lift with your knees, atlas
Amalia <3
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#1
DEIMOS
The twilight air was a bristling contortion – a feeling of effortlessness careening along feathers he’d never thought to have, along plumage he never thought to hold, along a triumphant, proud machination simmering between his veins. A victory, however small, however meager, however miniscule in the facets and faces of all their other defeats and collapses, felt like a conquest – and he breathed in its liberation, its promised, reverent rapture, rapacious ether gliding over his features, high, high above canopies and the incandescent vessels of lantern light.

You are more was a vow he’d somehow stuck to - you will be better an anchor, a repositioning of wings a providential deliverance all on its own, freedom across seas and groves, between boughs and branches, along twisted vines and murky clouds. He was capable and it was breathtaking – strength inside pushing and pummeling, unraveling some of the walls, some of the barricades, laying waste to seeds of self-doubt for the moment, for the exultant, elated efforts of Swords turned beasts. Magic pulsed and bound, and so did predator instincts, inherent abilities casting him into unleashed talons and enduring movements, shifting on the wind, coasting on snowflakes threatening to unravel in the sky, equipped for moonlight ventures, able to go anywhere, anywhere he chose – perhaps to mountains, to oceans, to rocky shoals and rivers, to wide open plains and their bountiful game.

The ghosts: fire, water, and rain, had told him to fly.

So he went to her first.

The glade was the same, except dusky and dusted with the night; his fall had come earlier, his descent through clouds, his inevitable demise punctured and pierced in evening ink – the glow stones in their illuminated bounty, Zuriel nearby, a touch of their bond simmering on his senses. Mischief ignited for a moment, gesturing to her with an indignant press; her head snapping in the distance, sea eyes poignantly staring, then glaring at him.

Then he lingered in the air, for as long as he could, twisting and turning as if a scavenger, silent, noiseless, hushed, until he could pinpoint the Shield, gilded crown and the reverence of his heartbeat colliding in his chest, hovering on a rush of wind, then gliding downwards, until he could land on a stump near her. Could eagles smirk? Could eagles smile? His blue eyes might have been the only tell-tale sign of an otherworldly connotation in order.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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#2
AMALIA
She stays in the glade through the waning afternoon, watching as clouds shift and fade and the first chords of winter begin to fall. It is a song of snow and shortened days, of delayed mornings and early nights; it is a song she does not love, but knows, a song she was born into. Amalia is not a summer child, but a daughter of the week of longest nights. Born into a time without stars, it is strange, then, that she reaches for the sun- but she does, again and again and again, standing up each time she stumbles, her fingers ever straining up to brush an unreachable sky.

She thinks about this as she waits, and many things beside. By the time night settles on the trees there is a strange light to be found, glowing antlers in a distant evening, a gold the girl knows well. The luxere are back, and Amalia smiles, feeling her heart rise with pleasure at the sight of the familiar cervids. A doe and a fawn; the baker hums, extending a hand to to invite them closer, her back against an arcing tree as the pair creeps closer, curious and unafraid.

It is a rather idyllic pastoral picture: the Shield of Safrin surrounded by a mythic menagerie, with starlit whales chasing luxere children, a unicorn and antlered doe looking wearily on. The baker's smile is radiant as she sings a tune among them, her back to the descending eagle, her dark eyes glittering with mirth. Oh, she saw him in his fall, knows that he is there- and oh, she knows that it is him, for who else could it be?

She does not dare to turn around, afraid of the ferocity of jubilation he will find upon her face.

Reaching out to brush a hand along the suddenly anxious Luxere's neck, Amalia glances sidelong, half turning to him over her shoulder, her face obscured with hair. There is mischief in the timbre of her voice, in the lilting alto of her tone, the laughter hidden behind a veil of thinly constructed seriousness. "Well, Mr. Shade," his lover whispers, "Are you prepared to fly?"

