this is the leaving of another love; elysteria, weir, any

[Ramiel]

ghost king of the dale >>

Winter bears down on them longer than usual.

Or at least it feels like it, anyway. Ramiel paces through the snow-covered hills in the late afternoon one winter day. It is a strain on all of the muscles in his legs to work through the thick powder, but it is a rewarding exercise. His breath collects in tiny clouds from his nostrils as he goes; the effort is both tiring and a release of his pent-up energy all at once. Because the Dale is quiet once more and there is little else to do.

The coming of the snow and ice has brought with it a stillness that stretches beyond the weather. All of the world seems to hunker down in the insulating season, comfortable in waiting for spring before taking any action. Or maybe it isn’t comfort or lethargy that makes them stale. Maybe it is the war that comes knocking at their door, keeping them tucked away in their kingdoms so they don’t have to answer the summons. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes.

Ramiel knows it to be a bleak hope, if it is the case. There is practically zero chance of any of them escaping the violence that lingers like spring on the horizon. Beqanna is hungry for it, after all. The staleness of their world can only continue for so long before it crumbles like bread left too long in the air. He only wonders when it will happen. He only worries where the Dale and his people will fall in the process. Because they will no longer stand alone. The ghost-king had told the soldier from the Deserts not to underestimate the mountain kingdom any longer, and he hadn’t been bluffing. Though they are few in number, their members are powerful and loyal – traits that mean so much more than sheer quantity alone. And then there is the wonderful matter of the spirits.

They have finally fully matured. Ramiel had been there as his spirit had come alive, emerging from the pool with a flourish of wings and a spray of water. He’d marveled at the pure beauty of the creature; the transparency and acceptance of who he was had been before him in the not-quite-flesh. From its curved, crushing beak to its faint red chest and head. A vulture – a bearded vulture, Weir would correct him. A scavenger. A searcher for the dead and dying; a keeper of life’s endless circle. Of course, he’d thought.

As he walks, his spirit is with him as it always is. It flies just out of sight above him, watchful, guarding. He wonders if Elysteria and Weir’s spirits have come forth as well, hopes they’ve gotten to experience the joy and understanding in the same way he has. The grey also wonders if they’ve thought about the implications of the animals. Could their spirits assist them in the war? It is an unsated curiosity that he spends a lot of his time pondering. Now, as he slip-slides down the final hill into the lower bowl of the Dale, he is still thinking (while trying not to misplace a step on the icy slope). But there is someone else nearby. And as he peers into the distance, his golden eyes darting between the snowflakes, he calls out to them. “Hello?”

ramiel

ooc: figured we should start a new one now that the spirits are mature (yay!) and it was my turn <3

[Weir]

WEIR

Once, Winter had chilled Weir to the bone, almost quite literally. Now, Winter was his playground- the year through.

No longer did the red shiver and shake with the drop of the temperature. Truthfully he had come to not feel the cold- not anymore. Now, he welcomed the snow, the ice, the brisk air that sent flurries of flakes curling across the drifts. He welcomed it, like he welcomed each new day and when there was no snow to play in- well, he made some. Weir took delight in his gifts, sculpting ice formations to look like his heard mates. To look like creatures that were far too cold to traverse the fields anymore. Random figurines of squirrels and raccoons could be found where Weir had been, leaving an assortment of amusement to look upon.

He too left long glittering icicles dangling from the trees, clinging from the boughs in intricate swirls and patterns. It was only at night that his senses dulled, that unease crept up his back and he tucked himself away in a horse-sized igloo. (The children too, when they wished to share it). One where an amber light radiated from within, Weir's Christmas cheer magic pulsating from the depths of his ice cave. An attempt to keep the dread at bay, to get himself and Darwin through the night. True that Darwin did not feel the great prickles of fear clawing his skin at night. Darwin did not do many things, he did not tire. nor did his body hunger for sustenance. He did not drink, nor did he ache, yet somehow still, he did exist.

Since Weir had pulled the great Galapagos tortoise from the pool, they had been inseparable. Even now they traveled as one, spinning through the air as a swirl of frosty wind and flakes. Spiraling across the Dale is a swarm of snow, before someone calls to them. The game is up. The King's voice reaching his ears, though it is not to be discerned which flakes are his ears right now. Instead, he simply blows on over, twirling about Ramiel for a moment before the flakes amass into a thick whiteout. He appears again from the bottom up, the flakes dispersing to first reveal his legs, his chest, then him- and Darwin is right beside him.

"Hallo, halloo" He laughs, looking bright this afternoon, dipping his head. "It is just I, Weir. And this, is Darwin." He beams proudly, the tortoise quite large, it's long neck bringing it's head to meet Weir's shoulder.

FIRST WE'LL MAKE SNOW ANGELS FOR TWO HOURS
THEN WE'LL GO ICE SKATING