Celestial Foot'd (Self Mod Dance, Pre-Veil & GF'd)

[Quenthalus]

TS: Immanis 2nd; Mid-brightening

Quenthalus resisted the pangs of dwelling. 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 civilizations confines. He longed to break out of this mind. To unhinge of worldly doubt and reincarnate himself as a bird, flower or a tide from the Northern Ocean. More than anything- he longed to give an offering of dance to the primal world. Nothing else liberated him from the chains of the past. Free of judgements, he seldom had a breath to invigorate a thought. When thoughts came, they came like epiphany, or they came like dawning. He wanted to dream, and to venerate those feelings pure and sacred to the elf. His unflinching strides fleeted through the Restwood as if he were a phantom, northward, each determined advance seemingly absolving him of the wretched regret endured nightly. He missed his Wisteria unlike anything mortal to him. Eyes of amethyst strafed over the horizon, veering south; settling on the cluster of forested haunts. His thin lips pursed, and the double sun was fading. The glory of a dusk-filled revel was his desire. The solace of night 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, Tawnleaf; Silverwood, 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 now.

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 amidst the ethereal canopy. He could look back and still see the walls enclosing Syl'rosya. When he glanced back to the forest he could understand where the power was evident. 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 not the last elven bastion, it was just the shell for his fading love. To the sphere of dreams, he thought travel this night. 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 azure eyes. Sleek and feral, the elf-become-appiration crossed the threshold, delving into the wooded copse. 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 Telath's moons 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 regal splendor and spidersilk trailing on his heels. His sharp nose tilted to the sky, and eyes faced the bleary heights of a thousand stars 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 wild mass of emerald dreadlocks that streamed down his back like witches hair and lichen on a birch branch. 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 begin the dance.

[Quenthalus]

The winds were blowing cooler this time of the season, collecting the last of winters chill and dispersing it across the everspring fathoms of a Syl'rosyan twilight. The forest moaned with age, tirelessly serenading the dusk with the soft rustle of leaves. By sweeping zephyrs sweet with the scent of dew, the branches wept green and faint yellow to usher in a soon-coming spring. The thick of the woods chattered with alien life, thriving in a nocturnal world, where sound was so very much important to the great ecology working beneath the layers of survival. Crickets chirped in the brush, and frogs belched a croak from pondside, while a thrush darted overhead, fluttering from one branch to the next. Nature was in the midst of her candid moment, goading the midnight mushroom rings to rise around the base of trees, while adding a second coat of moss to the scattered boulders and rocky woodlands. The calliopes cog wasn't missing a tooth, the satyr chased the nymph, and all the melody of the forest seemed in perfect tune. Every element met with balance till some bushes rustled, a childs lullaby was muted, and it sent the rabbit bolting through the channels of bending and winding tall grass, making the snake cringe with every motion that slammed the earth. The animals made a dash, and it appeared nature drew her skirt up at the sight of humanoids, and decided to spend this late day in the dark corners.

Quenthalus gave a feral grin borne of some kithian acceptance. They felt him, and he shared the communion. His eyes gave a quick search, but there was scarcely a trace- just as he expected. He came to full stance, unclad, and silver esconced with emerald beneath the suns fading shine; midnights winged paragon unveiled in all the ancient and primordial splendor of a wanton dancer. His eyes looked intoxicated, and his body quivered with lovers zeal or the nearing dusk chill. With slow, gyrating movements he eased his steps into a repetitious sway. Swift legs traded step for step while his arms traced archaic nothings into the air. Green locks bounced against his skin, sometimes exploding into a wild frenzy that reflected his energy.

Elvish ears preened, piercing the lagoon tendrils, inhaling each note of melody that issued from the unseen corridors of his memory. It quelled his heart, set his veins ablaze, and cauled forth his spirit. He could feel himself breathing liquid essence, and spinning through waves of invisible ocean- slow and free, fast, and chained by agonizing perfection. The duality was always there, and the balance served to challange or reward him. Most of all, he welcomed the solace that set his thoughts free. Time and space froze in those instances, and more oft than not his eyes would sneak a glance to the purple and orange sky, and fall in love with the sparse pockets of drifting clouds. He felt nature infiltrating his body, and it began with the music of natural rhythms.

