I'm only honest when it rains,
An open book with a torn out page,
And my ink's run out.
I want to love you but I don't know how.
He wasn’t there.
It was a steady mantra, a repeating litany of jumbled mess that just didn’t make sense, echoing in her skull and bouncing around the sides of a mind numb with disbelief. By the time that she had reluctantly turned her back on Delumine, disappointed, subdued, angry, late-winter had begun and the Sun Daughter had nearly wasted an entire season looking for him.
Yet he wasn’t there. Why wasn’t he there? What had happened?
Spite had kept her from seeking out Delumine’s new flower-king, or anyone else of their court. For all of their knowledge, they could not provide her with the answers she sought. Israfel had situated herself in their little homestead holed up in the forests and spent weeks searching for Ulric, but her efforts had been fruitless.
Rage and exhaustion intermingled when golden hooves touched down in Terrastella, her chest heaving as her body sagged in the snow, the alabaster of her coat stained grey with rivulets of sweat. She hadn’t stopped, a fire burning hot and dangerous in her breast that wouldn’t permit her to along her journey home. Anger replaced sleep, heartache replaced food and water. It was not the first time that Israfel had lived off of spite alone and it surely wouldn’t be the last.
Pulling her wings close as though to shield herself from the stark chill of winter's grasp, the Regent of Terrastella straightened on unsteady, trembling legs. Vermilion eyes burned as they stared out across the landscape, the stone citadel of the Capitol looming just on the cusp of the horizon. It was close. The winding streets of her home diverged around her and she knew their paths like she knew her own heartbeat. Being here upon these familiar cobblestone lanes was familiar and she welcomed its familiarity without question.
All thoughts of him were shoved back into the darkest parts of her mind, and with a great, heaving puff of air that emerged like mist from flaring nostrils, Israfel started the slow, unsteady trek towards the citadel, desperately yearning for her private rooms and a hot drink.
’I’m home,’ she whispered in her mind, and even through their mental bond Israfel knew that Solaris would pick up on her exhaustion. It wouldn’t be long until the Phoenix had returned to her side, as she had left Solaris here to keep an eye on Charlie, the court, and to keep the homefires burning.
Gentle concern entered her mind like a lover’s sweet kiss, and bleary vermilion eyes blinked slowly in response. Solaris’ crisp, curt voice filled her mind only a second later, the concern growing tenfold as the Phoenix felt her fatigue. I’m on my way. Warm yourself, child.
Another puff of breath escaped her and Israfel nodded even though her companion wasn’t there to see it. “I need a fucking drink.” And preferably a hot body to share it with.
The space was echoing, a massive, whispering room filled with endless tomes and carefully hidden secrets. High above the quiet bustle of patrons collecting the knowledge they sought and the quick, handsome vulpine figures darting between shadowed shelves, the vaulted ceiling was veined with ancient branches bent into the facsimile of elegant, arched supports. No sunlight filtered through the dense canopy mimicking a roof constructed with stone and architecture, no dappled golden light to fill the cosy reading nooks dotted throughout the trunks and shelves. Rather, the space was lit with row upon row of dancing fires flickering within their protective lanterns.
Honeyed lantern-light bounced off scintillating scales and elegantly carved horns with brilliant pastel tones. The warm glow caressed a handsome face, lingering upon high cheekbones and long, white lashes like candlelight upon the pages of a freshly bound book. Every brush of the comfortable, tempered fire over the kirin’s refined frame was like as if the whispering tomes and dull light were welcoming the Librarian home. They paused upon the threshold of Novus’s great, ancient Library. An apparition of paper-white and shimmering, faceted metaphors, the rainbow shine of poetry and prose, brought to a Library they simultaneously knew, and did not know.
Muirne breathed in the ancient dust of worn pages and heavily handled leather covers, and they felt, for a moment, as if the subtle caress of the lanterns’ comforting glow was indeed their Library welcoming them home. Twitching ears listened for sighing pages, for whispering tales they knew so well. Their Library breathed with them, every tome spoke to them with the soft turning of their pages and the fluttering sighs of histories long forgotten, lost to languages remembered by their Keeper. But the only whispers they heard were those of studious patrons delving into the myriad of topics available.
