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Topics - Darion Greenstone

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Norr Province / Who's There?
« on: December 12, 2018, 04:51:11 PM »
The city seat of Reric was inconveniently clean, decided Aeon.

Already he’d done two circuits around the same connecting hallways before realizing that the upset vase he’d been using as a landmark was righted mere moments after he’d knocked it over. And, to make matters worse, people noticed him; he’d start walking in one direction, only for someone to stop him every few feet to ask him what he was doing there. (Walking, obviously!)

But by far the biggest annoyance was the endless series of securely closed doors. Everywhere he went, closed doors. It grated him terribly, these rows of shut-off places he couldn’t casually peek into, now that he knew one was meant to knock. His life had been much simpler before.

So when the hallway he’d been walking along ended abruptly at yet another closed door, Aeon took matters into his own hands—by knocking, of course. He couldn’t take it anymore. Surely there were reasonable limits regarding exactly how mysterious and sneak-proof one place could be!

One knock seemed like too few, though, and too much space between subsequent knocks would be easy to ignore. By way of compromise, he opted for one long, uninterrupted sequence of knock, knock, knock, knock.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Norr Province / One More River to Cross
« on: December 04, 2018, 11:40:32 PM »
Aeon squinted against the wind. From such a height, it was cold and thin, even in summer. Below him, the Glacian city of Odense was deceptively small against the interminable horizon, a maze of busy streets and little square roofs bordered by yellow-green wildflower meadows and shadowed year-round by the mountains.

It was midday, and the sun was out, but his jaw was clenched tight, teeth uneasy in his mouth and threatening to chatter. He was nervous, but he didn’t know why; if he had a good reason to be anxious, he’d long forgotten it.

From his vantage point atop the nearest black-stone cliff, he’d watched the guards at the perimeter of Odense’s palace change shifts no less than three times.

Focused, these. They didn’t move much, but even from a bird’s eye view, Aeon could tell that they were big. (The longer he stayed in Glacia, the more he saw men who might be easily confused for bears at first glance—and sometimes the second glance, too.)

Was he from here, truly, like Arkyn had said? He was not a bear-man, and although the majesty of nature here inspired awe in him, he could not claim to be familiar with it. But then, that was true of so many places.

Still, homecoming or no, and regardless of whether the welcome was warm or cold, he had important information that the Queen needed to hear. Like him, she wore the Ebon-gray; he could feel its pulse through the land almost as keenly as he felt his own. Realized, with a jolt, that it was the undercurrent of her power making him nervous.

Never mind. Aeon straightened his glasses and bit the feeling back, holding it tight behind the determined line of his wind-chapped lips.

The guards were changing shifts again, right on time. There: behind the gate, covered and hidden behind walls, a safe place in the yard for him to land on. Of course, safe was a relative term; he was fine, but the potted plant he’d landed on by mistake hadn’t been as lucky. He gave the displaced tomato by his foot a sad nudge, guilt-stricken.  

Little Terreille Archives / midnight sun
« on: December 24, 2017, 03:08:05 PM »
It was a nice room, thought Aeon, but nice in the bland, predictable sort of way: well-made matching furniture, a luxurious bed, plenty of room. He sat on the bench in front of the vanity table, loose and leisurely, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. One hand tucked under his chin, he certainly looked more patient than he felt.

She had not noticed yet. It offended Aeon more than it should have; he’d been careful not to alert the court, after all. And it had worked—or he thought it had, for he had opened his barriers wide to probe and felt no one stirring.

Perhaps she was stupid, he thought. But of course. It was so much more difficult for evil to take root near a Queen who was smart.

One foot jiggled impatiently, his body vibrating in time with the movement. Time. No time. He had a job to do, and every moment lost was a waste, a danger; it had to be now, had to be quick, or he would forget.

He absolutely could not allow himself to forget.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, dark eyes glittering, gaze fixed on the slender figure of the Queen who’d had her back to him for minutes now. “It must be very important, hm?”

