Wapun Meadow i. a vagrant you shall become

@Aurëwen

The Lirean drifted as a beam of branch caught in the rapids of a flood, the earth shifting from lichen and ice to the grass of deciduous forests and soft loams, to the rise of mountains and the grit of sand. To look over her shoulder meant to be unbound, lost. 

The quaint clearing offered little by the way of protection - open and sheltered only by a strand of cottonwoods along its edge. Even so, there were roots to sleep amongst, a stream for water, game to flush in the morn - it would do for a rest. 

Twilight had taken hold of the land, a soft hush of cricketsong (made a duet by the trills of frogs) greeted her as the nightclad girl curled her spine against the trunk of a tree - lilac eye lifting to the peach and periwinkle sky as the first stars began to dance. 

There had been talk of her Lady mother bearing a second litter, the year of her return from Lucavon's clutches. Rhælla - whom had always cherished the stargazing astrology lessons of her youth - had fantasized of a time when she might walk younger siblings through the Garden, share with them the childish excitement of staying awake deep into the night to impart upon them the same star lore. 

A lump swelled in her throat and a sheen coated her remaining orb; she swallowed and blinked both away, refusing to allow the grief to claim her. 

To look over your shoulder is to unwind, unravel, come apart at the edges. 

A soft list left her lips as a crown of onyx sunk to curl over her paws neatly, an ache murmuring in her chest as she carried on the Veltigar tradition of watching the heavens alone.

Myriad of memory had greeted her this night, and sleep became more figment than anything, and so Aurëwen brushed kisses to her children’s brows and eventually parted from the district of Diaspora. All at once she felt so slumberous, listless, and inconceivably awareof everything all about her. Her own stept was a shamble at its peak, and her petite-pale figure waded through the meadow’s unconquerable flora.

”Man hlaruva rávëa súrë, ve tauri lillassië?” The studious verses are for the heavens above, those that had guided her here and into all she now strode from.As she pierces deeper north, Aure goes in search of a good roost to observe the uncharted places of the sky. 

”Nninqui carcar yarra,” This rapt determination, and the quiet hum of frogsong filling her ears, draws Aure close to the she-rogue without even noticing until, of course, it is impossible not to. ”Isilmë ilcalassë—“

The rustle and sigh drew her from her hazy, moseying mind, and her coltish legs drew her still towards the origin of that sound. It wasn’t long before she was crescenting over a she-wolf, all worn and seemingly wearied away.

Silvered brows knit together, tail beginning to feather with a bit of fretting, Aurëwen gave a soft, hesitant chirrup to coax the fallen to further wakefulness.

A soft tread alerted her to the approach of another, sensitive auds taking to flight - in the moon phases following the desecration of her dark features her ears have come to attempt to fill the place of her lost eye. Angle and tilt her dome of night she would, leveling a shielded lavender orb upon the wistful swan. 

For a long moment they stared, pale fawn and atramentous raven. 

She, Aurëwen, offered a concerned chirp, the likes of which riled her to reaction. 

The disgraced duchess inclined her star-kissed crown deeply, muzzle tipping vaguely to the side in gentle flourish - for how could she find threat or reason for suspicion with such a maiden of light? Raven plume swished faintly, eagerness restrained to the shy smile proferred - oh, how she longs for company. 

"Blessings to you," she would rasp softly at last, "your language is beautiful."

Enshrouded halfwise in night the star-spangled vagrant was, and so Aure remained ignorant of the desecration of her masque; whereas the moonlight brought out her own in stark, unforgiving contrast. The dull gleam of the one eye still glimmered some, though, to hear such a formal greeting — and such praise.

The herbalist felt blood pique at her marred cheekbones, and she gave a vague gesture of a rabbitsoft paw. ”Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo,” for further, docile effect, before surrending a sheepish curl of lips. ”Good twilight, yes. I mean, ah, thank you, doamna. It is ze language of my birthland.”

She wavered where she was for a moment, incrementally feeling a bit ridiculous. How long had it been since she’d spoken with (faltering) elegance? She was a Rhaesuian heiress no longer— “I am Aurëwen,” she pipped, and balked when her foreign tongue cracked on her own name. “Ah, Aure, if you’d like.”