Novus’s grand collection was silent to them, the space familiar and unknown, eerie in the silence from the books stacked neatly upon their designated shelves.
The silence settled into the upturned letters of prose and poetry, muffling the elegant words constructed within their mind. The world was changed. The Library was gone. And this was what was left. This space that did not know them from any of the other patrons taking from the shelves. Perhaps this library did not breath as theirs once had. Perhaps it was merely a shattered echo of the monument that had stood for eternity, though it had been buried, burned and fallen to ruins time and again. It had always had its Keeper. It had always emerged from the long millenia of disuse to open heavy wooden doors to the public. And it had never been silent.
Tightness constricted their throat, wrapping their spoken word like the oppressive silence weighed upon the poetry they wrought from their knowledge. They stood on the threshold of the Library, and stared into the space that was not theirs, that had never been theirs and never would whisper to them, guiding them to the exact tome a patron needed.
Shimmering light slid over their scintillating scales and Muirne turned their handsome profile to an approaching stranger.
There is something different to the markets. Maybe it's the way Morrighan walks down the cobblestone street with tired eyes. She is usually more aware of the crowds and looking for meddling kids to yell at. She'll glance at the merchants, maybe browse a couple tables, then leave. She'll notice how some couples are close together, speaking in suspicious, hushed tones.
But not today. Today she is distracted by her thoughts and a growing hole in her heart. Her mind is a tangled mess of emotions she can't begin to sort through. She may have a crush on a girl she barely knows. Isra is leaving. (And, worth adding, Moira is still around).
Maybe she is afraid. She's never been great with change, especially big changes, or really anything involving emotion. Unless it's anger, she's pretty good at mastering that alongside her fire. This isn't exactly something she can solve by burning though, even if it is satisfying.
The Warden finds herself at the bar, which for her, is an odd place to be unless she's patrolling. Today it's a personal visit and even the bartender is surprised. She orders something a lot harder than what she normally goes for. Maybe it'll untangle the mess of her thoughts. Maybe it won't.
There is a familiar mass of hair in the corner of her eye and she turns to see the palomino sitting a few spaces down. Morrighan snorts and walks over to him, her expression neutral.
"Hey," she says in an almost awkward but somewhat confrontational way. Her mind is too muddled to have prepared a proper start to the conversation. "You still owe me a story you know." Maybe a bar is just the right setting for a storyteller and someone who just wants to keep her mind off the inevitable. A story could be a good distraction. To their right is a stone fireplace and Morr can't help but eye the flames flickering behind the grate. They seem to grow brighter after a few moments.
Charlie raced along the edge of the cliffs, wild abandon tousling her dark hair and boundless energy brightening her vermillion eyes. She raced along the cliffs with sure steps and wings that stretched out to feel the ocean air between their feathers, while Indy darted through the air above her. They were almost there, almost…
She comes to an abrupt stop at the edge of the cliffs, where they just barely give her a view of the furthest point of Denocte. “I don’t think we’re close enough, Indy,” she says, standing with baited breath and keen eyes. There is a ship leaving Denocte’s port today—a massive ship, she’s heard the sailors at the docks say—and she wants to see it.
“It’s supposed to be heading south, do you think we’ll see it?” the girl glances down from her perch upon the cliffs. She knows there’s no way she would make it to Denocte, even now that she can fly. It’s just too far away to get there in time for the ship’s departure, she knows. “Probably, we’ve got a great vantage point,” replies her bonded.
But as she’s looking, she sees the outcrop of rocks at the base of the cliffs. The stone is darkened from the spray of the ocean, but the surface area is quite big. “Come on Indy! We’re going down there,” she says, stretching her wings wide to sail down. “You’re going to stand on that death trap?” her bonded asks, gliding past on silent wings. Even Charlie can see the incredulity in her bonded’s yellow eyes.
“It’ll be fine,” the filly assures the Osprey, all but nearly leaping from the cliff. Her landing isn’t as graceful, although they are getting better. The slippery surface of the rock doesn’t help, but Charlie manages to catch her footing before launching herself into the ocean.
