skyandwave-blog

[skyandwave-blog]

Louvre | Just before her performance | @ofhercs

Hate.

It is burning through her shoulders, frustration grinding her teeth together even as she tries to breath out, even as she tries to rationalise it all to herself. She’s been practising for this endlessly, it would be useless to cop out at the last second. To make a final statement of irritation and rebellion when there is no one who would be at her back.

But the flower behind her ear is irritating her skin, so she pulls it out, drops it to the floor, grinds it with her heel, a sharp smile painting her face. She’s tempted to continue, to change from the mockery of an outfit, to her practise clothes, to wipe her face clean of makeup, to try and find some way to corrupt the audio, when she spots Lincoln looking at her.

She looks away, stops grinding her heel to the floor, and kicks the sad collection of plastic petals to the corner, before crossing her arms defensively.

#event007 #int.link #link001

[skyandwave-blog]

Louvre | Just before her performance | @jinnianzhen

She’s not nervous. That’s not the right word. Anxious? Frustrated? 

Adrenaline is thrumming through her stomach and the beats of the song are passing through her head, her hands are dusted with chalk. She’s ready. 

She doesn’t want to do this.

But she knows she must. Knows the punishment, knows the futility of refusing. Even for such a claim as hating the song, hating the audience, hating the flower that she had crushed underfoot.

But there is Nian, face impassive, but this is her last chance. Her only chance. (And how she hates having to ask) Quietly, she goes to tap him on the shoulder, the puts her hands together and looks up at him with desperation in her eyes. 

“Nian. Please don’t make me do this. I’ll dance, just not poi, just not the fire. I can’t. Not in this imitation of a costume, to this music. Please.”

She wonders what her aunt would say if she were watching. To the outfit, to the job, to this display of humility. Her cheeks flush with shame.

#int.nian #nian001 #event007

[skyandwave-blog]

llenore‌: 

Lenore rests a hand gently atop Ata’s head, fingers absentmindedly tracing through dark hair, “Funerals, I think.” A pause. “Sometimes, when you just needed to say goodbye. Or on nights when the sky is clear and the stars are out—makes it easier for the spirits to find their way back home.” When she looks at Ata out of the corner of her eye, she thinks of her friend’s wings, how she wishes they could ride ocean waves together.

“Once the spirits come, you’re meant to sing the rest of the song and point them in the right direction.” Her gaze lifts upward again. Perhaps, this isn’t directed at Ata, or perhaps it is, “But it’s up to them to get where they’re going, I think.” 

The living can only do so much for the dead. It’s something she still struggles to grasp.

“I can keep singing it for you?” A question she asks when she looks to Ata again, her eyes curious, “If you’d like. It’s almost done.” 

Tension releases from her shoulders as Lenny cards her fingers through her hair, even as she remembers her own songs, her own lessons, her own laments. Of visiting Cape Reinga in the first week, of wondering if her mother ever passed the lighthouse.

Up to them to get where they’re going.

Up to her to make her own way home.

“Please.” It slips out faster than she could catch it, coated in a worry in a heartache she wasn’t aware of. “Please finish.” 

Please help them get home, to continue their journey. The burden of the living and the dead rest on her shoulders, no matter how much she tries to forget it. To pass it on, even a little bit, in such an unexpected way? 

Please.

Perhaps it is this, the kindness of people around her, unexpected circumstance, perhaps this will be the only chance she gets at ever touching home again.

#lenny002 #sorry this is so short! #but i didn't want to interrupt the song #:D

[skyandwave-blog]

malachileclair‌:

And man that has always planned too far into the future, when he was a man free of the Menagerie, when today was more than he could live for, the moment was never his worry, and it was is only worry. And a part of it still stays here, can’t make promises for what will happen, if he will leave, if she would first. But and while we’ll plan, we’ll worry about something before it’s a closing threat, when it’s closer.

Don’t trust it, trust it enough to stay. He doesn’t know his min either Ata; and knows it better than he will know any other part of the world besides his son. And he doesn’t know him anymore either. But does he hold her the same? Is the touch the same? (Does he understand her the same?)

And if he knew how she felt, he’d tell her to be both the fire and the water, why is life one thing? Be the man and the vampire. Be the woman and the flames and the wind and the sea, all drowned feathers. One thing is a hindrance - and boring. 

