go and catch a falling starshiningdownSeptember 7 2009, 02:49:07 UTC
Two days past her fall see the evening star still making her way through the forest at one edge of the place known as the City. At this point the pain in her leg has become a dull and heavy throbbing that only sharpens when she puts too much weight on it or, worse, slips on her other. Not entirely accustomed to feet to begin with, the star only knows enough to be mildly grateful for shoes on her feet, however damaged, the silver pooling quality of her gown fairly covering them anyway, draping around her not unlike starlight. It is, of course, night, for what star would be awake in the day, much less travel by it, and though she has no need of food and has never had human contact to know what it is to want it at all, it can be assumed she does not need that either. If it seems too presumptuous, one may take into account--though no one but Yvaine herself knows--that she has, since crash landing, refused the help of at least three people--or things that look like people
( ... )
go and catch a falling starshiningdownSeptember 7 2009, 05:31:11 UTC
Bird to watch or moth to flame, Yvaine tenses until she sees him, and even upon sight she hesitates to do anything other than stay as still as possible, as if channeling the motionlessness of a marble statue will render her just as easily overlooked. This is, obviously, not the case, as he continues to address her, and though his voice extends itself a little like an unintended song--measured and cut like the proper timing in a movement--the star finds herself nonplussed, despite his good intentions. One could as soon chalk it up to wandering around for nigh on forty-eight hours with a broken leg, dealing with maddened creatures--not all of which respected her space because of what she is and some of which invaded it almost because of it--and not so maddened people but maddening nonetheless. Her words pile out like hurried footsteps, stark against the winged creature's choice of concern, sounding harsh as she imagines she is actually being, but part of her cannot help it and part of her feels it necessary. She does not know him, does
( ... )
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonunseenprinceOctober 30 2009, 06:59:35 UTC
Nearing midnight means nothing to one elf prince who makes his way through the woods bordered by the pumpkin patch. It isn't ignorance that has brought him here nor a challenge. No. What brings him here is his curiosity. He has been in this realm for days now, learning all he can about what it has to offer, which is much. There are unseen beings here, those of elf, troll, goblin, witch, and djinn blood alike. And there are sons of man and daughters of woman. He will not call them as the white one has, of Adam and Eve, because his people's legacy, his people's history is older than the Christians who ran fields of green in red. They are lesser by all definitions of the word. Undeserving. In his journey through the woods he has seen them burning non-humans as demons or witches and whatever else the humans can't bring themselves to understand. He has cut down those he can, some out of true fury, some out of sportNuada will not deny his palate for blood when it comes to human beings, as long as his actions serve a purpose: saving
( ... )
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonshiningdownOctober 30 2009, 07:46:41 UTC
The star has gone between wakefulness and that limbo between sleep and wakefulness on and off throughout the day she is not accustomed to seeing whether through canopy of tree leaves or openly beneath the blaze or clouds or what-have-you. To say she stirs with annoyance would be accurate but it would be just as applicable to say she moves as one stiff from hiding and seems thus more agitated than she actually is. Pale gold strands lift away and wisp when she exhales with a sigh the shape caught between a scowl and a pout
( ... )
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonunseenprinceOctober 30 2009, 08:05:49 UTC
"Don't move."
Nuada's words are casual, the first to offer words when she will not, but she moves anyway and this hardly makes things any more difficult for the prince. The spear strikes in a wide arc, lengthened in full in order catch the third party in the stomach. The blood that spills here is fresh but doesn't stain her. He is quick to judge distance and force to make it so. Strike to the leg follows to get this wretched being on its back then it's the creature's heart that is sacrificed to the night when Nuada drives his weapon through chest cavity to the pulsing organ. Death is quick in its case which can't be said for all the other things he's run into today. The timing however is not as off from midnight as Yvaine thinks for when Nuada stands, spear shortening to arm's length again, the body seems to decay
( ... )
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonshiningdownOctober 30 2009, 08:21:11 UTC
"No, but what we are," she pauses, lips pursing before echoing words, "played for, is not necessarily what we are anyway," and she then nods at him, as if to simply say, as I wouldn't first classify you as one either.. "Tricks, illusions," she waves a dismissive hand to draw attention to something inelegant and casual, to draw her own attention away from the pulse still heavy and too quick beneath her skin. Unsettling, she once or twice has heard of stars who fell to the land below only to disappear at death's forced hands so that those doing the forcing might extend their own existences. It never occurred to her that it could be something she would experience firsthand, but falling to begin with never seemed likely as well and seeing as how that presumption has brought her there with a dark humor, she tries to reassess the possible beneath an averted gaze
( ... )
your arms and your legs are shatteredtenthofthatnameNovember 4 2009, 01:42:43 UTC
Caspian X is not flesh and blood and bone but when he wanders through the woods his feet make sounds. His steps are real. The leaves and grass crush under a genuine weight and it isn't the lightness of youth. Nothing about him is youthful now beyond his face and even that doesn't reflect the days after coronation, before a voyage to the end of the world.
