dreadmountain - Tumblr blog

[dreadmountain]

@cnuasach​ | kdaid.

     Anorýn follows the stranger almost with an earnestness. Whether it was wise or not, the blooming curiosity in her belly had spurred her to follow suit. She was compelled by the MORSELS of information he had offered her, a weakness to be assured, but as it would likely be with any child so quickly ripped from the security of their mother. Anorýn wanted to understand what he knew, what he could reveal, as there was so little her father had given her over the long and desolate years. Yet it would seem, in her eagerness, her training and frankly even her good sense had abandoned her for a moment. When she stalls him, it’s wholly without malice or ill will, but his dark return sees her only shrinking back at the scolding. For a moment, she finds herself silent once more staring at the creature with wide eyes and confusion. What he speaks is not wrong, not in the SLIGHTEST, and had anyone been there of her character, Anorýn likely would have melted with embarrassment. Perhaps her father had been right, maybe she wasn’t ready for such a position. 

      The elleth does not answer his initial inquiry, partially afraid to provoke another reaction that might cede him to lesser control. While she had a good enough assurance of her own speed and skills in terms of evasion, those wandering beasts along the distant hillsides did make her uneasy. A partial reason she wished for the company upon returning back to camp, but it was not the sole reason. It’s only when he asks about her people’s recovery did grey eyes reignite in conscious thought. “RARELY, it’s too dangerous, even as the decades slip by many survivors choose to move on rather than face the horror’s that occurred here,” Anorýn answered honestly, watching him manoeuvre around until he came upon a chest. It was beautiful, garnering her eye before she faintly returned her sights to the giant man. “I COULD take it back, but I doubt anyone who lived here could claim it. Most survivors have begun boarding ships back to Valinor. Most who remain are in the armies or too poor to leave.” Another admission of honesty, although more so empathetically revealing than informational. Her brow knits, teeth sliding over her bottom lip before she tries once more. “I should like you to return to camp with me, even if you are a looter or a mercenary,” Anorýn prompts faintly. “I should hate to leave you here amongst these monsters, even if I do not know your name, I am not so CRUEL to wish death by dragon on anyone.” 

    CALLOUSED FINGERTIPS RUN across the gleaming metalwork, charred but undamaged by the fire that consumed the rest of the building. It was testament to the craftsmen that created such a chest -- and the quality of the materials they used. The wood was still solid despite the obvious evidence that it had burned like the rest of the building. It was almost a shame to break it open, but there was no other way besides a key, and even then there was no guarantee heat hadn’t warped the lock. While he may not show much in the way of interest, he’s actually listening intently to what the young elleth has to say even if a low hum that rumbles deep in his chest is the only real acknowledgement of it. “So your rulers would rather let it rot, or get recovered by others?” It seemed both a ridiculous concept and unsurprising -- wasteful, and yet completely in-character for every ruling elite he’d ever come across. But then he had no idea what he would find when he eventually cracked open the chest.

     Sweeping his coat back, he unhooks the hand-axe that’s slung around his belt and turns it around in his grip until he can slip that crude but wickedly sharp blade between the lid and the body of the chest until it connects with the internal bolt of the lock. There’s a moment of brief silence and then a metallic crack as the palm of Dau’s hand hits the blunt back of the axe head and the metal lock breaks as easily as if it were made from softwood. The axe is returned to his belt by his right hand while his left opens the lid of the chest to reveal the contents. There isn’t much of interest; a pouch of coins that he pockets for himself, a few items of jewellery and toys that he has no interest in, and a few rolls of parchment that he ignores completely. “Take anything of note out to return it if you wish. Or for yourself if you’re so inclined -- I doubt the dead would care.” He stands, wiping his grime-covered hands on his coat as he steps back and turns his attention to the structure they’re in.

     The walls seem solid enough and, even though there is now no floors to speak of, the larger wooden beams have survived and weren’t rotten enough for mosses and lichens to grow on them. With more agility and grace than someone of his size should be capable of, he climbs a lodged beam to what would have been the next floor up and uses his own momentum to vault onto the wall where a roof would have once sat. It’s a vantage point that he makes the most of, using the valuable extra height to scan through the charred trees -- he can even see the remains of the city off int the distance and considers it for a while before a roar off in the mountains in the opposite direction pulls his attention. “By now you’ve realised that death by dragon is not something that concerns me, avaivk orrodh.” He speaks casually, his voice easily carrying in the still air. “Drop the pretense and tell me the real reason why you are so adamant on bringing a stranger back to your camp even when there’s a high chance of your superiors being less than pleased.”

[dreadmountain]

✖ | dhark.

       It’s hard for her to imagine that they lived so idly upon the earth without an ounce of purpose outside the confines of daily tasks necessary for survival. Particularly for livelihoods that seem so mundane, Morgana felt there must be something more than listing along day after day. The Druids often said the gods were always watching, and perhaps she did not believe such things so literally, but how could there be nothing from them? How could they allow them to roam so aimlessly if there was not a purpose to fulfill? All the darkness and fear. All the suffering and anxieties. For what? Nothing? 

