ꙮ Back in Queenstown. The rest of the group is preparing, moment by moment, for the Three Grand Soups challenge; Wolf has begged mercy from taste-testing (although at least with what Luĉja and Archie have been working on, there’s no Profoundly Curséd Pies, only delicious-if-experimental things) and is… hm. Where is he, do you think? Where in all of Queenstown would he go, if he wished simply to be and to listen? There’s always his room at the Variable Number Of Moons’ Rise, of course.
No song playing
Up next: 0 songs
1 listening
- Yazhn Ravhi, the Hierophant
Scene Archives
← Active ScenesMeditations
#wolf
#yazhn ravhi
has never done his best thinking indoors–surely he could find some crook in a wall, or some abandoned tower to perch atop. Something with a view of sky, a breath of wind–not detached from the city’s bustle, necessarily, but distanced enough to turn it into a thrum in the greater Song.
ꙮ It’s… surprisingly easy? There seem to be little corners carved out of the city in every direction you look, if you’ve the right eyes to look for them. There’s a cul-de-sac with a weird little hunched-over tree that’s doing its best, and a stone bench that was carved and dedicated by someone to someone, long enough ago that the carving’s wearing smooth but the intent remains clear.
runs his fingers gently over the fading inscription, then smiles faintly and sits on the bench. He slips out of his soft boots so that he can cross his legs and tuck his feet under him, letting his eyes slowly close. Sheltered in the shadow of the brave little tree, he lets his breathing steady, and his mind begin to clear.
ꙮ And the World’s song is there, thrumming, softly, almost as soon as you close your eyes. Like it was waiting for you.
sighs and chuckles softly beneath his breath–the swirling melody and pounding beat of the Beast’s Song is hardly conducive to a restful meditation. After a long moment of mildly frustrating attempts to resist tapping his fingers on his knees, he takes a deep breath and tries another tack. He releases his grip on himself just a hair and sinks through the song, seeking the quieter melody that lies beneath it.
ꙮ The relentless fuckin’ poundy drums fade into the background and then away entirely. Instead, humming, words that are almost words. Underlying it all, a heartbeat, a drumbeat, a heartbeat.
sinks into that song quietly, like an otter slipping from the riverbank into the stream. He allows his mind to empty, thought to slowly fade away. He doesn’t try to make sense of the words–instead, he takes the opposite tack, letting them flow across him, through him, without being grasped.
ꙮ Ungrasped-for they flow towards you, flow through you, with their gentle sorrow, their perpetual mourning, their as-perpetual hope.
simply lets himself feel those things–without judgment, without criticism…sorrow and grief, wistful hope. Lets himself sit there, in the contrasts–the proud defiance above, the quiet melancholy below. Letting it be. Letting the gap between inner and outer slowly, quietly…dissolve.
ꙮ It’s a little like methexis, now that you’ve the words and the techné for it. A conscious decision made concerning the boundary between yourself, and– and something else. Someone else. Briefly, flickeringly, and faintly, you feel a profound, and slightly surprised, warmth. Observation. Care. Concern. Sorrow. Grief. Hope. Always hope, always ending on hope. But that which reached out for you was not a snare, and you have made yourself a slippery eel, indeed, and it is but a layer that you pass through, and were it more than that, you may never have experienced it at all.
sighs softly, somewhere in his body far away. Briefly, ever so briefly, he reaches out to touch, to know–and then it is gone, and he drifts in the dark, alone.
ꙮ The brief brush of fingertips as you pass each other by, you and– it’s profoundly unclear. Beyond that, an endless expanse.
comes more firmly into awareness as he passes into the expanse–blinks around him, with eyes that are not eyes, turns a head that is not a head. Recognizes, belatedly, that he is somehow holding his naginata–it’s warm and surprisingly solid in his palm, the blade wreathed in the faint echo of fire. “…where did you come from?” ⁂
Unexpected, the reply: Am I not always with you, Okami-sensei?
: “You’re in the naginata?”
One thinks that, in this place, I am the naginata. If an inanimate object could shrug, that’s exactly what it would be doing. 🙧
ꙮ It is, perhaps, lucky for all of us that inanimate objects cannot shrug. You could let go of it, though, and it would stay by your side; the two of you in a common orbit, pulled by forces one could not see with any eyes, could only infer the existence of, within the empty velvet everywhere. (You can, you know you can, pull yourself back. You know how, these days. There is no fear here where there is no light.)
One admits, this is not a situation that one is prepared for. Do you do this often, wise Wolf?
: “Only once, so far…” He looks about, but expects to find little, and thus is not disappointed when little is found. Thoughtfully, he closes his eyes and listens instead–for the worldsongs, and the songs of his companions.
