i raised myself, my legs were weak i prayed my mind be good to me
T
he sound of soft laughter drifted from the hall and into the room, reminding Grey just how alone he was in this new world. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, not with any true amount of joy. Had he ever laughed like that with Amaranthus, or had it only been before—with his brother, his King. His friends and family.
He couldn't say.
The unicorn had spent too many days, endless days and too short nights, wandering through the court that had become his new place of residence (it was not his home, never could be). Now, with ash dropping from the sky like snowfall and the day as dark as the night, Grey felt more restless than ever.
Equines hunkered down in their homes, away from the thick, suffocating smoke, only venturing out when absolutely necessary. But they, unlike he, were not alone. With a fire to warm their bodies and company to warm their hearts, they would be bale to ride out the erupting volcano in the distance, as he'd quickly found out it was.
But Grey, Grey had none. So, he'd tied a scrap of cloth about his mouth and nose, and wandered. Ash sprinkled his coat, mixing with the ever present crystals there. Without sun he seemed duller, less like brilliant ice and more like roadside snow. Forgotten, pushed aside, ignored.
He'd left the court walls and walked, and walked, until he entered the same forest where he'd met the boy, Mateo. He'd walked and walked, until he had happened across the strange, mystical library built of trees.
And although he wasn't alone (there was the mysterious owners of the laughter, of course), there was something strangely comforting about this place. Thus, the unicorn found himself aimlessly browsing a shelf of records not sure what he was looking for, but not sure if he was looking for anything exact, anyway.
@Toulouse | "speaks" | notes: I hope this is good!
Sunlight sliced through the bare branches of a forest locked in the dead of winter, and yet even as exposed as it was, only a fraction of the shafts actually made it to illumiate the understory. Undisturbed snow blanketed oiver the ground of a small clearing, a tiny ring of trees towering over the rest, their trunks choked by thick brown vines. Somewhere far off a wolf howls, calling for the start of a hunt, but it's far away now. Nothing to worry about. This part of the forest gives one the impression that no one has been here in ages. Snow drifts collect over the stones that once were a towering, glittering castle. The symbol of a mighty kingdom fallen so far into ruin that only the archway marking where the portculis used to be still stands. Time has reduced the rest of it's splendor to rubble, crushed to dirt and gravel, and left to be forgotten as the forest grew around it over time.
It is here that a single, solitary statue- an equine figure wearing a set of intricate granite battle armor, and rearing on its hind legs like some sort of proud warrior- stands, the only clue as to the kingdom's culture and aesthetics. The statue is made of black granite, and though the features are decidedly equine, there is a stylistic choice in the craftsmanship that makes it uniquely angular. The statue has been standing here for a great many centuries, too many to count, as evidenced by the fact that it is buried up to it's hips in snow and dirt. Underneath the layer of snow coverig it's face and back, the statue looks as though it has not received any care in a LONG time. Moss and leaf litter have carpeted the sculptured body, while vines have wrapped around it's legs, belly, neck, and head, anchoring it in place if it weren't already with how deep it's hind legs are sunk into the ground.
It's hard to wrap the mind around how long this thing has been here, but the while place has a sort of.... passive creepy vibe. Like it is simultaneously a place of reflection and of forboding. You should not be here. Grrrummmmmble!!! The ground begins to shake as a blue light suddenly sparks life in the statue. It glows out from the eyes, nostrils and mouth of the beast, and the light travels down the length of it's body, ina rippling wave, runic script that wasn't noticeable before suddenly gleams and flickers with the pulse of life. The legs of the Golem twitch and then jolt out of place with a shattering crash, as though it were breaking a shell around it's body. Then it struggles, leaves and snow flying everywhere as it's front hooves drag at the ground. There comes a grumbling, snapping, gutteral rumble, like the sound a tree makes when it's being uprooted. There's a sucking sound as the Golem drags itself out of the ground, it's hind leggs covered in dirt and roots and the kind of bugs that like to live under the grass.
