Wapun Meadow the weight is gone
All Welcome  December 04, 2019, 06:41 PM
Trench
Lone Wolves

The dark shadow had ventured away from Diaspora and the lake where they had settled during the frigid winter months. He had waited for some time by the edge of the claim, hoping that his mother or the stalwart figure of Mahler would have appeared to welcome him back home. When he had started to feel the cold touch of nightfall, he had turned away from the claim and ventured back into the wilds. The dark flyaway hairs along his neck and shoulders were whisked by the icy touch of the breezes that carried across the stretch of earth.
 
Some miles away from the Diaspora territory, Trench found solace in a peaceful meadow. The flat stretch of earth was caked in a thick layer of snow. Tracks had been made and then buried, and remade. Trench sniffed at a few of them, wondering if he would catch the trail of River or Argent there. All of the lingering smells were foreign to the young boy. With a deep sigh, the limber wanderer set his sights for the furthest reaches of the meadow and began his trek.
December 04, 2019, 07:20 PM
Andraste
Courtfall
Undómiel
drags dead muse from the tomb of my fallen braincells

        The lucent light beds first on the swarthy boughs and stern needles overhead, rimming them in an eidolic glow. Then, in thin, wispy wendings, drawing not a notice, it sets aglow the footpaths through Northstar. Undómiel had parted herself most reluctantly from the embrace of her Court and the snoring resonance of the slumbering; and yet so near had she spirited past the olden wraithsclaim.

        Come to find the bursting meadow now burdened with weighted quilts of white. The fée strides by eventide; glimpses the half-gussied moon in its dismissive and silvery presidence. ... She does not mean to be awake in the cold, consuming and close press of frostfall night. She certainly does not mean to be away from Courtfall, and knows she ought to be there when all awaken; but for a moon her sleep has been without the plunge into unending, still depths. The loam below cracks with the soft break of thin frost and frayed fronds — perhaps the last of its own before a perma that will not give in.

        Andraste longs to dream; and cannot help the misted chirrup that flutes from waxen throat as she calls to the little inkling of an apparition; nightshade wanderer; chimera of another's past?

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c o m m o n     &     q u e n y a n
Please hover on Quenyan dialogue for very rough transliterations!
ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇɴɢʟɪsʜ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴘʀᴇᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅs ʙʏ ʟᴇᴇ ᴊɪ-ᴇᴜɴ
❝ ᶤᶰᶠᵒʳᵐᵃˡˡʸ ʳᵉᶠᵉʳʳᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᶤᶰ⁻ᵗᵉˣᵗ ᵃˢ ᶠᵃᶤʳʸˡᶤᵍʰᵗ˒ ᵐᵒᵒᶰᵐᵃᶤᵈ˒ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗʳᶤᶜᵏᵉᶰ