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+--- Thread: Shadewood the good ones always die (/showthread.php?tid=35848)
the good ones always die - Niebla - July 25, 2019
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Summer, already, was her least treasured of the seasons.
The sky blazed a pale azure in the late morning, stretching wide across the canvas above - few clouds gathered like seafoam to mask the vibrant hues, but there was an aspect of monochrome to Niebla's youthful figure, body appearing to slither like pale mist betwixt the trees of the keep. She was an oddity, this girl, in her detatchment; her stoicism. As though she had been birthed from eternal frost, the polar gasps of a hiemal dragon, rather than the steady warmth of her mother's womb. Little was revealed in her glacial stare, despite her age, and it was often this that kept the other children away - as though, perhaps, they might be scared of her.
She didn't object.
The young winter sylph slowed her steps as the mellow breeze began to die down, leaving a pit of heat in its wake - from this calefaction, amongst the vivid vegetation, came the fluttering of miniscule wings, beating in their ignorance over the waves of the air. For a moment, she simply observed the butterfly. Niebla's lips parted then, a cold breath wooshing from her jaws to blow the creature away, into the abyss of the world. Where it would travel from there, she could not see.
Go, little 'fly.
She was simply correcting the path.
The sky blazed a pale azure in the late morning, stretching wide across the canvas above - few clouds gathered like seafoam to mask the vibrant hues, but there was an aspect of monochrome to Niebla's youthful figure, body appearing to slither like pale mist betwixt the trees of the keep. She was an oddity, this girl, in her detatchment; her stoicism. As though she had been birthed from eternal frost, the polar gasps of a hiemal dragon, rather than the steady warmth of her mother's womb. Little was revealed in her glacial stare, despite her age, and it was often this that kept the other children away - as though, perhaps, they might be scared of her.
She didn't object.
The young winter sylph slowed her steps as the mellow breeze began to die down, leaving a pit of heat in its wake - from this calefaction, amongst the vivid vegetation, came the fluttering of miniscule wings, beating in their ignorance over the waves of the air. For a moment, she simply observed the butterfly. Niebla's lips parted then, a cold breath wooshing from her jaws to blow the creature away, into the abyss of the world. Where it would travel from there, she could not see.
Go, little 'fly.
She was simply correcting the path.
RE: the good ones always die - Cry - July 30, 2019
Correcting the path? ....
that he couldn't notice the gem that stood before him, already showing promise in her most perfect flaws of numb child life. She had a sibling, one of whom Gwendolyn either kept hidden from him, or had chosen a different spot to keep it. He knew of it to be a son, one with remarkably mirrored image to him. But no...he hadn't met the thing yet.
Here one stood...and as silent as the flight of a hunting hawk, he watched her further her talent as his prodigy...icelandic glacials stayed frigid on the girl. Cry waited and watched, his patience rolling over in a roll of sub temperate waves. She would feel his past...she could be the chosen one. The next to piece together who he was. She had his blood in her veins...she was also the same age he was when Slade had taken him from his mother.
A face that could so easily be forgotten...
Until you wanted to remember them, again.
Or destroying the one it was meant to embark upon...?
Raziel watched his daughter and her forefround as she unfolded it before herself with her judgement. A looming shadow both above and below, between and behind the looming clouds of this smaller snowstorm, a promise of so much more to come should the shadow envelope and induce it to be such. He felt himself growing further from his own destiny as of late, and even moreso as he crossed into the charters of life where he was staining his life with the obscene bruises he inflicted on his path. Forsaking his wife for the chance to uproot power in it's most seductive and writhing of ways, only to fall ahead of himself. He was too ambitious, he heard his former concious chide in it's shackles. Too ambitious and looked too far into the future to accurately pinpoint anything useful for now. So farsighted...that he couldn't notice the gem that stood before him, already showing promise in her most perfect flaws of numb child life. She had a sibling, one of whom Gwendolyn either kept hidden from him, or had chosen a different spot to keep it. He knew of it to be a son, one with remarkably mirrored image to him. But no...he hadn't met the thing yet.
Here one stood...and as silent as the flight of a hunting hawk, he watched her further her talent as his prodigy...icelandic glacials stayed frigid on the girl. Cry waited and watched, his patience rolling over in a roll of sub temperate waves. She would feel his past...she could be the chosen one. The next to piece together who he was. She had his blood in her veins...she was also the same age he was when Slade had taken him from his mother.
A face that could so easily be forgotten...
Until you wanted to remember them, again.
