“Hli sisi,” he mutters under his breath, squinting up at the wide, blue, springtime sky. Not a cloud in sight; its calm, vaulted infiniteness it overwhelming; feeling crushed by the weight of the world’s open mouth, he turns his eyes to the horizon-eating stretch of long, seeding grass. But why? Why would he be here again? It makes no sense, except that he knew it, this land and where it was, and just as his cunicular heart yearns to run from things that get tough and eldritch—(and snow in a hot desert qualifies as such, thank you)—so does it yearn for a hide it knows the tunnels and nooks of. And while things had gotten weird here, weird enough for Max to have taken off under cover of night, as if anyone would be any the wiser to his disappearance in Solterra, it had been much, much worse in Sovereign.
Much worse.
He shivers, reliving the slow creep of the darkness and… well—he hadn’t stayed there long either. Max is a wild, wanderling, cunicular soul. An endless wellspring of fear and curiosity, duelling on battlefields of strange lands and homes away from ho—no, no he hasn’t had a home in a very long time. A fresh bed of straw in yet another inn doesn’t count, no matter the maids he manages to share it with. No matter the days he spends soiling it, running undignified hustles on the street to pay for just one more sleep on something civilized and familiar. Just one more. No, home is a concept long since relegated to fitful, shiftless sleep, phantoms and shrouded memories. Home is gone now. He is here.
He presses on, in an aimless sort of way.
At first, he had, himself oriented towards the south, wondering with every step why he would ever choose to go back there, of all places. Perhaps, because he knew it best, by the cobbled sandstone and flickering, sun-sigil banners. Somehow, he had felt an initial migratory call to it, like he owed it something primal. An animal pact to serve a duty—which is crazy, really, because he’d never be in this mess if he embraced duty to begin with, and not misfit, creature trickery…
Very soon it had dawned on him that those ill-placed feelings—debts; he owes but one to a haggardly old sorcerer, and he’s probably dead, rodents tend not to love too long; duty—were just that, and with a small turn of his body, he was wandering again, across an ocean of belly-tickling grass, still lying prostrate, here and there, from the heavy weight of snow for so long. Small clutches of blooming flowers give bright colour to the drab brown-green of a world just awakening.
The world is so big. Everything is so big and Charlie is small. How is she ever going to explore all of it? To be great and strong like the pirates in her favorite stories. Oh, if she is the ship then the world is her ocean (real ocean, too, of course). She is going to sail it all, find all the new and exciting things that there is to find.
Her and her best-mate, Indy.
Charlie sneaks down the streets, bumpy and hard beneath her skittering hooves, with Indy sitting just between her shoulders. "Where we going?" the young osprey asks, tugging on a bit of Charlie's mane. "Dunno, s'mewhere fun," the filly answers, but her vermilion eyes are sharp and focused.
The pair make it to the ocean without getting caught, and that makes Charlie more bold. She slides to a stop in the sand and looks out over the water and her eyes squint in the sun. That's when she sees the bridge, just sitting there, calling to her. "Look, Indy, there!"
Her bondmate peers around the side of Charlie's head and spots the bridge, ruffling her feathers. "Okay, we go, but be careful. And don' drop me!"
Charlie's brow draws down and she blows at her forelock that is sticking across her head. "I won't, promise," and begins to make her way toward it. Further and further the pair walk, to the bridge and beyond. Neither considers the distance, or the danger. Charlie is too brave for silly things like that.
So they walk, and explore, and discover. And they never find the wall of ivy that stopped so many from going all the way. No, eventually the bridge ends on a beach, with sand as pale as her momma or as Indy's belly and lots of strange little birds that don't look quite like birds.
Charlie springs toward one, stopping a foot or so away and says with a cock of her head, "What're you?" The bird flaps its wings and hops a few steps away. The filly extends her own wings, not yet strong enough to hold her, and flaps them, too. As if to say "I'm a weird bird too, be my friend."