The near miss hasn’t drained her enthusiasm at all, as she moves closer to the edge of the outcrop, glancing eagerly in the direction of Night Court’s port. Indy, choosing not to join her bondmate upon the stone, perches higher up the cliff face on a bit of roots, but protectively watches over the girl standing far too close to the edge for her liking the entire time.
After a few minutes Charlie begins to think they might have missed the ship, but then it sails rise up over the land mass like windblown clouds. “There it is Indy, there it is!” she says excitedly, leaning ever-so-slightly more forward. “Charlie, watch ou-” Indy says suddenly, as a wave rushes up and over the rock, swallowing the fillies legs and dragging her hooves out from underneath her. Her steel blue coat disappears into the dark sea.
You sit and stay, I don't obey
Where do we land in the Black Sea
The days are short, the nights creeping upon them more and more quickly, rushing over the sky like a heavy storm. It is almost the only indication that it is winter in Solterra, other than the chill to the air when the sun dips below the horizon for its final goodbye of the day. Nights in Solterra now are cold, and many Solterrans no doubt choose to remain inside once the sky begins to turn gold (especially those of wealthier status, who have robes and warm fires aplenty to return to).
But the woman in red skirts with ruby eyes, who passes down the streets like she owns them has too much business that thrives in the shadows and the night. She cannot be scared away by the sight of her breath as it passes from her lips nor the chill that brushes its fingers across her dappled skin. She walks with a purpose that is not out of place in the desert but perhaps a shrewdness that is, Azrail trailing behind her like some hell-sent creature.
They are a pair to lay eyes upon, certainly. A unicorn dressed in blood and her skull-bearing bonded.
They are walking in relative silence along a nearly empty street when Vendetta turns down a narrower way, not lit as warmly by the golden hour. Her skirts have left snake-like trails in the sand behind her, she observes, as she waits for Azrail to join her. She is poised, like a snake herself, eyes sharp and cutting. “Were you intending to introduce yourself or simply forgo manners in favor of tailing me?” She steps out from the shadow of the alley and into the path of another equine, waiting, waiting. How she is so easily underestimated.
While the rest of Novus slumbered beneath a blanket of stars, watched by the gleam of a silvery moon, Denocte was just waking up.
A city of a thousand flames that danced beneath the midnight blue, the lazy harmony of cheery chatter as its denizens wandered the streets. The air filled with the frosty breath of its people as winter’s kiss caressed the lips of the undying city.
Castalla watched it all; content to be but a bystander in the short lives of mortals, to watch and protect a city blessed with peace and prosperity. It was a comforting change from the fast paced life in Alanaris- training, fighting, hunting, hiding. There was a sense of relief in not holding responsibility, in knowing that it was not upon her shoulders to lead the people or set them free. Months ago she might have laughed if someone said she’d enjoy a small life, coddled by anonymity. She was born a princess, the champion of her people and saviour of her kind. A destiny promised. A destiny failed. But far from feeling inadequate, trapped by namelessness and unable to have a hoof in the higher goings on, the Wolf was enjoying the peace as she wandered through the streets of the Night Courts.
Thaeron had left the desert lands of Solterra behind, craving an escape from the events that occurred among the sand, sand and endless sand. That had been over a month ago.
Now his leg ached like crazy, a phantom limb stuffed into a makeshift prosthetic that itched and itched and itched. It was unbearable. And it was gone.
A shot glass filled with amber whiskey sat before him, calling him, taunting him. Was it his third? Or his fourth? Thaeron didn’t know, he wasn’t counting. All he could think about was his missing limb, the teeth of the dragon and the bite of magic as the healer severed it. Apparently it had been beyond saving. Beyond saving! Bah! Were he still in Alanaris, were his powers still roiled beneath his skin, he would have been able to save it. But no! He was in this accursed land, with only three legs and no magic to speak of.
He raised the shot to his lips, downing it with little aplomb and letting it rest on the table with the others. There was no other way to drown out his misery than, well, drown it. But it wasn’t working. No tonight. Instead he was simply soaking in his melancholy, lamenting his lost leg and feeling like an invalid. Oh how far he had fallen. Oh how very far indeed.
