ofkeening

[ofkeening]

dvsappear​:

Stars burn brightly in the sky above them, seen only in scattered moments through clearings in the trees. Flickering endlessly in their place in the sky, burning just the same as the last time she’d glanced at them. The night sky remembered her just the same when she was alive. The taste of blood in her mouth, the dizziness of never sleeping right again. Memories long list, to a girl that never got to be. Memories, that even in the most eerie of nights, would paint the girl in sorrows.

Mouth stretching into a smile, something once so holy but long since settled in sin. She steps closer to the strange woman, the lack of fear in either of them unsettling even in the daylight. Something was off about her, the way these words left her lips, and the way her stare lingered too long on the diaphanous girl.

“You clearly don’t know the dangers, haven’t you heard the stories?” There’s a delight in her tone, buried in the way children tell campfire tales- huddled and hushed. Continuing to approach the other, a glide almost, where her feet don’t quite touch the ground. “Those creatures that turn to men- the tattered women they leave behind. Bloodshed and carnage. Under the light of the moon, you should never walk alone. Haven’t you heard what happened to the women of Coalyard in the sticks? The ones that were never found?”

The girl stepped closer, and Morag just watched her, unaffected. The stranger was moving with an ease that was unusual, and Morag’s gaze flickered down to see her shoes barely touching the ground. They were modern, unfamiliar, shoes, with wheels, and she was momentarily distracted by them. How odd. Why was a ghost wearing shoes with little wheels on them? She felt a vague, distant, wave of mild curiosity, and was about to ask, but the ghost girl spoke first.

Haven’t you heard the stories? she said, and Morag looked at her again. She could hear the eagerness in the girl’s voice, unfamiliar and foreign. As she spoke, Morag just stared blankly, waiting for her to finish. It seemed that even death didn’t stop humans from talking unnecessarily. The girl used twenty words where five would do. It was a habit of humans that clearly carried from life to death. When she finally stopped, Morag did not return her smile.

“No,” she said, airily. “I have not heard the stories. I have no one to tell me about them.” She had only learned the name of this place from the large sign at the town’s border when she had approached it. She’d heard no stories of this place. All she knew was that death frequented here, and there were odd creatures, like the boy with the iron ring, and the boy in the stream, and this ghost girl. There were scents similar to the smell she had spent the last century following -- the smell of death -- and others, enough to keep her here for now. That was what she knew.

She and the brood had heard the howls of dogs on the moors, and the older banshees had told her of humans who became beasts, but they had never feared them. She didn’t know enough of human cadence to recognise whether the ghost was warning her, but something told her that was not the case. “I assure you,” she said, her voice clear and colourless, “I can protect myself from whatever else lives in these woods, creatures or men. You have no need to be... concerned.” She paused before the final word, still unsure if that was the ghost girl’s motivation for the story.

[ofkeening]

Oh, tell me how to cure myself of irony, the gaze that sees but doesn’t penetrate; tell me how to cure myself of silence.

Adam Zagajewski, from Long Afternoon (via c-ovet)

[ofkeening]

peridothallewell​:

Knowing that she has not genuinely upset the other melts away the tightness in Perrie’s shoulders. ❛ Good. Okay, good. ❜ She’s always been hyper vigilant when it came to people nd their feelings. She was constantly walking on eggshells, trying not to hurt someone emotionally, never mind physically. Peridot wouldn’t hurt a turtle. In fact, she’s the type of person to take a frog, bring it home, and create it’s very own aquatic home .. Which she has done before. Her mother wasn’t terribly impressed. ❛ My outbursts usually do that. - Upset people, that is. I can be loud without any real reason, ❜ Peridot chuckles, after finishing a quick ramble. 

The smile from the other girl fades, and although watching it happen Peridot keeps her own awkward grin on her lips. It was a terrible habit of being a chronic people pleaser. As she looks over the slim girl, Perrie couldn’t help but think that there was something slightly off-putting about this person. Where the hell did she come from, anyway? 

❛ You’re not? ❜ Peridot slips high from her lips, unable to keep the surprise away from her voice. Before she could continue a number of questions that rattled through her mind, the stranger was still her how to get back to Coalyard. ❛ Left, silver birch with a hole, straight line. Got it … ❜ Peridot’s stiff nod makes her seem like she knew what she was doing, and that she was confident, but her voice tells otherwise. Peridot is about to thank the stranger for her help, and even invite her back to the motel with the ever sneaky plan to get this girl some biscuits, but the girl made a rather curious note at the end. Peridot’s curiosity was always an insatiable thing ( so was her grief ), always wandering, searching, watching, learning. Curiosity built the cat, as they say. 

