Rockette
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I'll keep a subscription up for this, adore the setting and general aesthetics.
but I'm always too busy for my own good, so we'll see.
but I'm always too busy for my own good, so we'll see.
Been feeling under the weather guys, so I haven't been active as much. I feel much better today, so after work, I'll get back to work and get these babies finished.
. . .
. . .
[. . .]
. when she is born, she knows only fear, when she walks, she knows only pain. when she weeps, she is taught only shame, and when she loves, she then knows what it means to hate.
γthe sak'irriγ
When Mekare danced the ahse'ayan to appease her Gods as their given High Priestess, she gave more than form and beauty, she sacrificed all of that which was her given spirit; the manifest of the soul that the Gods had originally seen as the most blessed of her divine attributes. Mekare's dances brought fortune and grace, the cycle of crops and the sun that had given them light and those that knelt beneath them, each performance would sometimes span on for hours, even days, done so with abandon and ritual to the chanting praises of her guild. Being a collective of thirteen Godly anointed children, fallen and christened and risen by the given pantheon of their worship. Mekare's sister, and one of the thirteen Dasandi, Mahante, danced for the cycle of the moon and the pull of the waves to bless the crops her sister blessed just as well. However, when Mekare was called to dance before the Gods, Mahante burned and coiled with a jealousy of terrifying conflagration that would summon onto her, the creature known as Ealla'hn, possessed of power and magic so fierce that her loyalty and worship was nearly swayed by impression alone. In his approach, Ealla'hn wanted her beauty and the prowess she boasted behind her dance of the moon and wave, in exchange, he would use his magic to give to her the form of a viper that rivaled the power of the Goddess, Cjarsa, who was wreathed in much the same image.
For the exchange, however, Ealla'hn was to gift the similar form to her children and the children unto after her, by the blessing of his own demented love for her beauty and art. Such a device though would be soon discovered by her sister, Mekare, when the power of Ealla'hn too whispered into her, for he was of greed and wanted her beauty and power too, sort of a pair; Mahante and Mekare in both his bed and arsenal to overthrow the worship of their Gods.
In fear of his power, Mekare danced the ancient ahse'ayan much like she did before their Gods, in hopes to seduce him and free his sudden hold over her sister so that he'd be at her feet, undone by her own magic. In his rapture, Ealla'hn gave unto Mekare the form of blessed wings from that of a falcon. In her performance, however, there was a disturbance of the balance she and the Dasandi had ruled and sought to preserve, the Gods coveted Mekare's dancing for so long, and to witness her performance before another was viewed as a form of worship to the facility that was Ealla'hn and the secondary forms the two sisters now commanded. Mekare pleaded that he also bequeath these forms to the Dasandi, her followers and fellow worshipers given grace of serpents and avian alike.
The balance was distraught, the balance was thus now forsaken and the Gods, along with it.
Mahante was mad with the concept of betrayal at both Mekare and Ealla'hn's endeavors, through her madness she caused a rift between the Dasandi and began to dwell deep into the blackened magic that her lover performed, reaping Mekare with sorrow at the loss of her sister and her previous attempts to save her. In her fury of agony and sudden rage, she swelled into her falcon form, her shriek one of acute pain, her magic rising higher to a christening platform of terrible manifestation. Her power simultaneously ruptured, and the rest of the Dasandi left wrought within her manifest and Mahante and her own guild afflicted. With her power too severe, Mahante and her followers came together with the Dasandi in attempt to placate her rage, in this, they dived deep into the Elchn, a void of nothingness that was said to be the plane of Gods. By their beseeching words and pleas, the Gods took the magic that Ealla'hn had woven into Mekare's wings and gave the flight of a golden hawk to a child of their choosing, one meant to succeed and surpass the beauty Mekare had too once been chosen for.
She would come to be known as Manaev, as the Mother.