It stands triumphantly over the snow for a bit, then turns it's neck with more creaking, splintering noises. It tested each of it's joints, standing at a full 21 hands. It glances around at it's surroundings, swinging the heavy head and snapping vines off it's form as it tried to gather it's bearings. "Hvar er ég? Hve lengi lauk ég?" The voice sounded with a dark, gravelly quality, like two massive stones grinding against each other. The words, however, were a complete jarbled mess. There was no telling what the Golem had said.
is this a natural feeling or is it just me bleeding?
Delumine had so much potential for beauty, and already was a grand place for nature now, in Winter. Lasairian had no Winters growing up in the Bheo, because the cold would kill enough of the inhabitants without fail. Therefore, it was always fairly warm and lacking in snow. Which made being here so much more interesting, cold as it was. Aside from the snow, Lasairian had already decided that Delumine seemed the most like home of the courts here, and it felt a little accidental that so much of it would line up the way it did. It shouldn't have been that easy, that fitting. Yet it had been.
Lasairian was grateful for all the ways in which it lined up, though. He had picked this route, this court for what he had heard was their thirst for knowledge and their library, and all the rest had just been there as little bonuses. Things to make him fit in when he had felt so oddly lost when he had first arrived, when he had realized that this was his life now. Such oddities, but he couldn't say that was a bad thing, when so far it had only offered him good. Lasairian felt more settled here than he could have imagined he might, and it was such a confusing feeling to have after everything.
Yet it also seemed that he had made a new friend, and that was something that warmed his insides against the Winter chill as they walked back from the Night market and into Delumine. The library was the goal here; to bring Cassilyn there to see all that it was. All those books it held, all that knowledge that those books contained. Lasairian knew that for some, diverting from an original path to put the past behind them was the best way to move on, but in this he could not divert. He was too interested in learning, in expanding those horizons for himself. Being more in a place where that might be possible.
Did he cut himself deeper to throw himself into being a medic? Into that very subject that his mentor had been so well known for? Sought out for? When that was the wound he was truly looking to escape from? Lasairian would never truly let go, and he couldn't, but this was a constant reminder, and for as long as he kept going down this road, it always would be. Things that he didn't say on the way, on this journey with Cassilyn. He did enjoy her company, and would tell her the answers to most questions she asked, but a few personal things would stay as they were; personal.
The travel did not bring them through the bulk of Delumine, because it was an upward curve towards the forest of the Dawn Court, and up in the Northern part of that, the library. Lasairian had gotten lost more than a few times at the start, trying to get to and from the library, but it was such an integral part of how he lived, that it became easier for him to sort out how to get there. Now it felt familiar to be walking the paths once he had hit where the Dawn Court began at the forest itself. Eventually they had gotten to where the trees changed, reformed, "the library," he finally said, looking at Cassilyn.
tag — @Cassilyn
template by cas • equine lines by AriesRedLo • border image from hashtag-bg.com
Antiope acting on your best behavior turn your back on Mother Nature
She stands out from the crowd because she walks like she is otherworldly. She walks like her skin is trying too hard to contain the lioness in her bones, like everything inside her is rising and rising and rising like some tidal wave, threatening to consume.
She stands out from the crowd because of the blood red strung across her throat and the ocean blue of her eyes and the heavy, double heads axe strapped just behind her shoulder. She looks like a warrior wearing a goddess' skin, or maybe just a goddess of war. And, the gods perhaps had made her beautiful to hide the killer beneath, knowing the most beautiful things are the most deceiving.
Can they see it, the equines passing her by on the streets? The thing inside her that hungers and screams and yearns for blood. Antiope doesn't know how to make it be quiet, for it has always been a part of her. A part of her that until recently, had been satiated. A part that, until recently, she had put aside in favor of something better. But the gods had taken that from her, too, and she had taken everything from them.