This conversation keeps getting more and more weird as the moments go on and Peridot is loving it. Dark brows furrow quickly, ❛ You do? ❜ Again, she takes a look around. Looking for parents, friends, a pet, anything that’s going to show that this slender girl isn’t alone. ❛ Do you come here … Often? ❜ That’s not the way she wanted to word she question, but on the other hand, she didn’t know how to word it properly in a way that didn’t sound so weird and creepy the first place. It was also a rather suitable question for the situation, Perrie thinks. ❛ I mean … Do you live around here? ❜

Morag listened as the girl spoke, and could not help but think that she talked enough for two people. She herself rarely spoke unless there was something worth saying, and the banshees had often spent hours, even days, in complete, companionable, silence. When she finally went quiet, Morag took the chance to reply. “I’m not easily upset. Don’t trouble yourself.” Maybe that was why she was speaking so much? She didn’t know enough about the habits of humans to know if that was something one would do, but she thought it best to try to ease the stranger’s mind, in case.

She had given the instructions back to town, and expected the girl to follow them immediately, as she herself would have done if she were lost. But the repeated directions sounded uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure she had them correct, and Morag frowned. “Yes, that’s right,” she replied, simply. “It’s not a difficult journey.” She’d made it often enough to know at least that, and she was sure that this girl would have no problem finding it back to civilisation. But she didn’t move, or make any indication that she was leaving, and Morag realised that she had no intention to. Oh.

“Yes,” she replied, in answer to both questions. She wandered why the girl cared what a stranger in the woods was doing there, and she just looked back at her. “I don’t live far from here.” There was an undercurrent to the girl’s words, Morag thought, as if she was trying to ask something without using words. It was strange, and she frowned, trying to decipher the meaning. She wasn’t used to holding conversations with humans, but she had no idea they spoke in code. The banshees simply said what they meant, which was much simpler. “Are you always this curious?” she asked. “You are asking a lot of questions.” It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation.

[ofkeening]

meinoe​:

    *   ──    THE OTHER TURNS, suddenly, their expression as wild as their hair — Melinoe does not find her dangerous, but this is not a spooked rabbit: something predatorial lurks beneath. Death clings to her as it does to Mel, but in such a different manner that it is almost shocking to be within her presence. She’d been human once, and when she’d awoken, it was with all the knowledge of a human; to meet other creatures was still a rarity that beguiled her.

The wild woman scents her. You smell like death. The words ring in her mind. Her mouth dries, her nails dig into the meat of her palm. If they break skin, she can’t feel it. “I don’t smell like death. There’s no such thing.” But there is, a traitorous little voice within her sings. A mother’s old perfume sprayed onto her corpse one final time, the heady scent of an open grave as it is rained on, rot lingering in the air for weeks after. Burning and smoke. She wonders what death she smells of.

She decides, very quickly, that she doesn’t want to know.

Stepping closer, she holds out a hand. “I’m Melinoe. You’re not a ghost, are you?” Certainly not another reaper, though she bore the same disposition as a newly awoken one. Her head tilts. She wants to get more from her, confirmation of what she is, but perhaps gaining this demands an equal exchange. A beat, and she offers the closest explanation she can without outright saying it. “I serve the dead. Do you?”

“There is to my kind,” Morag replied, matter-of-factly, when the other woman said that death did not have a smell. It was an earthy, damp, scent, sometimes, if a death was a small affair, with little violence. Sometimes it smelt tangy, like iron and blood, if it was a bloody death, or decay and fruitiness, if it was a sickness that took them. The scent of salt and fish warned of a death at sea, though those were less common these days. Whatever it was, the banshees could follow it like bloodhounds, scenting it clearly across miles of land.

This creature in front of her, however, smelled like must and dust and old things, a little like a death of old age, but more stagnant, as if she should have passed of age, but had simply refused somehow. It was completely unfamiliar. And, when she stepped closer and held out her hand, Morag was surprised. It was a distinctly human gesture for something so death-covered, and she stared at the other being’s hand for a moment, before reaching out and taking it. In all her century-long existence, she had never shaken another’s hand, though she had observed human’s doing it. She clung for a few moments, and let go, fascinated by the pointlessness of the gesture.

“No, I’m not a ghost,” she said, finally tearing her gaze away from their hands, and looking at the stranger curiously. She served the dead. In a way, Morag supposed, she herself did the same. It wasn’t how she would have phrased it -- the brood served the living, warning them of their death. But, after a moment, she nodded. “Yes, I suppose I do. In a way.” She thought for a moment, and then said, “My name is Morag. My kind warn of death.” She felt no shame or need to hide it from someone who, after all, had such a distinctive scent and presence.

