2/12/2025, 12:13 AM
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SKILL : - - - ( 1 / 5 )
She divulged little to anyone about the stilting descent her marriage had fallen into. It wasn't a matter of something she pinned close willfully as much as she just wasn't sure how to broach it with anyone. Though Shiloh had urged her to tell him exactly what happened, she had told him only that there was too vast a divide - something that had built over months, marked by loss and clumsily venomous words she just never seemed to be able to shed. She had tried to keep moving forward and maintain the outward appearance of peace, but time did not heal all wounds; sometimes, it worsened them, allowing a superficial cut to fester into something grievous.
She didn't tell a single soul that Archon had once told her that the loss of her litter was just as well, nor had she verbally extended blame to him for leaving her so ill-prepared for his absence to fetch Shiloh, leading to the entire conflict with Elysium - although, in her heart, she assigned him some of the cause for that. Fable voiced none of it, and she wasn't certain that she would.
They were details that were meant for specific ears, but her lips would not release them even as the revelations cut against her tongue. She was not the sort to speak ill of others, even if they deserved it - even when the experiences doled out by their hands pained her on a visceral level.
Fable was not certain she ever could have forgiven Archon for what he had said. She had clung onto their union out of obligation and commitment, but what should have been the immediate death of their relationship became a shambling, prolonged mess; it boiled over and, now, there was too much for her to stuff back into the same bottle.
Their failed marriage troubled her now, but she was certain it would not do so forever - eventually, she would be able to get through a day without thinking about him, and then another - until he became a fixture of her past that was brushed only out of necessity where their children were concerned.
She just wasn't there yet.
A rare sense of relief settled around her when Fox didn't assume she had gone mad in her grief. She had come to realize many didn't bear a background steeped in magic like she did - some, if not most, appeared to come from a fairly mundane origin. It made her question what angle the fae were working in this strange world known as Mythris, but she had long decided it was a mystery she was not meant to unravel.
Frankly, she had far too many complicated matters on her paws to untangle first.
Luckily, she would not mourn them terribly as the environment began to shift.
The air thick with nectar beckoned her into the tree tunnel and, with each step, further metamorphosis took place. Pink boughs slowly devolved into rich reds, golds, and orange, the forest floor dappled with the final vestiges of autumnal light. Trees grew taller, wider, and blocked out more and more illumination as the pair descended into the familiar path Fable had walked innumerable times, though she had been in a far different form the last time she made this pilgrimage.
She wasn't sure if the words and terms meant anything to him, but she felt compelled to add,
The tunnel widened, opening up to a sprawling village settled into the magicked forest. Homes were nestled into the crooks of intricate tree roots, as though the trees themselves had permitted the inhabitants space rather than having been infringed upon. Other domiciles were forged into the earth, almost like Sidhe mounds with cheerfully painted doors to afford the homeowners privacy. Every single home was placed with thought given to the living world surrounding it, inobtrusive and working with nature instead of against it. Motes of light hovered around tall, nature-made torches along the well-worn paths, creating visibility for both the inhabitants of Samhain and their visitors alike.
It was not unlike a fae village, except on a much larger scale and with impossibly tall trees whose branches created a protective barrier so high above them that the furthest reaches were blots of autumn tones. There was a permanent haze of warmth, but Fable concluded it was likely the nectar's ambience.
Fable's paws came to a stop as she studied the scene. Normally, the space was full of life and bustle, but it had grown hallowed and quiet. Not a soul stirred except for the two of them.
Pressing forward, she followed the half-cobbled path. It was familiar beneath her, the moss-covered stones soft underfoot. She was reminded of being a child and running barefoot in this clearing - days that seemed so very far away.
She didn't tell a single soul that Archon had once told her that the loss of her litter was just as well, nor had she verbally extended blame to him for leaving her so ill-prepared for his absence to fetch Shiloh, leading to the entire conflict with Elysium - although, in her heart, she assigned him some of the cause for that. Fable voiced none of it, and she wasn't certain that she would.