He lost a leg in a plot so now he's dealing with that and I forgot when I suggested we thread so I am so sorry but here is a very miserable man lol @Andras
As the hours ticked by and the sun sank slowly down the horizon, Novus was painted in brilliant hues of reds and oranges. Some snows still lingered, cast in a ruddy colour like blood spilt across the white and the world was awash in beautiful colours.
Diaval himself was enjoying the sunset, dancing among the clouds where he always felt most free. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders and he felt far lighter than he had in many moons. Finding Lucinda again had returned that the happiness missing from his and at least he felt more complete. Nevertheless the events in the Moors and the months that followed had changed both of the twins and though he was not so weighed down by the burdens of his conscience, there was a tiny storm of thought swirling in his mind.
Swooping low he descends from the sky, the ground rising swiftly to meet him. And with an agility surprising for his build he alights upon the ground and casts his gaze about the field. Golden grass peaked cautiously through the patchy snow, hesitant with Spring so far away. Far off in the distance the towering might of the Venora Peak, dark against the blood-hued sky.
People like to invent Monsters and Monstrosities. Then they seem less Monstrous themselves
Winter has no place amidst the sand and heat of the Mors Desert. Its frigid fingers are kept in check by the arid winds, their warmth ushering the chill back North where it belongs. It is this bold stand against the cycle of seasons – a powerful and steadfast tradition unused to such defiance – that inspires the former slave to press on. He cannot allow doubt or uncertainty to snuff out his hope so soon after finding it. He controls his destiny, now, and there isn’t a force in the world that can stop him from wielding his hard-fought freedom as a tool to rekindle the past.
His eyes squint against the light as he scans the desert, searching for figures as well as any place where he can forage for food. Scarcely any plants can be seen upon the dunes, but the occasional spiked cactus or grass patch proves it is possible for life to exist here.
A band of ravagers could flourish, even.
Davke.
The sun beats down upon Jhion’s back, strong as a thousand lashes despite the season. It is cruel and unrelenting, yet he finds himself reveling in the intense heat of its rays. They remind him of the devastation of House Sodhara, of the fire he ushered to spill from his forge and pick his Master’s bones clean.
As he gallops across the desert, his head full of thoughts of death and his heart so full of hope, the sound of his hooves against the sand morphs into the crackle of a fire and hoarse cries for help. The memories take hold of him, returning him to the gilded halls of House Sodhara and his life within them before they, too, crumbled and burned.
The smell of smoke and molten steel fills the small room where the slave lives and works. Normally he is allowed to leave the smithy -- so as long as his work is done -- but the Masters have confined him to his quarters tonight. Which can only mean one thing. Visitors.
He is not permitted to be seen whenever a guest arrives in House Sodhara, and he has the scars to remind him of such a harsh rule. Though the reason for it has never been explained, the branded smith has surmised that his existence isn't exactly legal. Not that it matters, for the laws of the Day Court have never been in Jhion's favor. He was enslaved as a child when the law allowed it, and his oppression continues even under new rule. It appears that abolishing slavery is not as simple as rewriting old texts or threatening harsh punishment. At least, not with an arrogant ruler like Taldan who thinks he can get away with it if his slave is kept hidden.
His eyes reflect the glare of the flames and his soul absorbs their heat, using it to fester and shape itself into a weapon he can use to make his oppressors fall. The branded smith has had enough of forging blades for others; now it is time to forge one for himself.
The metallic clang of the hammer matches the beat of the smith's heart.
Clang. thud. Clang clang. thud thud.
He grasps the hammered steel in his tongs and thrusts it into the furnace, watching as it shifts colors and settles into an angry red glow. Sweat drips from his face as he stares at the metal, waiting for it to come to temperature, but he is interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open.
"What do you think you're doing? Show our guest some respect!"
Taldan's voice is as grating as ever, accentuated by the wine he has surely been drinking. Jhion only knows this because of the fruity smell of his breath as he screams in the slave's face.
"Listen to your Master, boy! He’ll be having none of that!"
This voice is gruffer, sterner, and if he could see past his Master’s drooling maw he would have been able to see the blow before it landed. It catches him across his flank, winding the slave and forcing him to the ground to catch his breath.
