[open] when I was a bird I could see

[cressida]

when I was a bird I could see where the moon had turned

Tonight, she does not feel like traveling as a deer. She has spent so many nights as such and though she does not tire of it—not, exactly—she does find that she misses the body her birth. The crooked horn of her father just barely beginning to rise from her youthful forehead. The small wings that tuck over her back, elegantly folded and expectant. She takes pleasure in this form too, although it can feel nearly stocky compared to the more spindly deer, and with the moon beginning to rise once more, just starting to wax, she feels more like herself again too. She feels the joy, the pleasure, once again seeping into her.

She leaves her preferred forest, walking toward the meadow with the moonlight dappling over her slender back. Cressida is so rarely found during the day—and, when she is, it is only at the insistence of her brother. She would gladly weather the heat if it was his own, but when he is off having his own adventures, she does not find any reason to sleep through the hours that were wholly her own.

Her pale golden hooves flash as she moves through the spring flowers and swaying grass, the black beginning to recede from her coat with the wave of silver washing up her legs. Soon, she would be once again fully silver—fully herself. Instead, she only has the remnants of it. A tease of what is to come.

Smiling, she glances up to see that she is in the center of the meadow.

She twists her head around and finds no-one around.

A gentle shrug as she closes her eyes and tips her head back.

Calls the thin moonlight down until the meadow is nearly daylight with the silvery light.

the sky was alive and this wire of mine burned

[Chemdog]

A pale child hooks the waxing moon and draws her nearer while Chem was listlessly grazing about after some idle conversation with a passing acquaintance. He loves to wander at night and often finds the same faces wandering around when he does. This little face is not familiar. It is always special to find someone nocturnal like himself, someone who basks in moonlight. He’s always had a fondness for the chrome warmth the moon casts so generously. And tonight it’s so near he can feel it mixing with the light of his thick smoke, which spreads slowly from where he stands in the tall grass. It mimics the silver of the moon’s glow, pulsing like a heartbeat. Such power in such a young one, which makes him think of his daughter, and then his many children – he hopes they move about with the confident euphoria this little filly seems to have.

He thinks of what he might do – usually, greedily, he only gives his time for things that may gain him something. A resident for his home, an alliance, anything useful, but in the moments now, as he looks at the girl who plays with the moon, he is inclined to say hello. And so, he does, from afar but close enough to be heard. The meadow is lit well, so there’s no hiding his hulking size, his bone white face or chest, so he hopes his approach doesn’t seem predatory.

“Hello there,” his voice is soft and smooth, no growl to it, hardly any boom. He lowers his head, less big maybe equals less scary. “It is like day,” he exclaims with a childish awe in his eyes as he looks around him and then back to her, “did you do this?” His smile is genuine, as any decent adult may smile at a child. One ear propped to her and the other spinning like a satellite, listening carefully for what might be an angry parent mistaking him for some creep.

(Well, he is a creep, but not that sort of creep.)

CHEMDOG
to the window, to the wall

8

i have no clue why he feels inclined to say hello but i love her shes so cute and i hope this is otay
@[cressida] ♥

[cressida]

when I was a bird I could see where the moon had turned

Her parents have always been generous with the freedom they have allotted both her and her twin. Children of the solar, they have never been the kind to roost at home—never the type to be dotted on and left to the watchful eye of their elders. Instead, they were as wild and free as the sun and moon from which they were molded and, in their way, Mesec and Alaska had understood that. Did not begrudge them their time spent adventuring and to themselves. To the strange language shared between the twins.

So there is no parent just outside of range to come and save her.

Although Cressida has hardly ever been in need of rescue.

The sound nearly startles her, as much as she allows herself to be startled, and her pale gold eyes widen just slightly as she dips her head down to look to the side. It does not take her long to spot the source of the voice and when she realizes that he is several feet away and with a kind face, her tension eases. Her wings settle again from where they had raised slightly against her back and her muscles loosen.

“I am not my brother so it is a poor imitation of day,” is all she says at first, glancing around the area, where her moonlight plays in silvery ripples. It is not quite a humble statement though, because she truly does love her connection to the moon. She closes her eyes, humming slightly as she angles her head to the side and moonlight plays across her cheek like a melody. The air breathes and she lets it dance around her, plucking the strings of it like a violin. More moonlight washes down and then recedes.

A tide of light around them both.

