#chartedworlds

when people indulge me a+ | @eternalbunni @ofrevas @chartedworlds

“… You know, I know that I never really knew my mother. She did have this dark eyes that seemed to always pull you in, warm, but there was always... something about her.” the silence lingers, drags on as if she is completing the sentences in her though but maybe even those words are lost on their way to her lips “Sometimes I miss her,” Manala glances up with a small smile, yellow apint across her nose and fingertips “And sometimes she just feels like a distant dream, like she was never here at all. All feverish dream. But I know she existed, she was here and she named me.”

The roars for the vampire’s blood sounded closer with each passing moment but the trees grew thick, closer together. Even with keen senses it was becoming difficult to navigate a path between the twisted branches and trunks. Surely his pursuers would abandon their chase...

A chorus of whines and snorts of protest came from behind, the dissonance drawing dark eyes to look toward them. Their horses refused to obey, some humans themselves yelling a warning of the dangers the forest held to a single man that still rode on. The man was closing the gap between them quickly, Regis’s horse almost at it’s end. 

Attention drew forward, but too late. The branch threw the vampire from the saddle, body landing with a thud. It left him stunned for far too long, the man quickly setting upon Regis and dismounting his horse. Regis tried to scramble away from the other’s raised studded mace but the weapon found it’s mark on the arm he’d desperately brought up to protect his head, earning a cry of pain from him. 

The mace rose again and came down hard on his head, the vampire’s movements coming to a sudden stop, the hit hard enough to throw him into unconscious darkness. He now lay victim to whatever plans his attacker held for him, unable to heal quick enough to escape.

Whispers of memories long forgotten speak to her as she watches him, pretending to still be asleep. Memories of a gentle voice and pale eyes, dark hair hidden by an even darker hood. His face brings to her these little flickers, these little hints of a life before. He gives of the aura of a father, but of a teacher too. Someone who has spent long years on this earth and gained much knowledge from it, but carries the burden of a heavy heart to accompany it.

Her heart aches for him, wishes to reach out and hold him close for as long as she possibly can. For he reminds her of something once lost, the memory of that something taken unkindly from her. And she does not wish for the feeling of that, nor the flickers he brings, to be taken from her again. Even if they fail… She feels she would follow him to the ends of his land if he asked her too. For what reason she doesn’t know, cannot fathom.

Such thoughts surprise her, coming to her from nowhere as she silently watches him write- or is he sketching?- in a weathered journal, the smell of ink tickling her nose. So often does her mind wander, and sometimes the thoughts that come to her frighten her. But this time, she stands, tiptoeing as quietly as she can, nearly soundless on the floor as she stands behind him to wrap her arms around his neck. For she is not afraid.

[I have a deep respect and admiration for Veles' kind nature, his need and propensity to do good in a world that isn't. His story, the depth of his history including his love, his life with the druids--all fleshes out, but doesn't define him as they are parts of him. Kind characters aren't always weak. Your writing is beautiful as well, no doubt the imagery and flow superb. He's a treat and a favorite. :)]

send me an au and get 5+ headcanons ( accepting ) | @chartedworlds

Manala is her blood daughter in this verse, I think that it is one of two verses where she is truly blood related to the priestess. She is already a late teen and is currently studying aboard in England with a scholarship. Is an incredible student and, much to the priestess’ displeasure, quite a smart mouth.

It’s been a very long time since the priestess has gone back to Nigeria, though she misses it at times, she cannot deny that she loves the small piece of heaven that she has built there.

The place where she lives is now considered what once could be called a religious haven, one where one could claim sanctuary. To the right people it’s a place where one can buy information or even ask for services mayhaps less legal than a roof over their heads. It’s a warm place, wooden, but sturdy.

Was part of a small group within the Nigerian military and despite saying that she is retired, she still acts a lot like a mercenary. Though, she much prefers to deal with her network and with information than with guns.

Soft whispers... A name that pulled at the edges of her memory. Morrigan. Morrigan. It drifted in and out of her dreams, the song it made swirling about like tendrils of smoke in her sleeping mind. Her lips moved in sleep, forming it in a quiet murmur, the call of something long forgotten in her heart. But she slept rather peacefully, no flashes of molten eyes haunting her.

She awoke as early as she always did, the first rays of sunrise showing upon the horizon. The sky was a pale blue, a chill on the air as the birds twittered quietly among themselves. She looked about and did not see Valathaan at first, a quiet sound leaving her as she walked to a window. 

Her song was soft and full of longing, its words of a language hardly used even by her own kin anymore. She sang of a land far across the sea, where the lands were undying and waters that turned everything to silver glass. These were not her sparrow friends of Imladris, but they came to her anyhow, sitting upon the windowsill, uncaring of the sleepy raven that watched them with a bemused gaze.

It wasn’t until her song had ended that she heard movement, her head turning as she looked to see Valathaan. Her hand unconsciously went to the necklace he had given her, the charm that had kept the Enemy’s sway on her at bay. “Oh. Good morning... I hope I did not wake you.” She turned back to the little songbirds on the windowsill, smiling as they tried copying her tune.