#machaera

｡ﾟﾟ ▲ . 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 & 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 . ᵃ ˢˡᶦᵐ ʳᵘᵈᵈʸ ᵍᵃˢʰ 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘴 ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵏʸˢᶦˡˡ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵛᶦᵛᶦᵈ 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗼𝗻 ʷᵉˡˡᶦⁿᵍ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵃ ᶠʳᵉˢʰ ᶦⁿᶜᶦˢᶦᵒⁿ , ᵗᶦⁿˢᵉˡˡᶦⁿᵍ ᵒᵃˢᶦˢ ʷᵃᵗᵉʳˢ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᶠᵒˡᵈᵉᵈ 𝐫𝐞𝐝 upon 𝐫𝐞𝐝 . ᵗʰᵉ ˡᶦᵍʰᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵃʳᵉᶜᵃᶜᵉᵃᵉ ᶠᵘˡˡ ᵒᶠ 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑧𝑦 & 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒 , ᶠʳᵒⁿᵈˢ ᵗʳᵉᵐᵇˡᶦⁿᵍ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ⁿᵉᵒⁿᵃᵗᵃˡ fawns . ❝ ᵈᵒⁿ’ᵗ ᵃˢˢᵘᵐᵉ ᶦ haven't ᵗᵃᵏᵉⁿ ⁿᵒᵗᶦᶜᵉ ᵒᶠ 𝚢𝚘𝚞 ˡᵘʳᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᵃʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ 𝑴𝒀 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 . ❞

Ω  . 𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐗𝐘𝐒𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐊𝐀 ; 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵒʳᵖᵒʳᵉᶦᵗʸ ᵒᶠ ᵃ 𝙵𝙰𝙻𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙾𝙽 , ˣᶦᵖʰᵒᶦᵈ - ᵃᶦᵐᵉᵈ & ᵗʳᵘᵉ . ᶜᶦᶜᵃᵗʳᶦᶜᵉˢ 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝘀𝘁 & 𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗱 ʳᵉᶜᵒˡˡᵉᶜᵗᶦᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ʳᶦᵐᵒˢᵉ 𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 , ᵒᶠ ᵉᵐᵖᶦʳᵉˢ & ᵖᵃⁿᵗʰᵉᵒⁿˢ ᵘˢᵘʳᵖᵉᵈ ᶦⁿ 𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 . ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ⁿᵒʷ ᵘⁿᶠᵉᵗᵗᵉʳᵉᵈ ᵛᵉⁿᵉᵗᵘˢ 𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 ᵍˡᵘᵗᵗᵒⁿᵒᵘˢˡʸ ᵃᵗ ˡᵃⁿᵈ ʷᶦᵗʰ ˢᵉˡˡᵃᶜʰᶦᵃⁿ ᵉⁿᵃᵐᵉˡ , ᵛᵉʳᵈᵘʳᵉ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ marcid ᵇᵉⁿᵉᵃᵗʰ ᵃⁿ ᵃᵉᵒⁿᶦᵃⁿ ᵉᶦᵍᵉⁿᵍʳᵃᵘ . doleful - eyed ᵈᵃⁿᵃᵃⁿˢ ᵖʳᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ᵃ 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙵 𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙺𝙸𝙽 , ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵖᵃᵗᵉˡˡᵃ ˢᵒᶦˡᵉᵈ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵏⁿᵉᵉˡᶦⁿᵍ , ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵖᵃˡᵐˢ 𝗰𝗼𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗼𝘁 - 𝗰𝗼𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 . [ * ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵇᵉˡᵒᵛᵉᵈˢ ᵇᵉˢᶦᵈᵉ ᵗʰᵉᵐ , ˢᵃʳᶜᵒˡᶦⁿᵉ & ᵖᵘˡˢᵉˡᵉˢˢ . ]

ᵗʰᶦˢ ᶦⁿᵉᶠᶠᵃᵇˡᵉ , ˢᵗʳᶦᵈᵉⁿᵗ ˢᶦˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ ᵒᶠ ʰᶦˢ . 𝚃𝙰𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙰 ʰᵃˢ ᵖᵘˡˡᵉᵈ ʰᶦᵐ ᶦⁿ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵃ 𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐦 , & ʰᵉ ᶦˢ 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 ᶦⁿ ᵘⁿᵛᵒᶦᶜᵉᵈ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ ʷᵉᶦᵍʰᶦⁿᵍ ᶜᵒᵐᵇʳᵒᵘˢ - ˡᵉᵃᵈᵉⁿ ᵒⁿ ʰᶦˢ ʰᵉᵃʳᵗ , ᵖᵃⁿᵍˢ ᵒᶠ ᵐᵉˡᵃⁿᶜʰᵒˡʸ ᵉᵇᵇᶦⁿᵍ ᶦⁿ 𝗻𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗼𝘂𝘀 ʷᵃᵛᵉˢ .               ❝         yes ,           ❞ ʰᵉ ˢᵃʸˢ ,               ❝         i know it well .           ❞ ᶠᵒʳ ᶦ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᵇᵒᵗʰ : THE 𝚂𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 & THE 𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 .

