vargen forrester / d7 / (fin)

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 23, 2024 18:11:00 GMT -5	vargen forrester / d7 / (fin) Jul 5, 2019 0:38:46 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 5, 2019 0:38:46 GMT -5 *v a r g e n f o r r e s t e r* district seven eighteen spirit guide moths & bones
	Last Edit: Jul 5, 2019 11:15:09 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. 堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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3,094 POSTS

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last seen Apr 23, 2024 18:11:00 GMT -5

vargen forrester / d7 / (fin) Jul 5, 2019 0:58:15 GMT -5

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Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 5, 2019 0:58:15 GMT -5

spirits larked, the dogs barked.
nature rose, the flowers closed.

he was a vestige of strange things:
a will' o wisp, a creak in the walls,
a specter in hiding, with skin
as white as winter's breath, &
a heart as pure as winter's snow.

the spirits, which roamed
the forests and the woods,
all danced to his song.

Last Edit: Jul 5, 2019 12:11:32 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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3,094 POSTS

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last seen Apr 23, 2024 18:11:00 GMT -5

vargen forrester / d7 / (fin) Jul 5, 2019 3:09:55 GMT -5

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Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 5, 2019 3:09:55 GMT -5

walking in my sleep
like the naked trees
will they wake up again?
do they sleep? do they dream?

“It's dead,” he said, burying his fingers in between the warm furs of the wolf and feeling only the silent and still skin.

“No, Vargen,” his sister knelt down next to him, using her gloved hand to close the dead creature's eyes. They were still glistening, Vargen noticed with a jolt, even in death. He heard his sister make a slow intake of air before retracing her hand back onto her makeshift crossbow, a fragile but deadly thing pieced together with sun-dried wood and tough strings. “No living creature dies,” she said, and Vargen completed the sentence before she had a chance to, “they simply pass on.”

“I knew you weren't stupid,” she laughed, and so did Vargen, the howl of their combined laughter rustling the snow-cloaked leaves of the forest ever the slight. Winter had made her glorious entrance last week, robing every inch of land in fresh snow and frost, and the world was simply ivory and alabaster, the white of an elephant's tusk and the fur of a snow fox. In winter, the Forrester siblings didn't need to camouflage themselves much. Their hairs blended effortlessly with the snowy backdrop, white melting into white, and to prying eyes and lurking creatures, the two would simply be a pair of snowflakes, blown astray by a squall. The snow-coated firs around them looked serene and asleep, and as did everything else. The entire world held its breath quietly for a few moments, until the wind howled, and his eyes drank in the dreamlike sights eagerly. Accompanying this onrush of raw beauty, however, was the cold that made Vargen's teeth clatter with every passing minute and forced his fingers to clench tightly inside their worn gloves. Every beauty thing had its thicket of thorns, and the cold was the winter's. He fluttered his dark eyelashes free of the frost that was starting to grow on them, and averted his focus back onto the case at hand.

“We should go to some place that's less open than this before the ritual,” suggested Vargen, kneeling down on the snow to hoist the dead carcass up onto his shoulder. The wolf was heavy, but him and his sister had carried heavier creatures before, from dead stags with their antlers so intricate to dead humans, their bodies cold and still. “Yeah,” she agreed with a nod and took the wolf's hindquarters, sharing its weight with Vargen.

“Wolves aren't common, Vargen,” she said after an interval of cold silence, her tone stern. Vargen knew the reason for its sternness. Every month, the Forrester siblings had an esoteric tradition in which they'd set out to the forested outskirts of the district and scout for wild creatures amongst the firs and the foliage. They were known to themselves and their parents as spirit guides, those who helped living things with the transition from flesh to air, from bodies to simply souls. Their parents called them the bridges between two worlds, the roads that connected humans to the ether. Others called them the weird siblings, the freaks, phonies, etc. After some time, the mockery and the ridicule no longer sank under Vargen's skin. He had a sacred cause, and he put all his attention into that cause only, nothing else, nothing more, and nothing less.

The role of a spirit guide was to be the navigator of a soul as it left a living thing.