His legs crunched and in one leap he exploded off the ground, spinning once- twice as he came down with arms open wide and a smile of ecstasy dripping off his serene countenance. His shoulders bobbed gracefully, his body twisted like a ceremonial shaman summoning rain, and the ground became his ritual ground. Freedom was a metaphor, and he had found it in the deepest of these haunts. Calling out with mind and mouth, "What is your dream, sweet leaf?! For mine is to hold your spirit till we are overgrown by the vines of eternity!" The phrase turned into a laugh and with it he swayed, nearly touching the ground with his fingertips as his body arched like a poised feline. His eyes closed and it seemed as if the lost temple appeared before his minds eye. Dancing was the epiphany, dancing was the liberation- and he did it for no other reason than the feeling. In action alone he became the interest. For him, for them, who watched.

The movement had entranced the seelie spirit, Quenthalus, and to this the elf cooed with each imagined beat. Flesh crawled when a hidden violin teased the notes out, making them beg to manifest for his ears, and delight transcended into lucid yearning when a flute sung like the nightengale in his dreams. He relished it all, spinning, whirling, moving, and unlocking himself- unfolding himself into another place that felt like...like...bliss. May they be blessed, for some of the young spirits had not forgotten the ancient designs. Peace- empathy, beauty, and the unknown. His mind beamed with each thought, and his spirit opened to the unseen, begging to be touched by something pure and universally exotic.

Would they approve him?

He grinned inwardly--

Or did the Silverwood Haunt wish to see more?

[Quenthalus]

His foot fall thrashed the ground, and beads of sweat welled at his brow. His flesh became crimson and slick, and inertia kept him from ever settling in one place too long. His chest heaved, and steam trailed off his lips as the chill evening air collided with the panting hot breath of the elf. His grin went wide, and the minds tempo suddenly elevated to a new level of primal caul. He could feel it become hypodermal, injecting sound beneath his skin, directly into his bloodstream. The elfs muscles went taut, and his eyes became alert; delerium and ecstasy began to creep over the once serene visage of Quenthalus. In this dance a tale was told to the forest of an elf who fell from the heaven haunts and crashed into Telath, searching for answers of the inner beauty, and longing to revive a green age where love and magic had the power to heal.

The drums carried him away, his green locks whipped over his shoulder, and muscles pumped, bathing in sunlight. Every rivulet of sweat was visable like a beaded pearl of light clinging to his skin. It looked as if he were to collapse, but try as the song may, it would not bring the elf to his knees yet. It had become a drug, and he fed from it like a child set to ween: a diabolist, assimilating its essence into his own to merge with it. To become whole.

Laughter came through clenched teeth, while his arms fanned to the side, and legs unstoppable went spinning through the air in an unorthodox leap. His footsteps staggered and he quickly planted a hand on one tree to support himself from the dismount. He must have lost all sense of space and time, and even as he searched the darkness he could only find a sensation- nothing more or less. Was it his mind playing tricks on him- for he thought he heard real music, and still, he hears it again. Who, how, where? The questions evaporated into nothing. Everything was going so fast. Hands clenched his temples, and suddenly rose up to the sky, and with a laugh he spoke, "Forgive me, and the interruptions!" His chuckle was innocent, and it herald a new onslaught of movement. The elf was going strong, loosing his arms to the wide wind and spinning circles in the old earth. In the end he was finding a sense of empathy in himself- and sharing it with the realm. His appreciation for the simple things, and his reverence for the ancients felt like a relationship that was closer than most mortals could dream of. He only hoped they were enjoying this dance as much as he was.

