» every broken promise

The droning, the buzzing, continued within her ears – barely even woven into her attention, presuming it was the crowd, the growing, nestling, hustling, bustling wings of creatures and cretins marching into commotion. She didn’t give it much of a thought, found her sentiments driven into the foreboding onslaught, the sensation of deceit clawing at the seams of their scene, then pushing it all away when Clementine approached (safe, secure). She smiled, because her sibling deserved ebullience, not strife, not fire, not the bastion of collected nuances (anger, righteousness, a fierce, bristling ferocity), placing her maw towards the other filly’s cheek in greeting, in familial grace. So when the girl recoiled from Melita’s form, the little honeybee child felt a pang of rancor steel over her veins – and the insistent humming, murmuring escalated (so much that even Sila began to complain, squeaking from her nest of wings and feathers). “Leaking?” Then she looked down, over the ramparts of her birdcatcher spots, inherited from her mother, and watched a droplet of some dark, sticky substance pool its way along her hide. What on earth? She blanched at herself, stumbled a few steps to the right, incapable of physically getting away from the abnormality, and understanding none of how it’d gotten there, why it was riddled over, what it meant, or how to be rid of it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered back to Clementine, trying to rise above the panic beginning its quivering, trembling, shaking source.

But she didn’t have a chance to ask anyone around her, the adults, the older youths, because her worries, her trepidations, were nothing in comparison to the chaos brewing below.

In a series of movements, motions, and bedlam blends, ghosts came to play – and she was utterly fascinated for a moment, gasping (not in terror, but in bewilderment), eyes rounding as the warrior Ampere was released from oubliettes and catacombs, as the sage Isopia bugled into the atmosphere.

Then all she could do was recall the events that had led them all here, in this dungeon of eldritch abominations, twisting, contorting madness, malice, menace. The scion swallowed down her flickers of delight and enthusiasm, and extended her left wing over Clementine, shielding, immediately protective of what was hers while the world bellowed, while Ampere charged, while Isopia coaxed. Then her thoughts ran towards Iskra, whose mother had once burst into pieces of dust and fire, then brought back to life before his eyes (altered; that wasn’t Ampere as she’d known her), taking an influx of breath and whispering to him: “Iskra,” trying to tie him to the wiles of the earth and not this unsettling, draining potency flying towards them – granting her other wing to him, in case he needed a safety, security, and a shelter too.

Melita

let me live that fantasy

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@Clementine  @Iskra