Under Moon and Star

Stories and accounts of Atvir Leafshadow. (Atvir - Moon Guard, unsubscribed) Icon by @Karrah_E! See my pinned post.

[the-throwing-bones]

Begets Softness

Side by side, Rhiannon and her teacher sat at the base of an ever-autumnal tree with their backs pressed to the trunk. She was small then, maybe thirteen or fourteen. She was freckled and fawn, red at the cheeks from exertion and sunlight. A wild fluff of red hair all but swallowed the girl within it. Her teacher, Master Aspenbreeze, was more austere, with hawkish grey eyes and hair cropped perfectly at her chin. She buried her thumbs deep into the center of an orange, splitting it in twain down the middle. 

The forest was quiet around them, the world falling into sacred silence save the soft song of breeze through the leaves. The forest floor shimmered, sunlight dappling through the canopy. It smelled like orange juice and leaf rot. It had been a fine- but arduous -morning time. The sort that draws the energy from your bones before noon even approaches.

"You're struggling with that," Aspenbreeze said. Orange juice dribbled down her russet palm until she wiped it onto her shirt, and she handed the messy half to Rhiannon to peel apart. 

"I am," Rhiannon replied. She picked a seed from the flesh of her orange and peeled that slice from the rest to set on her tongue. A dull soreness in her shoulders demanded her attention, and the girl rolled them against the tree's bark with a muffled groan.

"Peregrine is helping, isn't she?" Aspenbreeze's ensuing smile was dry and knowing, barely concealed by a bite of her orange. Rhiannon balked, eyes wide and lips parted in scorn, umbrage, or perhaps the bastard of both. Peregrine was the oldest of the Thornspeaker children. She was seventeen, yet the gods had graced her with the knowledge of someone several thousand times that. Everyone remembered when she was named something different, but it didn't matter anymore, for Peregrine was as fitting for her as her own skin was.

"No! Why would she help? She's too busy telling me what I did wrong."

"Ah," Aspenbreeze answered. "So... What did she say?"

"That I jump like a lame goose and fly like I'm looking for a nice rock face to crash into."

Laughter. Immediate laughter broke free of Aspenbreeze despite how she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Her shoulders shook and her back hunched. All Rhiannon could do was watch. Heat spread across the girl's face to the very tips of her ears, and her shoulders slumped.

"It's not funny, it was mean!" Rhiannon protested. She sulked in her place, orange still nestled in her cupped hand. Aspenbreeze straightened, clearing her throat and doing her best to still the ripplings of laughter that stirred in her voice. She turned her gaze to her charge and pressed her head against the bark.

"Forgive me. Why do you think Peregrine would do that?"

The girl took a big breath. To buy herself time, to work up her courage. "She just!" she started. "She just thinks she's so much better and smarter just because she's older. But she's not. She's just mean!"

"Or," Aspenbreeze began. "Because she knows better than you."

That quieted Rhiannon quite thoroughly. The girl shoved another whole slice of her orange into her mouth and averted her eyes.

"Peregrine's words were harsh, of course. She's got a tongue made of points and edges. But she made time to help you, didn't she? And she brought you ice when you landed because your shoulders were sore from your form. She practiced with you all morning until you were doing it safely. And she did not have to. If she delighted in being mean, she would've watched you flounder. She would've done nothing." A beat passed. A breath. The trees had time to sway just once. "Her words are sharp, but if she hates you so much, why are her actions soft?"

"Some people are just mean, Mama."

"Some people are. But Peregrine isn't one of them."

The juice ran down Rhiannon's palm.

 Suddenly, she was twenty-six, and the world no longer smelled like leaf rot and oranges. It smelled of the crispness of the mountain air, copper, and brimstone. It was the middle of the night, with all the stars in the sky hiding behind the clouds above the craggy, unforgiving slope. Ezenagi's cave loomed, far to Rhiannon's right. Yawning and shadowy, like a gaping maw ready to devour trespassers between stalactite teeth. 

He'd set her up a little white tent, bare of frills or comforts. A bedroll upon the stones was all he'd afforded her, though it was clearly out of ignorance rather than malice. For as bare as the tent was on the inside, his home had been barer still. Money, more than Rhiannon could imagine ever having or needing, piled up in the middle of the cave... And nothing more. 

"I'm a good skinner," she'd told him. "I could get you something soft to sleep on."

He'd scoffed, as was his way. He was thirty years old yet blessed with the knowledge of thousands of years more. Dragons don't need beds, and the Blade's Edge was so much hotter anyway, and it was more comfortable than that. And, and, and. 

And he didn't need her help.

And he wasn't her friend.

And he hovered at her side when they were in group company. It would've been quite offensive to point this out, of course. 

And he'd set up the tent outside with hands too small for his preference, doing work that was frustrating at its most favorable, to set up a tent so that someone he was not friends with could rest paces from the cave where he slept.

And he demanded she aid him in finding somewhere new in Gilneas. It was a venture, he'd said- just business, after all. There'd be time to relax once the work was done, a foothold established, and allies made. He'd never ask, of course. It was a demand.

