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+--- Thread: Deepwood Weald ¹i lúme utúlie (/showthread.php?tid=36771)
¹i lúme utúlie - Andraste - September 21, 2019
Courtfall’s first founding thread! For @Guildenstern
Here;
upon her own orders, her dove now flew with another; still she felt the eye of the Moonspire upon her marked spine; knew that its queen had come to care for her in the way only a serpent knew how; would think fondly of the hatchlings with whom she’d taught;
and her fortress would be here—
Daybreak wakes up in the needled holdof the spire’s north, so like her haven-home that it cinches at her breast; coaxing a breath of longing breath through her lungs—pine and heather in every stutter. The north of these Teekons would forever be her south, no matter how reminiscent it is of her haven and its Tines; no matter how, like it, elusive life flourish and flit through these cloaked hinters; no matter how, like it, streams shiver, shimmering into the gloom of the weald; nevermind how the earth shudders beneath.
Having drawn herself some ways ahead of, the stricken meandered by way of soft, suffused dawn—the stars still hang, blinking and ebbing away—and her eyes turn skyward, finding the dulling celestial bodies. She is blissful in the embrace of the balmy coolness of this southerly north; lingers here for as long as she dares, sure that he who followed her would continue to do so.
Ruined crown tilted to the sunup-gleaming mountains, the dawn chorus, the mist upon her blemished back is so heartrendingly welcome and for a beat of it she feels so faint. So insignificantly meager when the skies had cleaved open her soul and had struck her from her self-servitude. Yet all that was in her mind, all that therein she had entrusted word to a queen and to a priest ... such clarity!
So when heiress and warden lingered at the weald’s threshold, she knows that this indulgence must be proferred now, while the last of her alteration glimmered at the edges of a refigured mind. The behemoth-beneath tousled through the earth once more — but Andraste did not quail.
Firstly, though:
“In all this time, I ... do not believe we have ever introduced ourselves.” For all that the sellfang had followed her, for all the land they had forged through together, and for all he had taught her, the silver wouldn’t request else of him if she did not know his name; it was almost shameful.
upon her own orders, her dove now flew with another; still she felt the eye of the Moonspire upon her marked spine; knew that its queen had come to care for her in the way only a serpent knew how; would think fondly of the hatchlings with whom she’d taught;
and her fortress would be here—
Daybreak wakes up in the needled holdof the spire’s north, so like her haven-home that it cinches at her breast; coaxing a breath of longing breath through her lungs—pine and heather in every stutter. The north of these Teekons would forever be her south, no matter how reminiscent it is of her haven and its Tines; no matter how, like it, elusive life flourish and flit through these cloaked hinters; no matter how, like it, streams shiver, shimmering into the gloom of the weald; nevermind how the earth shudders beneath.
Having drawn herself some ways ahead of, the stricken meandered by way of soft, suffused dawn—the stars still hang, blinking and ebbing away—and her eyes turn skyward, finding the dulling celestial bodies. She is blissful in the embrace of the balmy coolness of this southerly north; lingers here for as long as she dares, sure that he who followed her would continue to do so.
Ruined crown tilted to the sunup-gleaming mountains, the dawn chorus, the mist upon her blemished back is so heartrendingly welcome and for a beat of it she feels so faint. So insignificantly meager when the skies had cleaved open her soul and had struck her from her self-servitude. Yet all that was in her mind, all that therein she had entrusted word to a queen and to a priest ... such clarity!
So when heiress and warden lingered at the weald’s threshold, she knows that this indulgence must be proferred now, while the last of her alteration glimmered at the edges of a refigured mind. The behemoth-beneath tousled through the earth once more — but Andraste did not quail.
Firstly, though:
“In all this time, I ... do not believe we have ever introduced ourselves.” For all that the sellfang had followed her, for all the land they had forged through together, and for all he had taught her, the silver wouldn’t request else of him if she did not know his name; it was almost shameful.