Not all who wander are lost, but Shionne absolutely is. There is something missing, something that is meant to be found, and she is lost in the sense of it. This emptiness. Lost, without having a single idea what it is meant to be. What it is she's searching for.
She knows she is Shionne. She is Shionne Vymer Imeris Daymore. Many names that amount to a single person. Beyond that, she has nothing.
Is that where the feeling springs from? That she is reduced to only a name? She knows she is more. (She has to be.) Holding onto that is what keeps her feet moving, clad in elegant heels that coil up her thighs. The swish of her dress behind her is the only sound that follows her past things she recognizes: the bubbling fires of a volcano, swirling clouds of storm. A tall, still thing in the center of this place that watches her no matter where she roams. The longer she walks, the colder she feels. Not from the storm, or from her distance from the fires; it grows in her chest like ice, painful and sharp.
And as she walks, shadows begin to follow her.
At first, there is only one. Taller than her, wider. It stays close but never touches her. At first, she barely even notices it. But as it grows closer, almost like it means to brush her arm, she turns and sees it. Looks up into the faded ring of blue around its neck, like a collar.
A second, shorter shadow joins the first as she passes wild, tangled forests. Those give her pause, as she considers them. How they draw her in. A ball of dark flutters about Shionne's head, then lands and melds with the second shadow.
She walks, and more begin to form. Another tall one, but taller than the first, with a quiet hum to it like music. A frenetic one, that dodges and weaves between the others, hardly stilling (and though it should get on her nerves, she finds the energy of it comforting.) The last to form is warm. Warm as a fire. It pushes Shionne along when she stares at the unwelcoming thorns of a forest too long with patient, wordless insistence. So she keeps going.
And they follow her, close but never touching.
It may be the cold in her heart that calls to this place. A cold, a frigid cold, that closes around her. She wraps her arms around her chest as her boots sink into snow. She sneezes as the cold creeps into her.
The first shadow moves close, and a cloak falls around her shoulders, lined with warm fur. It drapes it around her, then steps back again. A vigilant, unnecessary guard.
It's when she climbs a hill to see the path continuously leads upward that she sighs.] We'll tire out this way. We should take a rest here. [She says the words, then looks at them. The shadows are nothing, no one. She's alone. So she gathers the firewood herself, managing wood that has yet to soak through with moisture, and piles them up. Her eyes alight as fire is called, catching on the wood.
Tucking her dress underneath her legs, she sits on a log next to the fire and looks up. Watches the orbs above her that feel so terribly familiar, and yet wrong. She's not sure if she's any closer to what she's searching for, but here feels different than the last places. It feels, if only a tiny bit, closer.
And when the shadows settle around the fire in their own positions, with one on the same log as herself, she feels --
It's enough to bring a small smile to her face, though it falls soon enough.] It's too cold to be home. So why do I feel --
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She knows she is Shionne. She is Shionne Vymer Imeris Daymore. Many names that amount to a single person. Beyond that, she has nothing.
Is that where the feeling springs from? That she is reduced to only a name? She knows she is more. (She has to be.) Holding onto that is what keeps her feet moving, clad in elegant heels that coil up her thighs. The swish of her dress behind her is the only sound that follows her past things she recognizes: the bubbling fires of a volcano, swirling clouds of storm. A tall, still thing in the center of this place that watches her no matter where she roams. The longer she walks, the colder she feels. Not from the storm, or from her distance from the fires; it grows in her chest like ice, painful and sharp.
And as she walks, shadows begin to follow her.
At first, there is only one. Taller than her, wider. It stays close but never touches her. At first, she barely even notices it. But as it grows closer, almost like it means to brush her arm, she turns and sees it. Looks up into the faded ring of blue around its neck, like a collar.
A second, shorter shadow joins the first as she passes wild, tangled forests. Those give her pause, as she considers them. How they draw her in. A ball of dark flutters about Shionne's head, then lands and melds with the second shadow.
She walks, and more begin to form. Another tall one, but taller than the first, with a quiet hum to it like music. A frenetic one, that dodges and weaves between the others, hardly stilling (and though it should get on her nerves, she finds the energy of it comforting.) The last to form is warm. Warm as a fire. It pushes Shionne along when she stares at the unwelcoming thorns of a forest too long with patient, wordless insistence. So she keeps going.
And they follow her, close but never touching.
It may be the cold in her heart that calls to this place. A cold, a frigid cold, that closes around her. She wraps her arms around her chest as her boots sink into snow. She sneezes as the cold creeps into her.
The first shadow moves close, and a cloak falls around her shoulders, lined with warm fur. It drapes it around her, then steps back again. A vigilant, unnecessary guard.
It's when she climbs a hill to see the path continuously leads upward that she sighs.] We'll tire out this way. We should take a rest here. [She says the words, then looks at them. The shadows are nothing, no one. She's alone. So she gathers the firewood herself, managing wood that has yet to soak through with moisture, and piles them up. Her eyes alight as fire is called, catching on the wood.
Tucking her dress underneath her legs, she sits on a log next to the fire and looks up. Watches the orbs above her that feel so terribly familiar, and yet wrong. She's not sure if she's any closer to what she's searching for, but here feels different than the last places. It feels, if only a tiny bit, closer.
And when the shadows settle around the fire in their own positions, with one on the same log as herself, she feels --
It's enough to bring a small smile to her face, though it falls soon enough.] It's too cold to be home. So why do I feel --