After several more seconds, her pale eyes open again and she glances back at him.

She does not answer his question nor ask any of her own.

She simply observes.

the sky was alive and this wire of mine burned

@[Chemdog] - I'm so glad you did!

[Chemdog]

His heart leaps in his chest when he sees her startle, the very feel of it on the air makes him have to fight the urge to be flighty, or even timid that he’s made the little thing fearful. But the atmosphere softens, her pale golden eyes looking him over, her wings settling back to her sides. He snorts gently in relief, she recognizes that he is no danger, and not closing in.

Any others within sight, within the silver illumination she’s drawn so vibrantly nearer to the swaying grass tips, watches them. Some are curious, some don’t seem to care at all. It isn’t such a spectacle in this world, to have the moonlight touch your skin because it’s being lassoed down by a child standing alone in the Meadow.

When the breeze breathes, washing over them, and the tide of moonlight wrapping them as she closes her eyes. He closes his too, holding his own milky white face to the chrome glow. It isn’t warm like sunlight, but almost minty, tingly as it spills over him. His skin prickles with the chills moving down his spine. He opens his eyes to smile at the now silent child, hearing her remark from before repeat within his mind. “Not poor.” he whispers low, blinking slow, basking still. Fireflies move in, they seem to have come from nowhere, dancing in the extra light. “We wouldn’t want night to be day, anyway, so it is a perfect representation of the gealach’s beauty; to bring her light so close.” The special word is drawn out with an accent foreign to Beqanna, one his grandfather spoke with. That is what he always lovingly called the moon and Chem never forgot it.

He has no urge to ask her anything, like her name or why she is here. It didn’t seem necessary. So while she observes, so does he, and slowly Irisaen slithers out of his mane to curl around his ear. The wash of light making the blues and greens of her iridescent scales flash brightly against Chem’s onyx hair.

CHEMDOG
to the window, to the wall

8

his little companion snake is still a baby so it can curl around his ear still lol
AND IM SO GLAD I DID TOO

she is frickin precious

@[cressida] ♥

[cressida]

Cressida

Cressida does not understand tension—is not skilled in the art of navigating it. She did not even understand the wilderness that lived in the brambles of her mother’s heart. She didn’t know what it was to yearn for the horizon or feel the constant pressure to go faster, fly higher, want more. Instead, she knows the ease and the quiet of the evening hours. The slumber of the night being the rhythm to which she lived her life. She lived in the lulls and in the exhales. She lived in the moments where most others closed their eyes—constant to wander the wood by herself, save the nights when her brother walked alongside her.

So she only knows ease in this interaction with the strange stallion, her panic quickly fleeing to be replaced with a calm knowing. Her heart trips slightly at his use of the strange word to explain the moon, to name herself, and she tucks it away for later—content to hold onto that for safekeeping.

“I have never envied my brother his sunlight,” she answers honestly, her face an open book. “The moon and the sun love one another—they do not attempt to drown out what complements them best.” But his compliment is not unnoticed and her heart warms beneath the attention of it. The light around them grows just a touch more radiant in response and she tips her head up to catch the glittering light of it before sending out a thread of it to him and the small companion who now slithers around his ear.

A warm wash of it under his chin and then down his neck, rippling along the length of him.

And then a smile.

“I am Cressida.”

@[Chemdog]

[Chemdog]

She’s got a whole universe in her eyes, or even at her mental fingertips; it doesn’t end with the moonlight, a voice tells him. He smiles when she smiles, and the wash of moonlight plays along his chin, under him and along his body. He takes in a deep breath, closing those big bright eyes, his smile deepening. “Cressida.” he repeats softly, opening his eyes and lifting his head a bit, still bending to meet her height at least halfway. “I’m Chemdog, I live over in Silver Cove; gealach’s light gives my home life every night except when in her dark phase [new moon].” He blows a clearing breath through his nostrils.

“And what about you, Cressida?” he finds her eyes again after he briefly glanced for a parent coming for her. “Where are you from, if I may ask?” He wasn’t sure if it’s polite to ask or not, as he’s not usually concerned with manners – but oddly he finds himself a little concerned with being delicate now. It’s a courtesy not many get from him, perhaps even limited to his own children, and now, this one.

i'm so sorry this is blaH!
she deserves better, things have been nuts - sorry for the wait too
YIKE ♥♥♥


@[cressida]