. . . domina relicta . . .
A WHISPER OF TOMORROW
LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania
Vivacity expressed throughout countless shades; each beckoning the watcher nearer, deeper into the seas of its dreamscape. The depths appeared to stretch into eternity, with only the faint strokes of a brush guiding the path. . . there was naught more than the shapes that slowly brought forth an end to the oblivion–a light waiting to be witnessed. Each detail added was another word written into the tale, as it gradually unfolded before her hazy eyes. . . Symphonies composed of flowers filled her sight as Isobel sought to bring them forth on the grand canvas before her: the white lilacs depicted through a series of dotted stems, and the faint blue outline of another flower in the far distance.
Each petal shaped its own story, connected to a person, to the future or even deeds within history. . . Their shape and colour oft-gave away its importance, its primary meaning to her, but one must look further than the surface to uncover the Force’s cryptic foretelling. Too often had the dreams eluded her, been cast aside by time and its blades–war and chaos. Too often had their meanings become yet another passing thought, a dandelion on the wind, floating past her in search for a place to root.
Her brush shifted over the canvas, gently applying its coloured bristles to the sheet as the image blossomed into an artwork. There was only the soft lullaby of the wind carrying through open doors, the gentle caress of the sun upon her face through the narrow window-frame and the song of the Force echoing in her mind akin to a never-ending melody.
Time had ceased to exist as she painted within the Zardossan palace, had it been hours since she had begun or mere minutes–no doubt the former, from the looks of the composition. She could hardly recall waking up and getting dressed, the only thing on her mind being this strange sensation that shackled her to the same picture, the same scene that replayed over and over again, with only one detail exposed each time. Bel questioned whether the planet’s living force was resonating with her being, tying her to this place and its peculiar thought. . .
A foolish notion.
It must be something else; Isobel had no desire to return to the Academy, to be haunted by feelings of anger once more, to be forced to hurt those she wished not to–be it physically or verbally. And in spite of the bacta sealing her wounds, she could still feel the hurt taint her within, its poison spilling into her veins, and fear blighting the well of courage she might have built.
Her brush ran over the canvas again, fixating on the centerpiece of it all; twin figures of sorts, with faces never drawn within her dreamscape. A blur that mesmerised her, drawing her back to meditation, to the sealed vault that entrapped these mysteries. Gentle waves of silver found its way onto the piece, as pale and hypnotising as moonlight. But amid it all lay a core, a heart concealed from the greater galaxy, sheltered by fabric bearing the Lotus’ gradient.
Life. Ashla’s light burning even in the darkest corners of the galaxy. . .
With a contented sigh, the dreamy omen parted ways with her being, and she was left with a canvas consisting of many elements. . . Too many. White lilacs, a blue flower, a lotus-esque fabric, a figure obscured by silvery waves. Her head pounded at the sight of it all.
Isobel stepped away from the easel, and tossed aside her brushes, her wrist ached from all the exercise, but it could be ignored–until one of the servants would inevitably fuss over it. But they had all vanished this day, and it had never been or felt this quiet before–or had her visions devoured so much of her attention that all else had faded into the background? She wished not to find out. . .
Instead, her fingers wrapped around her chalice, bringing the rim to her lips as she carefully observed the fruits of her labour. . . determined to bring some sense to its existence.