#The Dream of a Thousand Years|Cathal and Quothe

[brooklynislandgirl]

Would you believe….

Ancient Seat The rock has been a habitation for men for thousands of years. Before the coming of the First men it seems likely that the children of the forest and giants made their homes in its caverns. Yeah, George.  I know. I heard you the first fifteen times. But what you make in your fantasy isn’t the myth. Or the majesty. You  want prophecy? How ‘bout I give you one. Fingal’s Cavern that gave him respite from the sea. The voices of the old still whisper him advice. A throne to be reclaimed when he is king again. Scion of the Sun. Brightest when the Shadow falls.

…..Caw,  in tones of ardent affection.

Wings and Things.

[quothesquills]

She is not his pet. She is free to come and go as she pleases. And perhaps sometimes he wonders why she comes back at all. But for the times she does? Perhaps an old man feels bad for her having no proper place to nest.

So he has had something made for her. Something special, and something unique. And no he does not care that the raven doesn’t really need it, nor really need the raven sized pool installed behind it.

He thought she should have it therefore she did. And never mind the purposefully shiny silver bow and carefully woven miniature wreath hung over the door. She can do with them as she pleases.

If any of the animal crackers like herself celebrated holidays, then those would be obscure, regional, and related to their totems and auspices and tribes, or closer to what their human kin {sometimes charges, sometimes victims} reveled in. Same with the Dream Kin, the Caern Raiders, even the spooks. She’s heard tell leeches do it to, but of all the things Quothe has mixed with, she only ever had befriended one fangy-fangy-bitey-bitey. And it had been so long ago the details are a little fuzzy beyond the reminiscence of fraying, mouldering black robes and a Romanian accent.

Luka had always been different though, hadn’t he?

And so when the winter solstice rolls around and after they’ve ~the Corax as a species~ have celebrated the rebirth of Helios, she finds the air cold and small, hollow bones desirous of warmth and light. She’s been too far gone from her seemingly eternal Siberian nights, and the frigid, lethal temperatures that clung to it.

She bypasses doors and windows and the moral fortitude to knock first and be invited in by slipping through a thinning of the Veil, leaving the spirit realm of the umbra for the more hospitable comfort of his apartment. Not that she particularly likes this one, it always seems to carry a little of the blood and dirt and foreignness of that caern raider he so loves to have torture him, which would make her nose wrinkle if beaks were capable of such things. He’s not here. She can feel that. And if experience is any teacher, she has time to change out of her feathers and into something a little more suitably kinky with which to run a hot bath for his aching bones, full of alchemical balms to soothe tired muscle.

Looking from the outside, some people would call her a devilish thorn in his side for all that she jabs and pokes at his sorest places, but that’s only to remind him of his strength. Truth is, she knows his weaknesses and rather than exploiting them, she tries to soothe them in whatever ways she can within the structure of the rules, even if that means sharing him with whatever two-legs catches his fancy out of loneliness.

But even Quothe can admit to being taken aback when he surprises her. The Birdhouse is really quite spectacular, as it is massive and she wonders where he’s been building it, and how long it’s taken. Curiosity drives her and she hops from chair to shelf to perch, examining it while her head tilts this way and that. The minaret isn’t exactly that, and it looks nothing like the homes from her youth but then again, most people didn’t exactly have more than some twigs and dirt when they were young. Eventually, the thing is approached. A series of little jumps closer and closer to the doorway. 

Then she disappears inside and is once again delighted. There’s a mess of twigs, old bits of tee-shirts that still smell like him, soft and cotton. So she sets about a little house keeping. Maneuvers every last speck of material, regardless of origin, into a new nest. One big enough to settle herself in whole and happy.  She steals the ribbon from the outside and uses that as the final touch before she settles into the safety and comfort of it, nuzzling those bits that are most a part of him. She knows the new birdbath is there too, but it can wait. For now she will close her eyes. Because the best part of the solstice gift…is being able to dream about what might have been.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Moodboard quoth and luka

Friday night's your poem Saturday, your wet dream Sunday wakes you up slowly To a face that you don't wanna see I turned you on, but I left you hungry And your heart didn't matter 'til the weekend is gone Baby, sure you're getting some Really didn't matter if I can't, whoa So if the love that you're chasing after Is in the heart to be found in the out of reach Well, if you break it all down Take a good look around, you'd see That it's closer than you might believe

[brooklynislandgirl]

Quothe and Immy moodboard. Theme: a *real* vacation.

