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[center][font=Constantia][size=6][b][i]arc two: mortal woes[/i][/b][/size][/font][/center]
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[color=transparent]___[/color]The winding caves beneath the [i]Móðirfjall[/i] were still; waiting. Six of them had stepped through the Veil, prepared for whatever the mortal world held, and now six of them had to find a way forward. They could no longer remain idle observers to this world.
[color=transparent]___[/color]And this is where the problems arose.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“We must not interfere,” Carnations intoned from his perch atop a slab of ice, carefully carved with the symbols of the Graveyard. “It is not our place. We are here to guide souls, not meddle with mortal affairs.” The Graveyard had named him an Omen and so, an Omen he would be.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Verbena sneered, her pale form a glaring contrast against the dark rock around them. “Coward. We have bodies fit for fighting, so let us fight,” she said. Her fury lingered, simmering beneath the surface, and was prone to erupting into violence still.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“There is a whole realm waiting for us, siblings. We cannot commit to a singular way, not here,” Gladioli stepped forth, eyes steely. Despite the six of them being equals on a technical level, Gladioli remained the [i]First Flower[/i]. “The Graveyard knows the way. We must not presume to think we know better than She,” Gladioli continued, sure in her words and unwavering before their divided opinions. “These Darkened Caves are our home in this realm, but our work is outside them. The Graveyard has told me this.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Why does she only speak to [i]you[/i]?” Scabiosa mused, head tilted a little too far to look natural. He had not yet mastered the ways of the mortals.
[color=transparent]___[/color](None of them had.)
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Because that, siblings, is my role,” she replied and turned, eyes finding the tear in the Veil. It twisted strangely. “Can you not feel it? She calls me a Specter. She thinks of me as Her voice, for there [i]must[/i] be a channel between this realm and ours.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]For a moment, none of the others spoke. Gladioli’s words rang true, could be felt as a physical twinge through each of their tethers to the Graveyard, and Verbena was the first to step down. She did not look happy about it, face twisted into an expression that looked far more severe on the face of a dragon than it might have on their original forms.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“So it will be, then,” Verbena muttered and turned, decidedly done conversing.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Curious, is she not?” Zinnia piped up in the silence following their bright sibling’s departure. She looked endlessly entertained. “The Graveyard has named me, too.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]Glances were exchanged. Carnations lowered his head, irritably continuing to carve into the ice he rested on. The Graveyard had spoken to them all, had already given them their titles and purposes, it was merely difficult to [i]accept[/i]. This was not like being at home, in the Beyond, where existence was blessedly simple. Actions were their own, no purpose or thoughts necessary, and the Graveyard hardly meddled in their affairs there.
[color=transparent]___[/color]But here? The Waking Plane was different. Every action needed intent; every action had a consequence. And none of them were used to it, not yet settled enough to understand.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Then…” Gladioli trailed off, hesitant. “Then we must begin. The Graveyard has spoken, we have heard her. We cannot delay. We are here on her command, as her creations. To sit about and squabble like children is…” Once more, Gladioli trailed off, trying and failing to find a suitable word. It was happening too quickly. Just the day before, they’d dithered and shared uncertain looks, wondering who might be the first to break the silence.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Today, Gladioli had broken the silence, and she thought she might be regretting it. Everything was more frightening now that it was no longer possible to deny that this was no longer merely an [i]adventure[/i]. The time for frivolous excitement had passed.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Childish,” Cosmos supplied. “It is childish.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]Zinnia snorted. “Yes. And we are not children, are we?” She shifted, her strange hide catching the light from the Veil. It shone like polished glass.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Were we ever?” Carnations asked, eyes resolutely on his carving.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Nobody answered.
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[color=transparent]___[/color]Their network of slithering tunnels and hollowed caverns is dubbed the Darkened Caves.
[color=transparent]___[/color]None of the Flowers know who first called it such, but it settled in the air and one could almost sense the rock around them humming in approval. The once-dead stillness of the caverns shifted, morphing into a pleasant nothingness filled with [i]something[/i], and they were content.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Whilst the Graveyard would always be where they came from, her embrace being their true home, this was a space they’d carved out for themselves. This belonged only to [b]them[/b].
[color=transparent]___[/color]And every one of them was different, slowly drifting off to find their own spaces in this vast, empty space they had commandeered from the living. The entrance to their section of the mountainous caverns was well hidden, tucked away and prone to being overlooked by mortals.
[color=transparent]___[/color]A lesser creature might call it good fortune. Gladioli knew it to be the Fates.
[color=transparent]___[/color]As she sat by the entrance, watching the moonlight bathe snowy trees and skittering critters, she felt at [i]home[/i]. The spindly trees swayed in the breeze, reaching towards the heavens with branches like claws, and the Graveyard’s gaze rested heavy against her back. In the distance, she could hear the music of the mortals— they were celebrating something. Gladioli couldn’t help but wonder what.
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[color=transparent]___[/color]Carnations most often skulked about the pool, gazing into its still waters, yet he frequently slipped out to spread his growing collection of trinkets and fabrics throughout the Caves. He would hang large swathes of cottons and linen, embroidered or painted with the language of the Beyond, from the high walls in their communal areas.
[color=transparent]___[/color]He used his claws skillfully, carving figurines and little places along the walls for them to stay. The sight of bare walls filled him with a dread he did not comprehend.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Is it your soul you seek to fill, brother?” Scabiosa asked, once.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Carnations did not know what he was doing, but rejected the notion with the certainty of a creature drowning in denial. The only thing he knew for sure was that his soul softened as he carefully etched their stories into the walls, pictures and words and tales he was terrified to forget. He might have stepped through the Veil voluntarily, but he did not know what he was heading towards, and in the depth of his own mind, he [i]regretted[/i].
