!~A morbid fascination {{Air-Open}}<<

[zuki]

How flies the bird with the broken wings

{{Mockingbird}}

It seems her song rings all the sweeter for it

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~-~> Plains grasses shift and flit with zephyr's fragrant breath, whisp'ring and laughing the silvery laughs that such vegetation gives when agitated, chanting of what the wind told them and where it went next. Cielo's halycon gaze was faint overhead, blotted out by silverspun clouds drifting in as the winter snows, obscuring all traces of the deep cerulean hue in a dusting of iron colour. The hint of ice in the air grew stronger, sharp and cold scent that warned of impending rain, and thunder groaned lazily in the distance as the mist in the mountains high peaks began its decent to mingle and obscure the equines that wait, huddled beneath the canopy of sentinal pines, else run and prance to display themselves to potential suitors. Amongst it all, quiet vixen's soft, muted bodice moves slowly, as though drifting wherever whimsy may take fair maiden's wandering flints.

~-~> She shifts, turns, lifts proud facade to heavens above, then sighing returns to the earth's cold embrace with remorse. Memory escapes her; she has no recollection of similar situations - perhaps it is that she has never looked to be chained to a herd before? - yes, that would be correct. Her life of wandering comes to a close here. She seeks balance, sturdiness, the dependability that she herself cannot provide alone. Yet, her aim is not to blend into the masses that call each herd home but to learn from what they have yet to teach her. Too many empty promises had besieged trembling auds, and Mockingbird no longer looked to find what others had promised her in her birth herd. Power and the like were not of interest to her, so much as the knowledgethat others had to offer and the lessons that they could pass to her. Love had no place in her life, but for wishful thoughts, and she had long since given up the delusion that her path would cross with that of an inquisitive-minded brutus. Such was a fantasy that she could not be bothered to indulge in.

~-~> And the wait drew on, as halycon's faint illumination faded to the gloaming hours twixt notte and light, and she wove her winding path along, looking for nothing specific, but hoping that something specific might be looking for her, delicate little bird that she was, who held the power of the wind beneath her wings. She, who understood what could and could not be, but cared not in the least. Then, as the first pale drops of rain fluttered down, as though uncertain as to whether they wanted to fall or not, dark optice looked skyward in thought. Her element - the wind that tossed the waves at sea, that fed the fires, that displaced earth - it was weak but all-encompassing. And as nothing could keep air out, nothing could keep her hope from returning, time and time again. And she waited and hoped, a silvery shape in the twilight hours.

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[»starla]

But the river keeps runnin'
O T H E L L O;;
Don't even know that I'm around.

Evening was steadily creeping into the clock of life as the sun fell.Day fought,forever in battle with the upstaging Night as it crept in to take its post.The sun was slowly setting,casting a glare that made the seeing shy away from it as it made its last desperate and valiant effort to illuminate the fated Earth.Shades of orange,red,and pink rose above the disappearing ball as if they were a legacy of what used to be.The higher they rose into the arching sky,the more they faded away into a deep hue of blue that darkened on the descent.Clouds hung in the sky,colored in confusing patterns as night and day fought once more.The dying orange glow could be seen in odd places,such as on the underside of a quivering leaf,or in a streak of gold across the dampening ground.Cautiously,the heavens released calm drops of cool liquid to grace the terrain.Traveling with them was relief,in the form of translucent drops.They would touch the foliage and animals and they would be welcomed in the heated evening,for even though the sun was disappearing,its warmth,however,was not.This was the setting for this chapter in Othello's life as he once more made his appearance in the lands of claiming.

A striking contrast to the darkening scenery the patriarch was as he stepped forth from out of the shadows of towering trees,their branches thick with hearty leaves.His pale skin no longer needed to be looked after as the flaming ball dipped away below the horizon,the threat of miserable sunburn gone.It was this time of day that the hellion cherished,and it visibly showed 'pon his regal features.
Pale blue oracles did not dawdle in finding a lone femme,although pillars did not carry the stallion so quickly.It would not help to go charging towards a wary dove,and Othello was not desperate.He was confident in his abilities to charm ladies,but in a way that showed respect and also gained it.He did not gloat nor prance,for he was a simple and humble czar.

Within due time the brute stood before the lady,giving her space enough to where she was not threatened by his existence.Harks lolled;whipcord swished lazily to erase the pestering,but diminishing number of flies from his chassis.A dip of his skull for the femme before his velvet labrums parted to release deep harmonic baritones.
Hello there miss.I'm Othello of the Air Kingdom.Might I be graced with your calling?
Dial shifted slightly,clearing his vision of lengthy strands of talc.He quietly observed the harlot while awaiting response.She seemed distraught.Her scent was new to Othello's nares.Perhaps she was only weary of her travels and sought a face she could someday call familiar and kind.

words;; 542
muse;; eh,the length's good,but its not my best quality wise
mood;; cordial and patient;lazy with the heat of the day
notes;; i luff mockingbird : D she seems so complex ^-^

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[zuki]

How flies the bird with the broken wings

{{Mockingbird}}

It seems her song rings all the sweeter for it

[/center]


~-~> Pricked auds mark the direction of gentle baritone's hark, the sound of which instilled both confidence and, for a tremulous instant, cold shivers of panic that were deftly hidden. Faltering, as though losing the earth on which she so tremulously stood, the vix pauses momentarily in her destinationless pacing and turns lightly to face he who had spoken. Wary optice gaze at the stag who had commanded her attention, taking note of the tzar's serene and carefree demeanor and at the same time taking comfort in it, before a response gathers in her crown.

