& like jasmine emerging from behind your hands i will wake up

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@Olive ♡

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her children should be here.

here, where shared nights would not be forgotten and she would braid into their manes trembling kingsfoil and little asters; tug-tugging loose their tundrian tangles, whispering bits of valerian into each strand. they should be with her, beneath the venerable moon, learning of those thin veils between this world and the next and chorusing to the great, black above. they should be here, knowing of things too strange to behold and yet pursuant of it anyway  —  as was their right, and the right of all who would gather here.

yet, she must remember patience; for in the two years she'd rested, aėrith had forgotten how slow beginnings could be. how to still all of one's self, in order for everything to root within once more and retake and reclaim.

but it was so near to the witching hour.

tonight, everything in her is sun-wreathed, star-felled, moon-limned. dizzied energies flutter beneath her skin; eyes silverbright and gauzy as she sets out into the clutch of dark. there is everything and nothing that she must do tonight, and all the purple lupine and foxglove grasses and sedge parts way for her, reaches for her. snags at her every once in a while, as if to keep her moored in there here and now. she would rather be left to her errant devices; gone into the vault of the heavens, heart bared from her breast with a song in her throat.

her children should be here.
( he should be here — )

aėrith marches out into the duskwild, despite it all;
all things airy and phantom touching down her spine.[/narrow]

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+1 discovery

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When Olive awoke from her slumber, there was almost nothing that signified that things were different. The trees stood as obelisks, the wind blew gently against her cheeck, the sun danced upon dew drops; the things of the world rose as they always did. The alabaster sylph felt as she always did, perhaps somewhat weary from her travels, but her blood thrummed and her legs could move. Just as the world had done, Olive walked on.
 
As she moved, she thought of trivial things — the trees and the wind and the sun, yes, but also how her belly felt hungry and it seemed to sharpen her mind. Yet, she wouldn’t place fang against prey until it was necessary, and there would be some larger purpose to the small soul’s consumption. Within a week’s time, the moon’s crescent would slip from the sky and disappear. The timing could not be more opportune for a sacrifice. She felt filled with the potential ritual the way a mother might feel her womb filled with puppies. It was something larger than herself, which she lived for entirely, and it would leap forth from her being only when the conditions were right for it. Still, these were trivial things, no different from every turn-of-the-moon the shewolf had ever lived. In another month, she would fast again, and the moon would purge itself. She would sing and commune with her keepers — souls she felt adjacent to, but could not explain how — and then she would resume her earthly duties, until the cycle came around once more.
 
It was in the middle of this thought that Olive noticed another wolf, picking her delicate way across the landscape. For seemingly no reason other than an energetic pull, the woman fell into a languid pursuit, footfalls silent and curiosities piqued.

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sorry for any mistakes in this fat chunk of hullabaloo

there wasn’t much to do.

fashioned by the underbellies of aggro monsoons and sun-freckled by refractions, more worn by the day the hatchling arrives in a place where the earth seems to swallow the clouds. used and trodden paths thru ornamental grasess clued into acolytes with 10,000 tounges solely for worshipping gods who slept under silent mountains; of countless histories begun and ended there.

… or whatever her wayfaring imagination would have her believe.

her mother was a revered story-weaver, rhetorical devices & late myths to be reverbed and remade at her whim; all and everything but verbatim. she had two twin-spirited elder ( they had the jump on her by about a few years ) sisters, and one whited-sepulcher of a sire.

sisters, matadors! father, enraged bull! — someone so still and surreal blooming with carmine who could’ve premiered stuffed and propped in a museum — no, no, to try to unearth the rest would be alike to building out of shifting saharan sands; it burned on the tip of her tongue until it would hurry away as if an excitable hare before she could close in to jerk the answers from its throat.

in lieu of throwing herself into a panic, she found stones besides the sparkling riverbeds of cloudrest, a bouquet of knitbone, rudania, and borage. she would build graves for each. she unintentionally leaves this father in her memoirs out.

back to where she’d awoken only this eve, did she wail quietly and pursed paper-thin lips as her tears were spent.

