Private Tales Chasing Shadows

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
His words were music to her pointed ears. Thiri's smile persisted in pleased enthusiasm, barely giving an inch as her host fluidly stepped from his repose and uttered incoherently to his shadows. It seemed like an unknown love language almost too intimate to eavesdrop on, but she was a creature of curiosity and so listened intently. Her rapt attention shifted to the dancing of the shadows next, following their progression around and about before taking a step tentatively as it snaked about herself.

Aethiriin lifted her arms, looking down as the darkness wrapped around her, layering over her own black ensemble in a fit as perfect as a gown from the modiste. Alarm was not precisely the right word, but she was most definitely intrigued. Shifting, moving, twirling about once, Thiri marveled at the feel of the fabric and how its dulled shimmer followed.

She had never worn shadow before, but she had often retreated into the darkness of the world around her to be alone. This cloak felt similar to that - welcoming, comfortable, like a hug - only this time it was mobile. Her little sanctuaries could only ever be in one place.

"Ha!" expelled from her lips in delight, "I love it!" and her feet moved swiftly to catch up with him, pleased to also be on her way at last to see her Godmother, "Is this your magic talent? I did not know black shucks had them like duannans do."
 
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Oryn watched her with a quiet amusement as she marveled at the shadows that now adorned her like a living garment. Her delight was infectious, a rare spark in the otherwise somber landscape of his existence. "They like you.." he rumbled, speaking of his shadows as though they had a mind of their own.

When she caught up to him, her feet barely making a sound against the shadowy ground, Oryn’s lips curled into a small smirk and he chuckled, a low, melodic sound that echoed softly in the darkness around them. “Magic is woven into the very essence of what we are, little ghost. They came to me when I needed them most. Are as much a part of me as the blood in my veins.” He paused, his golden eyes reflecting the soft glow of the shadows that clung to her. “It’s not just a talent. It’s… a bond, of sorts. A symbiosis between myself and the night. The shadows listen to me, as I listen to them.” he explained pensively.

He tilted his head slightly, observing her with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, almost like admiration. “The black shucks, we’re guardians by nature, protectors of the thresholds between life and death. Our magic is tied to that duty. The shadows help us travel between worlds, slip through the cracks unseen.."

Oryn reached out, brushing a stray lock of her hair back into place, his touch as light as the shadows that cloaked them both. “And now, they’re here for you too. Consider it a token of our alliance.”

He stepped back, the shadows swirling around his feet like a living mist. “Shall we? The night is long.” His voice was gentle, trailing off as he continued onward, murmuring distantly to himself.

"Where shadows weave and silence sings,
The night unveils her hidden wings..."

"In darkness deep, where secrets lie,
We walk unseen beneath the sky.."
 
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“The black shucks, we’re guardians by nature, protectors of the thresholds between life and death. Our magic is tied to that duty. The shadows help us travel between worlds, slip through the cracks unseen.."

These words slowly let the light out of her expression like a candle flame dying at the bottom of the wick in a pool of its own melted wax. Her mind silently went to her father. Did he have such powers? Had he also been a guardian and protector? Asemir and Veithir had only told her so much about him and both seemed ... hesitant to ever speak in too much detail. One day she hoped to meet the Erlking face to face and ask him for the honest story.

Baenon had, afterall, been the longest lived and longest serving black shuck in the Autumn Court - apparently outliving every age expectancy of his kind. And not just by a few years, but a millennia at least.

She smoothed her hands over the lengths of shadow wrapped about her arms, thinking it felt rather like velvet ... only slightly softer. Rabbit fur seemed a good likeness. Her gaze immediately lifted as he reached out, showing no sign of alarm of wariness toward the touch, but instead faint confusion.

"So I... can keep it... them?" did it work like that? Keeping shadows... it sounded quite strange, even for a fae. As strange as using the term alliance for whatever this exchange was. How was one meant to feel about having an ally? It felt rather more formal than simply saying acquaintance or friend. Like there was a war she wasn't aware of that having allies made all the difference in.

