"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
03-17-2024, 05:12 PM (This post was last modified: 03-17-2024, 05:24 PM by Plenilune.)
Endless seas of clouds, after a while they all started to look the same, keeping her constantly wondering just how far she'd flown. Even glimpses of the migratory birds she'd been halfheartedly following were lost to the blankets of misty vapor. Though fatigue slowly begins to stunt the beats of her wings, Pleni pushes through. Theres been nothing but perpetual doom beneath her hooves for many miles, no place to land but the abyss that the ocean offered. In fact she was beginning to panic, afraid to dip below the cloud line blocking her vision from what was below, afraid to see yet another blue desert that she feared would be her grave. She belonged up here, lost in the whites and pinks of the sky and for a moment she tries to forget the exhaustion, tries to forget why she left in the first place. The absence of thoughts, the absence of regret, it's quite a beautiful thing. She didn't exactly want this, pushing herself to her limits, holding deaths hand to waltz down the cosmos. But it feels good, it feels real, the blood thumping through her veins, the adrenaline fueling each rhythmic surge of her wings.
Pleni has always and continues to learn that surrendering, and accepting not only death, but just how quickly heavens gates open for her when she needs them the most. Perhaps she would float, should she choose to give up. Besides, it's only up from here. Desperation is a funny thing, she's found it to be a bit backwards. Something grasped so tight, crumbled. Yet, to ignore, to forget, once held so dear, always found it's way back in the most unexpected of ways.
Conceivably, her desperation turned to surrender. Dipping below the clouds, the breath she wants to hold expels once she sees the solid ground awaiting her beneath, a mirage, afraid the soil will begin to liquify into the torturous waves. But it doesn't, as she descends the welcoming spring grasses grace her legs, she enjoys it momentarily before her knees buckle in exhaustion. The air in her lungs stings, even as she lays in paradise, its not enough for her to behold. The venerability as she plops onto her belly creeps up her spine, but she's much too weak to care. Would she even see another face again? Allow her voice to be heard? Each thought becomes distant, but she hones in on one specifically. The coppery tinge of blood fills her nose, trickling down her muzzle and this moment, she continues to surrender. Such beauty in submission she thinks, the unknown awaited her like soft blankets of flowers, wether on the edge of death, or what's left of life clinging to her ribs, Pleni was there to accept it.
Open to any, its been a while since I've stretched my wings, (ba dum tsss)
(also if you have issues reading, table is bugged for now, best to reply or read on laptop/computer oof)
Last night the moon remained behind the clouds, casting no reflection in the dark waters Ruhr stood beside. He had stayed awake throughout the night regardless, hopeful even for the briefest of visions, but dawn had come, and with it he had felt the ether of his divination begin to slip away. His power was strongest at night, he has learned, and when the moon is at its fullest.
Every vision he has seen since his arrival in this world has shown him some variant of the same future, and so he continues to remain in the wide meadow, patient and watchful.
The clouds had left with the dawn, leaving way for a brilliantly blue sky. Ruhr looks up at it now with his matching Stratosian eyes, spotting the half-moon far to the east. He watches it, just for a moment, then steps out into the sun from the protection of his woodsy copse. The stiff limp in his right foreleg does not deter him from his movement toward the river, the old injury has been with him most of his life, but he does frown at the feel of the brisk spring wind.
He glances up at the sky once more, and it is just in time to see a winged equine land just over the next hill. The pegasus does not make it far before they disappear, and if Ruhr had not been watching he’d have missed the fall entirely.
Concerned, he canters forward, his uneven gait the only sign of the pain the quick speed causes his bad leg. He’ll regret it later, but he pushes that to the back of his mind as he approaches the other horse. Could she be a Stratosian, he wonders!? He’d thought them all but gone. The coppery scent of blood and the red dripping from her nose catch his attention, and he glances up at the sky, thinking of the endless expanse of sea in the direction from which she’d flown.
Where had she come from?
Her eyes remain closed, and he is no healer. Should he wake her? The Meadow is not a dangerous place, but would it be right to leave her here alone? It would be easier if he could just ask her, Ruhr decides, and glances at the half-moon before back at the pale mare.
“You okay? I saw you land and it…looked a little rough.” The last is said hesitantly, as Ruhr lowers his feathered head to look a little more closely. Not a Strataosian, he thinks, not nearly enough feathers. Drawing back, he cocks his head and waits.
03-18-2024, 07:27 PM (This post was last modified: 03-18-2024, 07:33 PM by Plenilune.)