ꙮ Somewhere, distantly, a wailing reed, sheltered in apricot-wood, with a sound like a voice calling out without expecting an answer. In that direction in which you might fall, if you simply allowed yourself to, you think.
frowns at that tone–familiar, somehow, and turns towards it. ⁂
What is it? ⁂
: “A song, a…person, I think.” His brow furrows, both ‘above’ and ‘below’. “Hold tight.” ⁂
Bide a moment, hasty Wolf. If we are to journey, at least let me do what I can to speed our passage. ⁂
blinks down at the naginata, pauses. “What do you mean to do?” ⁂
Why, Okami-sensei….what you would do. Experiment! If a naginata could grin cheekily, it would–and then the naginata dissolves into a thousand thousand motes of fire, which settle across Wolf’s back like a cloak–or like wings. The cloak flares–or the wings spread–becoming a host of blades arranged like feathers, each wreathed in a gentle flicker of flame. Ahhh, that’s better. If we are to travel, let us travel in style! ⁂
laughs, and shakes his head–and with a release of thought, he falls…or flies!
ꙮ And so you fall-or-fly through splendor-bathed silence, chasing a song - and there truly is no difference here, lodestarless as you are but for the song you chase, flame-wings adducted, stooping swiftly towards– not prey, no. But there is something of a spark-wreathed hawk, here. And then, with astonishing suddenness, there is sand: ⁂
ꙮ A swift, whirlwind fly-over of dune after dune after dune. The cracked remnants of small white spires peek through the sand’s skin like broken ribs. There is a pyramid, just as white, and of the same stuff. And there is a pack of supplies, carefully packed by somebody, and then abandoned with profound and shocking carelessness on a stone shelf in a disused storeroom under no observation whatsoever. Footsteps sound on ancient marble, walking away, growing far.
alights on…well, “feet”…and shifts his winged cloak back to the form of a solid naginata in his hand. (Rude!) He strides after the retreating footsteps–faster than he really should be able to walk, using his not-quite-real state to abuse the laws of physics with abandon. Stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the hunch in the back of his head of why he’s here, and who he’s following.
ꙮ A gold-scaled man in a soft white cloak whom you immediately recognise is walking swiftly away from the storeroom. He is– smiling? At a private joke, or a hidden fondness. It is, for not the first time, you are certain, not an expression he would permit any living person to see. And yet. After a moment, he rounds a bend, and there’s a marble pew there that looks like it was repurposed, was once a structural component of something, carved into a new use, and there he sits.
hesitates in the hallway, just at the curve of the passage–fingers trailing along a wall he can’t really touch, brought short by the sight of him. Breathing quickening, just a touch. ⁂
Ahhh. One sees. The heart wants what the heart wants, hmm? ⁂
shoots the not-actually-a-weapon a glare. “Can you please not?” he hisses–he knows very well he doesn’t have to lower his voice, but somehow cannot help himself. ⁂
You have chased a song halfway across the cosmos, somehow landed directly in the presence of the one you–by your own admission–cannot stop thinking about, and I am not supposed to comment? ⁂
: “It’s not like it was on purpose!” ⁂
I do not think that undermines my point. It accentuates it, rather. The naginata somehow gives the impression of smiling primly over a paper fan. Shall I give you two some privacy? ⁂
: “You make this sound like some sort of…sordid rendezvous!” The words come out with a rather injudicious amount of volume, and he–still unnecessarily–claps a hand to his own mouth. ⁂
One can only hope, truly. Very well, I’ll give you your space… The naginata splinters into a cloud of fiery motes, and then fades out–but not without the distinct sense of smirking. ⁂
rubs a hand across his face, and resists the urge to bang his head against the wall–only partially because he’s not entirely sure if he could, or if he’d just go through the wall. “I swear by all the little gods, I am going to embody him just so I can kill him…” And then the words and the frustration trail off, and he’s left watching the one who his heart brought him to. For he, at the very least, cannot deny that to himself. 🙧
ꙮ He is seated on the marble bench, and looks- ‘smug’ is the closest word, but ‘smug’ isn’t quite accurate. He looks, a little tiny bit, as if he’s gotten away with something, or he’s allowed himself a small and rare pleasure.
just watches him for a long moment–studies, really. The way the light glimmers off the other’s scales, the breadth of his shoulders, the way the cloak’s soft fabric drapes across his limbs. The way he seems animated by an inner light, just slightly brighter than most. Then–glancing around almost furtively–he steps closer…sits on the bench, beside the other. Leans back and definitely doesn’t watch Ravi out of the corner of his eye.
ꙮ Ravhi does not, at any rate, seem to notice your presence. There is an ease about him. It is a secluded corner of a secluded quarter, where his duties, you feel unaccountably certain, shouldn’t need to take him. There’s nobody around– you’ve caught your breath backstage, once or twice. After a particularly gruelingly deleterious approximation of a pie, perhaps, which you had to smile bravely through. It’s a little like that.