He has seen this woman's face, knows it in a dream, a dream of a dream. More importantly he finds it familiar in color, shape, line, nature. He sees her, she who died in the most abrupt way, at their son's side but not at his. To say Caspian feels strongly about now having been there is an understatement. To realize that even stars can die even worse.
It is why the King of Narnia, dearly departed, seeks Yvaine. He knows her name as it settles on the tip of his tongue the same way hers does. The star will not evade him, not again. He won't let her.
your arms and your legs are shatterednever_endingNovember 4 2009, 02:26:47 UTC
The Queen of all Stormhold is not flesh and blood alone, but flesh and blood enough to have been an accepted monarch of her people. They were not always hers. Once they were his; once they were theirs, but once was a long time ago, his lifetime and many others over. Though decades blur together for the ageless star, there are a few things she recalls about the King of Stormhold long departed. She remembers, with no romantic embellishments for instance, how she loathed his very existence at the start of their shared story, and she remembers how this was, for some reason, true in both a world between worlds and their own. Amongst the memories of the first, she also recalls a King of a world known as Narnia who vexed her as well from first word, seeming to side with the blundering dunderhead. Multiple times. These are just the kindling before the fire, however, or they were. They became friends, she knows, and not because Tristan Thorn saved her life or, in Caspian's case his horse was good company, though those certainly were true
( ... )
your arms and your legs are shatterednever_endingNovember 4 2009, 02:27:04 UTC
Carrying centuries in the sky and on the earth in her irises, the crown atop gold glow feels safe and standard, but it has gotten to the point in Stormhold that she need not wear it to be recognized. Everyone knows of the ruler who does not show years, though she will be quick to show things quite human such as disapproval or near livid temperament if something does not meet rightly with her. One thing they say about the Queen of Stormhold, whose name is also known but rarely said and not down--for whatever reason--in any history book or indeed any writing at all, is that she never smiles.
She used to.
But it has been too long for anyone but the Queen herself to remember and like many who know loss better than other things, she chooses to keep her own counsel.
Wandering through familiar woods, the air is cold but it reminds her how human her shell is and how that makes her closer to someone, even if it isn't the someone she was once looking for without even knowing it. Blond strands brushing moon-pale skin, he gown is perhaps too
( ... )
your arms and your legs are shatteredtenthofthatnameNovember 4 2009, 03:01:15 UTC
Although there is no one watching them now for they are alone with the trees and the creatures that make this forest their home, anyone who would see this scene would not think they are in the city at all. Whatever it is about the ethereal queen and the ephemeral king colors this moment, this space, with something otherworldly, and that is saying much for a world between worlds.