[quothesquills]

Jazz

Let the Music Play On || Accepting

A tiny finger points.

“Bláth.” A flower.

She smiles. “Bláth.”

Again.

“Lough.” A Lake.“Lough.”

Again.And again.Rock. Sky. Wolves. Trees. Fingers. Toes. Apple. Grass. Meat. Mead. The last two confuse her, so similar to one another. One to chew on with teeth. One to slake thirst. She has a question for every star there is in the coming gloaming. All of which is met with wide-eyed wonder. But she’s as bright as the sun that shines in her gaze and picks up each word, each concept as quickly as he can explain them.

The last sunlight fades into the woods and then entirely out of sight but she makes no move to let him up from where he’s lying in the grass. Her head rests in the soft dip of his belly, below his ribs. What was ink black feathers is now soft hair that spills across his skin and hers. His shirt is much too large for her but at least it’s something as she pulls his arm around her.

“Cathal?” She points upwards where the first glimmer of stars begin to appear.

[quothesquills]

Pop

Let the Music Play || Accepting

He’s still a couple days out from the last message on his answering machine. And it makes her laugh. The only reason he still has one is because he doesn’t think that she has a cell-phone. To be fair, he has no reason to think she would, and even if he suspected she was anything other than a talking raven ~not the weirdest thing he’s lived through or with~ she would still have the rote answer that why would she? It’s Weaver technology, and as a creature of the Wyld, she’d have nothing to do with one.Truth is, sometimes it’s faster to send a message that way than flying until you find another one of your kin. And more and more she has trouble finding them.

But two days still gives her plenty of time. She turns up the music on his stereo, a different station than he normally listens to because…YAWN. She wants high energy, not a coma conducted by Bob Ross. She grabs her supplies and dances around his flat on her human legs. Dusting the shelves. Washing his dishes, untouched in their cubby for weeks now.  Watering the plants, sweeping the floors. She does the windows and a few loads of laundry so that his sheets are crisp and clean and don’t smell unused. Grabs a shower for herself and changes into some ordinary people clothes. Jeans, a tee-shirt, one of his shirts that hangs down to her knees but with a belt, it looks like its intentional.

She knows every one of the places he stops. Picks up some steaks, some sausages and that bacon he likes. Some fresh vegetables from the farmer’s market. Stocks him up on his Guinness because he’s running low. Roasted coffee beans and she stays for a latte.

Fridge cleaned out and restocked with all his favourite things. Bed turned down so all he has to do is climb in it. Stereo back on the Snoozak, but she likes this one. Tchaikovsky. Symphony Number Six. Pathétique. It reminds her most of how they spend time together, through the Russian eye, of course. She doubts he’s going to notice that she’s about to see he eats properly, or that she’s kept a good house for him, that she knows how he likes things. She also doesn’t expect, when his key finally finds the lock, that her heart trips over itself.

He’s barely in through the door when she shakes herself in a tuft of sleek black feathers from the back of his favourite kitchen chair.“Oh. You are home. I suppose I hev to recall your face from back of milk carton. Is such pity. I vaus hoping to cover floor in bright orange shag carpet.”

[quothesquills]

Pop + reverse

Let the Music Play || Accepting

She flops onto her back as dramatically as a raven can. Feet dangling in the air, claws turned inward.One wing shading her face, the other laying flat, stretched out beside her.She cracks a golden eye previously squeezed shut, and glances at him. Sitting at the table. Reading one of those Irish newspapers that look like Alphabetti spaghetti.She clears her throat, and this time sticks her tongue out from the corner of her beak. If he continues to ignore her, she’s going to have to tape little Xs over her eyes.

Three weeks gone and he doesn’t even bother to look up. And while she knows that he thinks she’s just a bird, it kind of hurts her feelings.He sets the paper down. Rises. Pushes the chair in before turning his back. If she had the facial features, there would have been a frown the size of the Mississippi on hers. The kettle doesn’t quite whistle, but it is steaming. He pulls it from the stove. But instead of making tea, like she thought, he pours it into a huge roasting pan. Sets it down, then pulls up a sleeve. Sticks his hands into it and gives it a swirl.