There’s a quiet smile, turned to the distance, half-hidden, but born from her wiping tears like he knew she would, thanks him for something, he never asks for it. “Why would you thank me for telling you what you already know too?” Not accusatory, matches the same tone as before. 

And then comes her question, and he doesn’t want to say ‘as a man,’ because it’s not right, it doesn’t feel right in his throat, so he says it for her ears, something definite, something deliberate, not as a secret even form himself these days, “As a father,” a moment, “I was a father.” Was. He doesn’t really know. “More than a doctor?”

Could she be both? 

Could she consume, and heal, be the glint of the heat of the sun of the waves, the warmth of a home, of a campfire, give and take? 

She doesn’t think she can. You can only be home, or not home.

(She doesn’t realise you can have more than one home. More than one place person time that you love.)

Again, he doesn’t seem to be able to take her thanks, to take her gratitude for all the things that he does without realising, for the touch of healing on her hands, for the ease on her shoulders for reasons she doesn’t know, can’t explain. So she leaves it, for now.

Father. She knew this about, but it makes sense, and for some reason, she tightens again, hears her mother tell tales of Tangaroa, knows that this is something she doesn’t deserve. 

But there is more than her in his statement, in his questioning tone. And she cannot bear to leave the warmth of his arms. Not yet, not yet. She sees her mother’s face, and shakes her head, and tries to ground herself in Malachi’s voice.

“What happened?”

#mal002 #all of this hurts

[skyandwave-blog]

Ata was passing through the practice spaces, looking for someone, or something to catch her interest. She still didn’t fit quite right into the spaces around her, into this skin of a human, wary of every twist of wind. 

There was a clatter of something against the floor, and Ata found herself pushing open the door to Zahara’s section, looking in to see a pole flung to the ground, and Zaha practically floating a meter or so off the ground, balanced on a tight rope. It was pretty cool to watch, even lower to the ground, so she propped her hip against the door frame to watch for a moment.

Then Zed had fallen to the ground, and Ata pushed in, her hands stretched out in worry. She wasn’t Xue, or even Mal, anyone who could deal with this kind of problem, so she let out a breath as Rah sat up, cradling her left wrist. 

She nearly asked if Ara was okay, before the answer came out, and so evidently a lie.

“Do you want to head to Xue? She’s who I go to every time I fall or do something dumb to hurt myself. And I do it a lot, so she can help.” 

DATE & TIME: 19th of February, early morning STATUS: closed / @skyandwave

She had never been the one to insist on perfection. Zahara surely wasn’t the best in the business, she lacked a decent amount of experience, but she knew plenty of little tricks that somehow always made her performances easier and pleasant to watch. However, luck just wasn’t always on her side and it forever kept messing with her, testing her patience and punishing her for even the smallest of mistakes. On this particular morning, a sudden urge had possessed her body to practice, for she most definitely didn’t wish to make a fool of herself among all the pretty and pompous Parisians. She wished to impress and amaze others, and perhaps months of practice just weren’t enough for this Arabian gem. 

So, just like that, she found herself above the ground, her feet dangling over a black metal ledge and touching a tight rope only a few centimeters wide. Zahara shifted her body forward, her hands gripping a thin balancing pole, but she wasn’t fond of using it. It was just a distraction. So, of course she tossed it aside and continued with her walk, practically floating in the air with the grace and beauty of a swan. But for some unknown reason ( even to her ), Zahara allowed herself to get lost in the land of her own thoughts, and of course trouble quickly found her. 

In the blink of an eye, she slipped and found herself on the cold floor, suddenly feeling a sharp pain in her left wrist. She cursed in Arabic, gripping her own hand while trying to remain calm and collected. She didn’t want to panic, but for most of her life, Zahara never had to worry about anything. Her family had their own private and well-paid doctors, and pain was practically a foreign concept for her. ‘’I’m good, I’m good. I’m truly good.’’She said to herself and bit her bottom lip, refusing to start crying and complaining. She had to be a tough girl, after all the world loathed any signs of weakness. 

#int.zahara #zahara001 #event007 #yes im experimenting with all the nicknames until theres one that fits #ata demands it #and im also sorry this is so super late

[skyandwave-blog]

hir·aeth

/‘hir,āeth/

noun a homesickness for a home you can not return to or a home that never was.