And then in a flash the girl is gone, an owl in her wake, her starlit wings beating with swift skill as she launches toward the sky.
You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given
And oh, how much
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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MP:
#3
DEIMOS
There were no questions. There were no inquiries. There were no stunned proclamations, no passing exclamations. There was just the beckoning sky, the stardust, the glow of mythical properties, the Shield, and the slide of the evening’s tranquility, as if moments before he hadn’t been dropped into its twilight expanse. So Deimos breathed, talons gripping on bark and timber, the weight of the world passing over his shoulders, over his feathers, over his plumage. A pattern of silence flickered and followed, as he waited, as he watched, as luxere strived to shift away in his presence (even Attuned, he was still a touch of darkness, long since succumbed to shadows and strife, the Sword painted in Stygian values). But he had no song for them, no drunken stanzas, no inebriated refrains.

The ocean stare resided on her, pressing, insistent, almost yearning for attention; and she must’ve known, along the crackle of mischief, the ether of amusement. He might’ve rolled his eyes in human form, smirked or snickered, joined in on the banter, but his beak didn’t hold the same features. The humor though plucked across sienna and sable (colors he’d never worn, hues he’d never portrayed), ruffled slightly in the evening breeze, heart rapacious, at the pinnacles and warmth of her laughter. The whisper in the dark didn’t convey carnal desires or wanton dreams – there were other ambitions and aspirations holstered there, as his eyes narrowed, as Mr. Shade prepared, bunching and coiling together, a mass of movement eager, ready to explode, a piston, a pistol, a blade, a Reaper, a Sword suddenly intent on horizons instead of battlefields –

Gilded shrouds and veils vanished, morphing and shifting, swifter than his, more skillful, used to the transformation, the alterations, the way human became beast. He followed, on keen, quick accords, wings extended, legs pushing off of stumps, grateful to leave the world behind, behind, behind. The eagle said naught to Zuriel, to Jyoti, to anyone or anything – breathing in the cold void, relishing in the sanctity of deliverance, freedom, and providence, earned by his own accord (a strange, strange notion). He beckoned and dove and ascended in starlight thresholds, another home, like nestled mountains or spiraling currents of the sea, eyes watching ivory and wisdom, sagacity and alabaster.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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Posts: 1,971
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#4
AMALIA
He follows on wings of tawny gold, and Amalia finds herself enraptured by wonder, basking in the beauty of this moment they share. A year ago she would not have dreamt it, to be taking wing alongside her lover as the day fades down to night (and which part the least believable- that she should have wings? That someone should love her? That she no longer feara the dark?).

But now, now, now, ah, how her world has changed, sands shifting ever underfoot, never quite leaving her steady but always giving way to something new and beautiful in the dark.

On invisible currents of rising wind Amalia circles the avian Sword, open in her admiration, each piece of her mind accessible to him. He is magnificent the owl thinks, gold and black and musculature pulled over sinew and bone, larger than she twice again, a beacon in the brilliant night. Can he feel the vibrancy of her ardor, the excitement that radiates off her, electric?

Can he feel the mirth?

She stops her circling suddenly, a pulse of mischief in her thoughts as she angles her body up. On well-trained wings the girl flies, rising up toward the swiftly appearing stars, a silver bullet shot at the heavens. Higher, higher, until her breath gives out, until her small lungs struggle to hold it all and her brain begins to grow elated and still- and then down she plummets like a stone, crashing toward the larger eagle, a comet crashing down to earth.

Wings tucked in the girl spirals, her speed astounding and perhaps alarming as she careens toward Deimos, magnetized. It is not until she is feet away that the girl abruptly pulls up, her wings screaming with the strain of it as she makes use of her nimble figure and stops in her descent. Ah, but not before her talons touch him, aiming to brush some of the tawny feathers, gently but firmly enough to feel, an avian laughter in her throat.

Tag! Amalia calls to her lover before diving down among the trees, the cackling sound of an owl's shrieks left like ghosts in her wake.
You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given
And oh, how much
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,831
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#5
DEIMOS
Deimos rarely shared his dreams with anyone; coined them into ambitions, into aspirations, into darker threads of where he’d traverse, travel, or sink his intentions. Often, the objectives had been hardhearted, simple, or amidst the savage: protect, defend, or die trying, bestial formations, blade and cutlass insinuations, a hiss, a growl, a roar, a bellow into the void, daring the world to come and defy him. Helovia had been a place of ensuring kingdoms and sovereignties surged and triumphed over others, and he’d guarded, he’d exploited, he’d churned, he’d burned. Isilme had been a world of constant warfare and bleaker outsets, sputtering rage and vitriol on every side, and he’d learned how to wield munitions and weaponry long before he’d ever thought what his singular objectives might’ve been. They’d become immersed into conquest, into carving an adversary’s insides, into bludgeoning, devastating, and ruining. They’d become synonymous with a crown, restricted and bound by what the rest of his country had craved (violence, vehemence, vengeance – repose, rue, and regrets). Not once, in all his journeys across vast realms, had he been capable of peering beyond mountains, of seeing beyond fault lines or catacombs.

