| Citrinitas-Rubedo |
[Mar. 27th, 2013|11:42 am] |
| The sand greeted the sun with crystalline conspiracy, uttering a morse of moving blinks as the rays rose, the leftover whisper of starre stories from the depths of night's darkness. Celestial fire-warmth first greeted his feet, each bound in beaded leather and rainbow thread, and spread - to his thighs, his chest, arms, fingers, eyes, summoning him awake to a sky that no longer matched the color of his pupils. The sun had long leeched the ocean from the atmosphere, leaving behind a inhumanely inhumid blank screen of light, colorless and bright. When he sat up, he saw that heat had muddled the landscape; it swirled in waves of gaussian blur marred with ( the oil overtones of an impressionist's strokes. ) |
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| Periodic Predicaments. |
[Feb. 4th, 2013|04:14 pm] |
| The sun tasted like silver upon his throat, with fire fingers caressing the paperwhite skin stretched taught, his neck craned just so to recall the habits of a feline basking in celestial warmth. Upon his folded arms he was resting, those limbs perfectly perched to push the front half of his body out of the single window in his lab, legs lazily crossed as they, instead, dwelled in the shadows of his floor. His eyes were closed to divine the phosphenes engraved into the underside of those thin lids, manifesting themselves as unstable shapes of iridescent reds and oranges, constantly marbling his vision with solar swirls of ( coronas convalescence. ) |
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| one good turn |
[Jan. 2nd, 2013|08:37 pm] |
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| Distributed via Courier: |
[Dec. 10th, 2012|12:00 pm] |
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| sleepless nerves |
[Nov. 6th, 2012|12:56 am] |
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| Cast Ashore. |
[Nov. 4th, 2012|09:48 pm] |
The city of Belorien was unlike anything Mercius had ever laid eyes upon-- filthy, crowded, teeming with fat pink and bronze denizens who shouted in an arrhythmic, unmelodious tongue. Yet it was also filled with miraculously stark buildings, free of seagrime and gullstain, and streets bordered by bustling markets and tall elegant facades emblematic of a noble city
( alive with commerce, power, and intrigue. ) |
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| Journey To The North. |
[Oct. 31st, 2012|12:43 am] |
[shortly after this.]
| By the time Alois had made it back to the frigid snowscapes of Vesaksalka'va, the moon was already out and beginning its glacial crawl across the arched sky, where, in the west, the sun was saying goodnight. It would be no time before the northern city was overtaken by shadows, which always seemed to be more of a threat here rather than the innocuous darkness that stalked Belorien, but ( it was in an Olsirfellian's blood to be well acquainted with such caliginous creepings. ) |
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| The Song Of A Heartstring's Harpsichord. |
[Oct. 25th, 2012|12:22 pm] |
| It was on the seventh day of the sun retreating into the hole of horizon opposite from which it was born that brought the alchemist, again, to the High Priestess’ steps. It was, however, different this time. Alois had endured through vivid dreamscapes of reconstruction and refinement, subconscious persuasions of symbolic steps that each closed a door that could not be reopened. There was no turning back, there was never any turning back, but it was not turning back that he sought. No. It was light. More light. ( The Lightweaver's touch. ) |
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| Nightshade in Night Trade. |
[Oct. 18th, 2012|01:05 am] |
| The moon was a smile, hanging gingerly in the sky. Though it was naught but a sliver, its light seemed to be equally bright as what it would be when full, a reflection of the sun that lit the linings of the clouds that crept across the night sky at a leisurely pace. Such a expression was a sign of good fortune for Alois, and in looking out the window of his lab at Warwick University, ( he took it upon himself to take his chances with those late hours. ) |
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| Now I Cry For Daylight. |
[Oct. 14th, 2012|09:40 pm] |
| The sun was setting, slithering down to peek just above the uneven rooftops that fractured the skyline of Belorien, and the once blue sky had taken a turn for the red. Bright flashes of fiery hues were illuminated in the chopped up clouds as the claw marks of the heavens; the hour was ambiguous enough to be unsure of whether it was the light defending its superiority from above, or the darkness scraping at freedom from below. With his eyes focused up, Alois was entirely too concerned with this battle whose moves were set at a pace too conservative to generate any worry, and yet he was. ( He was, even though he knew how it was going to end. ) |
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| Fortunes Foretold. |
[Oct. 13th, 2012|12:54 am] |
His steps were worrying marks into the floor, back and forth in front of his window which was closed and blocked with a curtain, thick swathe of black velvet whose residence was normally taken up, draped, underneath his blanket of animal pelts atop his small bed. Fingers wrung and skin crawling, it had been days since Alois had gotten a good night's sleep, exacerbating his anxiety-born hallucinations with home remedies of sage and potent mixtures of herbs boiled down to elixirs in the waters of the sun's sweat. He had been marching for hours. Where the sharp slice of an afternoon ray once cut a bright gash upon the wood beneath him there was nothing. It had retreated, the sun was visiting other lands.
