*Gasp, it lives! I can't think of a way to respond so have some
backstory. Love the art! If you don't want to read the text wall, interactions start on the third devider.*
Celes
Of memories
"
Don't chase the rabbit darling". His mother cautions, never far behind. Her voice is melodious, sweet, and warm, brunted slightly by her wooden mask. It covers most of her face, but he can still see the smile lifting on the edges of her lips. Talons still a bit soft from the egg slam into the ground, tearing up bits of grass. The bobbing snow white tail seems to tease him as it disappears off into the grass, it sounds like
chase me, chase me, come and get lost in the infinite, it sounds like laughter, it sounds like a game he knows he really shouldn't play, but wants to so bad his stomach wraps itself up in knots. A whine escapes his throat before he even thinks to turn around to face his mother, just fast enough to catch the sadness in her face before it disappears, but not enough to notice the rabbit didn't leave any tracks. He dissolves into giggles at the face she's making before trotting back over to her, slamming his face into the feathers on her shoulders, expertly sticking his nose between the branches tangled there. He's barely weeks old and still already half her size. "
But I was so close this time mom!", comes his muffled reply, "
I almost got it's tail!". His mother sighs, lovingly, runs a talon through his mane, scraping at dirt and weeds that will take hours later to separate from tight, pumpkin orange curls. "
I don't think you'll ever catch that little bugger, it's too fast.". They shift so his head is over her shoulder, so he can stare off into the grass, and she rubs the little lumps between his ears and his mane. It turns out horns coming in for the first time itches like gods d*mned fire ant bites. She finishes with a whisper, almost too quiet to hear, "
I hope you never do.".
He can't remember her name anymore, thinks it was a flower, associates it with five golden petals and fuzzy pollen, grassy stems and branching leaves, making flower crowns and warm afternoons filled with love. She was glittering orange with feathers of palest yellow, but wrapped herself in branches ivory white and apple flower pink. She is warm, like a fire, but comfortably so, and always a little sad, but it would be hard not to be, when only one egg in a nest of four hatches and the sisters before that left for war as soon as they could. Celes has never managed to braid his hair as nice as she could, never managed to fully tame the curls like she could with a simple brush of talons. The silver beads she woven into his mane are still there, held tight near his horns. He misses her warmth the most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"
Don't chance the rabbit pup.". His father scolds, managing to slap his nose hard enough to sting with a wing-tip. His voice is dull and gravely, ruined by smoke and scars that carve deep, almost a hiss. Celes makes a face into the sky, whickers twitching in irritation. He hadn't been chasing! Had barely been tilting his wings enough to lean away. He hisses in return as the snow white tail disappears over the hump of a cloud, too far away in seconds to even consider now. "
It'll never be worth it.". He turns to look at his father, catching the tail end of sorrow and even a bit of anger he mistakes as jealousy on the older's face, and he grins with all his almost all adult teeth. That's it, father's just envious the rabbit won't run for him anymore, that's it's more interested in Celes. The satisfaction sours quickly as copper meets his nose, brushing the underside of his wings in a way that makes him shudder. They're supposedly away on a 'business' trip, racing along the air from their den, a maze of ladders strung between hollowed out spires, to a nearby neighbor, under the pretense of selling the wind chimes his father has painstakingly carved, but he knows the truth. Some savage band of blood-mad Mirrors decided the Wind territories would be an easier hunting ground and so they tore through the weaker clans that littered the plains. But Celes was a baby, not even at his first horn shed, and his father wasn't a warrior, all trembling talons and music, so they left, unlike the rest of the clans weaker members, who got to hide above, perched on the tips of the spires where the air got thin and violent. "
How would you know, mom says you never even got close.". He grumps quietly, more upset about being weak than anything. And it's not like he hasn't been practicing! No, he trains with the warriors, and he can even call fourth small blasts of wind to make his strikes harder, but he's still too weak, too little, too interested in the stupid rabbit to fight. But he wants to, and when they beat the invaders, he'll grab that stupid rabbit and tear it to bloody ribbons. The next slap hits against a bit of stuck shed in his nose, tears it away fast enough it starts to bleed. He doesn't look at his father when they land, miles from home.