[ofkeening]

sacrifcial​:

     ── “ doesn’t seem like much of a place to live. ”  kaiden spoke matter-of-factly, neither judgmental nor particularly sympathetic ; she seemed content with her surroundings, and there was much about the other inhuman sorts that he didn’t know. perhaps such a home was commonplace for somebody like her. still, he couldn’t help but pick at it a bit, considering the cold— and besides, he didn’t care for the idea of someone unfamiliar traipsing the woods around him. kaiden knew he was rarely the only one out in the trees, though usually they’d be skittish or reclusive enough to avoid him. she was something new altogether.  “ there’s a motel in town, you know. pretty cheap too. bet the owner would cut you a deal. ”

at her question he shrugged, a sort of static electricity feeling following the movement, echoes of the magic he’d shed.  “ yeah, well. ”  kaiden had never been asked to explain himself out here, and he’d figured if he’d been caught by some human he’d just claim to be out on a hike or perhaps lost on his way. a white lie seemed like something she might see through, however, clearly unafraid to call him on his oddities with her comment about his ring. so instead he kept it vague, and mostly true.  “ needed to— clear my head. ”

with her not seeming openly hostile, kaiden allowed himself to be inquisitive. they were already at a stalemate, the iron holding distance between them, and she could always just decide to run if she didn’t care for his presence. not as if there was much here for her to be defending.  “ fae, right ?  that’s why you don’t like the iron ? ”  he ventured. he’d read plenty about the sort, old stories in old books that all seemed at least half-fable, and it was rare for him to be face-to-face with something from the stories of his hometown.  “ you got a name ? ”  kaiden phrased it ambiguously, curious as to what she’d offer, if anything, a name of her own or a title to her kind.

“It is as good a place as any,” Morag replied, a little sharply. She sensed no hostility in his tone, but it was a very human accusation of him to make, though she was certain he wasn’t human. The brood had wondered, among themselves, why humans had retreated more and more, over the last century, into their isolated villages and communities. Banshees much older than Morag had told her that they had roamed more, in the century preceding her birth, often carrying wares and pulling carts. But now, even more than when she was young, they stayed put, or else moved in awful iron-filled metal boxes on wheels, what she had heard them call cars.

She blinked slowly at the bow. “I’m staying here out of choice, not necessity.” Maybe he didn’t understand that? She had explained now, and that was that. He shrugged, and she sensed a movement in the air, unfamiliar and impossible to place. It felt like a displacement, and it unsettled her a little, but she stayed completely still, watching him carefully. When she said he had needed to clear his head, she felt a sudden, vague, kinship with him, for the first time since his appearance. Sometimes, after a particularly violent death had been sensed, she and the other banshees had felt exhausted from their shrieking, their skulls aching on the inside. She could understand that need to clear one’s head.

He asked if she was fae, and she saw no point in denying it. The boy wasn’t human, though she didn’t know what he was, and she had no reason to keep what she was a secret. He knew enough already. “Yes,” she said. “Ben síde.” The Old Irish title slipped off her tongue easily, and she paused for a moment at the next question. She wasn’t sure if he was asking for her personal name, or her species. But, seeing as she had just told him what she was, she said, in the same, matter-of-fact, monotonous voice, “My name is Morag.” And, because he had asked hers, she echoed the question back. “And you? Do you have a name?”

[ofkeening]

lcveflcres​:

━  ☾ the coalyard forest people coalition | morag.

it was true sometimes, even for someone like gabriel, that silence was golden. after a long day of running about town, giving a little bit of himself to anyone and everyone that indulged him, gabriel still had enough energy to stay out late into the night. but at some point, people went back to their houses. the shops closed. coalyard, for the most part, would retire quietly for the evening. it was a pitiful routine, but gabriel had found the one thing that would, without fail, lift his spirts through the night. the water. 

this time of year still brought on much cooler ( sometimes freezing ) nights, especially out there in the deepest parts of the forest, but gabriel preferred it that way. tonight he’d spent over two hours at the bottom of the lake, clearing his mind and restoring his body through osmosis. he felt better, stronger. without even trying, he could sense the topography of the world around him for miles, the forest animals moving about in the shadows of the trees to a leaf that had landed on the lake’s surface. it was a peaceful scene. then, someone was coming.

gabriel curiously ascended to the surface, wondering if it’d be the same person he’d seen plenty of times before, but never being able to hold a conversation for long. her energy felt dark in origin, but light in its weight; it was familiar, but he could never get a long enough opportunity to figure it out. a spirit of some kind? a member of the fae? gabriel propelled himself silently underneath the water’s surface to close the distance, making his way back to the shore. he made a big show of pulling the water back as he emerged, as to not startle the visitor too much. with his feet steady in the earth beneath him, he locked eyes on exactly he was looking for.