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girl same omg

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it is in her, so deeply hardwired – like a penchant for evading, she is made to stalk. she finds what is not yet meant to be found; makes the mists reveal that which they hope to ever conceal. she pushes her way through foxtail grasses, over moss-clad stone; feels something shift deep within the heartbeat of the very earth, like the great giant of old tundrian tales moving restless in his presumed-eternal slumber. aėrith  ( for that is who she now is, supposedly )  is ensnared, stumbles along in some bleary half-blindness, breath rattling up from her lungs, hooking its way up her throat to emerge in heavy, searching pants. she feels her before she hears her lostling cries; her ribs spring, brushing silverwood and aspen trunks as she flinches closer.

finds her.

as with all those she's taken beneath her wing, whether in that world away or in this wherever-where, her soul has long since surrendered itself to the whelp she rushes to now. possessed by what would not be godsforsaken from her, stolen away from stonebed ever again  —  has already accepted this child as a part of her body, as if she'd only just been found from it.

blood mattered not, as much as she wished it would.

kunnhekku lingers on the threshold, so as to not submit herself to that base kind of trespass; only when the bairn chose to see her, know her not to be a threat, would she finally advance; gather her into her embrace and mark the whorl of her brow with one valerian word or other.

for now, she waits, breathless, amidst the purple lupine and valley-lilies and wood-lilacs; so keenly intuned that she does not notice, nor mind, that another, familiar spirit has already followed hers.[/narrow]

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There, somewhere, beyond the mists — a child cries. Olive, attuned to the sound more than she is consciously aware of, pauses in her current excavation and spend but a mere moment using a wiggle of ears to correctly place the epicenter of the sound.

Though the sound of a child was not always a harbinger of misfortune, this was not a stone she would ever leave unturned.

Into the hung-heavy clouds she dove, her pale pelt blurring at the edges against the mist, melting into her milieu. It all seemed so eerily empty despite the clear presence of another; abandoned, yet so verdant. She wondered if this place, too, was claimed — perhaps she had accidentally wandered into an occupied place, and this voice was not as lost as it may seem. Whether or not this was true, she would soon see.

Beneath a heathered aegis, she picked her way towards the cry which called to her; in the same moment the petaled child came into view was she swept into the embrace of another, and the two became one. Olive, her presence still obscured, paused with one paw cocked and curled into her angled chest. Was this a place for her, something so intimate between others? If Olive hadn't been Olive, and she hadn't felt an unfurling of something lovely and recognizable in her chest, she might have left the mother and child be.

Instead, called forth by the very essence of her ancestral being, Olive pushed through and parted the underbrush to share space with the others, though any words she might have said were left unspoken.

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 the amyglada trigger! ah, goleman is alight with rosy mirth in his hearse. like jasmine from behind her hands ( haha ) — the witchking emerges. and she is the definition of lovelier, minute frame an enclave of care and power. the bluebird is drawn to the aegis of her, a home; a mantle.
 sudeenly they are hydrogen and oxygen, a chemical bond impregnable by any effable force. in her mother's absence ..... and then there is another. two? two holyladies? from the eraser-smudge marks on her column to the hair on her chin she feels a flush of respite.
 the fog did not feel so trapping anymore, the poorly erased edges of furtheraway mountains now meant to be her stone cradle.
 they were here to take her away to heaven? her mother always dreamed about that. 
 her family's grave proof she lived. it bolstered what little resolve the moongirl had.

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[narrow width=800]the hatchling totters her way and the nightingale gathers her close, not unlike the way a quivering bud of flame is, if only to ensure that it does not sputter into nothingness on some errant, dismissive wind; but as she feels the child quivering at her breast, she knows that she will not vanish from her arms, shifting into a formlessness that could not be remade on either godsplain or mortal earth. she should remain with her — them two, she amends, meeting the mossgreen eye of the one she had not seen before and yet knew within her heart all the same. come again, the pair of them.

"would you like to stay?" she murmurs into the then-nameless @Ifalna dark brow ( though the question could've been for either of her company. ) "as one with my vale? as my own?"[/narrow]
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Her presence was noticed, and at the same moment, Olive no longer felt extraneous — in the pith of her chest, something warm flowed. It was not the thump-thump-thump of her heartbeat, but something that ran deeper. It more than kept her body alive; it was the soul that embodied her every moment of being. Rarely did she feel it flow so close to the surface outside of ritual and being in the god-state, but here it was now, and just as the child's cries melted into a self-assured silence, so did the nearly endless questioning that plagued Olive's spirited mind. Not only did she know, but she was.

The dove, perceiving the question that was asked of them both, settled back on her haunches and then pedaled her twiggy front-legs outwards, belly against the earth. She crawled, crept, slunk close to the enveloping madonna, unable to find the ability to procure words, or use her throat. Rendered speechless, Olive allowed her silence to be her voice; and the glimmer in her eyes, the meaning behind her words.

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the company looked on and dug their thumbs into their fists and their heads fell into their hands, the dramatic irony prompting murmur in the Victorian-columned theater; nameless and bereft of common. the soft murmur upon her stygian brow reminds her what motherhood was, is.

ifalna hopes the warm glean in her eyes staring into the perplexing mind of the mother would be her pledge.

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