Antiope is a powder keg, she is a starving beast, she is just waiting for something to set all the things inside her ablaze. Waiting to catch the scent of blood in the air so that she can follow it down, down, down to the darkest parts of the world. She doesn't know how to be like these equines who look at her unsurely as she stands in the square and passes the mouths of alleyways.
She doesn't know how to be tamed, how to stand and breath and just be. She has only ever known violence and death, has only ever known the things that the gods made her to be. And when she thought she had finally found something else, it had not been meant for her. Would she ever be meant for this life?
Antiope, who does not sleep because she is too restless. Who does not fight despite the singing in her veins, who does not stand and breathe and be. Antiope, who is too much and too big for this skin and this world, stops in middle of the markets and wonders what it would be like to unleash the lioness inside her onto these equines, like she so willingly would have—once.
It’s easy to lose track of time as his vigil continues on the shore.
Especially now that the black cloud has swallowed up the sun, casting them all into a muted darkness. Even the sea is holding its breath; the tide has gone out and all is still, no sound but the waves. All the birds have flown away (and the crabs and the clams, too, thanks to Isra’s magic) and still Asterion waits, sure of nothing.
At first there had been the shock of it, and the fierce surging of his heart and magic, so certain that he would fight, would overcome. But there is still nothing that he can do battle with. The mountain of ash, split occasionally by lightning, remains far out to sea, with only occasional flakes of gray alighting on the beach like snow lost and dark. Now the only movement is from the other horses, who come to bear witness with the same roil of feelings that churned like whitecaps in his own heart. For the most part they all keep the silence of a cathedral, as though the billowing of death is only another offering of incense and destruction for their gods.
But there is one who comes, darker than even the soot-black sky, that Asterion turns to like a supplicant.
After the secret she has bared to him, the king’s heart closes like a fist to see Leto upon the beach, where the waves reach for her but die away. It begs for her to flee, to leave her death behind on this silent beach, and yet something in him strengthens to see the shine of her moon-silver eyes, to hear her bells break the silence with their defiant ringing. He wonders what star she might call down from that black cloud of ash, and whether it could burn away the smoke; he wonders what else she might know, given by the whispering of bones and runes.
And when the Ilati girl turns back inland, to the mangroves and the mire and the swamp, the bay stallion follows.
It is a comfort, to at last turn away from that terrible horizon. Still the king takes a glance back over his shoulder before vanishing between the dark-leaved mangroves; it is a relief when they close behind him, whispering cool over his skin. As he winds further and further in and the scent of salt and brine gives way to leaf and earth, as the birdsong returns, he can almost pretend it is normal - save for the darkness that hangs overhead, muting the shadows, making a held breath of the world.
When he catches up to her, at first he only finds her by the gleam of her eyes, the shine and sound of her bells. Though he knows she must be aware of him - despite his years in Terrastella he has yet to move graceful as a deer through her landscape - he says nothing, only watches her work, gathering up bones. He wonders if any of the runes carved deep into the bark of ancient trees tell tales of such horror as is now being born; he wonders if such stories would matter. For a moment he almost smiles, wry and strange, to think of how he once saw Novus as a fairytale world, all castles and kings.
After a stretch of time (how much? he cannot say - it is as meaningless to him now as it must be to Florentine) he crosses to her, solemn, as though it is a temple floor and not a forest carpeted by leaf and moss and still, slow water. Asterion is careful not to touch, but his eyes are luminous even in the dim, a well of questions and wonders and fears.
“Will you tell me what they say?” he asks at last, low.
is this a natural feeling or is it just me bleeding?
He had gotten lost. Point blank, there was no way to deny the truth of it any longer. He had gone on and on, thinking that he would find his way, but the situation was finally sinking in. Lasairian didn't really know where he was, and must have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Perhaps the heat had gotten to him, and he was simply unable to focus properly on getting out of this place? That could explain it. He had enough delusions that maybe that was creep-crawling into the other aspects of a usually clear mind. Lasairian didn't like the thought of it, but he couldn't say for certain on it, either.
