There is an undug grave in the eastern edge of the fields.
Rather—dug, then undug. Its marker, a slab of sandstone that reads SANTIAGO, has been tossed somewhat carelessly to the side. Piles of dry dirt lay strewn around the plot’s previously exact edges. It is a perfect spring night: the sky is a dark velvet blue, sprinkled only with the suggestion of stars, and a warm breeze ruffles Sussuro’s long, golden grasses. Field mice chatter and rustle against the wheat. It could be a painting. But something is off. The darkness that surrounds is practically glutinuous; the moon, conspicuously, is nowhere to be found. In fact, the scene would be impossibly, impenetrably black to anyone not standing within just a few yards.
And that position has already been taken.
The stranger is unnaturally dark. Many things would seem so here, but he... he is different. Tall and well-built, his skin is oil-spill black from head to toe, marred only by a white snip and the silver of a myriad of scars. Even his wings are perfect pitch, like a crow’s, dripping ink from each feather. His eyes, though--
Striking cold green, like spring, and filled with a bone-deep fear.
“Impossible,” he murmurs to himself, as if it matters. It comes out in a voice that is both penetrating and tremulous. Even in the dark, the green of his eyes are bright and paranoid: they scour the ground inch by desperate inch as he walks impatient circles around the now-empty grave, wings shuddering at his sides. To the bottom of the well, it is nothing but dark, dark, dark, woefully empty. No body. No offerings. No nothing.
“Impossible--” but his voice rises in pitch, because he knows that, however impossible it is, it has still happened.
For a moment, nothing but perfect silence. The world stops. He stares deep, deep into the bottom of the pit, absolutely still, wings hovering outward. Then he raises his head and howls into the dead-night in a voice filled with wild, dark rage:
“Cicero, we have to wake them up!”
In the pre-dawn, there is only one small change to the Halcyon’s barracks.
The note posted on the heavy front door is a burnt and ripped, yellowed with age, in a girl’s neat, coarse handwriting.
W. 460 So, so obvious. Bad weather tomorrow but that’s fine. Should be at (near) Lorcan’s gravestone in the fields. Vespir wants confrontation first. Always, always -
info
Welcome to the Halcyon’s new sub-plot and scavenger hunt! Please do notrespond to this post; if you’d like to participate, post in the Terrastellan board that you think this first clue is referring to and tag @redandblack in it, or tag me on Discord!
There will be a series of clues and riddles following this one over the next month or two and dice rolls involved later. Although this quest is based on Halcyon lore, anyone who catches wind of the clues is free to join in at this point; don’t worry about court or flying ability juuuust yet.
Please PM me (RB) here or on Discord if you’ve got any questions! <3
Spring is more beautiful with freedom; with flight. The temperatures on land are rising, steadily, slowly. The world is waking, birds singing, creatures stirring from their slumbers. On Irindor Samaira’s favorite time in the forest had been spring, and here in this world, her new home, it’s no different. She wakes each morning to the rising sun and the melody of birds and is grateful to be alive.
The pegasus drifts through the sky, the tips of her wings brushing against the low-lying, early morning clouds. “Come on Alaunus! We’re almost there,” her words float over her shoulder toward her bonded, as the young heron flies just behind her. ”The ocean won’t go anywhere if we take our time,” Alaunus replies, but Samaira can hear the amusement in his words. Oh, how Samaira loves the ocean. Ever since she set foot on its shores for the first time.
She doesn’t think that she’ll ever not love it.
It is wide and far and still and roaring and deep. It is beautiful, especially in the morning when the sun rises to the east and the soft first rays of light reflect off its surface. Her heart sighs in contentment just to think about it, and she beats her wings a little harder, a little faster. ”No stopping to smell the roses… got it,” her bonded remarks, and Samaira can’t help the laugh that bubbles past her lips.
At last they reach the sea, and Samaira looks at the horizon, where it stretches and stretches and stretches. She wants to touch it, to fly to that distant line and discover where it takes her. Someday, she consents, but not today. Whatever mysteries the world holds for her, she has many years to discover them. For now, she is happy to be here. To have purpose, and life.
As the pair circles slowly up in the sky, Samaira spots a dark shape on the sands below. At first she thinks of the kelpie she had met the first time she had gone to see the ocean, whose name he had not given to her. He was as much a mystery as the sea he called home. But the darkness of this shape is as unmistakable as the colors he wears upon his back. King of the Dusk Court, who looks as the twilight sky.
