Character OTS


Björn & Lirr

Couple OTS

Open Lambs and broken seals


Ezariel & a l a y a y a

“Do you remember the story about the four horses and the end of the world?” Her voice was bored, listless and seeking with desperate hope for some distraction. The blue eyes, often so beguiling and overwhelmingly clairvoyant, looked up at him with all the pathetic power of a child unamused. Ezariel, long ensorcelled by the sweet naivety of her charm, sets aside his own thoughts and responds, with an indulgently rich eloquence of tone; “You mean the four horsemen of the apocalypse?” It was early; and drab. The fall had brought with it a profusion of days without sun, in which the golden filly lapsed and seemed to lose life. The overhanging gray diffused light and cast it achromatically about the earth, banishing shadow but degrading the limited palette of mountains in fall.

“Yes. Which one was the black one?”

“The black horse is famine, and he brings pestilence and hunger.”

“What was the red one, then?” They walked together; she a little before him, up the slope of a moderate hill between endless pillars of evergreen, both wearied of the biting wind the fall brought to less sheltered places.

“War, of course. The blood-coloured horse brought on his back a creature with the power to take peace from the earth and to make living things slay each other.” Ezariel had a lengthy stride, uninhibited by roots and the occasional sentry stone; the child who meandered before him moved at a much quicker trot to keep pace, leaping and charging through the spaces between trunks. Her flaxen skin shone against the simplicity of the red wood and the green leaves, metallic and soft at once, but Ezariel’s bay-bronze hide was made ever darker. His eyes followed her, the storm of his clouded iris for the moment subsided as it trailed after the golden chimera, who even in listlessness was graceful and content, unafraid and incomprehensibly independent of him.

“Which one comes first?”

“Conquest comes first. He wears a crown and desires to conquer the living.” There was a little pause in the flow of the conversation, as Alayaya navigated her way back onto the path, having clambered up an outcrop of grey piled stones. They had nearly crested the hill, and the golden filly, turning back to their former path, caught sight of Evette some ten feet from them on the downward slope. Her eyes, those limitless blue eyes, were arrested on the mare, and her little features were sculpted in the serenest of apathies.

“What about the pale horse?” She asked, and the softness of her voice, the distraction in her tone, alerted Ezariel also to the presence of another. As he stepped over the highest point on the ridge he too caught sight of the horned mare. After a delay of a few seconds, which Alayaya failed to notice, for she was no longer attentive to the voice of her guardian, he responded softly; “Death.”

He came to a stop, just behind a smiling Alayaya, who had flowed downhill and stood before this stranger dressed in wordless compassion and stainless virtue. The blue eyes, depthless but shining with an unpronounced emotion, trained unabashed on the sculpted, corrupted face. He was less composed, less impressive, less beautiful than she, who had no meaning and no future, no past and only whim, only fortune, only faith. He was scarred, subdued, and charged with wit in the calm attention of his eyes, so used to being relegated to the shadow, to silence and secrecy. But it was he who spoke (Alayaya, whose soul needed no words, whose heart was loud and clarion in the fugue of thought to which we fall inevitably victim, had said nothing). “Good afternoon, stranger,” His words were cautious but pleasant – careful not to break in abruptly on her solitude, unlike the bearing and attitude of the filly who preceded him. He kept his gaze in well-practiced check. It did not stray to the unusual (and nearly complete) floral covering of her body, nor linger on the faded charm of her locks, colored like gold that was forgotten and coated in dust. As though starched, his features resisted reactionary emotion, and rested comfortably in an aspect of pleasantly interested. Gently, self-assuredly, his crown fell and his forelock swept before his gray eyes (storming once again, their calm dispelled). The formality and civility of him were ages old, inbred and perfectly sincere, this was the place he knew, and he played his modest part to its fullest.

“Allow me to introduce the child Alayaya,” the filly seemed deaf to the voice of her companion, for she continued to watch without expression, silent and ebullient, “and myself, I am called Ezariel.”

power-play allowed, with all reasonableness
Tag: @[Ezariel]



i broke my own heart loving you

Marigolds, violets, and cock's comb had displaced the absence betwixt her ribs. They were not of her own growth, but plucked and primped from the acres of content she'd already traversed. When she'd unknowingly found herself here, trapped forever by some arcanum she couldn't comprehend, she had not only been stripped of her one talent but also her security blanket. If life after death wasn't already a curse to bare for the eternity she faced, feeling naked before the eyes of ones peers was even more haunting... If she couldn't hide her touch of death behind aromatic flowers, what point was there to carry on?

Disheartened Evette stood at the precipice of a long beaten dirt path. Toeing the edge with her dirtied hooves she spied the remaining bed of marigolds with a dullness that was unaccustomed to her cerulean vision. Her lungs drew in a long, unnecessary, and fruitless inhalation of perfume air before letting the sigh slip back twixt her nostrils. Perhaps it was embarrassment that drove her to linger so closely to this patch. Her own stench wasn't lost on her, and when she'd taken that deep breath her own skin pimpled when the putrid rot tickled her senses. Instinctively she took a step deeper into the bed, submerging her fetlocks into the soft, silken petals of the bright orange flowers as if drawing a physical blanket over herself.

Time ticked by, and with it the remaining life in the bouquets she'd picked in attempts to hide her ribs. Her gaunt face stared endlessly into a void beyond the bright patch of citrine and would have remained there for an undetermined amount of time had she not heard voices. Evette jolted at the greeting. So engrossed in her own self pity she had missed them approaching entirely, or the story that had prefaced it. Vibrant cerulean orbs flashed over to two strangers standing back on the inclined path. The first was a deep bay stallion with smokey eyes. He wore a gentleman's mantle and spoke with words that confirmed such. Besides him, a ghost-like image of her former self. Golds spun from sunlight and soft gentle locks of creme colored the image of the filly who stood wordless next to the male. It was like looking into a mirror that showed ones past. Inside, a vice grip tightened around Evette's throat and she felt suddenly weak in the knees. Upon close inspection, one may even have spied them shake.

But she didn't fall, but remained rigid before them with wide, doe-like eyes. A pregnant pause fell after his cordial introduction as she stared into Ezariel's face pointedly. Never did his vision waver from her own, never did they fall to the protruding bones of her head or sides, not once. He all but ignored what had made her a monster. Finally she forced whatever lump was lodged in her throat down, and she offered a clipped nod of her head so that polluted cream threads fell across her face. "Hello," she murmured back, far quieter than she had intended. But the jarring realization she was staring into a life she'd left behind her (normal equines, untouched by what her kind had once called "devil's work") staggered her more intensely than she had previously thought. She cleared her throat, lips twitching as her self consciousness clawed at her back. "I'm Evette," she finally offered, gaze snapping back to him not unlike prey ready to flee an oncoming predator despite the rigidity of her spine.

TAGGED: Ezariel and Alayaya
WC: 588
MUSE: 3.5/5
OOC: she got clammy p:

Tag: @[Evette]