       “You speak as if you know them,” Morgana grumbles under her breath, watching him shift along seemingly tolerating the conversation at the present. That was, until he looks at her so purposefully, earning a turn of attention towards the morning interesting brush crushed beneath her feet. While she knew very little of her origins, secrets whispered faintly behind closed doors and across smoldering firepits. Oh, why could they not just tell her? Why must everything be offered in riddles or half-truths? A normal girl didn’t live in the woods with a man holding her in no apparent relation. “Fire destroys,” She counters in unfavorable stubbornness. “Yet you as well as I have felt its burn with little corruptions or annihilation.” Does that mean they were already corrupt? That they were already destroyed in every amiable sense?

       Still, his next words did manage to rouse her most assuredly, the attention once faltering for fear of direct gaze now perked with sincere interest. “A Seer?” The puzzled response feels both elated and hopeful yet Morgana knows very well what his stern features convey without words. What he aims for her to find would not be pleasant, she feels this truth in the very way he regards her. In his unspoken desire to hinder her curiosity further, of this she felt most assured.  “You call the Druids kooks and babbling menaces that wish only to annoy you.” There would hardly be a change of mind to merely occupy her wanderlust, so what purpose was he serving? She was no opposed, but if he might feel an ounce of pride in his ward, he’d not raised too great a fool. 

        “Why must I inquire with a Seer? Why can you not simply tell me the truth?” Morgana implored once more, taking a braver step towards him, as she would heartily fulfill his suggestion if it were sincere. “Do you want them to scare me? Did you speak evils to this Seer in hopes of staying my curiosity?” It was hardly above him, even if he might protest.  

    SUCH PETULANT ARGUMENTS go hand in hand with her age, Toa knows this, but that does not mean he has to tolerate her grumbling under her breath as if he couldn’t hear her. He levels her with a tired stare from under drawn down eyebrows, an unimpressed curl to the corner of his lips. “And you presume that I do not.” He’s warned her before of being presumptive, about how nothing is as it seems and that she needs to be a little less quick at her judgements. Oh, he knows the Gods alright, knows them too well. Hell, he’s older than a lot of them and he’s had a hand in killing more than one. And if it wasn’t for one Old God in particular, he wouldn’t be tethered to one spot like the mortals he was imitating. She wasn’t old enough to learn that yet, but the time when she would be was sooner than she likely expected. He still doesn’t know what to expect when she finally does learn the truth, but he’s not exactly expecting it to go smoothly.

     “There is no comparison to be made between fire and magic, girl.” It’s a low growl, the echo of countless ages behind his words at the mulish comment that betrays her youthful ignorance. “Fire consumes what it needs to survive then moves on; it blackens and it chars, but there is always something left behind.” If anyone knows how fire works, it’s him. He’s used to time and time again to begin again when he found the state of affairs unsatisfactory. Burn it all an rebuild from the ashes. “The forests that regrow after a fire are filled with more life than the ones that came before - and sometimes before something reaches it’s true potential, it must burn first.” He expects the same will be for her, she will burn from the inside out. “But magic?” He continues, attention returning to the carving he was fiddling with. “Magic takes and takes until there is nothing left to regrow. Only the strongest wills can withstand it.”  He knows that flame in her grows day by day, eventually it will consume her. Only time would tell if she would regrow stronger than before, of if she would perish to the fire.

       “I have told you before that I cannot simply tell you, or I would have done so years ago.” It’s said on a tired exhale; it feels like they’ve had the same conversation hundreds of times and every time it ends the same. “I am no teacher beyond making sure you know how to survive in a would that would gleefully kill you. The truth is something that comes when it comes and not before - you cannot force it to arrive before you are ready to know it, child.” But that arrival is on the horizon, he can feel it. He can feel the ties that bind are weakening, he can hear the sound of battle on the wind. For someone that longs for the truth he doubts she will ever be fully ready for it if she carries on with the attitude she fronts, but she will adapt. She will have to.

      The accusation, however, causes his hands to still as he sends her a mildly amused glance before a laugh escapes him, bouncing up deep from his chest at her naive allegation. There’s no malice in him laughing at her though he can predict the unhappy pout that it’s bound to bring. “Child, please explain to me how I can speak ills to a Seer that is more fearful of me than Uther is of his own death?” Toa knows that the moment he enters the camp there would be a reaction - at least, a reaction greater than usual one he gets from the Druids. And frankly, the stench of fear is off-putting. “But I have no doubt that what they say will interest you, if not scare you.” The smile that follows is grim. “Besides, they are proof that if you are not strong enough, that magic will consume you bit by bit.”

[dreadmountain]

@cnuasach from here

    THERE IS NO fault that lies at her feet for believing that there is more to it, she’s so very young and naive about the affairs of the world and the magic in it. But to speak of the Gods as if they actually cared if the fell creatures that walked the earth did as they’d planned or not? Had he not been in tighter control of himself, Toa might have scoffed at the concept. Oh, there were plans - for a very select few, herself included if that much lauded prophecy was anything to go by - but for the rest of her kind? They would end up like his own eventually, eaten by their own powers until they’re little more than a fairy tale. Humans especially couldn’t handle it - either it ate away at them until they were mere husks or they lived long enough to leave humanity behind. As for the girl? Well, she wasn’t exactly human to begin with so he doesn’t know which road she travels down; he does not see the future after all, prophecy or not.

