ɪ. ʀᴀɪɴ; [ Even a Seelie knight must venture into the city. Meliorn doesn't hate the crowds and the smell, no, but he certainly dislikes it. It's not just the city--it is this place. He feels different here, nature feels different here, the world feels different here. Not wrong, but unpleasant, like milk just about to go bad.
Or maybe he's projecting, he thinks, glancing down at the carton he'd picked up from the store behind him. Maybe he's just wary of actually drinking the small carton, for fear it tastes completely different than what he's used to. His nose wrinkles slightly, the fact that he's in the middle of the sidewalk seems not to bother him in the slightest.
Nor does the rain, when the sky opens up with a crack. Meliorn's gaze slides from the milk carton in his hand and to the ground, before he slowly moves his head upwards and closes his eyes. Water cleanses. He breathes out, before his brow furrows. ]
The rain is moving to the east.
ɪɪ. ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ; [ So his world has died. It takes a lot to fathom, and at the same time, quite little: worlds end. Things end. He is alive, and that is the best he can hope for. The situation is dire, but there is the faint hope that his Queen still lives. There is optimism in every breath: surely, there are others from his world here. It would be foolish to think otherwise.
Meliorn remains steadfastly hopeful, but he is no fool. Things must be addressed. The dying of his world, for example. There is no welcoming the future without mourning the past. And that is precisely what he is doing: he has found a small place in the woods, far from needless technology, far from noise, and has created a tent of sorts. Soft fabric is draped delicately, every placement precise. There are butterfly motifs everywhere.
A metaphor: change.
Meliorn, in the middle, sits with his feet drawn up and his eyes closed, still, quiet, listening. For what, it's unknown. This place is still noisy, still crowded, and stuffy, and unpleasant, and--
--and very slowly, Meliorn opens his eyes. ]
To the one that is outside: I can hear you.
[ A curious hiker, no doubt. Meliorn keeps his voice level. ]
meliorn | shadowhunters
[ Even a Seelie knight must venture into the city. Meliorn doesn't hate the crowds and the smell, no, but he certainly dislikes it. It's not just the city--it is this place. He feels different here, nature feels different here, the world feels different here. Not wrong, but unpleasant, like milk just about to go bad.
Or maybe he's projecting, he thinks, glancing down at the carton he'd picked up from the store behind him. Maybe he's just wary of actually drinking the small carton, for fear it tastes completely different than what he's used to. His nose wrinkles slightly, the fact that he's in the middle of the sidewalk seems not to bother him in the slightest.
Nor does the rain, when the sky opens up with a crack. Meliorn's gaze slides from the milk carton in his hand and to the ground, before he slowly moves his head upwards and closes his eyes. Water cleanses. He breathes out, before his brow furrows. ]
The rain is moving to the east.
ɪɪ. ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ;
[ So his world has died. It takes a lot to fathom, and at the same time, quite little: worlds end. Things end. He is alive, and that is the best he can hope for. The situation is dire, but there is the faint hope that his Queen still lives. There is optimism in every breath: surely, there are others from his world here. It would be foolish to think otherwise.
Meliorn remains steadfastly hopeful, but he is no fool. Things must be addressed. The dying of his world, for example. There is no welcoming the future without mourning the past. And that is precisely what he is doing: he has found a small place in the woods, far from needless technology, far from noise, and has created a tent of sorts. Soft fabric is draped delicately, every placement precise. There are butterfly motifs everywhere.
A metaphor: change.
Meliorn, in the middle, sits with his feet drawn up and his eyes closed, still, quiet, listening. For what, it's unknown. This place is still noisy, still crowded, and stuffy, and unpleasant, and--
--and very slowly, Meliorn opens his eyes. ]
To the one that is outside: I can hear you.
[ A curious hiker, no doubt. Meliorn keeps his voice level. ]
III. ɴᴇᴛᴡᴏʀᴋ;
un: knightd