Minutes go by. Then he clears his throat and his tone is soft. “Éan deas?”

She drags herself up. Right onto her feet into a series of little hops and starts across the inside lip of the windowsill, then a short few flaps of her wings to perch on his shoulder. She looks down. And chokes up.

The surface of the water shimmers with steam. Hot enough to feel good, but cool enough that he’s not boiling her alive, tested by his wrist. Somehow he’d known. Somehow he’d anticipated…and like she’d done a million or more times over thousands of years, he’s drawn her a bath.

One thick, calloused finger finds its way to her beak, where he gently brushes down the feathered length, the closest he comes to embracing her. A substitute for the kind of kiss that says ‘I miss you’. Carefully he plucks her from where she’d landed and sets her in this tiny bath. Scoops water into the cup of his palm and pours it over her neck. Over that spot between her wings. Over every place that’s sore, that’s tired. She sinks into it, as much as she can without drowning but even so, he tucks his other hand under her face so she can’t accidentally take on water.

“Vhy you are being so…nice? Who you set on fire this time?”

[quothesquills]

Hip Hop

Let the Music Play || Accepting

Lughnasadh.

It made no sense to her why the humans made such a fuss of the first harvest. In these long last summer days where the air was still hot and the fields were ripe and the shearlings plump. She did not let Boy get too far, not from her beady eye stare as he ran bare-chested with the other youths. None half so tall or half so fair.

Some shied away from him, away from the livid scars that still stained him red. Some of them shied away from him because they were part of Boy’s nestling’s flock. Older humans but not by much. Who were essentially busy puffing their chests and showing off their long limbs to the females of the clan.

But Boy ran. And kicked the sheep stomach stitched together in a very clever way between his feet, and back and forth with the feet of the others. He threw his dark head back and laughed. 

And she?

Flitted from branch to branch, to thatched roof, never too far. Sleek head tilting side to side, great golden eyes glittering brightly, as she watched on. Sometimes opening her beak and making an echo of his sound in a dark, raspy voice.

These games, both with sheep stomachs and with females seemed to be half the point of the celebration. The older humans gathered in their own flocks, bartering and trading and talking of the long winter that must soon begin. Later, she heard, there would be fires and songs and drinking with meat, the succulent juices she could smell as they roasted. All to celebrate the strength and the grace of Lugh. This was funny to her, because she didn’t see why the Sun itself would care about one village of people.

And maybe it was that moment when she was distracted by a tempting bushel of grain, or more correctly, the squiggly squirmy snack trying to make a feast of it that she lost sight of Boy.

Until the shouting. Until the ring of bodies formed in a circle. Where Boy faced his elder nestling, and a fist was thrown. And again. And then she could see that blood flowed from Boy’s nose.

This…incensed her.

It didn’t matter to the raven what Boy had done, or who the other one thought he was to correct him. This was her boy. This was the boy who ran as a wolf in the woods.

She sprang into the air and glided along on silent black wings. Sharp talons ripped at the fledgling’s face, his shoulders, gouging furrows where she might. Her strong beak sought out tender unprotected flesh. His scream was a joy in her ears, as her feathers were splashed red in her retribution.And she never really saw who threw the rock.

But it hit her square in the chest.Worth it, to buy Boy some time.

[quothesquills]

B I R D

Vague Isn’t A Colour || Accepting

B = Breath(What could their s/o do to take their breath away?)

Remember her as the girl he chases in his dreams, and not some dead star that never loved him like she has. Whisper her name, her real one, in her ear. Tell her she’s beautiful even if she is just some stupid bird. There’s a lot of things he could do…but he won’t.Because he can’t.And now how about pouring some lemon juice in those wounds of hers?

I = Intimacy(How romantic are they? Do they have problems with intimacy?)

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAFUCKYOU.

R = Random(How spontaneous is their relationship? Do they do things on the spot or plan ahead?)As much as she’d deny it, there’s a lot of strings attached to her relationships, both romantic and platonic. Things she can never say. Things she’s not allowed to do. Distances she’s got to keep. So outwardly she seems like the most random creature in the universe, with no compass point or purpose. But almost everything is done with purpose. Everything tends to be planned down to the smallest detail.