[color=transparent]___[/color]And to have the Graveyard name him an Omen had not helped. Every time he watched a mortal draw their final breath, he swore a piece of his soul went with them, and he wondered if this realm would truly take [i]everything[/i] from him.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Verbena snarled at everyone. One day, she came to him thoughtful rather than furious. “I would help you,” she insisted, “should you help me.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]They helped one another.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Carnations helped Verbena carve out spots to hang the weaponry she brought back, from chipped swords to bloodied shields, and she helped him fill their walls with stories. These caves would remember them long after the last Flower returned to the Graveyard. In a certain light, it was beautiful.
[color=transparent]___[/color]In another, it was grotesque. The images showcasing their true forms, the gangly beasts of sinew and bone, and the endless dance of souls coiling through eternity— few else would ever see beauty in it.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“It will do.” Verbena declared this with certainty, what may have been a smile on her pale face.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Carnations had smiled, too. “It will do.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]As he continues twisting this space into somewhere he can be happy, the caves help him without needing to be asked. Carnations wish for light and, before days end, veins of brightly glowing ore snakes along the walls leading down into his section of the caves. A few of his flowers fall and take root along the gentle slope leading down to his pool, the clucking of running water echoing between the walls.
[color=transparent]___[/color]When he is weary, he lies upon the furs and moss he’s gathered and peers into the crystal waters. It is unnatural. Even down there, where there is hardly any light at all, the water glows as if caressed by the brightest sunlight.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Carnations see all things in there, in the surface reflections, and speak of none.
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[color=transparent]___[/color]Zinnia cannot bear the darkness.
[color=transparent]___[/color]She did not mind it in the Beyond, in their beloved Graveyard, but here? In this mortal realm, the darkness suffocates. It dulls her mind, leaving her sluggish and irritable. The aching void Cosmos left behind when he was torn from her turns into a festering wound in the deepest shadows.
[color=transparent]___[/color]There must be light, she declares, and sets out to devour as much knowledge as possible. She learns about how the magic flows in this realm, maps the ley lines and their rhythms, and twists her innate magic until it fits this new form. And the first thing she does is conjure dozens of hovering flames, flickering and frail, but ones that light up the darkness throughout their Caves. The gentle crackle of magical fire soothes a part of her Zinnia did not know was hurt to begin with.
[color=transparent]___[/color]It leaves behind a taste on her tongue, sweet as the fruit that would grow on the Elder Tree, and sticky like syrup. The magic swells and vibrates in her chest in a way that is too pleasant by far.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Zinnia does not deny it, allowing her gut to lead her forth— and isn’t it such a novel concept to have a gut at all? —as she seeks out the knowledge of the mortals. She pilfers scrolls and tomes, spare papers forgotten in the forests as valuable to her as gold to the common dragon. The corpses of dragons that could not weather the frigid mountains around them are cared for appropriately, but Zinnia gently tugs the books from their frozen claws. No paper is left in the cold when she finishes her rites.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Within her section of their Caves, she fills the many alcoves with endless stories and texts, from fantastical tales of wonder to the scientific dissertations of mortal topics she finds most intriguing.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Her soul sings as she stacks the books higher and higher, precarious piles that lean dangerously and wobble whenever her tail swishes too close. The smell of damp stone and moisture is overtaken by that of inkstones, and paper, and the electrical [i]twang[/i] of magic that preserves her papers and tomes.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“There is so much to learn!” Zinnia enthuses to Cosmos in the night, the two of them resting together beneath the hundreds of floating lights she’s conjured. The cavern is too tall for the light to reach its roof and the darkness lingers there, patient. “Can you imagine? So many lands are out there, brother, and there must be so much to see. The potential is endless.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]Cosmos looks at her as if she is daft. “Why do you care? We are not here to read,” he says and lowers his head to rest on his furry paws. “We are here to shepherd souls.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Why can we not do both?”
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[color=transparent]___[/color]Cosmos do not linger in the communal areas of their Caves.
[color=transparent]___[/color]He does not care for the little figurines and scrolls that pop up, the clusters of furs over soft moss, nor the ancient weaponry of the mortals. It becomes too crowded— too [i]alive[/i]. Rather than spend his time with his siblings, Cosmos seeks out the deepest tunnels and the winding paths. The places where not even Zinnia’s flames can reach nor the whispers of footsteps against stone.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Solidarity is what he seeks; silence. Cosmos creates his space deep within the mountain, where the chill gives way to an oppressive, all-consuming heat and steam wafts from the cracks in the walls. The weight of the world above comforts as much as it humbles.
[color=transparent]___[/color]When they go searching for him, they do not find him. Cosmos learns to navigate the tunnels, how they coil and roll, and the way the mountain shifts. Some days it is playful, cracking open new passages yet to be explored, whilst others it is filled with rage. Fine tremors that threaten to bury them all beneath endless stone, to crush these mortal shells and send them back to the Beyond, and Cosmos welcomes it all. This is where he belongs, he knows it.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Little veins of ore keeps him company as he dozes, deep in thought. He can feel the Veil all around him, meshed together with the raw magic of the mountain, and it makes his flowers bloom and croon softly into the silence.
[color=transparent]___[/color]He plants a little field of them; a bed for only himself to rest upon when his bones grow weary.
[color=transparent]___[/color]They often do, these days. The mortal realm is heavy and cloying, his soul constantly shifting within its vessel, full of jagged edges and brittle bits left from when he was torn from his other half. He feels incomplete in a whole different way, yet all the more [i]complete[/i], as if the blood and bones and flesh fills the void Zinnia left behind.
[color=transparent]___[/color]He thinks of these things as he explores, allowing the mountain to lead him onwards. There is so much to discover in the depths of its bowels, from glittering gemstones to warped bones from creatures long gone.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Cosmos gathers some of these treasures and brings them up to the others, dumping them into a little pile within the largest chamber.
[color=transparent]___[/color]The next time he comes back up, they’ve been carefully added into the décor of the cavern; gemstones cleaned and added into figurines, bones strung together and gently clinking together in the unnatural breeze slithering through the halls.
