Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ antúlien

  14th September.  Awakens from *metamorphic coma. Others/all are welcome. (Noted references of Isilmë, Dragomir, and @Mahler.)
LOCATION

info

  Nerve damage to upper spinal cord, irregular heart patterns, sleep disturbances, *personality shift, slight memory problems, minor muscle tremors, slight loss of hearing.

Avinimnë lanye.

In the twilit hall, the silver had known the static discharges of the thinning gale; had shared in its drop of pressure and the cleaving of the heavens, even as those gilded arms went reaching for her; a thunder’s rite searing up the lean roping of her spine. The quiet thereafter, though? That which had pressed petrichor palm to her mouth, cloaked her chords by iron curtain? It was ... unknown.

It is as unknowable as her resting place in mountain shades; as unknowable as all the syndrome in aftermath: from the mere quivering of the claws or a flick of the wrist to keen compulsion that will hold her, in time to come, so promptly.

Aurëwen hehtanë.
Remembrance was but a figment, now. But her mind has forever been a labyrinth and O!— within it, is time not irregular myriad?
As it will be, in the fade she has searched for all that she cannot name— and the shining thread has frayed. She is both Orpheus and the fated voice that beckons unto his ear; she is the unendingly wrathful Θevrumineś and the fierce, forging Theseus; what-ever memory is left is the Sphinx and the chimera and should she get too near the waxen remnants of her mind will away.
But— baby’s breath, a priest’s plaint, and glorious, glorious green is what she is shown— shifting and bleary in its order but shown in a manner that her soul might know.

Aurëwen maksine.
As is Dædalus’ law, notwithstanding mortal-days, she may have very well wandered for an age. Past afterimages of her sun-and-stars and beneath her spires and into the Undying waters; altarless, she regards all with a hesitance, a rootless forgiveness but
how was she to know of all this?

Sillumello, nie karienna ni.
She does not, for she has fallen so far from herself;
Nameless and never again a mother. And so she wanders, crocus-throated and asphodel-hide ever patient for the circled salt upon the eye; for that dewpoint to linger in the lash. Her hurts are but pomegranate, stained again, again; her eye now in the crone of three’s hold, scoured by stygian scythe itself. And though harvest is here, Aḯdēs is not.
She is nameless and yet assumes to be her own Kerberos.

Ló χīþilōmē, namárië súle nányë.
And though the fade keeps her from prompt wakefulness, so it was that the fell @Hydra and those gathered know her to still yet live.

Her children were not alone. 

Fortune did not favor the pale woman; where she was struck, Hydra did not know, but she had been brought here to recover. Hydra scowled at this; they were not a place for rehabilitation, and yet, twice over they acted as such. Were it Winter, Hydra would be far less welcoming... but as it were, Hydra had her own selfish designs for the woman so out of favor with fortune. 

Was that not fortunate? Perhaps the tides of her life were shifting. 

@Lyra tended to the half-blind woman when she was able. Hydra demanded much of her time, but would not permit her childrens instructor to die without a single lesson. Hydra herself would come to inspect, and have her children inspect, too. Hydra was no medic, but knew enough to see that the woman was not dead. She wondered if it might be a mercy just to kill her, but what would that teach her, or her children? How long could a wolf last in this condition? 

She thought of her parents. She saw her own mother. Still breathing. Fighting. Hydra watched as she lost that final battle, and looked for the same stillness each evening in the marked woman. 

Hydra's gaze had not diverted from her when she kept watch, and so the change in sound, in sight, was not missed. 

It seemed her mountain was far more devastating than an errant bolt of lightning. 

She rose to all fours, picking up a hare she had flushed out of the brush before her cubs. Hydra deposited it nearby, but did not draw too near, yet. Her breathing has changed, Hydra hummed, for her brood to hear, perhaps she is waking. As for that, Hydra did not know for certain—but her keen ears were savvy to these nuances. 

Perhaps she was dying.

Under the guise of as many chances as he could steal, Antares silently shadowed after his mother and aunts, and when it came to tending to this curious stranger, he proved it was no different there. Her sheer unfamiliarity was enough to make her a noteworthy cause of interest, then pair it with this new turn of an injury he did not fully grasp the cause, circumstance, or nature of, and he was keen to loiter around and listen in. When the older wolves let him observe, and even mirror them on guard, he slowly grew bolder in his purposes, if they could be called that, exactly. Since their attention was on her, and all that surrounded her, so was his.

Though he often did not know all of what he was looking after, he was present, near, and learning. When Hydra rose, his focus snapped back to her and he tracked her with a careful gaze. Still, the youth said nothing, and his ears flipped up tall to the sound of his mother's voice as it broke their relative silence. As she often did, she drew his focus to the right spot--her breathing. Guided, he inched a bit closer, then followed, and watched the pale stranger with wonder unable to be placed. Could she wake? Then, would she..?

With age came changes: a formal debut into the pack and the seemingly endless unfolding of their horizons. There is more of Moonspear to see, more stories to scribble his name into. Atlas understands this and has already started blazing his own paths around the rendezvous site.

His enterprises were never thoughtless. Familial units exercise caution when out and about. His parents have raised no fool. And yet, many an interesting thing has occurred in a short amount of time upon Moonspear. A vast rumbling felt in loose stones. No sooner did this rumbling stop did foreigners appear, one a visitor meant to train them.

Hydra brings their awareness to the small up and down motion of the woman's ribs. That alone draws his brother close, absorbed in the cognizance of this pale woman. Atlas does no move, content to sit beside Hydra in glacial regard. If Aurëwen is about to come to, he will stay silent. If not, perhaps that strange, eldritch brand spread over her back will finally consume her. Such an obscure and unnatural design...It's a surprise she yet lives.

tiny post, brain is fried 

An imperious hydra; inquisitive hatchlings; her leige; her students;
there is no sky above her and she knows that the dawn stars are mouthless; for now, the moon has gone. Yet she does not know the tending of that seething sister, three days past; knows not of the arrival of that herbalist who holds her heart; he who she has not even let herself call for, be called for. She is the only of those gathered  (before and now)  who has not seen her spine. There is no telling that she ever will; but the agony is deep and slumbering.

In this manner Andraste wakes; minding what is so high above her head and favoring it so surely rather than all below-heavens.

There is no personal recollection of being struck down; only the vestiges of returning to rivers, to ... for ... whom? Some urgency. Shorn brow knits, a grimace kneading the porcelain planes into hazy perplexity. She should not be here, she thinks; she should be elsewhere, she feels; wonders. Her first words on a new tongue are weak:

"F ... forgive me."
She could not ever.