Samaira drops down to the beach, her eyes as wide and bright as the setting moon, and makes her way toward him. “Asterion,” she greets gently, as gently as the water that rushes up to embrace the sand, to kiss their hooves. Soon she is beside him, and her wings rest against her sides as she speaks. “If I recall, you never told me your position that day I first stepped foot in the court,” a smile turns up the corner of her lips as she glances at him curiously.
She remembers how they danced, and laughed, and she wonders if she would have done such things with him if she had known, then. “You should wear your title with pride, knowing how much you do for your people.” The earthen woman shifts a little in the sand and Alaunus, resting somewhere behind them, clears his throat. Samaira only smiles more and thinks, the day is new and full of promises.
The last time he came to the Tinea Swamp, he left with no intention of ever returning.
It was not the kind of place that called to him. Eik’s soul needed solid ground and a wide open sky. His thoughts needed space to unfold, to multiply, exponentially, as they so loved to do– from one sprung two. From two, four. From four, sixteen, and so on until he had so many thoughts there were not enough words, in any language, to capture them.
In the swamp he felt too close to his own mind. Claustrophobia is what they called it, he learned shockingly late in life– where he grew up, they did not have words like claustrophobia or vocation or emissary. His people were simple, and beautiful, and fierce.
(And, let’s not forget, dead. They were all dead.)
So it follows logically that Eik is not here because this place calls to him. It is not Solterra and it is not Isra and he does not feel right here. He dislikes the squelching sound his hooves make in the wet earth and the way the sound carries eerily. He has the constant sense of being watched, but every time he turns his head there’s no one there.
They said there was a witch who lived here, in the swamp. They said many things about her, ranging from reasonable to ludicrous– she was a spiritual guide that dressed herself in frog skins, she would heal all that ails you but only if you promised her your firstborn… things like that, rumors that carried a lot of superstition and absurdity but, if you picked through them judiciously, you could find bits and pieces of truth, or what seems like truth.
Eik comes with no expectations and a skeptical (but curious!) mind. He can see how the future fans out before him, many paths that weave and wander. Some are brightly lit and well traveled, others are thick with thorns and brush. He does not know where any of them lead, or which he should take. But it’s always been like that. He’s always been like that, acutely aware of all the options he must leave behind with every step forward he takes.
(and yet, how often it seems he is not walking, step by step, but floating down a river, letting something–some one– else guide the path)
But things are different now. Something has changed. (Let's say it, all together now, he’s going to be a father)
He arrives at the hut, right about where all the rumors said it would be. A gentle breeze stirs the wind chimes. Their song calls to him, makes him feel… at peace. This place is not at all what he expected it to be like.
(did we say he came with no expectations? ah, well… he thought he didn’t.)
Just as he is about to knock on the door, it opens.
E I K and you keep telling yourself
there is no smell of war in me
but why else would this feel like madness
Eik had sensed Isra’s presence from the moment he stepped foot on the strange island. Her magic here was like a second sun– he could feel it on his back, dappled in the forest, blazing on the sandy beaches. Around that two stars orbitted, laughing, dancing, writhing around each other like two magnets inextricably attracted and repulsed by each other. Each gave off a warmth and color of its own, and they confused him. He did not understand. Was it Fable? Was it himself?
She went one way and he followed, tracing trails of iron and cobalt, flowers and gemstones. It was difficult, but not impossible to tell what was her work and what was the island’s. Perhaps it was the result of his magic, or his love, but regardless– everything of hers had a signature, if you knew what to look for… although, it was not so much about looking as it was about feeling, like reaching about in the dark for something. And of course you don’t know what it is you’re feeling for, not until you find it, so you can’t really explain it to anyone else.
(It’s beginning to sound less like magic and more like love, the secret to his knowing, for it is a well known fact that magic follows the laws of reality more closely than love)
He follows patiently, stopping every so often to look, and listen, and wonder. Does she know he follows? She must. His magic comes to life here, too; He’s certain she can feel it caress her cheek with the warm salty air.
It is deep in the jungle where they finally meet, in an ancient grove (as ancient as a thing born yesterday) of banyan trees. Oddly, it is almost bright as day here, for the clearing is full of fireflies. Most of them hover close to the forest floor, a shallow sea of light, and many of them crawl as though they are sick. Eik tries to move gingerly through them but every step crunches in a way that makes his stomach cringe.
crunch, crunch, like a god and his toys–
crunch, crunch, do they prey for mercy? He can't hear. Maybe he's not listening hard enough–
crunch. crunch. He feels sick, like he’s about to wake from a bad dream but also-- he feels nothing. The significance of all things falls away to the distance between the two lovers. They meet in the middle of the grove. The light of the fireflies are gently pulsing now (when did they start? were they always pulsing like that?) both in brightness and color. The yellow glow fades to violet, to white, to blue… but he’s not looking at the fireflies. He’s looking at Isra, and how her face seems to change with each color. Yellow and she is sovereign of Night Court, rebuilding the court alongside her people. Violet and she is on the mountain, streaked with blood and dust, alive with vengeance. White and she is in Solterra, blazing like a star about to collapse on itself.