The bird doesn't seem to care.
Bored, Charlie turns away and looks back toward the world itself. "I dunno where we are, Indy." Indy, sick of not being able to see scrabbles her way to the top of Charlie's head and rests on her poll. "We here, go further, then. We can find out."
Open to whoever wants to corral this child who probably doesn't belong here
As the sun is rising in the sky, the beach seems to be stirring.
Strange blue crabs scuttle from the sand to the ocean, other crustaceans burrowing into hiding. It’s as if they’re fleeing from the light, as if the sun on this island will burn anything caught within its rays.
But the waves are ever-moving, reaching farther and farther along the beach. They push and they pull, gently at first, and then with increasingly force. Just as one wave recedes another is ready to replace it with increasingly ferocity, sending foam and salt spray into the air.
And then, suddenly, the ocean draws away, leaving the beach sparkling and damp. All that's left is a glimmering stone where the water once raged, as big as your hoof, spherical and white.
Is it a strange pearl... or an egg?
To participate: Only two (2) people may reply to this thread! The first character to reply will earn a free Enchanted Accessory! Its appearance is predetermined and will be revealed in the next RE reply (you get to determine the enchantment!). The second character to reply will earn 200 signos.
This thread will be monitored; depending on the responses, more RE’s may be posted to help aid the thread along! Feel free to interpret this prompt however you’d like, or message @sid for guidance.
Enjoy!
PS - Didn’t get to reply to this one fast enough? That’s okay! Start a new thread on the island and it will automatically be eligible for a similar RE encounter. c:
Sometimes the snow fell in a way that made it seem like time had stopped. Disappointment and anxiety and fear would fold graciously beneath thick layers of glittering white. Stillness and silence would wrap everything up in a gentle embrace and the whole world would be transformed into something pristine and untouched. When the snow fell like that, we all felt just a little more like children, like we were standing at the start of something new and not halfway to the end of it. When the snow fell like that, you could almost forget how the anticipation of war was stiffening the bones of the nation.
But this is not that kind of snowfall.
It begins with a strong, cold breeze that promises there is more, as it tugs on manes and tails, there is more to come, as it rushes from the mountain to the sea. At its insistence, many of the horses in the field wisely begin to head toward shelter. When the snow starts it drifts down light and delicate. Peaceful. It does not stay that way. It thickens, minute by minute, and the wind rises in great gusts that send the snow sideways. Daylight is soon smothered by thick, angry clouds that turn the landscape into a world of grey twilight. It is quickly clear that this is a beast of a storm. It howls and screams as it whips across the land. The cold has teeth, and it bites at anything warm within its reach.
Four great fires are lit on the ramparts of the capital, fortified by magic so that they burn brightly despite the cold and the wind. Regardless, the snow falls so thickly they are near impossible to see by anyone who is not already close to the court.
Where snow does not fall, fear does. In the court, the citizens of Denocte huddle together, safe behind walls of stone and glass-- but they do not feel safe. The great fireplace burns warm and bright-- but they do not feel warm. The wind scratches at the windows and the people shudder at the sound. An uncomfortable quiet fills the room. Most are just standing there, fidgeting in white-eyed, nervous silence. Someone quietly begins to pray. Everyone anxiously wonders the same thing-- did everyone make it to safety?
@Antiope seems to have a knack for being caught in snowstorms! For the second time, is she ready? Her axe may not be enough this time…
(This is an Active Magic quest!)
Antiope is caught in the storm, alone and disoriented. As the wind and cold suck the energy from her body, as the day turns darker and darker, she must find a new way home. Feel free to write NPC’s into this quest!
Thread requirements: 1 reply, 500 words. Please tag the RE account in your reply.