｡ﾟﾟ ▲ . 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐕𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐎𝐍 & 𝐒𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 , ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉᵈᵈᵉⁿᵉᵈ ᶜˡᵒᵘᵈˡᵃⁿᵈˢ ᵃˢ ᶦᶠ ᵖᵒᵖᵘˡᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵇᵉˡˡᶦᶠᵉʳᵒᵘˢ , ʳᵃⁿᶜᵒʳᵒᵘˢ 𝑐𝑎𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑠 : din , farore & nayru , ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈʸᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵇˡᵃᵈᵉˢ ʷʰᶦˡˢᵗ ᵇᵉᵈᵃᵐⁿᶦⁿᵍ 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 ᵃᵍᵃᶦⁿ & ᵃᵍᵃᶦⁿ & 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 ᵘⁿᵗᶦˡ ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵗᵒⁿᵍᵘᵉˢ ᵇˡᵉᵉᵈ 𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗿 , ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵉⁿᵃᵐᵉˡˢ ᵍʳᶦⁿᵈᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 . ᵍᵒᵈˢ ᵗʳᵉᵐᵇˡᵉ , ᵖᵃˡᵃᵈᶦⁿˢ ᵖᵉʳᶦˢʰ , ᵏᶦⁿᵍᵈᵒᵐˢ ᶠᵃˡˡ , ˢᵉᵃˡˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵇʳᵒᵏᵉⁿ . * what are but 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 to 𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 flesh ? / ᵗᵒ ᵃ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵃⁿᶜᶦᵉⁿᵗ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᶠˡᵃᵐᵉ ? ❝ ᵃ ᶠᵉᵉˡᶦⁿᵍ , ᵖᵉʳʰᵃᵖˢ , ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶦ ˢʰᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶠᶦⁿᵃˡˡʸ put 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝗻𝗱 to 𝚢𝚘𝚞 . ❞

. . . any  artist  would  be  lying  if  they  said  they  didn’t  love  cathedrals .       the  architecture  is  artistry  in  itself ,     complete  with  imposing  stain  glass  windows  and  overbearing  statues .      every  inch  of  this  place  was  inspiration ,     every  step  breeding  ingenuity .     stone  beneath  him  is  cool ,      wall  behind  his  back  soothing  his  ever - warm  temperature .      pencil  glides  over  paper  as  he  continues  to  draw ,     as  if  needing  to  get  down  every  detail  before  it  disappeared .     perhaps  because  figure  to  his  right  made  the  picture  far  more  alluring .     tall  figure  with  hair  of  gold ,     the  scent  a  mix  of  life  and  death .     griffin  was  unsure  what  he  was ,     but  he  couldn’t  be  human .     perhaps  young  wolf  should  be  scared ,    and  yet ,    he  found  himself  nothing  but  enthused .     pencil  copies  the  likeness  of  the  stranger ,     etched  into  the  paper  with  care  and  precision ,     a  gentle  smile  sitting  along  lips .

｡ﾟﾟ ▲ . 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 / 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓'𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 , 𝐃𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐒𝐏 . 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒 ᶦⁿ ᶜʳᶦᵐˢᵒⁿ ᵃˢ ᵃ ᶜʳᵉˢᶜᵉⁿᵗ ʷᵃᵈᵉˢ , ˢᵃⁿᵍᵘᶦⁿᵉ ⁻ ˢᵒᵃᵏᵉᵈ , ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵃⁿ ᶦᵐᵇʳᵘᵉᵈ ᵍᵒⁿᵈᵒˡᵃ , ᵃ ᶜʳᵘᵒʳ - ᶜᵒᵃᵗᵉᵈ ˢᶜʸᵗʰᵉ , a 𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑠 sneer . ᶜᵘᵐᵘˡᵒⁿᶦᵐᵇᵘˢ ˢᵃᵘⁿᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵏʸ ˢᵃᵗᵘʳⁿᶦⁿᵉ & ᵇᵘˡᵇᵒᵘˢ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆 ᵒᶠ ᵃ 𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 , ˡᶦᵐⁿᵉᵈ ᵒᶜᶜᵃˢᶦᵒⁿᵃˡˡʸ ᵇʸ ⁿᶦᵗᶦᵈ ʳᶦᵛᵘˡᵉᵗˢ ᵒᶠ 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 & ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ˢᵘᵈᵈᵉⁿ 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 ˢᵗʳᵒᵇᵉˢ . ❝ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵃᵗ , ᶦᵗ ˢᵉᵉᵐˢ , ʷᵉ ʰᵃᵛᵉ finally ʳᵉᵃᶜʰᵉᵈ an 𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 . ❞

ᵗʰᵉ ᵃᵇʳᵘᵖᵗ ᵍᵘᵗᵗᵘʳᵃˡˢ ᵒᶠ 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐝𝐞 , ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵒʳᵏˢ ᵒᶠ 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 . ʰᵉ ˢᵐᶦˡᵉˢ & ᶦᵗ’ˢ ʷᶦᵗʰᵒᵘᵗ a mote ᵒᶠ ᵃᵐᶦᵃᵇᶦˡᶦᵗʸ , ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵒʳᵐᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕 & 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 ᶦⁿ ᶦᵗˢ ᶜʳᵒᵒᵏᶦⁿᵍ , ᵃ ᵍˡᶦˢᵗᵉʳ ᵒᶠ 𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗻 . ❝ ʷʰʸ ˢᵖᵉᵃᵏ ʷᶦᵗʰ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕤 ʷʰᵉⁿ ʷᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵈᵒ ˢᵒ ᵉᵃˢᶦˡʸ 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 ? ❞

unprompted | accepting | @machaera said ... “ there are some things you just don’t realize about places until you leave them . ”