[color=transparent]___[/color]He gazes upon them and feels the tugging in his soul, relentless. A sensation brews in the distance. Cosmos knows it is almost time— he does not know what he waits for, nor why, but he waits.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Patience is a virtue, Cosmos knows, and he withdraws back into the bowels of the mountain.
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[color=transparent]___[/color]Verbena thrives beneath the sun.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Her pale coat blends in with the snowy fields, allowing her to hide between the wintry trees and in the frozen underbrush. She stalks through the lands with purpose, unyielding, and dragons veer off their courses to avoid her.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Because she is unnatural and they know it; can sense it on the wind, a shiver heralding something that does not belong in this realm. Verbena does not fault them for it, and yet she does, for she is not there to harm them. She is there to fight, to breathe the battlefield air, and show this plane of existence that she is [i]here[/i]. Her brethren are quiet, settled in the shadows, but
[color=transparent]___[/color]Verbena wishes to be loud.
[color=transparent]___[/color]This form is not natural to her, it pulls where she would expect a push and twists when it ought not to, but it fills her with a joy the Graveyard never did.
[color=transparent]___[/color]A blasphemous thought, in a sense. But it was the Graveyard that sent her here and Verbena is determined to thrive, to exist, and her dour siblings will not bring her down. She refuses to let them trap her in their twisting stillness. There is not enough movement in the Caves; not enough [i]anything[/i].
[color=transparent]___[/color]But she goes back there, when the day draws to an end, and her lungs burn from the strain. The pleasant hum of excess zaps along her ligaments, tears at the edges of this unnatural form she’s taken, and the darkness of the Caves is not so oppressive then. Gladioli always greets her when she arrives, somehow knowing before Verbena when she will come home, and the elder Flower nudges their foreheads together when Verbena stills.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“You have returned,” Gladioli will tell her, eyes soft.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Verbena cannot express the feeling it fills her with— it is silent, like the lazy waves lapping at the shore, and fuzzy like the fur of the snowtide rabbits. “This is my home,” Verbena will admit in response, forcing her expression to remain neutral. “This is my home, sister, and I have no intent of turning my back on it.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]Days can pass, even weeks, and it is the same dance every time Verbena comes home. Gladioli greets her. Deeper in, Carnations will give her a displeased side-eye. “More swords, sister?” he asks, always intrigued by the weaponry she brings back but never outright saying as much.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“There are more swords than sense out there,” she replies haughtily and drops them by his feet. She pretends not to notice the way his eyes glitter with hidden excitement. “This one, see? I think it may be from the Burning Lands…”
[color=transparent]___[/color]And they will chat. Verbena feels Zinnia brush by her in the evening, a familiar presence, and it is good. The weaponry she brings home is carefully mounted on the walls.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“We may need more walls,” Scabiosa pipes up from a corner.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Cosmos appears from nowhere, as he’s wont to do, and scoffs. “We have plenty of walls,” he grouses, “I will show you some. You best watch it, sister. I will not have your trash covering everything down here.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]But he leads her down the tunnels anyway, Carnations at their heels, and shows them to another empty cavern they can fill. He cracks a smile, sometimes, when Carnations immediately begins plotting out alcoves and sections to smoothen. And Verbena knows that the outside will never be enough.
[color=transparent]___[/color]No matter how stifling it may be inside, beneath the mountain of mountains, it is her home. And she will always return.
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[color=transparent]___[/color]Scabiosa plants his flowers in the cracks of the rock, where the floors meet the curving walls, and in the empty spots between beds and paths. The darkness does not hinder his piercing eyesight.
[color=transparent]___[/color]His flowers, once planted, emit the softest light for them to share.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Like scattered stars, they brighten the corners and crevices of the Caves, and Scabiosa feels content as he plants them wherever a flicker of starshine is needed. Their roots are deep and strong, thriving in the dark just as he, and Scabiosa knows they will stand the test of time. He is of the hardy kind; not even traveling between the realms shook his soul.
[color=transparent]___[/color]And he is of the gentle kind, the kind that loves without abandon and will never apologize for allowing his heart to blossom. Scabiosa wishes to make the world more beautiful and it begins in their caverns and tunnels.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Outside, the morning light bleeds red across the sky. Scabiosa’s flowers sway gently in the breeze where they grow along the foot of the mountain, creeping upwards ever so slightly.
[color=transparent]___[/color]He retreats inside before the sunlight can reach him, satisfied with another few flowers burrowing into the permafrost of the outside world, the magic that flows through his mortal shell digging itself into the very essence of these ‘Icefields’ they reside in. There is a sensation akin to sunshine upon his back as he steps deeper into the darkness, a phantom caress as the sun rises and bathes the flowers he left outside in light and [i]life[/i].
[color=transparent]___[/color]The flowers planted inside shine a little brighter, then, and Scabiosa watches them in fascination as their glow ebbs and flows in tune with the sun and the moon. When the moon reigns, they take on a lilac hue, and he can almost hear them singing sweetly at him.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Beneath the blinding sun, their white petals are as pure as the freshly fallen snow.
[color=transparent]___[/color]They compliment Zinnia’s floating lights, working in tandem to brighten the somber mood that bleeds through the crack in the Veil from the Graveyard. Her essence is strong, here, and Scabiosa feels a flicker of guilt at his efforts to brighten a space that feels as if it should not hold any measure of joy. Their Caves feel like they were made for darkness; made for sorrow and grief, perhaps, but Scabiosa will not allow them to be creatures of only sadness.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Death is frightening to many mortals, a time of pain and loss, but Scabiosa thinks there can be [i]more[/i] to it. And it begins with them, with the little sparks of light within the darkness, and their willingness to accept that this is not the Graveyard.
[color=transparent]___[/color]This is the Waking Plane and they must adapt, too, and allow its life to crawl closer. They must not shut it all out.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Scabiosa plants another flower and smiles, at peace. There is hope yet.
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[color=transparent]___[/color]Gladioli struggles to find equilibrium— she cannot find her balance in a world so [i]bright[/i].