“hey,” which sounded harsher than he intended, “as fun as it’s been passing each other like ships in the night, we should probably talk. formally introduce ourselves, you know? …seems like the neighborly thing to do.”

Morag had built her nest a short walk away from the stream. She did not often get thirsty, but she bathed on a semi-regular basis, and did not want to walk a long distance to the nearest water supply. She had gathered jars and bottles from the forest floor, to store water in and avoid repeat trips, and she carried one in each hand as she walked through the trees, treading lightly to avoid making a sound. There had been too many encounters with strangers of late, and it had unsettled her. Living on the moors, she and the brood had rarely seen others, except from a safe distance, and these interactions felt unnatural.

It was a quiet afternoon, still light enough to see, and Morag kept her vacant gaze straight ahead, focusing on reaching the stream before darkness fell. Birds sang in the trees, and the wind creaked the branches. The scent of death was not lingering, and she was grateful, because she did not want to approach the town again so soon after her last journey. She would follow when death swooped, but didn’t want to go close to civilisation unnecessarily.

She crouched by the stream’s edge, and reached down to fill her jar, when she heard a voice, unfamiliar and sudden. She started, and looked up sharply to see a boy in the water. How odd. Humans did not often bathe in the river, as they once had. He said that introducing themselves was the neighbourly thing to do, and she just blinked for a few moments, confused at the alien word. She understood its meaning, but the idea of being a neighbour was completely foreign to her. Human. And here, again, was another interaction with a non-banshee. But she wanted to collect her water, and the boy had made no hostile action towards her. He seemed friendly.

“Hello,” she said, blankly. “My name is Morag.” She looked at the water droplets on his skin, his soaking wet hair, and frowned quizzically. “Why are you in the water?” She asked. He had no discernible smell of death, but he did not feel human either, despite looking human. Against her better judgement, her interest was caught.

[ofkeening]

[ofkeening]

sacrifcial​:

     ── “ yeah, sorry. ”  he said again, less apologetic in a reflex of response, turning one of his hands to better show off the metal around his finger. he’d met very few of the fae sort in his life but he knew stories, clever things with bright eyes and sharp tongues that old witches often wrote about with wariness. kaiden made himself well protected, always, mostly out of precaution— he had no intention of ending on the wrong end of some trickeries. if he couldn’t keep himself unkillable, untouchable was a close second. 

there was a pause before he slowly lowered his hands back to his sides, fidgeting the ring with his thumb for a moment before he stilled. kaiden made no move to take it off or hide it away. while she didn’t seem to be regarding him as a target, or as prey, she was clearly hidden out here, and he wasn’t eager to discover how desperate she was to keep herself unknown. shifting again where he stood, kaiden moved in a small step, trying to give himself a better view of the place. if it was a living space it didn’t appear to be a very habitable one, little more than some cleared brush and some blankets, a few scattered belongings seemingly collected as a bird scavenges for their nest. 

“ why are you all the way out here ? ”  he ventured, glancing from her back towards the direction of town, far enough away from the streets for the trees to have quieted everything again. he’d assumed nothing was out here. nothing with much humanity, at least. coalyard was a place of monsters, certainly, yet he’d expected the wild things of the woods to be less conversational. there was something unmistakably disconcerting about it all, a tense sort of feeling that was getting under kaiden’s skin, and he wasn’t sure if that was because of her or just the situation itself.

The boy apologised, but did not do anything about it. Morag’s gaze darted down to the ring he twisted around his finger, and she gritted her teeth at its presence. She took a small step back, out of the gentle heat of the iron, and looked back at him. He didn’t seem alarmed at the sight of her home, or her knowledge of the iron. Pure iron was rarer among human civilisations these days -- thankfully, over the century she had been alive, it had grown less common. When she was young, Morag and the brood had been able to sense its burning presence drifting out of the towns in Yorkshire, but, as the century moved on, they’d used it less and less, diluting it with other things. It was strange that this boy was wearing it so overtly.

He asked why she was out here, and she considered not telling him. It was none of his business, and the fact that he was wearing iron immediately made her distrust him more than she would anyone else. But he hadn’t made any hostile move towards her, and he wasn’t armed, besides the small ring, which wasn’t causing her terrible distress. So, after a moment, she said, “Because I live here,” in her flat, matter-of-fact, tone.