~-~> Cranium bobs tentatively as the femme parts maw to speak; quiet bell chimes out in a faltering soprano, You may call me Mockingbird. She pauses again, maw tipping into ever so slight a frown, wondering what to say next, what to inquire. Situations as such required, as vix was finding, a personality rather more forceful than her own, for she was finding the constraints that such required to be rather uncomfortable - the potential for disastrous events hovered round pricked auds likean overlarge avian. Nagging sensations twinged each nerve with a fervor, and femme switched gently from one side's dark flints to the other, mist-hued banner twitching to and fro as though emulating pendulum's arcing course. Thoughts flit through delicate cranium - what doubts will soon make themselves known - and the panic rose once more like dark bile in fae's arched boa to consume rational and logical thought for a fleeting moment.

~-~> Dark maw opens once more, half-formed thought tumbling out in hopes to spark what conversation there may be. Again faltering soprano chimes out, softer in volume than before, as though a pupil before a master - The Air Element is mine as well, or so I am led to believe... but pray tell me this - what marks do call it their home terra, Lord Othello? Jet lodes peer wonderingly, not meaning disrespect, but rather seeking a response that they desire. She would not tell him the state of her 'wings' as so far, as she so described the few elemental powers bestowed upon her, yet mind's wanderings bring beck memories unbidden and vix finds herself wandering through dark realms of nostalgia as stag's response remains forthcoming.

<~-~//Thin wisps of pillars disappear through twining tendrils of foliage, tierra raising up below in earthy sprays below young fawnling's splayed flints. Young Mockingbird at play with the zephyrs that crossed her path, she can speak to them, but they can choose whether or not to obey. Not a master, merely a mage.

482 words, she's a bit panicky I noticed. I'll need to turn that down a notch for the next post.
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[»starla]

But the river keeps runnin'
O T H E L L O;;
Don't even know that I'm around.

The gentle swaying motion in which the yellowed stalks of the field danced caught the brute's attention.The responded to the wind with enviable humbleness,never doubting their safety nor well being at what might become of one of them should the wind blow too hard.Zephyrs blew all around,in fact,making the wide expansive range feel like home to the brute as his long cremello locks became tangled in the breeze,drifting about as the wind carried them.There was hardly a single tree to shield them from the gentle battering as tendrils of air wrapped themselves around objects,releasing them with a sigh.Pale oracles caught these scenes,trained for the purpose.Air bending required and insight and a passion for what could be an angel's touch or the devil's sneeze.Othello controlled it all,although sometimes nature did in fact do it better.

The dappled femoral was brought back into the hessian's attentive gaze as she shifted about,nervous of the stallion that suddenly appeared to greet her.Perhaps the stag did not know,for what inklings could there be to the untrained eye of a stranger.Othello did not know the mare,nor did he know of her ways and habits.Therefore surprised was he to find that he had inflicted such a state upon the harlot without meaning to.Without portent of her emotions,the steed was left silent,though patiently so.It was clear he had had dealings with her kind before,and quietly waited for her response.
It came in a wavering voice,not a trait of a mockingbird.They were obnoxious and crude,and clearly the femme was not.She spoke once more in a somewhat desperate attempt to keep words in the air.Silence could be awkward,and the patron did not wish for it either.
Pleasure to meet you then,Mockingbird.
Talc cranium was lowered southward in an attempt to repay her for the startle he had apparently caused.
Are the signs of a bender not verily convincing?
Gentle curiosity was present,as the fae did not seem readily confident in her her abilities to the King.His concern on this matter was merely cordial,for he did move great distances at great speeds.This mare would not have it,nor,would he do such a thing as implore her of such things when they were but mere acquaintances.Her questioning was perhaps only uttered to swat the silence away once more as if it were a fly,and Othello did not hesitate to give her a reply.
The face of the Mountain does not look upon one equine,although numbers are weak there,as the Valley has not been in public eye for long.My queen and our son reside with me also,with more mares to come.
Indeed,Othello had been busy meeting new elementals,and had enjoyed learning of their past.A few Air mares had heard his name and met the brute,and perhaps they would come to live with his small family at the Mountain also.

words;; 572
muse;; eh..pretty good i suppose =)
mood;; still cordial and apologetic in actions and thoughts;
notes;; sorry about the wait.like i said muse doesn't flow readily with him,for some reason.i have to store it,then force it to come out xD

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[zuki]

How flies the bird with the broken wings

{{Mockingbird}}

It seems her song rings all the sweeter for it

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Working on this currently


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