#realitywarpt

[stormsmith]

@realitywarpt​ || starter call from Thistelis

Darkness flowed around the goddess, hanging gently about her like a shawl,  the twin moons of Illi Anvacorra hanging overhead. The field around her was painted a pale blue, shimmering with a myriad of shades as pale light poured from the flowers’ center, accentuating the pale face above the glittering white dress. Gems embedded the soft fabric that covered her from the neck down, gathering around the waist and across the chest artfully, as well as gathering a little clutch of fabric at the left hip.

Her legs were folded under her, sitting in the field of flowers with golden, glowing bushes of white donollions at the edge of the field adding to the light. The city had been under attack not all that long ago, but Thistlelis had been out here the entire time, picking the flowers and twisting their long stems into braids. She didn’t wage war, took no part in it; she would’ve been a liability in the field, or so she thought she would have.

The mad one’s, the warring one’s, the dark one’s energy was felt long before she laid eyes on him. Black eyes the color of the shadows around her looked up from her braiding, a thread of caution in her gaze, yet... peace, all the same. Fear was a natural response to the old entity before her, but she also knew she wouldn’t have been able to stop him if he wished her ill, so she made no move against him.

“Hello,” she said, her voice as soft as moonlight, an almost echo to her tone, and then she looked to the side to pluck another flower up. “Sit with me. You must be exhausted.” 

To anyone else it was a command; to him it was a request, one she wouldn’t begrudge him for turning down, but one she also dearly hoped he considered seriously.

[stormsmith]

@realitywarpt​ || a starter from the queen of bones

It was the right place at the right time, and totally by chance, that the queen of bones, a god so ancient and so mysterious, she didn’t have a name. Most called her Reina—well, the elders. No mortal did—after one of the others had brought the word back from one of the mortal planes, but even then... many just called her The Queen.

Blood soaked the ground that she stepped daintily across, holding the frilly dress that draped like a waterfall from her hips, framing her legs. Her boots were solid black, extending to just above the knee, where there was a tiny patch of thigh visible on each leg, extending up to the bottom edge of her dress where it hung shortest that was covered in black lace. She seemed unbothered by the blood staining her heels.

When she saw him, she lost her breath from the fear, a deep shudder rolling across her body like thunder across the clouds, and she brought one hand up to place the ends of her fingers over dark painted lips. A small, high pitched gasp escaped behind her hand. He was terrifying and awe inspiring and she had only ever heard rumors and stories of the war god, the fear god, the god of darkness itself—Ebris. Even in heels he loomed over her (or would, once she got to him; which she would, despite her own raging terror.) like an edifice of terror and misery.

The queen thought her may have been the most beautiful thing she’d seen in her long life, and so she hitched up the skirt of her dress, ruffles bunched into fists as she started stepping over bodies, just as dainty and delicate as before but with an increased pace as she looked down at her step.

Black curls hung and bounced around a tanned face, accentuating hauntingly dark eyes that looked up to meet eyes the vermillion color of molten rock and melting earth, as she got within sword’s reach of him. She stopped there, didn’t dare come closer lest she meet her end—this alone may have been too close, but she couldn’t have stopped herself from approaching if she wanted to.

Still, she tried to seem unthreatening as she let go of her skirt, letting it pour around her once more as the goddess of fear watched him, her fingers coming to rest in front of her stomach, tip to tip.

“Hello, darling,” she said in a voice as soft and smooth as the flutter of a dove’s wing, seductive and charming in its gentleness, though she knew looks were deceptive. She was reminded of her sister, one of the most powerful of her kind, yet seemingly as delicate as the wings of a moth. She herself was not so delicate, either, but she had no intention of being anything but gentle in that moment.