She looked around at the piles of rags, the bones, the makeshift roof, made of a piece of cloth, and felt nothing for the place. From the turn of the twentieth century, humans had grown less nomadic, and the brood had noticed them staying put in their small villages and houses, not venturing across the moors as they once had. But the banshees had never understood that, and Morag was still not used to staying in one place . It wasn’t her nature. She followed death, as animals followed prey. But now death came here, and there was enough death, and other strange things, to keep her occupied for a while.

Morag looked again at the boy. “Why are you out here?” she asked, distantly curious, in that same vague way she felt everything. “You’re far from the town.”

[ofkeening]

peridothallewell​:

Snowflakes, as they begin to float like feathers and in their playful swirl, appear to glow. It was never difficult for Peridot’s mind to wandering, and in that imagination filling in the spaces between time she doesn’t pay any attention to. Creativity requires freedom, and in that sense of freedom comes a sense of emotional safety. It was safe here with the clear blue skies and graceful snow. Not in the world now. The world without her family. In the one where she is all alone … Wait, no. You’re not gonna go there. Not right now. Instead,

… Intead, she let’s out a breath of calmness.

Though, in her little moment, Peridot didn’t realize how close the other person was to her until the voice spoke, making themselves known. ❛ Dammit! ❜ she couldn’t help but swear, being taken by complete surprise. A chill ran through her, and she places a hand over her racing heart, which she could begin to slow back to its normal rhythm she added, ❛ I’m sorry, ❜ She begins a little breathlessly, trying to stir up a more polite demeanour, ❛ I didn’t see you there. Or hear you. ❜

Looking to the strager, Perrie is surpised to see the other woman. She has to be around my own age, she thinks, maybe even younger with that stature. This thought is a little more sad, than anything. How the other is dressed, it looks like she’s missed a few meals. The poor girl would have blended right into the snow if it weren’t for her river-dark mane. She nodded slowly, ❛ I’m a bit lost, yeah. ❜ she pointed into the dense foliage. She was tempted to ask the woman for directions outright, but something held her back. Suddenly, she felt incredibly foolish, traipsing through the forest by herself, not knowing which way is where.

❛ I came from that way, ❜ Peridot points one way, which is completely not the way she originally came. ❜ So, at least I haven’t gotten so turned around, — I think. ❜ Peridot’s face was flushed, and she prayed that the woman before her couldn’t see her awkwardness. Peridot can’t help but look over the small woman in front of her. She looked so small, and frail, and … ❛ Are you lost, too? ❜

The girl swore, and Morag just blinked at her. She was not used to raised voices -- the brood had no reason to shout -- but it had not alarmed her. “There’s no need to apologise,” she said. “You didn’t upset me.” She tried to emulate a human’s smile, but she wasn’t used to the action, and it felt tight and weak, not reaching her dark eyes, half obscured by the hair hanging over her face. She let it fade, and just stood there, looking at the girl.

They couldn’t have been more different. This girl was dark skinned, with curly brown hair, and she seemed tense, or perhaps nervous? It was difficult to tell, being so unused to human’s peculiar ways. All Morag could tell was that the girl was not at ease in the snow and cold, and had clearly come this far into the woods by mistake. She kept staring at the stranger, until she pointed into the forest, at which point, she looked into the trees curiously. It wasn’t far to the town -- she had walked that way a couple of times since arriving here.

“I’m not lost,” she said, after a moment, in response to the question. She turned back to the girl. “If you turn back the way you came, and turn left at the silver birch tree with a hole at the base, and keep walking in a straight line, you will reach Coalyard again.” It was a simple route, the one she took from the edge of the town to her nest. “I know this forest well,” she added, as an after-thought.

[ofkeening]

dvsappear​:

Curiosity clawed at Chuck’s throat and stayed there, stuck in her swallows- even when she tried to breathe. It always got the better of her, that itch for something interesting in this dull town that cracked and frayed at the edges just like each of its subdued residents. Those with their glossed over eyes, and weathered skin from too many days. Lost souls they’d call them. Perhaps there still was sadness in the air, there always seemed to be something else lingering. Especially the nights.

Even now, Chuck didn’t know what was out there. Those things that tap against glass windows at night, and lurk shadows across empty streets. Things like her. But what was so dangerous about the forest now? Well dangerous to her? Nothing she thought- but that’s what would make it so much less appealing these days.

That was before she heard it, the wretched screech. Like a mangled animal, caught in some hunters trap. She’d think it resembles a rabbit, crying for help- only larger. A wolf, threatening. A creature, begging. She could imagine it, the blood, the matted fur, the large doe-eyes pleading. So full of innocence. The last thing she expected to come across was a figure, dressed in clothes a little too dated, a little too ill-fitting. “You’re more likely to be hunted out here than find somethin’ for hunting,” Her voice almost sing-song on the night. Not quite a promise, not quite a warning. More a vague idea, an assumption. A question. What’s anyone doing out this late at night so far from civilisation?