Or the precious beacon of freedom.

No ties, no tethers, no lines, no drawn, sketched enigmas in the sand – he was beyond earth, into the sky, beast, beast, beast in all his glory, wings outstretched and the world below left far behind. He could soar until his muscles ached, until his body gave in, until his mind and eyes and denizens had seen, experienced enough (and who was to say that it would – greedy and rapacious, devouring and consuming, eager to plunge headlong into the stark, open air).

The darkness called and crawled, a veil, a shroud, and he blended into its ministrations, distant, hazy lights of fires and lanterns blinking back – and then just Amalia’s pale outline, reflecting like snow against the backdrop, the canvas, the tapestry of endless possibilities. She circled him as they climbed and soared, and emotions, sentiments, that weren’t his own kept clambering back to him, buffeting, like light touches and fringes of another unknown chime. His head tilted, still bewildered by shapes, by formations, by everything else, ignorant to the ways of these opuses and oeuvres – but they seemed to be her - the singsong laughter, the admiration, the amusement scattered along his mind like stars and galaxies.

Was this how the Attuned communicated?

Deimos wasn’t sure how to prosper or provide it correctly – still a piece of stone, a molten monolith of rubble, tucked into shells and walls, accustomed to emoting nothing when he was in complete, utter control. But for her? And here? He loosened the hold on his own merriment, allowed it to glide on their plumage, on connections and bonds, billowing and pulsing, pervading and presiding, and he’d been too distracted in its properties to notice the quelling of mischief beneath the drumbeats of hearts and lungs.

Until she ascended, whisking higher and higher, and he pondering about following, about tracing into the clouds and flickering like a black hole; except then she seemed to be coming down, like a plummeting, ivory rock, and if eagles were capable of snorting, he’d done just that, winding his way on jagged lines as he sensed his body suddenly becoming a damned target; chased, hunted, the feeling not settling into fear, but play, ridiculous and juvenile and likely exactly what they needed.

There was laughter in the sky as she brushed upon him, his surprise slowing him down, her smaller frame capable of swifter, fleeter tactics, the first words piercing and passing through their bond was tag, and instead of shaking his head, an inward growl was all he could summon. He allowed it to settle in the links; a chiseled formation of predator aplomb and glee, descending, diving after her, her cackles, her ivory feathers, a designated goal – extending his wings further and further, reaching and reaching in a demonic press , a zealous whisper, a scorch of devilry, as he silently coasted on the moonlit breeze, tag conjured back upon her while they darted into woods and groves.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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Posts: 1,971
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#6
AMALIA
Like a comet, a meteor, a star pulled from the sky, Amalia crashes down toward Deimos, silver and tawny in the glittering night. Her laughter is more than a cried out sound: it is water to engulf him, light to assuage him, a blanket of love and playful mirth that pours out from her heart and soul. She is used to the Attuned language, the way they speak through more than words, more than thoughts- through feelings, hearts exposed and open, the anxieties and insecurities stripped away. There is no room in an avian mind for terror, for doubt, for concern that he will leave her if he sees all that she is. There is only him and dark night sky and the wind beneath their wings.

She does not need to be afraid because she can feel him, his mirth and merriment and wonder with it pulsing in soft but palpable bursts, each one a hymn, a song, a sonnet, a love letter to her soul. It is a lightning bolt of sweet relief, a rescue from the pervasive cold that lingers in the back of her mind, leaving her dark and insecure and always, always, always afraid. If owls could grim then Amalia might have, a vibrant and elusive thing without clouds, the smile she saves for him alone, for days by the river and nights in the bath.