[Quenthalus]

Indeed the elf was not mistaken. Music had begun to creep eeriely and unrelenting through the wooded copse, on into the grove where he danced. Shadows stirred along the perimeter, but the lone elf kept his composure, slowing before the next onslaught. It was as if on cue; the music rose to a glorious crescendo, exploding against the emerald canopy, tossed in some wind. Quenthalus was taken aback by the profound song, tettering on sublime oblivion as the music died- nearly killing his heart- only to revive him with eldritch and enchanting harmonies once more. He strafed a gaze from left to right, feeling the weight of an ancient wonder hovering about him; enveloped by a presence that was terrifyingly beautiful and unearthly. He whirled, catching the flash that was she, and to one knee he fell. His dreadlocks kissed the ground as he brought his gaze downcast in reverence. Slender elvish ears preened, peeking through his emerald mantle as her song lilted on zephyrs- enrapturing his senses to a melody that echoed with the ambivalent life of these forests. How amazing they were, and how present the song was to his ears. He cherished the moment like it was the first, and the last, and felt his eyes gloss over with a tear of rejoice and lament. How the elf longed for the moments like these to last forever, keeping death and the harsh reality at bay with a gentle hand that could nare be touched, and could seldom be defied lest the angry gods were so bold as to wrest peace from the beloved cradle of nature. He wept soft tears, yet stayed his brilliant smile to show the archaic creatures his deepest thanks. Quenthalus had once wandered into a similar forest nearly forty patterns ago.

Rising like the moon in zenith he spread his arms once more, to feel the wind criss cross over his flesh, and hear the celestial voice cocoon him in the rapture of her crystalline sound. His heart lurched and his feet kept the pace as if it were a lone dance. The last dance. With near surgical precision he glided from left to right with delicate steps, arms curved as if he were cradling a child, while his locks spun wildly about his slender, wavering frame. His focus had honed to the voice, listening to the words that touched him, and took him to another land. The song was foreign, and unknown, and for that he licked his lips as if entreated to a fierce and welcoming dessert. "What aetheria does she lilt about, with a voice that drips with the sacrament of Carmelya, and blooms with the boldness of an unchecked rose garden?" His words were scarcely above a whisper for he dared not miss a single tone the celestial voice sang to him, but carried on with his dance, savoring every last syllable of her song.

[Quenthalus]

The two of them crossed a thresh hold of mist, and from the wooded copse in which he danced, shadowed effigies of forest spirits spiraled as well. These elves, unlike the ancient elves, were borne up from the earth and held close to the tree. Their wild ways kept them near to places most coittish and civilized elves could ever never dream to fare, and yet the two cultures shared such a distinct attribute of surrender in the presence of beauty, that in these most auspicious moments you could scarcely tell them apart. What difference can there be in sublime wisdom and vile multitude that only perception could want to posses? Together, the shadows of a Syl'rosyan noble and a Syl'rosyan barbari reflected feelings for life through an intricate code called dance. And all of that color exchanging between the two of them was just a shifting phantom of the external for the eyes. When their steps crossed each other the two of them looked like black symbols painted against an emerald wall.

Her sleek arms unshouldered the illusion of a peacock's plume, masked and mirrored by a thin arm that floated on the wind; a daughter's muscles tight like a fist as she feigned the texture of feathers through her fluttery-fluid motions. Whipping her arms in sudden upward -reversing downward- movements, accompanied by a whirling helios of footwork, the wilder elf kept her lithesome frame spinning like a windmill. Quenthalus came alight with smiles and laughed as he danced a step back. He wasn't seeing, nor hearing things of the phantom form. She was as real as the mist. Straightening with an august tightness; a flagpole to raise up the scion of stars with his knife-like leg switches, popping up, literally, atop his tip-toes as if his upper body weighed no more than twenty pounds. His shoulders leveled like a table, smoothed over by the passage of numerous natural and unrehearsed wind-steps of the dancing ether. Blown from the west to the east, he twirled and quickly shifted his legs mid-air once, twice before touching, turning, and coming back to face from whence he had initially turned. His was a flurry of speed and time to match her exotic enveloping of space and matter. Her dreamcatcher of motions seemed to fold like a web around the skyborne swarms of sun, moon, cloud, and star, netting rapture for safe-keeping: refining. Barbari or noble, he felt at home in the forest amidst the crackle of brush and splinter of wood beneath his step; the midnight caw and thicket chorus lent up by crickets and critter. Wild or civilized, she danced with a fierceness that derived from venerations of king and queen, for her movements saw the royalty in every aspect of life. She danced as if she expected things to be this way, knowing that they have always carried on this way, even before there was a memory of it. Somehow, they both knew it, and both of them were not so different. Even more, neither of them seemed to be entirely surprised by this notion. Everything was unconditional inside this circle.