Fixing his robes of night, the alchemist gathered a small coin purse whose strings were pulled taught and wrapped around its neck like a noose. He tucked it into the belt around his waist and slid his feet into the comfortably familiar skin of kid that composed his shoes, well worn and long since molded to fit perfectly around his own flesh. He stepped out, out into the now quiet hallways of Warwick University, out into the street, out where the darkness smiled upon the capital city, shadows in free reign of that territory.
It was earlier, much earlier, that word had traveled, snuck so sneakily through space between threshold and door, to tell that there was a fortune teller by the docks. Guided by the moon, ( Alois moved with great intent. ) |
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| Prostrate as Poppies. |
[Oct. 9th, 2012|11:11 pm] |
[takes place before this.]
Two matters brought the paladin to the alchemist's door, one concerning the little Lady that ate his hours, the other so breathtakingly private that he would never mention it frankly to a soul. Always ill at ease in the warmth of the southern lands, his concerns made him feel shameful beneath the Sun. Ivan played a game with himself, a cynic's form of fortune telling, guessing who would uncover his secrets and decry him as a grotesque. And grotesque he was, eager to solve the problem of Aksinya's sleepless nights. When she slept, she was irresistible in her lassitude, her languor and loose limbs.
As he knocked at the door, he kept to the sanctity of his private mind. None knew his thoughts, and he relished in this fact.
"It is I, Ivan Ostreyalsk, come to call on the education of Lady Saesalyssa Runa Vesaksalka." ( All the while imagining her parted lips. ) |
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| Lessons Learned. |
[Oct. 7th, 2012|01:17 am] |
His footsteps made little sound as they moved in light touches across stone floors, shoes of kid leather, hand-sewn and well-worn following a path that was plotted by another, more formidable man in front of him. Toward the Hall of Northern Winds he was lead, pied piper'd through halls that were strong, and thick, and entirely too intimidating for the alchemist from the north who was more used fields of snow marked with the black trunks of trees and his own cluttered and cramped confines rather than the fine tapestries and Courtish company that stalked about Caeronvar Rock.
However, it was, in fact, that he had an appointment, and one that was not to be refused. In his arms was clutched an assortment of texts, bundles of loose paper and scrolls wrapped in thin strings of leather; his dress muted, dark, and scented heavily of burnt agar. In the room in which he was abandoned for a servant to summon his company, he made use of a table, dumping that armful of items upon its wooden surface.
( When she saw him, she hid around the corner. ) |
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| Words Exchanged. |
[Oct. 3rd, 2012|10:40 pm] |
Alastair had asked several people, traveled long halls, and even knocked on a few wrong doors. Finally, he was confident that he had made it and knocked at the door he hoped would lead him to Alois.
From behind the door called a voice. "Announce yourself."
"My name is Sir Alastair LePonte. I'm looking for an alchemist by the name of Alois that resides in the university." Not terribly brief, but it was to the point none the less.
The door did not budge. A little birdie-- no, a rather large birdie had previously visited the alchemist. "And your business, sir?"
A twisted sort of smirk curled at his lips. "I need to see a man about tea."
"Wretchedly sorry and my deepest apologies, sir knight, all tea appointments are currently taken." The sing-song roll of Alois' tongue was taunting. ( Would you like a referral elsewhere? ) |
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