With Mekare's power, and soul, fractured, she abandoned her dances and worships, fleeing to the North where she would come to her magic once again, and to raise her falcon children in seclusion. Mahante fled to the East with her followers to erect a palace meant for the Serpentine and to raise their children within peace and to practice her power in private, with Ealla'hn as her Diente - her King. When the twin sisters fled, Manaev's power was greatly weakened, but not without securing her own palace where the Avians would come to raise their children within the West where once power was only found, whilst the remaining Dasandi took to the South in attempts to preserve their worship to their Gods, and to perhaps one day hear their praise, even with being long since abandoned.
Thus History was told to pass, and the world we know it has come to be. With the children of the Three.
For the exchange, however, Ealla'hn was to gift the similar form to her children and the children unto after her, by the blessing of his own demented love for her beauty and art. Such a device though would be soon discovered by her sister, Mekare, when the power of Ealla'hn too whispered into her, for he was of greed and wanted her beauty and power too, sort of a pair; Mahante and Mekare in both his bed and arsenal to overthrow the worship of their Gods.
In fear of his power, Mekare danced the ancient ahse'ayan much like she did before their Gods, in hopes to seduce him and free his sudden hold over her sister so that he'd be at her feet, undone by her own magic. In his rapture, Ealla'hn gave unto Mekare the form of blessed wings from that of a falcon. In her performance, however, there was a disturbance of the balance she and the Dasandi had ruled and sought to preserve, the Gods coveted Mekare's dancing for so long, and to witness her performance before another was viewed as a form of worship to the facility that was Ealla'hn and the secondary forms the two sisters now commanded. Mekare pleaded that he also bequeath these forms to the Dasandi, her followers and fellow worshipers given grace of serpents and avian alike.
The balance was distraught, the balance was thus now forsaken and the Gods, along with it.
Mahante was mad with the concept of betrayal at both Mekare and Ealla'hn's endeavors, through her madness she caused a rift between the Dasandi and began to dwell deep into the blackened magic that her lover performed, reaping Mekare with sorrow at the loss of her sister and her previous attempts to save her. In her fury of agony and sudden rage, she swelled into her falcon form, her shriek one of acute pain, her magic rising higher to a christening platform of terrible manifestation. Her power simultaneously ruptured, and the rest of the Dasandi left wrought within her manifest and Mahante and her own guild afflicted. With her power too severe, Mahante and her followers came together with the Dasandi in attempt to placate her rage, in this, they dived deep into the Elchn, a void of nothingness that was said to be the plane of Gods. By their beseeching words and pleas, the Gods took the magic that Ealla'hn had woven into Mekare's wings and gave the flight of a golden hawk to a child of their choosing, one meant to succeed and surpass the beauty Mekare had too once been chosen for.
She would come to be known as Manaev, as the Mother.
With Mekare's power, and soul, fractured, she abandoned her dances and worships, fleeing to the North where she would come to her magic once again, and to raise her falcon children in seclusion. Mahante fled to the East with her followers to erect a palace meant for the Serpentine and to raise their children within peace and to practice her power in private, with Ealla'hn as her Diente - her King. When the twin sisters fled, Manaev's power was greatly weakened, but not without securing her own palace where the Avians would come to raise their children within the West where once power was only found, whilst the remaining Dasandi took to the South in attempts to preserve their worship to their Gods, and to perhaps one day hear their praise, even with being long since abandoned.
Thus History was told to pass, and the world we know it has come to be. With the children of the Three.
There is a war that has carried on for years now, centuries almost, wherein the origins of such has been lost to time and countless encounters between both the Hn'Adir, the Avians and the Serpentine, each side has lost leaders, lovers, brothers and sisters, and even children. With such an eternity of death that canters after every individual that dares fly or cross across the lands tainted and sewn with blood and tears, it wears down the soul and hinders the spirit of magic. The political strain is compounded by the recent slaying of the Tuulia Thane, the Queen of the Avians by her Alistaire who was a Falcon named Ahnkamek during their attempt at peace through an arranged marriage. Such was made possible by the volatile penetration of Cobra venom in its' most lethal form, directly taken from the serpent, such was a direct violation of a rather flimsy treaty signed by the current leaders so that their heirs might grow without assassination attempts.
