lost in the echo

@Olive

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Golden paws took her on a moonlit adventure through the highlands, chasing something in the distance. There was a strange static in the air, a dark cloud overhanging the peaks of the familiar fangs of the mountaintops. The temperature fluctuated, and static pulled her golden fur far from her body with a strange, hot tingle. Amythyst eyes sought the darkness in the distance, chasing tumultuous gray clouds like a fading wisp as the coils of the sunrise erupted into the atmosphere. Night would soon be over — would it take the strange clouds with it?

She traced along the edges of the unfamiliar bank, floating forward as if walking on clouds herself. There was a determined grace in the way she moved, levitating over the rocky earth without making but a sound. It was only when she noticed that the river gave way to a massive cliff that her pawsteps slowed to a gentle stop. Her body quivered, the warmth of the static still playing with her thermoregulation. Amythyst eyes glazed over as she fluctuated her vision between the sheer cliff in front of her and the cacophonous weather in the very, very far distance.

Her mind rumbled, deep and dark like the thunder.

And then, a breeze from somewhere far away hit her — carrying the chill of a frosted tundra.  And she shook, feeling a deep, deep sense of animosity pitting in the base of her stomach.

Had she reached the edge of the world?

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Similarly, the shrouded sylph had been pulled from her palanquin amongst Cloudrest — for she had an intense desire to commune with her Gods, and ask them many, many questions about the conditions of their vast love and good fortune, both of which she had experienced the extremes of, in past months. At times, they were as present and heavy as tangible reality itself; other times they were vacant and missing, leaving pain and confusion in their wake. Esra longed for these answers with every breath she breathed.

The Gods answered in the most peculiar way; sending dark, towering clouds that billowed forth from some hellish distance, but never truly crept closer — the storm simply loomed and threatened, and made Esra feel profanely uncomfortable. She paced to-and-fro amongst the veils of Frostchant, but even the ache in her scrawny, underfed figure could not stop her from wandering past its borders, and to the great precipice that lay just east.

She vaguely remembered being here other times; of dancing in snow, and dancing with ancestors, but the woman's sense were all trained on the outward expanse, the great space that lay before her; and the grueling, growling storm that existed just beyond. To the golden figurine that also stood in wonder of such an omen, the ashen nursemaid grit her teeth and splayed her ears back. "I couldn't feel this storm coming," she admitted, unsure exactly why that was. How distracted from her piety had she become?

"Usually... I can feel it," she clarified, as a shiver ran from the pit of her shoulders to the tip of her tail.

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She’d become lost in the confines of her mind, trapped in the cacophony as her senses burned; a fire so hot that it began to burn cold. Unwavering amethyst gaze remained fixated on the odd string of clouds that flickered on and off in the furthest reaches of the sky. And she had no idea why it was there — no idea what it meant, or what it may bring.

All she now … was static. A numbing blanket.

“I couldn’t feel this storm coming.” The words, a soft and relieving exhale against the tense air. They mirrored her very thoughts … so much so, in fact, that Amaranth wondered if her own inner dialogue had taken on a life of its own.

Her gaze snapped from the sky, turning to peer over a golden shoulder as she sought a face … a face to place with that ethereal, soothing voice. And that was when she saw the ghost; beautiful, eerie, dangerously haunting. It was certainly an unseen fortune that this ghost did not seek retribution, for Amaranth had been sitting so precariously at the edge of the cliff … an easy target. 

“Usually … I can feel it,” the woman continued, a sense of distress touching the gentle vocals. Amaranth lifted herself onto tall golden stilts, rotating herself around to face the stranger and turn her back on the void. The back lighting lit her fur like a soft flame as she raised her brows contemplatively. “I know,” she responded simply, gently … taking a few soft steps closer and dipping her head in a silent, half-formal greeting. And then, her head tilted, ears pressed forward with a prying curiosity.  “What do you think it means?”