Enchanted she is, lips twining with faint appreciation as she is met with a name as delicate as the face it matches: Aurëwen. 

"Rhælla," she returns, muzzle bobbing once, "though Rhæ and Ell are also acceptable." The last is vaguely bemused, somehow wistful as she recalls nicknames bestowed by her playmate and counterpart, Rhaelyx. 

"Does it bother you greatly?" She would inquire upon recognizing the milky sheen of blindness tucked amongst scars, hesitant but with concern - turning to fully face the woman with an empty eye socket of her own.

A quiet cant of her head follows Rhælla’s own name-giving — and the herbalist cannot help but shy, some, when the rogue willingly presents the rest of her guise to her. What was once hidden in shadow was now brought into gaping curvature where the other twinkling eye should’ve been. Neither could Aure help the wisping thought of That could have been me.

The argent bowed her head in mute apology for her staring, ears flicking further back to nestle down into a willowy ruff. As for her own hindrance, well... “... It does.” There it was — the words she hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak, least of all to herself. “I am newly... it— this is new.”

And so far, there was no way to use it to her advantage, with living. Fighting. If any at all.

The same, searing (undeserving?) shame gobbled her up; made her fidget in place. I’ll never get to see my children with both eyes ever again. Or my love. The stars, the moon. A humming flush had worked its way into her scarred cheeks by now, and the silver whet her lips, voice a little hoarse, “And... and, you?”

Empathy pooled in her remaining eye, blinking away remembered pain as it drifted earth-bound to rest on her paws. 

"For what it's worth," which wasn't much, admittedly, "I'm sorry it happened to you. It isn't easy." Oh, how she knew - the loss of grace as she stumbled half in the dark, the humiliation of horror in another's untainted and whole gaze, the theft of something that should not have been stolen.

"Newish," she allowed a faint, sardonic tendril of a grin at an attempt of coaxing a smile. "I fare alright, I suppose, though things remain...jilted." A grimace, consternation, as she cast her gaze about - flickering in all directions to properly place her surroundings.

idk where this even came from oml

The understanding from someone who actually understood her own position proved to be invaluable — and immensely comforting. At once, Aure felt the need to move a tad closer; to lean in, in all of her modest enquiry. For the first time since the incident, there was no shame or loathing or humiliation within her figure and words.

”Do you still forget others are near?” The herbalist’s mind flit into her most recent errors: an endless series of confusing one remedy for another, bumping into packmates, narrowly missing Isilmë’s tail, falling into dragostea... “Some alphess I’ve come to be. Pah.” And not even in the way she’d wished for. ”I do not mean to mope, I...” A solemn sigh gusted from weary lungs, and the silver sat herself down with a frustrated little ‘plomp.’

”I wake up, I try to adjust. Only, I do not know how. I do not know how to adapt this into scrap-sessions — sparring, I mean — which has never been my strong suit, anyways. If I can be fleeter than my enemy, then... then...” Then, what? She didn’t know. But what she did know was that, “I tire of others coming to my rescue, always. I...” A faint, vulnerable, gloomy gulp, “I do not want to be a burden to others. I want to owe debts to nobody other than myself — and to those who would tutor me.”

Finally, Aure steadied a burning-cold eye on the nightclad before her. ...She used to think that she’d been fearless when she first lost Vonnaruil— but, no, she’d been nothing but brimming with it. Neither had it been her in Drageda, or even her Diaspora. It could’ve been when she’d delivered her sun-and-stars to her night-of-life — and perhaps it had only blossomed in this moment.

But the flame wasn’t for Rhælla, and the more resolved Aurëwen became, the more she seemed to curl in on herself. As if she couldn’t believe what she was saying: that she didn’t wish to fear anymore.

Silent, held by the ferocity of the snowpelt's gaze - the fire of her stumbled courage - Rhælla listened raptly. Keen violet pierced, searching and soul identifying a measure of familiarity with the pearl's heart. 