Her talons touch his feathers lightly before she flits away, nimble in her smaller body, coiling tight as she darts through leaves. Through the glade and around the oasis she flutters as he gives chase, slower than him but fleeter, more accustomed, having spent more time upon her wings. It would be easy, perhaps, to dart into the underbrush, to lose herself and lose him too, but the point is not to get away, never to escape: she wants to be caught, wants to be captured, wants always to be the prize he claims.

So she rises again, bursting up into open air where he can easily reach, a sudden upward burst of mobility as she explodes through the trees, trilling merrily, challenge and promise locked in her onyx eyes. Just beyond his seeking talons, just outside his grasp- except she isn't, and she feels the touch of claws upon her, the success of his voice in her mind. Tag, he says, and the girl flips upward, loop-de-looping before setting off, taking her own turn at pursuit.
You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given
And oh, how much
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,831
MP:
#7
DEIMOS
A chase coiled at his senses, and it wasn’t about death and destruction, mayhem or menace, any sinking, crawling, dangerous intuition. There was no soulless void, no scythe, no cutting maelstrom or tempestuous storm behind him, but stars and shields and challenges; a reflection of dances they’d embodied in the spring. It ran rampant over the footfalls of their failures and defeats, brief, always so brief, slashing away from detrimental claws and torturous nothings. How often had he wished they could go back to simpler times (and had they been – after destruction and monsters – or was it mere nostalgia working against him, desperate for moments not contorted in ashes, cinders, and bones?) – and here they clambered and hastened on, drifting amongst stars, dust, and the moon.

She must’ve given him a head start, looping around before conjuring again behind him, and his inexperience could work against him now – he dove, dove, dove, intending to plummet in haste, in swift, contorted measures, instigating trickier happenstances even if the game was orchestrated for him to be caught - and she’d be the only one he’d ever let snag, ensnare, and trap him, always directly in her sights, skimming on her refrains, willingly beguiled, allured, and spellbound. These were the predilections and captivations of a warrior though, easily coiled into dueling penchants and preferences, breathless on the air, lungs quelling and brewing their fervent iniquities.

He played into the skirmish and diversion, and though there were no people to bombard, to swing her within and laugh until their sides threatened to burst, they still had the eclipsing boughs, where he attempted to slide amongst and amidst; blending, camouflage in the darker cords. The Shield immersed them into provocations and the Sword attempted to wield them one by one, racing, racing, racing, delving along streaks of bereft, gnarled branches, intertwining his plumage into the daring measures – eternally sworn into sliding along their, her enticements one by one. When he thought himself free, trying to slow her down between knotted timber and the shadows of the evening’s hallowed halls, the beast maneuvered upward, rising on the wind, the breeze, higher and higher, then swooping, circling, waiting for the nuances of further hunting, tracking, and emboldened alms. Almost as if he wanted to be apprehended, so he could continue the pattern, give chase again (because he would – he’d always look for her, in one world or the next).
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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Posts: 1,971
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#8
AMALIA
He drops into the trees below and Amalia watches in some surprise, wondering at the ability of that wingspan to withstand the boughs, the breadth of his limbs longer than she is tall. But he is a shockingly graceful creature, musculature built to dance as well as fight. Always Deimos seems aware of his body and the space it fills, even when he is using it to knock down revelers, weaving mischief and mayhem and delight. It is different from the baker who is eternally awkward, lost in her own body except when carefully directed, focused, but otherwise sprawling and spiraling through the world. She stays above the canopy, keen eyes searching for flashes of black and gold, the dim light nothing for an owl's gaze, and besides, never could the girl lose sight of him.

She wears him like a shadow, keeping pace from high above, matching his wing strokes with two of her own, laughter and amusement fluttering like feathers through the bond between them. How long will he keep this up, hiding from her in the dense boughs of the grove, testing the limits of his new body, learning the secrets of this form. Forever, she hopes distantly, wishing every moment could last, that they could stay like this for eternity, that the play would never have to stop. If she flew off now over the horizon, would he follow her into a new world? Would he leave it all behind, abandon this place and its troubles, give up Swords and Shields and Spires, all for the sake of her?

She will never know the answer, because she will never ask. He has already been ripped from his world twice, family lost through portals and death. She will never ask him to give them up again, no matter how much she longs for escape.