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The woman turned to regard her and Esra was entirely taken by her presence. The long-legged posture made the golden wisp look akin to the sidereal Goddess who sometimes pranced across the night sky; but perhaps her sister, that lived in the day, and was made of liquid sunshine. So splendidly did she stand out from the tumultuous background that the pale seraph was drawn forward, like a supplicant, looking to draw strength from simply being within the others' aura.

The golden woman, still clearly a mortal (like herself), ushered forth an inquiry; opening up a dialogue. Esra paused mindfully, glancing upwards at the billowing storm clouds, then back to the sunshine-woman. "My goddess-sense tells me it’s a portend," she said, in a near whisper, unsure if this might be obvious to anyone & everyone who had even the smallest spiritual muscle in their body. Anyone who could see it knew it was bad. What bad things did it portend? Esra had no desire to find out, but knew she must seek the answers, lest she & frostchant be taken by surprise.

The seraph cocked an eyebrow and rolled her shoulders, uttering "and perhaps, so are you…" in a brief, syllabic verse. The tiger she had met in the Elsewhen ended up being a force that saved her life. What is this Aphrodite's role? she wondered silently.

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drew upright XII/hanged man — pause, surrender, letting go, new perspectives as inspiration

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Amaranth became quickly enraptured, captivated by the deep sense of mystery and otherworldly potency that the other held. Amythyst eyes danced, emotion locked deep beneath that labyrinthine pool of glass as gentle words touched the sky with a bite as crisp as lightning. The storm groaned behind them, an ominous stygian blip against the otherwise gentle morning — reminding them not to forget what they were here for.

But Amaranth's curiosity burned more deeply now for the stranger than it did for the storm.

Who was this ghost?

"My goddess-sense tells me it’s a portend," the sylph would continue, voice betraying her slightly in those notes of worrying uncertainty. Amaranth hummed softly, glimpsing back over her shoulder for a moment and watching the agitated collection of clouds. To many, yes, it would appear ominous. Dark. Intimidating. A forbearing of bad fortune.

But the funny thing about fortune was that it was neither good nor bad.
 It just was.
  Fortune played no favorites. Fortune was balance.

"...and perhaps, so are you…" the voice continued, and Amaranth turned her slender golden muzzle back toward the fairy with a soft grin. It should have felt strange — to be observed in the way that she observed others. But it was calming in a way, a softness against the static. "Perhaps," she agreed thoughtfully, ears swiveling atop her golden crown to focus her attention back upon the slender white ghost. "Or perhaps it is less me alone, but the two of us together that create the omen." A single brow rose, a hint of play dancing behind her eyes.

"This strange purgatory is changing," she continued airily, voice light and gentle singsong. "Surrendering something old to create something new." And whether that was good fortune or bad was up to the interpreter.

"I am Amaranth," she offered after a moment, not entirely expecting this apparition to have a name ... but perhaps hoping there was a word or descriptor that Amaranth could use to hold this moment in her memory when sleep eventually took her again.

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Her voice was lilting and lovely, but the words "Or perhaps it is less me alone, but the two of us together that create the omen" in particular struck her. It wasn't often that she came across another that believed in omens and prophecies, and even less did she encounter those who believed that a person could be an omen, or two together (as was the usual nature of such things). Esra cocked her head to the side in interest, eagerly drinking in her foretelling, and wondering how such an intuition could be honed.

With a flick of her tail, Olive strode forward and past the golden statue, to glance off the cliff into the tumultuous abyss. "If that is so," Olive suggested as she moved closer and eventually past, "then perhaps we part now, and save these lands from the consequence of our meeting—" the pale sylph turned to head to look askance at her fellow seeker, hope she could intone the irony in her voice. A gust of wind tousled her feather cheeks, and she turned so that her backside could bear the brunt of the gale. "Though we can no more stop the turning of time, than we can reverse the tides." If this storm, or thine own meeting with the aphrodite woman, be a harbinger of something to come...

Then come what may.

One step closer, she drew. She noted the other's name with the briefest of curtsies. "In this moment, you may call me Esra," the creamy-pelted shewolf introduced; explained, "In any other, Olive would be a more appropriate moniker."

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