      Far as he is from the fire, his breath escapes in clouds as he idly carves intricate patterns into the wooden horse in his fingers, the chill dawn air leaving him un-bothered even as it tries to sink it’s teeth into his skin. But he’s not so far as not to see the frown on her face, nor the way she rises from the warm glow to step towards him into the colder, grayer tones of the hazy dawn. The dew is starting to freeze out on the grassy field that slopes into the forest but the sky overhead threatens rain. But even the grey morning is enough to mute that fiery red of her hair, nor smother the look of discomfort as she approaches. He lets out a long exhale and pauses in his idle craft, shifting so he can lean back against the outcrop of stone he’d perched on to consider her.

     “No one knows what the gods have planned other than the gods, girl. And sometimes, not even they know - or they started with something but then got distracted along the way.” Fickle creatures, far worse than any human could be. It’s no wonder he’s not taken any part in their affairs until now - and even then he had little choice in the matter. The knife in his fingers is turned over and over in an idle fashion as he watches her, trying to work out what was going on in her head. It’s times like this he wished he was psychic; alas, he wasn’t the one that got that gift and the one that had was long dead.

      “Magic is consuming. It demands sacrifice that it reaps in prophecies or slaughter. To those it does not corrupt, it destroys.” Or someone like Uther does before magic has a chance. His attention drifts, resting on the thin plumes of smoke rising from the druid camp. “There is a seer passing through the camp nearby, offered great hospitality by the druids in exchange for some vague glimmer of hope.” A pause, brief as mismatched eyes roll back to the girl. “You wish to know what magic takes from those who cannot handle it? The seer is not much older than you; go look into their eyes before they leave and see for yourself.”

[dreadmountain]

✖ | kdluvkol.

Jesus fucking hell that’s a big ass man.

Completely disregarding a lifetime of convincing herself and anyone else in the vicinity that she’s eight feet tall, Toni must tip her head all the way back to look at a man who well… doesn’t need any convincing. A step back doesn’t quite cut it so Toni settles for three, still blinking dumbfounded at the giant before her. And her she thought it would be the bizarre heat signatures and sketchy history that would be of interest. With a ferocious act of will, Toni’s mouth closes. Hell, hire him on size alone. Would be enough to send anyone with an ounce of sense running.

Unfortunately for them both, Toni doesn’t often fall into that category.

“Noah Van Beek?” 

She’s proud of herself for how levelly that comes out. Not even a hint of squeak. Atta girl, Tones. Small victories. Clearing her throat and tugging the collar of her jacket up to block the biting wind, Toni’s gaze skims over the data sheet scrolling on the interior lenses of her tinted glasses. Precious little information. No recorded date of death despite a birthdate in the 1800′s, bizarre heat signatures, and an 084 rating paired with a garbled tale from a wet-behind-the-ears agent several years ago. It’s not much. Precious little. But Toni’s in no position to not even try. At this point, she’d look into recruiting anything plausible paired with a pulse that she can pull from old, corrupted SHIELD files.

It’s with disappointment that she realizes, for all the effort into gathering information, the drive out here that had pushed even her mechanical skills, and the simple need, she doesn’t know what to ask. Her head tilts, lips compressing into a line that does nothing to suppress her huff of self-deprecating laughter. 

“What happened to scare the shit out of some rookie field agent about fifteen years ago?”

    NOT JUST SOMEONE lost then. They wouldn’t be asking for him by name if they were. He should’ve expected something like that to happen, given that the summer had been relatively uneventful except for the gaggle of girls that got lost at the start of the season and the hunter that accidentally shot himself in the foot a few weeks back. This wasn’t going to be half as simple as either of those, unfortunately, much to Toa’s disappointment. He merely lets out a slow exhale at the sound of his name, heavy brows dropping down as he tilts his head to examine the woman that had taken three very noticeable steps back.

    There’s a crick developing in his neck from where he’s got his head bent to see through a doorway that’s a good seven inches too short for him and with a huff he steps out onto the porch, the door swinging closed behind him. There’s a series of dull cracks as he straightens his slouched posture, rolling his neck to relieve the ache that had started to develop from being held at an angle. His gaze wanders from the woman, running past her fancy vehicle to skim the treeline back down the dead-end track that leads to his cabin. Mismatched eyes narrow, ignoring all other distractions as he searches for anything suspicious that the woman might have brought with her - though he finds nothing. 

    “You’ll have to be more specific,” he finally says, attention returning a few moments after her question was asked. He’s not completely certain what she’s talking about, he doesn’t keep track of time like humans did - it becomes a pointless task when you’re as old as he is. But people? He remembers people. Unfortunately, ‘rookie field agent’ is too vague of a description to pin down any one person in particular - there was a lot that could’ve fit that description since he took the post. “I’ve crossed paths with a lot that fit that specification.”

    He pauses, trying to figure the woman in front of him out before deciding that he’s not really sure he wants to know and the sooner she gets her answers then the sooner she can leave. “Though I’m guessing you’re not talking about someone from the local sheriff’s office or forestry service?” That doesn’t eliminate much, he’s had CSIS and the CIA on his doorstep before and given the fancy SUV, if he was a betting man, he’d say she was connected to something like that.

[dreadmountain]

@ironandpalladium is poking dragons

    THERE’S ABSOLUTELY NOTHING remarkable about the day. It’s a long, drawn-out, midsummer’s day. The birds are singing, the insects are buzzing, but beyond that there’s very little outside the quiet little cabin that sits unassuming. It blends into the landscape, the wooden exterior green with lichens and algae, the roof dotted with various mosses and grasses that would normally indicate rot - though upon closer inspection there’s nothing ramshackle about the cabin. Somewhere out back there’s the rattle of a generator surrounded by petrol cans, further still there’s the low roar of a fire burning in the heart of a furnace that belches out enough heat to wilt the surrounding trees, their leaves scorched in a ring around the tall chimney - a testament to the heat being generated by the forge’s core. 