Dreamlike. The only way she could explain this feeling. Airy, yet excruciating. Tangible, yet out of her reach. The precipice of her aura hung in limbo, and it's almost as if she enjoys it, like she's floating again amongst the clouds despite the itching torment inside her chest. It hurts, she could be dying for all she knew, but she doesn't want to hold on to the pain, but at the same time it reminds her that she's still here, dropped from the skies. She looks there, sapphire eyes taking in the sight as if she wasn't just imprisoned in it, but even now she longs for it once more. Only this time, the heavens would serve as an escape, for whatever land she'd stumbled upon. If she could stand, she would, but even to lift one of her wings deemed impossible. How she could let herself get to this point, Pleni struggles to grasp. What many new dangers she's created by exerting herself? Useless, she thinks. But not as useless as she felt before, perhaps her journey was not in vain. She's always been the optimistic type, seeing the light at the end of bottomless trenches, when all hope was lost, Pleni would discover it and capture that hope, harnessing the tendrils.
Circumstances like these, she digs deep to harvest that faith no matter what form it decides to manifest. This time around, her allegiance reveals itself by the distant vibrations of the earth, pinned ears once buried inside her mane prick forwards to allow the sound to guide her senses. Pleni's eyes want to flutter open, then closed. She hears him before she sees him, a spirit now visible from the top of a neighboring hill. Maybe this was her faith, in the form of another. No matter, his presence doesn't stop the already spent beating of her heart, slamming against bone, she wouldn't be surprised if the muscle busted right through. Her once dazed expression becomes one of alertness, as best as she can muster in this state. Though as he nears, she notices he too doesn't look of perfect health, a gimp in his step. Fear begins to fuel her fibers, pushing all her might into raising herself to stand but, again, she buckles beneath her weight pathetically so. A dainty flower, wilted.
The wings that adorn his back offer her a sense of comfort, but it's not just there she finds feathers, they are strewn about his body in the most angelic of ways. If she couldn't stand, she lets her wings do so for her, splaying them wide against her pale sides in a feeble attempt of a warning. She doesn't now how she manages the strength, though she tries not to let him pity her. She doesn't even know if this is real, if he's real. Maybe he is an illusion, some ghost to take her away. Then, he speaks, and her aching throat goes dry. "looked a little rough.." She registers his words, but only the last piece of his sentiment bestows her ears. "Am I dreaming?" A thought meant for the walls of her mind, but they are spoken aloud, underneath her breath just loud enough for him to hear. If she had hit her head, it's not something she remembered doing, she almost wants to reach out and touch him, see if her efforts would satisfy Pleni's hallucinations. "Look," She begins, confident that stallion in front of her isn't breathing, nor does she believe his heart beats. "if you're going to take me away, please get on with it."
Ruhr’s watchful eyes do not leave the prone figure. He’s not entirely sure what he is watching for, but the relief at seeing her finally move is short-lived. As a creature of the sky, he recognizes the flaring wings as the warning they are, and takes a step back. He does his best to hide the limp as he does, and though he doesn’t spread his own wings in a response, there is no controlling the rise of his expressive feathers.
He’ll give her space, those feathers say, but he is not afraid.
There is little that he fears, but Ruhr remembers the darkness of the divining pool the night before, and chooses caution.
‘Am I dreaming?’ he hears her ask, and it is not the first time that Ruhr’s arrival has elicited such a response. Those without sky eyes lack trust in their own vision, Ruhr had long since realized. (That his kind might be a bit odd-looking, even in this magical place, had never occurred to him.)
“No.” He answers, having glanced up at the moon once more to be sure himself.
‘Look’, she says, and his ears prick forward, his feathered brows raising in interest. They soon furrow as she continues, ‘If you’re going to take me away, please get on with it.’
Take her away? Him?
“Are you from the Moon?” He asks, the only reasonable response to such a statement. Had the darkness last night been a sign, he wonders? Had the pool been empty because the Moon intended to send him a different blessing? It feels fitting, that she would grant him a gift, and yet…
What is he to do with a mare?
He will ask again, whenever he finds a still enough pool. That will not be until dark, he knows, where the half-moon now hangs in the sky will give him nothing. For now though, he will accept what he is now certain is a gift.
“I will keep you safe,” he tells her, in a manner that he intends to be reassuring, “If that is what She wills. ”
He stands before her, now the beginnings of a silhouette. Fitting she thinks, as the sky allows dusks colors to paint it's artistry among the clouds. The twilight provides a sense of security, a feeling she desperately wants to swallow, the whites and pinks of her pelt matching the suns way of saying goodbye over the horizon. Her mother must have known her daughters title would suit her so, Plenilune, of the moon. Was this spirit sent for her to awake from this dream? Though she wishes he would quit teasing her, only fortifying his mockery of her sanity with an answer to her question. A simple, "no." doesn't satisfy her, only sending her spiraling. She's convinced it's what he wants her to believe, his next question though, contradicts it.
