She thinks this: the salt is so engrained in her skin, in her hair, that perhaps it will never be removed; the sunsets over the ocean are still as magnificent as before, graced with the colors of Vespera, but they are less alive than she remembers and more painful; and the moon, the moon that glares in slivers through clouds is too bright. Her prison sharpened her eyes, made light an enemy even moreso than it was three years prior, made her hearing more acute, made a woman into a beast, into a predator willing to do anything to protect and destroy.
The stench of the sea clings to her skin, never fully leaving - not now - and it disgusts the magpie girl who walks with ribs out and shoulders bare, who stalks the streets, away from those lapping waters that remind her of the kelpies deep in the swamp. The kelpies that came from the sea, the ones that stole her father - stole her childhood. It leaves a permanent scowl on her lips and frown lines beside bright, intelligent eyes that see everything all too quickly and all too completely.
Even so far away from the coast, it still reaches pale fingers into the city, onto the buildings. So she moves further away, toward the epicenter, toward the place where only the sick and dying stay.
In the gloom of the evening, the hospital is a mausoleum with a yawning mouth, gaping wider and wider, broken teeth for windows laughing and gnashing together, waiting to swallow her. Waiting to bring the magpie girl to her final resting place. She is not sick, not really, not physically, but she craves piece like she craves a warm bowl of porridge. Into the dark cave of life and death she goes, reveling as chemicals hit her nose, cleanliness expunging all traces of salt, until all that is left are the moans of the ill and the taste of that which helps kill them and keep them clean.
Dalmatia moves through the halls as a phantom, quiet and quick, hardly looking left or right. Before her, labyrinthian halls seek to confuse those who do not walk them, but she has. She has. In the times when she was a girl, there was a period where she lay prone upon a bed, stick upon her left side as bandage after bandage was wrapped over her right wing. Sprained, strained, mildly fractured bones groaned when she'd moved then. For months they kept her from her skies, for moths they told her she could not do anything too quickly for fear that she would never fly again.
Then, Eustace had come in often to entertain her, to teach her the new formations of their unit.
Then, things had been so simple.
Now, as she enters the room again, staring at the high window with shutters half open, she knows nothing is ever simple anymore.
Beware: I am fearless, and therefore, powerful.
@Elena | this is only thread two, please be gentle with us !<3
Nothingness; it encased her. She was screaming. ‘Save me, save me,’ she cries, but no one came, no one was coming, and in the deep caverns of her heart, Elena knew it. The darkness was so cold, the kind of cold she only felt when Frostbane had been around. It mocked her, blinded her, chilled her to her soul. Trapped, broken, crying. There was no saving her, and they both knew it. She’s gagging on the ice, it enters her bones, freezes her blood. She cant move. She wishes for the sun, the moon, the stars, any light she could be offered, but she just feels herself plunging further into darkness. Elena never knew it could be this dark in this world. She’s dying.
Her eyes open then.
Blue and shining.
She is safe.
The darkness has not won this time.
A quiet sigh, she unfurls her legs that suddenly feel sore from being stiff with fear. The sun was out, darkness just a faint memory now as the sunshine cascades down in vacant droplets. Elena still doesn't know this land she has decided to live in, a rushed decision, one she hopes is right. Unfamiliar faces pass her and Elena can do little more than smile. Maybe, she shouldn't have left Beqanna after all. She feels old even though her body still hums with youth. Her eyes feel ancient, like she is Ruth looking into the past. The fresh, vibrant image of her dream still clings to her like a bad dream catcher.
The blonde shuffles off, unsure of here she should go when she has no map to guide her. It is only when she reaches a small patch of water within the field, perhaps collected from melting snow. She looks into it, looks at those eyes, those new eyes of hers, Lilli’s eyes. She can almost see her crimson cousin staring back at her, if she just squints her eyes just right, and turns her head just so. “Lilli, give me strength,” she says and bats those eyes before pulling away. Her heart aches a little more than just before, if it were possible.
She feels old, heavy. She said it before, but she says it again.
One more time.
She feels old.