     Inside the cabin there’s a steady ticking of a grandfather clock blocked in by stacks of books, a radio in the kitchen area playing classical music on a low volume and the steady drip drip drip of a leaking tap. Beyond that, nothing. As quiet as if it had been abandoned. Thick are pulled back to let the light beam in through the large window and land on the dozing form spread out on the couch, the dust playing in the rays, slow heavy breaths making them dance. He barely stirs when the old radio receiver off in one corner chirps to life, the voice of a woman crackling over the speakers. ‘Hey, Noah,’ she starts, tone apologetic, ‘don’t even know if you’re listenin’ but I got a head’s up for ya. There’s someone headed up your way in a fancy SUV and seein’ as you’re the only one out that way it falls to you to turn ‘em back.’  He doesn’t respond to the hail but he hears them alright. He knows the drill. This time of year, people get it into their heads to head into the wilderness for fun and adventure - then the vehicle breaks down or they run out of food or encounter unfriendly wildlife and suddenly it turns from family vacation to rescue operation. Toa merely sighs and lets his eyes slip closed. If he sees anything on his evening rounds, he’ll act, but otherwise he’s going to pretend as if he was out of his cabin when the alert came through.

      He probably shouldn’t be surprised that, a few hours later, he’s woken from his doze by the sound of an engine outside that didn’t belong to him. A single. brilliant blue eye cracks open to stare at the ceiling as he listens to the sound of fat tires on dry leaves and dead twigs until the vehicle rolled to a stop. A door opens, a door shuts, then footsteps on leaves for six paces until it turned into footsteps on wooden stairs for four, and then two to the door. Three knocks on the wood, ignoring the bell, and Toa lets them wait for a while as he considers if he should even bother opening up or not. It’s only when he hears the footsteps retreating to the stairs does he groan and let his heavy booted feet slip from the dated couch onto the creaky floorboards. 

    They’re at the base of the steps by the time he opens the door and lingers in the entrance, mismatched gaze running from the figure to the fancy SUV parked beside his own battered old pickup and back again. While the rich part didn’t make him curious, the lack of family (or even just partner) did. No one came out here alone. “Can I help you?” Partly he’s just hoping they’re lost, but he doesn’t believe himself to be that lucky.

[dreadmountain]

✖ | dhark.

       “I think I know what I should and should NOT be afraid of,” Morgana argues with the elder of the pair. Looking at him with a mixture of frustration and disappointment, didn’t he see how tired she was of playing these games? Morgana was not a CHILD anymore. The horror stories cackled around a fire hardly kept her up at night. She knew that there was danger in the world, but what was the point of it all just to stay cooped up here? Tau had no desire to tell her WHY, nor did any of the druid’s, so of course, she’d do her best to find out in her own way. Her curiosity was unslakable on the best day, but this was more than just curiosity, it was a longing that begged to be fulfilled. “And you won’t teach me ANYTHING at all! At least the druids want me to know how to PROTECT myself!” She sighs in frustration, sinking down onto the log next to the fire. 

      While she knows she’ll never hear the END of it, she couldn’t help but feel him wrong about this. Surely there were good men in the citadel? Surely someone would be there to keep the evils of the tyrant in check. “If that’s true, and something is coming, don’t you think I should be PREPARED?” Morgana offers again, although this time maintaining some composure instead of relying solely on the hot blood that boiled within her bones. It’s clear he had little desire to be there in the first place, so why not let her learn elsewhere? What could the druids have to keep them so CLOSE at hand? For him not to rip the pair away and back to whatever land he actually came from? 

      “My nightmares have grown too numerous to ignore anymore. I can NOT pretend that I do not hear the sirens song on the outskirts of the forest. Something is coming, yes. But something is ALREADY here,” Her words more potent, lifting that mess of hair up so she could look at him with a pleading expression. Just something, give me something, ANYTHING. “No one will tell me anything, and I am tired of being in the dark. Whatever it is, whatever I must face, I can not ignore forever. Please, let me do something. Let me protect the people here, after all, they have done for US.”  While she could not truly know the truth of the sacrifices made to protect her, given no one had dared to speak of who she truly was, Morgana was not ignorant of the danger the druids and Tau put themselves in. Although, she had never feared for her guardian. 

      “Secrets do not keep people SAFE, Tau. If I do not know what I am facing, how can I ever HOPE to survive?” 

     BEL HAD TRULY outdone himself with Morgana, if his intention was to drive the titan to distraction. Long ago, Toa had decided that if he ever got the displeasure of meeting the god in person, he would simply eat him and let the bastard spend a few decades in his molten stomach before spitting him back out. “You may think you know what to fear, but you don’t know what it truly feels like yet, girl.” But she will, and he has no intention of keeping her from it should she seek it out - all he’s there to do is make sure she survives it. He’s also there to make sure that the world survives her if need be. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, a long slow exhale escaping his nostrils at her protests, eyes squeezing shut against the growing headache he hadn’t expected that morning. “Can’t, not won’t, there’s a very clear difference between the two.” A single eye opens to glare at the girl, his frown deep and echoing a tiredness that was as old as the very rocks they were surrounded by. But he speaks the truth. He cannot teach her even the basics of magic because he simply doesn’t have it to teach. He is a creature of magic but he lacks the ability to command it; dragons are not unicorns, they do not fart magic rainbows. 

