I WANTED THEM TO LISTEN TO THE WOUND,
HEAR WHAT IT SPOKE
UNDERNEATH
The air is still but full of lazy tension, the way a peach sits in the sun and fills with rot, waiting for the slightest bit of pressure-- a breeze or a gentle touch-- to explode.
The air is quiet but not silent. (But then there is no such thing as silence anymore, not with your blood blood always beat beating in your ears, not with all those creaky doors that line the inside of your skull. Not with the sound of yearning whimpering hungrily, doglike, into the void, craving salt water and flesh and the primordial soup that binds you and the word you use- love- even in the place where words fail) There are few guards today, and the heat has made them lazy. They don't walk around on patrol, or do much of anything at all other than stand there in the shade of the palm trees, eyelids heavy.
Eik has been coming here for several days and nights now, lingering far enough away that it takes almost no effort to deflect any attention on himself with just a twist of his magic. He quickly learned that the day shifts are much smaller than the night. Perhaps they thought no one would be foolish enough to attempt a theft in broad daylight. And under different circumstances, this would probably be true. But the weight of the regime has driven many to desperation, and there are few differences between a desperate man and a fool.
The grey spreads his magic out like a blanket over the oasis. He probes at the minds of the dozing guards, and has a fairly precise understanding of where exactly each of them stands. There is another quietly approaching-- Eik turns to face the stranger with ears pressed to his skull.
If he is surprised by who he sees, it does not register on his face. His ears still twist back uncertainly, but they are no longer flattened. "Mathias." Eik's only encounters with the other stallion had been at the time of the blizzard, and those encounters had not left the best impression. He had not even thought of the man since Seraphina's death, although to be fair there were many he did not think of. Grief and anger did not leave much room for consideration.
Two water pouches (empty) are slung across his back-- his intent here is not exactly a mystery. The former emissary tenses, ready to spring and silence the other man if he makes any motion to summon the guards. Hunger has carved away at his body and thirst lends a dull sheen to his eyes, but there is still strength in the muscle that remains and the bones so carefully built for war. He could hurt, if he needed to.
The massive stallion had been in Novus for a week now and had been fairly reluctant to explore. This land was so vastly different from the one that he had grown up in and it was a touch intimidating at this point. Though, he was large, muscular, and ready for just about anything, he was still anxious about what life would be like here.
For he had decided to stay, at least for now. It was nice to sit and relax, not travel and try to decide on a stopping place for the night. He still didnt feel that he belonged anywhere yet, though he had taken the plunge and aligned himself with the Dawn Court and hoped to flourish as a merchant in the world.
"But where to start... This world is so strange, filled with so many unique and intriguing creatures." He murmured to himself as he approached an oasis. A pang echoed through him. The ebony and sunlight behemoth was thirsty from his wanders and the scent of the water was like a leash, pulling him forward.
Stepping forward toward the pool, he snorted, listening to the heat from his hooves as it sizzled the moisture around them. Winter was the time when his hooves didnt seem to bring as much notice and he enjoyed the momentary feel of being just like every other horse for a moment... Or at least closer.
Sol dipped his head to the surface and took several long draws. Lifting his heavy head, he gazed around while he stretched his wings and allowed the warm sun to beat upon both sets. It was a moment of peace that he had been taught to be wary of, a time when his wings could be injured by another equine if they decided to attack while they were out and stretched.
After a few moments, he tucked them in, first the rear set and then the fore set. When they were against his body, he shook his entire frame and settled back on his golden hooves to watch the world around him for a bit.
He is slat-sided and sharp angles when he makes his slow way out from the blind canyon that he has made his home in, his once-strong hooves cracked and dirty, his mane a tangled snarl along the thin line of his neck -- his stomach is a beast that howls against the conditions of the canyon, that growls and gurgles its emptiness to the world, and he has grown used to ignoring the sounds. His movements are mechanical, a force of habit more than any driving decision -- he swings into a lethargic trot in the general direction of the Court, through the winding canyons and tunnels that make up the Elatus, searching out a plateau he has not grazed bare since the winter started and Raum had sealed up the supplies of the court in the Oasis.
