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Like a Fine, Aged Wine - Blasphemare - 08-02-2020 blasphemare Like a fine, aged wine RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - Straia - 08-06-2020 is this the end of everything? STRAIA or is it just a new way to bleed? She is perhaps not as old as the mare that makes her way back into Beqanna, but still, she is from another era. She understands how different Beqanna has become, how it is not really their home anymore. Living again, as it turns out, is a rather dull thing. She can pass the time in a state that is something akin to a trance, if she chooses, disappearing into the burning tree that is a part of her soul. Or perhaps now she is simply a part of the tree. It’s hard to be certain which way that relationship works. Still, she finds herself...curious. That is not quite the right word, but it is a good start. Sochi has asked her what her plan was, and Straia was still not sure she was allowed to have a plan. Did her magic have limits, or could she wreck havoc on Beqanna as she once had? More importantly, could she bring back some of what had been lost? That is the question that keeps her up, and she wanders the Meadow with no plan. She can sense the mare though, something ancient about her. Not quite as ancient as Beqanna, but still. Curious is the right word now, and Straia makes her way over, having never cared who approached who. In the end, did that really matter, so long as the stars aligned in her favor? Sometimes it was even mutually beneficial. ”You are older than me, which is quite impressive,” she says as she approaches, her voice a deep purr. There is nothing remarkable about Straia. She could be anything, but she chooses to be herself. A plain mare with no wings, no horns. Though her amber eyes give away something about her, something knowing and calculating, something to be wary of. This mare seemed like someone she might get along with though. @[Blasphemare] RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - greta - 08-06-2020 GRETA I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love. " Do you remember? " She is perhaps brand new, compared to what beings stood before her. She is unfamiliar with a home - whether this or another. She has known nothing except a vague moment of Ghaul, before once again she was swept up and locked away into her father’s magical force. She is a child still, something akin to innocence and wonder (and perhaps fear, too). She knows nothing of the land she walks on, nor of the history of the magnificent mares before her. What she knows is this: she is back again, thrown to the wind as per when Eight becomes bored. She is lost again, in a land she knows nothing of. She is alone again, as she never had someone to begin with. What does one do when they know so little? They flounder, they wander, they startle in the dark of the night, and seek out anything that resembles serenity. She is unaware of just how little tranquility she may find in the depths of the two before her. From her viewpoint tucked with her back to the foliage (a safe place with a view of the meadow and nothing to fear at her back), she sees simplicity: two mares without markings or magic, quiet and calm in the sprawling vastness of the common land. Go to her. Her father’s voice cracks through her skull - a command that rings sharp and bright despite the respite she has had from his voice for so long. She does not understand the excitement that would thrill through his spine upon seeing the two before her - but she will listen well. Her tentative steps take her towards the two mares who may be relics of Beqanna - and her small voice carries out, as she catches the last of Straia’s words. “ How.. how old are you?” RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - Blasphemare - 08-06-2020 The breeze lifts the scent of the mare to Blasphemare’s nostrils before she is aware of her presence. The old, black mare lifts her head and sweeps it in the other’s direction, watching her approach. She knows that the end destination is here, where the old mare stood waiting. She knows that there is something different about this one as well. As she speaks, Blasphemare smiles the kind of smile that you can barely see, the kind of smile that you have to look for deep in those blood red eyes. The winds whisper in her ears, telling her things that few could hear; little bits of history, little bits of information, little things that no one would ever know she knew if she didn’t volunteer the information. She knew the little one was watching, long before she spoke. She knew there was a voice in her head, though she couldn’t tell you what the voice had said or who the voice belonged to. She could guess, however, as she turned to face the little one. She was old. That was true. She had been around when Beqanna had still been a relatively new concept. She was so old that she cannot remember much of the early years of her own life, except that she had come here as a tiny little girl, following the scent of a mother unknown, though she couldn’t have told you that back then. “Yes, I am old,” she says sideways to the first mare. It is redundant. She knows this is redundant. The smile that curls upon her lips even says she knows how redundant