      Beyond that, the laws of magic are different between him and her, he is born of the deep magic that burns within the heart of the earth while she’s kin of gods - a god that owed him more than a small favour for not leaving his child for the wolves as a babe. The hum rumbles deep within his chest, low and thoughtful as he takes a step back to observe the small fire sprite that was barely tall enough for him to use as an arm rest, the child he’d almost stood on multiple occasions simply because he didn’t see her underfoot. It was hard to picture her protecting a kitten, let alone felling a kingdom or more - yet he knew that was her purpose. More or less, anyway. “As I have told you before, I can teach you nothing I haven’t already.” Dragons keep their word, especially when making deals with gods. “And I have never actively stopped you from talking to the Druids. You wish to learn, you plead your case to them and hope they will listen.”

       His arms fold across his chest, a hip cocking as he lets his attention drift away from her to where the faint plumes of smoke still rise from the druid encampment. If he focuses hard, he can hear the chatter as they start to wake fully in line with the dawn as it drags the sun across the sky. They will not listen to her, he knows this, because they fear. He’s not sure what they fear - her, him, the King, or the greater forces at work - but the stench of fear rises like flies off a disturbed corpse the moment he walks near the camp. His expression hardens at the thought. If it was him they feared, he would give them reason to. “If they do not, then I will make them.” A pause and he looks back at Morgana, expression grim. “You do not want me to make them.” Fear doesn’t make for great teachers, and with the things she would need to learn he needs them to teach her willingly. If they taught her well enough then she would no longer need his watch and he could leave the kingdom to it’s fate. “Tell me. What do you believe is already here?”

[dreadmountain]

.

[dreadmountain]

✖ |dhark.

       Morgana knows he despised her wandering. A risk she should not take, what if the King’s men spotted her? Before she might have reminded Toa that it had been years since the neighbouring men had led an attack against the druids. The encampment sat so deep within the cursed wood for THAT reason alone. No single man would dare to wander amongst seemingly haunted forestry. Yet with many hushed whispers amongst the druid’s and scouts not returning as often, Morgana knew something stirred along the horizon. Toa would not tell her, however, nor would any she might speak too in the encampment. She was a child to them, far too young to understand the practices of magic and their subsequant DISCOURSE with the King. But that did not mean she could ignore the call within, she had to know WHY? 

      So when he startles her, thereafter affixing her with a look that spelt only trouble, she tries to appear innocent. Morgana had been working for weeks to DECODE the runes left near the relics she sought each morn. A history no one seemed willing to speak of. If it was so important to hide, Morgana wanted to know what it was. Perhaps it would lead her to her own history, and why she was ABANDONED at such a tender age. 

      “You shouldn’t MOCK them,” She sighs with annoyance, not amused by his usual disinterest in the druids whimsy. “If you dislike them so much, I wonder why you felt so compeled to live within their forests.” Although her grumbles fair far quieter than the intial remark. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she watched him begin working with the dying fire. He had always taken care of her, and why he felt so obligated she had not an inkling why. Her father he was not, but ‘DISTANTLY RELATED’ was about as far as the conversation ever got. 

       She was frustrated, confined, and repeatedly berated for her desire to KNOW more. Could he not see that? “You would not have to worry about my wandering if you would reason with the druid priest to teach me magic,” Morgana attempts, only this time trying to be somewhat helpful as to not worsen her wares. Discarding her cloak over a branch, she grabs the empty pail before wandering to the roughly made well. The moss had long climbed the edges, but then again, the rain that fell there NEVER boded much evil. “Besides, who is to say the Kings men would care much for one witch? I could very well march into the citadel with not much such a FUSS, I assure you!” 

    MORGANA CAN BE as huffy and unamused as much as she liked, that would not stop or change Toa’s opinions of the druids and their fruitless practices. He saw them as little more than foolish children, scratching the surface of a magic that ran deeper than they could ever fathom while tempting the wrath of a petty King. Despite her hot air, he would mock them as much as he pleased and the annoyance in her tone merely brings a grim, if mildly amused grin to his lips. He doesn’t need to answer her remark either, though he does make sure she knows he heard her. It is, after all, not his choice to live in close proximity to the druids - he would much rather be away from the blighted kingdom altogether, especially when the mountains across the sea were so much nicer at this time of year. Or they were, before a babe with a shock of red hair was thrust unceremoniously into his life. He had half a mind to just leave her for a few weeks and go see for himself if things were how he’d left them. Knowing his luck, he’d return to little more than carnage and ruin.

      A small wooden box is pulled out of a deep coat pocket and opened to reveal a pair of flint stones and a rough handful of dried out moss and horse hair that served as kindling. A large pinch was placed at the foot of the fire and surrounded by sticks; two sparks from the flint later and a thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the kindling and he pushed it deeper into the stack, blowing on it and helping it catch into something that quickly became more than just a weak ember. He might not be able to breathe fire, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make it faster than most - present company not included, though he wouldn’t trust her to not burn down the entire crag, the hut and surrounding forest included, purely by accident. 