RE: the good ones always die - Niebla - July 31, 2019
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At first, lost in her own sphere of solemnity, she was not cognizant her father's presence.
Truthfully, Niebla was too young to understand why it was her mother kept distance between them, in her gentle stoicism, the prudent silence in which drove her days; the snowstorm and her brother had yet to confront the void-born who shared their blood, and yet, there was an unspoken connection that settled deep in her bones - a tenacious, indefatigable tie. The bond of blood was strong, this she knew to be veracious, and it must be an instinctual yearning that fed her curiousity, this warped mirage of a stranger in her mind.
Who was her father? Why did her mother keep them away?
The wind shifted. It was from there that a scent was whisked toward her nostrils, a scent in which she drank greedily (butterfly forgotten), the very focus of her dubiety; her father. His scent, amongst all else, was familiar to her - in the few times her mother left the children unattended, she would frequently trail his own tracks, purely with morbid inquisitiveness. To see what it was her mother did not wish her to see.
And now he was here, a lingering shadow of tenebrosity. Glacial eyes of beryl flickered backward, behind her spine, in order to gauge his whereabouts - and in her typical, commanding silence, she awaited his reveal.
Truthfully, Niebla was too young to understand why it was her mother kept distance between them, in her gentle stoicism, the prudent silence in which drove her days; the snowstorm and her brother had yet to confront the void-born who shared their blood, and yet, there was an unspoken connection that settled deep in her bones - a tenacious, indefatigable tie. The bond of blood was strong, this she knew to be veracious, and it must be an instinctual yearning that fed her curiousity, this warped mirage of a stranger in her mind.
Who was her father? Why did her mother keep them away?
The wind shifted. It was from there that a scent was whisked toward her nostrils, a scent in which she drank greedily (butterfly forgotten), the very focus of her dubiety; her father. His scent, amongst all else, was familiar to her - in the few times her mother left the children unattended, she would frequently trail his own tracks, purely with morbid inquisitiveness. To see what it was her mother did not wish her to see.
And now he was here, a lingering shadow of tenebrosity. Glacial eyes of beryl flickered backward, behind her spine, in order to gauge his whereabouts - and in her typical, commanding silence, she awaited his reveal.
RE: the good ones always die - Cry - August 04, 2019
Just as he would have, she gave him space and permission to enter her own. The silent monster whom she so dearly wanted the identity of...the man who held voices that others could not fathom the secrets of. The creature who bore her Existence, yet she deemed him worth her presence.
It was impossible to have become any more proud.
He did not give into her powerplay, her omen of silent bidding to step forth. His little mirror did not need his dark aura to portray she was indeed of him. Her mind was as his - that of a student, just as it was that of a master. She would not fall as easy as her mother, and she would possibly even be who took his final breath clear from his grasp in her fog-bitten grip. He could only fantisize over her dangerous reign, and her terrible beauty in the comparisons that stalked their futures.
Raziel could feel so much more than just her gaze's peripheral on him; he had captured her mind. Her interest danced as gentle as the flutter of her forgotten butterfly's winglets, and with it blew such a superstitious level of dominance.
He left upon her mind another gift...
Her calling, wrapped in a tar hued box and topped with a frozen azure bow-
"Atolas." It was the same name that her wonderful mother had bestowed upon her, but the sound he gave was nowhere near the soft and rivetting lavish feminity Gwen had given. No, the name which had left his void lips and marched to Niebla's auds was a feeling of chaos so controlled that should you merely wish the sight of the world begone, it was your's to command. It was an army of hellcast dragons and wyverns settled upon your perch, all still until you demanded the existence of everything be wiped clean in a bath of silence and blizzard, melted into ash and snow, and frozen into a never-seen storm of nothing. All of the power possible to be simply held and made your own lie in his word to his Daughter.
And she could either take her title and with it, trainings under secrecy and silent willpower, or she could let it rot between them.
It was impossible to have become any more proud.
He did not give into her powerplay, her omen of silent bidding to step forth. His little mirror did not need his dark aura to portray she was indeed of him. Her mind was as his - that of a student, just as it was that of a master. She would not fall as easy as her mother, and she would possibly even be who took his final breath clear from his grasp in her fog-bitten grip. He could only fantisize over her dangerous reign, and her terrible beauty in the comparisons that stalked their futures.
Raziel could feel so much more than just her gaze's peripheral on him; he had captured her mind. Her interest danced as gentle as the flutter of her forgotten butterfly's winglets, and with it blew such a superstitious level of dominance.