And there'd be sleep to be had when she was done filling the tent with things he'd forgotten. So Rhiannon brought water, warmth, and a book to read by spell light. She only needed enough for the night. It'd be rude not to stay in the accommodations offered, even if she only stayed for tonight. And then every now and again.

She'd brought her pelts, collected over the years. Bears, beavers, wolves. Warm creatures who had served her well. More than she needed, for a small tent like this... She looked from her work to the cave's mouth. Nothing had stirred. That was good. 

Rhiannon bundled the skins up. Her hands sunk into the fur, hugging the soft pile close to her frame as she stood. The slope was steep, the ground was loose, and she skidded sideways every few steps she took. But she made it to the cave's edge.

There was no sound. For a moment, she thought differently about leaving the skins. He'd said he was fine, after all.

If he was upset by it, he'd just give them back. Surely. And they'd never mention it ever again. And she'd wear the pelts in the Gilnean winter and they'd keep her warm for years more. No harm, no foul. 

Rhiannon dropped her burden upon the stone floor. The ensuing FWUMP echoed back at her, just quietly, and she froze. Her heart jumped in her chest as if she was sixteen and being caught in an act of petty rebellion. But there was naught but quiet, and the sound of her blood rushing in her ears.

Rhiannon turned, and she ran back to the tent.

[dagasii]

Effigy

The buck lifted his head in response to the sound that echoed through the dawn that winter day. He had nothing to fear, being fleet-footed and strong as he was. His antlers spread wide and proud from the crown of his head, like fingers grabbing for the cold gray sky. Watchful and alert, his muscles coiled taut beneath his thick tawny fur— Like a bowstring drawn back, waiting to be released. He watched. He saw nothing. But in that moment, in the lull where he slowly began to find himself at ease, the glade rippled with emerald. Frightened, the creature abandoned the tree he had stripped partially bare of bark, and his cloven feet pounded against packed snow as he fled.

There was silence, and a fresh, lone figure lay face-down in the snow. Its arms and legs bent in strange, cramp-inducing positions. Hair like burnt umber began to capture snowflakes in its thick curls. But it didn’t move. For hours, the figure stayed there as the overnight snow melted with the rising noon. It stayed there as the sun gave way to the indigo cast of twilight. And it stayed as the stars rose high above its prone figure.

The coyote sauntered into the clearing, appraising the scavenge with the detachment of a creature who couldn’t know any better. There is no morality in survival, and dead meat is dead meat, no matter what it once used to be. There is no morality in nature. He inched closer, padding along the dead grass and frozen ground to inspect his find, only to discover that its shoulders still rose and fell with life. It let out a groan, and its long limbs began to drag along the forest floor, sliding on slick and rotted leaves. Frightened, the creature abandoned his easy meal, turning rapidly and galloping into the treeline just as the figure pulled itself up on its hands and knees.

Its chest heaved with effort, staring at the ground as its vision swam. Colors sparked and flashed on the edge of sight as bile rose in its throat. Dark, damp hair draped over its face, concealing it from the watchful gaze of the moonlight that shone down upon it. Rising with a puff of breath, which plumed into the evening air like smoke, the creature sat back on its haunches, and lifted a three-fingered hand to rake back its matted, tangled hair.

The woman peered into the dark with widened green eyes, waiting for the shadows to shift, or to hear someone calling her name. But all she heard was the singsong of silence, taunting her in mockingbird fashion. All alone. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a quiet rasp tore its way out of her throat. She coughed and patted her chest with her good hand, then tried once more. Her voice rang clear now, albeit tremulous.

“Atvir?” she asked softly. But there was no reply. The moon, the goddess, was as unmoving and unfeeling as all divinity was, and there is no mercy in the shining face of one who looms above the earth, nor in the voice of one who lies beneath the depths. You could count on goddesses to deliver you no more than you could count on your own two hands.

Amelia rose to her feet, wobbling and staggering like a newborn foal. Again, she cried.

“Atvir!”

But there was no reply.

----------------------------

It was too loud, here. The sun was too bright. It was too different. What she had thought to be weeks had stretched much longer, and now things were so… Off. The world had moved on, leaving Amelia behind. She found, in white bricks and shop signs, fleeting reminders of what once was. Shadows of the home she had once held. With her apartment rented out to someone else, and her brother and cat mysteriously unavailable, Amelia held faint hope that at the least, she could go to the office.

She rounded the corner from the Cathedral district, looking up at the bridge above the canals as her gut churned in futile hope. The stone shimmered brightly in the sun, flecked with mica and dusted with glittering snow. But there was no figure upon its railing, only a little girl, staring at Amelia as they passed each other. The girl flashed a toothy smile, puffing her chest out proudly. A single tooth was missing from her grin, Amelia noticed as she smiled in turn, that the girl's gait sped into a jovial skip, and she went right on past.

Amelia took the left into the tunnel outside the Dwarven District, then hung the sharp right into the street. Anxiety rising in her throat, the woman took each step as if approaching her own execution. What would she say? How could she properly beg forgiveness for being gone for so long? She could plead for her job back, fling herself at the feet of whoever they had manning the door, but when someone she knew came forward to see her, how could she ever make up for abandonment? She returned empty-handed, with no Atvir by her side. Little horns sprouted from the crown of her head, poking up from beneath her hair. She’d lost weight, but gained muscle, and was more wiry and lean than before. Her face had thinned, been scarred by the endless misadventures of the Dream. She looked so different, and yet, had nothing to show for it.