He rises again, cresting the treetops, and the owl trills her imminent triumph, closing her wings as she barrels through the air. Again her talons extend in preparation as she follows him up and up, dancing over invisible currents, almost touching but never quite. The chase is prolonged, sweeter for anticipation as the smaller bird darts around him, spinning and spiraling and yes, showing off, her nimble body graceful in the open air.

When at last her talons brush him she is quick to fall away, plummeting suddenly toward a break in the trees, following the reflection of light on water. The Oasis glitters far below, starlit and silent, an inviting thing. She falls until she is nearly upon it before abruptly opening her wings, one talon brushing the surface of the water, a long stripe of ripples extending in her wake.
You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given
And oh, how much
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,831
MP:
#9
DEIMOS
Perhaps military and munitions training aided him here, in the strands of twilight and dusk, between boughs and branches seeking to embed and entangle themselves in feathers, in plumes, like gnarled hands, fingers, and bones. He’d always been entirely conscious and mindful of his form, of his figure, of where power undulated, where precision could preside, where he could bludgeon and lend scruples to movements – his massive size lacking the darting ability to smaller, more compact soldiers. So he’d trained. So he’d practiced. So he’d manifested extension of limbs and arms to impact a broader area, to snatch and snare and grab at those daring to harpoon at him. It was no different now – applying his efforts into (truly) bestial movements, redefining and understanding his shape, how far he could push, how long he could reach, how much was too much, or simply not enough. The Reaper knew himself as a demonic entity, a blistering, scorching carcass, a vessel, a means to so many ends. The Sword knew himself as a soldier, as a warrior, and now, as an eagle, some noble, honorable factions bestowed in the breadth of his chest, in the lines of his wings.

Amalia was above; a pale mantle, a moon, a sun, beacons and beckoning ivory curling amidst canopies and higher, ethereal Elysiums (where she was always meant to be, amongst and midst the stars, the heavens while he strangled himself in purgatory). The laughter buoyed and buffeted along his system, light and extended, amusement and diversions like age-old things, as if they had always been there, familiar and warm, despite the nuances and barbaric regard constantly haunting. Outside this world of play and entertainment was the harsh, bristling reality, and he preferred to stay here for now, in the comfort of devotion and accord, neither struck down by the other, tranquility and serenity in their devilish antics; capable of impish qualities and iniquities without the unrelenting, ruthless omens rustling beyond. He stayed, and didn’t erode, didn’t wilt, didn’t decay – whole and fresh and new and blinking into the unknown without growling, without resisting, without planting roots around his feet.

Finally, he reached the canopy again, bursting from dying, fading leaves, the depths of the season long since settled, winter’s chill clinging to his plumage and instigating movement – he rose, but not simply, turning and turning and turning. It was a dizzying but amusing effect, much like when he was a boy, meandering and twisting his way down the tides’ shoreline, laughing and falling into the sand.

Except, he didn’t fall now – didn’t cascade, didn’t plummet, didn’t falter, didn’t stumble. Even that was intoxicating, tempting, and inveigling, the precious, precarious thought that he could continue flying, up, up, and up until the atmosphere ended and stilled.

Her trill resounded, and his avian skull twisted to glance in her direction, barreling through the air, and they reveled together for a few seconds, an interval of ascension, air, and untouchable depths, his heart like thunder, grating entertainment rumbling through their connection. She darted and spun and wove her elegant ministrations, fully conscious of her grandstanding. Braggart he molded with obvious teasing and taunting, blue eyes watching, appreciating, incapable of commanding the same efforts, not now, not yet.

Then her talons finally brushed, a caress, a stroke, with talons instead of hands, and she dove once more – leaving him behind for a grove, and he followed, wings alight and hovering, gliding on cool winds and frigid breezes, breathing, inhaling, exhaling, alive in the frenzy and fervor. Daring, she lowered herself to linger over the veneer of the Oasis, and he witnessed the ripples waving from her essence, her presence circumventing the glassy fixtures. The Sword brushed low too, over the wake, lowering his talons to graze and pierce the texture, at home in the water either as man or beast – but thought about changing the game, altering its sanction.

