
She lives like a beast in the wilds of the Meadow; he has left her and Abel has left her and her daughter is safe - so who the fuck cares what she does and who she talks to? The long-stemmed grass is noncommital, only talking when the wind blows, and yet that goddamn bird can’t shut up about his fucking eggs. Who cares about eggs? They crack (or don’t), and ugly little crying shitting SCREAMING unfeathered brats pop out. Worse than suckling foals, they are. Nagging, biting, clamoring for attention when all you want to do is kick them in head. It’s a good thing Lagertha -
Then the grasses part and that silver creature (with the lighting and the sparks dancing and metallic blood and metallicfire, she seemed something out of the god’s realm - but there were no Gods, so of course not) steps into view. The old gray mare scrambles to her feet, teeth bared and ears glued to her skull. Equal parts fear and anger, Grimmy pushes all the voices aside and lunges at her - all caution gone to the wind, for HOW DARE SHE intrude upon her hidey hole (the words, the curses, the commands were lost and she heard nothing but the blood pumping furiously through her heart and ears).
But Seera hears her. Seera hears everything. Seera talks, and Seera is waiting.
And Grim Reaper hasn’t the logic (anymore) to run. The hot (so hot, they burn, they sear her very soul to the core) bolts lace up and down her body, racing to cleave foreign matter (like antibodies and chemotherapy, they must destroy anything foreign, any malignant infestation) from good.
She doesn’t even know what hit her, the body crumpling mid-leap to the ground at Cordis’ feet. The body is now an empty shell. Its eyes are glassy, but it breathes and beats and waits to be infused again.
Seera rejoices, screaming at the top of her lungs, hoping against all hope that the silver magic girl could hear her.
Hm. Even now, I think I could do better, given the time to do rewrites ,and without hundreds of document pages to go through :/
Lagertha & Wessex