    The box clipped shut and replaced back into his pocket, he stands to adjust the black metal tripod and cauldron over the now roaring flame. “Do you ever consider what’s coming out of that mouth of yours?” He shot her a sideways glance as he passes her by, headed towards the stack of seasoned birch logs nestled in a gap in the rocks and under a haphazardly tiled (but fully waterproof) roof. “You can’t reason with someone if they’ll say anythin’ to get you to go away. He’ll agree just to get me out of their camp but won’t teach you anythin’ of worth.” The old coot was terrified of the supernatural creature they’d got living on their outskirts. But she did have a point, eventually she’d need tutoring in the art of sorcery and that’s not something he can give her. 

     “The King’s men care about any that show magic. Them, the King’s court and forces further on.” He tosses the logs he’d acquired onto the fire that whines and pops as it feeds on the dry wood and he shrugs out of his coat on his way back to the lean-to with the rabbits. “And whatever...mass hysteria that’s gripped the Citadel is spreading outwards like a disease. It’ll consume the kingdom before long, along with everything in it.”

[dreadmountain]

✖ | kaldolokk.

       To say she was not intrigued by the creature would be a ridiculous falsehood, even in all her pride, Morgana valued magic and all its wonders before her own vanities. She had spent a majority of her long life sniffing through every ounce of lore, artifact, and relic that could have been paired to her people. In truth, Morgana had known so little about them. As she had been taken as a babe by Uther, what she had known only came from her short time with her mother’s sister along with the druids who use to care for her people. The grand ministers and priests of the Pendria had long been slain before the fated princess had returned. So many had been torned from the earthly plain cand cast into the void, never to know what future might become of the three ancient tribes of sorcerers. For Pendria was the mightiest of their kind, and if the great firebreathers fell – so too would the earth and sky. So in the most fragile truth, her curiousity stems from a great seed of loneliness. While she could recite every sonnet of man, draw ancient maps from memory, and weave the very futures of the lesser species; Morgana could not save her own. Perhaps that too is why she blamed Merlin, for letting it happen, for letting innocents die in pursuit of power. 

      Even as the room stilled and the two entites seemed far more concerned in figuring one another out than the hustle and bustle of the world surrounding them, the very question that hung in the air in every nature but bluntly asked hardly seemed necessary. Of course they hide such secrets from mankind, they were too fragile of a race to handle such darkness. Yet, these things Pendria’s had withheld from even their kin, as the histories of dragonkind – of monsters and might – were theirs alone. Only creatures born of the same flame could ever hope to understand the beautiful and terrible power of dragon’s fire. “My true father declared his children should never whisper his teachings to those who could bare the touch of flame. Humanity is too weak to understand what lies beyond their fraility, and any other in likeness –” Merlin. “Would try to use such things to destroy. Creatures of kept gods, sly and foxlike, they’re tricksters. And now, you see for yourself. He’s marched you straight to me, and you did not even see the deception.” The thoughts worried the sorceress, knowing fullwell that he was likely followed. While she didn’t doubt this creature in his abilities to protect himself, Morgana knew very well a fight within the city would bode ill for any in their path. “We must leave the city. I’ll get you the other book, but you must leave.” For all our sakes. 

       IT WAS FASCINATING, the way she spoke of dragons as she knew them; of course she refers to those closest to his own kind and the near-relation wyverns and wingless drakes that vomited fire. It’s true, modern day humanity was too wrapped up in itself to know the truth - he’s seen their nature, the destruction they bring. For such small, squishy creatures, they did more damage than he’d ever thought possible for one species. To both themselves and everything around them. If the dragons she knew still existed, he didn’t doubt her when she said they would be used to destroy - and if they could not be tamed then they themselves would be destroyed. But that was only half the story. The deceiver and his minions, his motives unclear. The question remained, did this cunning trickster truly know what he had sent into enemy territory? Did he think Toa some biddable creature that posed no threat? He would not be the first that underestimated him; to not recognise what stood right in front of him, hidden in plain sight. It was a puzzle that longed to be solved, but not one to be solved quickly.

      “Perhaps I have grown complacent in my old age,” he comments, idly, shifting the satchel strap on his shoulder and taking a step back with the intention of heading out towards the door. “But I truly doubt he realises the mistake he made in involving me in his games.” It would not be the first time he’s eaten a sorcerer and they give dreadful indigestion. Where he does agree with her is of the matter of being within the city limits. She doesn’t know how right she is when she speaks of a fight boding ill; Toa has no practical magic within the form he is and the human body he occupies, though hardy, is mortal. What follows would be catastrophe for the city and it’s residents. “I am inclined to agree, I am fond of this city, it would be a great shame to see it flattened.” Because it would be flattened when a dragon the size of a mountain was dropped upon it.

     “There is a farm a few hours to the north of the city where I’ve acquired lodgings,” he says, pulling out a small scrap of paper with the address scrawled upon it, leaving it upon a table for her as he passes by towards the door. “You will find me there for another week, after which I will be returning north.” He pauses at the door, considering her for a moment before dipping his head. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ms. Pendric.”

[dreadmountain]

✖ | dhark.

      There was peace along the hillside, no more were the scattering of children’s feet and the roar of babbling birds able to distract her now. The sun was rising over the Heel Stone, and there from her vantage point, Morgana saw its glory ALIGN perfectly through the relic. Long abandoned by the Druids’ ancestors, the morning rolled forth and the wind began to tickle her cheeks – she knew there was MORE to this story. 