The main purpose of this venture was to get into the canyon and search out the Ocotillo plant, but Lasairian hadn't found one until he was already quite lost. The plant itself was pretty neat, and various parts -- mostly the bark -- could be used against fatigue, swollen limbs, coughs and as a blood purifier. That last thing was something that had drawn Lasairian's interest the most, because of the types of magic he reached for the most. The medicinal uses otherwise were great, certainly, and he would find use for them as such, but that last one he could test himself for other things, if only he could reach far enough.
Lasairian still wanted magic, but for now he had been trying to accept that he no longer had it. That it had been leeched away somehow. Perhaps that was why he was this, now, but thinking about it all too deeply wasn't helping matters. Not normally, and not here and now, lost in the canyon with the sun beating down on him. He wished he could say that at least he was pale, not dark enough to end up warmer still, but being this pale that he was blush pink in areas wasn't a good thing when it meant that he had sensitive skin. His saving grace was the fact that it was Winter. He didn't want to see Summer here.
Right now it was bad enough that it forced him to duck into one of the caves. From there, he had started in deeper and deeper for the cooler air, seeking that out. Something felt a little off about this place, but it was curiosity that had him begin to nose about a little. Trying to place the scents, and then deciding that it seemed more equine than he figured was dangerous. It gave him a moment to set down the plant he was carrying around with him, so he could inspect it further, hoping that it wasn't damaged too much from the traveling. At least is was one of the smaller stalks, and a little easier to carry around.
She’d made it out of the night markets and as much relief as she felt, she missed the rich culture of the bazaar. Cassilyn had moved onto the keep, the capital of the night court, as she’d discovered from some friendly denizens of the night. What had drawn her here, she wasn’t sure but as the palace came into view, she was baffled by the sight. It was beautiful, it reminded her of a calm summer night and the glow of lanterns confirmed that thought. The immensity of the architecture took her breath away and as she entered, that feeling increased ten fold.
The woman was mesmerized by the exotic nature of the children of night. They danced and twirled in the evening air, their movements free and effortless.
She walked slowly through the courtyard, her eyes remained on the entertainers. The chill didn’t reach her here and even though this wasn’t home, she felt as if she… belonged? Perhaps that was the night court, because as long as she’d been here, she felt unusually comfortable. Maybe that was the point but, she felt that it would be easy to lose yourself here, in the thrall of music and drink.
Cassilyn shook her head as she walked slowly up a set of stairs near the edge of the courtyard. Would she be allowed a bed tonight? And perhaps a bath? That was much to ask of a court that wasn’t hers but exhaustion weighed heavy on her heart. The alabaster damsel knew she needed to reach the Dawn court but she wasn't quite sure where she needed to go and she wasn’t in any condition to fly north today. “I just wish I could get to the library,” the woman sighed as her wings slumped at her sides. She'd reached the top of the stairs and looked down the hall, her eyelids hung dangerously low over verdant irises. When was the last time she'd eaten? “And once again, I’m lost,” the lady muttered in frustration as pale eyes closed for a moment... just a moment, right?
~
OOC: I’m sorry, I don’t know much about the Night Court and I was having a hard time describing it. I don’t know why I decided to write her this way? I just imagine that she’s frustrated that she hasn’t found the Dawn Court yet.
Tag: @Septimus
"Within every solar system of the soul lies a plan of what truth is”
Isra doesn't remember the moment the mountain snow turned instead to marble beneath her hooves. Nor does she recall exactly when the night sky gave way to pillars of cracked, white stone upon which dead ivy grew. The temple curling around her, like a ghost, feels like it appeared out of nowhere. One moment she was prowling though the sleeping forest trying to get rid of the itch of violence that kept her awake. The next moment she was walking through the empty halls of an old temple.