The girl stank of death. That was the first thing Morag noticed. It clung to her like smoke. Morag had the same prickling sensation in her skin which she got when she walked over a burial site, as she stared at the stranger. And that was when she realised that this creature in front of her was a ghost. She had only encountered them from afar, wandering the moors. Lonely beings. The brood had never conversed with them. They were simply what came after the banshees had warned of the approaching death. They felt no pity, no sympathy, no deep emotion at all, for the few rare ghosts they had seen. And now, as she looked at this girl, she felt nothing.

And then, when the ghost spoke, Morag frowned in confusion. Her accent was foreign and unusual, nothing like the voices of her brood. And her words made little sense. Did she think she was hunting? Why? “I am not hunting,” she said. “And I have no fear of being hunted. Anything I encounter out here won’t best me.”

She had learnt quickly that the animals native to this country were much more ferocious than those in Yorkshire. They had nothing to fear from the wild foxes and badgers which roamed their moor home. But, when she had arrived in America, Morag had encountered much more dangerous animals. Bears, wolves, and wild dogs, all wandered this land. But they kept to themselves, having no reason to attack her. And, if they were to turn on her, she was sure she would scare them off with her cry. So, she just looked at the ghost girl, her arms hanging by her sides. The silence went on, and Morag blinked slowly, and considered turning her back and continuing her journey home. A ghost was of no real importance, after all.

[ofkeening]

meinoe​:

     *   ──     DEATH HAS NO SCENT and still she sniffs it out, looking for where the air thickened with the promise of imminent mortem. It is still too early to place where in town, and who, she will be coming for, and still she roams through the outskirts in search for a sign, a flashing beacon, a siren’s call: Come to me, come to me. 

Instead of a soft song, there is a wail. Melinoe pauses, the veil concealing her ghoulish face disappearing into the air as wisps as she takes a more human form. The wail does not stop even as she inches closer to it, careful to conceal her body as best as she can, wherever she can. The figure crying out is human enough that watching it hurl out such a chimeric sound makes wrongness settle in her gut. This is something, someone, that she’s never encountered. Curiosity beckons her, and its offer of knowledge is far more seductive than any rationality still lurking within.

She follows. Her steps are light and quick, but she makes an effort to be heard, to snap twigs and crunch leaves under her heel like inexperienced prey. Notice me, they say, and when they don’t work as quickly as she wants, her desires are verbalized. “Excuse me.” Her voice is paper soft, but she is heard. She always is. “Are you lost?”

Someone was following her. Morag could hear the soft footsteps crunching in the snow, but she did not turn around. She could feel death hovering near, a dark cloud, but it was different to the scent she had spent the last century following. It was not fluid, not nomadic. It seemed stationary, an old smell, as if death had not moved on, as it was wont to do, but had lingered somehow. She was slightly curious, but did not turn until the stranger spoke. Her voice was soft and gentle, and Morag spun quickly on the spot, her wild, tangled, hair flicking out in a fan, and hanging limply over her shoulders. She stared at the stranger with wide eyes, like a deer in a car’s headlights, like a wildcat spotted by a human. But this, she was sure, was not a human.

“No,” she said, simply. “I am not lost.” She inhaled through her nose, scenting this creature’s strange smell, and cocked her head to the side. Her eyes thinned. “You smell of death,” she stated. “But... it is strange. It’s not the usual scent.” Her mild curiousity did not colour her tone at all -- her voice remained as flat and matter-of-fact as ever. She sniffed again, trying to pinpoint what was different about this woman. She carried the aroma of death -- the unmistakable scent which Morag was preternaturally drawn to, the smell she had followed for over a hundred years -- and yet it was different.

She frowned. “Explain.” It was an order, in that same flat affect of her species. Even her irritation and curiosity were shallow -- mild and surface-level emotions, borne out of a very distant desire to understand. Morag had never felt a strong emotion in her long, long, life. She beheld the odd creature, and felt nothing more than mild annoyance and interest.