Even in starvation, his pride will not waver -- he will not beg on bended knee to be fed.
He will survive, or he will die.
Above him, the vulture cackles -- it is fat and wanting, indolent in how it lounges around his canyon always just out of reach, soaring on the thermals above him and waiting for him to collapse so that it can feast. It has been showing up more often, now, perching on cacti and hovering above his head, beady eyes trained on him, and all that he can do is grit his teeth in stubborn resolve and press forward.
He will not give it the satisfaction, either.
When he turns a sharp corner and finds himself face-to-face with a ghost of his past, though, something inside his chest cracks and howls, his lip curling up and exposing his teeth in a snarl. “Jetsam fucking Volta,” rolls off his tongue with all the venom of a striking snake, and oh -- oh, he knows it is only his traitorous mind, and his aching heart, and his starving stomach,but he aches for the apparition to be real even when he knows it will not be.
“You’re not real,” He declares, finally, after a long moment of silence in which he stares down the ghost, and he is sane enough to realize that he is slipping into insanity, if he is hallucinating Sam now -- Sam, who had left him years ago, who left wounds on his heart that still festered there, who is standing before him as though all those years have been only minutes.
Business brings me back to Denocte unexpectedly, though I cannot stay long. The Solterran court is too busy stirring itself into a blood frenzy for me to leave it with any peace of mind.
By midmorning, my caravan should be well through the Arma Pass. I have much to discuss with you, old friend. I hope you will spare me an afternoon.
I will await you in the Room on the lowermost floor, at the very end of the hall. I'm sure you know the one — it conceals the passage leading down to the Denoctian catacombs, and out of the kingdom entirely.
don't you think that I'm bound to react now my fingers definitely turning to black now
♠︎
The letter was brief, and the calligraphy just a bit scrawling, but it would have to do. The sun was beginning to gild the domed ceiling of the tower in hues of orange dusk. It would be nightfall soon, and his caravan was waiting below.
Time was, as always, the enemy.
The seconds ticked slowly by as Senna waited for the ink to soak completely into the thick parchment. When his quill came away dry, he rolled the letter into a tight spiral and, from the cushioned depths of a carved wooden box, drew out a heavy silver ring, dabbed a bit of flame-melted wax to the spiral's lip, and pressed the ring's emblazoned surface into the cooling golden seal.
"Your leg, Nestor." A white falcon perched by the open window turned her pale beak towards him witheringly, before returning to her keen survey of the rippled sands below for signs of desert mice. Barely more than appetizers, really, but they entertained her well enough.
Why don't you summon for a tasty little messenger dove to do it? Her black-void eyes narrowed at the shifting of sand five stories below, but it was just the shadow of a passing guard.
"Vikander will feed you." At the mention of a familiar name, Nestor finally tore her piercing gaze away from the sands and settled it darkly upon the stallion's gold-accented brow. After a moment of stony silence, she extended a yellow talon roughly out.
Am I a pet to be fed? Her voice resounded through his mind with a harsh grating of affront. I will hunt on my way to him. Senna stifled a sigh. The falcon was in a mood, today.
He tied the letter to her leg with red string, knotting it three times for security. At the breakneck pace Nestor flew, a flimsy knot meant a lost letter and a wasted effort. "Wasted" was not a word the Hajakhan noble liked to hear, much less utter by his own lips.
"Do be a bit more delightful to the warlock, will you?" he said, stepping back as Nestor began to beat her grey-mottled wings. The gust she generated blew sheafs of parchment off the desk, and strands of his hair about his eyes.
The white falcon released a piercing shriek before lifting off. But we are never delightful, was Nestor's smug reply, before she tucked in her wings and plunged into the night.
Crimson eyes followed her descent, until she was swallowed by the dark. When the falcon alighted seconds later with a twitching mouse tail trailing from her beak, the nobleman's humorless lips winged just a touch upwards.
---
Senna's hooves echoed gravely down the damp, stone-walled corridor.
