I RUN FROM WOLVES // OPEN

[DANYLA]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]His stomach tightened as he watched the glitter float along in the water, facial fur nearly free of the gold décor by use of a water bucket and oil. He still had streaks along his legs and the dots along his sides, which wouldn't be an issue considering Danyla had removed plenty of glitter in worse places, but to think that he wouldn't apply it in the morning, that he might never need to wear it again was...terrifying. He knew nothing outside of noble parties where he entertained and laid at his master's paws, knew nothing about autonomy further than what color to choose of those his master provided. Even as a child, he was groomed for the role of reciting poetry on command in several languages, for smiling prettily and never frowning. They never taught him to say no, only to accept demurely, and only if the master permitted it.

He did not know how to be like these people. Danyla did not believe their lives were perfect, but some of them had to know a childhood that did not consist of walking the streets at his master's heel through an auction block where families thrashed as they were separated, or where the weary awaited a new master with a hollowness to their eyes. Surely they knew a life that was not bent to serve an individual with the whole of their bodies and minds, clay shaped into whatever form was desired.

To fear freedom, not for penance, but because it took them from their sole purpose.

Danyla shoved a leg into the bucket, scraping his fur against the side to clean it of the glitter. "Stabant orantes primi transmittere cursum tendebantque manus ripæ ulterioris amore,"[sup]1[/sup] he murmured, as though the glitter-filled water in his bucket represented more than what it was.

1. They stood begging to make the crossing first, and they stretched out their hands in yearning for the opposite shore.

[Feyre]

☽  ☽  ☽

Feyre's early life had not been spent heeding the orders of some all-powerful master, forced to wait and attend and recite and be a thing that existed for someone else's gain. She was free from those burdens and yet, lacked a childhood all the same. Her circumstances were far better though, the sleep that she was placed in hardly comparable to the life that Danyla presumably had to lead. But a part of her very existence had been stripped away just as his had, the witches forcing her soul into dormancy so that she no longer provided a danger to herself. To them. It was a shame that her idle state had only made her more volatile, a loose canon who's inability to control herself could mean trouble at any moment. But Feyre didn't know that, didn't know anything outside of her vague interest in an unfamiliar face and the soothing lilt of Latin tongue, the faintest of smiles decorating a speckled maw as she approached him.

[color=#3f5351]"Opposite shore?" Feyre would inquire lightly, a brow raising as she first drank in the sight of the bucket and then, Danyla. Her eyes were bright and her gaze unwavering as she stared up at the direwolf, not at all intimidated by his superior size and stature. Big things traditionally had the ability of unnerving her, leaving her shaking in fear of the unknown and its promise, victim to anxieties she could not explain- possessed no desire to. She was surprised he did not provide her with that same reaction. Maybe it was the glitter... she had always had a love of sparkly things and she'd be lying if she said that the glittery water did not capture her attention. [color=#3f5351]"I'm Feyre... I can understand Latin I just can't... uh... Speak it," She explained embarrassedly, not one to especially enjoy talking about her inability to speak in her birth tongue but figuring that she needed to extend some reason as to why she picked up on what he said. [color=#3f5351]"Who are you? And... What are you doing?"

[WINTERWOLF]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Like Feyre, Winterwolf likes to say that he hadn't had a childhood. Whatever memories he'd had were burned at the edges like a photo album that someone wanted gone, reminders that nobody wanted to cling to. In truth, he has no idea where he came from. There are a few hazy memories of his early life, but the earliest image — chains. Then being taught. His entire life had been... not easy, but simple. Never glitter and gold, just cold steel and a guiding touch. He understood the terror that the wolf felt. Freedom was suffocating and overwhelming, being dropped into the ocean when you had been content in a swimming pool. (There was a difference between content and unaware, but finding something you hadn't asked for made things ache.) Then again, none of them had asked for any of this — Danyla for his servitude, Feyre for her volatile nature, Winterwolf for his history. Want it or not, they would still carry it forward.

