Blue-Green

Blue-Green

Postby Vanidor » Fri Feb 03, 2012 1:41 am

The Drowess, ever present at the side of her tall friend and lover, would tilt a silver-haired head to peer into the darkness that spread beyond the phosphorescent glow of the Enclave's blue-green lanterns. While she no longer fully tended to her own small grove, the Druidess could feel the taint that surrounded the mystically enhanced walls of the haven. There was another out there doing what she should be, though she was just as content to remain here where none were attempting to hunt and kill her because of the hue of her obsidian skin. The elves of the Enclave did not care for such things, and she had seen that as an oddity at first. Surface elves that freely welcomed their dark-skinned brethren. Welcomed almost EVERYONE, in fact.

But then she had discovered that Vanidor and his small circle were NOT like other elves. They were older, (some thought themselves) wiser. Some, like the Librarian, was certainly serene and calm. Little enflammed them and roused their passions. Not that they had none. There certainly was a soft majesty to them. A pride. It had taken over a year before Vanidor had taught her the steps of their seasonal rituals. The Firstborn. That is what they referred to themselves as, when none other were around. And there were fewer and fewer of them as the seasons passed, she noticed.

When she had first agreed to join Vanidor in this safe haven, there had been just over three score of the elves. In the four summers that had passed since then, at least twenty of that number had departed. Some had joined one of the other Enclaves, one nestled somewhere in the wilderness of Heath, another far to the south, and the last on some island called Jaheuss. Vanidor did not speak of that Enclave much, except to frown almost sadly. Nor did he comment oft upon the numbers of his people. Others, two at least, had died due to accidents. A thing of great mourning for the Firstborn it had seemed, though for a time she had been unsure why. Death was a part of nature. It was what was. And then Vanidor explained it.

For them. That was not a concern. Death would never come because of old age. No matter how long his beard grew (not that he let it, she'd mocked it the one time he'd allowed a vestige of it to grow in), or how rhumey his eyes. They were locked into their youths. It was something she had taken in stride, her own race was long lived as well. And she and Vanidor had had many talks before that. But still. There was something monumentally sad about it all. For all of their long lives, children were beyond them. Not one in twenty millenia. While she never had a thought of her own brood, she at least had a choice. They... did not. It was, she thought back on it now, one of the reasons she had demanded her Tressym be allowed to roam as they would.

And Vanidor had not denied her that. Which again, she thought was odd. It was as if the man had no... No real backbone. He was as placid as the reed, and bent whenever the wind or rough weather came for him. Even during this crisis, with the forest dying all around him, he had left it to others to deal with the calamity. She KNEW that the man had been more than capable of sustaining the Forest all by himself if he had a care or mind too. It was odd, because she had SEEN the man in action. He had been a stalwart enemy to corruption. To evil. To a dozen ills that had threatened Myrken in the past. He had almost died once, a crossbow bolt to the throat, because of his belief in Right over Wrong. That had been before he had been named Coron. Crown? She wasn't sure what the proper title was, in his tongue. But it translated into Warden-King. Something like that.

Since then. There was a different power to the elf that she now stood beside. She could feel it whenever they were together. Especially on the nights that an amorous mood overtook either of them. More vitality, yet less at the same time. It worried her as much as it intrigued her. She could feel it now, even. It bled into the ground as he gazed with her at the darkness beyond the haze of the lights. It fizzled the air between them, when he set his eyes upon her. They were intensely blue, set in a winter-tanned face of fine angles and curves. She had fallen for that gaze as much as his mind, come to think on it. But then. There had been a different energy to his look. And yet... With his smile, soft and now directed at her, she felt at ease. As much as her mind would allow, at least.


"Maggera." His voice was soft, yet so deep she swore it caused her diaphragm to tremble ever so slightly. She could only tilt her head, leaving her to return his look with one of her own. She watched his mouth move as he spoke. And yet, she did not hear what it was the man spoke of. It was not that she did not understand. It was just... She raised a hand and placed a slender finger over his lips, quieting him. As she did, one of her Tressym fluttered up to land upon his slender shoulder. She did not speak, beyond a shushing noise, as she then wormed her way into his embrace. Her back was against his chest and her golden gaze returned to the world without. For his part, the Elf Lord laughed and resumed his silent vigil. She enjoyed the energy that coursed out of him. It made her feel safe. It made her broken mind right.

Maggera sighed contentedly, and left her thoughts at that, leaving them bathed in the blue-green glow of the lanterns.

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire


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Vanidor
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