The torch hovering by his shoulder wavered when he sidestepped a puddle of what he hoped to be water (the catacombs had not been used in decades — he doubted that many Denoctians knew of its existence) and, frowning into the gloomy dark, he turned quickly down one labyrinthine fork after the next.
To his utter irritation, his caravan had been stopped at the queen's gates (though she was missing, was she not?) to be searched. The soldiers had ushered him along with muffled apologies after he'd drawn out papers stamped with the dragon emblem of a prominent Denoctian noble house — he had procured it years ago off the black market, and it had proven to be a noble investment — yet still, he had been delayed, and the last rays of afternoon were giving way to the lavender haze of Denocte's wine-and-woodsmoke nights.
He paused when he reached it at last. A door with a scarab beetle painted into the softening wood, the hinges near rusted off, loomed ominously in front of him. Carefully, to extend the life of the hinges, he eased the door slowly open and stepped inside.
A fraying, moth-eaten carpet cushioned his footfalls. This far down, where the twisting hall of Rooms rarely hosted anything alive, he had not deemed it necessary to waste gold on luxurious decoration.
Senna's eyes strained to adjust to the darkness. The shadows writhed away from his torchlight when it fell upon them like a blood-starved leech.
"Vikander. I hope I have not made you wait."
@Vikander | "senna" nestor | it's a senna! and a (grumpy) nestor!
The library was quiet. But not in the way Ipomoea was used to.
It was as if the building were holding its breath, as if it had not taken a proper breath in years. It made him all but agraid to breathe himself, lest he disturb some great and slumbering giant. There’s an imagined danger in the air, like he’s standing in a church that’s lost all pretense of holiness.
He feels half a ghost, slipping between rows of crumbling bookshelves as dust motes swim in his wake. All around him he can hear the papery whisper of pages turning, the scrape of a book being pulled free from a shelf, the creak of a loose floorboard as someone stepped upon it. Each sound was painfully loud, silence stretching between each disturbance.
The library is willing itself away, he can’t help but think. If he blinked it might vanish forever, a pocket of space folding upon itself and collapsing into obscurity, like a book who’s main character wants only to disappear from their own story.
He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised - there were not many scholarly Denoctians, at least from those he had met thus far. It was part of why he was drawn to the southern court to begin with: their passion for life, their willingness to not just read about something, but to go see it for themselves, to take life by its horns and wrangle with the gods themselves.
He has a lot to learn from them, he knows, he knows. It was why he was here in the first place, to join in their crusade, their war, their life. Ipomoea had always been called to their fast-paced frenzy, their bonfire smoke filling his soul and his heart dancing in time with their music. It was such a stark contrast to his own life, back in Delumine, and a highly intoxicating one. Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure he ever wanted to leave.
Perhaps he could bring a piece of Denocte home with him; he would certainly try, after all. Their passion and community, even if only a small sliver of it, would breathe fresh life into the dusty halls of his Court.
But for now he wanders the library corridors, few that they may be in comparison to the Dawn Court library. His eyes rove over countless titles, pausing every few steps to brush a speck of dirt almost lovingly from another cover.
So it was with surprise that he turned a corner to see an antlered man - with all manner of jewels and trinkets hanging from each tine - browsing the shelves similar.
“Oh, hello,” his voice breaks the silence, and it feels wrong amidst the hush of the room.
And then, because he can’t bear to let them lapse back into silence, lest that silence go on indefinitely, “It's been so quiet in here, I thought I was alone.” But his laugh hints that he doesn't mind the company, not in the slightest.
we are here
to laugh
at the odds
and live our lives
so well
that
death will tremble
to take us
@Septimus ! fast post to get us started
hope this is alright <3
”here am i!“
Sol was a dark spot on the peaceful meadow, his golden accents gleaming against his ebony coat. Golden eyes slid across the peaceful terrain as he stretched his two sets of wings and tucked them back in. Shaking his head, he strode forward, part of him searching for anyone in this new realm that would explain what was going on and where he had ended up. He had been struggling with the chaos of his past for the last few months, regretting things that he had done and not paying any attention to where he was going. This was the first time that he had taken the time to even try to figure where he was at.