Elena is a shimmering gold, she wears sunshine and she wears it well, this summer child. She is sad, for now, but it will not be forever. There is still so much happiness in her. The palomino thinks the Dusk Court may be a different home than she ever considered for herself, but Elena is blazing her own, making the future her own, creating paths where there are none. Or, trying at least. She wonders not for the first time when everything in her life seemed to get so complicated. She is still young, and try as she might to keep that heart guarded, Elena has fallen in and out of love more times than she can count. Maybe she would be better off without it. In the end, Elena had ached too much for their touches, the physical contact that she had been neglected with the passing of her parents. Even as Tunnel drug his teeth across her, she leaned to him, wanting him to scar her body. Anything was better than being numb. This she knows all too well.
It is why Elena so often buries herself in the emotions of others. Anyone’s misery is better than facing your own and that large cavern that threatens to swallow you whole.
* e l e n a
in the dark I’ll pray for the return of the light the sunflower daughter of benjamin and beylani
medic of dusk.
The day was less than picturesque, what with the snowdrifts piling along the window sills and the wind blowing bitter and harsh against the parapets. Llewelyn had taken one glance at the thickening blanket of snow along the floor of her balcony and discarded her emerald cloak; there would be no morning walk in the meadow. Indeed, any sort of travel in such weather would be more accurately described as a tromp, and if Llewelyn knew nothing else, it was that ladies did not tromp.
And thus, with a nose ever so slightly wrinkled in distaste, the maiden braided her mane, painted her leg bands, and sashayed out of her chamber toward the Library. The short journey to the towering stacks passed in a blur of marble and tapestries, serving staff and glimpses of the frigid courtyard; all things were as they should be, quiet and orderly as the Dawn itself. At last, drafty corridors gave way to the welcome warmth of hearths and candles as Llewelyn stepped through an arched entryway. Already, the grand Library of the Dawn was filled with curious souls and disgruntled students — that, or those in attendance had spent their night within the yawning expanse.
There was the familiar sound of parchment sheets sliding over one another paired with the shush of pages being flipped. Everywhere there was a creaking — of book spines, of table tops, of shelves, of old bones and joints — it was as if the entire structure were some giant, sleeping beast and the equines scurrying about within had to remain silent lest they wake the monster and lose centuries of knowledge engraved in the walls. She blinked, tossing away the fanciful visions and sighing with delight. What would she study today? Would she even study? There was a new addition to the lifestyle section that outlined some techniques for mane braiding via innate telekinesis and the courtier had been close to biting the head off of the last mare who had borrowed it.
Llewelyn had never been patient, but to make matters worse, the mare had been a Fjord — what mane could she had even braided? The trollop.
Wandering through the shelves toward the Lifestyles section, a slight tension creeping along her spine at the possibility of yet another maneless idiot nabbing the booklet, Llewelyn found some peace of mind in appreciating the particular coziness of the library’s atmosphere. Where else could she have gone and obsessed over something so comparatively trivial to the world as hairstyles? A barber’s shop, she supposed, but it wasn’t quite the same.
Interests developed while in a Library had a sort of manically enthusiastic edge to them — it was a sort of mad scientist urgency instigated by having any and all knowledge concerning a niche available at any time. One could become an expert on Pre-Dawn Novusian bridal veil beadwork in a few day’s time, or they could spend the next months of their lives studying the social classes found within the long-dead Denoctian and Solterran death cults.
There was truly no limit when it came to the feverish joy with which a Library’s hoard was wielded.
So, if Llewelyn found that abominable Fjordian mare perusing the manestyling section again, it was possible that the aforementioned madness would overtake the scholar and she would be entirely at the mercy of her intoxicating quest for knowledge.
And that twit would lose what little mane she possessed.
Or, at least, it feels that way. War, it always feels like it struggles on and on, clawing its way through the days, weeks, months, doing whatever it takes to last and last and survive. Almost desperately. But this one, it is different. She remembers walking out to that clearing like walking out to certain death, like she is walking them out to certain death. Is she not leading them to their deaths, every day of their lives?
