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RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Melita - 08-03-2017
The little honeybee girl had never ventured into the Labyrinth when it’d rested amidst Helovia’s pathways. It hadn’t been a discovery, a sojourn, an adventure for her – perhaps too far away, perhaps too unknown, or she’d saved it for the here and now.
Had she of known about it, she likely would’ve never stepped within its green fortress. The mists were instantly overwhelming, and she was dazed, rattled, confused by the fog’s directions, seemingly everywhere at once, making her scowl, making her squint, pulsing over her senses until they were on edge, on fire, ardent and ferocious. Sila squirmed from her nest of wings and feathers along Melita’s back, and together they tiptoed into the carnivorous wake, hoping for a sign, a reason, for daring the unknown (before, there wouldn’t have been anything but impulsiveness, sheer notions of because I can; however, here, in the dark, dreary wake of eldritch things, there had to be purpose, there had to be drive). She could hear others, shouts, bellows, and strived to get nearer, tiny footsteps making only dulcet motions, pleading she’d somehow escape notice, not become another caught in the abysmal webs, but all that changed in an instant. From the corner of her eye, she saw her. Her mother – draped in that finely spun gold, her ivory dragon on her shoulder, every bit as gentle and serene, every bit as protective and wondrous as the last time she’d seen her. The child’s heart beat in frantic, sublime intricacies, a cacophony to her ears, building with every step she took towards her dam’s image, tears running unfettered, unbound down her cheeks, her voice a beautiful, zealous tune. “Mom!” She was safe, she was whole, she was untouched by the dangers, by the treacheries, of this ridiculous place- But as she grew closer, as she stepped over fields of enigmatic design, as she swarmed in delight, her mother’s tranquil figure lost its repose, its tangibility, it’s peaceful complexion. Her smile was replaced with an eerie, bewitching grin, a haunting, striking line set upon ruins and ruins of ash, of ghosts, of wraiths and phantoms. All the delight Melita had managed to conjure in the wake of tenacity, because her dreams had come true and they were reunited, collapsed; and only infernal trepidation swallowed, consumed her, nearly robbed her of everything she’d ever craved as her dam’s image became purely demonic. It was ghoulish, it was fierce, it was poised like daggers, like knives, like cloaks and catacombs, and she couldn’t run from it, couldn’t do anything but be devoured in its essence. “Mom?” She asked on a dreadful whisper, and Sila bristled, electricity and sparks, but it wouldn’t be enough to conquer this dastardly foe (it can’t be her). The only thing she could do was back away, features contorted in horror, in pain, in misery, for the deceit clawing its way through her mind – “Please don’t,” she murmured again, terrified and tortured, trembling and quivering, incapable of consecrating anything but a plea for liberation and deliverance. Melita diamond in the flesh {scary ghostly image of her mother has Melita backing away and shaking. ;D} RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Amaris - 08-04-2017 Was it the appeal of familiar lands, even if they were inherently unfamiliar under the strange lights and atmosphere of the rift, that drew the dragonmare to them? It was foolish, the comforts of a memory, of a realm so certainly, so severely lost to them all - was it any wonder, really, why she came back? Perhaps she was only capable of wandering in great circles, of revisiting old haunts in the hopes of seeing something new, of learning something different, something that would turn the clock back and restore what was, what had been, to what is, what will be. But it wasn't to happen, it wasn’t possible, even if the dragonmare hoped for it at her very core, her very soul. The hope itself was so deeply rooted within her, she hadn't even realised it was there, until yet again she arrived at this familiar land, her hooves standing on this familiar loam, watching with ever-observant eyes the familiar way the mists rolled between the trees, the stalks, the leaves. Only, it wasn't mist. Amaris was too far away from the rest of them to know what was happening. She was too far away, too lost in her own mind besides, to realise that the mists reaching out for her, forming the face of one she loved and missed so dearly, reaching out to touch her, to embrace her, to hold her up again the tide of despair she had been fighting to hide, to control, to quell and subdue, (to survive). Mother, Mirage, the DragonHeart, the WeyrLeader, the Queen, stood before her, seemingly a devious black mare in one breath, and a fantastic golden dragon in another. The dragonmare could not stop herself, could not stop her steps as they brought her form nearer to this image of her mother, of the mare she both loved and hated, loathed for leaving her, for abandoning her, for thinking she was strong enough to face this world alone, helplessly, hopelessly alone… But she wasn't alone. Dramyrth's presence came crashing down upon her consciousness then, strong and defiant, bold and brazenly loud and sure. LIES! he cried, he roared, his fury burning through her senses, alighting her, incensing her to realise the truth of this apparition, this ghost of a memory, of a desire. Had her dragon had breath to scorch or freeze this demon, he would have, but the rift had stolen that from him - so he screamed and roared and flew at it instead. And Amaris, awoken from her stupor, from her reverie, reacted to his fury, and summoned a single spirit with her magic to cast its light upon the situation, to breathe its fire and destroy that which would otherwise cause harm. Together, they chased this demon through the Labyrinth, deeper and deeper still, until she became aware of the others, of the crowd, of the God, like the tiger, making changes to the land (healing it?). It was all she could do not to lose her mind and follow the spirits to their ultimate end on the God's great gaping mouth as well. A m a r i s darya87 | whimzi on deviantart RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Erthë - 08-04-2017