[ofkeening]

for the dearest light that is @soracities (from this post)

green grows the lily-o right among the bushes-o

[ofkeening]

sacrifcial​:

     ── it wasn’t terribly difficult to find secluded places around coalyard. the town died out into forests and fields as it reached its perimeters, and kaiden could easily wander far enough out to find somewhere largely untouched, unwatched. sometimes he felt as if it all came over him like a sickness, unused energy burning under his skin as a fever, one which he’d have to forcibly break. he’d gotten used to it, years ago, the quick-and-dirty ways to shed such things ; a spark of his lighter catching out to a brushfire, a touch to some viscous creek to freeze it over. useless magic, surely, but enough to get it out of himself for that while. 

the initial euphoria had quickly faded and he was feeling the aftereffects of it, now, the sore-muscle feeling of too much at once. his magic was always shaky with too much use and so he was eager to retreat, hide back in his apartment until it could rest out into something a bit more stable. he tried to move quickly— feeling exposed made him nervous —and in his haste he almost missed the change in scenery, might have walked by it altogether if not for the flash of white moving in the corner of his vision.

kaiden was accustomed to the strangeness of coalyard, oddities that always seemed to be evolving around him, though he hadn’t expected something like this— the wildness of it, a den in the trees, her like an animal staring him down. he was sharply aware of his tired out magic, then, hands fidgeting at his sides as if that could wake it back up. he didn’t care for vulnerability. she didn’t seem predatory, though, maybe just caught off guard, bristled against the intrusion. if he didn’t know better he might have thought her a ghost, but she was too flesh and blood, solid as she stood her ground. kaiden was quiet for a moment, considering, waiting through their accidental face off. 

“ sorry. ”  he offered, finally, raising his hands in some surrender. kaiden always kept himself well warded, charms and metals on his clothes and skin hold off unwanted things, yet here he had little idea what he was dealing with. how useless any of those things might be.  “ didn’t mean to— interrupt, here. ”

Morag stayed crouching in her nest, observing the boy. He raised his hands in a gesture which clearly meant he was not armed, but she did not relax yet. She could feel a slight presence in the air, and recognised it as iron. He must have been wearing it, so she did not move any closer, but looked into his eyes steadily. “You didn’t interrupt anything,” she said, after a moment, her voice markedly different from his, flat and colourless, with a sharp accent. "You merely surprised me.”

She stood up from her crouching position, and felt her bones creak with the effort, but did not approach the boy, instead staying where she was, with her arms crossed in front of her as a weak, automatic, defence from the iron. The feel of it in the air, emanating from him, which was almost like a steady heat from a distant fire, kept her away. Not that she would have felt comfortable getting closer than this. This was one of the few times she had come into close proximity with a creature that was not of her kind, and she wasn’t used to it. So, she stayed in her nest, staring at him with an accusing glare, tilting her head to the side slightly as she did so.

“You are wearing iron,” she stated, bluntly. It wasn’t enough to pinpoint exactly where it was, but it was somewhere, hanging around him. As far as her very limited knowledge of modern human clothing informed her, pure iron wasn’t a common feature. That was unusual. And then, looking at him, she wondered why he was so far away from civilisation, so far from his own natural habitat. She had chosen this part of the forest specifically because it was far away from the town. But, she noticed, he was at ease in the wild surroundings, almost like a banshee would be. He did not appear lost, or confused, or even afraid. That was also unusual. 

[ofkeening]

peridothallewell​:

location — coalyard forest. when — february 23rd. mid afternoon. closed starter for morag airlie !​

Peridot has never been one to feel the pull of the forest. She knows how to appreciate the beautiful of deep greens and the birdsongs that comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. But, never has she had an interest to go wandering during a hike just because. For one, Peridot doesn’t hike. And really, that’s where it stops. She’s never been the most athletic person, she’s always needed a little bit of an extra shove to be active.

Though, as she watches the movement of the trees from her kitchen window, her curiosity outweighs her laziness, in the end. Moments later where Perrie is tossing on a thicker jacket over sweater, slipping on a pair of boots, and locked the door behind her. No one has ever told Peridot to stay away from the forest. At least, not in so many words or so straightforward, but it has been hinted that it isn’t the safest of places to be alone.

Peridot has to admit that the snow-forest feels as if it is a present awaiting its opening. The snow that had fallen overnight, making the landscape pristine. It’s also clear that this past winter season has been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers of birchtrees. The trees have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind Perrie of seaside waves. They are soft, damp, yet her fingers come away dry.

A new smile paints itself upon her face, rose-pink lips semi-illuminated by the dappled light. Before she knows it her feet have begun to walk, body and mind both on autopilot - it’s the afternoon and no-one expects her to be anywhere.

And then the realization settles in as she hones in on the fact that nothing is familiar to her. And then a small bit of panic as she begins looking around the surrounding area. ❛ Oh, – Shit, ❜ Peridot huffs, hands placed on the width of her hips as she takes a look around.  Mhm — Yep. She sure as hell is lost. 

Perrie turns around and … Her footprints in the snow have … disappeared. Perrie should hate this place because this is certainly not the first time something off has happened since moving into Coalyard seven months ago, but whenever something like this happens, it only makes Perrie want to understand this place more. 