Night dark ears flicked to try to catch any sounds that might catch attention, attempting to hear hoof steps or breathing. Silence greeted his senses and he flicked his tail against the snow covered land to make sure that he hadnt gone deaf. Pawing at the crust of snow, he dipped his head to take a few quick mouthfuls of the grass underneath. Where he stood, there was the slight sound of sizzling, reactions from his hooves meeting the snow. There were no dark spots where his hooves had lit the ground, rather puddles of water that were trying to begin to freeze along the edges.
the most dangerous woman of all is the one who refuses to rely on your sword because she carries her own
The slopes and woods that lay faithful in the day are darkly ominous by nightfall. The routes that were dappled with dashes of sunlight were wholly obscure now. The silvery luminescence of the moon granted no relief, its sugary light not even a trickle now, as Maerys's lanterns conform to the abrupt and absolute lack of light. The squinting of her mauve orbs did nothing to focus the gloomy and uncertain path ahead.
The darkness drew closer to her every instant, pressing down on her haunches and spine and then she knew suffocation of the senses was just as prominent a menace as the latching and squeezing of her trachea. Her cerebrum swirled from the smog of her thoughts, the smoldering embers of an era where there had been other presences with her and around her, the proximity of those she cherished and attended for intensely and entirely. The umbrae eddied about her slender silhouette, tendrils of ink; bleak warnings of her seclusion.
The trees that were luminous in the sunbeams rose over the mare's back threateningly now and the dense bark of their trunks extended no shield from the icy breeze that proceeded to ripple around her. The only din in her hammers was the syrupy sound of white noise which helped little to alleviate the stillness. The silence had the tranquility of a necropolis.
Though the forest was dark and foreboding, there was a sense of harmony and unity in its sullen ambiance.
Her gaze flicked to the tree before her, the dark body expanding upwards into leafless boughs that interlocked with its neighbor's like the arms of well-acquainted compatriots. Though the trunks were densely packed, there was sufficient space that would permit someone to maneuver through the gaps where the trees neglected to defend. Her tapered snout reached for the unpolished base of the tree, her velvet flesh grazing the tree with a fragile mellowness. The forest still emanated must from springtimes past, noting to those who progressed that rain had once been here and would come again. It was the reek of life. The forest teemed with it.
As she digressed through the thick masses of foliage, blundering on rootstocks and collapsed limbs, the crisp raw soil underfoot, the raven heaven heeded her diligently from overhead (the shaded seraph of this Delumine forest).
The sky continued to darken as Hell descended upon the mortal realm.
The gates that guarded the paths of the dead, the stoic watchers that kept the spirits of the lost confined to their place beneath the earth; it was as if they had been breached. As the burning blackness filled the atmosphere, Llewelyn envisioned ghosts screeching and clawing their way forth, spilling out into the world that they had been denied. Envious and enraged, they would encroach upon the living planet, ripping asunder the fragile balance that governed the universe.
And she was powerless to stop it.
How wretched and weak she must have looked then, a defenseless maiden, eyes wide and fearful. She was a pantomime of a woman clutching her pearls in horror and in awe at the wrath of some unknown god. Immobilized and silent, the courtier distantly felt some part of her rail against the rigidity of her form, at the lack of fight within her breath. You will die here, mourned that piece of her heart, the rebellious shadow of her youth, You will die without a whisper, cowardice and failure gracing the steps you didn’t take.
Llewelyn found that she did not - could not - argue with herself in that. The crowned femme was faced with the reality of her mortality, the truth of her own fragility; there would be no waspish quip, no backhanded compliment that could defeat the roaring cloud of death that was roiling it’s way toward her stillness. Even her own whispering jewels, their blood red hue more an omen now than a decoration, had gone silent before their imminent destruction.
And yet...
