Altar of Twilight i painted you a picture, but it never looked right

dated for may 30th — figured i’d go ahead and get this shindig started so that people can post over the long weekend if they wanna. calling @Dakarai @Aries @Cassiopeia @Sirius @Arturo and any other chaperones from tgl! tagging @Charon @Amekaze @Hemlock @Lotte for awareness. also there’s a ton of pp here so just holler at me if you want it changed :)

The svartell family moved along once more, this time urged on by the possibility of reconciliation; a veritable tabula rasa! Of course, it was unlikely that the slate between the small band of Svartells and the wolves of the Teaghlaigh family — such a relationship had been smashed to nothingness ‘neath the heaviness of Arturo’s justice. It could never be wiped clean, not when she was made to love then and then was forsaken when she needed, her family needed them most. Like a broken mirror, there was no fixing that.

But there was still hope yet for the small cub, left behind. It was difficult to believe that two months had passed since the happening — the pace of which was lightening fast, yet so slow, and the contrast was dizzying. The mother had trusted her oppressors [the wolves who seemed to wish ruinment upon her] with the life of her firstborn. It sickened her when she thought about it, and yet — it gave the seraph a semblance of relief. Perhaps he was safer with them, for she was a wild card and was not sure she could protect him as well as she once had believed. These wilds were rife with danger, whether she could see it or not; and it was those invisible dangers that seemed to snag her in their traps. 

Still the druid stayed out every night, laying her mental map of the stars atop the spread of the night sky to find the boy’s namesake constellation. It was no coincidence that the stars shaped a wolf in the sky — canis majora — and every night she beseeched the stars to ensure the boy was hale and healthy with his fireborn guardian. Sometimes the heavens would grant her with the sight, and the shrouded sylph would feel a sudden rush of contentedness, and knew her son was well — more often than not the stars remained tightlipped and would not reveal collective insights, but it would never stopped Olive from trying. 

So two moons had been born, waxed, stood full, then waned only to be reborn again — and the family began their small journey to the agreed upon rendezvous site. It was a short journey, but it had been the most far-reaching journey her two cubs had [consciously] experience upon their own four paws. As far the mother knew, this was their first descent from the mountain and she prepared them excessively. The night before, they each were groomed and their fur combed through with their mother’s teeth, they had yet again been instructed on packhood politesse [like hell would Teaghlaigh know she was raising heathens] and told stories about their brother. There were so few stories to pull from — so little was their time together! — that Olive found herself embellishing some tales and coming to believe them herself. It was them that the druid knew so little about her own child, besides what she could scry from the stars.

With a final call to Amekaze and Charon to announce their departure, the troupe of Svartells moved out. Olive found it much easier to make merriment with Dakarai, now that they were not newborns and the veil of postpartum depression had lifted. There was little pressure other than the presence of Arturo [she assumed] and whoever else had betrayed her two months prior. But Olive firmly held onto the belief that only good could come from this.

only good.
only good.
only good.

So she cavorted with her ash and ebon childs and the man who once was her husband, transforming their travels into a series of games and races. The quicksilver fae’s form had filled out and energy, life, was restored within her. Moonspear was good to her — she had since come to terms with this — and such stability had allowed the woman to return to her formed self; albeit without a mate and without the liberty of her preferred state: vagrancy. She gave chase to the cubs and nipped at their heels with featherlight clips, listening to them squeal with excitement and rush forward; but when they approached the alter of twilight, the family slowed and suspended their games. This area was familiar, and not in a good way.

Suddenly, the realness of their situation set in. A clear look of apprehension was shared with the dark knight, wishing he could embrace her and eviscerate any sense of doubt harbored in her delicate heart, but knew he couldn't, so she turned her lips skyward and sang. It was a small call, light and air and slow, meant to draw forth her son and whoever else chaperoned him. And then, with bated breath, they waited.