"Do black shucks not run in packs?" this next thought came to her rather suddenly, a recollection of the warning Asemir had given her about shucks, "You were by yourself. Are you not part of a pack?"
 
Oryn's golden eyes gleamed as she asked if she could keep his shadows, his brow arched slightly, and a playful smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"I... suppose you can," he replied, his voice carrying a note of surprise. He had never given anyone his shadows before, and the thought of it intrigued him as much as it amused him. "Not freely, of course," he added, his smile turning devilish, "but we can add that to your growing pile of debts."

The lightheartedness of the moment was abruptly dimmed by her next question. "Do black shucks not run in packs?" The words, innocent as they were, struck a chord deep within him, one he had long kept buried. For a brief moment, a shadow of something darker than magic flickered in his eyes, and his expression grew distant.

"Generally, yes," he responded, his voice lower, touched with a note of melancholy. "But I prefer the company of my shadows." There was a pause, the silence between them heavy with unspoken truths. Shadows, after all, could not betray him. Shadows could not hurt him. They were loyal, silent, and ever-present, unlike the living, who had proven to be anything but.

"Remind me what the purpose of this trip is, exactly?" she asked, diverting the conversation.
 
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Growing pile of debts.

Thiri thought it odd to weigh a boon against a proclaimed token of alliance and her eyes narrowed at this, mouth preparing to blurt out that stream of consciousness but withheld as she noted the shift of his expression. Instead she waited and listened to his response. He'd said as much earlier, but it still didn't explain why...

Why did he prefer the shadows?

Was it because he was also an ill omen like herself?

"My fa-"

"Remind me what the purpose of this trip is, exactly?"

She blinked back the derailment of her words, having realized she'd been about to offer something toward the conversation that was so rarely ever verbalized. Thiri wasn't sure if she was mad or grateful for the interruption and her brow furrowed from the internal churn of feelings.

"To see... my Godmother," her gaze turned to look ahead, even if there was rather little to see beyond his shadow realm, "she's been very ill and in torpor since before I was born and I heard my Godfather speaking about her the other night. That she might finally be waking," a frown took her face as well, "but he won't take me to see her."
 
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Oryn's golden eyes shifted to Aethiriin, studying her as she spoke. He could feel the weight of her words, the frustration and sadness mingling in her voice. He remained quiet for a beat longer than necessary, sensing the unspoken tension.

"Your Godmother," he repeated, his tone quiet but curious. "Interesting" he commented with a quirk of a brow... "I wonder what sort of dreams she’s been weaving for so long.."

He let the shadows pulse around them, his gaze grew thoughtful, and the darkness seemed to close in just a fraction tighter around them. His voice softened slightly as he continued..

"Why do you assume he would not wish you to see her?" he asked, playing with the shadows on his fingertips..
 
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"Because she will tell me what he refuses to," Aetheriin did not even need a second to think on her response. It was something that had swirled about her thoughts, keeping her up when she was meant to sleep. All the things her Godfather refused to speak on.

Her father.

Her mother.

Their past and history. What made them who they were.

What happened to them both.

Why had they lived outside of the Courts when both had been revered members within?

Why wouldn't he tell her anything?

It left her as a sapling without any roots to find her foundation. She felt forever strung into the winds, listless and ungrounded.

"The truth."
 
Oryn hummed low in his throat, an almost knowing sound, though whether it was agreement or amusement was unclear. His golden eyes lingered on her, searching, as if he could glimpse the shape of the questions that haunted her—unspoken yet heavy in the space between them.

"The truth," he echoed, rolling the word over his tongue like a rare, exotic fruit. His lips curled, but the smirk lacked its usual bite. "Dangerous little thing, that. Have you considered that whatever truths she holds might be worse than not knowing at all?"

His shadows coiled and stretched, slithering along the path ahead as if they too were whispering secrets just beyond reach. "I've learned that most who keep their lips sealed do so not out of malice, but fear," he continued, watching her reaction closely. "Fear of what the truth might do to the ones they keep it from. Fear of breaking the illusion that silence so carefully preserves."

He tilted his head, stepping closer, his voice dipping into something quieter—something meant only for her. "And what if you don’t like what you hear?"

