little white lies - Printable Version

There was nothing that would ever bring a sense of ease whenever steps found themselves within the confines of a city. Too many uncertainties lingered within these walls, too many chances that something could go horrible wrong. That the whispers which plagued his mind would come to fruition and one would be snared by a fate just as bad as one he’d escaped. Recollection alone enough to tempt the crow to freeze, to give up on a search before it had even truly begun. Bid him to return to the comforts of the shadowed woods and those he’d come to know within them.

Creeping notion Leslie was inclined to listen to, if it were not for the way a draconian prowled so near to him now. A constant brush of scales felt through both cloth and leather as Cricket hovered always seeming to sense even a fleeting rise of unease within him. Always quick to provide a semblance of comfort or - as it were now - protection for this was a beast near matching him in height over the passing seasons. Perhaps standing taller if it were not for the way a crown ducked, how wild eyes glared out toward those unknown should they dare to drift too close for either of their comforts. The sooner he found who was searched for the better.

Yet despite how easily she had been able to track him down, how she appeared so suddenly within secluded camps… the crow was not so blessed. Within him there were no creeping tendrils of magic that could entangle another’s presence with his own. He could not chase the lingering threads of magic nor scent individual aromas from great distances, could not pick wandering beasts out from a crowd. At times Leslie was not certain even sights alone could be trusted with the fabrications they wove. Telling tales one could not forget, mixing reality with fiction, but in the end nothing could drown out the truths experienced.

Faint memories of that peculiar healer still hung in the depths of his cerebrum. Of how she spoke with being unseen, unknown phrases reaching out to creatures that perhaps did not even exist. Stirring a number of questions within him now. Those he’d been unable to ask through the dizzying haze of consciousness or the urge to simpley escape her entirely. But now? Now his curiosity peeked, it festered alongside the brewing fears he held over her and all else who haunted the cities of beasts. Did she behold the same voices as he or was there something more behind those fated whispers?

Oh the ways it gripped at his mind brought a jaw to clench in silent frustration. He wasn’t going to get anywhere fast. Not by wandering these streets so blindly and yet no else who walked them could ever be trusted. Attentions flickering over the faces which passed him by before returning to the ground just as swiftly. Not them. Never them. It is not until one seemingly taken by bindings of parchment catches his eye that paces begin to slow. Watchful of him for a moment, glued upon a being who did not give off an aura as vibrantly intimidating as the rest. At least not from a mere glance. There were no mutations to mar those soft - deceivingly gentle - features, those with peculiar constructs perched before his sight.

No horns nor wings, no protrusion of goring tusks to decorate a bestially maw; nothing to gouge or carve flesh made painfully obvious amidst the trappings of cloth and skin. He would have to do… it was just one simple question. How hard could it be? Very. Leslie already knew this too well but no matter the nerves which threatened to grip his throat, the terror that bid his steps to halt and turn back into the safety of the forest; those paces remained steady. Stopping only when he could clearly see the man without straining, eyes hesitant to turn up as instead of his face it was clear he looked past the man or toward the decorations of his coat.

A voice shaken, muffled, as it rose in hopes to snare the focus of this unknown, “Svaklar ui dout goawy di irisvir.” For surely that is where the woman lingered. Silence ticking uncomfortably by as the crow shifted in place, the glint of silver catching against the light as gloved digits fidgeted with the false talons of another. Action hardly ceasing before finally a nervous gaze dared to attempt meeting the unknown’s - even if only for a second before darting away again. Broken lyrics finally rising, a heavy accent twisting upon phrases spoken in a tongue common to these lands, “Where healer?” Where was Persephone what the crow truly wished to ask of him though there was no certainty that he even knew who she was. This man need not know why. Did not need to know of one’s undying curiosities nor the pangs which still echoed against seared flesh or how it jolted up a limb with the slightest misstep. How it flatered whenever weight lay upon it too suddenly… no, all he needed to know was enough to give way to answers

RE: little white lies - Feigndail - 09-06-2024

Death over Dunmeath! Brown eyes scoped over the pressed ink detailing the tragedy occurring in the contested fields of Dunmeath. A war-torn city that seemingly would never know peace. Divine reckoning, some claimed, called the thunder while others thought the lightning was summoned by the queen herself to chase away the vagrant rats from her lands. Land, mind you, formerly belonging to the Vufrien king. Would it be treasonous to say she held no rightful claim to it? Feindail Pierrat kept such sacrilegious postulations to himself.

He had grown quite fond of his neck - it would be a shame to lose it over such trivial things.

It will just come back in a different body. Such was their curse, the celestial brothers. Death would forever elude them so long as they were to fulfil their eternal duty of safeguarding the cosmic princess. Doomed to a cycle of reincarnation; death and rebirth.

There was more to it, of course. While the others forgot their previous life along with the princess and her guardians, it would seem Feindail would be cursed to remember them all. It was as if he’d been chosen as their eternal guide, to unite the brothers and protect their ward at all costs. Why? What would happen if they failed and the princess died? That answer has eluded him for thousands of years.

Or maybe he simply forgot.

Lean fingers soothed the pillar of his throat as Feigndail imagined the pain a noose would inflict. He’d never attended a public execution, the idea of it rather gruesome and barbaric, but the whispers he’d hear from those that had actually enjoyed such a savage practice… yes, he was indeed quite fond of his throat.