[color=transparent]___[/color]She tries to busy herself with petty projects, things unrelated to their honorable duty, and the guilt gnaws at her. The Graveyard has given her a mission. Gladioli blocks it from her mind and coaxes forth life from various seeds she’s obtained from the outside, resolutely facing away from the Veil.
[color=transparent]___[/color]A part of her regrets having settled down here, in a little offshoot from the cavern that holds the Veil, for her guilt has never been more prominent as it chokes her from within.
[color=transparent]___[/color]It fills her throat, one that gasps for air without her truly needing it, and she trembles like a leaf in the wind as she hides away in her carefully cultivated field of wildflowers and bushes. None of them are meant to grow in the dark, in a frigid [i]cavern[/i], just as she is not meant to walk these lands— Gladioli is an [b]intruder[/b].
[color=transparent]___[/color]Or, perhaps more accurately, she [i]feels[/i] like an intruder. It is a foolish sensation, wrought from senseless emotions and illogical thoughts, but she cannot shake them. Her insides twist uncomfortably with every breath she draws.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Coming here, Gladioli thinks in secret, was a mistake. She has doomed them all.
[color=transparent]___[/color]But then she gazes upon her wildflowers, scavenged from all manner of abandoned travel packs and odd corners of the Icefields, and her heart softens. Her own flowers are hidden within the little patch of greenery, swaying gently in a nonexistent wind, and Gladioli inhales the subtle scent of a dozen different flowers existing in harmony. It is peaceful.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Her mind drifts, untethered and free. It is reminiscent of the lightness of the Graveyard, the way it was a conscious effort to remain grounded, and how the stars beckoned them always. Gladioli thinks of it fondly, even now, and sleeps.
[color=transparent]___[/color]When Gladioli wakes, it is to a clump of frigid eggs tucked against her side. They shift with every breath she draws, clinking together softly, and she feels the stirrings of slumbering souls inside. Souls that are being reborn, souls that are being eased into this realm through the natural cycle, and souls that bear the unique flavor of the Graveyard.
[color=transparent]___[/color]These are Flowers, born anew. Gladioli looks down upon the eggs with awe.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“She wants us to succeed,” Scabiosa speaks up from the darkness, his form laid out in front of the Veil. He looks entirely at ease. “It is a gift, no? For them to be brought into this realm so gently. One almost envies them,” he continues and cracks an eye open, gazing at her.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Gladioli frowns and looks down at the eggs. “It is,” she eventually agrees. “It is kinder. They will… it is better. This realm has to acknowledge them, now, if they are born into it as mortals are.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]She feels the Graveyard in the back of her mind, crooning softly. Approval. The guilt of the night before feels faraway and intangible, fading like a bad dream. Something settles and Gladioli does not know why— does not care to know, either. Her heart beats steady, a lazy thump she is only just getting accustomed to, and the lush plants beneath her cradles her form carefully.
[color=transparent]___[/color][i]Care for them,[/i] the Graveyard whispers to her, [i]like they were your own. You are my bridge, my dearest blossom, and they will all be your children. Love them, as I love you.[/i]
[color=transparent]___[/color]Gladioli smiles. She can do that.
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[color=transparent]___[/color]To watch the younglings leave does not hurt. Not quite.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Gladioli knows they are not hers, not in truth, but her heart aches for them all the same. She hopes they will be safe amongst the mortals. They are bright-eyed and blessed with young forms, mimicking a true mortal impeccably, and she closes her eyes with a silent prayer as they leave.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“They will be fine,” Cosmos scoffs and rolls his eyes, turning as soon as the last one disappears into the wintry night.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“Have some tact, brother. This is new to us all,” Zinnia chastises as he leaves, her face twisted into a little smile too bright for her lecturing tone. “But I believe he is right. And should something happen… we will be here for them, darling.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]Gladioli gives her a look. “The mortals could tear them to pieces before we could do a thing.”
[color=transparent]___[/color]“The mortals could try. I will rip them to shreds before they get anywhere near [i]any[/i] of us,” Verbena declares. Her sneer promises violence and gore, sharp teeth on display, and Gladioli squints suspiciously. Were her teeth always that sharp?
[color=transparent]___[/color]“We are not here to murder the mortals,” Carnations scolds. He looks hopelessly fond beneath the faux stern chill in his eyes.
[color=transparent]___[/color]“... not [i]yet[/i].”
[color=transparent]___[/color]Gladioli tunes them out as they delve into bickering, eyes finding the empty horizon. Their newest Flowers are long gone. Her siblings, bless their foolish hearts, are looking more lively than they have in a long time. Their numbers have grown, after all, and the weight of the Graveyard’s mission feels more bearable. For six Flowers to cleanse a whole world? Impossible.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Begging for individuals to cross after them, well, it would not have held. Gladioli sees that now.
[color=transparent]___[/color]But if they Graveyard would send them Flowers, would integrate them into this world proper, then perhaps it was doable. Perhaps they could spread, could cover these many nations, and reclaim the lost souls the Graveyard wept for.
[color=transparent]___[/color]Gladioli turns her back on the horizon, steps past her quarreling siblings, and smiles.
[color=transparent]___[/color]She feels [i]hope[/i].
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[center]@pinglist-20017[/center]
[center][font=Constantia]fff- I'm sorry for the length, I promise not all lore updates will be this long ;A;[/center]
arc two: mortal woes
___The winding caves beneath the Móðirfjall were still; waiting. Six of them had stepped through the Veil, prepared for whatever the mortal world held, and now six of them had to find a way forward. They could no longer remain idle observers to this world.
___And this is where the problems arose.
___“We must not interfere,” Carnations intoned from his perch atop a slab of ice, carefully carved with the symbols of the Graveyard. “It is not our place. We are here to guide souls, not meddle with mortal affairs.” The Graveyard had named him an Omen and so, an Omen he would be.
___Verbena sneered, her pale form a glaring contrast against the dark rock around them. “Coward. We have bodies fit for fighting, so let us fight,” she said. Her fury lingered, simmering beneath the surface, and was prone to erupting into violence still.