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may post to claim the quest EXP
It is late evening in Solterra and almost disgustingly hot – although winter has come rolling in, ambling and stormy, this evening is warm and humid enough to feel sticky, the air hanging heavy with the promise of a distant storm. Nevertheless, out on the Mors, dusk is beautiful. Rolling golden dunes stretch out as far as the eye can see, dark as honey now that the sun is low in the sky; when the light hits the sand, it sparkles as though there are chips of diamond embedded in the crest of each dune. The western sky is ablaze with passionate orange and sweeps of red, and, like a watercolor painting, it dies to a lush, royal violet as it creeps west. Small creatures are just beginning to come alive in the sands, little foxes with ears far too big for their heads, locusts, and serpents with sharp, sharp fangs. There are other things, too, distant dangers: the howl of jackals echoing from afar, the dark, swooping shape of a teryr on the horizon, a shifting of sands that implies a sandwyrm. It is almost ironic that the dunes are so alive when night falls and so quiet during the day.
In the Mors, the sands are apt to shift. Rarely ever too drastically, which is why they can be navigated, but, on rare occasion, just enough to uncover something interesting. On this particular evening, they have uncovered a short marble base, the face of which is barely visible beneath a fine layer of sand. It looks as though it might have held a statue, at some point in its history, but all that remains of the figure is a pair of hooves, and the worn inscription on the base is in such an ancient dialect that it is likely impossible to translate.
More striking than the yellowed marble, however, is the gemstone embedded amidst the inscriptions, which run circles around it. It gleams brilliant orange, so bright that it practically glows with some internal force – and, when approached, it does begin to give off a dull glow, which spreads to the runes and grows far, far brighter. When examined more closely, the gemstone seems to flicker, as though something is moving around inside of it – but this can so easily be mistaken for a trick of the light.
At first, the dull whispers might be mistaken for the wind across the sands, like a soft, shuddering hiss. Like the bright light of the gemstone, they grow louder and louder when the pillar is approached. It is not one single voice; rather, it is a cacophony of different voices, perhaps from hundreds of different speakers. There seems to be no common thread between the voices – they don’t even speak in the same language.
One thing is clear, among the voices that are comprehensible: they are begging. “Free us,” the voices beseech. “Free us. Please. We have stayed so long in the dark, away from the sun – free us.”
Whatever spirits are inside of the stone seem to be trapped. Perhaps the dead have something to offer to the living – but, with the inscription illegible, it is impossible to know why they have been left to sleep beneath the sands.
Who knows why Teiran was wandering the dunes at dusk - perhaps it is fate, or perhaps it is the lure of magic, of something more calling out to her even without her realizing it. No matter the reason, something about the dunes seems special, exaggerated; as if anticipation has turned the dunes to diamond, as if all the world is pressing against her, urging her on to find the marble statue.
Can she hear the whispers?
Does she know how to free them?
Will she free them? Is the enchantment in her dagger strong enough?
Thread requirements: 1 reply, 500 words. Please tag the RE account in your reply.
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may post to claim the quest EXP
Winter has dug her ice-tipped claws well and truly into the land. The clouds refuse to snow, and as such, the frost refuses to break. The young enchantress tugs her black velvet cloak tighter around her shoulders, arranges her flaxen hair prettily about her neck, and deepens her frown.
If only she could call down the snow, like her mother and her grandmother and even her great-grandmother. If only her mother had not married her brute of a father, whose wicked mortality dulled and sapped at the witch blood coursing like ichor through her veins. There are more ‘“if only”s (there are always more) but she knows if she lists them all she will only frown deeper. Frowning draws wrinkles. Her lips curl back into a flat, even line.
Manon. She mutters the name (prettier than her own) to herself with undue bitterness. She does not know the owner of the name. In fact, the enchantress has not a clue what this Manon looks like, only that her magic will stir when her presence is near. The Book had said that the girl would come today. The Book is never wrong — on the day, that is.