Has that not, blindly, been her purpose the entire time? How has she been so foolish.
The field is dusted in frost and snow, not white but crisp and frozen. Her breath—all of their breaths—fog in the air, filling it like ash and smoke. She holds her axe deftly in her hand, her shield hanging carefully from the straps of her harness. The ends of her scarf flap in the breeze like some kind of flag.
She still doesn’t know what changed, but when she couldn’t swing her axe down… that had been the moment that everything had changed. Her head turns, just in time to see the other equine aiming the spear directly behind her outstretched legs. It enters between her ribs, burning, burning.
Is that where the burning had been born?
~~~
She wakes, chest searing, half expecting to find green eyes looking down at her with concern. She knows better, she should know better.
Antiope stands, opening doors on empty and dark halls. Her steps echo like voices off the walls, damning and condemning. If they are trying to tell her something, she doesn’t understand them. There is too much hunger in her, too much aching, to make room for them.
Outside it is dark, everything is limned in silver and dusted with winter’s touch. The night is laughing at her; snow falling from the sky like ash, her breaths filling the air like smoke. Her things are abandoned in her room: her axe, her ribbons, her choker, her beads. There is only her, standing in the cold, with her hair wild and long upon the ground, and firelight dancing over the stripes on her skin.
There are smears of red under her eyes that look like they could be bruises or blood but right now on this night Antiope does not look like a god-thing or a god-killer. She breathes in the cold air like a salve for the flame in her chest, and descends the steps of the court to walk the streets below. She has never slept well, anyway.
"Speaking."
Open to anyone who wants to thread with Antiope <3
loving you was the most exquisite
form of self-destruction
There is a certain stillness to the world by the frozen lake. Normally Morrighan would like it because it means she's away from everything and everyone. Now, she's not so sure. It makes everything in her head louder and there are no distractions. Even with the water, she can't watch the ripples form by the wind or a creature coming up to the surface. A solid layer of ice is covering it, so there will be none of that until it melts. Given the dropping temperatures, it will be a while until winter goes away.
She makes herself a campfire, although not a very large one. It's enough to keep her warm and give her something to focus on. Yet when she stares into the flames and plays around with controlling it, it's not quite as satisfying. How disappointing.
She is too troubled apparently with Isra leaving and her still not resolved feelings for Al'Zahra… for whatever reason she is so hung up on it all. There is rage, sadness, confusion, and it all just mixes together and creates a kind of chaos in her head. The regime will be changing and she's not sure just how it will yet. Moira is still Emissary, but who's to say she won't take a step further? She has never hated someone so much in her life until they began butting heads. All these things used to be solved by burning the world down, but now it seems she's even lost that. It frustrates her. In a way, she hates herself.
Morrighan wanders away from her campfire for a moment to stand by the edge of the lake. Beneath her hooves are small stones that are smooth to the touch. She picks one up and throws it across the ice, more for the satisfaction of throwing something, but the result is surprising. As the rock skips across, a strange sound echoes off the frozen lake. It's an eerie high pitched noise, almost like a bird chirping, but it doesn't sound quite right. It almost reminds her of the strange birds that lived on the island before it transformed for winter.
She decides to pick up another and throws it a bit harder this time. The sound rings out louder and it's such an odd, otherworldly noise. Bram comes up to her side and looks out at the lake as the stone finishes skipping.
"You might want to turn around," he says through their telepathy and nudges her leg.
"What," she grumbles, not moving just yet. She can hear footsteps crunching in the snow in the distance, but doesn't feel like talking to anyone right now.
"It's her," is all he says and that is what makes Morrighan turn around. Up on a hill, she sees her. Even in the low sunlight, her chains seem to shimmer and her coat is like the sun's own rays. It makes her heart skip a beat and it's disgusting.
As the woman moves closer, she knows their eyes aren't playing tricks on them. It is indeed Al'Zahra and Morrighan freezes in place. She doesn't know what to do as panic sets in. The last time they were together, they were dancing (and they were close). They may have kissed, she doesn't really remember. But she does remember running and never looking back.