He had long since accepted the futility of wishing to forget or move on. He was one of the unfortunate souls left at the shore, time and time again. (His bones had never been buried, perhaps it was fitting.) As the lion approaches the pair, heavy paws disturbingly quiet, he is harshly reminded of this fact. The literature that Danyla recites is familiar in the way that gold was familiar, and the way words fall off his tongue. Quietly, quietly, he murmurs, "But the dismal boatman accepts now these, now those, but driving others away, keeps them far from the sand." There's a quiet pause where Winter glances at the gold-swirled water, wondering if this is what the blood of gods would look like. "You know Virgil." Of course he does. Winter knows what the gold is for. He glances down at the feline, which he could easily seem to be a mountain next to. The smile he offers her is only a tinge warmer than it was glassy and distant. Even then, a twitch of his mouth was hardly memorable. "Where did you learn to understand it?"

[BASTILLEPAW]

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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS

BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES

It was a surprising day indeed when he heard someone other than Hazel — Margy's absence was a struck nerve, the burning reminder that it could not be her speaking it — speaking Latin in the Observatory. The voice was vaguely unfamiliar, something he could place as a newcomers but not identify outright, particularly not in the foreign (though well known to Bastille) tongue. The language was a dear one, not only for the manner in which he was able to connect with Hazel on it, but because he had worked for it. Not in the usual manner that one acquired a language, no: he had suffered for it in his own way, searching through the vast pools of memories that Wilhelm Grimm stored from his hosts and losing himself in the fray of it all, dragging up the language with greedy paws and the fierce eagerness of youth. He'd been in a coma for three days for his hubris, but Bast would have given up even longer to come out of it successful, Latin in his teeth.

More surprising, perhaps, was familiar Latin. At this point it seemed to be fairly common knowledge that his "secret" library was in reality just the books crammed into every free space in his room, and even more common knowledge that he took a particular interest in the classics. The answering words lingered on the tip of his tongue as he approached them lazily, pale blue stare fixing on Winterwolf in interest as he heard them spoken even before they left him — it took him a moment, then, to make sure that he had not spoken after all, for the near simultaneity of his thoughts and this guy's speech.

[b]"Aeneas miratus enim motusque tumultu: Dic, ait, o virgo, quid vult concursus ad amnem? Quidve petunt animae? Vel quo discrimine ripas, hae linquunt, illae remis vada livida verrunt?" The words fell with smooth grace as he stopped beside Fey, finding himself inclined towards the original Latin. He studied these two idly, and then added, "It would be a crime not to know Vergil, in my opinion, but I do admit I'm more favorable to Ovid." Bast glanced down to Fey, and studied her for a moment; it was no surprise that she could understand the Latin — Margy's abilities in her, innately — but he waited to see how she justified it.

[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST

[DANYLA]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Everything he was began and ended with slave. There was no turning of a new chapter or page, no new phase to his life- not before now. Before now, any descriptions of his person finished or started with, "for a slave." "He's bright for a slave." "He speaks Tevene well for a slave." "For a slave, he is fascinating." The entirety of his identity revolved around those three words, and he had never asked for it, which could be said for anyone. They never requested life at the end of a leash, or one tampered with beyond their knowledge, yet here the others stood, bowing at the feet of no master. So yes, he was terrified of that, although it felt less like a transition between pool and ocean as it did land to sea, knowing only how to walk before floundering as he struck the water, gulping for more air than he could swallow. Danyla never imagined himself beyond what his master made him to be.

Yet fleeing had been his decision, one of his first fully autonomous choices. Maybe that was why it had gone poorly.

Many things seemed destined that way lately, and so when a voice abruptly broke through his concentration, Danyla startled terribly, wrenching his leg from the bucket and upending it in the process. His heart quivered, as a rabbit in the vicinity of a predator, and Danyla averted his eyes from the smaller creature, swallowing. The instinctual need to shrink and await the consequences kept him from comprehending what she spoke. He heard, but he did not...hear. It was only when his pulse no longer thrashed as violently that he managed to lift his tongue.