Merit, to his words, of course ; For, what he was MADE OF, the spirit within him, was something far older, than mankind could imagine. Kindred, in a way, as wisdom was instilled in the two of them. He, likely with age, and she, by the Gods. Yet, still did she heed ; there was little point, in snubbing words handed to her.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ❝ ... I know this to be true. ❞

However, the attachments there, now stripped, and bare. An empty nest. Mothers and their husbands, far too busy. A hole, in a tree as shelter, where she felt comfort and safety, no longer. Could it be called, home?

and yet despite this , still , there is a little life up there , just past the surface of her spring . ozgog's agitation swells .

｡ﾟﾟ 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐁𝐖𝐄𝐁𝐒 𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐒 & ᶜˡᵘˢᵗᵉʳ ᶦⁿᵗᵒ ᵍᵒˢˢᵃᵐᵉʳ ᵃʳʳᵃˢ . ˡᶦᶜᵏˢ ᵒᶠ ᶠˡᵃᵐᵉˢ flicker like pennons ᵃˢ ᵘᵐᵇʳᵃˢ ᶜᵃˢᵗ ˢᵗʳᵉᵗᶜʰᶦⁿᵍ 𝗼𝗯𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗮𝗻 ᵘⁿᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃˡˡˢ , ᶠᵒʳᵐᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿˢ ᵃᵖᵖᵉᵃʳᶦⁿᵍ ᵃˢ frolicking silhouettes , ˡᵘʳᶜʰᶦⁿᵍ ˢᵖᵉᶜᵗʳᵉˢ , 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐬 . ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ’ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ ˢᶜᵃᵐᵖᵉʳᶦⁿᵍ ʳᵃᵗᵗᵘˢ ˢᶜʳᶦᵗᶜʰᶦⁿᵍ ᵃᵐᵒⁿᵍ ˢᵃⁿᵈˢᵗᵒⁿᵉ , ᶜʳᵉᵖᶦᵗᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᵒᶠ ᵇᵒⁿᵉˢ , yūrei  & ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵖᵃʳᵒˣʸᵐˢ ᵒᶠ 𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀 --- ᵇᵘᵗ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳʷᶦˢᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒˢˢᵘᵃʳʸ ᶦˢ ᵠᵘᶦᵉᵗ , & ˢʰᵉ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵏˢ ; ℎ𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑦 ˢᵒ . ❝ well , 𝘺𝘦𝘴 . ᶜᵒⁿˢᵉᵠᵘᵉⁿᶜᵉˢ ᵒᶜᶜᵘʳ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ᵃᶜᵗᶦᵒⁿ --- ᵃᶜᵗᶦᵒⁿˢ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃˢ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵗᵃˡᵏᶦⁿᵍ , 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 , ʰᵃᵛᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵘⁿ . . . ᵈᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶦˢ ? having 𝙛𝙪𝙣 ? ❞

they are being 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 , ˢʰᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷˢ ; ᵘⁿˢᵉᵉⁿ ʷʳᵃᶦᵗʰˢ ᵇᵘᵒʸᵃⁿᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵃ ʷᵒᵐᵇ . revenants ᶦⁿ ᶜᵃᵗᵃᶠᵃˡᵠᵘᵉˢ ᵖʳᵉᵖᵃʳᶦⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ˡᵘⁿᵍᵉ . 𝚟𝚛𝚢𝚔𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚜 ʳᵒᵃᵐᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵃᵇʸʳᶦⁿᵗʰᶦⁿᵉ ᶜᵒʳʳᶦᵈᵒʳˢ . ᵃʳᶜʰᵃᶦᶜ behemoths , ˢᵃⁿᵈ - ˢᵘᵇᵐᵉʳᵍᵉᵈ , ˢᵒᵒⁿ ᵗᵒ ˢᵘʳᶠᵃᶜᵉ . ᵃ ˢᶦⁿᵍˡᵉ , ˢᶦᵐᵖˡᵉ commotion , & ᵗʰᵉʸ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉᵐ , ˡᶦᵏᵉ 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲 - 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝗸 ʰʸᵃᵉⁿᶦᵈᵃᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵃⁿ ᵒʳᵗ . [ * ʰᵉʳ ᵖᵃˡᵐ ᵐᵒᵗᶦᵒⁿˢ ᵘⁿᵗᵒ ᵃ ᶜᵒᶠᶠᶦⁿ’ˢ ʰᵉᶠᵗʸ ˡᶦᵈ , 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝙿𝚄𝚂𝙷 . ] ❝ i can 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 you , ᶦᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ˡᶦᵏᵉ . ❞