It never predicts the time. The sun is about ready to set, and the enchantress has tended the booth since high noon. Manon has not shown, and the girl’s mood blackens by the hour. If the nobleman had not paid her so handsomely —
A tingle like crawling ants sparks up her spine. The enchantress’ eyes, a translucent sea-foam green, break from the clutches of her scowl to scan the milling crowd eagerly. /She has come! But where is she?/
A girl, with a tumbling silver braid and a crown of twisting thorns, steps out of the shadows of the alley. The tingle grows to a steady hum. The enchantress gasps before drawing her nose out from her furred cloak and whispering shrilly into the frosty air: “Manon!” As an afterthought, she adds: “Miss,” with a sniff.
A slip of paper flits like a butterfly into the air. It flutters across the narrow street to buzz insistent circles above Manon’s head, and without warning, dives into her braid.
When unfurled, three lines are inscribed upon it in neat, swirling calligraphy.
The crown of thorns you wear upon your brow — hand it to the enchantress, and she will enchant it with a spell I believe you will find most agreeable.
A gift to commemorate your return.
At the bottom of the note is a tangle of what look to be glyphs. Only to Manon’s eyes will the glyphs be recognized as code.
Code she used with a certain nobleman. The glyphs rearrange themselves into a name.
Senna.
“A white falcon delivered it to me last evening, along with a purse of gold. An admirer of yours?” the enchantress asks, her voice like sweet honey. Her smile does not reach her eyes. She wonders: and just who are you, Manon?
Fate it would seem has brought @Manon to the markets, or simply someone who knows her well enough to predict her movements. She’ll be wandering the streets when someone she doesn’t know calls her name - an enchantress, managing an empty booth. She calls Manon over, offering a free enchantment for her crown. Only - she doesn’t specify what kind of enchantment she offers. Still, the note is signed by Senna (or at least Senna’s name).
Does she trust it?
Thread requirements: 1 reply, 500 words. Please tag the RE account in your reply.
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may post to claim the quest EXP
He waits throughout the night, his eyes turned ever towards the horizon. The bridge is quiet, save for the murmurs and vibrations of the berries and the crashing of the waves against the stone. Occasionally whispers break out in the darkness, rumors flying back and forth like wildfire in the night, sparking anew with each explosion across the ocean.
Through it all Po is silent.
He hardly dares to breathe, let alone speak; only the beating of his heart and the roaring of his blood adds to the fray. He waits and he watches, with both dread and expectation.
When the sun finally breaks forth through the darkness, nothing has changed. The wall is as indomitable as ever, its ivy impassable, its presence foreboding. He wants to scream, wants to beg to know the purpose - surely there must be one? Surely this can't be it? Why cause all this for nothing?
The water is a roar in the back of his mind, waves spilling over the bridge and showering him with water and salt. It laps at his hooves playfully before slowly receding, dribbling back into the ocean as if inviting him to follow.
But to protect, or to drown him? He can see fins in the waves, bony spines protruding like hardened rainbows each time the water breaks, massive creatures who disturb the water as they swim past. Ipomoea is not afraid of them, although he knows he should be; his magic is a sweet lullaby in his veins, promising him he’s safe (as if safety were anything more than a fallacy), promising him…
He wonders then what he would find, if the waves succeeded and he let them take him.
Was there a hidden castle, where something other than equines reigned supreme over all the other sea creatures? Or would he find only kelp forests and coral reefs, endless mazes to lose himself in? Would he find wonders beyond compare, or only death? He imagined the shoal surrounding him even now would come to his aid, were he in need, but he supposed there was only one way to find out.
The sun rises to his left, feeble rays struggling to break through the clouds as the child of dawn waits upon a bridge blacker than the night before. He lets out a sigh, his breath and body shaking in the wind.
There's nothing for us here, Odet speaks quietly in his mind, plucking at the Appaloosa's mane gently. Let's go and be done with it.
Still, Ipomoea stands there a minute longer, unsure if he should be waiting or fleeing.