"That’s better, isn’t it? You were clearly too soft on him, Taldan. I always told you his kind needed a heavy hand. Heh, shoulda told Zolin, too."
"Yes, well, we took Jhion as a boy, and he was nowhere near as fierce as that vixen he-"
"A sandrat is a sandrat! You know as well as I do how dangerous the Davke are, or have you forgotten that, Taldan? I don’t care if you took him as a boy, the desert still runs in his blood."
Jhion peers up at the heavy stallion when he takes a swig from his bottle, returning his gaze to the floor immediately afterwards. It isn’t the first he has heard of the Davke, but he’s never heard of them in reference to himself. His heart hammers at the thought. Can I really be Davke? He’s listened in on conversations between Taldan and his guests before, learning of the Day Court, its histories and traditions, and, if he’s lucky, of the wild band that once plagued the desert. He enjoys listening to these stories the most, often staying up far too late to hear one last gruesome detail of the vicious raiders’ exploits – though he has also heard news of their downfall. Taldan speaks of them as if they are vermin that needed to be exterminated, but Jhion finds himself yearning to be as bold and as fierce as the ghosts that haunt the sands.
My ancestors, he thinks. He glances at the red-hot blade waiting patiently in the furnace as the conversation continues.
"Give me some of that. What are we here for anyway?"
"I wanted to see one of the last remaining Davke, poor sight as he is." There is a spitting sound, and the slave doesn’t flinch when a wad of phlegm splatters against his cheek. "We feared your kind, once. Can you believe that? You lot hunted us down, tracked our caravans, and slaughtered us. Now look at you. Disgusting. If you were half as fierce as that sand bitch of Zolin’s, you’d at least have tried to escape by now. Instead, you work the bellows like a good boy, you pathetic wea-"
He doesn’t get the chance to finish. Not with the molten hot steel protruding from his head. Blood bubbles out of the brute’s maw as if to help him get the words out.<
"I’ve heard enough." His voice is remarkably calm for a man that quivers like a hungry flame. It’s as if his skin can no longer contain the rage that was building up beneath it.
The slave frees the half-smelted sword with a quick downward thrust, redirecting his fiery gaze to Taldan’s trembling figure. The Master’s eyes are glued to his companion’s exsanguinated form, his lips quivering as if they’re trying to speak but can no longer find the words. Jhion wonders if this is what it means to be Davke: to make your foes quiver and beg for a swift death. And to deny them of that right.
"Was he speaking the truth?" Jhion blocks the path to the door, closing it with one foot.
"W-wh-wha-t-t-t…. Oh, oh, y-you’re not g-going t-to k-kill me?"
For such a regal figure, it now seems Taldan lacks the eloquence expected of a man of his station. The slave would find it ironic if not for the pounding in his chest, his heart seeming to chant kill kill kill! in place of its normal beat. He does not dignify the question.
"Y-yes, w-we took you in the last raid… It w-wasn’t my choice! You have to bel-"
The small space makes it convenient for him to guide the blade between targets, slipping out from one mandible and into another in one fluid motion. There are no last words or witty remarks; Jhion has nothing to say to the brute that stole, beat and branded him. He owes him nothing for the life he got to waste within these halls. And speaking of which…
He approaches the furnace, his expression softening as he looks upon its seemingly eternal flame. If there is one thing the stallion will miss, it will be the forge and his tools. They were a small comfort to him during his service, and he was fortunate to have been able to practice a craft rather than waste away elsewhere. He is thankful for that, at least.
With a rush of motion the former slave rears up, striking his hooves against the forge to free the fire within it.
Even with the desert air diluting the acrid stench of burnt flesh and ash, it persists like the brands emblazoned upon his skin. He isn’t sure that he’ll ever forget the burnt remains of Taldan’s corpse beneath his feet – or the festering rage that had finally driven him to take the man’s life.
The prospect of sparing the great House does not dare to disturb the wrathful dunes of his mind. The sun’s fury suddenly seems much tamer than his own.
Though his legs are weary from his frantic galloping and his brands burn anew, rekindled by the sun, he will not stop until he has been reunited with the family he was taken from.
"Speaking."
@Avdotya I told you it was gonna be long XD I'm so sorry!