#homesick #quote #vocabulary #rp.menagerie #c.atarangi #legit all the characters

[skyandwave-blog]

anoracle‌: 

Dreams as real. Dreams as something she can hold. Dreams as more than dreams. Maybe she’s never had the luxury. Maybe it’s a luxury that all of the world she knows it through them, better or worse. (Girl that remembers everything. Girl with only red in the mind. Girl raised in a circus. Girl to never see the world except outside a moving window. Girl that at times wants to look at Ata so strongly. Why would she leave? Why would she leave her family?)

“I don’t know,” and it’s an honest answer, more honest than she wants it be, wants more, feels hollow saying it. Because home was where her mother breaks glass. Home was on a train. Home was a place she never learned how to define because she if she was given something worth being a home - would she even know it? Would she be able to know it. Why did Ata leave? (She’s not bitter about it, not jealous. She’s so proud of her, for having a home, for still remembering it fondly. But why would she leave?)

Not in her life, has Emme’s visions been something thought of as a gift, not by her, not by anyone. They’re both the thing of myths, but there’s only one hero, and it’s never the oracle. The mad girl. Wonder how close she is to losing her mind - wonder if she’s already there. Wonder if her hands are her own. Wonder if this is her body. Wonder if all her life is a dream. Always wonder if her life is her own - or someone else’s she’s dreaming through. Wings are a blessing.

“Why did you leave home - if they treated you like this? Why would you leave the sand?” She  thinks there’s tears on her cheeks, “Did you mom teach you that?”

Who knows what home is? There’s no resolution for her, no definition that she can claim, both of them scanning the world and looking for some grasp of it. The edge of a word that can never be held in both hands. To do so would destroy it, would change it.

Perhaps this is home, for now. The two of them, with autumn skies and golden corn, summer wine and setting sun. Dreams and air and the knowledge that the earth is rocketing through space faster than they can feel. Perhaps home is what you make of it.

And then there are tears on Emme’s face, and she can feel the guilt that’s buried in her heart lurch into her throat, and Ata sits up, curls her shoulders forward, tries to make sense of a question that she’s been ignoring for so long.

“I-”

There’s no reason she can give. No reason that would make sense, not right now, not in this place. Not in this history. To spurn that which others never had the chance to even taste.

“My mom taught me that. My aunt taught me I could never be more than a symbol.” The taste of truth is bitter on her tongue, and she doesn’t know if she could ever go home.

Doesn’t know if she can afford to not try.

“Because the world is so much bigger than some islands in the middle of the ocean, because there’s so much of the beating human heart to explore. Because there are people and there are places and there are experiences. Because no matter how pretty a cage is, no matter how much space there is, and how much you are loved, a cage is a cage and I can’t, I can’t stay in a cage.”

The words tumble out, faster than she can control, and her eyes fill with tears even as she turns her face away.

“I can’t.”

I’m sorry.

Escape the tower | Ata & Emme

#escape the tower

[skyandwave-blog]

malachileclair‌:

He doesn’t wipe away her tears, but knows they’re there. Can feel her breath too, feel the pattern of it, the panic of it, he doesn’t say anything of it either other than that steady, ‘I won’t.’ He’s not a father to wipe away tears, not when she’s strong enough to do it on her own, not when those built by pride may rather want to wipe it away themselves anyway, need to. Won’t tell her to try and breathe easier, to calm down - she’ll get there. I won’t leave.

(He doesn’t know if it’s a promise he can keep.)

(He’s not a man of promises anyway, he likes to think to himself, like a reminder, like a skin. But he is. He’s good at keeping promises. Devour his own flesh for them.)

(He’s done it before. Take a part of himself away until he can call it a murder, by his own knife.)

(I won’t.)

He thinks of her question, maybe longer than he would have for any other moment, for any other person. His accent lingering with her own, lingering with the last of dead flames, lingering with the snow of a blizzard. And he keeps holding her where they sit, rubs her arm almost mindlessly when he feels the flinch. 

“Burning alive,” he gives, honestly for him. 

“Freezing is usually meant literal, you freeze. Burning can mean what you wish for it. We burn, just by living,” and then a silence, “But you look pretty alive to me, and I’m not here to let either happen,” and then a silence, spoken first in French, both to skies, “More than as the doctor here.” 