But waiting for what, and fleeing from whom? His mind is begging to know the answer, inching ever closer to the wall. Around him all the horses are mingling, their whispers barely louder than the thrumming of the berries - but they fade into the background the closer he steps, until ivy is all he can see. It fills his vision with hues of green, striations swimming across his vision like waves imprinted in the leaves. And when the wind plays across the bridge, it catches the leaves and sets them to dancing, turning them this way and that until they're glistening in the early morning light.
With a frown he reaches out, closer and closer -
No.
He wants to touch the ivy. Surely, if he does, it will tell him something? His magic leaps eagerly in his blood, daring him to take a hold of those berries, to rip them from the wall and hold them close to his own heart, but caution tells him he shouldn't. It's magic that's made this wall, magic that's raised an island in a day, fickle magic from fickle gods. His magic would be useless against their's, even though it begs to try.
Abruptly he pulls away, ears tilting backwards. And then with a shake of his head he turns away, hooves echoing against the dark stone bridge. Even as others arrive and step forward to investigate the wall for themselves, Ipomoea walks against the crowd, against the flow of traffic. It's a long way back to the shore, but he doesn't look back; one step after the other, and he's on his way home.
@LASAIRIAN | "speaks" | notes: sorry for the delay!
It is spring - at last it is spring - and all of Terrastella is shaking off its slumber.
The waking began beneath the bare canopy of Tinea as the ephemerals began to bloom. Rue anemone, trout lily, bloodroot and bluebells; each unfurled from cool, damp ground, brief and lovely, a kiss on the cheek in lieu of a promise. The wind blew warm air in from the sea, and the grasses began to wave green in the meadows, and all the birds were coming home.
Asterion tells himself it is a good time for change. A good time for letting new things be born, and letting die what must. Yet it does not make the walk to the cliffside any easier.
He is too taut with nerves, his heart a white-knuckled fist. Far above him Cirrus is describing lazy circles, a calmer scene than the one he feels a part of; but as he watches her, with first cloud-shadow and then warm sun on his face, he draws in some of her easy peace. There, too, is the sea, and each sigh of a wave upon the beach whispers home.
When he stands before the people at last, the bay is smiling. He wears no crown, no colors of dusk but the ones he was born with; his hair is loose as always, made unruly by the breeze. Perhaps the only thing that marks him as a king pride in his heart as he watches them. The cliffside smells like salt and wildflowers and Asterion marks each face that turns to him now.
“My friends,” he begins. “We have been through so much together. So many things that might have broken us, so many that have left us with scars. It doesn’t matter from where these trials come - other courts, the gods, even ourselves. Each time we stand. Each time we grow.” His voice is not the sea-foam wisp it once was; it is steady as a current, deep but gentle as a brook.
“And we always will, together, no matter what waits for us on the other side of every evening. For years Terrastella has been my home, and it has been my great honor to rule it as best I can. But I think you have long since earned the right to choose your ruler.”
Now he pulls in a deep breath, now his gaze is searching on all of their faces. His belly has become a garden of butterflies, but oh how they buoy him up! Stronger, now, his voice carries over the cliffs, and even the waves are near-silent as the king speaks, a held breath (one that his magic may have had a hand in).
“Terrastellans, it is time to vote. Choose me and I will continue to lead you with what small measure of wisdom and honor I possess - choose another and know I will support you and them, always, whatever comes.”
king of dusk.
to: everyone | ooc: eeyyyyy DEMOCRACY. So here’s how it works (unless it works poorly, and then we will change it!). First, everyone is encouraged to respond! For anyone in a position of power or interested in holding a position of power, this is especially important. Your character can vote for who they would like to lead (king/queen) IC or OOC; if you would like it to be anonymous please send your vote to someone on staff. Voting will be open until 6/14. Whoever has the most votes then will be Dusk’s ruler! (if anyone has been considering a coup, now’s the time haha).
If Asterion is chosen to continue, then he/I will fill the remaining positions before the end of this season - Regent, Emissary, and possibly Champion of Wisdom/any other Champion positions requiring it. If it is someone else, then I will leave that in their hands :)
For days the berries keep beating and throbbing like hearts. The breeze blew through the ivy wall constantly, but soon it started to feel almost hot, like breath from a carnivore’s lungs instead of wind. And still the berries keep beating like hearts.