Amelia paused as she neared the left turn to the office. Hesitating there, where she couldn’t see the outcome. Maybe it was better like this, if she didn’t know. If she didn’t present herself. Maybe things would be better. Maybe she’d find her friends in a seedy bar in Old Town, mid-barfight, and she’d simply join in.

That was stupid.

Amelia sighed, rolling her shoulders back as she strode around the corner.

It was gone. All gone. Replaced by something new entirely. The building, indeed, looked nothing like how it used to, barely a shadow of its former self. Time had marched forward, and left Amelia frozen in a fantasy where everyone had waited for her. Where no one had anything better to do than stay exactly where she’d left them. But that wasn’t how it had worked. The only one lost in time was Amelia.

Her shoes crunched on the glimmering snow as she approached the building. Stopping at the stoop, raising her fist. Amelia wasn’t sure whose name to call, when her knuckles rapped on the door. They tangled in her mouth like a dead language, fighting for clarity in the way only something long-forgotten could. Finally, she whispered.

“Laneval?”

There was no answer.

Amelia hung her head on her way to the bridge. Staring down at her boots, jamming her hands into her pockets. The trek back seemed so much longer this way, than before. She lay in a grave of her own making, pitying herself for the way she had left herself with nothing. Maybe if she’d stayed…

When Amelia returned to the bridge, she found it pleasantly the same as it was a few moments ago, unchanged in her momentary abandonment. With nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do, Amelia clambered up onto the side and sat. Her long legs dangled over the edge, kicking at the stones with her heels. All alone.

With a sigh, Amelia pulled her cigarette case from her pocket, staring out resignedly at the canal’s waters. A spark of magelight saw the cigarette lit, curling sweet smoke into the air as she raised it to her lips. She sat, and she smoked on the bridge’s edge, not so different from the times she and her friend had done the same a few years ago.

But now, she did it alone, standing in silent vigil in the hopes that one day, one of the faces on the bridge would be familiar.

[dagasii]

27

The growth of her hair suggested it was near her birthday. Half an inch every month, cascading now around her shoulders. There was no night or day in the realm of dreams, and so this was the closest she could come to a calendar. Long ago had Amelia found exactly what she had sought in this realm. Or perhaps it wasn’t so long ago. Time existed in the abstract, each hour suspended in its middle, all at once and not at all. She slept when she wished. She ate when she wished. She lived as she wished.

And around this time, she concluded, she wished to celebrate her birthday.

Amelia’s body had thinned and hardened with time. Excess fat replaced with compact muscle. Meant less for spurts of lifting, like her physique had once been, and meant more now for endurance. The walking of a thousand miles and more had taken the luxury of recreational athleticism from her. She laid, curled into a small ball in the center of the bed, with blankets draped across her bare shoulders. Tanned skin had been littered with scars. From claws, from bramble, from reaching thorns that seemed to grab like bony fingers from those spots where the Nightmare reigned.

Only she actually needed the bed. Her companion was here only in the spiritual. He needed no food, no sleep, no water. It was Amelia tasked with the burden of surviving, and Atvir who helped dutifully. Otherwise, the druid experimented. What could his mind make in this realm? Where could his growing strengths take him, when the physical was no longer a boundary? He devoured knowledge eagerly, with a twinkle in his eye and purple cheeks lifting into a smile as he looked to Amelia, who watched when she was able. And every day they thought struck her:

This is what she had come here for.

Keep reading

[foxglovethings]

Ceramic queen Sam for @kegs-and-pots <3

[atviera]

Archive

Beneath the bleeding sun’s waning, a lone azure spectre wanders the edge of the desert. The mass slowly trods its way westward with intent unknown even to himself.

The Viera is enveloped by a large blue banner, leaving naught exposed but his two ears through precisely cut holes at the top. Perhaps at one time it was used to articulate the glory of Dalmasca, both banner and kingdom now a shell of its former self. The sun’s kiss upon his fur carries a sense of mild discomfort, an unusual feeling for one who thrived in the cold embrace of the Skatay Range.

Even with ignorance of the desiccated lands, his survival techniques proved more than fruitful thus far. Thoughts may have poured in about the duration of his sojourn, but Althyk, a deity anonymous to him at the time, granted his kin both blessing and curse of a longer lifespan. His lonely mind had better things to worry about, contemplation of the passage of existence would be utterly pointless, purposeless.

The Viera came to a complete halt, boots beginning to sink briefly into the sands. He let out a sigh that preceded rummaging for something at his midsection. Gauntleted hands parted the sapphire curtain, exposing pallid fingers with a sun-baked waterskin made of some tanned hide, and his fingers pinched the cap to unscrew. As the contents were ready to consume, he fixed his gaze to his surroundings. Seeing nothing and no one in his periphery, his hand raised towards his mask, disrupting the hollow, black eyes of his countenance.

