04-12-2022, 06:44 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-14-2022, 06:09 PM by Riannon. Edited 4 times in total.
Edit Reason: Small notice added
)
[narrow width=800]
the roar that had rent the heavens had been enough to send her clawing away from her mistveil. even if this was not jumala come to summon her — she would not remain as she had last. would not let her soul be plucked like thread-needle this time.
she should have known that the earth remembered whatever had rent the skies the way it had; that it would rumble beneath her reaching, grasping way, shake a bit of mountainside loose and send her stumbling and scraped-up with it at its end; held up in some chasm that choked off any foreseeable exit aside from up, where she is left staring at the way the fabric of the skyvault shuddered, searched.
once upon a time, she had been held under the water as a child in a dark place.
but here, long and hard and alone, the nightingale will bring her own from their first drowning;
even if the hip beneath her juts wrong and fracture-split;
even if she has gnawed feverish through her stone-crushed tail in the frenzy and fever that comes with early, unattended labor. making way for this woman's thing and the agony of her purpose that is to come. for the effort that trembles bruised aching ribs. for the new life that begins from between her thighs and it means everything to not call out for their father, faraway as he is; means everything to bite her tongue until there is blood and no soft thin hymnal pleas to be heard by parlous, sorely unwished-for company.
not here — not with the stars plucked and fading to sunrise when finally four babes are bathed and brought to gum at her milkfat belly. a bumbling menagerie of honeycream, dark simmering shadow, dawnpink and all with delicate flushed cardinal points.
looking at her brood, she does not let herself think of how the blood of birth had not been spilt in her claim; of how the children of that great bear might be condemned to the same rootless earthwander that had so made itself ever a home in her.
she only thinks of how she had not gone to him before she had let her fear of this strange storm master her as it had; so that his smell might cloak her ward-evil in the chance she took all as omen and awayed. and now there is the chance she might not wake to his smiling morning kisses again;
or rest with the sister that had become olive and her neccessary leonine find;
or speak antiquity with the gray inarius under in their sacred space beneath the sun;
or look into the face of her blue child asriel and those of hers who had come before and who she still yet had to find, must find.
her call is a warbling, fluted rasp; rising wan and wearied up through the chasm from which she had previously stumbled down. riannon's rest, she blackly once thought, before this birthing — caught in the midst of the heave of old weak stone and pine-birch upsetting on the way to what she blindly remembered of windmere.
if any have heard her herald and mean to arrive, she does not know it.
the stonefall is cool against her torn cheek and the crown of her tired head. riannon brings a knee 'round her suckling children and rests indeed.[/narrow]
Premature labor admin-approved, set for April 12th rather than the 20th, and takes place a day after the sitewide event. This is for the babies & @Eira @Irura and a few others are welcome as well ♡ Please just DM me first on Discord ( I'm yeeyawns ) if u want to hop in, thank u. I work long nights so I try to sleep as much as possible during the day.
( The pups have accounts but will remain NPCs by default until we can get around to making an adoption form, or players are found. Please do not archive this thread in the event that those players can post just once after being found, thank you. )
( The pups have accounts but will remain NPCs by default until we can get around to making an adoption form, or players are found. Please do not archive this thread in the event that those players can post just once after being found, thank you. )
the roar that had rent the heavens had been enough to send her clawing away from her mistveil. even if this was not jumala come to summon her — she would not remain as she had last. would not let her soul be plucked like thread-needle this time.
she should have known that the earth remembered whatever had rent the skies the way it had; that it would rumble beneath her reaching, grasping way, shake a bit of mountainside loose and send her stumbling and scraped-up with it at its end; held up in some chasm that choked off any foreseeable exit aside from up, where she is left staring at the way the fabric of the skyvault shuddered, searched.
once upon a time, she had been held under the water as a child in a dark place.
but here, long and hard and alone, the nightingale will bring her own from their first drowning;
even if the hip beneath her juts wrong and fracture-split;
even if she has gnawed feverish through her stone-crushed tail in the frenzy and fever that comes with early, unattended labor. making way for this woman's thing and the agony of her purpose that is to come. for the effort that trembles bruised aching ribs. for the new life that begins from between her thighs and it means everything to not call out for their father, faraway as he is; means everything to bite her tongue until there is blood and no soft thin hymnal pleas to be heard by parlous, sorely unwished-for company.
not here — not with the stars plucked and fading to sunrise when finally four babes are bathed and brought to gum at her milkfat belly. a bumbling menagerie of honeycream, dark simmering shadow, dawnpink and all with delicate flushed cardinal points.
looking at her brood, she does not let herself think of how the blood of birth had not been spilt in her claim; of how the children of that great bear might be condemned to the same rootless earthwander that had so made itself ever a home in her.
she only thinks of how she had not gone to him before she had let her fear of this strange storm master her as it had; so that his smell might cloak her ward-evil in the chance she took all as omen and awayed. and now there is the chance she might not wake to his smiling morning kisses again;
or rest with the sister that had become olive and her neccessary leonine find;
or speak antiquity with the gray inarius under in their sacred space beneath the sun;
or look into the face of her blue child asriel and those of hers who had come before and who she still yet had to find, must find.
her call is a warbling, fluted rasp; rising wan and wearied up through the chasm from which she had previously stumbled down. riannon's rest, she blackly once thought, before this birthing — caught in the midst of the heave of old weak stone and pine-birch upsetting on the way to what she blindly remembered of windmere.
if any have heard her herald and mean to arrive, she does not know it.
the stonefall is cool against her torn cheek and the crown of her tired head. riannon brings a knee 'round her suckling children and rests indeed.[/narrow]
the staff team luvs u