Now that such an opportunity has been horribly squandered, the war efforts have redoubled anew, with the ascension of a new Tuulia Thane coming to pass along with the crowning of a new Diente: King of the Serpentine, and the Empress of the Hn'Adir quietly plotting within the ivory towers of the Falcon Lands to end this war, once and for all. Everything hangs on a thin precipice, baited and strung by the endeavors of every individual that dares takes to their wings or fangs.
Now that such an opportunity has been horribly squandered, the war efforts have redoubled anew, with the ascension of a new Tuulia Thane coming to pass along with the crowning of a new Diente: King of the Serpentine, and the Empress of the Hn'Adir quietly plotting within the ivory towers of the Falcon Lands to end this war, once and for all. Everything hangs on a thin precipice, baited and strung by the endeavors of every individual that dares takes to their wings or fangs.
// this a single time plot, so only one applicant for this go around.
// consider your own limitations before applying, this story will have multiple characters and perspectives.
// this is a heavy fantasy setting with tons of lore, with various touches of settings to fantasy elements - considers LOTR for a visual effect.
// in case such wasn't clear, the characters are shapeshifters, children of the previously mentioned women in the history prelude above. such forms include a multitude of birds and snakes, so the possibility is endless. including some incredibly rare hybrids, but we will go over that later.
// post within the thread so that i will receive a notification and we shall deliberate from there.
// consider your own limitations before applying, this story will have multiple characters and perspectives.
// this is a heavy fantasy setting with tons of lore, with various touches of settings to fantasy elements - considers LOTR for a visual effect.
// in case such wasn't clear, the characters are shapeshifters, children of the previously mentioned women in the history prelude above. such forms include a multitude of birds and snakes, so the possibility is endless. including some incredibly rare hybrids, but we will go over that later.
// post within the thread so that i will receive a notification and we shall deliberate from there.
I've got you both added to my queue, my estimation is to have them finished within a five-six day period or so.
Till then!
Till then!
read op for details. // currently open.
At the corner of Secundus and Tertium paraded the humble establishment, The Blue Mirror: a fogged glass exterior with a furnishing of azure glows and twinkling strings of amber bulbs that secured themselves betwixt posts and speckled ebon grates of varying tables and chairs in which randomized luxuries were secured. One of many that had sprouted through every other block within The Badlands when the economy had shifted and aligned with the world and took to the fluctuations of the eternal Stock Market. Such businesses could be aligned to corporate idealism, for in such timely persecution, one amassed chains and appealed to a literal label and franchise. It dulled the local flavour and spoiled the individuality and sanctity of financial opportunities for the younger competitor, even in secluded and untold of cities much like The Badlands. Irony cloaked the conception in spades considering how vastly imported most of their luxuries were, as if spattered and erratic during their induction because suddenly an old, once upon a time monastery became the foci of the nearest industrial lords.
However, The Blue Mirror was told of a unique quality, individual in ownership and practice, and the craftsmanship of the fogged panes never once duplicated. Besides their aesthetic credibility, the scones and coffee brew were absolutely to die for.
Ana glided arachnid gestures against the disturbances within the famed glass, every dip and rise in texture told of careful detailing and execution on the make. She had once asked who was responsible for the panes and if it was intended for the name when they first began their unique hours. The owner never revealed the origins, he had only laughed and said it was just a twist of fate.
Ironic, that, she thought. And looped her index finger through the ceramic of her still hot coffee - dashed with three fixings of cream, nothing artificial and prepared black as the darkest soils she knew all too well - and tended to her musings.
She had procured a paper from the stand near the foyer where a curiously vague article on the Paramorlian Histories new exhibit had come second or so from the primary story display on potential services expanding the one way rail that traveled seldom between the upper echelon of an infamous nobility. There was only a handful of scripted details, there had been a rare collection derived from a bought of famous collectors, names she knew by having been a personal subscriber to their coffers. Rossi... Belvonuer... Pacheco...