Says it almost as a joke too, something light, but he means it. Because as he said, there’s more than one way to burn. More ways than he can heal.

Some part of her mind, the part unpreoccupied by survival and fear, registers his mantra, registers his promise, his calming words. Finds that her heartbeat slows with the pace of it, the reassurance of it. Some other part screams rebellion, screams flight, knows that he will break it, or she will have to flee before he can. 

Don’t fall for it. Don’t trust it. Promises only tie you down, only trap you in willing prisons.

But she doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to escape the embrace of his arms, the touch of his hand as he rubs gentle circles, like her mother used to do when she was ill. 

(Freedom is a choice, right? Then she chooses this, for now. She chooses warmth and comfort and security.)

(This is a form of freedom, right?)

Then he responds to her question, with such frankness that it throws her off, brings her away from the haze of a memory of a mother dying, or a burning building, brings her to the fact of the matter. Away from personal, to the distance of a thought experiment. 

We burn, just by living.

Is she the water of her home, slow and gentle, or is she the fire that lingers underneath, that consumes whatever in her path to experience? Does it matter?

Ata reaches up to push away her tears, takes a breath, gives Malachi a shaky smile. “Thank you.” The reason goes unsaid. It covers too many things. 

Then she wonders what being alive means to someone like Malachi, wonders what burning means for him. “More than as the doctor?”

#we burn #just by living #is the phrase of THE CENTURY #i want that on all the poetry blogs now #mal002

[skyandwave-blog]

► LISTEN by theyofgoodfaith

Wanton, wanting – the flush of my cheeks comes from the flight and exertion of running, lips parted as my hand is outstretched towards the dying sun. The sun looks on as the light kisses Icarus’ wings with saltwater lips and we breathe it in. The clouds in our lungs and the oceans in our blood and we burn. Fingertips on fire as we breathe in the ash, our insides searing and there is a world that pushes down heavy on our shoulders. Or is it keeping us safely on the ground?

#music #inspo #mg:graphics #mine #im not satisfied with the songs #but i wanna share the poem #and the graphic #so here ya go

[skyandwave-blog]

anoracle‌: 

(So, if she’s a falling star, does this mean Emme should make a wish on her? Does she make it count - make it for both of them? Does she wish for a home, one of them to find one - hope it’s Ata that finds her own again? Does she always wish for warmth in her lungs and call it the same? Wish that things that should hurt never truly do, even as they taste so bittersweet?)

She’s laughing and Emme must too, her bones calling for it as she kneels down, holding out hands and arms to grasp, to help her stand or to just be close on cold nights and the warmth of flight can’t always last in this way, perhaps in the heart, but on the skin? She doesn’t know. 

Her head tilts with the words, a quirked brow in question, in teasing, but she doesn’t say anything, fondness for girls and all their pride in their wings. “Do you still need blankets then, what do you decide?” Tracing the back of the leaf with her fingers. And if there’s a silent pause, gazes leaving the other, on being called out, we’ll blame it on the cold somehow, “Yeah, and you breathing like that tells me I shouldn’t have one, hm? Us without wings are the ones who’ll care for you when you look like you’ll fall.”

Finally, sitting down beside Ata, she leans back again, to see stars, now holding up the same leaf in oustretched hands, looking to skies with one eye closed, shaping the leaf over clouds, like it will bring her to a dream. 

“How about two in one, or all of the above?” Before she realizes all the words, “You want me to fly with you?” Bitten back smiles, “It does sound warmer,” but there’s something cautious in the words, “Can you promise to not do one of those falls again? It’ll be worse - for the blankets, we’d lose them, you know.”

Hands grasping, and Ata pulls Emme down to sit next to her, wraps arms between each other, to send some of that security that only flight can give you along, to press security in with her hands. 

“It’s called exercise. You should try it sometimes.” Ata laughs off the concern, never knows how to let it sitting along her bones, to consider mortality an issue for herself. She pauses, silent, watches with fondess as Emme lies down next to her, gazes down at the reflection of stars in her eyes. “I don’t fall.”

The world happens, she flies through storms, she can get her heart ripped out of her chest - but she won’t fall. She can only rely on herself, and she won’t let herself down.