"Danyla. I am- I was cleaning." He startled again, but less obviously when the lion arrived, pierced ears twitching. Winterwolf spoke softly, but for Danyla, any voice was thunderous when he had to listen, and he kept his eyes on the ground. Occasionally, they would interject when he recited as well, though with more condescension, occasionally questioning his master's classical Tevene teaching because of a squabble over how a word was translated. Out of his control, as many things were, but, also with many situations, Danyla was not exempt from consequence.

Though he was accustomed to crowds, he tensed further with another arrival, staring intently at the overturned bucket and the glitter shimmering in the dirt. "Ir abelas. I am sorry I have nothing for you. Ovid was not my master's favorite."

[WINTERWOLF]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]As gold spills to the ground, a torrent of what he had just compared to a god's blood, Winterwolf almost mimics the tense panic that runs like electricity through the dire wolf. His back arches for a split second the way that a scared cat would, but rounded ears pin back to his skull like a dog. It's overall mixed body language, almost comical, but the smooths it down within a heartbeat or two. Instead of the loose, vibrant panic, there's a chill creeping back in. Like breaking the ice over a fast-moving river and watching it freeze over again. From there everything methodically defrosts — his head lowers, his face relaxes, his body relaxes. Nothing good would come from chastising someone who is already so close to begging for forgiveness (a familiar state of mind, and one he is no longer forced to ignore), so he settles.

He doesn't blame others for fear, especially not when they bowed their heads to avoid him. Scars litter the lion's form, and he walks and talks as if he was meant to control the room. In reality, he had always been meant to hover, never quite fading from attention but never drawing the eye. Frightening, imposing, but easily ignored. Perhaps that wasn't the case for someone who was almost completely his opposite.

Pale eyes flicker between the crowd to perhaps take some weight off of the wolf, head cocking at Bast's recitation. A small smile dances across his face, though the corners of his lips don't stay lifted for very long. The feline reminds him of the old man who had taught him English. Grizzled and bowed with age, smelling of rotting wood and old books, he had talked about the classics for hours, often to the point that Winter would never learn a thing for the entire day. The classics were obviously a favorite. He'd had a fair collection of others, though — some things that made his face burn and some others that made his stomach churn. Sometimes both. He has nothing clever to recite from Ovid either, nothing he could add. Though he does ask, just quietly, "Why?"

Then his attention is back to Danyla with his apology. It takes effort to keep his body relaxed now, his chest feeling tight. "Tel'ema abelas, da’ean. You can learn your own favorites."

[Feyre]

☽  ☽  ☽

Winterwolf's question caught her off guard, wide eyes blinking once, twice, three times before she finally processed just what exactly he was asking her. Feyre found herself forced to think for a brief moment, that faint smile of hers disappearing as lips pursed, tiny form suddenly emitting an air of contemplation and admittedly, confusion. [color=#3f5351]"I.. Uh..." A sudden spark of frustration ignited in her chest when she realized that she could not completely answer his query, that spark quickly morphing and changing until it reared its head in the form of small flames at her paws. She paid them no mind. [color=#3f5351]"I asked the witches - my family - once... They told me that it was my birth tongue, that my father taught me," She explained, albeit not convincingly. She had hardly known her father, why had she believed the witches reasons for her Latin tongue?

Refusing to dwell on the subject any longer, Feyre once more fixated attention upon Danyla, those lavender eyes of her bright as they continued to study him. [color=#3f5351]"I like your name," The witch decided aloud, a head bobbing along with her comment. It was interesting and new, just like hers she supposed. Danyla. Danyla. Yes, she wouldn't lie to him- she enjoyed it greatly. A compliment from her was rare though, not when the child did not fully understand what a compliment exactly was. She was using her words as a distraction from all the Latin that floated so freely around her, talk of Virgil and masters and phrases she understood but didn't understand successful in making her head spin.