They were the ferrymen and the north stars to the dead, guiding them through the journey. They were the hearses the corpses were to be carried in, the white veil across their faces, the finely-decorated wreath upon their still body. Vargen and his sister had to ensure a safe passage, a sound journey. This practice could be traced back to the oldest of their elders, strange people who were known to do strange things strangely. The Forresters were an anomalous bloodline, their legacy traceable in the massive books each Forrester contributed to and in the abnormal practices they passed on from one generation to the next, their heirlooms teeth from dead wolves and fraying bear skins. The things Vargen's family worshipped and answered to were far from ordinary. The hymns they sang were for trees with the oldest roots; the psalms they hummed were for the winds. “We keep the old world alive,” his mother sang in a lullaby once, her voice the essence of honey, “the faeries and the mystics, all ours to protect.”

They laid the corpse down in an undergrowth after clearing it of snowdrifts. The wolf, just like the firs from before, appeared asleep upon the brambles, its face soft, its fangs drooping from the mouth slightly. As if she caught a glimpse of Vargen's eyes on the fangs, his sister tapped his arm and shook her head, strands of her white hair loosening. “We take the teeth out after the ritual,” she said, and Vargen rolled his eyes, making his annoyance clear. “I know,” he snarled. “I am the older one here. You should respect your elders.” It was his sister's turn to roll her eyes, which she did, the action somehow more cruel and agonizing than his. “You don't act like you're the older one, Vargen,” she snarled back. “Now, let's stop wasting our time.”

As he fished out the supplies and the trinkets from the basket they brought, Vargen went over his sister's previous words in his head, deciphering them repeatedly. “Wolves aren't common, Vargen,” she'd said, and he understood the reason why they weren't common. Feral creatures, such as wolves, were eradicated as humans feared the harm of being bitten, feared the beast for what they were. They hadn't found even a deer in decades, less a wolf. The usual corpses were summer moths or monarch butterflies, killed by the sudden and cruel bite of winter. He assembled the stones, each one smoothed out to a shiny surface and engraved with the alphabets of a language invented by the Forresters, around the corpse in a circle, establishing the safe vicinity for the spirit to linger within in the duration of the ritual. His sister paced around the stone circle and scattered the violets around its circumference, the flowers of protection, their bright petals and supposed magic preserved deftly. “Ready,” she told Vargen after the last violet was placed. He nodded, and then took a seat in front the wolf, his frame casting a shadow on its dark snout and long face. “Okay,” he said and began the melody, his throat channeling a song, then the entirety of him becoming it.

It was a mellifluous symphony, needing no other instrument except the chords in one's throat, each note the hum of a piano ivory, the shrill of a violin. His mother taught it to both Vargen and his sister since a young age, the musical composition ingrained in their very beings like roots in the earth. Three things protected spirits and beckoned them to fly outward — stone, flower, and song — or so the Forresters believed. The song, and the divinity within its every note, rustled the snow-shrouded leaves once more.

Vargen Forrester was a vestige of strange things, a will' o wisp, a creak in the walls, a specter in hiding, with skin as white as winter's breath, and a heart as pure as winter's snow. He was a song, a map, and a navigator, his voice a melody that beckoned and roused.

feel it as the wind
strokes my skin
i am moved by the chill
hear the winter bird sing

Last Edit: Jul 5, 2019 11:22:14 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 23, 2024 18:11:00 GMT -5	vargen forrester / d7 / (fin) Jul 5, 2019 11:17:26 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 5, 2019 11:17:26 GMT -5 finito. ♡ ripred_bot
	堕落天使

gamemaker 💀 hades lochlan Administrator 7,693 POSTS last seen Apr 24, 2024 15:04:14 GMT -5 — 🥀 —	vargen forrester / d7 / (fin) Jul 5, 2019 11:37:11 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gamemaker 💀 hades lochlan on Jul 5, 2019 11:37:11 GMT -5 “Ready,” she told Vargen after the last violet was placed. as always, ur talented and brilliant and pretty
	^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}