When he sees her too many things flood his memory, out of time and out of place. Caspian has met her before as a young man, clean shaven and still bright as dawn. He has met one like her on his way to the end of the world where it was said in order for the hero to receive a kiss he would have to break the enchantment first. He has mourned her a thousand times over when the smallest fangs took down what many thought could not be done to someone who carries the stars in her veins. He swears he met her on a train traveling nowhere, going through tunnels and the countryside, to meet his friends the Pevensies. She did not speak to him then. He thinks he has
( ... )
through your fugue state, passing time without traceshiningdownJanuary 8 2010, 01:50:19 UTC
When she first fell, she didn't know what to expect. Stars do not experience warmth or cold in the sky the way people do on earth. That understood, perhaps it still should not have been so surprising to find that just like those people she had spent all her life distant from, unreal to, she shivered in the cold and found the sun at noon too bright. At present, she has no idea as to how long her time here and back in the kingdom of Stormhold gathers to be together, and that's fine with her. Time has long since been a vague idea for her, a truth that never needs to be fully acknowledged. In the woods, when there was still the chain and Tristan to remind her of why he was justified in his endeavors--as if she had forgotten--every other second, she had kept some manner of track, because days were new to her, both the time spent in passing them and the daylight that glanced off like minutes to an hour
( ... )
through your fugue state, passing time without traceshiningdownJanuary 8 2010, 01:50:45 UTC
Besides, that's where he is, as far as she last heard or knew. Part of what bothers the star most of all isn't so much that some things on Tristan Thorn's list may be true or agreed with by others, but that she cares at all. She finds the feeling hard to place, though she is rather certain it falls somewhere next to Loathing and quite a bit beyond General Dislike. Playing against that, however, since the inn, since the witch, there exists both an obligation toward gratitude and more vexing than that, a genuine degree of it as well. She doesn't want to deny him thanks, because he does deserve it, but she doesn't want to return verbal barbs with a white flag and flowers either. It doesn't seem fair. Yvaine didn't ask to be here any more than she asked to fall down into Stormhold, any more than she wanted to have the first person who was nice to her end up being quite the opposite. This isn't true here of course. There have been others, but she hadn't remembered them at the time, hadn't known them at all, as if they had never existed in
( ... )
through your fugue state, passing time without tracetreadingdawnJanuary 8 2010, 02:30:11 UTC
Clop.
Clop clop clop.
...Clop.
Well, those would be the sounds of hooves on harder ground if that's where Caspian and Destrier were to begin with. Not long after witnessing--or just overhearing so to speak--the conversation between one Tristan Thorn and Yvaine...er, what is her surname? Not that it matters much to Caspian X. Although he has no reason to openly celebrate it he does enjoy knowing another who, like himself, has only one name and doesn't find it peculiar at all. Other things about the star remind him of Narnia too, rather, Narnia's relationship with Earth, like Stormhold and Wall. Caspian doesn't know much about their homeworld beyond this, maybe he never will, but the idea pleases him in more ways than he ever wants to have to explain. Aside from that he also feels an amount of friendship towards the two; most of it derived from the way they met. One doesn't forget a young man insistent on calling the King of Narnia father or his Venomous Spider Woman for company
( ... )
through your fugue state, passing time without traceshiningdownJanuary 8 2010, 03:08:59 UTC
The sound of hooves on earth make an effective precursor to familiarly accented words, but Yvaine doesn't answer right away, lips pressing together, mouth quirking to the side as she drops her gaze to the ground, hands twisting in front of her. She doesn't particularly want to talk to anyone, to see anyone, or maybe it's that even she feels as though everything she has to say is nothing but a rough repetition of discontent. Caspian X is, she has for some time singled out, one of the inhabitants of this strange place that has found happiness, the sort that one doesn't have to ask about in order to know that it is there. It seems foreign to her, but she doesn't feel bad for not having known that kind of joy. The star has known other emotions, other states of being as worthwhile in their own right and one cannot miss what one has never felt in the first place.
As things stand, it really doesn't surprise her that she must run into someone when she doesn't want to--which is often, to be fair--and considering where she is, it doesn't
( ... )
Dorian is telling himself not to be afraid. Grown boys, he says firmly, in a voice that sounds like Grandfathers, are not afraid, especially grown boys of this family
( ... )
Yvaine is not a light sleeper...well, not in any way other than metaphorically. When she sleeps she is, of late, at her most peaceful however, and so happens that the glow about her--more discernible at a distance as a pinprick of silver that moves, oft in agitation--glows closer to golden, a glimmer in the dark. Unaccustomed even all these months later to finding her rest in a bed, thick with expensive sheets and covers, her 'light' sleeping has grown even more so. It surprises her very little that it is a door that opens her, but it surprises her at least a little bit that it opens at all. One, Dorian Gray, has never disturbed her before her own reinstated hours of nocturnal habit, and Miss Blair Waldorf is someone she still has yet to meet, but this is not such an unbelievable thing considering the star's elusiveness of the daylight
( ... )
Dorian sees the glow and he's not sure what to make of it at first. Does she have a light in bed with her? Some clever lamp that does not burn? His own house has gaslight, which makes it more sophisticated than many houses in London, but his Grandfather is traditional and still burns lamps, but they are hot to the touch and would not make for a comfortable bedfellow
( ... )
His response stuns her, but she recognizes something in his eyes as much as anyone can, and this too grabs her attention, stripping her of words for the first time in quite a long while.