It has been a harder season than usual. The desert, always barren, parched and infertile, had become nearly sterile. The elder teryr, who had spent many years in the canyon, had grown restless. He had been outcompeted by younger, fiercer teryr; some of them were his own offspring. The resources of the canyon, spread so thin, would no longer support him. And so he had flown; first to the oasis and then beyond, beneath a star-heavy sky. The desert spread before him like an offering, but it remained barren, and empty of life. If he were not a purely wild thing, the injustice of it, the cruel and visceral fact of his expulsion from his home, would have deeply troubled him. Instead, the old king begins to hunger.
The hunger grows, and grows, and grows. He quenches his thirst at the oasis and feels a desperation that only wild creatures know, on the precipice of an age past their prime. The end, infinite and scathing, stares at him as he looks into the water of the oasis and his own reflection ripples back. His beak is scarred and cracked; one eye is blind; and although he is old, there is still a lusciousness to his feathers, a prominence to the mane of them about his neck that suggestions his nobility. He stares a moment longer before taking flight, restless and uncertain with nowhere to roost.
Beneath him sandwyrms surface screech at his shadow as he passes overhead. Years ago he would have roared back; he would have dove toward them and scratched at their faces, challenging them to a battle of beasts, until he emerged the victor. The cool air in his face reminds him that was a different lifetime; the winter has brought with it the strife of not only age and lack of resources, but reminders of old injuries. His joints creak and tighten; and as he flies his muscles grow fatigued in a way they never have before.
But he is not a creature to go by idly on the wayside. It is against his nature. On the horizon, he sees the lights of the City. The City no greater teryr has attacked in recent memory. The City that his mother had shown him once when had been a hatchling; she had shown him screaming, squawking, brandishing her wings until she drove all her young back. The message had been clear: you do not go there. But he is old now; and there is something that protests within him at the idea of flying further and further from the canyon he had defended and fought for for many years, only to be ousted by his own sons.
The old king tips his left wing and begins a gradual turn toward the stark sandstone walls, made silver in the moonlight. He is at an altitude where he knows he must look like nothing but a bird to the unpracticed eye. He has hunted as this height many times before. Then, the greater teryr tucks his wings and descends in a sharp dive. He knows there is prey in the city, and an enemy that is more suited to battle him than that of a sandwyrm. Do they not worship him, those mortals behind the strange walls, not so unlike his own canyon?
He lands on the parapet of the city, and with two taloned feet knocks the armoured guard from his station. The greater teryr lands there, on that parapet above Solterra’s closed gates, and releases a roar for the ages. It echoes across the sleeping city and into the desert beyond.
For a land of warriors and survivors that worship the lord of the sun, the terrifying sound signifies something beyond the mortal realm. The greater teryr’s appearance suggests Solis’s favour on the sun kingdom, as the great beast takes from the ramparts with another cry and descends into the streets. The old king is not the type of beast that will go off to the desert and die; no, he roars for blood and battle, for recognition and worship. He wants a worthy death.
RULES
This thread is open to ANY member of Day Court. This is open to replies until Jan 20th, at which point it will be CLOSED.
The greater teryr will reply three more times after this post on the 20th, 27th, and 3rd regardless of whether all participants have replied in time. There is no posting order, but if a post is not completed within the time limit the character is considered out of the event. (Extensions can be granted in
The next time the greater teryr replies, characters will be given three options to choose from.
The success of future attacks will be determined by a randomised roll between 1 and 10, with the higher numbers being more effective. Similarly, some choices may result in character injury (1-10) although mortality or being seriously maimed is up to the player's discretion.
All characters who enter will receive 50 signos for participation. Characters that complete all four rounds will be given an additional 100 signos. All characters who participate in the final round receive 1 additional roll between 1-100, where the character that receives the highest number will receive 300 signos. (A reminder that all characters who post 4+ times IC for this event can claim IC Event EXP)
Charlie raced along the edge of the cliffs, wild abandon tousling her dark hair and boundless energy brightening her vermillion eyes. She raced along the cliffs with sure steps and wings that stretched out to feel the ocean air between their feathers, while Indy darted through the air above her. They were almost there, almost…