Lub-DUB, lub-DUB, lub-DUB
They grew louder.
And louder.
And louder.
The horses on the bridge could barely hear their own thoughts above that beating heart. They started to think that they would dream of it, or that their own hearts weren’t even beating their own song anymore, but rather the song of those berries. Some turned away, towards their homes. They vowed that they would stop crossing bridges and dreaming of wonder and strangeness.
The berries kept throbbing, humming, singing.
Lub-DUB, lub-DUB, lub-DUB
Until, with a tremble and a sigh of that hot, smoke-tainted breeze, the heartbeat stopped. The silence felt like a tangible thing, weighted and waiting. For a day it was only silence, only the soft hum of horses too startled to speak loudly. Some horses returned to the bridge, others left because the silence seemed almost oppressive. The night came as normally as it always does, with streaks of dark blue layers one upon another.
The silence remained. Even the constellations seemed still in the quiet, their flickering giving way to steady, constant light.
And when the day came at last, the ivy began to die. It started with the browning of a single leaf - first it loses its luster, its sheen fading as it returns the light it had once stolen from the sun and moon. But soon the sickness spreads like wildfire, as surrounding leaves succumb to their neighbor’s plight. They wither and die and the bystanders can only watch in awe as the incomprehensible wall of ivy begins to fold in upon itself. It is as if time has sped up, but only here, only affecting the wall that separates known from unknown.
The berries split open and it wasn’t red juice that leaked out but pearls. When the first one fell, it made a only a small, discreet splash, sinking quickly beneath the waves, lost forever. Petals tear themselves free from the wall, but not a single horse could remember seeing flowers blooming on that wall of ivy. And soon the air is filled with leaves and petals that rain down upon the earth, berries rupturing to spill their pearls, littering the stone bridge with treasure.
Noontime came and went and the ivy was still dying. Evening came and the ivy was nothing more than an suggestion of something dreamlike, dead and brown and colors that have no name. But as the horses closest to the now revealed end of the bridge lifted their heads, each of them forgot all about any wall of ivy, about the flowers that bloomed from nothing and the pearls that burst forth from berries.
A utopia waits at the end of the bridge. The sand is as white and smooth as any cleanly picked bone, and the waves are rolling over it in frothy curls of seafoam. Birds are flitting through massive palm trees, but they do not look like any birds of Novus. Some are as brightly feathered as the sun and when they fly, fire and smoke trails in their wake. A sand-piper is waiting, peering strangely at the horses on the bridge. But something about him is not quite right, for his eyes are bits of sodalite swiveling in his head. Another bird joins him and this one has tines of bone curling up from his head like a halo, and from the tines heliotrope blooms. They sing and harpsichord music pours out from their throats.
Further into the island the trees are fat with fruit. There is a pool of clear-water that tastes almost sweet on the tongue instead of cool. Flowers bloom dark black in the sunlight and the sun shines on the metallic center of them. For some the flowers might look like constellations, for others they might seem nothing more than an omen of destruction.
But the island does not care what the horses think. It cares only for the birds that are not from this mortal realm, and the strange wildcats that are calling from the canopy of tropical trees. The sun sets on the island, and yet at the center that sweet water is still shining like it’s swallowed the sun.
Even in the night the island begged to be explored.
How to Participate!
Who was the first to cross the island? No one seems to know, for many had given up waiting and gone home by the time the ivy began to wilt. But when you brave the bridge once more, crossing over scattered pearls and dried up leaves, the way before you clear at last, it doesn't matter. Nothing could have prepared you for the land you cross into.