He lowered his legs as far as much as he sought to provoke – then whipped them upwards, so there was still a satisfying amount of cascading, darting, showering droplets, intending to splash her with the Oasis’s essence, not enough to soak, but just enough to be shocking, startling, divesting.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,971
MP:
#10
AMALIA
He follows, follows, follows her down, follows as he always does, as she would do for him. Together they rip through the surface of the pool, sending dream fish coiling away in alarm, droplets of lightly illuminated water left behind as she raises her talons just enough to evade the surface before dipping it back in artful strokes. Starlight and shadow, contrasting and alike, the pair must be a magnificent sight- or he must, at least, the girl thinks, astoundingly large and majestically graceful.

There is a point of peace between them, a moment where they float in grace without any mischief, strains of silence and the songs of their hearts a melody strung in the moonlit air. It is not a long moment, and she is not sad when it is broken, but it is one she will cherish in the days ahead, replay and remember through dark nights and hard days.

It is a cold splash of water which awakes her from her reverie, reminds her that theirs is a dance of mayhem, playful interludes among the peace, and oh, the reminder is a welcome one. Too much tumult, sad looks and harsh words and tears of frigid ice. Amalia is tired of failure, of falling, and it is wonderful for a moment to forget her fears. Playful indignation ripples through their bond, her amusement and surprise obvious as music played between their hearts.

Turning tightly, the girl attempts a retaliation, her dark eyes glittering with mischief and mirth. Angling her body, the owl dips one wing into the water, creating a wave around the feathers which, while slowing her down, does not drag her under. A swift upward motion as she passes him by sends droplets flying through the air, no withholding in her action, attempting to do naught but drench.
You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given
And oh, how much
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,831
MP:
#11
DEIMOS
He didn’t lead, not now, in the parameters of the unknown, when the thresholds were too new, too foreign, collecting over the back of his mind, resuming in his flesh and bones, marrow and tissues, every experience strange and beguiling. But he sketched artifices and amusement in the water, skimming lightly along its veneer (talons painting promises) when he wasn’t splashing, cajoling, inviting, and enticing more rogue demeanors and mischief, desperate for anything but devastation and demolition (again and again; striving to rework the patterns, the cycles, so they didn’t stifle him, so they didn’t swallow him whole). If it broke the peace and repose, he was mildly apologetic, never quite capable of staying along its threshold for long – the serenity always a precarious uncertainty, his frame, his figure, his mind, too busy with intervals of disaster to assume tranquility would be presiding in a lengthy stature.

But they’d been christened and anointed in bounds of mischief and mayhem; couldn’t be away from it, play and entertainment and musings to keep them upright and sure, pulsing and unwavering in his breath, in his form. There were no ambitions now except to consecrate where they’d started: not falling here, in caves or forest warrens, in Spires and seething fights, in underground rebellions, in smoldering edges. Instead, they would rise and cajole, reform, come back whole, stronger, better, than where they’d started.

The disgruntlement spiraled through their connection, and he contorted a smug, superior murmur, awaiting rebuttal; he knew better than to believe she’d accept a new tactic without her own machinations behind it. They’d done the same with dances and bombardments, with love and devotion and ardor; water wouldn’t be any different.

Devilry conspired; blue eyes narrowing, the rest of his form hovering, waiting, one of her wings dipping into the surface, and he could see where the rest of it was going – a deluge of her own piercing and wavering back onto his form. The chill conspired in his chest and billowed in a singular shake, a beast from the mountains, not totally impacted by the claws of cold. A wild, ravenous chuckle blasted through him, and then he was off again: their story woven in pairs, in rounds, rotations, and patterns, how far one pushed, how far one persisted, enduring, enduring, enduring. On a daring move, perhaps emboldened simply because he’d yet to master all aspects of flight, he dipped forward and thought to bend both wings into the water and swung upwards, nearly tipping himself over in the process – so it only ended up being a light motion of droplets sent back to her, a grumble in his wake. Better. You must be better.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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Posts: 1,971
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#12
AMALIA
He takes her onslaught with great aplomb, an avian cackle filling the air, causing her to shiver with recognition and delight. She would grin if she could, in too many kinds of triumph to point to one: triumph in her dousing of him, triumph at his newfound form, triumph in the very fact that she has been found and allowed to blossom in the blaze of his sun.