The raised mask exposed a set of cracked lips, followed by him taking a considerable swig of water. Even with an inordinate duration in the sun’s gaze, the water tasted rather adequate, and he had no excuse to complain for the blessing of it altogether. As he set the mask back into place and returned the waterskin to his belt, a small amount of clinking chimed near his back, unfurling a glass jar with a thick cork cap, removing it with a satisfying “thwip”.

The wanderer lowered himself into a squat as the cloak crumpled to follow his motions. Arm extended to scoop a considerable sample of sand into the jar. The Viera presented a thin stone and scribed “Dalmascan Sands” onto the label, then returned the implement and container to the obfuscated supplies he carried. The mysterious gaze set upon the sands beneath him as he reached down to take a handful, elevating it towards his face. Grain by grain, the sand bled through the gaps between his fingers as an exhale echoed beneath his mask. Minutes passed as he looked forward, fist clenched and clasping nothing. A gentle breeze caressed his back and the wind whispered a portent.

He sprung up with due haste, knees slightly locked as the deserts began to wail. The winds billowed against both cloak and sand which began to create a whirling dervish. The Viera raised his right hand towards the heavens calling upon the elemental earth.

Three pillars of sand erupted around him, twisting in shape to coil around himself, followed by a binding of the grains to create a barrier of earth against the rising storm. He clenched the hand into a fist to concentrate the drawn aether from the spell. The Viera took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

As he opened his eyes, the shell remained intact. A still silence filled the air, the desert walker flicked his wrist, sands parting and blasting away from his figure with a gust of wind. His gaze turned slightly downward, slowly altering his path upon the transformed dunes, and meandered several yalms only to be interrupted by a glint upon the reddened sands.

The light cast a bluish hue upon his eyes and the conjuror approached it paced strides, sand displacing as he trotted towards the source. The cloaked Viera lowered himself once more. Upon closer inspection, the object jutted out with a point, cast in a shade of a steel-grey and engraved with bright blue, geometric etchings. He set his palm on the sands to the left of the mysterious object and brushed aside the ground, exposing the object further. The item was further laid bare, and the point would very easily be perceived as a corner. The conjuror took a deep breath and carefully plucked the piece reaching out of the earth.

The object presented itself as a structurally intact cube, composed of the grey plating and blue etching he initially had viewed. At the center of each side on the surface was a white circle, the point of origin where the engravings elongated from. Hesitation weighed upon the Viera for the first time in what likely was decades. His finger warily hovered over the centerpiece as he let out a long sigh.

The wanderer then pressed down upon the circle, emitting a click.

The etchings illuminated with a very faint glow, followed by a subtle whirr, quiet enough to be a whisper. The cube hovered about a fulm above his palm as the corners ejected from the button, exposing a near-white sphere with a dying light. A distorted tone emitted from the core which the Viera interpreted as the device turning on.

The core then spoke in foreign tongue with feminine voice, echoing in various pitches and volumes.

“W-w-w-WELCOME. KnowLEDGE unit ey-see-ex-oh-jee-you, VARiant nineteen DASH oh five dash eighteen DAsh fifteen is ONLINE. It has BEEN Seven. Thousand. Four. Hundred. FIFTY. Two. DAYS since this unit was last active. This UNIT may require an u-u-u-up-DATE.”

“BIO scan marks you as UNKNOWN. In-in-initiating NOVITIATE s-s-sequence. GreetINGS, novitiate, what can I-I-I HELP you with?”

Ignorant of the language being spoken, the Viera says nothing. After a pause, the device flashes a brief light.

“NOVITIATE, p-p-PLEASE provide a QUERY.” Nothing. “There has been ZERO. InPUT. This unit is now SHUTTING down. G-g-g-GLORY to the EMPIRE.”

The corners return to their places upon the sphere, making the cube whole. The conjuror looks down at the device and stands still.

After what feels like an eternity, the Viera nods, clutches the cube, and stows it away in his bag.

Beneath the bleeding sun’s waning, a lone azure spectre wanders the edge of the desert. The mass slowly trods its way westward with two mementos from his journey.

[atvir]

Have a blog for my FFXIV variant of Atvir that I will be posting writings/art on, if anyone is interested!

[atvir]

The Edge of Thought, 3 - The first Brushstroke

Cast upon the waterless sea in a myriad of Emerald, Atvir was in no discernable location, though the reassurance of being in the Dream did swell the Kaldorei with some pride.

Apprehension was a feeling that did not provide a helping hand in prior endeavors, would not serve him now, and therefore he purged the dream-self of all ideas of uncertainty.

Ruminations of escape did linger upon the mind, as he did make a promise to someone, but how would he be able to track the time spent without being able to prepare?

Verily it would do him no good, but where was the ancient dreamer, voiced-guide in the flesh-labyrinth, a hollow echo of advice that would prove useful to berate his learnings of yore?

Eyes set upon his periphery, all the druid was able to perceive were a nigh infinite series of rolling hills, the occasional exposed tree hovering atop the ground with roots laid bare.

Time was meaningless to perceive, and thus, Leafshadow began to set himself to work - he was utterly lost, had no known method of awakening, but how would he even know where to begin?

