[The Burning Path has turned his back upon it. Has left his sister to bleed until it is time for the child to be born; until she will bleed anew. He does nothing to stop the surge of horrors across the domains he shares with his siblings. He fears no repercussion, is satisfied with the pain and anger he has instilled upon the world. A cleanser of sins, and yet his own transgression goes unpunished. What a cruel, wretched beast that could murder his sister's child and then rape her for one of his own.
One day, he will burn himself to nothingness and Blizzardseason will be waiting there to snap his neck.]
[A desert ghoul thrives on the sweltering heat and chaotic whirl of flame and agony that pulses through the world's veins, unleashed from her domain into the far-seeking reaches of new territory, cackling along the way. She leaves trails of blood and rotting flesh under a baking sun, blasts after the hot center of the bedlam, a snarling hyena and then a flapping vulture and then a sneering woman with a mouth full of maggots. Follows the Burning Path with absolute adoration.]
[He does stop. Does turn and gaze at her with cold blue eyes that slowly change in recognition. Sinful little creature, but true to itself... and reverent of him. He could not ask for more. Something slackens in the sallow tension of his features.]
[The ghoul's face splits into a sick leer of triumph at having reached her goal, this beautiful creature and his fist of violence and persuasion and cruelty, she drinks its energy into her like a glutton. Her own eyes flash the color of crystal and then settle a deep, dark maroon, like rust and dry blood.]
You're more handsome in person, [she coos, slithering closer with a trail of dust and sand at her ankles, clacks her teeth together like a skull's jaw clicks bone.] You've granted me much pleasure today, I've been absolutely starved.
[The blizzard bitch stalks through the landscape, furious. She is the wolf who snarls on the winds. Her eyes, black as death, always so liquid, have begun to drip black tar along her porcelain face. Where it touches the earth it sizzles at the ground like acid. The Burning Path will pay for this. She had not yet been born when Lydia's first child was taken from her, had never heard the story behind the scars across her dear-one's belly. But that did not matter.
The Burning Path, who she had always hated (a different, painful hate from the petty, bullying rivalry between she and the green-eyed boy) had spilled Autumn's blood over the earth. He had hurt her, and that was all that mattered to the winter queen. She would hurt him in kind, she would have his throat between her jaws.
The North wind wails her rage with her, whipping all the world into chill disarray.]
FFFF IDK IF I'M SUPPOSED TO REPLY OR COMMENT SO YEAH...markedbulletsJanuary 30 2010, 17:55:02 UTC
[ Staying inside would be a better decision, but ignoring something like this was not part of Cat's character. So, instead of taking shelter somewhere - though she had no home, she knew where to find safe haven - the girl tugs the collar of her trenchcoat up, tucks the chin and nose under a scarf and puts on the hoodie, covering her face. Lips chapped with cold, fingers freezing even under her arms, the girl frowns and looks around. She doesn't know how to deal with a season. She isn't an Other, not quite, so she doesn't really know what to do except cry out for her name. She's not particularly happy with this crazy weather, but she's not one to think "this too shall pass". She needs to do something, to be actively fighting against it. ]
Hey! Winter girl! [ She pauses, as if waiting for an answer and when none comes, she shouts again. ] The bloody hell 'you doing?!
Either 8V knock yourself outchionablepsiaJanuary 30 2010, 17:59:22 UTC
[She is drawn up short from her chase, as if she's been dragged back by a chain and her hair whips violently when she turns her head, teeth bared, black eyes dripping hot furious tar. She seems somehow larger than her usual small size, perhaps in the way the wind stirs her long hair and crystalline dress around her in a flurry. When she speaks, the wolves are there, clamoring in the back of her throat.]
Cover your head, mortal, there will be no until I have bled the sun of his glory.
[ Cat doesn't falter at the tenebrous sight. Instead, she stands her ground. Her eyebrows frown and she hugs the coat tighter around herself. Cold isn't something she's not accustomed to, quite the contrary, but this much cold can't be good for anyone. ]
I don't know what you're talking about, but calm the fuck down. [ She doesn't usually curse, but all of this is unsettling her. ] What's going on? [ It's not a question - it's a demand. It should not be the way to talk, but it's the only way she knows. ]
[Spring Reposing Within cradles his sister gently. They weep together, her thin arms clinging tight to him. He takes pity on her eventually, breathes a sweet perfume across her face that sends her plummeting in to sleep.
Lydia had always been a motherly figure to him, just as Summer had been the father. He supposes that makes this all the more twisted, that this act of violence is how the eldest has shown his love. That they are brother and sister is meaningless really, he thinks, they have no blood and so cannot truly share it. But as he gazes down at his sister, he cannot quite support the logic.
She should not have been touched. The Burning Path should be forced to reckon with what he has done. He should find his brother and confront him. Spring looks back at Lydia's sleeping form... and whispers that he is sorry he is such a coward before he departs to soothe his sorrows elsewhere.]
[ Styx means to visit each of the siblings, but she comes to Spring first. A woman draped in black robes, soaked through to the skin, her face and her hair wet with a thousand tears. Her cheeks, usually so gaunt and pale, are flush now to fullness. The River of Hate runs strongly this day. Her current is unabated.
Opening her arms, a request to wash over him, she lowers her head. ]
[He stares at her as if he cannot quite believe she has come to stand before him, as if the whole world does not know their sorrows. His lips part, as if to refuse, but then he moves in to her and lets her have him.]
[ Her embrace is cold, as chilled as the depths of her waters. She smells of salt-tears and blood; her voice babbles soft in his ear. ]
I have known love such as your brother's, one that burns bright with fire and black with soot. Such a love breeds nothing but hate. [ A hand comes to cradle his face, much like a mother would comfort a child. ] Will you be consumed? Or shall I carry you onward?
