[Tawnleaf Forest]Will I Dream, Dave? (Open)

[Motito Gil'dae]

Second Brightening of Autumn

The young elf who, by all means, should have hundreds of eras left on his life span had long since taken to meandering about. He never went anywhere specific, never did anything intently. He simply wandered, like the wake of an ocean, always eventually returning to where it had once been. Few perhaps noticed, but more and more when he walked he relied on his staff for support, more and more he drew on his arcana to keep strengthin in his body. Force fields could work wonders to hold the body when the strength felt failing, reinforcing it.

These brightenings he spent wandering never took him anywhere specific, though on this particular brightening they'd taken him back home. His true home, Syl'rosya, where he'd been born and raised. He thought briefly of visiting his mother, but knew he wouldn't be able to keep his secret from her, and the grief of losing her eldest son after having lost her husband would likely be too much to bear. His staff in hand, his sword on his hip, his clothes as elegant and refined as always, Motito Gil'dae looked the part of the respectable noble-elf, even if by his own choice he no longer played that part. As he gazed at the already reddening autumn leaves on the trees of his homeland he smiled whimsically. It was odd, wasn't it, that it took something like this to allow you to appreciate the simple beauty of the world around you in a fashion you hadn't even considered since you were a child. It was as though seeing as a child for the first time since the gauzy, protective layer of parental protection was stripped away.

It was sad, to the sorcerer, that so many in this city viied for power and hungered, nay lusted for greater heights, when all around them were simple beauties they took for granted. For instance, he saw a sight that, by all biological rights, shouldn't exist. A tiny caterpiller. Caterpillers were things of the spring, and yet it looked like this lazy one was hurrying and trying to become a beautiful butterfly before its time ran out and the unforgiving winter killed it's chance at unfurling it's beautiful, multicolored wings. How many residents of the city would really take notice of something like that when they were boarded up in their keeps and manses, plotting political moves and strategems?

So many made their hungry lunge for power, ignoring the beauty of the world around them in their ceaseless battle to be more self-important. He smiled softly, sadly, spreading his arms as a cool autumn breeze wafted through the trees of the Tawnleaf. His tunic, light despite the already-turning weather, allowed almost every inch of his skin to feel the refreshing, caressingly gentle breeze as it sauntered by. In fact, before that moment, he'd never thought that a breeze even could saunter, and yet that was the only way to explain the way it had felt.

The dying warrior in the age of politics smiled once more, softly, sadly. Perhaps that was why...perhaps it was because the combat-hardened, in this day and age of meetings, manifestos, councils, committees, and circles was simply no longer necessary. Perhaps he was merely the physical embodiment of the age of the warrior passing and the age of the politician rising to take its' place. Motito might be a mage, perhaps even once one of the greatest Sorcerers on Telath...but before all that, he was a simple soldier. He smiled lightly as he remembered all his friends from his brightenings as a simple enlisted private in the Prime Garrison...friends that he'd long since lost touch with through-out the ages.

With a light sigh, the elf and his failing body began to slowly meander the twisting paths of the Tawnleaf with no real destination, and as he did, a slight marching song from an old, old tale sprang to his mind. His lilting tenor hummed the song in perfect pitch as he mentally recited it as he wondered what something as whimsical as fate would bring in his path on this brightening, if anything at all.

The road goes ever on and on...

[Irrian Feydrafel]

Flickers of sunrise began to wind through the fog like a lost child wandering the corridoors of a misted maze. The early tide ritually cried forth a spring sweet sigh to begin each new brightening- even if it was autumn- and amidst the inland forest of Tawnleaf Her tears blanket the loose scattered treehomes and leafy meadow cottages.

Warmth dispersed the cool and heavy air, encouraging early thrush songs. Two of them bubbled up with melody as they playfully flapped after each other, dancing from one tree to the next. Nestled on the edge, where the sun engulfs the southern meadows in a golden halo- but not so far from the forested cradle of a shaded jade Tawnleaf - there is so much life. The assembly of the woodland gather to greet a new unfolding of the fate; all immortality ensured, they are there to remember the connection just as the sun rises in full. The ocean goes indigo for that perfect moment, and shortly thereafter everything is silver on the surface.