Priceless artifacts from a long era, legends of passing wrath and loss, ruin and lust, and then, she saw it. A familiar name wreathed in flame and surrounded by a poetic embellishment she knew fluently on her silver bathed tongue and smile. Her mind's eyes immediately flickered and expanded; The Atis. It was just a book to many, to the tourists that came from transit and the docks up north and traversed through the mountains to visit the city undone in both Vegas splendors and old, forgotten Paris spires. The Gothic towers, the silver and gold plated buildings; everything that reeked of sin and life.
Ana exhaled.
Of course, the one thing people looked yonder with wonder and something akin to rapt curiosity was just a forgery; a sham, a perfectly executed gem of thin leaf pages and golden edges warped in leather, aged to absolution. The real one was in her very possession, well preserved even after all these years...
Her nails rip into the pages, tearing across black and grey print, staining the keratin with soot and takes another take from her brew, eyes on the blue glass, the slight mirror effect revealing not just her self images, but a distorted look of the street beyond it. A wonderful metaphor it would appear, much to the irony currently dominating her process as of late. Maybe because it was soon to be the anniversary when she came into possession of The Atis, quivering palms grasping hold of a responsibility that would later, much later,
take sway upon her heart and soul.
Anastasia would come to realize, maybe not now or then, but some time from now, that the book was a personal conduit to her very essence of self and all of those before her.
Her eyes of a curious blue, too bright and too glimmering, swelled with an emotion undefinable by the shutter of soot black lashes and the rising steam from her now cooling coffee, the last wisps of translucent waves over the pout of her lip as she continued to read the article with what little information was provided. The venue wouldn't be publicly open until another month, to finish adding the last details of the exhibit and to, of course, finalize the actual price of viewing the collection. Art was free for expression, but never was it free to the masses. Ana knew well the greed of the wealthier souls and their pillaging of the hungry vagabonds who collaborated with muse to produce the visuals of their lives, all to be reaped by a man who found some flicker and smidgen of life within their own expression; all translated and misunderstood in the end. It was awfully tempting, so profound, to take her own gander at the collection before the debut, but the next passage gave her an acute pause.
There was to be a private gala of sorts, hosted by the young and rather hopeful curator of the Paramorlian Histories: Patrick Montreyu. The brief interview of the lighted soiree was an exclusive fundraiser for sponsors to bid on selective pieces donated, till within possession of their collectors, but also heralded along side whichever function and foundation saw to the typical display. Her cog of minds and walls immediately began to churn, her thoughts easily awash with the sheer amount of potential gain from the gathering of oh so much wealth. Whilst she was graciously employed, of course, it did not discourage the habitual takings of rather... freelance work.
Ana cradled her palm against her slender cheeks, nails nestling against her temple and brow. Securing an invitation, however, was the only problematic angle. She had a history of sorts, if one could label such a thing, with Patrick Montreyu; an ugly, vibrant bruise and swelling of distaste for one another that still, to this day, tasted of stale cigarettes and cheap booze. She sighed, finished the last bit of her coffee and tucked the paper with the rest of her belongings. It was too grand of an opportunity to pass up just because she had become rather tame and lax in her botanist lifestyle and facade, besides, securing a bit of fattening within her own coffers wasn't anything worthy of shame for the coming winter.
For The Badlands had an ugly reputation for being a thief as well, only she dealt within hearts and souls.
Now, time to visit an old friend.
However, The Blue Mirror was told of a unique quality, individual in ownership and practice, and the craftsmanship of the fogged panes never once duplicated. Besides their aesthetic credibility, the scones and coffee brew were absolutely to die for.
Ana glided arachnid gestures against the disturbances within the famed glass, every dip and rise in texture told of careful detailing and execution on the make. She had once asked who was responsible for the panes and if it was intended for the name when they first began their unique hours. The owner never revealed the origins, he had only laughed and said it was just a twist of fate.
