01-18-2022, 11:48 AM
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she has dreamed in dust and sacrificial memory of the ivory twists of bones and eyeless sockets; felt the ache of demented, damnable silence and the touch of old stone and offerings gone to rot.
it has grown cold, and will be colder; and she will have to unfeather their resting place to lie down pelts for those precious heads to rest upon. but there is so much that has left her wanting, sorely unfulfilled, unbrimming at her own seams. she still does not know how long it'd been since she'd been refashioned and set to shore but it feels like forever, like too much to bear so the nightingale forsakes her stonebed fringed with children and marches out into the mists. then beyond. forces her mind to quiet, to silence as she allows herself to, for now, wander without aim; without misery to accompany her, accost her thoughts. remind her and reject her.
until she hears the rushing falls in the dark, and her paws decide on a known path before she can take her next breath. ...but when she is quite near enough to hear, she realizes ( very, very belatedly ) that she does not know the folk songs of her warlord's people; only what ahti had filled her head with in exchange for working his way to make everything within hers come to life.
supposedly.
so the sotaherra sits, temple pressed to bark; leaning against a silverflame larch's trunk as she resigns to merely listening to whichever mornbird sings solemn things so far from the reaches of her vale. perhaps the words of gods are indeed none the greater than what the grounded themselves have to say.[/narrow]
for @Gyrfalcon ♡ she isn't as bitey now,, i think lmao
she has dreamed in dust and sacrificial memory of the ivory twists of bones and eyeless sockets; felt the ache of demented, damnable silence and the touch of old stone and offerings gone to rot.
it has grown cold, and will be colder; and she will have to unfeather their resting place to lie down pelts for those precious heads to rest upon. but there is so much that has left her wanting, sorely unfulfilled, unbrimming at her own seams. she still does not know how long it'd been since she'd been refashioned and set to shore but it feels like forever, like too much to bear so the nightingale forsakes her stonebed fringed with children and marches out into the mists. then beyond. forces her mind to quiet, to silence as she allows herself to, for now, wander without aim; without misery to accompany her, accost her thoughts. remind her and reject her.
until she hears the rushing falls in the dark, and her paws decide on a known path before she can take her next breath. ...but when she is quite near enough to hear, she realizes ( very, very belatedly ) that she does not know the folk songs of her warlord's people; only what ahti had filled her head with in exchange for working his way to make everything within hers come to life.
supposedly.
so the sotaherra sits, temple pressed to bark; leaning against a silverflame larch's trunk as she resigns to merely listening to whichever mornbird sings solemn things so far from the reaches of her vale. perhaps the words of gods are indeed none the greater than what the grounded themselves have to say.[/narrow]
the staff team luvs u