Now she can't even run. Her mind is blank and it seems her breath is caught in her throat.
Morrighan has still not yet processed this fact. Change has never been something she's dealt with well. For the majority of her life, everything was the same. She had control over it, but now it feels like she can barely control anything. It's like she's an ember that sparks and quickly erupts into a raging wildfire.
She walks the market streets, which she finds herself doing more often as of late. Maybe it's all the noise. The roaring of the crowd and hooves against cobblestone do a good job of drowning out the ringing in her ears and her worst thoughts. Fire can only do so much after a while.
Typically she has no other purpose here than to wander and maybe browse some of the merchant tables. Her eyes still find themselves landing on an array of weapons, but none truly call to her. Perhaps she's too used to her magic as a weapon and the idea of using a physical one is foreign. Although, it is appealing to have something that could cut flesh.
But suddenly, it's become a good thing that she's here today. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a young teen stash one of the smaller knives in his bag while the merchant has his back turned. Idiot merchant, for one, but when the teen dashes off, Morrighan is quick to follow.
It does not take long for her to catch up to him after her pursuit and the boy is flustered. "Where do you think you're going?" she asks him, her anger clearly showing in her expression and by the fire beneath her.
"U-uhh.. I-I was just.." he stutters, barely able to spit out any actual words. Morrighan rolls her eyes and pushes him back in the direction of the merchant tent.
"Let's go, you stupid delinquent," she grumbles and drags the boy back to where he had stolen from. When they arrive, the merchant is frantic, but his expression turns to disappointment as he eyes the teen.
"Hand it over," Morrighan demands and the boy reluctantly places the knife on the table in front of the merchant. He avoids eye contact. She knows she should make him apologize, but she doesn't feel like being Warden and Mom today.
"I better not see your sorry ass out here again, understand?" is all she says and the boy nods, trembling in fear. Morr releases him and he takes off to leave the markets. Hopefully he won't ever think to try and pull that shit again.
"Thank you Warden, I owe you one," the merchant says with gratitude.
"Just doing my job. Let me know if he comes back. He'll be sorry," she says, gesturing what she'd do by igniting a flame at her feet. She's pretty confident that the boy won't be back though.
At least, while she's never been good about change, she's made a name for herself here. She has a purpose. And others are scared of her. Or hate her.
When she and her cousin had been young, they would often tuck themselves into a world of their own. Lilli would build their grand castles with its moats and fortified walls (though the drawbridge always dropped for anyone in need.) And Elena would conjure up dragons for them to battle, there was hardly a need for knights, for Sir Elena would battle the scaled beast. Sometimes, just before she awakens, her dreams find this place of imagination once more, but then it is all over as eyelashes flutter open and she is alone once more, not a castle or dragon in sight.
Elena finds comfort in the sunset. She isn't sure why, especially when she knows night is coming.
Winter.
There was something vastly lonely about the winter months in a land. There were no colors outside of the simple white of the snow, the blue of the sky, and the green of the coniferous forests. The dull browns, the blackness of night, it could make an entire land look depressingly bleak. Especially when that winter had come, the first winter without either of her parents, the first winter in Beyond. it had been even more depressing still when she would catch them watching her. Marcelo, Aletta, Malachi, even Ori occasionally. They had handled her with kid gloves, desperate for answers but scared to ask the questions. It would have been enough to drive a single person mad, desperate for someone, anyone to be rude to her, to get angry, to show her anything but that sympathetic smile and quiet look of pity.
When spring had come though, Elena had found friendship in her cousin, Lilli, the crimson girl that Elena still aches to see. And with the coming of spring had meant her godfather had returned to her, and the healer that had been present at Elena’s birth. It had almost been like the family was once again reunited. With the exception of her parents that had weighed on her shoulders and ached her young heart.
