"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
07-16-2015, 12:05 AM (This post was last modified: 07-28-2015, 01:49 AM by adaline.)
— A D A L I N E —
your mouth is poison; your mouth is wine
(you think your dreams are the same as mine)
She is impossible.
She is a cosmic joke thrust upon the land--a reminder of her parents' foolish, lustful hearts. With every step, she can feel the vibration shooting up her legs; the shock of it spilling into her core and then rippling to the edges. To the naked eye, she would be beautiful, but in a way that was wholly alien. Her bones spun from glass, her skin papery thin and translucent, her eyes pink and raw. Wings sprung from her back, but they too were not made for purpose, for what was meant to be leather and muscle was shredded and too fragile to fly.
She was not made to live.
Born as a twin from a dying (dead?) mother, she lacked the nutrients to be strong, not that her body would have allowed it. Instead, she teetered as she walked, with her fine, sculpted head dragging along the ground so that her nose gathered dust. She stopped and wheezed for a moment before she continued along the way, small ears flickering atop her head. She is not sure where her brother has gone, has never known where her parents walked into the ocean salt on the beach. She just knows that she needs to find food, warmth, a home.
So she arrives here. Standing along the border of the Field, the mare lifts her fragile head and looks around, shivering against an imagined cold. She has no idea on how to proceed from here; she has no bearing for what is to come next. So instead of venturing further, she just stands precariously near where the grass has begun to sway in the breeze and closes her pink eyes. Humming to herself, she imagines that she is back once more in the womb with her back pressed against Contagion. She closes her eyes and imagines that all is well once more.
When you suffer from insomnia, nothing is real. Everything you see, you feel becomes heightened. The chirp of a nearby avian creature seems greater, louder than it really is. The snap of a dry, bare twig beneath your feet makes your insides recoil, your bones knock against one another with a fearful delight. And it takes something from you, your life, your lustre. Yet I have not slept for over a year, perhaps even longer still. Time does not have meaning to me no longer; the moon comes up, as does the sun, and it does this over and over again. As though the repetition is meant to lull me into the throes of sleep. But it never does.
My wanderings, as always, land me in the Field. They always say you always come back to the scene of the crime, or in this case the first place you ever knew. The grass feels springier than it was upon the autumn I had been found. And it seemed far longer that I have called Beqanna, and the Chamber, my home. The members of the pine laden earth, my companions. My sapphire eyes scan the horizon, as always my golden frame lurks the shadows; between the chamber and the field, it is the safest place from the sun, and my golden touched form is not as bearing of the tangerine rays than most. My salmon nose, peeled in places, was lifted up, nostrils inhaling the summer scents. The wildflowers in full bloom, the grasses swaying in the breeze, and there, right there a lone form wandering, nose to the ground, eyes as lost and as mysterious as a starless night.
I choose her to approach; there is something about mysteries that I just love to try and solve. There was some secret satisfaction I had when I could fit all the pieces of a puzzle together. My lips part and I taste the air, salmon tongue rolling over those soft velvet lips. Her body seems to radiate a uniqueness, a strange, yet beautiful thing. I had lived now in Beqanna long enough to know that not everything was what it seemed to be, and this elegant, fragile creature could quite possibly blow my head clean off. So I approach, my willowy legs elegant as a dancer, yet strong and purposefully, striding closer and closer until I stand just before her, dipping my muzzle a fraction, blue eyes roaming her. I daren't touch, daren't even speak as loud as normality, for just glancing at her seemed too much. She was a fragile thing, like the clouds, wispy and fleeting. And yet, like a gleaming star she attracted me, and I must find out what mysteries lurk Beqanna's borders.
'Hello.' my tone is bittersweet, like the nectar of the swaying wildflowers, ye the thorns of a dozen roses weave beneath. 'I'm Engelsfors, from the Chamber.' a greeting, a repetition that comes so natural now, and then, with a sway of my head and a tilt of my muzzle, 'You look as lost as a fallen star. Where... what are you looking for?'
07-16-2015, 03:52 PM (This post was last modified: 07-16-2015, 03:54 PM by Elysteria.)
love is a temporary madness...
If there is one thing she had learned in her many years in this land, it is that nothing is impossible. Those that shouldn’t be, are. What should not happen, does. Sometimes it is almost as though there is neither rhyme nor reason to the ebb and flow of the oddities that encompass Beqanna. She knows (or at least hopes) that there must be some logic behind it, though it is far more intricate than she can hope to comprehend. All that they can do is struggle through their daily lives and hope that the powers of the land do not choose that day to turn it on its head.
This day has so far been relatively quiet. So quiet that she decides a trip to the field is in order. The path is familiar, though she flies it rather than walks. Despite the fact that she has no wings, she glides easily through the air. It is an ability that she has had since the moment of her birth, but even to this day she does not understand the workings of it. It has always simply been one of those peculiarities of this place. Nevertheless she is grateful for it. As she arrives in the field, she has the advantage of height. She is easily able to survey those below as she decides who to approach.