He took a deep breath.

Eyes were now shut.

Hope and reassurance were welcoming thoughts to carry, but what he needed more than anything at this point was the sole thing he sought on this journey - knowledge.

Empty was the wellspring of understanding when making comparisons to those who came before, so why was she not speaking to him when he could use something?

Another trial set before him, perhaps...was this even the Dream, or a mere illusion?

Regardless, trial or truth, what mattered was coming to an understanding of what was presented before him, even if nothing could be drawn from his perception.

The words of his first encounter with her came back to him - “intent, inspiration, understanding”.

Thus, he took the Beginning of each the Musings upon this current Memory. A hand raised towards the Temple, gently tugging upon the strands of the mind, weaving bounteous threads of green-white-blues that clung to the tips of each finger.

The Kaldorei focused upon the threads, extending his Intent further as the strands followed each finger while the hand departed away from the head.

Atvir opened his eyes as the Edge of Thought was formed. The Blade of Office, a luminous dagger of his own volition, was conjured within the very hand that built the foundations of such a thing.

He gazed upon the starless heavens, witnessing the ever-shifting watercolor of hues, and silently uttered the words he spoke before.

“This is a dream, and I am a dreamer.”

“I am the architect of my whims, I will master the waters of Ysera and Freya’s realm.”

“Nothing is absolute, and time heals all things. But what is time in a realm that does not adhere to it?”

“I am Atvir Leafshadow and I will impart my intent with time innumerable.”

“This is the Dream and I am the Dreamer.”

A preternatural calm took over the druid as he raised the blade above him. The Kaldorei tightly clutched the transparent handle as his knuckles began to take on a lighter shade.

The blade met the heart, effortlessly cutting through the form.

There was no pain, however. He set to work on the opening. As a perfect square was cut where a wound should be, the chest-door unlatching to reveal the contents within. The Kaldorei shut his eyes as a black orb floated just beyond his chest.

The heart-door slammed shut and the carving sealed. The orb erupted in a viridian flame. The blade dissipated in his hand, and with a flick of the wrist, the orb floated away from him slightly.

Now he and the Dream shared a greater connection than ever before. The Kaldorei smiled and set himself to work.

[atvir]

The final commission for Atvir (for now), a portrait by WARLOCKRY_!

I love the armor detailing on this!

[strawberdii]

A’berdi Stahl by Aveny11 on Twitter

[atvir]

Another commission has been done for Atvir, this time by Ryumo (twitter, ArtStation)!

I absolutely love the colors of this.

[atvir]

The Edge of Thought, 2 - Alone

Atvir Leafshadow was enveloped in infinite blindness. If vision was what he sought, he would find no solace where he was located. He examined his faculties and found naught but void. Rumbling stirred around him. The choir of silence echoed throughout, the only thing he could do was feel.

The rumbling intensified further as vibrations resonated around his figure, and before he was capable of assessing the situation, he slipped, falling upon the ground he stood on mere moments ago. His hands made contact with the flooring only to recoil to the sensation of something wet and flesh-like in consistency. The Kaldorei let out a cry in reaction...but nothing was echoed. The silence was far too loud.

He knew not where he was, and the concept of that instilled great terror in him. The walls of the flesh-labyrinth vibrated again, rattling with inconsistent pattern. Trepidation cast aside, and the resonance chimed once more, shaking the floor underneath him. At the very least, the druid knew that he was in a cavern of sorts based on assessments of the echoes - beyond that was an unknown.

The cavern’s song played once more, the tones ever continuous as they were before. The uncertainty and panic he felt upon his arrival was slowly being taken over by one he could not resist - curiosity.

The song continued, rhythm in reverberating tones of silence, with vibrations controlled and consistent. He laid his palm upon the surface, wincing as flesh touched flesh. He took a deep, wavering breath and focused. As the hand grew accustomed to the tissue-surface, Atvir was corralled by an irresistible tug, hand being subsumed by the liquid-solid. He cried out in a myriad of shock and panic, in which the tunnels responded with a tone of their own - the viscera-walls trembled sharply and immediately.

As hand and cave connected the two to be one, the druid was gifted with the blessing of sound, though it played out in mere pattern. The voice of the Ancient Dreamer echoed throughout the sinewed halls.

“In the caverns, you will find the self. Your skills have led you to this point, led you to me, and thus, have sequestered you here. Mind that you are not truly lost, and find the exit to continue.”

As if on command, the hand was released from the skin-prison, a viscous mass made its way onto Atvir’s forearm, resting upon it and following the motions wherever he decided to go next. The Kaldorei sauntered across the flooring, leaning until he could make contact with the wall. The unbonded hand traced fingers upon it with hesitancy, uncertain of what trappings would occur next. The cavern reciprocated the doubt lingering upon his mind, rumbling furthermore, with a singular tone that he could perceive from the mending of flesh. The pattern of sound continued.

Further tracing upon the cavern walls, singular words of his Shan’do would echo in place of the tone. There was no form to them, but hearing it forced a smile across his face. The labyrinth responded to this emotion, echoing a soft rumbling on the surface and nothing more.