But even as he posed the question, he already knew her answer. He could see it in the set of her jaw, the determination simmering beneath her skin. She would seek it out regardless, no matter the cost.
 
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"I've learned that most who keep their lips sealed do so not out of malice, but fear," he continued, watching her reaction closely. "Fear of what the truth might do to the ones they keep it from. Fear of breaking the illusion that silence so carefully preserves."

Aetheriin's brow furrowed at those words, feeling them an echo to some other sagely, adult advice she'd received likely from her Uncle. He who also refused to speak on things, though she suspected it was more due to her Godfather's wishes than anything else.

"Not him," she shook her head in a glower, glancing up at the taller Oryn and wishing he wouldn't try to be that person. For once could someone simply indulge her petulant needs?

"My Godfather doesn't feel fear."

If anything, his lack of fear made him horribly unfun in the worst ways possible. Though he wasn't unpleasant most of the time, but her better in every way where stubbornness was involved.

"And what if you don’t like what you hear?"

"I WOULD RATHER KNOW!" her bubbling temper exploded into a boil, churning a vehement acid in her gaze. Thiri looked him directly in the eye, her face made hideous by a heated scowl, "I didn't ask for your advice! I have a right to the truth about my parents - it's not for anyone else to decide!"

Her chest puffed from the emotional exertion, disappointment melding into the anger, "If you're just going to talk down on me then fuck off!"
 
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Oryn blinked, his expression unreadable as he watched her temper flare. He didn't flinch, nor did he recoil from the heat of her words. Instead, his golden gaze swept over her with something far more detached—curiosity. The kind that wasn’t swayed by emotion but rather dissected it, studied it like a specimen in a glass jar.

His head tilted slightly, the edges of his mouth twitching as if contemplating whether or not to smile. "Touchy," he murmured, more to himself than to her. He made no move to step away, despite her command to fuck off.

"You're angry." His voice was steady, observational rather than judgmental. "You think you're owed something, and the fact that it’s been kept from you—whether for protection or control—feels like a cage, doesn't it?"

His shadows writhed lazily at his feet, responding to the ebb and flow of his quiet amusement. "You misunderstand me, little ghost. I've no wish to talk you down.. Everyone deserves the truth." he looked down at her with a light smirk.

Oryn let the silence stretch between them, the air thick with the remnants of her outburst. Then, with the barest tilt of his head, he murmured "You're pretty when you're angry," his smirk lazily curling at the edges. "Your nose scrunches like a Wisprat."

He watched her, head tilting just slightly, golden eyes glinting with mischief. "Funny little creatures—soft as dusk-moss, all fluff and twitchy whiskers. They puff up when provoked, too."

A slow grin. "If you still wish me to fuck off, I suppose I could… but I think you’d miss having someone to bare your teeth at."
 
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At some point she was angry just to be angry. A high tide she couldn't control and had for many years found it much easier simply to let it flood over rather than try to hold the waters back. It made for strained relationships with others, but Thiri had yet to find a better way.

When she held it in, it ate away at her from the inside.

The emotion continued to darken her face and sharper her eyes, but she did not interrupt him as he spoke. His voice found the way through those waters, cutting past without further disturbance. At least until the comment about being pretty - and her nose did exactly as described in response.

"Being pretty fixes nothing," she said, looking away from him, the fleeting curiosity of did she know what a wisprat looked like? passing through her thoughts. Her appearance had ever only mattered when it came to spending time with the Princess. Wanting to fit in meant looking the part. It was the only time she let her Grandmother dress her up and fix her hair.

But being pretty had never given her any answers to her questions.

He was right, though. She found the prospect of being alone once again somewhat daunting now that the initial surge of her anger had cleared. He was helping her, after all, and his company was much preferred to that of her Godfather who would have insisted on taking her home and not to where she wanted, needed to be.

"No," she groused, the waves had settled and were presently muddling her mind, "I don't."

Another short glance at him, "Stay..." and just to prove he was right, she flashed him a lazy glance of her teeth that she apparently so liked to bare.
 
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