empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
The Timeline of events surrounding her return - that is, the chronological order - isn’t important.
The Wraith is back, whole and as sane as she ever was. All her systems run at full-steam, her head metaphorically screwed on tightly, clean and shiny and full of energetic purpose. There is a lightness, a brightness, a sense of righteousness and certainty about her steps, the way they press the snow with a deliberate crunch as she chases Loki and her celebratory acrobatics across an open, wine-dark sky.
Fifty things lay on her proverbial plate and still, there’s the song of the unknown. A breathless, magnetic pull from somewhere deep inside her - her gut, perhaps, or her heart - a need and a joy deeply entangled in each other. And it’s no wonder, is it, that this child of the barrier has such a deep psychological need to explore, to exercise her freedom to move? Stillness means death. Acceptance means death. Settling for a certain lot in life means… well, you get the picture.
A white blanket stretches before her and her path brings her to another set of footprints. Loki soars higher and flies ahead, doing a preliminary search whilst the Wraith hangs back for a moment, squatting down to visit her old life, the hunter takes the place of the Queen for a moment as she touches and examines and stills.
Her companion comes back to her with bursts of curiosity before the Wraith can see - or hear - the other person. A stranger, someone unknown to the black dragon, and yet there’s a level of comfort that comes from spending the majority of her time around other Ascended. Whoever - whatever is on the other side this crest is neither a threat nor prey, so the demigod rises and continues, turning around a small, gently sloping crest to find a stranger. White on white. Pale. Deepfrost personified, without the deadly allure of the Eirachi.
Loki is far more gregarious than her bonded; she lands at the edge of the bench the man sits on, fanning her wings wide and looking up at him with something like expectation. Though what she expects of this stranger (food, scritches, a companion for her to play with?) is entirely unclear.
The Wraith is back, whole and as sane as she ever was. All her systems run at full-steam, her head metaphorically screwed on tightly, clean and shiny and full of energetic purpose. There is a lightness, a brightness, a sense of righteousness and certainty about her steps, the way they press the snow with a deliberate crunch as she chases Loki and her celebratory acrobatics across an open, wine-dark sky.
Fifty things lay on her proverbial plate and still, there’s the song of the unknown. A breathless, magnetic pull from somewhere deep inside her - her gut, perhaps, or her heart - a need and a joy deeply entangled in each other. And it’s no wonder, is it, that this child of the barrier has such a deep psychological need to explore, to exercise her freedom to move? Stillness means death. Acceptance means death. Settling for a certain lot in life means… well, you get the picture.
A white blanket stretches before her and her path brings her to another set of footprints. Loki soars higher and flies ahead, doing a preliminary search whilst the Wraith hangs back for a moment, squatting down to visit her old life, the hunter takes the place of the Queen for a moment as she touches and examines and stills.
Her companion comes back to her with bursts of curiosity before the Wraith can see - or hear - the other person. A stranger, someone unknown to the black dragon, and yet there’s a level of comfort that comes from spending the majority of her time around other Ascended. Whoever - whatever is on the other side this crest is neither a threat nor prey, so the demigod rises and continues, turning around a small, gently sloping crest to find a stranger. White on white. Pale. Deepfrost personified, without the deadly allure of the Eirachi.
Loki is far more gregarious than her bonded; she lands at the edge of the bench the man sits on, fanning her wings wide and looking up at him with something like expectation. Though what she expects of this stranger (food, scritches, a companion for her to play with?) is entirely unclear.
WESSEX