She does not expect any reprieve, nor would she have wanted it, turning her head back to keep him in her sights as he pursues on massive wings, still learning to maneuver a foreign form. It is easier for her, lithe and experienced, though she doubts her advantage will last for long.

He makes his secondary onslaught and Amalia does not pull away, too amused by his tactics to try and avoid the frigid droplets that spray through the air. Tilting her wings the girl coils tightly around him, amusement and concern pulsing through the bond as he nearly sends himself into the water before pulling back up into the air.

You'll need another form for swimming, she calls out with gentle mockery. Besting her wings, the creature of cream and spangled stars shoots back into the air, a goal glowing bright in her mind. Come? He will recognize the image she sends him: the tallest tree hanging over the Oasis, the unconquered giant of her youth.
You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given
And oh, how much
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#13
DEIMOS
For a moment, he was cloaked in white, heavenly and devout, never a color he wore except when snow rested on his skin (made its home there in the back of his mind; long-lost winters of eternity, of vice and virtue). The beast glanced up to find her surrounding him, pervading his existence again, raising him up when he’d nearly fallen into the drink – the chain of mockery mixed in with concern and chagrin. He absorbed the well-fitted taunt, ignorant and inexperienced at the notion of spread wings and their limits into other elemental boundaries; he cannot find his seabed here, in the drifting of slow currents and the glide of plumage. Between their connection and foundations he released a bellowing snort, an inward roll of his eyes, a gesture of smirks and ghosts. I can swim perfectly fine as a human wasn’t said, a boy of the ocean and tides would never be allowed to sink into its confines.

They split apart again, and he was allowed to right himself, span spread out once more in great undulations, powerful means and measures, gliding out into the ether on the wind, on the chill, on the eaves of midnight expansion, utterly undaunted despite previous setbacks. Mistakes were sojourns towards precision and prowess; he hadn’t been gifted with a sword on day one, he cannot expect himself to be immersed in raw talent here either. It would come with time, with practice; and the beast had always been one to honor skill and tactics, polishing, preparing, rehearsing the delicate balances.

Before he could streamline further into the whirlwinds, she called to him – a goal, a bright, illustrious thing taking shape in his mind, and he tilted his avian fixtures towards the source, come, a beckoning, siren charade he wouldn’t have chided or shied away from (her enticements, her allures, were luminescent beacons). It was the tree – the one she’d described before, when they told stories before the art of failure, before he trembled and shuddered at the notion of falling apart, of failing.

Not now – he swallowed down something beating ferociously in his wake, and then followed, taking to the branch, the bough, the towering, giant timber, talons outstretched to clutch the wood, waiting for the inevitable, for the moment, for what she was destined to do, to commit.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,971
MP:
#14
AMALIA
He follows, and she is glad: glad to share this moment with him, glad to be graced by his light, glad that he is her shadow, her umbra, the sun by which she is eclipsed. Through starlit air and onto the bough the owl flutters gracefully, ever aware of the eagle behind her until they both alight. It is not the highest branch, but it is high- higher than she reached as a child, higher than she dreamed she would ever climb. And this time she has not undertaken it alone: she has him, and she has Safrin, too. She has everyone who believes in her, who loves her, who supports her.

For this moment, she is not afraid.

It is their first time truly touching since taking these forms, and Amalia wonders as she settles against him if he can feel the adoration radiating from her, the excitement and pleasure and pure instinctual joy. He is larger than her now just as ever, a pillar, a tower, a mountain of strength. Thank you, she whispers through their bond, not looking up, not saying anything, letting the moment stretch on comfortably, taking solace and comfort in his nearness, in sharing this triumph.

But ah, they cannot stay here forever, and there is one more thing she wants to accomplish. Stepping away from the pleasure of his comfort, Amalia looks up at the eagle, clicking her beak affectionately before turning her sparking gaze to the oasis below. A moment, two- and then she falls, her body twisting, changing, adapting, fur taking place of where feathers had been, wings stretching out into arms with claws. Like a stone the Otter drops into the water, delighting as the act is at last repeated, but intentionally this time. And when she rises, she sees not faces of consternation and concern: only the night sky, only the trees, only him.

Only home.
You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given
And oh, how much


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