___“There is a whole realm waiting for us, siblings. We cannot commit to a singular way, not here,” Gladioli stepped forth, eyes steely. Despite the six of them being equals on a technical level, Gladioli remained the First Flower. “The Graveyard knows the way. We must not presume to think we know better than She,” Gladioli continued, sure in her words and unwavering before their divided opinions. “These Darkened Caves are our home in this realm, but our work is outside them. The Graveyard has told me this.”
___“Why does she only speak to you?” Scabiosa mused, head tilted a little too far to look natural. He had not yet mastered the ways of the mortals.
___(None of them had.)
___“Because that, siblings, is my role,” she replied and turned, eyes finding the tear in the Veil. It twisted strangely. “Can you not feel it? She calls me a Specter. She thinks of me as Her voice, for there must be a channel between this realm and ours.”
___For a moment, none of the others spoke. Gladioli’s words rang true, could be felt as a physical twinge through each of their tethers to the Graveyard, and Verbena was the first to step down. She did not look happy about it, face twisted into an expression that looked far more severe on the face of a dragon than it might have on their original forms.
___“So it will be, then,” Verbena muttered and turned, decidedly done conversing.
___“Curious, is she not?” Zinnia piped up in the silence following their bright sibling’s departure. She looked endlessly entertained. “The Graveyard has named me, too.”
___Glances were exchanged. Carnations lowered his head, irritably continuing to carve into the ice he rested on. The Graveyard had spoken to them all, had already given them their titles and purposes, it was merely difficult to accept. This was not like being at home, in the Beyond, where existence was blessedly simple. Actions were their own, no purpose or thoughts necessary, and the Graveyard hardly meddled in their affairs there.
___But here? The Waking Plane was different. Every action needed intent; every action had a consequence. And none of them were used to it, not yet settled enough to understand.
___“Then…” Gladioli trailed off, hesitant. “Then we must begin. The Graveyard has spoken, we have heard her. We cannot delay. We are here on her command, as her creations. To sit about and squabble like children is…” Once more, Gladioli trailed off, trying and failing to find a suitable word. It was happening too quickly. Just the day before, they’d dithered and shared uncertain looks, wondering who might be the first to break the silence.
___Today, Gladioli had broken the silence, and she thought she might be regretting it. Everything was more frightening now that it was no longer possible to deny that this was no longer merely an adventure. The time for frivolous excitement had passed.
___“Childish,” Cosmos supplied. “It is childish.”
___Zinnia snorted. “Yes. And we are not children, are we?” She shifted, her strange hide catching the light from the Veil. It shone like polished glass.
___“Were we ever?” Carnations asked, eyes resolutely on his carving.
___Nobody answered.
...
___Their network of slithering tunnels and hollowed caverns is dubbed the Darkened Caves.
___None of the Flowers know who first called it such, but it settled in the air and one could almost sense the rock around them humming in approval. The once-dead stillness of the caverns shifted, morphing into a pleasant nothingness filled with something, and they were content.
___Whilst the Graveyard would always be where they came from, her embrace being their true home, this was a space they’d carved out for themselves. This belonged only to them.
___And every one of them was different, slowly drifting off to find their own spaces in this vast, empty space they had commandeered from the living. The entrance to their section of the mountainous caverns was well hidden, tucked away and prone to being overlooked by mortals.
___A lesser creature might call it good fortune. Gladioli knew it to be the Fates.
___As she sat by the entrance, watching the moonlight bathe snowy trees and skittering critters, she felt at home. The spindly trees swayed in the breeze, reaching towards the heavens with branches like claws, and the Graveyard’s gaze rested heavy against her back. In the distance, she could hear the music of the mortals— they were celebrating something. Gladioli couldn’t help but wonder what.
...
___Carnations most often skulked about the pool, gazing into its still waters, yet he frequently slipped out to spread his growing collection of trinkets and fabrics throughout the Caves. He would hang large swathes of cottons and linen, embroidered or painted with the language of the Beyond, from the high walls in their communal areas.
___He used his claws skillfully, carving figurines and little places along the walls for them to stay. The sight of bare walls filled him with a dread he did not comprehend.
___“Is it your soul you seek to fill, brother?” Scabiosa asked, once.
___Carnations did not know what he was doing, but rejected the notion with the certainty of a creature drowning in denial. The only thing he knew for sure was that his soul softened as he carefully etched their stories into the walls, pictures and words and tales he was terrified to forget. He might have stepped through the Veil voluntarily, but he did not know what he was heading towards, and in the depth of his own mind, he regretted.
___And to have the Graveyard name him an Omen had not helped. Every time he watched a mortal draw their final breath, he swore a piece of his soul went with them, and he wondered if this realm would truly take everything from him.
___Verbena snarled at everyone. One day, she came to him thoughtful rather than furious. “I would help you,” she insisted, “should you help me.”
___They helped one another.
___Carnations helped Verbena carve out spots to hang the weaponry she brought back, from chipped swords to bloodied shields, and she helped him fill their walls with stories. These caves would remember them long after the last Flower returned to the Graveyard. In a certain light, it was beautiful.
___In another, it was grotesque. The images showcasing their true forms, the gangly beasts of sinew and bone, and the endless dance of souls coiling through eternity— few else would ever see beauty in it.
___“It will do.” Verbena declared this with certainty, what may have been a smile on her pale face.
___Carnations had smiled, too. “It will do.”
___As he continues twisting this space into somewhere he can be happy, the caves help him without needing to be asked. Carnations wish for light and, before days end, veins of brightly glowing ore snakes along the walls leading down into his section of the caves. A few of his flowers fall and take root along the gentle slope leading down to his pool, the clucking of running water echoing between the walls.
___When he is weary, he lies upon the furs and moss he’s gathered and peers into the crystal waters. It is unnatural. Even down there, where there is hardly any light at all, the water glows as if caressed by the brightest sunlight.