Ironic, that, she thought. And looped her index finger through the ceramic of her still hot coffee - dashed with three fixings of cream, nothing artificial and prepared black as the darkest soils she knew all too well - and tended to her musings.
She had procured a paper from the stand near the foyer where a curiously vague article on the Paramorlian Histories new exhibit had come second or so from the primary story display on potential services expanding the one way rail that traveled seldom between the upper echelon of an infamous nobility. There was only a handful of scripted details, there had been a rare collection derived from a bought of famous collectors, names she knew by having been a personal subscriber to their coffers. Rossi... Belvonuer... Pacheco...
Priceless artifacts from a long era, legends of passing wrath and loss, ruin and lust, and then, she saw it. A familiar name wreathed in flame and surrounded by a poetic embellishment she knew fluently on her silver bathed tongue and smile. Her mind's eyes immediately flickered and expanded; The Atis. It was just a book to many, to the tourists that came from transit and the docks up north and traversed through the mountains to visit the city undone in both Vegas splendors and old, forgotten Paris spires. The Gothic towers, the silver and gold plated buildings; everything that reeked of sin and life.
Ana exhaled.
Of course, the one thing people looked yonder with wonder and something akin to rapt curiosity was just a forgery; a sham, a perfectly executed gem of thin leaf pages and golden edges warped in leather, aged to absolution. The real one was in her very possession, well preserved even after all these years...
Her nails rip into the pages, tearing across black and grey print, staining the keratin with soot and takes another take from her brew, eyes on the blue glass, the slight mirror effect revealing not just her self images, but a distorted look of the street beyond it. A wonderful metaphor it would appear, much to the irony currently dominating her process as of late. Maybe because it was soon to be the anniversary when she came into possession of The Atis, quivering palms grasping hold of a responsibility that would later, much later,
take sway upon her heart and soul.
Anastasia would come to realize, maybe not now or then, but some time from now, that the book was a personal conduit to her very essence of self and all of those before her.
Her eyes of a curious blue, too bright and too glimmering, swelled with an emotion undefinable by the shutter of soot black lashes and the rising steam from her now cooling coffee, the last wisps of translucent waves over the pout of her lip as she continued to read the article with what little information was provided. The venue wouldn't be publicly open until another month, to finish adding the last details of the exhibit and to, of course, finalize the actual price of viewing the collection. Art was free for expression, but never was it free to the masses. Ana knew well the greed of the wealthier souls and their pillaging of the hungry vagabonds who collaborated with muse to produce the visuals of their lives, all to be reaped by a man who found some flicker and smidgen of life within their own expression; all translated and misunderstood in the end. It was awfully tempting, so profound, to take her own gander at the collection before the debut, but the next passage gave her an acute pause.
There was to be a private gala of sorts, hosted by the young and rather hopeful curator of the Paramorlian Histories: Patrick Montreyu. The brief interview of the lighted soiree was an exclusive fundraiser for sponsors to bid on selective pieces donated, till within possession of their collectors, but also heralded along side whichever function and foundation saw to the typical display. Her cog of minds and walls immediately began to churn, her thoughts easily awash with the sheer amount of potential gain from the gathering of oh so much wealth. Whilst she was graciously employed, of course, it did not discourage the habitual takings of rather... freelance work.
Ana cradled her palm against her slender cheeks, nails nestling against her temple and brow. Securing an invitation, however, was the only problematic angle. She had a history of sorts, if one could label such a thing, with Patrick Montreyu; an ugly, vibrant bruise and swelling of distaste for one another that still, to this day, tasted of stale cigarettes and cheap booze. She sighed, finished the last bit of her coffee and tucked the paper with the rest of her belongings. It was too grand of an opportunity to pass up just because she had become rather tame and lax in her botanist lifestyle and facade, besides, securing a bit of fattening within her own coffers wasn't anything worthy of shame for the coming winter.
For The Badlands had an ugly reputation for being a thief as well, only she dealt within hearts and souls.
Now, time to visit an old friend.
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