Posted by * astarte on June 6, 2008, 2:13 am, in reply to "a million miles to montreal; astarte" Somehow she comes upon him, fading out of the mist in shades of grey like a phantom himself, and Astarte is not surprised: she approaches him unafraid, for something within him is familiar, this stallion searching for meaning in the mist. Astarte is exquisite, slender and lithe and shining and yet somehow empty – she searches, as he does, and is alike in possibilities. The stallion shines before her, and she comes to him, dwarfed by him, and uncaring of it. “Tell me what you seek,” she says, in a voice timeless and untouched by time, tell me that I may find it as well.
129.78.220.7
As always, the Academy is shrouded in mist: it is thickest now, in the humid heat of summer, and even the fierce light of the sun, clawing and snarling at those fine drops of water thrown into the air by the breaths of what was Elemental and immortal in the stones and leaves and wind of the Academy, could not burn it away. Astarte breathes it in, like stardust in the clear day, and relishes that slight sensation of coolness, of water, of purity and cleansing – here, in the rolling hills and ruins of the Academy where she had seen ghosts and spirits and ancestors, filtering through the hazy light like artefacts of Sight or phantoms of vision. She steps carefully amongst the strewn relics of some forgotten history, her eyes half closed, dreamily, as if in a spell; Astarte herself does not know what she is looking for (no, she lies to herself still, and pretends that she is all she is; not forgotten, not cast aside, not a changeling heir to an unknown throne: Her legacy seems somehow irrelevant, here), nor where to find it.
time is the fire
in which we burn
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