Denocte has never bloomed for Boudika before tonight; the city has never dropped her Venetian masks to reveal the intricacies beneath the smoke-shrouded streets. But for the first time, she feels as if she sees Denocte, as if Caligo walks beside her along the cobblestones. Perhaps Boudika is only more receptive to the heady scent of skin; the burning of frankincense; perhaps it is only because her senses seem so much sharper than they once had been, and every movement, no matter how imperceptible, entices her with something almost like lust. The copper-headed mare watches the shadows that entangle themselves in the corners of bonfires and 

her eyes trail the sensuous dancers by the flames. Boudika can feel her teeth against her tongue and the sharp reminder is enough to steel her nerve, even as she weaves between the fires like a tigress, always on the edge of the light. More strangely still, however, it grounds her; it whispers along her skin with all the knowledge of a lover’s touch, you belong here, as if she hadn’t before, as if her remaking ensured her belonging. This is the first time Boudika, the Champion of Community, had returned to the city since her becoming. This is the first time she has walked the streets, adorned so handsomely with moonstone, since she learned the taste of flesh and blood.

Her fear is what has kept her away; her fear that she could not control herself and her insatiable urges. There is a part of Boudika that understands she is no longer polite company; there is something artistically, painfully base about her now, something carnal and wanting. It shows in the predatory, metallic reflection of the firelight in her eyes. It shows in the way the younger dancers shy from her silhouette, instinctively, as if they know a tigress is near.

It takes Boudika longer than she would like to decide why it is they stare at her, now, when they never had before. Eyes linger and whispers follow the half-seen glimpse of her, with her tigress stripes, with her bald face catching the firelight in a way both ghastly and beautiful. 

Boudika knows why they stare, though. 

She is inconsolable. 

There is a raw edge to her expression, her being, like a tragedy; it is there in the shape of her mouth or the glint of her eyes. It is there in the way her hair hangs long and tangled, windswept, smelling of the sea. Denocte’s smells of bonfire and incense do not cling to her; it is all hard salt and water. She is inconsolable in the way she looks half-wild, transformed as if by grief or some daemon, some inner turmoil and power. No one speaks to her for the same reason. She is terrifying and beautiful and strange.

It is not until later in the evening, when the partygoers have drunk their fill of honey mead and flavoured wine that the Denoctians dare approach her. She is a tragic backdrop; a shooting star; something tameable and strange. Boudika had not felt her control waiver until the first stallion asks her to dance, embolden by the liquor on his breath. She rejects him politely, in a clipped tone, and is already back-stepping when he steps forward to press his telekinesis against her shoulder, urging her toward the throng of sensual, entwined bodies of dancers already entranced with one another. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” he is quite handsome, and—

Boudika’s teeth are long and sharp in her mouth. She does not want to speak, or expose them, so she remains quiet. He presses closer to her, unbeknownst, mistaking her silence for indifference or insecurity—

“Dance with me, Red,” and even the nickname is charismatic. Boudika presses back. Boudika follows him into the throng and for a moment they twirl. She lets him lead her. 

He smells heady; her mouth presses into the nape between his shoulder and his neck. He is laughing, and golden-skinned. The flesh of the stallion is warm. Decadent. There is something in the salty smell of his sweat and the sweet-rich odour of the liquor on his breath that reminds her, distantly, of overripe plumbs in the summertime, the way they bruise, the way they flesh sloughs from the seed. There is something in the memory that makes her mouth water, and it is not the flavour; it is the precise and indescribable tension of the plumb’s skin against one incisor, the way it feels to press just so against a ripened fruit, how—

her lips press into that nape now, and the stallion laughs high and pleased, unknowing to the tigress he holds like a woman, like a lover—

she is sweating now, and it smells rotten like the sea on a too-hot day, rotten but natural, metallic, hard, hard—

there are many bodies now, all of them, pressing her—

the heat of the bonfire is incendiary—

the heat of the bonfire pools everywhere her skin is soft, vulnerable, the armpits and breastbone, the loin, the ankles, the throat, the eyes—

the golden stallion is endless, limitless, she feels his pulse again beneath her lips—

her nostrils are full of that vivacious, lively scent, all salt and skin, some kind of woody cologne—piñon or juniper?—and the sweet, sweet wine—

oh how sweet would he taste?