___Carnations see all things in there, in the surface reflections, and speak of none.
...
___Zinnia cannot bear the darkness.
___She did not mind it in the Beyond, in their beloved Graveyard, but here? In this mortal realm, the darkness suffocates. It dulls her mind, leaving her sluggish and irritable. The aching void Cosmos left behind when he was torn from her turns into a festering wound in the deepest shadows.
___There must be light, she declares, and sets out to devour as much knowledge as possible. She learns about how the magic flows in this realm, maps the ley lines and their rhythms, and twists her innate magic until it fits this new form. And the first thing she does is conjure dozens of hovering flames, flickering and frail, but ones that light up the darkness throughout their Caves. The gentle crackle of magical fire soothes a part of her Zinnia did not know was hurt to begin with.
___It leaves behind a taste on her tongue, sweet as the fruit that would grow on the Elder Tree, and sticky like syrup. The magic swells and vibrates in her chest in a way that is too pleasant by far.
___Zinnia does not deny it, allowing her gut to lead her forth— and isn’t it such a novel concept to have a gut at all? —as she seeks out the knowledge of the mortals. She pilfers scrolls and tomes, spare papers forgotten in the forests as valuable to her as gold to the common dragon. The corpses of dragons that could not weather the frigid mountains around them are cared for appropriately, but Zinnia gently tugs the books from their frozen claws. No paper is left in the cold when she finishes her rites.
___Within her section of their Caves, she fills the many alcoves with endless stories and texts, from fantastical tales of wonder to the scientific dissertations of mortal topics she finds most intriguing.
___Her soul sings as she stacks the books higher and higher, precarious piles that lean dangerously and wobble whenever her tail swishes too close. The smell of damp stone and moisture is overtaken by that of inkstones, and paper, and the electrical twang of magic that preserves her papers and tomes.
___“There is so much to learn!” Zinnia enthuses to Cosmos in the night, the two of them resting together beneath the hundreds of floating lights she’s conjured. The cavern is too tall for the light to reach its roof and the darkness lingers there, patient. “Can you imagine? So many lands are out there, brother, and there must be so much to see. The potential is endless.”
___Cosmos looks at her as if she is daft. “Why do you care? We are not here to read,” he says and lowers his head to rest on his furry paws. “We are here to shepherd souls.”
___“Why can we not do both?”
...
___Cosmos do not linger in the communal areas of their Caves.
___He does not care for the little figurines and scrolls that pop up, the clusters of furs over soft moss, nor the ancient weaponry of the mortals. It becomes too crowded— too alive. Rather than spend his time with his siblings, Cosmos seeks out the deepest tunnels and the winding paths. The places where not even Zinnia’s flames can reach nor the whispers of footsteps against stone.
___Solidarity is what he seeks; silence. Cosmos creates his space deep within the mountain, where the chill gives way to an oppressive, all-consuming heat and steam wafts from the cracks in the walls. The weight of the world above comforts as much as it humbles.
___When they go searching for him, they do not find him. Cosmos learns to navigate the tunnels, how they coil and roll, and the way the mountain shifts. Some days it is playful, cracking open new passages yet to be explored, whilst others it is filled with rage. Fine tremors that threaten to bury them all beneath endless stone, to crush these mortal shells and send them back to the Beyond, and Cosmos welcomes it all. This is where he belongs, he knows it.
___Little veins of ore keeps him company as he dozes, deep in thought. He can feel the Veil all around him, meshed together with the raw magic of the mountain, and it makes his flowers bloom and croon softly into the silence.
___He plants a little field of them; a bed for only himself to rest upon when his bones grow weary.
___They often do, these days. The mortal realm is heavy and cloying, his soul constantly shifting within its vessel, full of jagged edges and brittle bits left from when he was torn from his other half. He feels incomplete in a whole different way, yet all the more complete, as if the blood and bones and flesh fills the void Zinnia left behind.
___He thinks of these things as he explores, allowing the mountain to lead him onwards. There is so much to discover in the depths of its bowels, from glittering gemstones to warped bones from creatures long gone.
___Cosmos gathers some of these treasures and brings them up to the others, dumping them into a little pile within the largest chamber.
___The next time he comes back up, they’ve been carefully added into the décor of the cavern; gemstones cleaned and added into figurines, bones strung together and gently clinking together in the unnatural breeze slithering through the halls.
___He gazes upon them and feels the tugging in his soul, relentless. A sensation brews in the distance. Cosmos knows it is almost time— he does not know what he waits for, nor why, but he waits.
___Patience is a virtue, Cosmos knows, and he withdraws back into the bowels of the mountain.
...
___Verbena thrives beneath the sun.
___Her pale coat blends in with the snowy fields, allowing her to hide between the wintry trees and in the frozen underbrush. She stalks through the lands with purpose, unyielding, and dragons veer off their courses to avoid her.
___Because she is unnatural and they know it; can sense it on the wind, a shiver heralding something that does not belong in this realm. Verbena does not fault them for it, and yet she does, for she is not there to harm them. She is there to fight, to breathe the battlefield air, and show this plane of existence that she is here. Her brethren are quiet, settled in the shadows, but
___Verbena wishes to be loud.
___This form is not natural to her, it pulls where she would expect a push and twists when it ought not to, but it fills her with a joy the Graveyard never did.
___A blasphemous thought, in a sense. But it was the Graveyard that sent her here and Verbena is determined to thrive, to exist, and her dour siblings will not bring her down. She refuses to let them trap her in their twisting stillness. There is not enough movement in the Caves; not enough anything.
___But she goes back there, when the day draws to an end, and her lungs burn from the strain. The pleasant hum of excess zaps along her ligaments, tears at the edges of this unnatural form she’s taken, and the darkness of the Caves is not so oppressive then. Gladioli always greets her when she arrives, somehow knowing before Verbena when she will come home, and the elder Flower nudges their foreheads together when Verbena stills.