Little Terreille Archives / [m] incinerate
« on: December 24, 2017, 11:26:49 AM »
He’d nearly missed it, going so fast… fingertips pressed hard against the delicate pattern of the wallpaper, so close he could feel the trembling humid warmth of his own breath rebound against his face. He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against the cool flat surface, hands tightening against the wall until his knuckles went pale.

So fast. Too fast. Skin crawling, burning with fever from the inside. Deep below, a torrent of emotion was raging, roaring, and Aeon did not know what to do with it. But he knew he could not slow it; inside of the chaos was a delicate balance, a surety maintained only by the speed, and if he stopped too long to rest he knew, instinctively, that balance would fall apart.

“Yinsley.” No question in his whisper. Only demand. Only need.

He moved away from the wall, steps deliberate but eyes storm-wild. Did he look like he felt? Terrible, aching, hollow? His gaze lingered on his lover, the soft lips, the sharp angle of his jawline. A hard swallow as he imagined the tender flesh beneath the clothes, and then the burning returned to him, desperate and alive.

“I nearly went right through the wall,” he said, with a sad choke of a laugh. And then he was on the bed, pressing his body against Yin’s, greeting him with a sharp nip of teeth on his collarbone.

Nharkava, Archive / the lingering
« on: October 26, 2017, 03:32:59 AM »
Aeon did not know this land. On any other day, under any other circumstance, he would have relished this; nothing pleased him more than drinking down the sweet aroma of new grass, raking new dirt with his fingernails and listening for the slow thrum of power underneath. But here, now, this new grass scratched and stung at his forearms and face, and this new earth was blurred, vague, spinning.

Mother Night, his head—his temples were throbbing, and the back of his neck, and the top of his skull. Clammy skin flushing cold, hot, cold. His guts felt wrong, like soured milk in a churn. The thought alone made his gorge rise, but his stomach was empty, and he could only choke-cough into the ground, heave, gasp, heave.

Mother Night, his head!—he felt sure that he would die here, drowned in his own bile in this strange place. But the heaving subsided, leaving him only half-dead at best, spent and breathless.

It was early morning, still, humid and warm. His clothes clung to his skin, soaked through from his writhing on the dew-slick grass. One kiss from a passing breeze, and he was shivering, groaning a shuddering groan through clenched teeth that was jarring against the chorus of birdsong that seemed to come from everywhere, though he could see no birds.

He coaxed his body upward, steady, easy, until he was sitting cross-legged supported by trembling arms. Were there people nearby? Houses? He looked, but could not see. Everything was soft, dreamlike: shapes without edges in the dim periwinkle of morning. Aeon squinted, winced, sighed.

“Always my fucking glasses,” he snarled, emphatically, toward the sky.


Shahllene Province / my, what sturdy walls you have!
« on: July 15, 2017, 07:22:08 AM »
Hop, step—wall?

“Wall,” confirmed Aeon out loud for his own benefit, voice thin and strained in the dark. “Fuck.”

His Ebon-gray sparked to life as he wriggled his way free of the wood and plaster, which had caught him uncomfortably tight around the waist. He pitched forward in a haphazard tangle of limbs, but the hard knock of the floor never came. Instead, he went pomf!, and then he was coughing and struggling against something coarse like burlap that scratched at his forearms.

Where had it all gone wrong?

He didn’t remember. At birth, probably. This was the easiest conclusion to come to in one’s darkest hours, and it was very dark here, thought Aeon, who was ass-up in a giant bag of mystery powder in a strange closet with his face mashed painfully against the creaking floor.

The creaking floor? Yes, but he hadn’t moved. Aeon froze, ear pressed hard against the wood, listening: creeeak-sigh, creeeak-sigh.

Someone was coming. His mental wherewithal came rushing back: walls are attached to buildings which have closets with doors that lead to houses in which people live, generally.

The creaking grew nearer, then stopped. The meager light funneling in from the hallway was eclipsed by shadow.

At least I’ll have a story to tell Yinsley when I get back, thought Aeon, who had temporarily ceased breathing.

And then the door opened.


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