this is. “But you have a story to tell...” Then she turns her attention back on the little one. “I couldn’t even tell you how old, but I’m nearly as old as these lands themselves, but who should want to know?” Those blood red eyes stare deep into the filly’s eyes, bearing into her soul. RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - Straia - 08-07-2020 is this the end of everything? STRAIA or is it just a new way to bleed? Like calls to like. Maybe it’s just the old blood in their veins (literal and figurative) that connects them, magic given from the same source. Maybe there is something more alike than that though, something deeper than just a connection by magic and age. She could dig into the other mare’s mind, but of course, the other could do the same to her (or they could just block each other). So she doesn’t, because she is not here for that reason but to satisfy her curiosity in the old fashioned way. It is much more fun. ”We all have stories,” she says, her voice still a deep purr, but clearly amused. She does have a story to tell, but she is not going to give it so easily. But before they can talk much more, there is another that joins them, asking just how old. Straia chuckles, amber eyes turning to gaze at the girl who...well, maybe she belongs with them, in a way. But not with an overbearing father still ordering her about (though Straia does not dig enough to find out this detail; not yet, anyway). The other mare asks her own question, a probing one, and Straia leaves the topic alone, happy to let someone else do the work for her. ”Hasn’t anyone told you it’s impolite to ask a lady her age? One day, when you are older, you will understand.” It is clear she is amused, not angry though. ”I am old enough that age has ceased to matter. Instead, it is about the world I once knew. It is not this one.” @[Greta] RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - greta - 08-08-2020 GRETA I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love. " Do you remember? " So strange - to live in a world where you know nothing, while others around you are all-seeing. She is used to this (as much as one could ever be), as her father did it too. You were never safe, your thoughts never whole without a probing mind. She was familiar with the feeling of her mind being invaded- the soft tug, the crooning quiet telling you let me in, let me in And of course, even if she wanted to - she could not deny the request. She was helpless, in so many ways. However, where her father forced his way in like a battering ram to the door, crowding her head and leaving no stone unturned, this feeling was a little more tepid. She felt the tendrils of the two mares’ minds, but they did not force their way in any further - just dipping a toe in the water. She is welcomed cordially enough (a relief to say the least)- and they fold her into the conversation neatly. A conversation of age and stories and the land they stood upon - all of which Greta knew very little about. How could she, when half her life was spent in the snow-globe of Eight’s own universe? The bay mare laughs, and Greta briefly feels ashamed. Should she know these things? What is wrong and what is right to ask? There were no questions where she came from - only commands. “I’m sorry.” A rushed apology complimented by her head low and a quick step back (never look him in the eye, always be demure, always admit you are wrong). But it seems the mare does not seem to mind too much - the laughter is not malicious, but melodic- the conversation continues to flow without a beat. Their age is dripping like honey where they stand, their stories creaking in their bones; and Greta is here to hear them. “I do not know much about age. Or this land or world. What happened? Is it not the same?” @[Straia] @[Blasphemare] RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - Blasphemare - 08-08-2020 blasphemare Like a fine, aged wine @[Straia] @[greta] RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - Straia - 08-10-2020 is this the end of everything? STRAIA or is it just a new way to bleed? The girl apologizes, her head down, and Straia shakes her head slightly, though there is something like kindness in her eyes. ”Do not apologize, dear.” Her magic reaches out, an invisible bit like gentle fingers, encouraging her to lift her chin back up. ”Not to anyone, and certainly not for something so simple as a question.” She finds herself more curious to know who pulls this girl’s strings. More importantly, she wants to know how to break them. She lets Blasphemare answer first, though her answer is vague, it is certainly not untrue. Straia grins slightly. ”Perhaps a story is in order?” Though Blasphemare is older, perhaps Straia knows the most history (or just likes to be showy, on occasion). Then again, she may have had something to do with the destruction of the Beqanna she knew, though certainly, she was not the only cause. It would have been quite a feat to be the only cause, after all. Around them, the world changes. As she speaks, she paints pictures of the lands, as best she can. ”At first, the land was divided only by lights and darks, or good and evil. There was no magic here once, though that was long before even my time. I know only that over the years that