Still wandering blind with dependence on touch, the muscular surface upon the wall began to harden until the pointer finger reached a spot of near elasticity. Atvir curled the finger back followed by a forceful poke. Rather than bouncing off, it pierced right through. The voice of the crone became two-and-one, with a familiar old friend joining in the choir of understanding.

“Becoming one with the Dream requires you to think outside of the confines of reality. All the rules you consider upon the waking world may be disregarded. Thoughts of these uncertainties will squander the opportunity to expand your capabilities.”

What was once one became two. The singular noise Atvir was able to listen in on had a second chime to it, adding upon the song. The Kaldorei laughed. He could hear parts of his voice throughout, cutting off on tones that he had yet to acquire. The labyrinth once again responded in kind, almost as a mockery or an interpretation.

The druid sat down and attempted to cross his legs, though the lack of sight made the result uncertain. An unsatisfying squish was emitted as he made contact upon the flooring. He drew a wavering breath once more, followed by a quiet chuckle. Atvir pressed his back upon the surface, arms outstretched.

The cavern took the offering of body as he began to sink in. A preternatural calm took over and he let the cave take everything of him. All sounds became one, a booming song spoken of voices thousands-in-one all speaking of different things. People in memories - loss, love, joy, discovery, death, sorrow, were speaking of events innumerable all at once.

Atvir felt an intense heat course through his body. A sensation of emerald flame enveloped him as the voices all rang out in harmony:

“This is a dream, and I am a dreamer.”

“I am the architect of my whims, I will master the waters of Ysera and Freya’s realm.”

“Nothing is absolute, and time heals all things. But what is time in a realm that does not adhere to it?”

“I am Atvir Leafshadow and I will impart my intent with time innumerable.”

“This is the Dream and I am the Dreamer.”

As cavern and Kaldorei became the two-and-one, Atvir could not help but smile. The Dreamer awakened to find himself sitting upon a small hill, situated in the vast viridian waves of a green tide.

He took a deep breath and stood up, with a parting word echoing from his love - a quiet, softly spoken “Aye.”

[atvir]

A full body commission done by Aveny! (carrd)

Absolutely flabbergasted by the quality of this piece!

[dagasii]

Chapter’s End.

Amelia Rabon knelt in the brush below Shaladrassil’s base. With no help, no plan, and no turning back. Morathe had not been where the scrying had suggested she would be, and Amelia had left the swamps with a heavy heart and the knowledge that her plan was infinitely less likely to work, now. But she waited anyway, heartbeat thrumming in her ears like the cacophonous footsteps of an encroaching army. 

Am I doing the right thing?

The question made her shaking hands hesitate as she reached into the pouch at her hip. She didn’t know. She had no idea if she was doing the right thing. She could die. She could be trapped. She could never find what she was looking for and come back to an Azeroth that looked entirely different from what she knew. She didn’t know. She had no idea. But what she did know was that it was necessary. So she grit her teeth and withdrew the vial from her pouch. 

It looked empty. As if it was full of air rather than anything of substance. But Amelia knew better, for it had come from an alchemist she’d known. She’d never drank it, but it had been provided for a situation similar to this one. To move past another unseen. The others, in this case, were those druids who stood before the entrance Amelia needed to take, and any other protectors that may have lurked unseen to her. All it had to do was work, and Amelia would take flight. That was all. And then all she would do was take an extended backpacking trip. That was it. Just a nice long hike.

She didn’t dare let out a sigh, although she needed to. Her chest felt tight, and all she knew was that a good old sigh right then would have felt like filling her lungs with air after being held underwater. Instead, the doctor bowed her head, gloved hands clumsily tightening the laces of her leather boots. The ones that supported her ankles. Her favorites. She knew little of what she could expect, but she knew one thing for sure. She would need sturdy boots. 

One druid perked his head as the aglet of her lace struck the metal ring of her boots, producing the faintest sound. But one he had heard anyway. How he hadn’t picked up on her breath, Amelia wasn’t sure. But as the druid spun, Amelia’s heart froze. 

No. Nonononono.

As the druid signaled to his guard partner, raising one hand skyward as if to signal a taking to the sky, Amelia lifted the vial.

As his partner began to transform into a great owl, the vial was uncorked. 

She lifted it to her lips as the druid, having now the appearance of a large cat, made eye contact with her. He reared back, muscles coiling like a spring.

And she downed it just as he pounced for her.

Keep reading

[dagasii]

Remember Me.

An excerpt from Amelia’s journal. The first page. Sent to members of Foxrun Hall in the post sometime in the autumn.

“My name is Doctor Amelia Rabon. I’m twenty-four years old as of this past April 1st, and I was born in the city of Boralus. I never much cared for journaling, hence why this is page one. I thought it would be wise to document my journey. I’m one of few to attempt what I’m about to attempt. This could be valuable to someone, even if I don’t make it back in one piece.

I’m writing from my home, right now. I leave in the morning to seek help from a former coworker who I believe to be residing in a marsh somewhere in the vicinity of Darkshore. That’s what the scrying suggested, anyway. I have a lot of ground to cover, but I think gaining her help will be crucial.