how sweet?—

her lips, his tender throat, and his eyes so darkly hooded beneath long, lovely lashes as he says, “We could go elsewhere?” —

but he does not know she wrestles with a beast and the beast has teeth long and sharp drawing blood within her own cheeks—

she cannot speak, she cannot speak, 

she cannot pull away, and there are bodies everywhere—

her mind is full of the feeling of a perfectly ripened plumb, the press of an incisor against the skin, the burst of juice beneath—

And then, she sees the sigil. 

Perhaps she should have been thinking of pomegranates all along. 

@Tenebrae 

flowers grow back
even after they have been stepped on

---

There was moonlight streaming in through the windows when he woke.

For a while he lay there, chest heaving, heart stuttering like a dying thing, watching the way the curtains drifted sideways in the breeze. A shiver went down his spine, cold sweat darkening his coat. He could hear a loon wailing, somewhere in the darkness beyond his rooms; and then only silence. His heart was thud, thud, thudding, achingly long, counting out the long seconds that passed.

There was no partner calling out the second half of its tune, no echoing cry to let them know they were not alone.

He rose on shaky legs, and it seemed to him that it took an eternity to cross the small expanse of his room. Leaning against the cool frame, he lifted his head to the sky where a full moon stared back at him, unblinking, unyielding, its light drowning out that of the stars. Its light seemed weaker here, somehow; and distantly he wondered if Caligo had given preference to Denocte, to light their city streets at night.

Ipomoea was drawing the glass pane closed when the loon cried again. The agony in its voice reverberated throughout him, his heart clenching in time with its rise and fall. It seemed, for a moment, as he leaned out the window and stared at the shadows lingering between the trees - that the call was meant for him.

He brushed the thought off quickly, snapping the window shut with a resolved thud.



And yet…

His bed no longer felt quite so warm, and he lay there endlessly staring towards the window, ears straining to hear the muted call still echoing through the night. 



As sleep continued to evade him he rose again and lit a lantern, its flame casting feeble light around the room. Shivering from the cold sweat still beading along his skin, his heart still palpitating wildly, he began to walk.

The rest of the castle was quiet, as if spellbound. As the sovereign strode down the halls there was no one stepping in his path to stop him, no one calling his name from behind him, no one to see, or hear, or care, or bear witness -

Dew wet his hooves when he stepped outside, wishing for a half-second that he had thought to bring a robe with him. The midnight breeze was cool against his skin, whisking away the last of his night sweats as he paced the courtyard, slipping down hidden pathways in the garden. Flowers opened as he passed, lifting their sleepy petals in welcome, before bowing their heads to slumber once more as he continued past.

Perhaps if he had been paying attention to the tangled pathways, or had he perhaps been looking for something tangible, he might have thought it odd then to find himself on a trail he did not recognize, leading from the courtyard. As it was, he only pressed on eagerly as the roots grew more wild and overgrown, weeds sprouting up along the unused path. The trees leaned in around, branches scratching together overhead, casting long shadows across his back. And the loon called again, low and furtive, before-

The path opened up around a small pond, its surface glassy and still, unbroken.

He drew forward slowly, staring down at his and the moon’s reflection in silence. And his heart continued to thud, thud, thud inside of him, each beat loud, and painful, and as melancholic as the night bird’s song, drowning out the quiet of the clearing around him.




@Mesnyi
"Speaking."

“The forest rose like a dream
from the mind of Chaos’s lonely daughter
and the sun fell heavy and thick
to warm the blood of a world"


Lately the night in Solterra has seemed like a slumbering giant. The only sound the whispering of the salt dune and the soft hiss of the iron sand oxidizing. There has only been decay in the moonlight as the city learned to shed the chains of the last king, and the suffering of his endless hate. 