began to change, with magic and traits arriving along with those that called themselves neutral. When I was born, there were eight kingdoms. Good, Neutral, and Evil, and each of those divided by mythical and non-mythical. The Chamber of Evil was my home.” This she paints in vivid detail, because it is the place she knows best. Beneath them, the subtle beating of a heart. Around them, misty pine forests and somewhere in the distance, a burning tree. ”But divisions are blurry things. Magic became more rampant, light versus dark ceased to matter. Instead, all that mattered was power. There was too much of it.” She paints a war around them, taking place in the pine forests of the Chamber. A war she started for no reason. A war that was nothing more than magic hurled around, lives lost for no purpose at all besides fear and destruction. She feels no remorse, but of course, she had hardly been the only involved. ”It was some time after all this that the fairies finally had enough. They destroyed Beqanna, leaving only the mountain and new lands to be discovered. Powers had to be earned again, and magic has never flowed as freely through Beqanna as it once did.” She stops, and the world goes back to normal around them, leaving them once again in the meadow. It is one of the few unchanged places of Beqanna. There are a couple. ”You may call me Straia,” she adds, nodding slightly in acknowledgement of the name already offered from the other ancient mare. @[greta] RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - greta - 08-11-2020 GRETA I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love. " Do you remember? " As she stood before the two anchors of Beqanna - she understood that there was something more here. Stories that ached with destruction and rife with history. She held before her a textbook of Beqanna, pages where one mare could fill the gaps when the other could not. They had eons behind them (and perhaps many more). But Greta - did she have anything to say? Did she have anything to tell? No. She did not. And so the best she could do was listen, learn, drink in the world that she was suddenly surrounded by and honor the mares as they should be. She holds her demure position - eyes down, chin low - this is how you wait to be absolved. This is how you wait to atone for your sins. She awaits the lash - the heartened grip of magic inside her skin - and instead, she receives laughter from the ancient one. Light (and nothing malicious) and almost encouraging. Her apology is unnecessary (unwanted?) - and as her eyes lift to look at the two before her, her head involuntarily follows. A small tug, like the one she feels upon her soul, something she cannot disobey. And then: a command. Do not apologize. Sealed and set in stone. And the words dissolve from her tongue. Do not apologize: a command. Something she understands. Greta stands still, bewildered in the solidarity of a command that comes from anyone but her father. She can feel it like a stone in her stomach - something that cannot be undone. While she digests this sudden order, the two before her continue on - and she lifts her head a little more properly before stepping closer to listen. A story - this she could fathom. She is still so much a child - and as Straia weaves her magic, she falls further into its tomb. It is like the snowglobe her father kept her in - the magic rolling up her legs, seeping into her skull, divining all of her senses. This feeling she knows. This carries a sadistic sort of comfort. Home is what you know - and what more has she been familiar with than others tugging on her strings? She sees the division of lands stretch before them, and she sees equines that look much like her father, and much like the dark mare before her. The smell of pine tickles her throat, and a sneeze escapes. A taste of darkness flooding her throat. A tree pulsing with fire. Why does this feel familiar? Why is this so true? Why does her heart ache and throb? Home home home.- her father’s voice tears her asunder-- She startles, her head jolting backwards, and she shakes her head as Straia clears her magic. This - she is used to, at least. Worlds created around her that she cannot escape. Things that others create that she is only a whim to. There are so many questions. So many things she wants to know - she wants to feel in that same way.- that she wants answered. But there are introductions floating around. Blasphemare - the ancient black one. Straia - the dyed and magic one. And she? Who was she? “Greta. I’m Greta. Greta my father said. I can answer to nothing else.” While normally she is timid, slow, and quiet - she hardly waits a beat to introduce herself. There are too many things spilling forth she must know instead. “You are evil? You do bad things? There’s a tree - I know there’s a tree. What is the tree? Why aren’t we all different now?” She turns to the darker mare, and still more comes ”Do you remember this? What were you? Are you evil too? Where did you go that you are back here now?” Did she have a snowglobe too? Were they both as awful as her father? This felt both like the place she should be- and perhaps should not be. @[Blasphemare] @[Straia] RE: Like a Fine, Aged Wine - Blasphemare - 08-12-2020 blasphemare like a fine, aged wine |