His clearest memories of his father are being shooed away from a workshop, a plain blanket held fast over the entrance. Sometimes it would be crying that perked his interest, his mother mourning those that came before him and those that had failed to join him, or his father, short and choked, drowning in pain and memories. Most often it was a snow white rabbit, that somehow managed to pinpoint the sharp little sliver of a knife, sharp enough to cut bone like paper, even when it was hidden in locked drawers, under papers and sacks of bone. It was from the balcony of that workshop where Celes learned to fly, tossed over the edge like a sack of rotten potatoes until his wings caught wind and he soared, where he got his first haircut, screaming and crying the whole way through, where they hung his first shed, bloody and lopsided, having never managed to come in right. He misses the way his father would fill that workshop with broken humming the most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"
Don't chase the rabbit doofus!". A tiny voice yells from between his ears, somehow both screeching and monotone at the same time. Talons sharp as needles stab between the scales on his nose and he jolts back to awareness with a sharp snap of the neck, almost throwing his tiny passenger from between his horns. He gets another jab to his nose for that, then an eye full of yellow face ringed in widely flared black frills with patterns that make the brain swim. He returns with a sneer, one that pulls at the splits in his lips and other fresh cuts enough to ache, one he knows his passenger can't see. "
And who says I was?". A snow white tail disappears over the crest of a wave, one that won't crash far enough onto the beach to catch his chest, but one he still leans away from. His passengers frills drop in what he recognizes as disappointment before the face disappears from sight, as the rest of its weight shifts from between his horns to on his nose, the black wings it spreads barely big enough to block his view of the ocean. "
You were making the face again,", it pauses for breath, then continues in a mockery of his voice, "
What face?", it mocks a gasp of surprise, he can see just enough of its frills to know it's putting on a show, "
The doofy looking one that means you're a thousand miles away, and you're about to jump face first into the water to try and drown me.". Celes only hums and lowers his face to take another drink of port wine from a lidless barrel. There's enough there to drown the both of them, should they try, and he's pretty sure they didn't pay for it. "
You know, you could always come stay with us. It's not that hard to carve more dens into the sandstone.". He earns more prickles in his nose when he takes a moment to respond. "
Mmm, I don't think I'm ready to settle yet, there's still a lot to see. Besides, I don't think your Guardian would like someone who gets you in so much trouble to stay so close.". And as if on cue, a dark blue crested head pokes up through the waves, just far enough away she probably can't rest her talons on the sand, and boy oh boy is that a face she's making. The dark wings drop and he's face to face with a giant blue eye set in a bright yellow face once again. It smells like spices and cooking things, salt and sand, almost home, but not yet, not if he doesn't let it be. "
Just promise me you'll visit once in a while, no one tells stories good as you do. And don't dye your hair without me again!". He laughs to cover the regret, manages to rumble it enough that it'll feel real. He's rewarded with a flare of frills that means the same thing as a smile, and a tiny body flops down flat on his snout, warm in a sun-baked way, not terribly unlike a fire. "
Promise.". It can't be home if he doesn't let it be, right?
