Firefly Ravine no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace

im writing this in 1 sitting right out of a cold sweat so i totally understand u rn. no better time to write when u are Absolutely Lost Ur Marbles-

The guise of “Lady Starlight” that she’d masqueraded through Elysian festivities had begun to shiver, laden with a despondency that the she-wolf wasn’t so keen to return to. The fey masquerade of pointed ignorance, the look of eyes softened by only what she wished to remember. She refused to let this shed from her like a chrysalis from fragile fluture. Not yet.

What else had made her chart such an early return to the cliffs? And at such an early, erratic hour, too, when her eyes remained tender with whimsy, with sleep? When she smelled of deep and dreamless slumbers, and wandered with such a solomnet step?

It had not only been her aversion to knowing herself — as most tend to remember with the festivities’ ends. It had, in point, was mostly a fever dream which had made her thread out so early. And each point of her remained so sensitive and flushed as she toiled over the riddance of her cold sweat. She was acting not unlike some poor, waxen, underdress maid who’d drunk herself into forgetfulness — both of which said lady’s never done before — and had gone out all feverish and teetering in search for something she could not name. 

Perhaps this guise had faded from her with Sontés’ propositions, or with her encounter with the Elysian shatki. The silver did not know, had near to nothing to make herself care, and so she clutched at her cocoon of enraptured, forgetful comfort further about her thinning spirit. Then, she continued to chart her way through the ravine as she could, minded the belly when she may, and halt at whatever presence she would like to.

Belaying all horrific manner of ways that this could end with her blood on a stranger’s tongue, she wisped toward this soldiering figure with complete, distracted dismissal of the fog or lack thereof sunlight yet to arrive. And it was with eyes, incrementally sleepier than before, alighting upon this hardened male as she drifted closer with an eloquent slur of, ”Goods-mornings.” The once-heiress wasn’t so fallen from herself that the concept of personal space had left what common sense she still retained. No, she now lingered a respectable distance away — but unlike with her red-painted guardian, she wavered just one more faint step towards this wanderer.

The privacy of one’s being wasn’t lost to her, but she’d lost pretense for it all the same. The “Lady”, at present, only feathered her tail and wanted to pluck the pressed medallion-gold of these eyes out in favor of sea-and-silver. Her words remained musing, thick-tongued, lilting, languid, all with half of their gleam than they were usually decked in, ”A wanderer isn’t sure where to wander, as I am?”

If she were to see those eyes she coveted, though, she would need to find a way out of this inconceivable ravine as well. She suspected this chrysalis would melt from her soon, too, and the only way she wanted to find the cliffs was in that heady, delicate-fainting way; wanted her ivory person returned to the night-of-her-life; her Home.