[open] i can't decipher what is real

[cezanne]

CEZANNE He doesn’t know this Beqanna. If he’s honest, though, his only memories are very vague. He remembers the Dale, and the metaphorical crown that had weighed heavily on his brow alongside the curling horns that no longer rest there. He remembers his two wives, and how one had died long before he met the second, but he can no longer recall their names or faces. The faces of his children are but blurs in his distant memory. He knows that somewhere along the line, he had given up his infamous ram horns - had passed them along to a trueborn son as some sort of inheritance - but he was supposed to have died then. He isn’t sure how many years have passed since then. He doesn’t know what has become of his line, of his offspring or descendents. Moriarty had tried to build a dynasty with his lines. Had he succeeded? How unfortunate that he hardly remembers them at all. He supposes that this time, it was Beqanna’s magic herself that shielded him, not Gaea’s. Between one blink and the next he is suddenly here, this Beqanna that is familiar but not. If he closes his eyes and breathes deep, the scents of the meadow are familiar, but when he opens them they are not the same. The magic here seems to be more abundant than he remembers; horns and wings were common in his youth, but he lived before the age of dragons. Before Stratos opened their skies to them and Baltia emerged from the depths. Carnage and other magicians had always been present, but creating entirely new continents? Unheard of. Magic runs wild here, and Cezanne no longer has any of his own. He lowers his head to graze, but the former warrior remains alert. He used to blend in well - now, he will be considered the odd one out.

[Chemdog]

A gryffin patrols the bright autumn skies today, his vulture head tipped to view the ground rolling beneath him while he soars on open wings. He’s been away, he always goes away, and each time he returns something has changed  ̶  this time his Cove was swallowed with it, which raises its own bitterness in his chest. It will return, he supposes, it doesn’t feel dead, but the hibernation of his beloved home haunts his dreams from time to time.

Over the hills and following the river up into the meadow, flying low and eventually landing in a large tree to lounge his cat body across one of its thick limbs. He watches the daylight change and feels the breezes shift, napping listlessly, letting his tail dangle and flick as he dozes.

A stranger grazing off in the distance captures his lazy attention and he watches for a while. Irisaen comes slithering out of his neck feathers, tickling the air with her tongue. He’s not hidden, in fact he’s sure that the stranger has probably spotted him. He just watches, those sharp ocean eyes following the body moving across the grasses. 

CHEMDOG
to the window, to the wall