Ata leans back, arm under her head, watches the stars perform pinwheels across the sky. “For the blankets?” Her tone is teasing, she knows the sound of Emme’s shriek as she changes in mid air, having tried it before. But tonight isn’t the night for that, so her voice becomes serious as she looks at the sky and says, “Of course.”

Flying is something precious, something intense, and she wonders what it must be like, to live limited to the ground. Pilots, gymnasts, thrill seekers, they all chase after what she has, intrinsically. Is the search for flight something within human nature? Or a calling of something greater?

What does it mean if she has achieved it?

“Where do they keep the blankets? We can fly there, grab them, head off. What do you say?” She props her head up, to look over at Emme, at the possibility of a night unfolding infront of them.

#falling through the air #falling in love #falling through achievements #which does she mean??? #who knows??!? #emme003

[skyandwave-blog]

ATARANGI TI PAPA + THE LOUVRE

based on Pegasus, by Dutch Jan Boeckhorst (1604-1668)

#its all gold and white #with splashes of red #but i love the painting cause its the pegasus trying to pull away from its bridle #and would she wear tiny fake wings? #you bet it is #mg:graphics #and this is a lot more of a fashion board than an aesthetic #but oh well

[skyandwave-blog]

llenore‌:

This language is ancient, her father had told her. It’s like water. It never ends. 

Lenore almost jumps when she feels someone sit down close by—if she didn’t know any better, she might have called it a false breeze, a ghost, the feeling of being watched. She looks over her shoulder and relaxes when her eyes trace Ata’s familiar face. 

She waves and then gestures for her friend to come take a seat next to her. “It’s nice out tonight,” Voice quiet, still somehow melodic.

There’s a pause. She looks away from Ata and focuses on the stars above them. The closer they get to the city, the dimmer they seem. It’s only in the countryside where they shine brightest. 

“My father taught me these songs when I was a kid,” She doesn’t look at her friend when she says this. But even with her head tilted up, it’s easy to tell her eyes are bleary. “They’re meant to guide spirits home.” Shoulders rising and falling with a breath, she makes quick work to wipe the tears out of her eyes before she looks to Ata. 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She didn’t mean for the music to end, didn’t mean to cast silence out into the fathomless sky, before shuffling over to rest her head on Lenny’s shoulder. She finds she can’t say anything, doesn’t want to break the crystal of the night around them, so she glances up to the sky with Lenore.

Then there are tears, and painful recollections, but there’s nothing that she can say in response. She wouldn’t want attention drawn if she started crying, so she breathes out and traces foreign constellations with her eyes. There’s no Orion’s belt, or Kereru tonight, so it must be visiting her home right now.

The stars are with her people, but not herself.

She shrugs her shoulders to the question, before letting out just more than a whisper. “It’s a good song. Its purpose is good. When do you normally sing them?”

(She ignores the question of whether, if she died now, she would ever end up in her family’s urupā. Whether there would ever be a tangi for her. How her spirit could ever find it’s way home. Could Lenny’s song guide her, or only take her some place else?)

#lenny002 #did i do too much research into maori spirituality? #damn right i did

[skyandwave-blog]

The security had closed the doors to the cameras in her face, and she couldn’t really fault them. Not with the large protest sign she held in her hands and the history she had. Still, it was with regret that she tucked that sign back amongst the props, and decided to head towards the art gallery and look through it herself.

Steps into the Louvre and feels an openness like the hug of the surf of a wave. All gold and white and she can hear the sound of money trickling through fingers to land on a marble floor through every piece of ostentatious frippery.

She sneers. Then she spots the art. 

Her breath is stolen from her lungs, and she remembers that this was where she wanted to be, a year ago, travelling, that this had been on the list. And here she was anyway. What an interesting way for life to work out.

It’s in a daze that she peruses through the art, stands back to admire, stands close to inspect. Compares artists and genres and styles and emotions as she steps through the hallways, before spotting Theo, his nose close enough to the painting to be setting off alarms.

She’s tempting to push him that little more off balance, into the arms of the artwork, but it’s too beautiful. Instead, she stands next to him, tilts her neck to take in the entirety of it. 

“Where are the statues? Though I don’t know if anyone could replicate the work of art I already am.”

