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Post by --?synesthesia on May 31, 2011 10:03:17 GMT -8
| [atrb=style,background: url(http://i53.tinypic.com/28m240.jpg); border-top: 5px solid #222222; border-bottom: 5px solid #222222; border-radius: 20; -moz-border-radius: 20; width: 525px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 5px #989898;,bTable][atrb=border,0,bTable][atrb=cellSpacing,0,bTable] | [atrb=width,400,true] Myrrh. like a child yet to discover the world's malice Twilight had settled subtly, encroaching as gentle as the sunrise did. The lands prominent hues had faded, before finally settling upon a perfect artless shade of black. Soon the stars made their grand appearance, taking the midnight stage in their equally beautiful glory. Lions, Hunters and Horses all ran across the sky in their delicate constellations, excluding silent cry's that only the divine beings could comprehend. The stars were innumerable, uncountable - like ideas, words or the trees in an evergreen forest. Each one was a beauty of it's own, mapping out the night sky and pinning there the blanket of encompassing ebony. The strange lights flowed like a river across the heavens, dancing lightly, daintily with a keen sort of ethereal grace. The colors inked their light tendrils among each other - solar winds and the earth's atmosphere, finally intertwined at long last. Yet they danced like amiable children - carefree, innocent and unaware. They were bound to not anyone nor the earth - they were free to be whoever they wished, a life truly worth a feeling of envy. They did not have intelligence, senses nor thoughts, nor could they feel pain or hunger, or the wind through ones fur..she would give it all up just to be them; to be a performer in the dance of the northern lights, free and joyful across the midnight skies. down reaching the stars, the snow in the distance refracted the thrown light, glittering and coruscated a thousand unrecognizable, unnameable hues. A white creature stood upon the chilled grass, the affable breeze of wind playfully rustling and furrowing her vitrified, heavy derma of white fur. Luna and all her valiant companions were the wolves only guides, her only company and only bystanders to this spectacular night time array - company would be blessed, but very few could truly appreciate this natural beauty, and even fewer bore the care to seek her presence. her grape hued orbs seemed to glow in the dwindled light - casting a sort of eerie violet glow to comb the gentle fur of her profile. the femme was not merely watching like any other might -she was engrossed, she was enraptured. her mouth hung ajar, breaths expelling in a cloud of seemingly weightless vapor, a silent unspoken confirmation of her sole focus. the light continued it's play, diffusing free a muffled glow to dance boldly across and paint the wind tossed canvas of her insulating fur, creating a slight gradient border to enclose her Arctic physique. like a statue carved from the finest marble she remained, whist and as pale as death itself in all it's lifeless marvel. table credit :: columba of on the edge | [atrb=width,125,true][atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,margin-right: 25px; margin-top: 10px; background-color: #ffffff; opacity: 0.6; -moz-opacity: 0.6; border-left: 1px solid #333333; color: #3b1b44; font-size: 11px; padding: 10 10 10 10; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 14px;]
INFO, Name: Myrrh
Gender: Female
Pack: None
Species: Arctic
Power: can turn into an ermine/stoat WORDS, words here. NOTES, not me best, but please try and work with it. anyone is free to join in (: | [atrb=width,20px] |
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Post by Glaciers are Cold on Jun 2, 2011 18:51:03 GMT -8
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{ we're all quietly wishing, baby,
And when that fury breaks loose from it's chains, and the words come out, and the anger washes over like rain. When the knife hits the point, when it's too late to take it away. What would you do then, my dear one? Just leave and go astray - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - n i f t h |
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;]TAGS Myrrh WORDS 623 NOTES Not as long as usual… | [atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;]
A pale, washed out indigo blanket hangs in the sky. It is frayed and worn, and little pinpricks in the rough fabric allow the light of the stars. Here is birth, and here is death. Stars are born and they die. Life is born and life dies. Simple cycle of how it is. Nifth turns to glance up at the sky, and his ash-indigo eyes are instantly glued. He cannot stop himself, but for the haunting music of the heavens and the nebulae and the stars. They sing of rejoice and of sorrow, of freedom and of captivity, of escape and of pain. Then the soft glow of the moon bays out its soliloquy while the stars hum in harmony. The clouds roll alto and the faraway planets blare their baritone voices.
And life sways to the rhythm of the stars, and sorrow dies, and hope blossoms. Nifth's wavering but rich voice lilts into the wind, as it swirls the settling fog. He howls out his emotions: the choking glory, the volatile madness, the creeping hunger. He is a jigsaw puzzle, but the vital piece, the center one, the one with roses of scarlet and silk of ivory, is missing. And it will be until he can claim his own. But what is his own? What is that lost piece of himself, that final puzzle piece that completes his life? And is he so sure that it is what he seeks. When one is complete, and one's life fulfilled, that life is forfeit to the winds of renewal. Could that mean—death?
Death is but the black rose of dawn, not the alabaster flag of surrender, but the one shroud of a finished piece of art itself. Nifth shudders beneath a gathering of pines, his painted dark-tawny fur camouflaging perfectly with the deep-hazel trunks behind. He stares up into the needle-pines, which are a musty-emerald hue. Then a cooling breeze twirls and sweeps the muted olives into the sky, arcing and tangling with the violets snatched from the meadows off to the side. Sky blue weaves itself deep into the lime-violet mists, stolen from the sea of pale glaciers down in the valley. And then sun-gold and blood-red ascend the oil-painted sky. "Araro Boralis," he whispers. Aurora Borealis.
He stares, captivated, at the dancing and writhing lights, not realizing that just a few yards away, another wolf is transfixed. How can we abbreviate this life, this love? There is no greater pleasure. I would rather shatter these memories and leave them to decay. A rustle echoes in the half-night, and he arouses from his trance. He has… delved into sleep and just awoken. Embarrassment washes over him like a tidal wave of madness. Then he feels further humiliated. What sort of idiot is embarrassed when no one is there to see them?
Nifth heaves a small, butterfly-sigh, which sweeps wide wings of a monarch and lifts to accompany the light-fairies of heaven. He snuffles in the snow, imagining a world where everything truly was a monochrome brightness. How would it look? Ice-white poles of trees, their glacier-bright leaves frozen. Craftily hidden snow-hares bounding through, their shadows entirely non-existent save for a fuzzy wool-gray. And him? He would be a sculpture of ivory, finished in smooth glassy crystal. Ice would coat him like fur, and icicles dangling from his jaws like fangs. He laughs at the image, the sound interrupting the orchestra of the sky. He pauses, horrified. "I'm sorry! he screams to the heavens. Then he shuffles off. Does he see the other wolf, the beautiful wolf of which fit somewhat his description of himself white-ified? He is near enough to. And yet he doesn't. He, lost in his thoughts and dreams, doesn't.
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