Except when he shouts for his bird. She can choose to ignore him, she tells herself that every time she finds herself coming when he calls.

D = Dream(What do they dream of doing with their s/o?)

Quothe’s dreams are simple. She wants a cottage somewhere green, near trees. Far away from the choke and stink of the city, where you can feel Gaia’s presence unmolested. Where the Sun can shine on your wings, or your face in equal measure. She dreams of him running on all four feet, or prowling the wooded recesses of virgin timber in search of sport, of prey. All the while her wings spread up and over him. She dreams of the children that can’t be. Maybe fae-touched like him, maybe animal crackers in their own right, even though none of them will ever be a Corax.

She dreams about a world without Caern raiders. Without curses. She dreams of what used to be.

[quothesquills]

💿 (quothe and immy)

Birdsong || Accepting

Shadow of His Wings

My Love Will Never Die || Clair Wyndham

Man or a Monster || Sam Tinnesz ft Zayde Wolf

Trasna na dTonnta || Na CasaidighEirigh Suas A Stoirin || ClannadThe Dawning || Ronan Hardiman

Bretonischer Marsc || Corvus CoraxA Thousand Times Good Night || Abel KorzeniowskiThe Wolves and the Ravens || Rogue ValleyCenturies || Fall Out BoyHold On || Chord OverstreetSecrets || One RepublicIf This Is Love || Ruthy B.Terrible Things || Mayday Parade

All The King’s Horses || Karmina

Who Wants To Live Forever || The Tenors ft Lindsey Stirling

[quothesquills]

L U K A

Vague isn’t a Colour || Accepting

L = Love (When do they say they love you? How often do they say it? Do they prefer to say or show it?)

The stream-of-consciousness that comes out of the bird’s beak is really immense if taken in all at once. But of all the words she knows, love isn’t the easiest to say. Because she knows she could love more than the world, more than the infinite universes and saying so...won’t change a damn thing. Acknowledging it only points out the weakness, the inherent flaw in her design. And she knows he wouldn’t take her seriously even if she did. So...she doesn’t.Keeps it to herself in hopes that he’ll just absorb it through some kind of spiritual osmosis. And how does she show it? She grooms him the way she attends her own feathers, tucking stray red hairs into place, or musing it up if he’s got it a little too perfect. With the soft, slow rub of her feathery beak under his chin or across his nose. Little nipping kisses at his fingers, and the careful placement of her talons so they don’t sink into his scars or his skin. She can do damage with them if she’s not paying attention.She brings Luka little treasures from here and there; fat and juicy bits of rumour she’s picked up slumming with the other changing breeds. Something shiny she found along her travels; diamonds or artwork off a black market, pieces of particularly shiny and crunchy tin foil. She’ll fetch him his moonshine-whiskey, and run his baths. She’ll turn down the bed and share her food. She keeps his dreams and nests on his chest.She lies to him, and she lets him lie right back.

U = Unique (What makes them unique as a s/o?)“Moya volk...is not one of the changing breeds. Is older than that. He is like dream of first Voulf, a thing of fang and fire that sent people scurrying to find shelter in the night. That made them envy the sleekness and the fastness so that they domesticate lesser creatures and called them dogs. Moya Volk is...well, that is a secret and I do not vish to tell. Is that not enough to make him unique? All you hev to do is look at him. To see he is not like any other creation. That is enough.”

K = Kiss(Are they a good kisser? Do they like to kiss? How often do they try to kiss you?)

“I find this question wery...rude. Is like you sit there and ask... how do I make little bird feel bad? Aha! I vhill ask her question about lips because she does not hev any.” One golden eye swings independently in its socket.

Truth be told, Quothe herself isn’t much of a kisser...but on the rare occasion she gets to wear her human suit...that’s another matter entirely. She remembers too long ago the first time her spirit egg hatched and she realized she was more than just a bird. Her lips, new and tingling, sang out his name while they were swimming and it made him...uncomfortable. He told her to wear her bird skin instead. But that night...

He taught her new things, under the furs, barely visible in the stoked embers of the fire. He pressed his mouth to that human one and...And she’s learned a lot in the millennia that have come since then. But nothing has ever been so intoxicating than those kisses.Most of the time they start slow, tender. A rekindling of all that’s been missed, all the emotions saved up for tiny half lives. Which soon deepen, turn passionate, a battle for submission, an example of need pure and uncomplicated. Hungry. Desperate. And if there’s a little biting? Who can blame her?