"Are you from the moon?" Now she really feels like she's dreaming. Pleni had always admired the planet's sister, always felt a connection, but never actually pondered the fact of a direct descendent, nor did she think it possible. Sure, she was named after her, but was she crafted from earths satellite? No, unfortunately but she wants to get lost in the thought of it. "No," She mimics his response, only in a regretful sense. "although, it feels as though I fell from there." Pleni's voice is soft, cautious of the words she chooses to reveal to the spirit. In a way, she feels calmed by his presence now, knowing that he isn't real, that he can't harm her. She's tried hard to convince herself that, regardless of how insane it seemed. This was more blissful, a dream to not awake from opposed to the stallion in actuality, looming over her while she suffered. The internal battle continues despite her persuasive endeavors, and this question she asks teeters over the edge.
"Are you real? What may I call you?" She begins to notice the fact that if he is truly sentient, breathing, sound, what she must look like to him. "I will keep you safe, if that is what she wills." Something an astral guardian would say, she wonders, not a living breathing stranger whom she does not know. If this is true, the tingling fear that once embodied her slithers it's way back up her gut, one of glorious adrenaline sending sparks up her legs and provoking a strength she couldn't have conjured otherwise. The intensity brings her at last to her feet, though not as coordinated as she would have liked, pale legs vibrating, wings akin to the night flyer of a barn owl, splayed at her sides for balance. Sapphire jewels scan the expanse of his feathered legs, eventually finding purchase at his gaze, thoughtfully addressing her. Again, she wants to reach out a wing, touch his flesh to affirm her madness. To take away the burden of lunacy, but reluctantly she refrains. "Prove it. That you're real." She isn't sure quite what she asking for, terrified rather.
Her words are hesitant, and he remains entirely focused on them and her, inattentive to all else. She does not know that she is from the Moon, that she is a gift. She feels it though? and at that Ruhr slowly exhales the breath he’d been holding, grateful that the Moon has given her that at least.
The Moon does not bless all with Her full knowledge; Ruhr is of Her Chosen. More so even than his fellow Stratosians, he is certain, for only he has been granted Her visions. Only he knows with certainty what She wants, and Her will is his. He is moonstruck, he knows, but the Moon keeps him from edging into delusion.
The Moon, and the visions that come out wrong.
Are you real? What may I call you?
“I am Her Diviner,” the feathered stallion replies without ever looking away from her, “But you may call me Ruhr, and yes: I am real.” That she would ask amuses him, as though he is the one who had fallen from the sky, and the humor remains around the edges of his eyes as she moves to stand, and he steps back again to give her space.
His right leg burns, his step short, and the bright flare of pain rids him of the smile from a moment before. To distract himself, he focuses on the pattern of her wings as she flares them wide, noting the bars of palest pink on the pearly feathers as he settles his weight to his left side.
Hadn’t he seen that very shade of pink on the face of the Moon herself, as she hung near the horizon? Surely he had. He blinks, and his wings shift with incredulity at her repeated question. Why wouldn’t he be real? How hard, exactly, had she hit her head?
With his weight settled on his opposite side, Ruhr extends his feathered wing with an expectant expression on his brightly marked face. The offer to reach out and touch it, to test his realness, is clear. So is the opportunity for her to easily knock him off balance, but the risk seems worth it. She doesn’t look the aggressive sort, and her legs are still trembling. He is not defenseless if she is, as beneath the feathers and dapple hide, Ruhr is in his prime. The Moon keeps him there, and he is grateful, and he tries not to wonder why She does not rid him of his limp as well.
Rather than dwell on that in silence, he asks: “Do you know where you are? The locals call it the Meadow.”
The more time she spends in his company, Pleni feels progressively more aware. But not in the kind of way that's reassuring, this consciousness was quite pale in comparison upon her arrival. Perhaps she was coming to? Maybe she really did bump her head on the descent, and now more than ever, she feels ashamed, unsure where to place her eyes, shuffling her weight back and forth between her hooves like she wanted the earth to swallow her up and forget this interaction. He seems pleasant enough she thinks, now she feels pity for him, not as much for herself. As the sun sinks, if it weren't for the stallions dappled grey, he blended perfectly against the sky, the sunsets colors equal to his ombre accents. She admired this, though subtly, his grey welcomed the night to come. Real or not, he continues to surprise her with his words. The slew of questions buds the longer he reveals himself, this time she doesn't suppress the curiosity that morphs her face. "I am her diviner," Pleni knew of magic and it's many forms, to be blessed with the moons idea of a muse, a reverie subjected to the wonders of the divine. A beautiful gift, her thoughts show plainly on her features, eventually making their way to her mouth. "A splendid gift you have, how does it work Ruhr?" She clears her throat, unsure if she made herself clear. "I mean, how does your gift manifest?"
