#⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"We're empty handed, up against an archer, our only chance is to strike him in the darkness." ( for Maisie pls :>)

EPIC: THE MUSICAL Sentence Starters (Ithaca Arc) / accepting / @caustichatred

All her life, the glade was always somewhere where Maisie nearly crossed into Spring's garden. Warmth greets her like a touch of the Lady's hand, fingers gliding down her chilled cheek.

Speckles and orbs fill the gnome's sights as she glances haphazardly in one direction. Drinking in the sunlight and basking in the warm glow was no one.

Only the sun remained, its heat reminding her of what would become of her—a rotting and decomposing corpse—if left out in the elements.

A grass blade caresses her cheek as her body leaves a silhouette where she lies. A slow breath drags out from her body as her eyes twitch. Her fingers writhe and plunge into the side of her waist. Her teeth pierce down her bottom lip, muting the anguish and squeal shaking in her throat.

Her left gloved hand clutches her abdomen as she winces, and her leg buckles and jerks. She raises her palm, sighing as she opens and closes her fist. The tacky substance is undeniable. Her hand ventures downward again.

Ah, there it was--the thorn. Its jagged barbs dug her muscles and torn sinew; the wooden shaft lodged into her body.

A lucky shot was all it took to immobilize her. She dropped to the ground, staying still as possible--the only thing keeping her alive. Darkness had once been her friend, but the shadows seemed closer to this adversary.

Yet from the void comes a voice. Maisie rolls her head back, seeing the world upside down. Not another soul was found, but she heard him speak. It was a hurried whisper and warning, a quick plan from the sudden ambush.

"Lucien," she said, bearing her teeth in a pained smile. Soon, she saw it. Barely visible among the shadows of the forest were those piercing golden eyes. They faintly glow as he becomes corporeal. Nearly as tall as the trees and thrice as old as the land they walked on was the monster of legends—her accomplice.

Lucien's eyes searched the horizon, but then they drooped to the ground. His circular irises soon revealed their primal truth, transforming into thin slits. His nose wrinkled, and his irises became as slim as needles.

Death is repugnant and in the air.

"Marvelous idea, but we are at the wrong time of day." Maisie presses down on the punctured wound. She glances away, steadying her breath.

As she inhaled, his own exhale was haggard and loud. His eyes remained fixed on her body. "There is a way, and I need you," she insisted.

"Drown this place in darkness," she pleads.