[ She is not a child of Lydia's forest, but the Ladybird comes anyway. There is no gatekeeper -- the trees always beckon -- and even in her deepest, most wretched sleep Lydia's welcome can be felt through every whispering crackle of dry leaves underfoot. She stands there, dumb and silent, for what feels like an eternal moment, casting a long shadow over the wronged sister's face, across the stretch of her used body. Her small hands shake, clenched tightly at each side -- fists of rage and indignation, of devotion to the younger brother who no doubt mourns and the love he holds for Lydia. Her skirts billow and plume as she drops down now onto her knees, hot tears running down her round cheeks.
Much like a child, so full of confusion and reeling anger (the world is wrong), she shouts at the one person who does not deserve harsh words. But harsh words is all Ladybird has. Even though Lydia is sleeping, she hopes someone still hears the words, still understands their meaning. ]
I once offered to ruin your enemies, but you would
( ... )
[Nothing yet, just pain, just tears. She pulses. Do not be soft, mother. This is wrong, let them make it right for you. Pain (Lydia's, the earth's, delicate flower petals pummeled by the sheets of ice, decimated by poison drunk in by their roots) and tears. Nourished again by the little Ladybird's tears. Mother. Make your wish, mother... make your wish.]
[ Although she is not her daughter in any literal sense of the world, Ruis's heart belongs to Deer-eyed Lydia. Being a Guardian of the Mound means that she protects, uses the magic of the earth to shield and to hold, to cradle those who are defenseless, to never bring harm. Although her heart mourns, she does not weep. The world has offered enough tears for Lydia's plight. Instead, she looks to offer strength (the sturdiness of an elder tree's trunk, the steadfastness that only the longest bloodline of the Fae could bring). She, herself, a bereaved mother, Ruis understands more deeply Autumn's sorrow, sees the spark in her belly to be both a blessing and a curse (another life, to replace what was lost, but still so unbidden, so rawSinging softly, she bends over sleeping Lydia, not looking to rouse her from her brother's slumber. Her lullaby is both for mother and child and tells of the beauty of the earth -- how it flourishes and fades and then dies, only to be reborn again out the dust of the last. A careful hand presses to
( ... )
[Jast feels the balance tip as it happens, feels the vertigo, world spinning. He had dropped down to his knees, feverishly murmuring prayers that had been cut off by the need to retch. Fever spiking through him, he felt all those like him calling out to the Deer-eyed goddess with love and indignation in her name. Like the squawking of a thousand birds, the wardens wail and suffer. His own spirit rises up with it. Indignation.
The seasons have not been so shaken since long before the humans began to rise up. There have always been wardens for as long as there has been such magic, and Jast can call up those distant, visceral memories. The loss of Autumn's first child. The birth of Winter, but neither of those events had reeked of blood and anguish the way this one does. The seasons are tearing at one another, leaving wounds in the earth, the sea, and the sky.
Jast cannot linger over how sick he feels for long. There is work to be done. Pain to heal. He must go.]
Comments 273
One day, he will burn himself to nothingness and Blizzardseason will be waiting there to snap his neck.]
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Oh, oh, won't you let me catch up?
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Hello, child.
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You're more handsome in person, [she coos, slithering closer with a trail of dust and sand at her ankles, clacks her teeth together like a skull's jaw clicks bone.] You've granted me much pleasure today, I've been absolutely starved.
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The Burning Path, who she had always hated (a different, painful hate from the petty, bullying rivalry between she and the green-eyed boy) had spilled Autumn's blood over the earth. He had hurt her, and that was all that mattered to the winter queen. She would hurt him in kind, she would have his throat between her jaws.
The North wind wails her rage with her, whipping all the world into chill disarray.]
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Hey! Winter girl! [ She pauses, as if waiting for an answer and when none comes, she shouts again. ] The bloody hell 'you doing?!
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Cover your head, mortal, there will be no until I have bled the sun of his glory.
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I don't know what you're talking about, but calm the fuck down. [ She doesn't usually curse, but all of this is unsettling her. ] What's going on? [ It's not a question - it's a demand. It should not be the way to talk, but it's the only way she knows. ]
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Lydia had always been a motherly figure to him, just as Summer had been the father. He supposes that makes this all the more twisted, that this act of violence is how the eldest has shown his love. That they are brother and sister is meaningless really, he thinks, they have no blood and so cannot truly share it. But as he gazes down at his sister, he cannot quite support the logic.
She should not have been touched. The Burning Path should be forced to reckon with what he has done. He should find his brother and confront him. Spring looks back at Lydia's sleeping form... and whispers that he is sorry he is such a coward before he departs to soothe his sorrows elsewhere.]
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Opening her arms, a request to wash over him, she lowers her head. ]
For whom do you weep?
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My niece, my sisters, myself.
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I have known love such as your brother's, one that burns bright with fire and black with soot. Such a love breeds nothing but hate. [ A hand comes to cradle his face, much like a mother would comfort a child. ] Will you be consumed? Or shall I carry you onward?
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Much like a child, so full of confusion and reeling anger (the world is wrong), she shouts at the one person who does not deserve harsh words. But harsh words is all Ladybird has. Even though Lydia is sleeping, she hopes someone still hears the words, still understands their meaning. ]
I once offered to ruin your enemies, but you would ( ... )
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The seasons have not been so shaken since long before the humans began to rise up. There have always been wardens for as long as there has been such magic, and Jast can call up those distant, visceral memories. The loss of Autumn's first child. The birth of Winter, but neither of those events had reeked of blood and anguish the way this one does. The seasons are tearing at one another, leaving wounds in the earth, the sea, and the sky.
Jast cannot linger over how sick he feels for long. There is work to be done. Pain to heal. He must go.]
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