The memory of their first meet is blurry now, lost to months of laughter and sun-baked joy. The blue Guardian slowly begins to tolerate this loud stranger, slowly lets him be more than that, though she claims it's all out of love for her charge, and both of them pretend she's not lying. Celes dips in and out of their lives, is eventually persuaded to carve a den next to theirs, and if it merges days later, no one in the little clan they've built says anything. The clatter of treasure exchanging talons says enough. He brings back trinkets, stories, and the occasional horrible wound, and the sun circles the planet, and the little clan on the edge of the ocean lives, a lot more sound in their sleep when he's around, and he pretends not to notice, because it's not home, not if he doesn't let it be, even if it feels more like it than anywhere else, even if he wouldn't settle anywhere else. It doesn't mean anything, not if he doesn't let it. When he leaves he promises not to chase the rabbit, even though it's the closest its been since he first broke shell and he can taste it's blood on his tongue, and promises to bring back neat trinkets and no more scars. He misses how the rise and fall of her breath pushes her ribs into his, and the weight between his horns he has to take his hat off for the most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's like clockwork that he finds himself following a snow white tail over the crests of clouds, brights against the stormy grey, and wishes he could just speed up a little, it's
right there, but that would mean leaving his companions behind. Little dragons, little wings, slow flight. Despite being children of the Lightweaver, Celes has always felt his breed better matched the bill of the Windslinger. Built for days on end of flight, even the ache of his ruined muscles subsides in the air. He didn't land once on his journey from the Sea, a couple hours means nothing really. Only the familiar pain that rests across his shoulders like a blanket or his scarf will be a little worse when he wakes up the next day. And who's fault is it really that they hurt in the first place?
The air is so thick with petrichor, he thinks he'll choke on it if he breaths too deep. He finds his talons tracing the familiar motions of sliding a sandstone door into place and lighting lanterns, a motion memory enough that it stops his talons from shaking. If a storm gets particularly bad, they'll slip under the waves, to the quiet hush of the seaweed. He needs spells to breath there, that the others are quick to provide, even if he has to bite down shame everytime. It might not be home, not if he doesn't let it, but he's there often enough the spells should have been adopted into the runes permanently carved into his sides. Perhaps he'll spend a little longer there next time. Maybe even drag his Guardian along to steal port wine, never enough to drown in though, never again.
His attention is groggily dragged back to the group at a growl. Since when was there a Ridgeback? He ignores the pit in his throat at the loss of the hunt very pointedly, watches Harpy feathers explode in the air with a disjointed interest. Does it matter enough to really care? He ponders this a moment, decides no, it won't even make for a good campfire tale, but they're circling around to land before he can refocus on the clouds, something about ringing a maybe-alive Harpy for information. Looked dead, looked young. Bled red. Downy feathers slicked flat, clumped together in vibrant red. Bled red same as the rest of them. Maybe dead, maybe alive. Not good enough for a campfire story either way.
Were they intending on landing or had it simply been a thought spoken aloud? Celes is tired, tired enough it doesn't matter, so he points his wings down at what could be a break in the trees or what he might make be a break in the trees should need be. Luckily enough, it's a break in the trees, a mini clearing where the trees have grown in too big around it, with roots too knobbly for anything else to grow within. It's barely big enough for him to stand straight out with his wings stretched all the way, but it's enough. Imperial sized. His thoughts spin a little faster as his talons touch the ground, more coherent, but still not all together there. He should .... he should start a fire. He could do that with his eyes close and a talon tied behind his back. It's certainly not hard in the lush garden of horrors. There's enough dead wood on the ground to run a funeral pyre for a god, since the storms knocked the trees about. It's easy enough to find a spot where the roots aren't too thick to dig a scrape in the dirt. There aren't any rocks scattered about, so it goes unbound, but he takes the time to swipe nearby leaf litter away with his tail. He'd feel bad if the forest were to burn after all. It's seconds after that he's got a fire pit, devouring a bed of tinder, small sticks and dried grasses within a small wooden box made by alternating stacking logs on top of each other. There's a fire starter in his bag, a rock and a piece of metal, a starter that won't get ruined if it gets wet, on the Guardian's insistence of course, and it works a charm. Celes isn't fireborn after all, he's got no blaze in his gut. With a few quick breaths, that may be a little bit magic, excuse him, he's got a decent fire going. "
I've got jerky and dried fruit if anyone's hungry.". He offers amiably, trying to keep the sleep from his voice. He's not hungry, just tired. That stupid rabbit. He's very good at ignoring it, even as it just sits there between some branches. It can play its games, only to haunt him. Eyes drooping, he rests his head on his arms. He'd hoped it would be quick.
