for mama-bear @Lotte! ♥ psa: please note that drogon will be asleep for 99.9% of this thread. everything below the 'cut line' in this post (and all posts going forward unless otherwise stated) are apart of his dream. :-)
drogon slips from moonspear's borders before the sun has even risen, when the moon is still high in the velveteen night and heads north-east. he does not venture far, breaching into neverwinter forest's evergreen sentinels when the sun is just beginning it's ascension in the horizon. he ventures into the territories heart and when he finds a suitable place to bed — a long since abandoned den big enough to comfortably fit him he noses his way inside past the thick weeds and brush that have grown to nearly conceal it's entrance. he sniffs at the far wall, does a complete circle in place before he plops down, licks his front left paw a few times to smooth the fur there. after a few moments drogon lays his chin upon his paws, closes his eyes and falls into a fast albeit heavy slumber.
he ventures outside the overgrown den entrance, frowning as a few burs cling onto his thick pelage. he's vain enough to mind the unsightly and unwanted addition yet as he looks away they are easily forgotten. like all dream things, they disappear as if it had never been apart of it in the first place. the forest is covered in a thick fog and drogon struggles to make out too many details. the sentinels that he knows surround him are distorted, little more than writhing shadows in the creeping fog that eventually yawns forth to swallow him. though drogon is not afraid of fog, neither does he necessarily mind enclosed places he feels as if he's suffocating, as if the fog is making it hard to breathe. he is caged by it, the cage bars pressing tighter and tighter against him. his limbs feel heavy and thus he stands near-statue still aside from the flare of his black, leathery nostrils as he exhales heavy breaths and the alert swivel of his ears cupped forth atop his skull, accompanied by the slight bristle of hair at his nape as he expects — by warrior nature alone — something to emerge from the fog.
he ventures outside the overgrown den entrance, frowning as a few burs cling onto his thick pelage. he's vain enough to mind the unsightly and unwanted addition yet as he looks away they are easily forgotten. like all dream things, they disappear as if it had never been apart of it in the first place. the forest is covered in a thick fog and drogon struggles to make out too many details. the sentinels that he knows surround him are distorted, little more than writhing shadows in the creeping fog that eventually yawns forth to swallow him. though drogon is not afraid of fog, neither does he necessarily mind enclosed places he feels as if he's suffocating, as if the fog is making it hard to breathe. he is caged by it, the cage bars pressing tighter and tighter against him. his limbs feel heavy and thus he stands near-statue still aside from the flare of his black, leathery nostrils as he exhales heavy breaths and the alert swivel of his ears cupped forth atop his skull, accompanied by the slight bristle of hair at his nape as he expects — by warrior nature alone — something to emerge from the fog.
May 12, 2018, 12:48 PM
Lotte approaches on sneakthief-silent paws, her matte fur and grayscale palette making her approach utterly undetectable. It is when she is still yards away from her son that she pauses and deliberately cracks a twig with one broad paw, a lioness-like chuff rolling from her smiling maw. Drawing a deep breath, she purses her lips and blows — and the current of air that streams from her lips breaks impossibly through the fog and surrounds the young soturi in a glowing ring. “Rakeet and happy first birthday, dear one. You have become a great soturi and muodonmuuttaja, Roarke,” she intones with solemn pride, unable to keep herself from using the name he was given at birth. “I see you took your good looks from your mother, but your eyes are more like your Uncle Dagfinn’s.” Of all of her children, Roarke is the one who most resembles his mother and Ceallach is the one who most resembles his father. Eirlys and Mallaidh are the ones who are a bewitching amalgam of both parents: the former with her father’s warm tones and her mother’s stockier musculature; the latter with her mother’s smoke-and-shadow coloration and her father’s streamlined build.
Lotte proves herself to be as tactless as ever as she bluntly questions Roarke the same way she questioned Mallaidh: “Why do you call yourself Drogon, son of mine, son of Arturo?” She wonders if her children are forever creating new identities for themselves because of their theatrical mother — and then she remembers Arturo’s lapse into Witchdoctor and Hemlock’s former life as Isley. Oh. She guesses she can’t really blame them, all things considered. Drawing a breath so deep it pains her, she finally asks the question she’s been harboring in her heart for months. “Roarke Altaïr Fearghal, have you truly forgotten your äiti, who looked for you every day? Have you forgotten this?” She sings the tule kotiin call, a wild, undulating howl meant to pitch across miles and miles of tundra.
