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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook

Botany: the beginner's guide
Trial Halyven 
All through the night, blisteringly cold and unable to find rest, Eira had wished terribly that the first whisper of light through the cracks in Halyven’s eastern wall might bring too a change in weather; warmth, respite, any change from the penetrating chill of Freeze. Even though she’d weathered one and this half, it was difficult to recall just when it would end—time in the Rift, without the guidance of her parents, even Indra, seemed to be indecipherable.

Nevertheless, the waif-like young hybrid was more than grateful for the small blessing which her home offered, as far as shelter and relief offered, and on more than two occasions she had found generous heat beneath the feathered wing of her leader.

Roscorro, however, had become busier and less available through weeks past.

The morning finally came, wielding a wild, biting wind and flurries of fresh powder snow. Eira, curled tightly beneath the jut of a low rocky overhang, with the outside wing—tattered and chewed—draped over the top of her bony, angular body, sighed soft resignation and smiled. Admittedly, she preferred this bitter weather to the inescapable swelter of scorch; the coat thick around her never shed, and stifling humidity only worsened the assault.

It took a good length of time, an hour at least, to find strength enough to stretch and rise from her hardened earth bed. She shook herself briskly, perhaps out of habit more than necessity—the stiffness was always present, the hunger, the pain. Stepping out into the bright sunlight from the shade, Eira found her lashes dipping to shield her eager eyes.

Perhaps I’ll head to the portal again, she mused silently, strolling down a rubble lined avenue, vaguely curious about the whereabouts of those who dwelled in Halyven too—though the long, arduous journey lacked appeal. Instead, the blue orphan settled on a very different idea, an easier one, and began to scout about the rocks for the flora the Rift had tasked her to find; the one that would cure the familiar rash growing on her belly.


Anyone is welcome. Eira is looking for flora for her trial.
She has no horn yet despite the picture!

There were no herds when she was young. The world they inherited was desolate, blank, corrupted and decaying- there was no room for growth. Is that why they left, the girl wonders? Did they leave a land of death in search of blooming life, only to find the edge of the world incomplete and empty? What would they say to see it now: still rotten, still dark, but with little lights of population, souls converging to create something new? What would she think, the errant twin?

(Or are you the errant twin, Savera? You are, after all, the one who left.)

Better not to think on that, now.

Savera sighs softly, a public expression of private discontent. Beyond her, white walls and spires tower into the sky, hungry to touch the clouds before crumbling inevitably into dust. Devi is quick to pursue their peaks, spreading wide wings and launching into the air, but for now the morning star stays on the ground. The gryphon can scout for occupants; Vera prefers to keep a low profile, gain a feeling for this herd before announcing herself.

White and gold in the clear morning light, the girl cuts a pretty figure, her youth and newness contrasting with the age and wisdom of the crumbling castle. She is too young to realize that her coat has become a little too shaggy - as far as she's concerned, it is simply a warm angora, practical for the chill of freeze. Ice on snow, Savera continues to skirt the walls, waiting for something interesting.

It is then she finds the girl.

Devi sees her first, from her perch so high above. Smaller than Savera, and almost as furry, the stranger is a spot of blue in the winter white, far too tiny, winged and alone. Savera creeps closer, her silver gaze narrow - is she a trespasser, too? She certainly looks homeless, cachectic and hungry, but the girl is not ready to jump to conclusions just yet. For all she knows, everyone who lives here is starving. Or maybe anorexia is simply in.

"Hello." Gentle, polite, the morning star gazes with unfathomable eyes, her two-toned ears tilting forward as she nears the other child. "What are you doing?" Is it fun? She tilts her head, curious, face awash with childish guile. She hopes the other can speak, and that she is intelligent. She has learned you can never be sure, in the Rift.

Or maybe she's just a judgmental bitch.

You follow. From a distance today: dark eyes studying the pale ruins as Savera creeps ahead. Blessedly, she hugs the ground. Your own short, ugly wings cling to your sides, small and malformed, and the well-hewn muscle under them is grateful for the rest. You could be fitter; you could always be fitter. Better the image of your father's son. Your grandmother's grandson.

You don't recognize this place. It didn't come from Helovia. It is, instead, something new, and also something ugly. You smell others here, their presence a constant assault, and so you walk a little more carefully than you often do. Could it be a herd? A herd here in the Rift? The thought excites you a little. Angers you a little. Natives? Fellow refugees? You don't know who you hate more, when you think about it. The conquerors or those who quailed before them.

Up ahead: the sound of Savera's voice.

You allowed her out of your sight, and now she's doing something. Alarm prickles in your brain, kicks your limbs into motion. A brisk trot brings you up behind her, your expression sullen as usual, alarm buried deep behind the fathomless blackness of your eyes. But it surfaces, it does, the moment you lay eyes on — fuck, whatever that is.

"Savera!" Your voice a bark, deep and resonant. "Don't touch that." You slow to stand next to her and your face twists into a scowl (moreso than usual) as you eye the (pegasus?) thing she's chosen to converse with. It looks ill: scrawny and weak under a thick coat. Young. Pale. Like half a ghost already. You shove forward, attempting to shove your sister aside or maybe back, irritated by her lack of self-preservation instinct. And your head snakes out as your nostrils flare, as your ears flip back.

"Are you sick?" you demand, as if she lured your sister here knowingly to infect her. As if the existence of contagion is an insult to you, personally, and you need it to apologize before you snuff it out.

light shines brighter in the dark

@Eira @Savera
ooc// He will.... probably calm down.