And it’s a whole floor show, isn’t it. Lips and breath, tongue and teeth, and hands everywhere. Because maybe this is the thing she misses most.

A = Affection(How affectionate are they with a s/o?)As far as birds go, Quothe is very affectionate. Nuzzles, cuddles even if that feels like a cage. Giving half of everything that’s hers. Constant companionship when he wants it, leaving the range of his senses when he doesn’t. Wearing his clothes even if they fall right off. Gluing nickles to things. What more could a boy ask for?

[quothesquills]

sex life meme - position preference?

 Hot Hot Hot || Accepting

So let me explain… only time I get to be vith moya volk is under wery special circumstance. I have to vhere…vere…vear? Vhy is Inglish so complicated? Any vey, I must wear monkey suit like now. Vith fingers and toes an’ everything. And he needs to be…too drunk to drive….not drunk enough to end up in hospital. This means I often must do all heavy lifting for both of us, an’ be one on top.

Not most natural thing for me, but he seems to enjoy it vell enough. Personally I prefer those moments vhen he has his balance more or less figured out an’…you know. “Catches�� me by hips, bends me over bed…an’ let nature take course. It is rare but always leaves impression, yes?

[quothesquills]

&

All Along The Watchtower || Accepting

{Text: Milkbone} Roses are red... worms taste funny. And I would still not hate your face and accept your tribute of cheeseburgers and wait up for you even if you have no concept of time because{Text: Milkbone} because you know no one ever taught you how to use a watch but you’re kind of neat.{Text: Milkbone} I know that didn’t rhyme but I’m a fucking bird. What do you want from me?! Shakespeare?!

~*~

She typed out each letter with her beak, careful not to scratch or crack her screen. She hated the jobs that took her hither and yon when she much preferred making every moment of his life a living and chaotic hell {to stave off banality, she reasons even though she knows that’s far from the truth}. But a messenger has things to do and she can’t perch on his shoulder every second of the day.

Truth is...she misses him. Him and his stupid face. 

[quothesquills]

✉

All Along The Watch Tower || Accepting

She hates monkey. The feel of skin is strange when it lacks quills and there’s too many fingers and she can’t get a good grip on anything. The only thing more despicable is of course Rara Avis, and she doesn’t think about it.

The bath grew cold hours ago. The bottle has lost its mortal toxicity. The candles have burned down to embers and pools of nothingness and still he hasn’t come home.

When he does, she knows she’ll smell.... her ....on him.

So she pulls out a cellphone from her... pocket. Stupid things, pockets.

{Text: Alpo} Stop playing with the little bi--witch and come home. Where u belong.

But she doesn’t send it.

Instead, she glues his favourite book closed.She makes a mess of his bed sheets, leaving them in strips and tatters.

She hides his best silverware under the floor boards.

It only mollifies her a little bit and she shakes off her people skin and puts her feathers back on. And she leaves, no forwarding address.

Only because she knows...

....she’ll be back. She always comes back.

[quothesquills]

Luka O'Rian

What Quothe says: 

VISUAL ATTRACTIVENESS: 💔(purely aesthetic appreciation of looks)

What Quothe feels: VISUAL ATTRACTIVENESS: 💗💗💗💗💗(purely aesthetic appreciation of looks)

What Quothe says:FRIENDSHIP LEVEL: 💗💗 (how close a friend they consider them)What Quothe feels:

FRIENDSHIP LEVEL: 💗💗💗💗(how close a friend they consider them)

What Quothe says: SEXUAL DESIRE: 💔(wanting to have sex with them)What Quothe feels:

SEXUAL DESIRE: 💗💗💗💗💗(wanting to have sex with them) 

What Quothe says:

ROMANTIC INTENT: 💔(hoping for a romantic relationship)

What Quothe feels:

ROMANTIC INTENT: 💗💗💗💗💗(hoping for a romantic relationship)

💔 Non-existent💗 Very low💗💗 A little💗💗💗 Hopeful💗💗💗💗 High💗💗💗💗💗 Maximum

[quothesquills]

K'ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooottttttttte!!!!!!!!!!!

“You bellow?”