But tonight, there is not a bit of slumbering in to found in the old forgotten tunnels below the city. Echos are bouncing off the limestone walls like arrows and the clay beneath her hooves is hard packed and littered with bits of paper and forgotten coins waiting to be stolen. There is an energy humming through the belly of Solterra tonight, and in turn there is a small sun roaring to life beneath Amaunet's skin. 

The time to burn has come, that small humming sun whispers to her. Over and over it coos until the sound is nothing more than her own heartbeat echoing back at her. Blood races through her veins, a flood of violence crashing against the desert marrow of her heritage. With a blink, and a flare of her wings, Amaunet comes alive. 

The crowd parts around her, like lambs to the nip of a hound's teeth, as she walks into the hot press of bodies. They know of course, that tonight she is not here to watch. Tonight she's coated in her warpaint that looks like blood smeared below her eyes. Tonight she looks like a wild bird-of-prey walking among the things trapped in the dirt. 

Tonight she looks like she's ready to devour them all, bone by bone, organ by organ. She does not look like she's going to lose tonight; they know that look in her gaze. Hunger, of course they know the look of it, even without their chains they can still feel it eating away at their stomachs. 

Maybe before there would have been a time that Solterra would have felted bloated enough to say, that is enough. But not now, not with their sea-king and his blessed lion and the dead king's statues still scattered in courtyards. Nothing will ever been enough now. 

But when she steps closer to the stage, smiling as a bit of blood flares out form the flight towards her like a ray of light reaching for the petal of a flower, each of the things trapped in the dirt knows that tonight Amaunet will fill their hollow stomach a little more with violence. 

Maybe tomorrow, when the sun rises, it will almost be enough. 


@any!

“The forest rose like a dream
from the mind of Chaos’s lonely daughter
and the sun fell heavy and thick
to warm the blood of a world"

There is desolation in the desert, there upon the surface of it, for everyone to see. It hangs above the dune in a haze, a layer of shifting gold and silver at seems thick enough to choke on. The miles seems endless, and silent but for the roar of a sand-monster, and bloated with light. Today the desert is no different. Like always is as endless as its god and brutal as the beasts that bed down in the dune each night. 

But there is another world below that desolation, below the sun-bloat and the thick haze. It's a howl in the wind that seems to come from the distant sea. There are hints of it in the dunes, where the wind blows ripples of sand instead of storms. It's that trail that Amaunet follows, spreading out below the shadow of her wings like a map only she can see. She's flown it so many times the wind seems to whisper her name between her feathers, like it's welcoming home a wayward child with blood on their lips instead of dirt. 

When she loops lazy circles over the pathway a pack of jackals only lift their heads like rabbits spotting a hawk. For a moment she wonders what they would do if she swooped low as an eagle and bellowed at them like a lion. Would they run or would they mount a war?

Amaunet almost gives in to the wondering. Almost--

Ahead there is the glare of many spears lifted in a war-game, and the soft echo of a battle-cry. It all looks like art to her, the violence of the weapon and  the poetry in the sinew of the forms holding death in their grasp. It all looks like home. Her own soft huff of violence echoes down to them, and in the pack she can see her mother lift her eyes up like a lion looking at its cub come to steal the pride (there is a little love in it, but mostly warning.). 

The sand feels almost hot under her hooves when she lands in a flurry of feather and dirt. Like a wolf she shakes it off, tossing her feathers until all the dirt and grime of her travels is gone (until she shines like delicate lamb she might pretend to be). Her eyes blaze over the gathered Davke and her teeth flash as her whole body says, remember me, remember how I came to you once with blood on my lips and a body in my wake.. Even now she knows better than to show weakness here. 

Amaunet spreads her wings, wide enough that the sun seems only a holy ring of light behind her, as the rest of the Davke settle back into the training. She does not join them, not yet. There is something else she's waiting for. It came as a whisper on the wind, and like any beast that can see the world below the desolation, she listened. 

So she settles into waiting, never once shedding that halo of light around her form. 