___“You have returned,” Gladioli will tell her, eyes soft.
___Verbena cannot express the feeling it fills her with— it is silent, like the lazy waves lapping at the shore, and fuzzy like the fur of the snowtide rabbits. “This is my home,” Verbena will admit in response, forcing her expression to remain neutral. “This is my home, sister, and I have no intent of turning my back on it.”
___Days can pass, even weeks, and it is the same dance every time Verbena comes home. Gladioli greets her. Deeper in, Carnations will give her a displeased side-eye. “More swords, sister?” he asks, always intrigued by the weaponry she brings back but never outright saying as much.
___“There are more swords than sense out there,” she replies haughtily and drops them by his feet. She pretends not to notice the way his eyes glitter with hidden excitement. “This one, see? I think it may be from the Burning Lands…”
___And they will chat. Verbena feels Zinnia brush by her in the evening, a familiar presence, and it is good. The weaponry she brings home is carefully mounted on the walls.
___“We may need more walls,” Scabiosa pipes up from a corner.
___Cosmos appears from nowhere, as he’s wont to do, and scoffs. “We have plenty of walls,” he grouses, “I will show you some. You best watch it, sister. I will not have your trash covering everything down here.”
___But he leads her down the tunnels anyway, Carnations at their heels, and shows them to another empty cavern they can fill. He cracks a smile, sometimes, when Carnations immediately begins plotting out alcoves and sections to smoothen. And Verbena knows that the outside will never be enough.
___No matter how stifling it may be inside, beneath the mountain of mountains, it is her home. And she will always return.
...
___Scabiosa plants his flowers in the cracks of the rock, where the floors meet the curving walls, and in the empty spots between beds and paths. The darkness does not hinder his piercing eyesight.
___His flowers, once planted, emit the softest light for them to share.
___Like scattered stars, they brighten the corners and crevices of the Caves, and Scabiosa feels content as he plants them wherever a flicker of starshine is needed. Their roots are deep and strong, thriving in the dark just as he, and Scabiosa knows they will stand the test of time. He is of the hardy kind; not even traveling between the realms shook his soul.
___And he is of the gentle kind, the kind that loves without abandon and will never apologize for allowing his heart to blossom. Scabiosa wishes to make the world more beautiful and it begins in their caverns and tunnels.
___Outside, the morning light bleeds red across the sky. Scabiosa’s flowers sway gently in the breeze where they grow along the foot of the mountain, creeping upwards ever so slightly.
___He retreats inside before the sunlight can reach him, satisfied with another few flowers burrowing into the permafrost of the outside world, the magic that flows through his mortal shell digging itself into the very essence of these ‘Icefields’ they reside in. There is a sensation akin to sunshine upon his back as he steps deeper into the darkness, a phantom caress as the sun rises and bathes the flowers he left outside in light and life.
___The flowers planted inside shine a little brighter, then, and Scabiosa watches them in fascination as their glow ebbs and flows in tune with the sun and the moon. When the moon reigns, they take on a lilac hue, and he can almost hear them singing sweetly at him.
___Beneath the blinding sun, their white petals are as pure as the freshly fallen snow.
___They compliment Zinnia’s floating lights, working in tandem to brighten the somber mood that bleeds through the crack in the Veil from the Graveyard. Her essence is strong, here, and Scabiosa feels a flicker of guilt at his efforts to brighten a space that feels as if it should not hold any measure of joy. Their Caves feel like they were made for darkness; made for sorrow and grief, perhaps, but Scabiosa will not allow them to be creatures of only sadness.
___Death is frightening to many mortals, a time of pain and loss, but Scabiosa thinks there can be more to it. And it begins with them, with the little sparks of light within the darkness, and their willingness to accept that this is not the Graveyard.
___This is the Waking Plane and they must adapt, too, and allow its life to crawl closer. They must not shut it all out.
___Scabiosa plants another flower and smiles, at peace. There is hope yet.
...
___Gladioli struggles to find equilibrium— she cannot find her balance in a world so bright.
___She tries to busy herself with petty projects, things unrelated to their honorable duty, and the guilt gnaws at her. The Graveyard has given her a mission. Gladioli blocks it from her mind and coaxes forth life from various seeds she’s obtained from the outside, resolutely facing away from the Veil.
___A part of her regrets having settled down here, in a little offshoot from the cavern that holds the Veil, for her guilt has never been more prominent as it chokes her from within.
___It fills her throat, one that gasps for air without her truly needing it, and she trembles like a leaf in the wind as she hides away in her carefully cultivated field of wildflowers and bushes. None of them are meant to grow in the dark, in a frigid cavern, just as she is not meant to walk these lands— Gladioli is an intruder.
___Or, perhaps more accurately, she feels like an intruder. It is a foolish sensation, wrought from senseless emotions and illogical thoughts, but she cannot shake them. Her insides twist uncomfortably with every breath she draws.
___Coming here, Gladioli thinks in secret, was a mistake. She has doomed them all.
___But then she gazes upon her wildflowers, scavenged from all manner of abandoned travel packs and odd corners of the Icefields, and her heart softens. Her own flowers are hidden within the little patch of greenery, swaying gently in a nonexistent wind, and Gladioli inhales the subtle scent of a dozen different flowers existing in harmony. It is peaceful.
___Her mind drifts, untethered and free. It is reminiscent of the lightness of the Graveyard, the way it was a conscious effort to remain grounded, and how the stars beckoned them always. Gladioli thinks of it fondly, even now, and sleeps.
___When Gladioli wakes, it is to a clump of frigid eggs tucked against her side. They shift with every breath she draws, clinking together softly, and she feels the stirrings of slumbering souls inside. Souls that are being reborn, souls that are being eased into this realm through the natural cycle, and souls that bear the unique flavor of the Graveyard.
___These are Flowers, born anew. Gladioli looks down upon the eggs with awe.
___“She wants us to succeed,” Scabiosa speaks up from the darkness, his form laid out in front of the Veil. He looks entirely at ease. “It is a gift, no? For them to be brought into this realm so gently. One almost envies them,” he continues and cracks an eye open, gazing at her.