How lucky she was to meet such an equine, the moon must be showing her appreciation, taking the suns place in her glow, beautifully igniting the coming night. What beauty it was, the meadow still radiant in the dimness. The lands allure gives her a chance to overlook the scorching dryness plaguing her throat, the weakness in her legs makes the pastel mare force right through, plunging through the pain and into the stallions metaphorical arms. He claims he's real, she should believe him for many reasons, for the sake of her sanity, or maybe the torment twisting her gut is enough of a reminder that this is very real. He seems amused by her lack of differentiating this reality, she supposes it's better than commending her for it. Still, she feels ludicrous for her speculation, though she couldn't blame herself, death crept at her door, one foot in the frame. She likes to think he could be her savior in her decline, so she decides to treat him as so, stranger or not.
She wonders if his gift consists of peering into her head, it's like he knows what she wanted as he extends one of his avian pinions towards her in an invitation to satiate her doubts. It is what she wanted, needed, but now that he's proposing his authenticity, she finds herself frozen. The faintest of smiles graces her lips as she gathers the courage to meet him in the middle, unfurling the tips of her feathers to brush his. At the contact, she adverts her gaze to the grasses below, though the sensation is soft as expected, real as expected. "Thank you.." Gently she offers her thanks, strange as it is on her tongue, she means it. The venerability tastes sweet, but not sweet enough for her to dive into it. He speaks of the meadow with familiarity, though she differs entirely. She doesn't know where she ended up, but a new start ignites something inside her bones, it's a sense of belonging she desperately longed for. Until recently, Pleni is hesitant of grasping too tight, the act hasn't gotten her anywhere, so she tries to remain indifferent. "I do not know of these lands, do you live here Ruhr? Theres others?" Pleni shakes out her hide, perhaps to shake the feeling of his touch, perhaps to rid herself of the fatigue. "My name is Plenilune." She blinks slowly, dipping her head in greeting.
The Moon is surely as different from this world as Stratos had been; Ruhr is no longer sure if her struggle for balance is due to unfamiliarity to this gravity, this shape, or this world. Perhaps it is just weakness?
The uncertainty of not knowing is uncomfortable, and he thinks of the darkness that She had offered instead of her visions these last long nights. Darkness, a void deeper even than Moondark.
Darkness, and then this stranger falling from the sky. What does it mean?
“In her reflections, she shows me futures, both the real and the possible.” That only some of her visions come true has become obvious over the years. The difference between them is unclear, but he is sure there must be a method.
The stranger recognizes the truth of his words, Ruhr sees, his slowly darkening eyes finding the wonder in her expression. Yet she remains not entirely at ease, looking away from his searching gaze as her feathers brush against his in a wind-light touch.
She is lost, and alone, and yet the Moon had not shown her to him.
Perhaps She had simply not shown her to him yet? He will wait for darkness and still water, and then he will ask for a sign. But he will need to be sure that she accompanies him long enough to find out, and the answer he gives reflects that.
“Yes, there are others. These lands are...” He pauses, his gaze flicking out toward the graying hills: “Not mine.” Ruhr reminds himself that he is speaking only the truth. That he implies more is surely permitted by the Moon.
“May I show you to a waterfall? It is safe, and healing, and I will ask Her for guidance.” Ruhr does not know if the waterfall located in the near desert is truly safe, but he reasons he can keep her nearly so in this quiet world, and so that too is no true lie. It is an uncomfortable sort of reasoning though, the kind that grates against his uncertainty, his disquiet of the dark visions, her strange arrival.
“Plenilune,” he repeats the name, and then again “Plenilune. And you are sure you are not of the Moon? You have not been sent?” To me? To earth?
Endless seas of clouds, after a while they all started to look the same, keeping her constantly wondering just how far she'd flown. Even glimpses of the migratory birds she'd been halfheartedly following were lost to the blankets of misty vapor. Though fatigue slowly begins to stunt the beats of her wings, Pleni pushes through. Theres been nothing but perpetual doom beneath her hooves for many miles, no place to land but the abyss that the ocean offered. In fact she was beginning to panic, afraid to dip below the cloud line blocking her vision from what was below, afraid to see yet another blue desert that she feared would be her grave. She belonged up here, lost in the whites and pinks of the sky and for a moment she tries to forget the exhaustion, tries to forget why she left in the first place. The absence of thoughts, the absence of regret, it's quite a beautiful thing. She didn't exactly want this, pushing herself to her limits, holding deaths hand to waltz down the cosmos. But it feels good, it feels real, the blood thumping through her veins, the adrenaline fueling each rhythmic surge of her wings. 
Ruhr