Blue and he can’t see her face anymore, the short distance between them is no more. His lips greet her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, her belly– her belly–
The two stars he felt, they’re–
They’re twins.
He looks at her, surprise draining all other emotion from his face. “Did you know?” He searches her eyes, wondering if from them he can sift the answer before she can speak it. It does not occur to him to use his magic.
“Did you know there are two?”
E I K the world, a double blossom, opens:
sadness of having come,
joy of being here.
Preggo @Isra :D
(Those poor fireflies xD I used the relic hunt tag in case they branch off from here and explore, but they certainly don't have to! I'll edit it out if no exploring happens)
The waves roll gently onto the beach, slow and steady as a lullaby. Back and forth they ebb, dusting the beach with sea foam and salty bubbles that release laughter when they pop. Laughter at the unicorn that walks across the beach, laughter at the way the trees flattened beneath her dragon’s feet pop back up behind them as if nothing has happened, as bark knits itself back together and seals itself with sap, and felled leaves return to their branches to tremble and shake another day.
No matter how many times Fable may lay the trees down, they’ll return right as rain as soon as his back is turned. And the magic howls with joy because of it.
It appears with a single flame, cackling blue and white as it dances in the air. It’s there for only a moment, just long enough for the huntress to catch a single glimpse of sapphire before it disappears. The forest grows silent and dark in its absence.
~~~
After the pair have walked some distance further, a second flaming orb will appear, hovering in the air to their left. It spins and twirls, as if unable to contain itself as the horse and dragon approach. A soft blue light emanates from the fire and bathes the surrounding trees, cool and ethereal.
When Isra is close enough to reach out and touch it, it winks out of existence much like the first.
This time, Isra does not have to wait long for another to appear.
A flame illuminates the shadows in the distance, its flames seeming to wave at the unicorn from afar, inviting her closer. Perhaps it is now that she turns away and searches for a lighter part of the forest; or perhaps she lets the lights draw her into its depths, where the trees grow tall and their boughs twist themselves together overhead.
This time when the flame disappears, a trail of them will appear in its stead, hovering and dancing in the air.
Yet every time either horse or dragon approaches one it will die with a laugh, its flames dispersing harmlessly into the forest.
On and on into the forest they go, a seemingly endless trail.
Until the path they follow diverges into two - and down each path leads a trail of flaming orbs. The companions have a choice to make.
An optional mini quest for @isra:
Congratulations! You have rolled a 6 in SWP Act IV, and your character has encountered a Random Event because of it. Any post in this thread grants you and others additional SWP participation.
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In the days following the volcanic eruption and the release of the ivy bridge, the island was swarmed with horses from all walks of life. Each of the four Courts and the outlying Vagabonds came to see the magic and mystery for themselves, whispering amongst themselves of the strangeness of the land.
Some came up with wild claims to explain the sudden appearance of a new land; a few even correctly attributed it to the god of time.
“You there!”
The voice would call the brightly-colored stallion from within the forest, where shadows shrouded the stranger who spoke. Try as Huehuecoyotl might, he will be unable to identify the person who calls out to him.
“Yes, you! Come here!”
Perhaps it is curiosity that will bring him forward, despite knowing he cannot fight what he cannot see. Or perhaps he will ignore the voice completely, and continue on down the beach - but what fun would that be?
If he decides to follow, the voice will lead him on into the forest, until he cannot see the sand or waves behind him. Green foliage will close in all around him, and still the stranger will not show themselves. Occasionally an oddly pale light will flit in the corner of his vision, and mysterious laughter may accompany the movement.
When next the voice speaks, it seems to be coming from all around him.
“Stallion of black and white and green, man with the bright blue eyes, riddle me this, and I will give you a treat.
I can be seen, but not felt,
I can be heard, but not heldt.
Alive without breath,
More active in death,
Congratulations! You have rolled a 6 in SWP Act IV, and your character has encountered a Random Event because of it.
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The days grew longer with each passing sun, as if the island were slowing down time somehow, capturing it and exploiting it within its grasp. Some called it abnormal, the way an hour on the island was longer than an hour on Novus. Others argued it was perfectly natural - for if Tempus had made the island, surely time moved for him and him alone?