Lotte proves herself to be as tactless as ever as she bluntly questions Roarke the same way she questioned Mallaidh: “Why do you call yourself Drogon, son of mine, son of Arturo?” She wonders if her children are forever creating new identities for themselves because of their theatrical mother — and then she remembers Arturo’s lapse into Witchdoctor and Hemlock’s former life as Isley. Oh. She guesses she can’t really blame them, all things considered. Drawing a breath so deep it pains her, she finally asks the question she’s been harboring in her heart for months. “Roarke Altaïr Fearghal, have you truly forgotten your äiti, who looked for you every day? Have you forgotten this?” She sings the tule kotiin call, a wild, undulating howl meant to pitch across miles and miles of tundra.
May 12, 2018, 01:14 PM
drogon does not hear her approach — but does not know whether it is because he is deep in slumber or because she is a silent and sure-footed lioness. he knows her immediately as she dispels the thick fog that had engulfed him. she looks like him ...or perhaps, rather more accurately, he looks like her. the weight lifts as the fog dissapates but talvella does not move. his legs are still as heavy as lead. roarke. roarke. roarke, roarke, roarke! everything he has worked tirelessly to repress, to protect The Family and more importantly to selfishly protect himself comes crashing down like a tsunami wave. there is a roar in his ears like the bellow of a mighty beast. liar. drogon...enok tundra...it was all lies. they spilled effortlessly off of his silver lacquered tongue like honeyed poetry, so much so that he had no longer been able to differentiate what was lie and what was truth. a symptom of his own creation, of course.
"no," he chokes on the word as it spills, raspy and breathless from betwixt his lips as the tule kotiin surrounds him. it is familiar. it calls him home ...but he has no home. no true home. nothing that is his. he has shelter and it is at the price of belonging to someone else. "no. i never forgot you, äiti," drogon pleas with his mother, because her disappointment is not something he ever desires. "i am your talvella. your wintersbane. always and forever." he draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls as it occurs to him that he never answered her first question.
"to protect the family at all and every cost. that is why i call myself drogon," he tells her, averting his gaze for the briefest of moments before it zeroes back upon his mother's familiar form which is almost disorienting at how it resembles a femme mirror of himself. "but even then i disobey. i am selfish because i took ansbjørn for myself." it was not his and yet he stole it and sought to make it his own nevertheless.
"no," he chokes on the word as it spills, raspy and breathless from betwixt his lips as the tule kotiin surrounds him. it is familiar. it calls him home ...but he has no home. no true home. nothing that is his. he has shelter and it is at the price of belonging to someone else. "no. i never forgot you, äiti," drogon pleas with his mother, because her disappointment is not something he ever desires. "i am your talvella. your wintersbane. always and forever." he draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls as it occurs to him that he never answered her first question.
"to protect the family at all and every cost. that is why i call myself drogon," he tells her, averting his gaze for the briefest of moments before it zeroes back upon his mother's familiar form which is almost disorienting at how it resembles a femme mirror of himself. "but even then i disobey. i am selfish because i took ansbjørn for myself." it was not his and yet he stole it and sought to make it his own nevertheless.
May 12, 2018, 04:54 PM
Lotte’s moonbright eyes glisten with unshed tears as she regards her son. “How can you take something that already belongs to you, talvella?” she counters gently. “You are a Fearghal because you are Arturo’s son, but you are an Ansbjørn, too — because you are mine.” Her smile wavers at the corners with the force of her emotions. By all the gods, her children have grown up to be perfect — Roarke, with his steely strength; Mallaidh, with her soft vulnerability; Ceallach, with his fierce protectiveness; and even Eirlys, with her staunch independence. “I am so proud of you — all four of you,” she whispers, the tears spilling over to be lost in the black velvet of her cheeks. “I was so worried when two of my little bears were lost. I searched for you and Mallaidh every day, but I never found you. I never found you.” She shakes her head, tries to smile. “I should have — ”
She trails off, tacks on an alternate ending, and weaves it together seamlessly, earning her name. Hämähäkki. “I should have known children of the Fearghal and Ansbjørn bloodlines would persevere no matter the odds.” She moves forward toward her son, heedless of her own safety, and nuzzles his cheek. “Be Drogon, if that is what you wish,” she urges him gently, “but sometimes…be Roarke. They do not have to be separate, you know — they are both part of you. There is no Teaghlaigh now, and part of protecting your family now means protecting who you were, not just who you have become. As for me, I will love you and know you no matter what you call yourself.”
She trails off, tacks on an alternate ending, and weaves it together seamlessly, earning her name. Hämähäkki. “I should have known children of the Fearghal and Ansbjørn bloodlines would persevere no matter the odds.” She moves forward toward her son, heedless of her own safety, and nuzzles his cheek. “Be Drogon, if that is what you wish,” she urges him gently, “but sometimes…be Roarke. They do not have to be separate, you know — they are both part of you. There is no Teaghlaigh now, and part of protecting your family now means protecting who you were, not just who you have become. As for me, I will love you and know you no matter what you call yourself.”