[color=#3f5351]"Si autem non vis, non illud faciunt, non possunt meam mentulam sugare?" The moment the words left her mouth, jumbled and probably incomprehensible, she regretted, shame embracing her features as she glanced away from the group. [color=#3f5351]"Sorry... Every time I try to speak Latin, my brain refuses to cooperate and weird junk comes out. I hope I didn't say anything bad," She extended quietly, a sheepish glance stolen especially in the direction of Bast. She didn't want to disappoint him... or really anyone, now that she thought about it. Ugh.

[ONISION.]

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ASCENDANTS
- FIREBALL
6 MONTHS OLD

PHYSICALLY varies
EMOTIONALLY hard
MENTALLY easy

DEMIHOMOSEXUAL
HOMOROMANTIC

TSUNDERE ASSHOLE
SHORT-TEMPERED
VAMPIRISM
TAGS

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♦ -
"Why the hell are you cleaning, man? You aren't a slave." Oni's voice rang out from behind Bastille as he arrived to the scene soon after all of the Latin was spoken amongst everyone. While Onision did speak Latin thanks to his mother Margaery teaching him at a young age, he didn't like hearing people speak it. His side brushed up against his younger cousin's as he greeted her stiffly, a bit of a change, though a good one. He wasn't as rude to her, but with his probation there wasn't much he could do.

While a lot of the people in the Ascendants didn't have much of a childhood, Onision did. He was blessed with a loving family, two loving mothers, and a loving sister, all of which he doesn't see anymore. All three were seemingly gone, with his mothers dying and his sister.. Somewhere. Feyre and Bast were all he had left. "I'm not a fan of literature or whatever, so I can't join that conversation. Sucks." Oni muttered under his breath, a paw coming up to gently tab at Bast's shoulder in greeting.

[align=center]YOU'RE HARD TO HUG

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ONISION MIKAELSON-FOLIE
tough to talk to, and i never fall asleep!

© ceilidh

[★ HAZEL]

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as love filled night gives way to day

Hazel knew the shallow ends of slavery - that was, the punishment that made it so. When a chore was not completed, her food was taken for the week; when something broke, she was the one to fall on its glass and mop away the spots of blood; and when there was nothing, Hazel was the one to suffocate in the closet full of chemicals. Now, she bore the storms of her childhood on her body: thin lines of memories, permanently stained against her skin.

Today, she had managed to make it farther than the observatory doors, for which she should be proud. Unfortunately, her mind was blankly occupied with grief most days, unwilling to bend to external events. That was, until the lilt of Latin brushed against her ear. Most was recognizable: Ovid, something Hazel knew well. She recalled Bastille reading much of it to her, switching between Latin and English for the sake of teaching her the latter language. It felt like water against a burn, soothing and soft - and cold. Cold for the memory of Margaery's lips forming similar words, speaking to Hazel or someone else.

"Quo dum Proserpine luco, ludit et aut violas aut candida lilia carpit, dumque puellari studio calathosque sinumque, inplet et aequales certat superare legendo, paene simul visa est dilectaque raptaque Diti: usque adeo est properatus amor." Hazel murmured, nearly to herself. It was almost a mantra; almost an attempt to ground herself, but it did little to push away the memories of Margy.

About to lose herself to memory, Hazel was suddenly snapped out of her trance by Feyre's ridiculous sentence. The cocoa feline stopped short, just next to Bast, staring at Fey with a feverish sort of amusement. A grin cracked her lips as iron pyrite cracked the earth, a delirious giggle falling from her tongue at the young girl's attempt. It was the first time she'd laughed in days - and her features already felt sore. Explaining it would have been hard, and Hazel couldn't have deemed it real laughter, but she felt lighter...she felt a need to thank Feyre.

"We'll have to start you on lessons," Hazel suggested, soft with fondness. Temporarily clinging to the feeling of sun, Hazel turned her attention to the direwolf rinsing himself of gold. Her eyes, brighter than before, watched with a heavy curiosity, saucer wide at his size and manner. "Hello," She greeted, not acknowledging the crack of her uneven voice. "Are you looking for a place to stay?"

HAZEL E CAELUM — THE ASCENDANTS — MOODBOARD — PLAYLIST — TAGS

© MADI