They were details that were meant for specific ears, but her lips would not release them even as the revelations cut against her tongue. She was not the sort to speak ill of others, even if they deserved it - even when the experiences doled out by their hands pained her on a visceral level.
Fable was not certain she ever could have forgiven Archon for what he had said. She had clung onto their union out of obligation and commitment, but what should have been the immediate death of their relationship became a shambling, prolonged mess; it boiled over and, now, there was too much for her to stuff back into the same bottle.
Their failed marriage troubled her now, but she was certain it would not do so forever - eventually, she would be able to get through a day without thinking about him, and then another - until he became a fixture of her past that was brushed only out of necessity where their children were concerned.
She just wasn't there yet.
A rare sense of relief settled around her when Fox didn't assume she had gone mad in her grief. She had come to realize many didn't bear a background steeped in magic like she did - some, if not most, appeared to come from a fairly mundane origin. It made her question what angle the fae were working in this strange world known as Mythris, but she had long decided it was a mystery she was not meant to unravel.
Frankly, she had far too many complicated matters on her paws to untangle first.
I don't,Fable lamented.
Since I woke up in Mythris, they're gone. It's weird not t'see them branchin' between others, but every once in awhile, I swear I can see a glimmer o' somethin'.She thought of the gilded strings that were woven with such intention yet delicacy; they had been beautiful, especially when fated pairs were near. It had been the warmest glow she had ever seen, but now... The world had lost some of its light. The sunlit filigree she'd grown accustomed to seeing everywhere was gone, and the world felt colder for it.
Luckily, she would not mourn them terribly as the environment began to shift.
The air thick with nectar beckoned her into the tree tunnel and, with each step, further metamorphosis took place. Pink boughs slowly devolved into rich reds, golds, and orange, the forest floor dappled with the final vestiges of autumnal light. Trees grew taller, wider, and blocked out more and more illumination as the pair descended into the familiar path Fable had walked innumerable times, though she had been in a far different form the last time she made this pilgrimage.
Aye, I do,Fable affirmed, her voice bearing an edge of awe.
I don't know how, but this is Samhain.Had both of them somehow stepped into a fae circle and been transported back to her world? There was a cold wave of trepidation about how they might return, but she was far too spellbound to think of it now.
Th' smell is nectar, I'm sure o' it - it's a fae wine, but it is strong, far stronger than anythin' we can make naturally.
She wasn't sure if the words and terms meant anything to him, but she felt compelled to add,
I don't think it is safe t'drink seein' as we are... wolves, but I would know its scent anywhere.
The tunnel widened, opening up to a sprawling village settled into the magicked forest. Homes were nestled into the crooks of intricate tree roots, as though the trees themselves had permitted the inhabitants space rather than having been infringed upon. Other domiciles were forged into the earth, almost like Sidhe mounds with cheerfully painted doors to afford the homeowners privacy. Every single home was placed with thought given to the living world surrounding it, inobtrusive and working with nature instead of against it. Motes of light hovered around tall, nature-made torches along the well-worn paths, creating visibility for both the inhabitants of Samhain and their visitors alike.
It was not unlike a fae village, except on a much larger scale and with impossibly tall trees whose branches created a protective barrier so high above them that the furthest reaches were blots of autumn tones. There was a permanent haze of warmth, but Fable concluded it was likely the nectar's ambience.
Fable's paws came to a stop as she studied the scene. Normally, the space was full of life and bustle, but it had grown hallowed and quiet. Not a soul stirred except for the two of them.
This is th' holy site o' m'coven, the Hand,she explained, her voice hushed, as though an octave higher might disrupt something sacred. Her eyes tracked to a particular pathway that disappeared into a collection of trees before shifting sidelong to Fox.
Follow me.
Pressing forward, she followed the half-cobbled path. It was familiar beneath her, the moss-covered stones soft underfoot. She was reminded of being a child and running barefoot in this clearing - days that seemed so very far away.
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