But perhaps it was intentional, a ploy to lure the citizens of Novus deeper into the island, inviting them to stay longer. There were secrets to be found here, secrets that seemed to hover just out of reach, like a trail of lights leading unwitting victims to danger. Those who sought them were only ever drawn deeper into the dark forests.
And many would find that, much like the maze from the last relic hunt, there was no easy way out.
As Atreus enters the forest, the light begins to dim all around him, casting the trees into a shadowy twilight. And while the shadows grow longer and deeper, and the light filtering through the canopy overhead grows weaker - a light in the forest begins to glow.
It begins subtly at first, but steadily it grows both in strength and in hue, until a bright blue pulses through the forest like a heartbeat. There’s a song whispering between the rays, a siren call without words that whispers in the recesses of Atreus’ mind. It pulls at his very soul, a silent rope that twines itself about his legs until it seems that he is no longer walking of his own accord, but it’s the light walking for him.
When he gives in and follows, it will take him deeper into the forest; until all he sees is the forest awash in blue, and beyond that blue a world of darkness.
Eventually the path will bring him to a rock wall, the base of a cliff that rises haphazardly into the air. Water spills over its edge, glowing with light and laughter, bluer than the skies on a clear day. The spray that mists over him is surprisingly warm, nearly searing.
And on the ground before him is a large stone bath, where the water collects. Yet even when the basin is full and the water keeps flowing, it does not overflow.
Glimmering at the bottom is something bright, something shiny -
Congratulations! You have rolled a 6 in SWP Act IV, and your character has encountered a Random Event because of it. Any post in this thread grants you and others additional SWP participation.
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He had watched the eruption of the volcano, watched the ash fill the sky and make his breathing difficult. He had watched a bridge appear out of nowhere, a path leading him towards the unknown. What he should have found on the other side of the bridge was a volcanic island newly formed, a place where nothing grew and the footing was treacherous. But after the mysterious ivy that had grown out of nowhere, released upon the world was an island more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
This island was not filled with volcano rock and hardened lava as one might expect. Instead, it had been created with such beauty. The beaches were lined with white sands, unlike the black sands he assumed would be there. Birds flew over the skies and mysterious creatures circled the surrounding seas. Perhaps what was most surprising was the luscious forest that looked so green and alive. It was as if someone with magic as similar as his own had simply created this island by hand. Someone had picked out each and every detail and ensured that it was nothing short of perfect. The handiwork was spectacular and Rhone could only “ooh” and “ah”.
But Rhone did not come here to oogle at the masterpiece that was laid out before him. He had heard the rumors of a relic of Tempus. He had heard others talking about the relic and what it might look like. They claimed it was made of pearls, of gold, of marble. Someone say it was adorned with diamonds and other jewels. And yet, Rhone did not believe that. If the relic was indeed a physical object, he thought it might be plainer…like a simple oil lamp from the stories of Aladdin or the holy grail from the stories of Indiana Jones. Lavish design did not make relics, but the stores and traditions passed along because of them did.
He steps foot just into the forest, unsure of where he is going and what he is looking for. He takes comfort in knowing that his god is watching over him, making sure his steps are fruitful. He may not be the one who finds the relic, but he will have an adventure to talk about come tomorrow. And just as he takes another step forward, a twig snaps behind him and he turns to see who has approached. "Have you come in search of the relic too?" He has always been a friendly soul, someone who prefers the company of others. While he might not feel worthy enough to be in the presence of another, he will not let that show. "You are welcome to join me." And he offers the stranger a smile, a sweet invitation to spend the afternoon with him. After all, if anything, they would have some good company.
ooc: For anyone who wants to accompany Rhone on a journey <3
If he weren’t on a mission, Septimus would have likely spent hours mulling over each individual leaf, patch of moss, and unnatural insect that he encountered in the stretch of woodland that coated the center of the island. Before the eruption, when he had seen it from shore – for he could only assume that this was the volcanic island – Septimus had never noticed a forest. He assumed that, like the ivy, it was the creation of some sort of strange magic, divine or otherwise. (Novus’s native population certainly seemed to think that it was divine.) That assumption made him feel a bit better about the way that he drifted past so many fascinating specimens, rather than pausing for a while to examine them, even sketch them in his notebooks (which were, of course, neatly tucked in his satchel, below his wing).
He had something even more fascinating to find, though no less magical. The relic of the time god, the natives claimed. They called him Tempus. There had been other time gods, in other lands, though not by the same name; he wondered if they were all aspects of the same god, fractured like light through a prism to shine differently on each nation, or if they, like worlds in of themselves, each had a time god all their own. (Of course, that does not mean that he believes in those other gods – or this one. Yet. Not until he has seen him with his own eyes.)
