- prompt: world - (unusual weather)
entry: The Mists of Avalon have been spoken of in many texts and tales throughout the realms, but few actually know what they are, or what they can truly do. Seen from a distance, the mists appear as an incredibly dense, blue-grey fog that moves across the moors of the lowlands. It rolls in off the seas surrounding the Strait of Ethos¹ and blankets the land for days at a time.
The floating isles appear to descend towards it; so low do they fall that some become partially obscured, with their jagged, crumbling cliffs brushing the top of the vale. Indeed, it seems as if gravity condenses with the mist, drawing the isles low, dragging at every step. Not many fables live in the lowlands these days, but the few that do – descendants of farmers, bakers, blacksmiths, living in dilapidated stone houses in the rolling green – refer to the phenomena as the Dreadmists, for those who are lost within them vanish without a trace, never to return. Many theories have been spun over the years: that the mists are an omen, a sign sent from the gods; that they bring fae, elemental beasts, monsters, dragons – all that which gobble fables up in the deep, dark night. Academics of the north wave off the locals’ superstitions, knowing that enough studies have been done to conclude the mists are actually rich with magic, so dense with it that they call the floating isles back down to earth and tear open void portals in concentrated areas. Those who are unlucky enough to find themselves trapped within the near-vibrating fog are unable to orient themselves and eventually fall into one of the voids, with no way of returning to this realm.
¹ Ethos is a sacred island nestled between Eden and Avalon, where it is believed that the first fable was born out of the two creator gods’ partnership. It is also said to be the site where one of the Avalonian kings destroyed the last of the dragons. No other location in the lands of Va Sena is so chaotically abundant with pure magic. [wc: 353]
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prompt: character - (stressed out)
fable: an assortment of them, linked below!
entry: [wc: 417]
AESOP: What is there to worry about? The young god rarely finds himself ailed by stress, almost always able to spin a situation in his favor, dark eyes keen in search of a silver lining, a bright side – even in those instances which cause his heart to stutter or his brow to knit. If he becomes too overwhelmed, he leaves. (He often finds himself running, running, running – but the problems he's escaped aren't his to deal with anymore, and consequences haven’t caught up with him yet.)
ZADI: Overwhelm doesn’t show on Zadi’s face until it’s too late. She’ll laugh off the weight, act as though nothing’s wrong, project confidence and control, masking inner turmoil – until the facade collapses under accumulated strain. Everything she's been holding back floods out all at once; the explosion is brief but fierce, and leaves her drained, tired, quiet. She withdraws to recover, often to the shallows, where she finds solace gathering shells, letting the sound of the waves and sway of the tide wear her edges smooth again.
CASIMIR: For the saint of wishes unfulfilled, sorrow is second nature; he’s lived too long in the company of heartache to flinch at it now. Misfortune follows him faithfully, and so he approaches stress with resignation rather than resistance. He bears it with quiet melancholy, shoulders hunched under the weight of the world’s disappointments. Despite it all, he is still left wanting; despite knowing better, hope flickers within, fragile and stubborn, even as every wish turns to ash. When it becomes too unbearable – when his chest grows tight with what could have been – he wanders to his waterfalls. Their whispers are like a melody to accompany his half-written prose, and it drowns the ache for a little while.
SEPHORA: When worry finds the Painted Lady, she hides it beneath strokes of color and fluid motion. Unease is transmuted through artistry, and she expresses many of her emotions in this way. But when stress creeps in (as it often does) she searches for sweetness and soft things, something gentle to remind her she’s still real. With a warm blanket to cradle her and candied fruit to melt on her tongue, she’ll drift to her troupe’s campfire and speak her worries aloud, testing their weight in company. She craves emotional reassurance and validation, and takes comfort in being seen and heard, even when she doubts she deserves it. Every kind word, every laugh shared, is a balm on her anxious heart.