It's as if the island is separate from Novus, not only by distance but also in some ethereal, otherworldly manner. Even things that ought to be familiar are not; the white beach is glistening like a jewel, the waves carry an exaggerated vibrancy, on and on. The animals are foreign to you, the plants seem just as likely to bear fruit as poison, and you can nearly cut the magic in the air with a knife. And yet something draws you in deeper, some invisible force that seems to tug you to the heart of the island, stirring your blood until it roars in your ears -
- and then abruptly falls silent. The world is your's to explore.
The island is officially open for your characters to explore! You can post as many threads as you'd like in the new board, Bridge to Nowhere. Threads taking place on the island also have an increased chance of encountering a Random Event. If you have any questions message @sid or @nestle for info!
One more note... In a few days a mini IC event will be posted! We'll be bringing back a familiar item that disappeared from the game a while back, which will give your character an opportunity to go on a daring, possibly dangerous adventure. Keep your eyes peeled!
Each character may reply to this post only one time. Rolls will be done and a staff edit will be posted at the end of each reply with Random Event results. You are more than welcome, and encouraged, to branch off into individual threads to interact with other characters. You may respond to the characters before you or your reply could be set at a different moment in time (this is totally up to you). This event will last for several days IC time.
If you reply to this thread, it gives you +1 post in an SWP.
All replies after June 14th, 2019 will not be considered for a RE roll.
he disappeared without a word but the next night a coyote was heard
T
he more he thought of it, when they had asked him his skillset, he ought to have said booze.
Really. There was too much work to this soldiering. Tucson didn’t know war. Tucson knew the west, and that was the thing about the west. There weren’t no war. There was just full-blown anarchy. He’d heard plenty about petty turf wars and gang wars and cowhands going rogue, but that was just bound to happen back in the west.
He knew bounties and chaos and the anarchy of a land to large for law. But what he didn’t understand was how every goddamn equine in Dusk was talking about the end of the world that, and the end of the world this. A volcano! and a scary magic bridge! If they weren’t talking about that, they were talking about something to do with the Night Court Queen—was she a Queen? A Lady? Or just a damn governor?—and then there was that bastard… what was his name? Tucson couldn’t quite remember, but he knew he was apparently a bad man in the desert scaring people with a giant snake.
Quite frankly, Tucson didn’t understand any of it. And the soldiering was more work than he had bargained for. Get up at this time, go out on this patrol, practice sparring so-and-so. Tucson knew how to fight. Why did he need to practice? Clearly, there was no one endangering a the big empty field he was currently walking and, besides, what was out here for them to threaten? He found his mind wandering, again, from the task at hand.
Then there was the magic. The volcano. The strange bridge to the middle of the sea. The trick to avoiding magic? Tucson thought it was simple. Just don’t believe in the damn stuff, and if it was happening, well. It must just be an act of god or… gods. But he had tried to say that in the bar the other night, and the response was less than welcoming. So, since then, he had refrained.
Really, Tucson had been on his best behaviour. But somehow it hadn’t won him many friends, and he begun to feel somewhat alienated. He was longing for home, even, and home wasn’t even a place so much as a feeling. It was worn leather and sun, the threat of rattlesnakes, the sound of coyotes at night, and Shane’s tobacco. It was seeing a horizon that never ended…
While patrolling Susurro Fields, he could feel just a glimmer of familiarity… It looked this way, he guessed, on the rare occasion that it rained. Far ahead of him he spotted a large herd of deer, grazing in the twilight. The nostalgia had gotten to him. Without much hesitation, Tucson began to imitate the high-pitched, rising yip-yip-yip-yowwwlll of a coyote. The deer glanced up, briefly disturbed, and Tucson repeated the sound with more emphasis, more volume. A younger deer broke from the herd hesitantly, and then slowed. After several long moments, they resumed eating.
And after several more moments, a coyote answered him. Tucson’s ears pricked and before he could help himself, he smiled. However, it soon faded, and he began to contemplate the pros of being a bartender rather than a Dusk Court soldier.
Open for anyone! | "speaks" | notes: somebody please come play with my cowboy bab <3