DATE & TIME: february 20th, 7:00pm LOCATION: the louvre STATUS: closed for @skyandwave

it is easy to get lost like this, he thinks, eyes only centimeters away from the painting, nose almost brushing the canvas. could lose himself to the swirl of paint and the smear of colour like this. easy, really, to have eyes focus on this and not the cameras, not the smiles too wide and the questions that leave chests feel like things with ribcages protruding.

(asked: what is it like, to feel such an intimate death upon your skin? is there a guilt there or have you gotten used to it?)

he can feel someone next to him, knows the wild sea-sun air she brings wherever she goes. doesn’t turn to greet her, still. says instead, “i think i get it. why you would stand for hours and hours to stare at something beautiful. at something you don’t understand.”

(answer: like dipping hands into blackwater currents and feeling cold palms pull you in. can you ask a drowning man if he’s used to the water in his lungs?)

“have you seen the sculptures yet? they remind me a little of us, sort of - if someone thought to make cryptids art and not just exhibitions.”

#theo001 #this is ... not gonna be angsty #maybe not even fluffy #ata are u gonna make this a crack thread? #pleaes dont do it to me

[skyandwave-blog]

MRPG:TASK #3: SOCIAL MEDIA AU + YOUTUBE [ TRAVEL VLOGGER ]

#mrpg:task #travel vlogger au #im sorry i did this instead of writing #but it had to be done #mine #my edit

[skyandwave-blog]

Februrary 17 / in the early morning

@llenore

The train has nearly arrived at Paris. It’ll still be a day, but for now, the train is idling, silent under the bright moonlight. It nearly washes out the stars, the resplendent canopy of them that can only be seen when in between places, when floating apart from the rest of the world.

Ata catches a glimpse of them through her window, and decides that tonight isn’t going to be for sleeping. At least, not yet. Instead, she goes to knock on Lenny’s door, wonders if the two of them could go sit on the roof together. (Midnight is much better than sunrise) But she’s not there, so Ata heads to the ladder herself, steps out from the insulated warmth of the train and catches the faint tones of someone singing.

It tears at her heart, the melancholy notes drifting into hearing, and she swears its the sound of the moonbeams themselves.

She steps up onto the roof and a smile automatically fits itself onto her lips, seeing Lenny there before her. Silently, she steps closer, not wanting to disturb the music. Closer, before sitting down on the roof near to where Lenore sings. 

#int.lenny #lenny002 #event007 #mrpg:starter

[skyandwave-blog]

VII : ~ LOUVRE

PREPARATIONS (name, name)

Ata has been preparing for this event for a while, no matter how reluctantly, has been learning new tricks for the audience, ones that she would never have attempted anywhere else. The music is some modern pop nonsense, and she’s tempted to fumble on the big night. You come across her practising and either pull her away, or encourage her.

PERFORMING (name)

She’s standing in the wings, her poi tucked into her waistband, safety equipment being spread on the stage. She’s nervous, uncomfortable, and she rips out the purple flower than the costume department had placed in her hair. She is crushing it into the ground as you approach.

HIDDEN (Theo, name)

She’s been forbidden from appearing infront of the cameras at all. Metzger rightly knows that she’ll do something to scar the reputation that the menagerie currently has, that she’ll make some effort to send a message out. So she goes looking through the Louvre, examining the art work, sitting down with a cup of coffee, or hanging out with your muse.

VOLKOV (name, name)

There’s a vote, and Ata doesn’t know which side of the line to stand on. Trust, vs sticking it to Metzger? Risk vs reward. Your muse tries to convince her one way or the other. Does it matter?

EXPLORE (name, name)

The night doesn’t end in this bar, after the vote. There’s still Paris to explore, still so much to do. Ata slips out, seeking some more adventure, seeking some semblance of normalcy after Russia. Your muse can try to stop her, or join her in this night of revelry.

~ ADDITIONAL

Feel free to like this post if you want me to contact you with an alternative plot, or if you want to write together but nothing here is hitting the spot!

#mrpg:plots

[skyandwave-blog]

👻

👻- For something that scares or disturbs them, but they refuse to tell anyone

Clowns actually really freak her out. She never saw one until she got to the menagerie, and they look so wrong to her. She can’t say anything, because they’re around her and she has no power over that, so to complain would be fruitless. She also thinks that it’s a really dumb fear that no-one else has, so she doesn’t want to tell anyone.

#answer #fcxxes #hc