they promised that dreams can come true
Castile isn’t much of a jailer, and though Ori stays put most of the time, on occasion she finds her feet wandering out of Loess. No one stops her, perhaps because she was such a willing captive. In truth, she didn’t feel like a captive at all, but rather like a guest who just wasn’t supposed to be leaving quite yet. Not that she’d been greeting with warm hospitality and dancing dishes, but simply because no one treated her as anything less. Mostly they left her alone, but she was fascinated with Castile, with the hustle and bustle and straightforward nature of those that called Loess home. At least, that’s what it looked like to her from the outside.
Today though, she wanders to the forest. Her mothers, for once, do not join her. Instead she focuses on painting summer into winter. Grass grows beneath her feet and all around her as she moves. Something akin to warmth seems to come from the brighter light that surrounds her, though it’s a fickle warmth. Ori has not begun to master illusions of senses other than sight, but she has at least discovered that they are possible and has been fascinated with the possibilities ever sense. It is easy enough to trick the eyes, but it never takes anyone long to figure out that trick. But to trick all the sense…she grins at the thought, and keeps practicing.
Oriash?
Ori stops dead at the sound, distant and indistinct, and summer disappears from around her. The call is wild in its way, but she can find no source, and who would be looking for her? Someone from Loess? They’d never stopped her before. When no obvious source appears, she dismisses it, assuming it’s her own imagination gone rogue as it so often does. She continues on, turning the surrounding landscape to fall now, reserving the dead trees of winter to the fiery, dying trees of fall. She tries to capture the scent of fall, that crisp coolness that has its own particular smell, though she finds herself falling far short, creating something more akin to the smell of smoke like a bonfire in the distance. Not quite what she’d been going for.
Aegean?”
She stops again, the illusion disappearing with her concentration elsewhere. That’s a name she would not have conjured from her own mind, but the voice is the same and it nags at her in its familiarity. It’s a voice she should know but cannot place because she cannot fathom the possibility that it might be who it sounds like.
Ori doesn’t move, doesn’t seek out the source, but just stands there dumbfounded until the specter of her mother comes into view. She looks like a ghost and Ori assumes her brain is playing tricks on her, finding a new level of torture to suggest to her that her mother is but a ghost now. Not that her mother was much more, but at least they were alive, even if only by the barest scraps of what one could consider alive.
The mare keeps coming, and Ori tries to will her away, not in the mood for her particular distorted brand of personal illusion and torture. The specter doesn’t go away though, and Ori takes a step back. It can’t be. She can’t figure it out, can’t believe it. Is her mother dead? Ghosts don’t want these lands though, even Ori knows that. Then what…?
“Is it really you?” she asks, voice small and uncertain and unwilling to hope. Though she’s not sure she wants this, not sure she has ever truly hoped for them again. It’s a complication she doesn’t know what to do with, having grown so used to her solitude. But the more she looks at the mare, looking exhausting and disheveled and a little crazed, Ori knows that if nothing else, this is not her own power. In her own illusions, her mothers are perfect, almost too much so – they are the embodiment of the way a child sees her parents. This is not the Solace Ori has come to know, fake though that Solace may be. She’s just not sure what this Solace is; reality or illusion?
Today though, she wanders to the forest. Her mothers, for once, do not join her. Instead she focuses on painting summer into winter. Grass grows beneath her feet and all around her as she moves. Something akin to warmth seems to come from the brighter light that surrounds her, though it’s a fickle warmth. Ori has not begun to master illusions of senses other than sight, but she has at least discovered that they are possible and has been fascinated with the possibilities ever sense. It is easy enough to trick the eyes, but it never takes anyone long to figure out that trick. But to trick all the sense…she grins at the thought, and keeps practicing.
Oriash?
Ori stops dead at the sound, distant and indistinct, and summer disappears from around her. The call is wild in its way, but she can find no source, and who would be looking for her? Someone from Loess? They’d never stopped her before. When no obvious source appears, she dismisses it, assuming it’s her own imagination gone rogue as it so often does. She continues on, turning the surrounding landscape to fall now, reserving the dead trees of winter to the fiery, dying trees of fall. She tries to capture the scent of fall, that crisp coolness that has its own particular smell, though she finds herself falling far short, creating something more akin to the smell of smoke like a bonfire in the distance. Not quite what she’d been going for.
Aegean?”
She stops again, the illusion disappearing with her concentration elsewhere. That’s a name she would not have conjured from her own mind, but the voice is the same and it nags at her in its familiarity. It’s a voice she should know but cannot place because she cannot fathom the possibility that it might be who it sounds like.
Ori doesn’t move, doesn’t seek out the source, but just stands there dumbfounded until the specter of her mother comes into view. She looks like a ghost and Ori assumes her brain is playing tricks on her, finding a new level of torture to suggest to her that her mother is but a ghost now. Not that her mother was much more, but at least they were alive, even if only by the barest scraps of what one could consider alive.
The mare keeps coming, and Ori tries to will her away, not in the mood for her particular distorted brand of personal illusion and torture. The specter doesn’t go away though, and Ori takes a step back. It can’t be. She can’t figure it out, can’t believe it. Is her mother dead? Ghosts don’t want these lands though, even Ori knows that. Then what…?
“Is it really you?” she asks, voice small and uncertain and unwilling to hope. Though she’s not sure she wants this, not sure she has ever truly hoped for them again. It’s a complication she doesn’t know what to do with, having grown so used to her solitude. But the more she looks at the mare, looking exhausting and disheveled and a little crazed, Ori knows that if nothing else, this is not her own power. In her own illusions, her mothers are perfect, almost too much so – they are the embodiment of the way a child sees her parents. This is not the Solace Ori has come to know, fake though that Solace may be. She’s just not sure what this Solace is; reality or illusion?
Oriash
but they forgot that nightmares are dreams too
@[Solace]