"No, I'm....no, definitely not," she laughs, but not at him so much as to cover how silly she feels for being somewhat flattered by it. Oddly or not oddly at all, she would not feel as pleased about it if it came from someone who was not a child. There is, with his query, a youth's innocence about it, traced in white lines of soft wonder that she almost finds kin with, and she feels an almost confusing sense of affection for him in that kinship of wide-eyed and brightness in the dark. It's lovely on him, and she thinks she knows who he is now, though his older self is an austere departure from the boy she sees now. "I'm Yvaine," she says and her smile has her all alight as he hasn't been since she was in the sky, home and far away from the strangeness of dream-fettered realities all thick with a boy from Wall and what he means for her future.
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Nuada's words are casual, the first to offer words when she will not, but she moves anyway and this hardly makes things any more difficult for the prince. The spear strikes in a wide arc, lengthened in full in order catch the third party in the stomach. The blood that spills here is fresh but doesn't stain her. He is quick to judge distance and force to make it so. Strike to the leg follows to get this wretched being on its back then it's the creature's heart that is sacrificed to the night when Nuada drives his weapon through chest cavity to the pulsing organ. Death is quick in its case which can't be said for all the other things he's run into today. The timing however is not as off from midnight as Yvaine thinks for when Nuada stands, spear shortening to arm's length again, the body seems to decay ( ... )
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He has seen this woman's face, knows it in a dream, a dream of a dream. More importantly he finds it familiar in color, shape, line, nature. He sees her, she who died in the most abrupt way, at their son's side but not at his. To say Caspian feels strongly about now having been there is an understatement. To realize that even stars can die even worse.
It is why the King of Narnia, dearly departed, seeks Yvaine. He knows her name as it settles on the tip of his tongue the same way hers does. The star will not evade him, not again. He won't let her.
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She used to.
But it has been too long for anyone but the Queen herself to remember and like many who know loss better than other things, she chooses to keep her own counsel.
Wandering through familiar woods, the air is cold but it reminds her how human her shell is and how that makes her closer to someone, even if it isn't the someone she was once looking for without even knowing it. Blond strands brushing moon-pale skin, he gown is perhaps too ( ... )
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When he sees her too many things flood his memory, out of time and out of place. Caspian has met her before as a young man, clean shaven and still bright as dawn. He has met one like her on his way to the end of the world where it was said in order for the hero to receive a kiss he would have to break the enchantment first. He has mourned her a thousand times over when the smallest fangs took down what many thought could not be done to someone who carries the stars in her veins. He swears he met her on a train traveling nowhere, going through tunnels and the countryside, to meet his friends the Pevensies. She did not speak to him then. He thinks he has ( ... )
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Clop clop clop.
...Clop.
Well, those would be the sounds of hooves on harder ground if that's where Caspian and Destrier were to begin with. Not long after witnessing--or just overhearing so to speak--the conversation between one Tristan Thorn and Yvaine...er, what is her surname? Not that it matters much to Caspian X. Although he has no reason to openly celebrate it he does enjoy knowing another who, like himself, has only one name and doesn't find it peculiar at all. Other things about the star remind him of Narnia too, rather, Narnia's relationship with Earth, like Stormhold and Wall. Caspian doesn't know much about their homeworld beyond this, maybe he never will, but the idea pleases him in more ways than he ever wants to have to explain. Aside from that he also feels an amount of friendship towards the two; most of it derived from the way they met. One doesn't forget a young man insistent on calling the King of Narnia father or his Venomous Spider Woman for company ( ... )
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As things stand, it really doesn't surprise her that she must run into someone when she doesn't want to--which is often, to be fair--and considering where she is, it doesn't ( ... )
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"No, I'm....no, definitely not," she laughs, but not at him so much as to cover how silly she feels for being somewhat flattered by it. Oddly or not oddly at all, she would not feel as pleased about it if it came from someone who was not a child. There is, with his query, a youth's innocence about it, traced in white lines of soft wonder that she almost finds kin with, and she feels an almost confusing sense of affection for him in that kinship of wide-eyed and brightness in the dark. It's lovely on him, and she thinks she knows who he is now, though his older self is an austere departure from the boy she sees now. "I'm Yvaine," she says and her smile has her all alight as he hasn't been since she was in the sky, home and far away from the strangeness of dream-fettered realities all thick with a boy from Wall and what he means for her future.
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