A mare dressed in quicksilver and regal bearing filled Llewelyn’s view, the stranger’s mercury eyes filled with mourning and purpose. She ordered the Lady to move, her voice rough, and the muscled shoulder that jostled against her own was rougher still. It was the contact, however, that broke Llewelyn’s trance. Wordlessly, she nodded at the newcomer, some portion of her awareness noticing the sand and sweat smell of the woman, the trail-hardened look of her. Had she any other choice, the maiden may have second guessed the decision to run alongside the silver traveler; but the world was ending and etiquette stood low on the courtier’s list of priorities.
So she followed the stranger, emerald cloak streaming from her thin shoulders like a flag. How far would they have to run? Would Delumine evacuate? Where would they even go? Llewelyn didn’t know of any navy established by either of the four kingdoms, and she doubted that the gods would have much to do with any sort of escape efforts - they were Novus’ deities, would they even have their godlike status outside of their borders?
Would they risk losing the entire population to keep their power in the eyes of mortals?
The pair continued to run; North, then Northwest, and the shadow of the Viride Forest loomed before them in the near distance. Llewelyn wondered what sort of shelter could be found there, or if the embers that rained from the heavens would simply ignite the forest and send the two mares plummeting into a burning fate.
“When do we stop?” She huffed, feeling herself begin to flag in the face of the other mare’s stamina, “What’s happening?” Her thoughts drifted to Mateo, to her best friend and that brilliant smile of his. What would she do if he had been harmed? Who would keep her steady? Who would she even be without his mischief and laughter?
When she had woke that day, fear had been somewhat of a commodity, something to toy with and tease at; something she had never truly experienced. Now, as she galloped alongside a stranger, her pristine hooves and legs dulled and darkened by muddy snow, her every moment was defined by fear. Her impression of the world had changed, that meticulously adjusted reality that Llewelyn had built around herself was quaking, tiny splinters forming at the edges and threatening to shatter completely.
is this a natural feeling or is it just me bleeding?
Taking this journey did not negate his feelings about the library. Lasairian still felt the same way about that, most certainly, but he had realized a few flaws about the stubbornness of the situation. Stubbornness was not meant for situations like this. Maybe there was something in the fact that the higher the place, the better to be heard. Lasairian didn't need much more than he had, that wasn't why he was doing this. Yet he did want to do it properly, and that was what urged him on. Perhaps this was the will of the deity, and how could Lasairian argue with that if it were true?
So he wasn't going to. He did not change his own beliefs on wanting a library room for an alter by any means, but he did not want it to be thought that he was lazy to not make the trip up the peaks. That wasn't what this was about either. No, Lasairian felt that it was right in the library where he could feel the difference in the air. As if there was divinity there already, anyway. Oriens had made the library, so it made sense from that standpoint too. Wasn't that place a type of structural representation of what the deity stood for? All those books and the knowledge packed within them?
It felt right to Lasairian, but he would not ignore this anymore, either. It could be a less traveled event, while he continued his worship in the library depths any other time. It covered the basis of if this was what was wanted, but also what felt right to Lasairian. Now if Oriens came down and told him which was wanted, or gave him some kind of obvious sign, Lasairian would respect that. But he did not go thinking that would happen. Deities were busy, and that was fine. If this even got noticed at all, that was enough for Lasairian. Heck, just doing it and knowing that he had done it was enough, personally.
This was still quite a climb to get to the peak itself, but Lasairian pushed through the thinner air and the danger of the terrain. His muscles ached against the cold and the upward mobility, but there was no gain without a little pain, right? And though he wasn't looking for anything but spiritual gain, he still felt like doing this showed that he had faith. That part mattered to him. He had it, he believed in the divine and all it could do -- both the good and the things he might not be able to make sense of; though that wasn't his place anyway -- and that part was where he settled things within himself, too.
Lasairian knew that eventually he might use such a trek for clarity on his skill as a medic, too. For deciding when the time came, where he should branch off into as a specialty. There were three areas, and two of them stuck out at him the most. Nothing to be overly concerned with right now by any means, but someday it might come up, and on that day, Lasairian might ask for a sign as to where he might be best suited to go. He did not foresee that as being an issue for some time, but it was still on his mind, because he did intend to become a better medic with time and studies. Lasairian hoped to become better at a number of things, over time.