Erthë tries to bring the WOLF GOD'S FANG closer to Reszo, in the hopes that it will give him some strength (and so he can revive and eat Kaos, lol) RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Vulkán - 08-04-2017
Vulkán mooches through the spirits without really paying attention to them and speaks to @Otem RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Oizys - 08-04-2017
Ozzy summons a spark-wolf to try and chase the spirits towards Reszo. RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Eleos - 08-04-2017
RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Lyanna - 08-05-2017 so i listen to the wind for an answer She is lost in this place. No literally lost; no, it is easy to find her way through the skies, to orient herself by the few landmarks she has come to know. She is simply lost, without purpose, without any idea how many ghosts would join the long list of the dead that she already carried in her heart. Part of her was afraid to start looking for the living because to do that meant coming to terms with all those that she did not find. Though at the same time, she knew she needed to look, knew she needed to see who had made it. Some of her friends were here, that much she knew, and Apollo had reappeared here. As before, he’d appeared in the rainforest, winding through the unfamiliar trees just as she had been doing, looking for comfort in a place that had none. Today she’d taken to wandering the Western Mists, looking to see what else had appeared in this place that might never feel like home. Right now it was impossible to imagine this place would ever be home, though she knows that it would have to become home. Where else would she go and how would she even leave this place? The Rift seemed very much like a one way trip. A familiar form catches her attention, led by a dragon spirit. Lyanna’s teal eyes snap to attention, trying to figure out what’s going on. She flicks her ears forward, becoming aware of what sounds like a crowd and an uproar not all that far away. She turns her course, following the dragonmare from the Edge toward whatever might be happening. She loses sight of her friend though as the spirits find her, the ghosts that she carries with her coming to life before her eyes. They stand there around her and she digs her feet into the ground, skidding to a halt. Ru, Glasgow, her mother, her father and Corbin. Oh, Corbin. He looks exactly as she remembers him and not a day older. That is the only clue she has, the only thing that makes her realize it is not him at all before her. Still, like before when the shadows had showed him to her, she cannot help but lose her breath, cannot keep her heart beating in a steady rythmn. “Corbin,” she breathes, her attention on him mostly, though she flicks her gaze between them all. He takes a step forward, muscles rippling beneath his buckskin coat, flames leaping around his feet. “My dear sister,” he says and the sound of his voice is wrong. She shakes her head, looking around at all the ghosts that have found her. Her heart breaks, but they are all wrong. Glasgow’s horn is fixed, Ru has words on her lips, her parents look at her in such a loving way she knows they cannot be real. Corbin takes another step forward, but she shakes her head. He always called her Lyanna, formal but full of love. Never sister, never some other nickname, only Lyanna. “No,” she says, and it’s unclear if she’s telling him no or herself. She calls to her wind now, bringing forth a gust to push at the spirits. She calls to the wind again and again, driving them away from her, driving the spirits toward the crowd and more importantly, the god that seems to be clearing the spirits away. She has no idea if it will work, no idea if she can move spirits with nothing but wind, but she tries, tries to help a god she does not know, tries to rid herself of every ghost that haunts her. lyanna RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Iskra - 08-06-2017 Is yanked here by his wolf god's blood and tries to help @Melita dispel her wraith-mom with his heated air magic and zappy wings. RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Melita - 08-07-2017
The plumes of ghosts, fog, and vitriol clawed its way down her throat as she stared into the eyes of a monster. Her fear, something she’d always managed to push down into her soul, came knotted and tethered, wrapped around her form until she was merely a trembling mess – no bravery at all in the sheen of ghouls and poltergeists, beloved family turned to wraiths and tormenters. “This isn’t you,” she whispered, begging, pleading, uncertain of how to conquer this wretched enemy when it wore her mother’s face, her eyes, her essence, but not her gentleness, her warmth, her guidance. It neared, closer and closer until it seemed to touch over her cheek, light and acidic, like venom, like ice, like barbarity, nestling its mouth towards her ear. Where is your sister? Where is my darling Clementine? The girl swallowed down the biting menace suddenly spiking across her tongue, tasting vehemence where she stood, backed into hedges and vines, incapable of doing anything else, shaking her head while the murmurs still beckoned, still chased, still taunted. Tell me where she is. I must have both of you. Melita tried to ignore each and every word slashing its way through her, tried to rid herself of the horrendous beast plaguing her, of the chill curling, coiling, nestling its way down into her gut. The boiling, incensed rancor twisted over her mind, her senses, her being – Sila bristled once more, but they were out of room, with no means to escape, nowhere to run except further darkness. “You’re not real,” she proclaimed, murmured, struggling to become unchained, to defy, to simmer on the edges of sedition and wait for the world to burn down. The rest of the void seemed trapped in the same manner, but the child wasn’t about to cry out, to distract them from battling their own demons and perils. She attempted to cease trembling, to be more than a tiny child made of smiles and laughter, of exuberance and whimsy, furrowing her brows as she gazed back into the void of beasts and treachery. She’d fight, fight, and fight, even if it brought her to slaughter, to death, to damnation. “You can’t have her,” was her last stand, protective and unrelenting to the end, carved out of an unsung ferocity gathering in her veins, potent and unruly, savage, wild, untamed.
