This forum uses cookies
This forum makes use of cookies to store your login information if you are registered, and your last visit if you are not. Cookies are small text documents stored on your computer; the cookies set by this forum can only be used on this website and pose no security risk. Cookies on this forum also track the specific topics you have read and when you last read them. Please confirm whether you accept or reject these cookies being set.

A cookie will be stored in your browser regardless of choice to prevent you being asked this question again. You will be able to change your cookie settings at any time using the link in the footer.

Hello There, Guest!

| Register
Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook
creatures lurk below the deck
RP Wanted The Portal 
Mauna
Currently championing:
#11
“Of course we’ll be okay,” the little boy said, as if the truth would be impossible to fathom, to think about, to even try and discern. He didn’t know anything better, couldn’t conspire down into the depths of desolation or just how far they could fall, how the rest of the world had been torn apart moments before and they were here now, in the flesh, raw but alive, broken but remaining. He tried not to shake, not to shudder, not to part ways with the strength his father required in those blinding moments of grief and apprehension (because he didn’t understand them, but the way his sire shook, the way the seams seemed to be unraveling, one by one, and he just wanted to tuck the ends back together), blinking once or twice into the fold of oddities, at the stranger telling him he was cute, at the beckoning, singsong slash of steel Iskra was embodying. “Thank you?” He questioned towards the older girl first, struggling to grin amidst the wailing serpents of calamity and ruin, failing to notice how far they’d all fallen, incapable of comprehending the wreckage spiraling around him. “I’m Mauna,” the mountain child offered in the next breath, tilting his head, studying her stars, her longer ears, the way she seemed ready and eager to leave – he almost asked her to stay, for what was one more when they were all broken, chipped apart things?

But his attention was caught, snagged, by Iskra’s ill attempts at sheathing his weapons. Perhaps because they weren’t truly his own, not chiseled from his grasp or wishes, they didn’t grant his request, didn’t listen, ignored him entirely, circling back around to gnaw at bits of flesh. “Hey!” The lad shouted, as if to scold the wretches, brow furrowing, crimson eyes glancing back and forth from flying daggers to the gauges in Iskra’s hide (red, red, red, the color of the sea, of the air, of the clouds, like dust and ashes, all intermingled within Helovia’s last stand). He stepped forward, intending to do something (but what – he was a child, and all he could’ve done was extend his wings and feathers, watch them become shreds, tufts, falling plumes), when the blade stopped in mid-air.

“Whoa,” he implored in clear reverence, stare rounding, jaw unhinging, beholding the sight of the dancing knife still and immobile. “How did you do that?” The question was reserved for any of them; he wasn’t sure who’d accomplished the task, but it was amazing and awe-inspiring to watch. Then, because the enchantments should’ve have addled or riveted him entirely, his gaze swept back to Iskra. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Mauna
CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.

image | coding


@Iskra @Anuya @Zèklè