Now, Elena has been alive longer than her parents had lived, she was older than her parents. The feeling was—strange, to say the least. Elena wonders if she had even been given a chance to really get to know her parents. Their faults, their strengths, their trails, instead of having perpetually looked at them through rose tinted glasses. Valerio had told her stories of when her father had first come to Paraiso as a testosterone filled two year old stallion, and how he had rebelled against Valerio’s kind nature. Elena had known none of this, her father never having gotten around to telling her the story, it would seem. When she returned to Windskeep years later, she learned things about her mother that she had never known. These stories, while they warmed her soul, caused her to bite her lip in sorrow. Elena realized how little she knew about her own parent. The more she learned, the more she felt as though she had been living with complete strangers.
The golden girl finds herself in a place she has rarely ever found herself before. Standing there and watching with a glacial gaze the swell of the ocean as it arches and crashes against the shore. If she closes her eyes she can almost hear the sound of Paraiso’s waterfall, Aletta and Brynn talking, Lilli laughing. And that alone is what holds Elena still.
Maybe, she still has a bit of that imagination after all. Maybe it hasn't quite run out.
* e l e n a
in the dark I’ll pray for the return of the light the sunflower daughter of benjamin and beylani
of dusk.
Her family had always encouraged Elena to explore the world around her, but maybe, not to this extent. She is once again in a place she doesn't know, a place that is different. Not for the first time she wants her crimson cousin with the brilliant glacial gaze that Elena now shares. Gifted from the ancient magic of Windskeep so when she looks into her own reflection she sees Lilli’s eyes staring back at her. Lilli, she whispers, I need you, be my light in the dark. Lilliana who was warm and beautiful and graceful. Who could find humor in everything and could turn the ugliest of days sunny.
Winter. It was always winter.
It feels almost familiar now as those icy eyes look around this strange place, she had arrived in Beqanna at the same time of the year, in the middle of a snowstorm desperate to find her red haired cousin. But, this time, there is no promise of finding Lilli to warm her against the cold.
For now, she is a ship sent a adrift without any stars to guide her and it is not just because the sun shines bright overhead. She drifts mindlessly, there is no breeze to push her sail, though it hardly makes a difference. Elena would not know which direction to point it anyway, but she knows she cannot go back, to any of it. The emptiness continued to weigh on her even as she served Kensa, it went back before Beqanna, before Tunnel, before leaving Lilli, before Valerio disappeared, before Aerwir and her broke it apart, before Marcelo and Ori left her behind. It was the same hollowness she felt when she suddenly found herself alone in the world, parentless all those years ago. The day she left Lilli behind, something died inside Elena, the fire that burned inside her started to diminish.
Here is the part of the story where Elena tells herself it was for the best, that Lilli would be fine without her cousin weighing her down.
Little girl, little girl, you dirty liar.
Terrastella. She thinks here and now because she is suddenly all too aware that she is no longer in Hyaline and it scares her.
The blonde picks a leisurely stroll, even if within the confines of her golden chest her heart waltzes and tangos. This shouldn't be anything out of the ordinary, Elena was well acquainted with these feelings of “being the new kid.” But why does she have butterflies as she stands there holding her lunch tray in the cafeteria, terrified the cool kids wont ask her to sit with them.
She thinks about sending out a searchlight. This little golden ship in this big, wide ocean, but her coast guard dressed in crimson with a matching gaze f silver blue is too far from her now to see the light she sends out across the waters. So Elena settles herself into her life raft, less than content to drift mindlessly further and further away from shore. The open sea was no place for a girl like her. So maybe it is best that she finds herself shipwrecked in the land of Novus.
Elena arrives in the capital, she has carried little with her, just her past and her grief, but she is here all the same. And she is there as the sun edges towards the end of its day, though it still lets its rays touch against her golden coat, as Elena stands there as bright as ever, she is truly a child of summer.
* e l e n a
in the dark I’ll pray for the return of the light the sunflower daughter of benjamin and beylani
of dusk.
the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
It’s early afternoon and the bar is mostly empty, dark in the corners, warm gold coloring the rest of the room where the light falls through the entryway. There is no door, which August noted with interest; he wonders whether it burned to ashes one too many times, or if it just never got cold enough, even in winter, to warrant one.