"I do - falter that is. In time, not so much. Your ears, your other eye, they will strain to accommodate the loss. You will learn to listen as if you never before had ears." Here she smiled fainty, for if there was anything at all wondrous about such a thing it was this - the ability to hear the meadow around them: the throaty calls of bullfrogs, the hum of insects, the lonely cry of a whip-poor-whil hidden in the grass. 

"I will teach you to fight with one eye, if you would have me as mentor," she offered readily, earnestly. "I was once trained in combat by the Icadearian Kingdom's finest knights," she added - by way of credentials. It was only a small lie - she'd been mentored by a knight, the best of them in her eyes, but Daegon was a secret to be shared with none. 

The sylph had risen after, gesturing for the pallid fawn to stand with a faint tip of her rosebud nose. "We start now if you wish?"

Previously, Rhælla’s assurances had had their desired effect on the herbalist; she’d eased down, as she resumed with now after her own piece was lain out. The star-dusted she-wolf provided her with a bit of history, now, and Aure felt the old coax within her to chart and chart — mistaking the female before her to be a living patchwork of the heavens herself. She might as well be, for what she offered next.

Mentoring — what the Pionier hadn’t had in moons (save for the one time with Reina, and Verx, she supposes).

When the Doom had jilted her haven’s harmony, Aurëwen had been as old as her own children now were; too young to even begin the most basic stuff, but growing enough to retain those involuntary urges to tussle and to snap. But each session had been lackluster, stuttering. Unrefined and undefined — every hit she landed in the Teekons had only been luck.

Luck, help... and, possibly, the fact there might be more steel than porcelain within the she-wolf than she’s afraid of unveiling. But Aure looked to Rhælla, immeasurably humbled, and canted her head in thanks. “Yes,” a warbly little smile, “I would be honored.”

An inner chord of kinship was plucked, hearing the tremulous note in Aurëwen's tones. Her own would follow suit, soft as spring rain, "You're welcome," a brief, kind smile of support. 

"Let go of the shame," she soothed, pacing before the pale figure - side-face with her blind socket turned towards the approach of evening. Onyx crown dipped, lavender orb focusing upon the ghostly silhouette of the blanchard. "The fear of fumbling, of failure; allow yourself to turn as needed, your remaining eye to seek and find," Rhælla's own dome would tilt, swivel as she allowed her eye to roam and flicker - gathering her settings greedily in great sweeps - by demonstration. 

"Seek detail, watch your opponent closely," she instructed further, slipping into a defensive stance as she faced the woman - head turning to keep the waif in her sight. "Keep them in your gaze always, strike with the certainty of a two-eyed wolf." 

Once Aurëwen was comfortable, they would begin - Rhælla darting forward, open maw reaching for the Pionier's ivory shoulder.

Argent eyes tracked the nightveiled with as much watchful hesitation as the pewter doe most claimed her to be; lain, plush ears now pressed forward (a rarity of its making) to listen to all the Rhælla told her. To become fearless meant all that she advised now: let the shame and faltering be cast aside. Is she telling me to trust my body? She must be.

When Rhælla demonstrated her investigation of her surroundings, the herbalist tried to mimic as much as she was able. The once-natural swivel of her head was now awkward, and her eye made to gobble up everything too soon. It devoured the nightclad, though, when she heard the word “opponent,” making Aure go stock-still.

So much information to digest, not enough time to process — not nearly enough time, because Rhælla made for her shoulder, fangs agleam. Aure flinched, hard; she tried to duck and swerve beneath the inked chin — but she was too spooked to figure where she wanted her teeth to embed.

sorry for the wait! (Been sick and struggling with muse ugh)

A violent balk, an uncertain weaving of the pale fae's paws drew her up short, halting before her offense can land. She'd had only benevolent intentions, of course, to take Aurë's creamy shoulder between open jaws though her fangs would have only grasped gently; still, guilt curls through her and she withdraws a pace, eyeing the woman with concern. 

"My apologies," she offered immediately, dipping her star-spattered crown contritely, "it was not my intention to startle you."

"I'll not harm you," she promised earnestly, offering a small grin of encouragement, "this is purely a spar between amicable strangers, for the sake of knowledge."

"When you're ready," the exile would call softly, falling back into a defensive stance as a lavender orb tracked the scarred swan, waiting for her attack.