(He could almost laugh at his own presumptuousness. Until. As though anything was certain, in a land like this. But Septimus knows the importance of confidence, in any exploratory venture; if he does not believe that he will find the god, the god will certainly not show himself.)
But what he is looking for is not quite god, unless god will give his magic back to him. What Septimus is looking for is the relic of the god. He struggles to imagine it; there were plenty of items of pure magic, back in the forest he used to call him, but a divine relic seems like it should be something else entirely. Timeless, and beautiful, or maybe terrible. All he knows is that it has time magic, of some sort, and, well, if he can’t get his own magic back…
It might be able to help him return home, if nothing else.
Night has fallen, and he has to take care not to trip over gnarled roots and misplaced stones. The forest is quiet, now; occasionally, he hears the call of something like a nightjar in the distance, though he knows in some intimate, vague way that the creature making the sound is no nightjar. If he were more skittish, or less accustomed to the wilderness, he might be disquieted by the rustles in the thick underbrush, here and there, which break the silence with all the force of gunshots. However, whatever might be lurking in the dark will not go after him if he is unafraid, not with those sharp antlers and even sharper teeth -
He is not such an easy target.
Grey-green moss hangs in curtains from the branches ahead of him. He pushes forward, through the veil, and finds himself standing in front of a pool, bordered by smooth, shiny stones. Though deep, the water is tantalizingly clear, and it gives off a turquoise glow that seems to emanate from a stone protruding from the very bottom of the pool. Colorful flowers – an array of violets, pinks, and oranges – sprout amidst the stone border, giving off a sweet scent. Though Septimus is suspicious by nature, while he stands here, surrounded on all sides by trees dripping moss curtains, he cannot help but feel soothed.
The water, he thinks, looks placid (and tempting) enough to swim in, though he does not dip his hoof into the surface yet.
When Anandi’s curiosity of the strange outer island was sated (she explicitly chose not to be interested in the relic everyone spoke of. A treasure hunt just seemed so… sophomoric) she made her way to the mainland. She was eager to explore further, to learn more, to fit together the pieces of this place so that it would begin to make more sense. Once she got her bearings, the real work would begin: finding a suitable husband for her sister.
Of course, she had learned the basics of this land before she left home. Her clan was well educated and well informed, and proud of it. They sent scouts to keep track of current events on sea and the surface. It was a matter of self preservation as well as plain curiosity– her people loved to gossip. Scouting was hard and dangerous work (Mínn kelpie meat was considered a delicacy in the shallow seas) but if Anandi was not royalty, it would certainly be her first pick of jobs. Instead she had a much more complicated responsibility. Only the most discerning of her clan was trusted to select a land horse to turn. It was not a thing that could be done willy-nilly on a whim– and oh, there would be many whims in the journey ahead. Turning was an unpleasant process, and of the turner it required a certain ingrained grace that only a princess would have. Not only that, the man she turned would be her future king and the keystone to the survival of her kind.
It was no small task, so she took her time with it. She was not inherently patient but she was cautious, very cautious. It took many days of surveying the coastline, occasionally asking for directions and waypoints, before she found herself near where the Dusk court was supposed to be. As she draws closer to land she spots a woman with wings on the cliffside. Anandi can see the way her feathers shift in the wind and she wonders what they would feel like in her mouth, what they would taste like, what kind of crunching sound would they make when she clamped her teeth down.
How enticing.
She lifts her head above the water and smiles sweetly at the stranger. “Hello! Do they call you sky horse?” she calls up the cliff, jade-green eyes sharp with curiosity. They called her water horse, usually with a tone of awe, fear, and superiority. Something about that name got beneath her smooth-slippery skin. It rankled her, sometimes, to be treated without the respect she had become accustomed to. The respect she deserved.
“You’re very beautiful,” she adds with a catlike smile and the flutter of lashes. “Dusk court is close to here, isn’t it? I would so very much like to see it for myself some day,” she sighs longingly and averts her gaze shyly, in a way that suggests if only there were someone kind enough to show me…
When Anandi’s curiosity of the strange outer island was sated (she explicitly chose not to be interested in the relic everyone spoke of. A treasure hunt just seemed so… sophomoric) she made her way to the mainland. She was eager to explore further, to learn more, to fit together the pieces of this place so that it would begin to make more sense. Once she got her bearings, the real work would begin: finding a suitable husband for her sister.