Today, at any rate, feels like spring to him. There are flowers blooming in containers along the streets. The city is more colorful that he had always pictured it, and he’s been trying and failing not to resent it for this. He may as well learn to appreciate Solterra - he may be here for a while.
Which is why he’s starting out at this particular establishment. August always feels more amicable after a drink; he hopes it doesn’t fail today. Gods know he needs the encouragement.
He pauses for a moment before crossing to the bar, his shadow leading the way. The palomino doesn’t care for having the open doorway at his back, where he can’t see who enters. It’s a far cry from the dark, lush interior of the Scarab, where he can keep an eye on everything, where he knows most of the patrons anyway. His world is full of strangers now.
But he looks at ease, and smiles when the bartender meets his eye. She smiles back, casting a seasoned glance over him before ambling over with the glass she’s been cleaning.
“Bright days,” she says, in common Solterran greeting. “Bit early, isn’t it? But what can I get you?” All the while her smile lingers, and he follows it up to her green eyes, the long scar that marks one cheek. He wonders which court’s citizens bear more scars, and knows the question is unfair.
“Always a good time for business,” he remarks, and scans the row of bottles behind her. A few are familiar, but he nods toward a dark, squat bottle whose contents are golden where the sunlight hits them. “Ah,” she says, “that’s an anejo tequila. Aged three years, harvested from agave in the Mors.” He raises a brow as she recites its lineage, and is already nodding. “I’ll take it.” August watches as she pours, releasing a woody, spicy scent that almost reminds him of whiskey.
He lifts it, tilts it, takes a whiff - and then tips it back before her small gasp of protest can catch him. August almost coughs, and hisses through his teeth at the burn flaring down his throat all the way to his belly. When he looks up at the bartender, his eyes are watering.
“You’re supposed to sip it,” she says reproachfully. August blinks, and laughs. ”Of course. Then I’ll have another.” And one more after that, he thinks, and maybe he can face the court beyond the bright doorway behind him.
@jahin | this was supposed to be way shorter, just pretend it is
It was a wonder he had survived his arrival to Novus. Silas had accomplished no small feat dragging himself from Eleutherian Plains to Terrastella. The magician stood in the early morning light at the edge of the Hospital. The sturdy wooden planks were the only solace in a place that was so heavily saturated. The air was flooded with the stench of muck and rot. It permeated the atmosphere; the stench marked its domain. Petrichor. That was the most succinct definition for the marsh. Silas contemplated the decision for Terrastella to open its hospital here. He pondered how they evaluated sanitation here. Proud marble floors did not sweep with grandeur across the marshy surface. The absence of porcelain walls was a jarring realization for Silas. The sleek material had been far from antiquated in Muramir. The flickering light and the still morning brought the mauve magician some peace. He believed it would be a fleeting experience. He could spin metaphors and poetry about peace, but he did not. Silas was a mage, who writhed with discomfort now that his arcanum was gone.
It was harrowing for the archmage to experience. His identity was stripped from him the moment he'd been hurtled through that portal. Novus was proving to be a personal hell of sorts. It dangled the tantalizing knowledge that magic thrived here, and yet it no longer whispered for him. Arcanum spoke in dulcet tones, as it whispered sweet nothings to his soul. Silas identified this feeling he had as he stared out into the still marsh, sadness. It was not the beautiful thing that poets wept about. It was a terrible, destructive entity. I threatened to devour whole cities, and decimate those vulnerable to its gnashing teeth. Bitter. The taste weighed heavily upon his tongue. Silas did not enjoy feeling so raw. So exposed. At his feet sat a horrible concoction. It exhaled vile scented steam from its depths. He was expected to choke down the vile tasting liquid with a smile. For all his humor, Silas was equally as stubborn.
It didn't matter that it consumed the pain. It didn't matter that it stifled the darkness clouding his vision. It was horrible.
Words: 365 | Notes: I hope this is alright! <3 He's just being a grumpy stubborn boy. Glaring out into the marsh super early in the morning.| Tags: @Yana