You may be wondering: “Amelia, what journey are you attempting and why?” And that’s a long story. 

Short answer? Traversing the Emerald Dream in search of my boyfriend because he’s running late.

Long answer? Traversing the Emerald Dream in search of my boyfriend because he’s a druid who left to attempt some sort of new mode of travel through that realm. He told me he’d be a week or two. But it’s been… Much, much longer than that. Long enough that I can’t ignore it. And if you knew Atvir, you’d understand a bit better why I’m willing to plunge into a realm I’m not welcome in just because he’s late. I’ve never known him to go back on his word. When he says a week or two, I trust him. And every attempt at scrying I’ve done has turned up the same thing: An emerald mist so thick I can’t see through it. He’s still alive. He’s still Dreaming. And if he’s this late, that means something has gone wrong. But druids get lost or lose themselves in the Dream all the time, and past experiences have been hostile at points. I’m worried.

So, foolhardy as it may be… I’m going in. There’s not a soul on the planet who could persuade me not to make this choice. Anyone who knows me would know that I don’t make choices I’m not confident in. My bag is packed, with food and drink and clothes, as well as a first aid kit and some magical trinkets that I feel might benefit me. Tidemother knows I need the edge.

My plan is to seek out Morathe’s assistance, then travel to the Broken Isles, where I will travel to the Dream physically by way of Shaladrassil. I’ve asked around and heard whispers that it’s not in perfect shape, but it’s traversable. The veil between this realm and the Dream is thin there, and if I get close enough, I should be able to step through. From there… I don’t know. I suppose I’m travelling the world, in a sense. A long backpacking trip. That’s all. I don’t really know if I’ll need to eat, or drink, or sleep… I don’t know what I’ll do if I do have those needs and I run out of supplies. So I suppose I’d better make this trip as swift as possible. 

I’m afraid. 

I’m sending copies of this page to a few close friends, so that they’re aware of where I’ve gone. Where I’m going. I’m not cruel enough to just disappear. My cat has been passed on to my brother Arthur, who swears he will care for Birch with as much love as I do. If that turns out to be false, he’s a Stormwind City guardsman by the name of Arthur Rabon. If it comes to light that he has hurt or neglected my cat, I give any and all permission to kill Artie in Birch’s name.

To the friends I’ve sent this to, I love you. All of you. I always have. I always will. I will miss you all dearly while I’m away, and I hope you miss me just the same. I don’t intend to be gone forever, but if I am… If I don’t come back, please remember me.

-Doctor Amelia Rabon.”

(This writing is part of a “wrapping up” ordeal meant to get Amelia’s story and arc finished in a way that at least tries to give her an ending of some sort, so that as I make the transition to FFXIV full-time, I don’t feel as though I just abandoned her after putting a lot of time and energy into developing her and her story. The timeline is a bit off, just because I don’t want to wait months of irl time to post it, despite it “canonically” having been a good chunk of time between @atvir leaving and this writing!)

[atvir]

The Edge of Thought, 1 - Seeking the Unorthodox

The individual carved the path of uncertainty, meandering the muted symphony expressed by the forests of Ashenvale. Even with the blood drying in the sands of Darkshore, even with the uneasy armistice signed between both Alliance and Horde, doubts and fear lingered throughout the elf’s careful steps. The prospect of some passerby with the fervent desire to more than apprehend a lone druid weighed heavily upon his mind.

By still-intact, ancient passages, the Kaldorei navigated the circuitous caverns for what felt like an eternity. As he crossed the threshold of the cave’s mouth, he found himself at the uppermost peak of the Stonetalon Mountains. The weight induced by the burdens of apprehension was lifted for an instant, only for the reality of being in Horde-occupied land alongside needing to search for the Dreamer to set in. A concoction of twilight stirred within Moon-and-star bled its contents onto the dry grass, piercing through the damaged treeline of years past.

All he could hope for were twofold - The prior approximate location of his first visitation, and that the ancient druid was still alive. He took advantage of the shroud of night and made haste. By miraculous portent, intervention of the divine, or mere memory, he arrived upon the site after several days of movement edging upon paranoia.

Upon the rocky face of an unfathomable slope, a mixture of vine and moss crept through cracks in the crag. The individual took a sharp, deep breath, and after exhalation, he gently placed his left palm upon the surface. His fingers moved from their resting spots in a rhythmic pattern twofold until finally feeling centered with the intertwining of stone and vine.

The druid uttered a phrase in Darnassian: “We cross the threshold as there is none to begin with”.

As the final word was silently spoken in his native tongue, a green light pierced through his hand and fingers, powerful enough to perceive the inner workings. The mountainous slope before him rumbled loudly for a brief moment, only for the wall to disappear entirely. Instinctively, he entered the cave, and the gate which he crossed began to form once more. Coated in an infinite blackness, the only audible note from the grotto was the nigh annoying inconsistent drippings from the stalactites dotting the upper reaches.

The Kaldorei sighed. Staff in his right hand, he struck the cavernous floor twice with the pommel. A silent, pleasant chime echoed upon the second blow, the floating focus illuminated with a soft, subtle, green light. Antithetical to his intent, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

There was supposed to be a song, something taken from two worlds. She is not here.

