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+---- Thread: [open] we can finally rest in pieces in the eye of the storm (/showthread.php?tid=32198)
we can finally rest in pieces in the eye of the storm - Damnata - 10-04-2026
damnata
as we dance around a tombstone and we crash into the sun
Written on my phone so dont judge any spelling or whatever ?
RE: we can finally rest in pieces in the eye of the storm - Weir - 10-21-2026
WEIR
Weir could still smell the fire, or what remained of it—
The flames left their mark, as they were wont to do; ashes touched the trees until they looked back at him in clumps of soot. Some of them crumbled in charcoal corners when the wind blew too hard; others bore scars of black raking up the length of their trunks and boughs. Even the air held a distinct scent; it pushed its way into his lungs with a taint of soot. He let his breath out in chill puffs to calm the cough it attempted to produce.
The roan was sorry for the unnecessary loss, the destruction, but their world was not built on wholeness.
Beqanna tore itself apart, again, and again. It rebuilt what was broken, then it shattered the restoration as it saw fit. Playing a discord of disaster and renewal until everything blurred lines, and edges became stitches where patchwork would remain. Soft amber eyes looked down at the tortoise that followed, a shadow, a soul that emerged from his body in a tangible manifestation of existence. An in-between of life and death, a proposition of what is, and was, and what could be.
They were not meant to understand it.
“This is a mess,” Darwin observed, watching his step as he picked through the ravaged treeline.
“It will heal, my dear man,” Weir reassured. Darwin nodded in agreement as he steadily made a path around a rather inconvenient collection of jutting branches before him.
As though to further his assessment, Weir left small drifts of snow along the most damaged sections that they passed. Once melted, the earth might drink and grow, bloom from the cold as it does at the dawn of spring. He hummed to himself, a nonsense tune that was likely a musical phrase he once read on a page somewhere long ago. A rhyme maybe, or something poetic that swung out past his chilly nostrils. Bending a song as they made headway towards the river, for no reason at all.
For Weir, for Darwin, it was just another day and this was another walk, and the trees were burned and the sprouts would settle into delicate shoots.
“All in due time, if I know it to be true.”
Of course he was speaking to Darwin, and in the same sense he was speaking to himself. Holding conversations and answering them in turn, adding a thought here, Darwin would proclaim them nonsense sometimes.
But they were most certainly not.
“Is it dead?” the tortoise asked, squinting his eyes at a lump that stood sooted and steaming.“Is it still on fire? I do say...” The words trailed away as Darwin stretched his neck to see further. They had come a long way, resting when they grew tired, eating when Weir’s stomach rumbled, but the ash was long behind them.
Or so they thought.
“I should hope not, how dreadful,” the roan let out a sigh, picking up his steps and paying very little mind to the ground he kicked up in doing so.
“Asleep, it appears,” he concluded, passing the news to Darwin before stopping short in front of the sleeping mass of a woman. Feathers hung at her back, her eyes closed, head hanging low. She made no movement to wake.
Had she dragged the ruined wood with her all this way?
“If I may beg your pardon, madam,” he was careful not to shout, but his voice was joyfully potent all the same. “Darwin worried you might be dead,” to which the tortoise curved his head to meet his companion’s eyes. How very Weir, he thought, shaking his head.
“Well, you did appear a bit disconcerting, my apologies,” the green tortoise bowed his head in embarrassment.
The flames left their mark, as they were wont to do; ashes touched the trees until they looked back at him in clumps of soot. Some of them crumbled in charcoal corners when the wind blew too hard; others bore scars of black raking up the length of their trunks and boughs. Even the air held a distinct scent; it pushed its way into his lungs with a taint of soot. He let his breath out in chill puffs to calm the cough it attempted to produce.
The roan was sorry for the unnecessary loss, the destruction, but their world was not built on wholeness.
Beqanna tore itself apart, again, and again. It rebuilt what was broken, then it shattered the restoration as it saw fit. Playing a discord of disaster and renewal until everything blurred lines, and edges became stitches where patchwork would remain. Soft amber eyes looked down at the tortoise that followed, a shadow, a soul that emerged from his body in a tangible manifestation of existence. An in-between of life and death, a proposition of what is, and was, and what could be.
They were not meant to understand it.
“This is a mess,” Darwin observed, watching his step as he picked through the ravaged treeline.
“It will heal, my dear man,” Weir reassured. Darwin nodded in agreement as he steadily made a path around a rather inconvenient collection of jutting branches before him.
As though to further his assessment, Weir left small drifts of snow along the most damaged sections that they passed. Once melted, the earth might drink and grow, bloom from the cold as it does at the dawn of spring. He hummed to himself, a nonsense tune that was likely a musical phrase he once read on a page somewhere long ago. A rhyme maybe, or something poetic that swung out past his chilly nostrils. Bending a song as they made headway towards the river, for no reason at all.
For Weir, for Darwin, it was just another day and this was another walk, and the trees were burned and the sprouts would settle into delicate shoots.
“All in due time, if I know it to be true.”