      She would have been happy to spend the morning there, going through her sketches smuggled from unknowing supply transits that passed through the Wood Road, but the idea of finding herself on the receiving end on a rather HEATED lecture from her caretaker. Even being outside the protection of the Druid’s was highly discouraged, but to be out in the open were any men might stumble upon her? The high priests did not call her reckless for nothing. 

       With her satchel tied over her shoulder, she hurried back over the overgrown grassland into the edge of the treeline. Morgana could tell him that she was out looking for WISPS, a habit she had truthfully fallen into as a child, yet this routine often found him unwilling to believe ANYTHING that fell from her lips. The druid women had hardly begun to stoke fires to break their fasts when she darted through the encampment up to the neighbouring rocky summit that afforded relative SECLUSION. Their shanty roughly affixed the side of the draw, Morgana noticed the smell of smoke first before her eyes locked on the dwindling embers that seemed abandoned some time ago. 

      “Oh, gods no,” She exhales before hearing the immediate SNAP of twigs behind her, earning a yelp that nearly sends the young women out of her skin, the behemoth that appeared behind her turned the surprise and frustration quickly into sheepish DREAD. “Good morning, Toa,” A smile so childishly attempted on freckle dusted cheeks. Oh, this would not bode well.

       IT’S NOT THE first time his ward been missing, first thing in the morning. If anything it’s now somewhat of a common occurrence. There’s only so much that he - and the druids nearby - can do to discourage her wandering and as she gets older he knows it’s only going to get worse as she gets older. That doesn’t mean that he’s accepting of her drifting, nor does it mean she will be free of punishment once she returns, but while he used to trail her at a distance he now merely lets her wander - providing she doesn’t take liberties. She hasn’t so far, but Toa imagines that one day she’s going to overstep. That is if something else doesn’t happen first. 

       Toa’s own wandering range far exceeded Morgana’s, though while hers seemed mostly towards the Stones, his took him away from the encampments towards the hamlets and villages that lay further afield that skirted the edge of the Lord’s estate. There was better hunting out that way and the local gamekeepers didn’t bother him since he scared off the band of poachers. But today something was off. There was a tension in the air that wasn’t there on other mornings, a tightness of the normally relaxed landscape that thrummed with an air of malice that he’d not felt for a long while. It was only when he met a skittish woman on the road who muttered about soldiers did Toa work out why.

      The first wisps of smoke had started to rise from the druids camp by the time he came within range of his own secluded hide, the shock of red hair standing out amongst the muted colours of the dawn drawing his attention instantly. At least he doesn’t have to go looking for her. His approach isn’t stealthy and yet she still jumps out of her skin when she realises she’s been caught. He meets her childish grin with a look of disapproval tinted with mild disappointment and moves past towards the small lean-to affixed to the ramshackle building. 

       “Your wandering will be your downfall, child,” he begins, unhooking the two brace of rabbits hung by the back feet from his hunting bag and laying them out on the table with their heads hung over the side so the blood that drips from their noses falls onto the floor. The bag containing his sling and ammo is hung up on the hook before he exits the lean-to, heading back towards the long-dead fire.

      “What was it this time? Wisps again?” A tired excuse. “Or were you out with the rest of the more superstitious lot looking for the Salisbury Hare?” A pause as he tosses the unburned wood from the outer rim of the fire into a stack at the heart. “Because if you were, you’re too early. Full moon’s not until tonight.”

[dreadmountain]

‘do u have kinks’ yeah like five in my neck

[dreadmountain]

✖ | kaldolokk.

      “Bitterness would imply some level of envy or loss, I DESPISE that cretin with every morsel of my being,” She snaps back, “And as such, it matters greatly whom you hear it from! Bias is key to all of history, as the winners often always control the narrative.” Perhaps in that, there was a fair amount of bitterness. After all, Morgana had been robbed any chance of a normal life because of Merlin. Arthur’s death had spun a web of mysticism and revenge that the sorcerer had weaved with full intend to crush Morgana’s very being from the inside out. Like a madman, he crafted impossible horrors to punish her for her crimes. Crimes, she still supposed, were not entirely criminal in context. ANOTHER potent reason bias mattered, Morgana thought. However, when he admits to never seeing Merlin, she’s unsure why she believes him. There’s a bluntness to his character, something she’d otherwise find quite admirable, and so she allows him to continue although she does not reign in the blistering temperature around them. Counterproductive really, considering he was kin to dragons, as was she, but it was a reaction even after millennia of practice she could control little. Not without her necklace, of which at the present, Merlin still had. The loss of the pendant meant her magic often built like magma below the surface of consciousness. Often burping up beneath the soil, or rather flesh, aching to be RELEASED in its most destructive measure. These moments often acted as a pinpoint for Merlin or any associate, making it all the easier to find her, but she thought she had done so well in America. 