One area he hoped would be blessed by Oriens was his tea making skills, since Lasairian had loved teas for a long time, and was given the information that Oriens was fond of a Delumine herbal tea. It was why he had borrowed a satchel -- he really did need to get one of his own soon -- to bring up what was needed to make a tea as an offering. It was more based upon aroma, just because Lasairian didn't think the deity would come and actually drink it, but maybe the smell of it would reach where it needed to go. That was the best he could hope for in this, and he was okay with that.
Maybe he hadn't expected the cathedral to be what it was, but upon entering the clearing and seeing it, there was a sense of awe there for Lasairian. He did take a moment to let the sight of it sink in, and then he was carefully picking his way closer to it, gazing around with curious, thoughtful eyes. What a sight this was, and he knew there must be so many stories here, inlaid in the rocks and perhaps the memories of others. He kept going, needing to go and find a place that he felt would be right to make the herbal tea for Oriens and really begin the worship in that. Though just coming here itself felt like a part of that worship, too.
Once he had found a spot that felt right, Lasairian started to pull out the things needed to make the tea. The little pot and jars of water and herbs that he had blended together for a wondrous smell, the flint and kindling to warm the pot over. He set it all up as if he had been doing it forever. He had been making tea for years, but he had to admit that preparing was a little different now, like this. But he had time to figure it out, and had already drank enough tea since being here to have a handle on getting it done without too much of a problem. Tea had helped him settle in, after all.
Not that he felt he had needed it with how well he found that he seemed to fit here. As if he had been nudged in this direction when seeking out a new place to live. It had fit, felt oddly right, and Lasairian did not think it hadn't happened for a reason. So he held to that. Held to it while he set up to making tea here and now, even. Did it like he felt he belonged doing it here like this. He was quiet and happy enough setting about this task of getting things ready, then doing something close to meditating and silent prayer while he waited on the tea.
When it was done, Lasairian simply set out the saucer and tea cup, and made sure to drain the tea from the herbal blend before setting the cup on the alter-like area, watching the steam rising from the little teacup and breathing in the aroma. Another little saucer was set out beside the first, and Lasairian used a small, sharpened rock to make a cut on his foreleg, catching some of the blood in the second saucer. His blood was the most precious thing he had, and used in ritual, in the old blood magic he'd once had, so it seemed fitting to offer some of that up now as well. Then he went back to prayer and meditation.
It was impossible for her to hide the mess. Well, it wasn't a mess exactly, but she'd had more than one equine arrive, complaining of a dry throat or an ugly cough. Fortunately, the thick cloud of smoke and ash had cleared, and the only major effects were some residual dry eyes and anxious hearts.
Oh, and some strange bridge made of cooled lava that lead to nowhere.
Samaira still hadn't had a chance to go out and investigate it, but she was planning to once she was done with her duties here at the hospital. She bustled about the room, attempting to organize the supplies and clean up a little bit. Alaunus was lingering next to one of the windows, half asleep and blissfully quiet for it. While she didn't normally mind the heron's chatter, the quiet helped her focus.
The pegasus stood back after a moment and observed the small room she used to aid patients. It wasn't as grand as some of the others within the hospital, but Samaira had only begun her tutelage here after her wing had healed. The process and the kindness of the hospital's patrons had inspired her.
And while she might not be a filly anymore, Samaira felt she was learning rather quickly under the guidance of her mentor. She felt comfortable doing many things on her own now, and with Alaunus' own abilities, they could take care of most ailments and injuries together.
The earthen woman was just about to suggest that Alaunus and herself go check out this phenomenon that had arisen in the ocean when her bonded raised his head. "It appears we have company," he said, glancing past her and toward the door. Samaira turned, already smiling a warm and welcome smile, "Hello! How can I help you?"
It was impossible for her to hide the mess. Well, it wasn't a mess exactly, but she'd had more than one equine arrive, complaining of a dry throat or an ugly cough. Fortunately, the thick cloud of smoke and ash had cleared, and the only major effects were some residual dry eyes and anxious hearts.