@Avdotya

“The forest rose like a dream
from the mind of Chaos’s lonely daughter
and the sun fell heavy and thick
to warm the blood of a world"


The twilight has long since started to settle on the horizon, darker and darker shades of blue and purple bruising the sunlight like a fist. Something about the weight of it settles an itch she didn't realize was creeping down her spine. Like an almost settled thing, bloated on the tonics of the wealthy, she prowls the closing market like a queen walking through a graveyard. 

Somewhere the gutter rats, the poor, and the fools are gathering for another night of blood and lust. Somewhere a Davke child is laying blade to throat with hopes to crown himself by a bonfire. Somewhere there are a hundred other things happening outside this sleepy market and its merchants with greedy eyes. And when she closes her eyes Amaunet is somewhere else too, a match in her grasp and a deadwood forest in her shadow. 

In the distant a band starts to play and a poet starts to sing. Her spine starts to itch again and even the weight of her cloak and regalia (the one that marks her as almost queen of this stretch of gutter) do little to soothe the burn and scratch of it. Each bit of gold on her feels like a blade sinking in, like a bit of stone woven into her mane before she's tossed into the sea. Amaunet want's to toss each of them into the fire, smelt them down to arrow and sword. 

Tonight in the twilight she longs for the desert, and blood, and anything that makes her feel alive, alive, alive. 

Tonight underneath the bruised sky she wants to feel anything but tame. Anything at all is better than tame, even dead. Her wings flutter and spread out, swallowing up the space around her a warning to a lingering rat scuttling too close. But there is longing too, in the tremble of them in the cooling spring night as if they've been bound up in chain. She presses herself into the gathering crowd just to settle the feeling. 

And if eyes linger on the girl with her wings spread wide as a queen of violence they are not foolish enough to say anything to her. Wise of them, with the darkness brewing in the corner of her golden gaze like a bloodstain on a bit of virgin silk. For a moment though, when the poetry turns to song, that her itch starts to blaze like a line of soot and ember. Amaunet turns. 

She smiles, a star-bright look that airs on the side of feral. It's a look that promises a hundred terrible, perfect, impossible moments. It's a look that might cleave thrones from the hooves of men. “My king.” The distance between them trembles like her wings as she closes it and lifts her head instead of dips it like a decorous citizen might. Beneath her golden banded and braided hair, the gold of her eyes blaze and the bloodstain spreads like cracks in a vase. 

And when a feather brushes against him, like a wayward hair caught in a breeze, Amaunet only blinks long and slow as a startled thing while the bruised twilight starts to feel as heavy as a dying thing. 


@Orestes

The Illuminated

“both beauty and terror, without beginning, without end.”

Tonight the stars are celebrating. They are pressing against her in their mortal cages and tracing the lines of her chains with their glowing, feral gazes. Al'Zahra can see judgment in their gazes. She can see the way it taints the awe as she welcomes the meteor storm beside them. And she can see something hotter than judgment, darker than awe, in some of them as the music grows slower, deeper, more. The moonlit bass runs over them and the drum echos in her own ears louder than a heartbeat as she twines her way to the center of their ritual. 

She does not know the meaning behind their music and their poetic chants that seem more manic than rhyme. But the music has not wavered and the bodies moving around her make her feel like there is some cliff-edge she's racing for. She is determined to get there first because she still remembers when the first star was chewed out of the sky. She remembers when they first started to fall. 

Perhaps more are falling tonight and this is only a sacrifice to their new mortal forms. 

Her skin feels like fire and her blood like embers. She feels caught in the cage of their glowing eyes and their fervor. And when someone presses something to her lips, hard as the core of an apple, she does not pause to wonder before swallowing it down like wine. The moonlight seems like a biting thing when she steps back into her dance, all sharp silver seeking the sleeping magic of her ancient soul. 

She wonders if they know, as the music slows even more, that the dancer moving through them is older than their mother (the great sky horse who chewed holes out of her skin and spit them like seeds to the ground). She wonders if they know how much she wishes to leech the arcane from their blood. There is magic to be had in the blood of a star, magic enough to turn back time. 

And when she lays her teeth at the rib-cage of a horse pressing in too close to her form, she wonders how much of it she'll need to take.