Of course he was speaking to Darwin, and in the same sense he was speaking to himself. Holding conversations and answering them in turn, adding a thought here, Darwin would proclaim them nonsense sometimes.
But they were most certainly not.
“Is it dead?” the tortoise asked, squinting his eyes at a lump that stood sooted and steaming.“Is it still on fire? I do say...” The words trailed away as Darwin stretched his neck to see further. They had come a long way, resting when they grew tired, eating when Weir’s stomach rumbled, but the ash was long behind them.
Or so they thought.
“I should hope not, how dreadful,” the roan let out a sigh, picking up his steps and paying very little mind to the ground he kicked up in doing so.
“Asleep, it appears,” he concluded, passing the news to Darwin before stopping short in front of the sleeping mass of a woman. Feathers hung at her back, her eyes closed, head hanging low. She made no movement to wake.
Had she dragged the ruined wood with her all this way?
“If I may beg your pardon, madam,” he was careful not to shout, but his voice was joyfully potent all the same. “Darwin worried you might be dead,” to which the tortoise curved his head to meet his companion’s eyes. How very Weir, he thought, shaking his head.
“Well, you did appear a bit disconcerting, my apologies,” the green tortoise bowed his head in embarrassment.
WINTER IS COMING
RE: we can finally rest in pieces in the eye of the storm - Damnata - 10-22-2026
damnata
as we dance around a tombstone and we crash into the sun
@Weir
RE: we can finally rest in pieces in the eye of the storm - Weir - 10-22-2026
WEIR
Darwin hung his head apologetically, blinking slowly when he lifted his skull to find the eyes of his company. Except for a time it was only the amber eyes of Weir that met his own; he nodded carefully, closing his eyes while they settled in.
Weir nearly burst in protest, wishing to be dead, what a harrowing thought, what a dreadful wish indeed! But he said nothing, ears flicking at the cracks in her speech, and watching her mourn in remnants of ash that billowed as if she carried it with her. Another shared look passed between himself and his tortoise, the creature that embodied his very soul. They had known this grief, they had shared this pain and stillness took the moment. Quiet became their promise, though neither of them dared speak a word of it.
It was a game of waiting, a time of reflection and remembrance; even if they had not meant it to be such a thing. Weir took the moment of silence to remember his first love, his heart beat steady, then he took another to remember those that he’d befriended in the Dale. So, so many years ago. Tiphon, Ramiel and Joscelin. His breath held the calm, and he remembered his time spent befriending those that needed it most. Warship, the chamber, Killdare, Offspring who ruled the north. The tundra had been a place of refuge when all else was lost. His wife, his children, they flourished still and he allowed the silence to become a piece of their celebration.
And when the silence snapped to a close with her words, Weir brought elation with response. He simply could not help it, you see. Joy was his very nature.
“Why, you’re in Beqanna my dear woman,” matter-of- factly. Darwin nodded agreement, slowly approaching the woman as though he took a curiosity to her falling ash.
“Some place by the river,” the tortoise added, stretching his neck to inspect the way her wings smoked.
“Certainly so,” Weir concurred, “though we’ve walked a long way here. Might be on the outskirts of something else entirely. Wouldn’t that be curious?” He had questions, he always had questions, and sometimes his mind wandered a little too eagerly.
“I’m so sorry for your misfortune,” it was the circling back around to the doom that was odd, misplaced if you really thought about it. Yet his condolences could not be more true.
Weir nearly burst in protest, wishing to be dead, what a harrowing thought, what a dreadful wish indeed! But he said nothing, ears flicking at the cracks in her speech, and watching her mourn in remnants of ash that billowed as if she carried it with her. Another shared look passed between himself and his tortoise, the creature that embodied his very soul. They had known this grief, they had shared this pain and stillness took the moment. Quiet became their promise, though neither of them dared speak a word of it.
It was a game of waiting, a time of reflection and remembrance; even if they had not meant it to be such a thing. Weir took the moment of silence to remember his first love, his heart beat steady, then he took another to remember those that he’d befriended in the Dale. So, so many years ago. Tiphon, Ramiel and Joscelin. His breath held the calm, and he remembered his time spent befriending those that needed it most. Warship, the chamber, Killdare, Offspring who ruled the north. The tundra had been a place of refuge when all else was lost. His wife, his children, they flourished still and he allowed the silence to become a piece of their celebration.
And when the silence snapped to a close with her words, Weir brought elation with response. He simply could not help it, you see. Joy was his very nature.
“Why, you’re in Beqanna my dear woman,” matter-of- factly. Darwin nodded agreement, slowly approaching the woman as though he took a curiosity to her falling ash.
“Some place by the river,” the tortoise added, stretching his neck to inspect the way her wings smoked.
“Certainly so,” Weir concurred, “though we’ve walked a long way here. Might be on the outskirts of something else entirely. Wouldn’t that be curious?” He had questions, he always had questions, and sometimes his mind wandered a little too eagerly.
“I’m so sorry for your misfortune,” it was the circling back around to the doom that was odd, misplaced if you really thought about it. Yet his condolences could not be more true.
WINTER IS COMING
@Damnata