May 13, 2018, 05:38 AM
drogon's ears splay back, slicking against his skull and there is a quiver of his lips as lotte counters that he couldn't take something that was already his. "it's not your fault, mama," drogon takes a step forward towards her. he doesn't try to reach out and touch her, too afraid that the second he does is the second she will disappear in a plume of smoke. "you did the best you could," he speaks softly, seeking to comfort her because seeing her distraught is painful. "i am alive and i am strong because of you, äiti. because i am your son." he tells her strongly, his tone feverish in the passion he feels behind his words. he is indifferent about arturo — he'd never been meant to be close to him. talvella had always been destined to be a mama's boy.
he does not have to finish crossing the distance for lotte does it on her own. he lets out a choked breath as she nuzzles his cheek. even though drogon is aware, in some aspect or another, that this is a dream her touch feels real. the truth is he doesn't know who he is. he is drogon, he is roarke, he is the jackal, he is the wintersbane. he is all of his masks, exchanged and employed as necessary; he is a thespian and the world is his grand stage ...and it feels like it's too soon to retire from it. there was more to life then what he's 'settled' for...out of loyalty, out of affection. it made sense that drogon, who'd been playing a part since he was a small boy, when he's asked, wound up unable to tell charon who he was, tell him things about him. he didn't know. "i'll find myself, mama." but he wasn't going to do it as he was now.
the sacrifices he'd been weighing for a few days now became, abruptly, worth it. "i promise." he breathes, pressing his nose against her plush fur.
he does not have to finish crossing the distance for lotte does it on her own. he lets out a choked breath as she nuzzles his cheek. even though drogon is aware, in some aspect or another, that this is a dream her touch feels real. the truth is he doesn't know who he is. he is drogon, he is roarke, he is the jackal, he is the wintersbane. he is all of his masks, exchanged and employed as necessary; he is a thespian and the world is his grand stage ...and it feels like it's too soon to retire from it. there was more to life then what he's 'settled' for...out of loyalty, out of affection. it made sense that drogon, who'd been playing a part since he was a small boy, when he's asked, wound up unable to tell charon who he was, tell him things about him. he didn't know. "i'll find myself, mama." but he wasn't going to do it as he was now.
the sacrifices he'd been weighing for a few days now became, abruptly, worth it. "i promise." he breathes, pressing his nose against her plush fur.
May 18, 2018, 07:12 AM
Per the conversation in #phone-a-friend, there is no formal policy on dream appearances, so I believe I have tacit permission to finish out these threads. ^^
“I’ll find myself, mama. I promise.”
“You are not lost, tienraivaaja,” Lotte murmurs to her son, preening through the thick fur at the nape of his neck. “If anybody asks, you are ‘just wandering’ — matkamies. That is what I said whenever I did not know the way. I do not like to ask for directions,” she says with a conspiratorial wink, wrinkling the bridge of her muzzle in a moue of distaste, mostly for comedic effect. “I do not like anyone telling me what to do or where to go. If I cannot find something or somewhere directly, I will make my own way or look for something new.” She tosses her regal head with leonine haughtiness.
“Whatever you do with your time, my son,” she says, nosing affectionately at the base of his ear, “do it as a promise to yourself — not as a promise to me, not as a promise to your father. The greatest gift you could ever give me is to choose your own way. There is no shame in settling, if that is what you want to do; I gave up wandering when I gave birth to you and your siblings, and it turned out to be the greatest adventure of my life. Too, there is no shame in wandering. The world is wide, and if you want to test every kind of terrain before you decide to make your bed, then do so. I will be proud of you no matter what, blood of my blood.”
“You are not lost, tienraivaaja,” Lotte murmurs to her son, preening through the thick fur at the nape of his neck. “If anybody asks, you are ‘just wandering’ — matkamies. That is what I said whenever I did not know the way. I do not like to ask for directions,” she says with a conspiratorial wink, wrinkling the bridge of her muzzle in a moue of distaste, mostly for comedic effect. “I do not like anyone telling me what to do or where to go. If I cannot find something or somewhere directly, I will make my own way or look for something new.” She tosses her regal head with leonine haughtiness.
“Whatever you do with your time, my son,” she says, nosing affectionately at the base of his ear, “do it as a promise to yourself — not as a promise to me, not as a promise to your father. The greatest gift you could ever give me is to choose your own way. There is no shame in settling, if that is what you want to do; I gave up wandering when I gave birth to you and your siblings, and it turned out to be the greatest adventure of my life. Too, there is no shame in wandering. The world is wide, and if you want to test every kind of terrain before you decide to make your bed, then do so. I will be proud of you no matter what, blood of my blood.”
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