He left upon her mind another gift...
Her calling, wrapped in a tar hued box and topped with a frozen azure bow-
"Atolas." It was the same name that her wonderful mother had bestowed upon her, but the sound he gave was nowhere near the soft and rivetting lavish feminity Gwen had given. No, the name which had left his void lips and marched to Niebla's auds was a feeling of chaos so controlled that should you merely wish the sight of the world begone, it was your's to command. It was an army of hellcast dragons and wyverns settled upon your perch, all still until you demanded the existence of everything be wiped clean in a bath of silence and blizzard, melted into ash and snow, and frozen into a never-seen storm of nothing. All of the power possible to be simply held and made your own lie in his word to his Daughter.
And she could either take her title and with it, trainings under secrecy and silent willpower, or she could let it rot between them.
RE: the good ones always die - Niebla - August 06, 2019
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Atolas.
She did not know this word, did not know the meaning, nor the reason, for it to be bestowed upon her crown, and yet - it felt powerful. As though, when his lips parted to release it into the wind, a surge of vehement electricity riveted through the air, a shudder of what could be, should she embrace this word into her system. For a moment, the snowstorm contemplated, and when her eyes drifted shut, in order to truly experience this word, this title, this... ascendency, she felt compelled to repeat it, to confirm it, to acknowledge it.
"Atolas."
Visions dove in rivulets across her vision to whisk her mind, a sharp intake of breath slid through her teeth, and with a rush of energy pulsing through her veins, her eyes opened. Only a few seconds. Just a taste. Atolas, it was her, the trees seemed to whisper, branches quivering. She had no reason to doubt them, but who, who was behind their voice? She would find them. They would guide her path.
But first...
"What does it mean?" She commanded of him, the void shadow, who lingered still in the tenebrosity of the treeline.
She did not know this word, did not know the meaning, nor the reason, for it to be bestowed upon her crown, and yet - it felt powerful. As though, when his lips parted to release it into the wind, a surge of vehement electricity riveted through the air, a shudder of what could be, should she embrace this word into her system. For a moment, the snowstorm contemplated, and when her eyes drifted shut, in order to truly experience this word, this title, this... ascendency, she felt compelled to repeat it, to confirm it, to acknowledge it.
"Atolas."
Visions dove in rivulets across her vision to whisk her mind, a sharp intake of breath slid through her teeth, and with a rush of energy pulsing through her veins, her eyes opened. Only a few seconds. Just a taste. Atolas, it was her, the trees seemed to whisper, branches quivering. She had no reason to doubt them, but who, who was behind their voice? She would find them. They would guide her path.
But first...
"What does it mean?" She commanded of him, the void shadow, who lingered still in the tenebrosity of the treeline.
RE: the good ones always die - Cry - August 09, 2019
The echo she lifted to the air was off tempo from his own, but that was the best sense of chaos, was it not? A conundrum that always kept you off center, and desperately looking for some semblance to what seemed familiar to you-
until she wrapped you up and dragged you into the silent miasma of her mind.
Atolas...this was her. This was her teeter dance, her silent judgement of ye and nay that would either veil or hang you in it’s lithe ribbon. Atolas, she was. And Arolas she would forever be, he sat silently in the recesses of his own mental solitude.
”Whatever you allow it to be, is what it will become.” It was the truth. She would either shape herself into something respectable and trusted, feared, or she would meld into the soft dough of her mother.
There was nothing wrong with that-
other than not being worth leadership stature.
Atolas would need herself a backbone if she was to survive this desolate plane. And she would only achieve this in the hardships of taking them in alone, or she could enroll in a slightly safer method of pupilism beneath her Sire. Either way, she was destined for much more than worthless living.
until she wrapped you up and dragged you into the silent miasma of her mind.
Atolas...this was her. This was her teeter dance, her silent judgement of ye and nay that would either veil or hang you in it’s lithe ribbon. Atolas, she was. And Arolas she would forever be, he sat silently in the recesses of his own mental solitude.
”Whatever you allow it to be, is what it will become.” It was the truth. She would either shape herself into something respectable and trusted, feared, or she would meld into the soft dough of her mother.
There was nothing wrong with that-
other than not being worth leadership stature.
Atolas would need herself a backbone if she was to survive this desolate plane. And she would only achieve this in the hardships of taking them in alone, or she could enroll in a slightly safer method of pupilism beneath her Sire. Either way, she was destined for much more than worthless living.