sits there in companionable silence for a long moment–then lays his head back against the wall behind him (miracle of miracles, it doesn’t go through) and sighs, then laughs ruefully. “What am I doing here, friend?” he says, expecting no reply. “You don’t know me. I barely know you. And yet here I am, acting like a heartstruck boy.” Wolf snorts. “Except I didn’t act like this when I was a young boy.” He laughs again, then turns his head to study that angular face from close range. ⁂
: “I wish I knew. Why I see your face in my dreams. Why my heart pulls towards this harsh world and its hateful sun.” He sighs, and looks away, and rubs his hands over his face. “At least you are well. I find myself wondering so often if you are well.” Wolf makes a soft little huff, something he’d likely never allow if he thought the other could hear him. “What am I going to say to you, Yazhn Ravhi, when we meet? ‘Hello there, do you remember that strange voice you heard, many moons ago?’ ‘Hello, Ravhi–I know we’ve never met, but I’ve dreamed my way to you several times already’?” He leans forward with a growl, fingers tangling in his hair, elbows braced on his knees. “Goddess bright, I’m a fool.” 🙧
ꙮ A few moments pass, like that. ⁂
ꙮ Ravhi takes something out from a pocket of his soft white robe. It’s a little hammered-metal dragon. Someone’s first project that was good enough to actually give to someone. Not good enough to sell in a marketplace, if there are even marketplaces here. Some surfaces of it are worn shiny by repeated handling, as Ravhi runs gold-clawed fingertips over it. 🙧
looks up at the movement–looks over at the little figurine, chuckles softly. “Mm. It’s a beautiful little piece…not that you can hear me. Did you make it, I wonder?” Wolf sighs softly, a wry and bittersweet smile on his lips. “I wish you could know that, somewhere far from here, there’s a man named Xilai who wishes he could be at your side, even though he never knew you. I wish you could know that, somewhere out there, someone prays for you every night.” He looks up at the angular face, the bright eyes, and aches for just a moment with the longing that the other would meet his eyes, see him…smile. “I told you that you were not alone, Yazhn Ravhi. I wish you could know how hard that I work, to make those words come true.” ⁂
lingers for one more moment, watching that gold-scaled face, trying to burn it into his memory–a talisman, perhaps, for the long road ahead. “I will let him know that you are well, Yazhn Ravhi. It will warm his heart to hear it. And maybe…if the world is kind…some bit of that warmth shall reach you, and give you strength when the path is hard.” He stands, tearing his eyes away with effort–then looks back, turns back, drawn like iron to the lodestone. He reaches out, silently, fingers stopping just a bare span from that smiling face–and then his hand falls, and his shoulders bend. “Be well, Yazhn Ravhi. It won’t be long now. I hope. I pray.” Denied its true objective, one finger steals out–and brushes the top of that little dragon’s head, the softest of caresses. 🙧
ꙮ He looks up, and for a brief moment, you could swear that he meets your gaze - that without being able to see your eyes, his own meet them, regardless; fix on that spot as your fingers brush warm and worn-smooth metal. And then he sighs, softly, and puts the hammered-metal dragon away in a pocket of his cloak. ⁂
ꙮ Do you turn away, then?
tries to turn away–tries to step back. But he can’t. He’s frozen there, held by that moment of a seemingly shared gaze–heart in his throat, breath caught, held in a moment of crystalline amber.
ꙮ Ravhi’s the one who looks away first, an odd look on his face, gold-and-amber-flecked eyes blinking slowly. He stands, slowly, and looks towards the doorway out of the storeroom with the slightly more elaborately carved stone frame as if there is Work to be Done.
makes himself turn, then–the spell broken, his limbs his own. Using every ounce of will he has, he turns, calling to his Angel with a thought, letting wings of steel and fire wrap about him and carry him into the dark. Reminding himself with all the force he has in him, that the proud other deserves better than a ghost. Falling, flying, through the abyss, back to a stiff body beneath gnarled branches.
stands in the hallway, watching Wolf as he disappears into motes of flame, reaching out towards him. The hand that reaches out - its entire body and form - are made of sharp, bright, unreadable glyphs; it is defined by the negative space which they limn, filled with all the shadows of the darkened, disused space. It wishes it had reached out sooner. But there will be time for that. It won’t be long now.
ꙮ And then you are back in Queenstown, your eyes open, under an odd and stunted Beast-tree that’s doing its very best.
comes back to himself, slowly. Reaches up and scrubs the back of a hand across his eyes to clear them. Aches, for a moment, nearly unbearably, fighting the urge to curl in around the pain in his breast. ⁂
sits for a long moment, just breathing, letting the storm pass, his chest loosen. Letting the ache fade to something more bearable within his heart. He stretches his legs out with a grimace–but does not stand. Instead, he sits on that stone bench, and draws his flute, and for the first time in a very long time, plays a song he heard and loved long ago beneath the great green boughs of Almachadta’s trees, sitting at the feet of his mentor. Unbidden the lyrics flow through his mind, as the soft and yearning melody pours out through his flute. ⁂
’Still unkissed, maiden of the mist, don’t let your soul go to waste…come pain, come grief, come precious relief, memories fade in the dark. So come reveries…an old-fashioned heart is a winter land waiting to bloom…simple sentiments, wild and untamed, free like the northern wind…’ ⁂
’Like a dream on Midsummer’s Eve, I’ve come to sweep you away…seven promises, in his hair like a crown…fit for a king…’ 🙧