Irrian had made his sojourn out of Silrosia early this brightening. Thoughts whirled with absolution, longing to make some earthly connection with the ancient Telath; or with unseen companions of the spirit and dream- to be free of city confines. More than anything- he longed to give an offering of dance to the primal world. To dream, and to venerate those feelings pure and sacred to the elf. His unflinching strides fleeted through the city gates as if he were a phantom. Eyes of obsidian strafed over the horizon, veering north; settling on the cluster of forested haunts. His thin lips pursed. The glory of a midbrightening revel was his desire. The solace of the forest would veil intrusive eyes, and were the mists willing to part, then perhaps the ancient beings of fae and elf spirit would join and partake of this lone dance. He cracked a smile that was all too innocent and trod forward with a dutiful gait. His soft steps would carry him on toward the destination, and the music in his mind would compell his every move. It was all he had to charge the electricity inside him- swelling with a desire to lose himself to another place, another time, and perhaps another world more beautiful and omnipotent then the one he found himself in.

He ruminated on the lost green age, and drifted back to fond memories where the elves danced to a communal song- when the tribes and houses gathered under the moon to spread good vibrations. Lost in love, lost in the pure sound. He licked his lips at the thought, yearning to have his parched spirit quenched by the times of olden more.

Determined steps kept the elf afloat in the Tawnleaf. He could look back and still see the walls enclosing Silrosia. Looking ahead, he could see the emerald walls nearing closer and closer. His eyes glossed over, and his chest throttled with an eager heart. He hadn't set himself to dancing in several cycles. Far too long indeed, but attitudes had changed in the people. Now dark portents loomed, and the elven spirit steadily evaporated. Silrosia was the last elven bastion, and even that left the ancients wanting. To the sphere of dreams, he thought travel this day. To Carmelya- to Phedos. He had an offering to make. He had a dance to preform, and he felt music pumping havoc and anticipation through his veins. His smile beamed, rivaled by the brilliance in his dark eyes. Sleek and feral, the elf-become-appiration crossed the threshold, delving into the wooded copses. Beneath the veil of green he felt tension subdued. His body relaxed, his shoulders digressed to comfort, and his hips swayed instead of merely support his weight. Light steps became precision, planting down on the ground with a manner that seemed like the rite of passage, instead of simply jonting through the forest.

Those eyes of elvar skirtted from one sight to the next; animal, and elven. Beautiful. The climax of Telaths suns eclipsed the elven wanderer, bathing his form in a luminous glow that enhanced his spirit- he felt dressed in the robes of a kingly being, and stood straight with regality trailing on his heels. His aquillion nose tilted to the sky, and eyes faced the bleary heights of a thousand clouds down like an equal. Tenderness and warmth transcended into purpose and focus. In the end it came full circle, and with reverence he humbly came down to one knee.

His hands came up to the locks of bold black that streamed down his back like a waterfall. With a leather cord he ensared them, tieing them into several fanciful braids. His movements were slow, practically ceremonial. His serene expression seemed to bask, and it was coy pleasure that painted itself across his elven visage. He looked upon the forest like a lover- like a suitor championing the affection of the ancient haunts. Hands slithered down from a swan's throat, unlatching the tie of his tunic, and then he slowly drew the cloth over his head. Clad in leather breeches alone; even his boots were removed. No barrier must be had when treading the old worlds.

In the final moments of his ritual he felt reassurance swell inside him. The feeling was awe-inspiring, and he loved nothing more than to shed skin and dance for the lost places where ancients and spirits dwelled- where legends frolicked, and where primal beauty flaunted its power. He was slave to their ambivalence. There was one last thing to do. With care he fashioned a small altar out of heaped dirt, and whatever loose stones he could muster. In his pouch was a single bowl, and from his own rations a honey comb. He set the offering away then danced back several steps. Kneeling in complete prostration. It was time to vibrate his presence. He meditated on the intangible feelings inside, and gave release to the emotions that whirled over him. His mind replayed ancient songs, haunting drums, cooing flutes, and violent strings. His thoughts became supple and alluring- or shifted to intensity and focus. He opened himself to an audience, and lent his ears to the sound of nature before he finally rose to began the dance.