In lieu of formulating silent sedition, Feigndail closed the paper and warmed his throat with a cup of warmed tea, the steam curling around his nostrils offering the medicinal scent of mint and chamomile.

The handle was held firmly as a voice reached out to him, nearly startling him out of his skin. The hummingbird thrum in his chest quieted as he took in the masked figure and the foreign words he’d used. Confusion lined the professor's brow, piqued only after the stranger offered clarity in this world's common tongue.

“Where healer?”

It didn’t appear as if they were in dire need of medical attention, not at first glance at least. Perhaps they sought it out for another? Feigndail lowered his teacup to the saucer on the table and folded the paper he’d been reading beside it.

“There is a doctor two blocks over th-” He pointed in its general direction before taking notice of the way this stranger seemed to fidget and how a strange sort of magic crawled along his arm. Brows furrowed, gaze narrowing on the offending limb. “Come with me.”

Feigndail rose from the iron chair, a tragedy in its own right to abandon such a lovely tea, but he’d never been the type to turn down an opportunity to toy with magic. Not especially when it sought him out.

“When did your affliction start?” Feigndail questioned as he walked towards an unassuming complex of apartments.

RE: little white lies - Leslie - 09-09-2024

No matter how one did not wish to stare, never wanted to dare hint at challenge by holding focus upon another’s features for too long… he still wanted to see. To be aware of whatever this man may offer even if he were merely waved off without effort wasted upon words. Dismissal something Leslie had come to expect from strangers and those of the clan alike, it twas always a festering worry within the depths of his cerebrum and yet here pointed ears perked beneath snowy curls. Mixed gaze drawn to the - likely falsified - warmth of the man’s own eyes before briefly flickering after the gesture made.

It could be where Persephone hid and yet it wasn’t as if the crow would be able to glean understanding from any signage etched against dangling frames nor even those plastered over panes of glass. There also came the ideation that he would not even find the courage to intrude upon the business od devils even if the correct building could be found. Yet soon enough a new sense of unease snakes about his throat, those invisible fingers like a vice around his airways when the unknown’s voice cut off entirely.

This sudden silence swiftly coaxing sights back, bid them to dance and chase the stare which lingered roughly upon a marred limb’s coverings or perhaps even the flashes of silver as a hand nervously clutched for the draconic at his side. His seeming fascination brought muscles to tighten, spring loaded as if ready to bolt like some beast of prey all while ever so slowly the opposite hand inched toward the hilt of a blade. Only to fall short of actually grabbing it as the man stood and issued phrase Leslie had grown all too familiar with over his years.

Beneath a mask, lips parted in silent protest even as nothing more than a huff managed to escape him. Anything more died in the crow’s throat as once again focus dropped to the trappings of another’s coat. Each embellishment that may decorate the pockets or adorn his sleeves. No denial, no questions; all that remained was the lingering thought of heeding that simple utterance. Come with me. Those lyrics hinting at the option to follow rather than a command of doing such yet such phrases lay embed deep within his subconscious. Demands heard far too many times to count though always triggered the same reaction.

Freezing.

A body’s refusal to move, terrified of what drawing near may entail or what ignoring it would surely bring. Steps remained stalled, stuck in place until the near electric shock of Cricket’s touch nearly startled him out of his skin. Fixation rapidly snapped as eyes darted to the draconian nudging against him before their own steps trailed after the unknown, knowing full well that - if no one else - Leslie would follow them. Yet time was given for a decision to be made for the glimmering beast took full advantage of the man’s abandoned tea. Their muzzle diving haphazardly into the liquid all while glassware skittered dangerously close to the edge before prancing after the stranger, rounding about his side with a chittering chirp.

Leaving Leslie with a surge of panic, hardly caring to push a teetering glass back onto the table as he sought only to catch up with his companion. The young dragon’s paces redirecting to angle themself both behind and on the opposite side of the crow. Forcing him to walk nearer to the vampiric, to listen to whatever queries filled the air between them. Even if they were not fully understood there was enough to grasp at, to spark the curtness of his own tongues, “Si tepoha thric lekil. Thric chikohk di mior hefoc wux.” At least if the faint glow of that fabled gem spoke true. He was not as accursed as others who walked these lands.

Yet the residual sensation upon a seared limb begged to differ, a flare bringing a light tsk as fingers coiled with as much subtly as possible. Though softened tones lay muddled behind a mask, “Watrol wer draushum drexa jacioniv ithquantwim ifnitot batobot hofibahoaf shripomn... kagh astahii tepohada jacioniv amida for coi.” So what if she had attacked some of them? It was likely deserved, just as his death would have been for acting against her divine fury. With so many others presence, however, her fall was unavoidable; all one could do was offer the proper rights whenever privacy had been granted from that proclaimed healer.

At least one good thing had come of it as sights lingered to where Cricket pressed against his ribs, their neck ducking low to even reach and shove themself beneath an unmarked arm. Metallic talons rose to run over Cricket’s skull as, with a sigh, whatever scorn that had plagued his breath with a biting sharpness all but melted away. “Vi drong tairais sahri,” again tongues clicked as one wrestled the common language, always falling back to what was known for words still foreign, “Long time, when Cricket baby, when dask draushum die. That start.” Suspicion laced the narrowed gaze which turned up to the stranger then, “Why?” Why was he so interested when just moments before he had motioned in a different direction for these ‘doctors’, “You healer?” Doubtful.