      It’s only when he calls her small that her full attention is regained from the kinetic space between them. The story he paints thereafter seems almost as fantastical as her own would be a common human. He speaks of beings far older than she, far older than the first glimpses of crawling lifeforms, PRIMORDIAL beasts that her people used as a catalyst to explain the very evolutions of the Earth. Yet his approach seemed to linger now with a hint of ash and smoke, it burned the very hairs within her nose, like their dwarfing sun had met with Lacertra. Molten golden hues stared up at the beast, somehow far less threatened and more so captured in wary confusion and awe. The drums that sung in the glittering blade seemed to be deafened by the raging painful screams of dragonlings, the shores of Avalon blackened by the corpses of the Pendria dragons, and Morgana left standing in chaos and damnation in the face of an all-eclipsing TITAN. She did not understand the words he spoke, but she felt them in her gut, like the belly of the Earth shook with his voice. The gold within her gaze seemed to drain deep within the black pupils as the emerald green relapsed it. The swinging of artifacts stilled, the rattling of stone and sliver quieted, and all measure of air seemed consumed by the foreground of burning beings born some several millions of years apart. Crafted by the same stardust as the universe. “There are stories, never written for the fear of humanity finding them, within the Pendria temples of old. Celtic warriors would guard the descendants of my people because it was them who knew the secrets of fire and brimstone. Of DRAGONS and creation,” The words are murmured, her own softened expression peering into his own curiously. “The Sun God was said to have birthed them onto the molten fetus of the planet to swim amongst the magma.” 

      THE AIR SHIMMERS, a haze of heat the blisters and singes; where there mortals stood in their presence the effect wouldn’t be dissimilar to a dog locked in a car on a hot sunny day. The humidity of the air skyrockets as the intense heat pulls the moisture out of everything; wood creaks and stones grind, the very earth trembles as the sorceress vents her fury. It would behove any normal person to react with fear, to cower and beg for mercy and forgiveness or mercy, but Toa merely stands calm and collected, mildly unimpressed by her outburst. He’s flame retardant, the molten core of his soul burning far hotter than any fire she could possibly imagine, and he doesn’t quite feel the sudden spike in temperature. Instead, it’s the change in the thick fur collar of his jacket that tells him of the shift; once damp hairs from the blanket of drizzle outside dry as if they’d been left in the baking desert sun for a day. He could argue that her insistent that bias matters is indicative of her bitterness, so often tied with loathing when history classed you as the loser, but he’d rather not have to put out someone else’s fires so he merely cocks a brow and regards her with a knowing - if slightly cold - expression. If she’s truly hunted by the man who’s henchman pointed him in her direction, then the amount of potent magic that invaded his nostrils and clung to the back of his throat was likely acting like a homing beacon. Perhaps that was the intention in the first place. 

      Her shift is anything but subtle when the other shoe falls. The temperature plummets back to normal at a rate that even catches him by surprise, the hairs on the back of his hands standing to attention at the sudden shift from comfortable heat to comparative chill. The silence yawned in the moments after everything returns to stillness, it rushed in like a flood along with the cooler air like the winter wind rushes down a chimney who’s fire has burned out. The sorceress may be old when compared to the fragile cluster of humanity she hides in, but she is a mere babe compared to him - and the look in her eyes betrays that, like a child would gaze upon something massive for the very first time. “So you have heard of me.” It’s said in jest, he doubts her people even had names for them beyond the collective, but he’s never been one to get hung up on such formalities. “I can’t confirm nor deny the involvement of any...Sun God, but we were vomited out from the magma, rather than left to swim in it. Dunno of you’ve ever come close to the stuff but it’s kinda thick for a casual paddle.” He pauses, rolling his shoulders and stuffing his hands in his pockets as a tongue escapes to wet lips unknowingly dried out by her attempt to turn her property into an oven. “It strikes me as odd that it would be humanity that you kept those secrets from. We were myth before humanity had even evolved from apes. Begs the question of who you’re really hiding those secrets from.” He has a feeling he knows.

[dreadmountain]

.

[dreadmountain]

—a memory of wind, by rachel swirsky

[dreadmountain]

↕ + Momo (4’11-5’)

toa a tol

@cnuasachshe’s literally nipple height.

[dreadmountain]

» send me ↕ + your muse’s height

I will compare your muse’s height to mine using this website.

[dreadmountain]

SHAKESPEARE  AESTHETICS.

Macbeth:

the howl of wolves. moonless nights. dirt under fingernails. stained silk. chattering teeth. voices hoarse and cracked. rotting fruit. echoing drums. dry heaving. hanging cobwebs. stifling humidity. bloodshot eyes. the roughness of rusted steel. wild rosebushes. muscle cramps. the sound of splintering wood.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

crackling fires. ivy crawling on stone. the faint music of running water. petrichor. dirty, bare feet. tattered clothing. thistledown. wilted wildflower crowns. late evening birdsong. curling leaves. a symphony of croaking frogs. drifting feathers. the eerie sound of windchimes at night.  humming bees. beds of clover.

Romeo and Juliet:

warm golden lamplight. worn shoes. crumbling brick walls. whispered poetry. embroidered satin. cool, hazy mornings. tousled hair. rosewater. flushed cheeks. distant orchestras. unfinished marble statues. cobblestone streets. loose threads. ink smudged on parchment. tapping fingers. dust illuminated by sunlight. poison vials.

Hamlet:

shattered glass. a cluster of fraying ribbons. unanswered knocks on doors. lingering dampness. white noise. inexplicable drafts. migraines. bleeding ears. the taste of metal. reflected mirrors. dry, cracked lips. the sound of tearing paper. fogged windows. memories of dreams. tarnished silver. protruding veins.

tagged by: @cnuasach tagging: whomever wishes to