But the girl didn’t learn of the fiend’s response, because no sooner had she given her final campaign oath (the building of embers, the stoking of fires), did she hear a familiar shout driven into the bedlam. Iskra? was her first inclination of confusion, responding to his proclamations by bending further and further back into the barriers, clustered amidst the leaves and brambles, driven towards thorns – but anything was better than the chains of terror and panic. She stood in the cold, brutal silence as his powers snapped, sparked, and whipped through the air – it would’ve been mesmerizing all on its own, even without cutting, slashing, and rippling its way through her mother’s mirage. The final image, the swan song of the chimera, was a beckoning outcry from the ivory dragon clutching her shoulder, before they disappeared into a puff of smoke, ash, and dust. All at once, she was breathless, quaking and shuddering with relief, with apprehension, boldness leaving only the layers of rebellion to hold her upright. She came forward, closer to the older boy, a cluster of upheaval, bramble-blemished skin, and sweat, inhaling, sides heaving, seeking to stare at the floor (because she was ashamed, so brutally ashamed that she’d been tricked and deceived – had they learned nothing from the perils of before?). But her eyes came up, impulsively staring into his as her lower lip threatened to tremble (then, almost a don’t you dare cry plea arrived unbidden into her mind), and she shook her skull again, let the mist toss her back into the vicious reality. “Thank you, Iskra.” She meant it, with a soft smile, a heavy sigh, sorry he had to see her as less than what she should’ve been (weak, inept, stupid), reaching out to touch his shoulder, to embrace tangibility instead of being snared back into the folds of calamity and ruin. But she couldn’t even rejoice in the warmth of his presence, in the sanctity of his liberation. Concern stole over her again, quickly, as she dared to glance at the rest of the world around them – because more and more souls were becoming tattered, ruptured, ravaged by the claim of specters and bewitching, blistering, bestial foes. Towards the center, however, there appeared to be a catalyst, a source, for the debauchery and decadence, and her gaze narrowed, speculating, wondering, pondering if they could claim victory and vanquish foes again. But as she turned back towards her savior, she knew all too well that he’d have demons of his own plaguing him (she could remember Ampere, his beautiful, mighty mother, flying into the storm, promising savagery, then going up in smoke), and she couldn’t allow it. “There’s someone in the middle of this ruckus,” she indicated, whispering and pointing towards the sanction of bustling, bristling legions, brave, stalwart shadows risking a chance, an opportunity, to fight back. “But there are ghosts here too. You must close your eyes.” Melita proffered her decree with a stalwart smile, a mercurial, conspiring veneer, all the more willing to place herself in the forefront of danger again to ensure no one else had to be haunted. She wouldn’t have him preyed upon, visited by fiends – he didn’t deserve the cruelty, the maliciousness, he’d already had to endure. “If you want to come with me, you can follow my scent.” The waves of honey, the fields of promised gold, nectar, and ambrosia should’ve been enough – but she lifted one wing too, stretching it out (despite Sila’s protest, nest upended) so it brushed against his chest. “Because I’m going to do something about this.” The determination fueled her voice, and she marched on, into the cluster of chaos, unwilling to be a bystander, a victim, any longer. Even as the wraiths pressed, crawled, at the edge of her vision again, she walked, fury ignited. Melita diamond in the flesh @Iskra RE: » Hauntings & Healings - Weaver - 08-07-2017 ask no questions So, shit was happening. This is the sort of life she enjoys, which may make her crazy but whatever, she already knew that. She likes being kept on her toes, but really, she just likes having something to do. Some purpose to keep her going, some excuse to fight. All she’d been doing lately was wandering around the Rift pretending to give two shits. Okay, so that’s not entirely true. She did actually care about whatever information she could come up with, because information was as powerful if not moreso than her own body or the magic that she could wield (or hope to wield, as the case may be). - weaver - and you'll be told no lies |