When her gaze lands upon the mare, she knows immediately that this is the one. There is a vulnerability there that draws out her protective instincts. She cannot say precisely what it is about the mare, whether it is the translucent skin, the tattered wings, the low-hanging head, or perhaps something else altogether. Whatever it is, she knows only that she wishes to offer her aid.
As she descends from the sky, another mare approaches. She overhears her introduce herself, placing a question before the fragile girl as she settles gently onto the earth beside the two. A warm smile easily curves her lips as kind, russet eyes fasten onto the mare.
“I do hope I am not interrupting. I am Elysteria, of the Dale.”
But hers is a different kind of impossibility, because she is a contradiction. Born to a mother who never carried her, raised in a place where horses cannot survive, Aletheia should not be. And yet she abides, a walking reminder of how magic can play with lives, a girl out of time.
Most of her memories have turned to smoke, but she holds tight to the four things she knows with absolute certainty. Her father is Carnage. Her mother is Librette. Her name is Aletheia. Her home is the Valley. These things are her lodestars, her guiding lights, and they keep her grounded.
And so it is that she, good citizen of the Valley that is her home, comes to the field. It is a pleasant day, summer just starting to slide into fall, the weather neither too cold nor too hot. The field is as empty as it ever is, crowded with all the wrong kinds of horses – too many looking to recruit, too few looking to be recruited. Too many, too many, but it will not deter the girl.
Her icy blue eyes sweep dispassionately across the various groups. She shows no sign of interest; she doesn't know she's supposed to, doesn't know that her face looks almost imposingly impassive. These are the things you miss when you grow up on your own, forget your past, and find yourself dumped entirely unceremoniously into the middle of a snowy meadow as she had been.
The glass girl catches her eye, and she is far enough off that she feels comfortable openly staring. Few things cause her to feel legitimate curiosity, but this comes very close. She is always intrigued by those who, like her, are impossible.
She approaches without hesitation, her steps long and graceful. She is a pretty thing, dainty and refined, her figure girlish and slim. She's fine boned and delicate in a way that her mother had never been. She is young, no more than two or so, and yet she's already turned gray. Her eyes are a startling ice blue, and are surprisingly intense despite the neutrality the rest of her conveys.
She is late to the party by the time she arrives. She recognizes Engelsfors from previous encounters in the field, and she arrives in time to hear the other mare introduce herself as Elysteria. She greets them both with a nothing more than a blank expression before turning to the mare that has drawn them all together. Already the grass at her hooves starts to shiver away from her, curling into itself as though trying to escape.
"Aletheia, from the Valley." she explains, adding her own voice to the mix. It is a fascinating voice, the kind of voice that reads an audiobook, smooth and pleasant, sturdy and even – both remarkable and entirely unremarkable. She is silent for a moment, tilting her head as she considers the glass girl who stands before her "I think I knew someone like you, once." she says, her voice far away as though lost in a dream. She had known someone, but that someone had been a star, burned out many years ago (or still burning, it's impossible for her to say). "What's your name?" she asks and tries to cling to a hope that this girl too is interstellar – that they might be, somehow, alike.
They make quite the pair, really – a glass girl, for whom touches might be dangerous, and a sad girl of the stars, whom it is dangerous to touch - but they are not alike. There is no one like Aletheia – the grass at the glass girl's feet is not wilting and dying. But the grass at Aletheia's feet is shriveling, is always shriveling. It and anything else that has the misfortune to touch her.
07-18-2015, 03:34 PM (This post was last modified: 07-28-2015, 01:48 AM by adaline.)
— A D A L I N E —
your mouth is poison; your mouth is wine
(you think your dreams are the same as mine)
Time is fleeting for Adaline. It is the sweeping of winds down the mountain corridor or the bristling of the oak against an upcoming storm. It is fragile, as fragile as she herself is, and beautiful in the way that all short-lived things are meant to be. You see, each morning that Adaline rises, she accepts that it may be her last. There is peace in knowing that you are not meant to live long, at least not here. There is tranquility in acceptance.
And yet, beneath the calmness of her pink eyes and the serene smile pulling at the ends of her lips is the boiling river of her blood and the ache in her glass bones. Her mother’s bravery seeps through her every cell, and there is something within her that thirsts desperately for adventure or passion or something other than the light fingers with which everyone seems to hold onto her. How she sometimes despises the way she can be coddled.
But, alas, she does not fight it. Instead, she watches as all of the mares approach and her expression does not change from the subtle quirk at the corner of her lips. It was kind of them to offer to take her in (for that is what she assumes they are there for). She did not have the heart to tell them that she would be but a temporary companion. Breakable things do not last long in this world.
“Adaline,” she finally breathes in a voice as insubstantial as her body itself. A breathy voice with notes of silver bells. “My name is Adaline.” She is kind, and she looks each of the mares in the eye before rolling her delicate shoulders and fluttering the useless wings behind her. “I am not sure what I am looking for,” her voice trails off and all of the words she should have said fill her head (purpose, love, security, meaning) and instead gives them a barely perceptible smile, “but I am hoping that you can all help me find it.”
The momentary nature of the glass mare is something the red mare would have a difficult time imagining. For her, time has become eternal. Days had begun to blend into weeks, weeks into years. So much had passed and yet she remained. And then she had come to the Dale, and a choice had been made. A choice which allows her serve for as long as her mind would hold. And here she remains, ever the steadfast servant. Where the fragile woman had made peace with the fact that any day could be her last, Elysteria had made peace with the fact that she would always go on. Many believe eternal life to be a gift. She knows differently.
As the mare tells them her name on a soft breath, she cannot help the surge of protectiveness that fills her. Perhaps Adaline does not wish to be cosseted in the way that Elysteria imagines she often is, but the concern is as much a part of her as the glass is a part of Adaline. It is something she doubts she will ever be able to put aside. Her instinct is protect, just as it is to breath, to eat, to survive. She could easily recognize the errancy of this instinct (after all, she had failed her daughter in such a way that it could not have been made more clear). Even so, she could not so easily rid herself of it.
As the mare continues speaking with a ruffle of tattered wings, Elysteria’s russet gaze remains fixed upon her. She sees the barely there smile as she responds with a second, softer smile at her words. She could well understand the sentiment. There had been many times in Elysteria’s life that she had not known what she was searching for. It was not until she had found the Dale again after so many years that she had felt true purpose in her life.
“I would be happy to try. I would like to start by offering you a home. The Dale is quite unique in that it is one of the best places in which to find your true self and purpose.”
After the recent shifting and growing of the kingdoms, this has never been truer. Though the Dale’s newly discovered spring is still largely a secret, the girl would discover its value and self-discovery attributes soon enough should she choose to join her.
elysteria
image c nadyabird.deviantart.com; html c Insane
OOC: I know this is out of order, but I wanted to get it done before I leave. I hope you guys don't mine.
When one comes to the field as often as some, you start to recognise a few of the faces. Some I've met before, multiple times, others I had yet to see, but am sure it would not be the last time there face would grace my eye. Elysteria is one of them. She has a bright eye, and a keen tongue. I dip my head to her, drawing my gaze back to the fragile butterfly before me. I daren't get too close, part of me wanted to see what would happen if I were to touch something so frail, and the other was too scared to break her. So I stayed my distance and watched as another filtered, in. Aletheia. The Valley's girl. I nodded to her, a wry smile touching my lips. She was face I had seen before, she had a way with words, that if I were in a stranger's position, it would possibly be the valley I would be choosing, if she were casting such a spell. But I am no stranger and am perfectly content with the chamber's ash and dirt marring my golden skin.
'Adaline.' I taste the stranger's name for a fleeting moment. 'It's a pleasure to meet you. I haven't met one quite as... unique as you before.' My tone is as gentle as can be, like the swath of stars against the blackest night, with the tinge of mystery and forever unknown. 'The Chamber can offer you whatever you would like, Adaline. It offers a home, purpose, being and a very essence in itself. But I'm sure that both the Dale and the Valley are equally as accommodating to whatever it is you need.' I say, before my ears flutter against my crown, my lithe neck arching ever so slightly, 'Sometimes life hits us with an epiphany. You can wander for what feels like an eternity, wanting something, wanting to mean something and then... it knocks you and you finally realise what is it like to have purpose.' my words are poetic and just, and even my sapphire gems cloud for a moment in that unique thought. I've not been as myself as I should. Perhaps it's the long nights without slumber, the long days of wandering, it has graced my mind with a whole new perspective.
Aletheia does not know what it is to lack purpose. She has had the blessing of being purposeful from the very moment she'd emerged into Beqanna (because indeed, it had been an emergence, an unfolding, a flowering). That she should serve the Valley had been almost immediately clear, baked into her almost as surely as the knowledge that her parents were Carnage and Librette. With that kind of blood in her veins, what could she do but serve? She's never considered any alternative, nor does she see any need to.
And yet – she can understand what it is to be unsure. She can remember it too clearly, tucked into every fold of memory from the moments right when she'd first awoken in the meadow. She can feel it like the brush of wind in her hair every time she is just slightly out of step with this world. She can feel it then, and it saddens her.
The others are talking, and she listens with blank interest as they speak. They don't know anything about purpose, she thinks as she listens. They offer their kingdoms, but a kingdom in and of itself isn't a purpose. Just because the Valley existed did not make it her purpose. It was her family's history, the blood that runs through her veins, that had sealed her fate. She doesn't presume that the same must (or even should) be true of Adaline, but she's absolutely certain that the simple fact of a kingdom's existence – the fact that it is there to absorb dedication – does not mean that it inherently inspires it.
She shakes her head. "I can't say that the Valley is what you're looking for."soft and sweet, her audiobook voice is neither pretty nor unpretty, but her icy blue eyes are fixed on the girl. "I'm not sure that any home can be what you're looking for." her voice is like liquid icicles, clear and pure. She speaks slowly, her words unfolding with the delicate grace of flowers. She stares blankly at Adaline for a moment. "But if the Valley, or anything about it, calls to your mind or your heart, I'd be happy to take you there."
At her feet, the blades of grass collapse against each other with a silent sigh.