As the realization was etched into the mind, the familiar crone-like voice rang throughout the cave.

“Ah, but I am here, child. Your song rang with clarity the moment you stepped into one of my doorways.”

He opened his eyes, readjusting to the lone light on his person. “Doorways?”

“Ventricles leading to the heart of this stone-home. The cavern’s heart, where I reside.” A snide, quiet fit of laughter echoes from the woman. “Do you think that I just sit in one small grotto, waiting for the next pilgrim to find me?”

As the woman’s musings finished, the grotto rumbled with great vigor. The cavern’s artery began to sing, stalactites echoing with a deep hum, playing upon one subterranean spire after the next. The blood was flowing to the heart.

The individual did what he sought to do - follow the path to the center of the stone-home to meet with the Ancient Dreamer once more. The vastness of the network was far from lost upon him; with no guidance at all, he would have not been able to locate her nor find the exit.

Suddenly, the cavern tones stopped singing, all he could hear in the still silence was the hum glowing from his staff. A tiny blue orb flared up across the way and crept ever closer to him.

“‘How can I not see, sister? This should be no trouble for us.’, is what you may be thinking right now. In order to perceive the unorthodox, child, you must be able to welcome being blind once more.” The singular eye radiated as she ceased to talk, her figure barely perceptible from the edges of the staff’s light.

“I think I know what lies in your heart. It has not changed since our first meeting, but this time your song is a bit...different than before. You’ve actually tried to do more than just Dream, have you?”

The man nodded slowly. He saw no need to fill the air with useless ramblings, and allowed the old druid to continue. “And now you finally seek guidance after so many years of inaction.”

“Your learnings, from what I can see within the threads, were far from orthodox. You were trained to take in what you saw and provide your own insight, returning to your Shan’do to see if he agreed.”

The younger Kaldorei sighed and mused. “Alas, he did not want to agree. Seeking agreement would have taught me nothing.”

The older druid hummed. “Indeed, and now you are failing his teachings in the Dream. By using stringent ritual rather than finding your own way, by trying to interpret things that need not be interpreted, you have failed him.”

“It is time for you to master the Dream. You must be able to see beyond what is in front of you. We shall begin upon your word.”

The druid nodded. The old woman breathed deeply. “Follow the right wall until you hear your footsteps contact a puddle. Then, lay down.”

Thus, the man did as was requested. There was hesitation to lay in the water for a moment, but the fear subsided almost instantaneously.

“Accept the reality of the Dream - time cannot be perceived. Accept the reality of the Dream - carve your own path, find your own exit.”

“There is no--” The man is silenced as vines gently envelop him. He is not constricted, but the final thing he views from the staff’s light is a brilliant flash of green.

Once again, Atvir Leafshadow finds himself in darkness.

[atvir]

Regarding the recent developments on 07/21/2021.

I have unsubscribed from the game, and my time ends on August 13.

For the remainder of my subscribed time, I will still likely be as active as I have been. The people who have been part of my latest stint in WoW have perhaps made it the most memorable in...ever.

I plan on having a final set of writings to (hopefully) wrap things up in a way that allows me to go back to him if things change for the better.

While that might end his current story, there is plenty of opportunity to go backwards in the chronology and flesh him out more, though I do not know how committed I am to do that.

I don't think I'll be using this blog for anything beyond WoW right now, but that could change down the road.

I'll have a text post signalling the "end" and mark it on the "Chronology" page as well.

For all of you who have taken the time out of your lives to peruse my blog or its writings - thank you. I hope you all are doing well, and if not, I hope things turn around for the better sooner.

[atvir]

An update:

Due to more things being uncovered in light of Activision-Blizzard, I have zero motivation to even play World of Warcraft, so my activity in-game has taken a turn to nonexistent.

With this in mind, efforts to work and publish the final portion of Atvir's current goings-on will be happening before my game time expires on August 13, 2021.

As I said before, I will inform you when the final writing in the chronology is published; I am further uncertain in regards to writing stories before this "ending" (I really hope it is a speculative and not permanent one).

For the integration of stories beyond World of Warcraft, I am keenly considering the possibility of it. I'd prefer this blog to not waste in stagnation, and I will likely make a decision some time after the last writing is done.

[atvir]

Regarding the recent developments on 07/21/2021.

I have unsubscribed from the game, and my time ends on August 13.

For the remainder of my subscribed time, I will still likely be as active as I have been. The people who have been part of my latest stint in WoW have perhaps made it the most memorable in...ever.

I plan on having a final set of writings to (hopefully) wrap things up in a way that allows me to go back to him if things change for the better.

While that might end his current story, there is plenty of opportunity to go backwards in the chronology and flesh him out more, though I do not know how committed I am to do that.

I don't think I'll be using this blog for anything beyond WoW right now, but that could change down the road.

I'll have a text post signalling the "end" and mark it on the "Chronology" page as well.

For all of you who have taken the time out of your lives to peruse my blog or its writings - thank you. I hope you all are doing well, and if not, I hope things turn around for the better sooner.

[maxtartethepoptart]

<throws up art>

I practiced something