 ❛ Hello? … ❜ Perrie calls out, as if to get an answer back. A moment of silence passes by and the woman sighs heavily before tilting her head upward, feeling her curls tumble back ; the pines are several houses tall, reaching toward the promise of golden rays of spring that is just around the corner.

The brood had experienced harsh winters before. In her early years, Morag had walked through ankle-deep snow barefooted, not feeling the freezing temperature. But winter here, in this new country, was nothing like she had known in England. The snow had fallen thick and fast overnight, covering her nest, making it impossible to sleep soundly. Come morning, she had hastily erected a tent of sorts, hanging rags across branches to protect herself from any more snowfall. The lake she relied on for water was full of large chunks of ice, but she had salvaged enough water for a weekly drink.

She was returning from the lake when she heard a human call out. She froze, as still and alert as a deer, and stared in the direction of the sound. Her pale skin and white dress made her practically invisible against the snow and silver trees, and she moved closer slowly, dragging her feet to make as little sound as possible. As she approached, she could see a human standing alone, looking around aimlessly.

In the last century, Morag had come this close to a human only a handful of times. Occasionally, the brood had followed the scent of death to a lone traveller, especially in her youth, when people were more prone to travel long distances alone by foot, rather than using the rattling iron-filled machines they now preferred. On those few occasions, they had sensed death was approaching for the traveller, and keened for them. At the sound, the humans had run, tripping over the rough terrain of the moor. But never had Morag come this close to a human without an urge to cry out, without the reason of reporting an oncoming passing.

But she kept approaching, unafraid, feeling nothing except a dim curiosity for the other creature, which looked so like her, but was completely alien. She slipped through the trees behind the girl, and spoke. “Hello,” she repeated. She stared silently for a few seconds, waiting for the girl to do something, trying to ascertain what had brought her so far from the civilisation that humans so needed. “Are you lost?” she asked. Her vowels were short, and her consonants more clipped and pronounced, her accent inherited from the various banshees in her brood -- a sharp and stiff pronunciation from those with more English accents, a lilting intonation from those with more Irish or York in their voices.

[ofkeening]

closed starter for @sacrifcial.

Morag was not yet used to living in one place. She had been in Coalyard for three months, and the unfamiliarity of having a permanent home had not yet worn off. She missed her rootless existence, wandering from village to village, aimless and nomadic. But Coalyard still held her attention -- the presence of death and similar smells, and other, unfamiliar, scents, were so strong. And, like an animal, she lived in the moment, unconcerned with how long she would stay here, or what would become of her. She simply was.

Her nest was a small pile of rags and material, thrown onto broken down cardboard boxes to stop the damp seeping in. Around the rags were strewn small animal bones, from the creatures she’d hunted on the rare occasions she was hungry. Banshees wore clothes until they tore and fell apart at the seams, and only then did they steal replacements, so Morag was wearing an ill-fitting white dress she had stolen almost a month ago. It was covered in mud stains and blood, but she paid that no mind. She was crouching beside her nest, scenting an incoming death drawing closer, like a fog descending across the moor. But it was not time to keen. It was not imminent yet.

A twig snapped nearby, and she whipped around quickly, drawing her lips back against her gums, bearing her teeth, and hissing to scare off any predators that might be lurking.

[ofkeening]

Iron was everywhere in this town. Even as she stood on the edge of Coalyard, Morag could feel it seeping from the cars which sat idling by the pavements, from the skeleton frames of the hulking buildings, from the man-made roads themselves. It was only a small itch on her skin, but it was irritating. After a century of open spaces, and grassy moorlands, and barely any iron, she could feel its effects instantly.

She would not have come this close to the town’s border in daylight, were it not for the sense of death, which she felt swooping closer with each passing second. And, as a wolf howls at the full moon, and a spider spins a web, she felt the innate urge to keen a warning as death loomed every closer. And Morag opened her mouth wide, and shrieked. It was a cross between a human wail, a fox’s cry, and a barn owl’s screech -- a wholly unnatural sound, made somewhere deep inside her, and it reverberated up through her chest, through her throat, and out of her mouth. It went on and on, this banshee’s wail, until Morag felt the urge drain out of her, and she fell silent, the sound echoing for a few seconds longer.

The death, she could sense, was a few days away yet, but she had done her duty. She had warned that it was coming, as her brood had warned for a century. She licked her cracked, dry, lips, absentmindedly tugged at her dress, and turned to leave, paying no mind to the figure standing nearby.

[ofkeening]

Fog sigh

La Tuna Canyon Park, California

instagram