___Gladioli frowns and looks down at the eggs. “It is,” she eventually agrees. “It is kinder. They will… it is better. This realm has to acknowledge them, now, if they are born into it as mortals are.”
___She feels the Graveyard in the back of her mind, crooning softly. Approval. The guilt of the night before feels faraway and intangible, fading like a bad dream. Something settles and Gladioli does not know why— does not care to know, either. Her heart beats steady, a lazy thump she is only just getting accustomed to, and the lush plants beneath her cradles her form carefully.
___Care for them, the Graveyard whispers to her, like they were your own. You are my bridge, my dearest blossom, and they will all be your children. Love them, as I love you.
___Gladioli smiles. She can do that.
...
___To watch the younglings leave does not hurt. Not quite.
___Gladioli knows they are not hers, not in truth, but her heart aches for them all the same. She hopes they will be safe amongst the mortals. They are bright-eyed and blessed with young forms, mimicking a true mortal impeccably, and she closes her eyes with a silent prayer as they leave.
___“They will be fine,” Cosmos scoffs and rolls his eyes, turning as soon as the last one disappears into the wintry night.
___“Have some tact, brother. This is new to us all,” Zinnia chastises as he leaves, her face twisted into a little smile too bright for her lecturing tone. “But I believe he is right. And should something happen… we will be here for them, darling.”
___Gladioli gives her a look. “The mortals could tear them to pieces before we could do a thing.”
___“The mortals could try. I will rip them to shreds before they get anywhere near any of us,” Verbena declares. Her sneer promises violence and gore, sharp teeth on display, and Gladioli squints suspiciously. Were her teeth always that sharp?
___“We are not here to murder the mortals,” Carnations scolds. He looks hopelessly fond beneath the faux stern chill in his eyes.
___“... not yet.”
___Gladioli tunes them out as they delve into bickering, eyes finding the empty horizon. Their newest Flowers are long gone. Her siblings, bless their foolish hearts, are looking more lively than they have in a long time. Their numbers have grown, after all, and the weight of the Graveyard’s mission feels more bearable. For six Flowers to cleanse a whole world? Impossible.
___Begging for individuals to cross after them, well, it would not have held. Gladioli sees that now.
___But if they Graveyard would send them Flowers, would integrate them into this world proper, then perhaps it was doable. Perhaps they could spread, could cover these many nations, and reclaim the lost souls the Graveyard wept for.
___Gladioli turns her back on the horizon, steps past her quarreling siblings, and smiles.
___She feels hope.
fff- I'm sorry for the length, I promise not all lore updates will be this long ;A;
@TeenyTK I've only now noticed you came back, hello!! I found this lineage project through saving a Rooted from being fodder, and I absolutely fell in love with the lore. I was going to adopt one back when I first found this, but I noticed you hadn't been active in a long while, only after I was half-way through writing some lore for the one I was going to adopt. But!! You're back, and I'm really excited to try adopting him, because he's still in your den!
[size=4]I would like to adopt a Flower![/size]
[b]User ID:[/b] 387231
[b]Intended name:[/b] Gaillard
[b]Soul Trait:[/b] Blood Locked
[b]Spiritual Traits (optional):[/b] Essence of Life, Hearth-fire
[b]Brief lore snippet (min 100 words):[/b] (This is a WIP from a different dragon's perspective, and does not start at the beginning)
Turning to look towards the ruins, something else catches his attention from the corner of his eye; a motion, near the tree. With a quick turn of his head that would've surely sprained his neck before, he looked to where he'd seen the movement-
Oh. Laying there, next to that ancient tree, was his own body, unmoving. Besides it stood another dragon, looking down with a complicated expression. It was a Gaoler, or so he assumed, for the larger stature and excess fur was typical of his ancestral brethren, but there was something else he couldn't put his claw on. Something in the way it was standing, or something in its eyes. They looked almost unnaturally pale.
Then there were the flowers. He'd seen plenty of other dragons in his time that seemed to sprout colorful flora from their coats or horns, but these were like nothing he'd ever seen. Clinging to its fur and horns like vines on a tombstone, there were numerous glowing flowers like the one he'd seen before- before finding himself like this. They glowed a bright and luminous red with yellow edges, bursting from its fur like little fireworks.
[url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/74956282][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/749563/74956282_350.png[/img][/url]
@
TeenyTK I've only now noticed you came back, hello!! I found this lineage project through saving a Rooted from being fodder, and I absolutely fell in love with the lore. I was going to adopt one back when I first found this, but I noticed you hadn't been active in a long while, only after I was half-way through writing some lore for the one I was going to adopt. But!! You're back, and I'm really excited to try adopting him, because he's still in your den!
I would like to adopt a Flower!
User ID: 387231
Intended name: Gaillard
Soul Trait: Blood Locked
Spiritual Traits (optional): Essence of Life, Hearth-fire
Brief lore snippet (min 100 words): (This is a WIP from a different dragon's perspective, and does not start at the beginning)
Turning to look towards the ruins, something else catches his attention from the corner of his eye; a motion, near the tree. With a quick turn of his head that would've surely sprained his neck before, he looked to where he'd seen the movement-
Oh. Laying there, next to that ancient tree, was his own body, unmoving. Besides it stood another dragon, looking down with a complicated expression. It was a Gaoler, or so he assumed, for the larger stature and excess fur was typical of his ancestral brethren, but there was something else he couldn't put his claw on. Something in the way it was standing, or something in its eyes. They looked almost unnaturally pale.
Then there were the flowers. He'd seen plenty of other dragons in his time that seemed to sprout colorful flora from their coats or horns, but these were like nothing he'd ever seen. Clinging to its fur and horns like vines on a tombstone, there were numerous glowing flowers like the one he'd seen before- before finding himself like this. They glowed a bright and luminous red with yellow edges, bursting from its fur like little fireworks.