Snow still drifted lazily around her and the shadow of Fable still cut through the moonlight like a blade. Her dragon saw the temple but he never warned her because a comet shooting across the sky caught his attention instead. The stars were always brighter in the sky than in the forest. He doesn't understand why his unicorn wanted to climb the mountainside when he could have just carried her.
Unicorn are strange creatures, he thinks. But he still loves her so.
Under the shadow of her dragon, Isra finally looks out from her own thoughts itching down her spine like vines, and finally notices the pillars rising around her like bones. There are candles flickering on hollow shelves, although when she tries to find hoof prints in the snow there isn't even a hint of a single one. She shivers and she doesn't know if its from the cold or from the way that the candle-light makes her feel so alone.
Isra could be the only one left in the world. The snow swallows up every sound, even the sound her lungs make when she exhales curls of mist and heat from her nose. She moves closer to an altar, and she looks behind her just once to make sure that she's leaving a trail in the snow. She is.
Hellebore is blooming in pots, black and purple, and she wonders if she would be saved from madness if she ate a petal. Or would she just die, a sacrifice to this strange temple in the sleeping forest? She brushes her nose against a petal just to see if the flower makes a sound. It whispers against her skin, although she cannot understand the language of it.
Someone is coming, Fable interrupts because he knows Isra is still itching even as the snow gathers across her spine.
When she turns towards her trail of prints in the snow, the candle closest to her sputter and dies. The moonlight seems brighter with the loss of it, cool silver reflecting off each snowflake falling around her. She doesn't try to say anything, she only exhales more curls of heat and waits.
Learning to shoot an arrow is like realizing that she has forgotten how to breathe properly.
At first it seems simple-- inhale, pull back, exhale, aim straight and true, inhale, exhale, release. In her dreams it was always easy, like breathing or like loving Eik. She has read all the books she owns on the subject of weaponry. Stories of mares with fire in their eyes and arrows at their shoulders fill the space behind her eyes. Isra knows she has the fire in her eyes, blue and hot enough to singe. Her magic has made the weapon, forged it from the stones of her city blessed once (or so they say) by Caligo.
The bow feels like moon-fire caught and barely tamed in the grip of her telekinesis. Each time she pulls back and shoots it feels like she should be aiming for the stars instead of the golden apples hanging strangely from a willow tree. Each wicked arrow looks like a shooting star leaving wishes in the black night around her. The moon-light catches on her quiver of arrows and never makes it further than that.
The ground is littered with more arrows than apples. But there are some apples in which an arrow is buried deep into the meaty, golden core.
Isra practices for hours, until her magic is weary of making arrows and her eyes burn like she's gone swimming in the salted sea. Sleep starts to call her name as the dawn starts to rise over the hills. The moon is a dim silver by the time she decides that she's practiced enough. Her arrows never pale, not until they sink to the ground or into an apple core. When she finally lowers her bow the field mice start to make their way across the snow towards the apples she managed to split down the center. Overhead an owl calls and circles.
Life is moving around her, although sometimes when she dreams it feels like life will never move again. Sometimes it feels like all there is now is death.
A sound breaks the silence, a whisper of hoof and snow. She's quick to raise her bow, and the white-fire flickers across the planes of her face like she's made of glass instead of flesh. Her lungs have remembered how breathing works by the time she realizes who has joined her.
But it's not until she finishes saying, “Ipomoea”, that she lowers the tip of her arrow to the ground. The fire, glowing like the moon, winks out.
“She was like a bird for speed, an arrow for directness.”
is this a natural feeling or is it just me bleeding?
He had more purpose here than to look at the market again, though he wouldn't pretend he did not pick this area for that reason as a side thing to do. The marketplace reminded him of the Bheo in a way, and therefore he was drawn back to it. Just to stay beyond the crowd for the most part, take time to observe those lingering to sell or buy items. Lasairian could have taken the shortcut to go and try and purchase the plants and herbs he sought out, but that seemed not only too easy, but sort of uncertain when he was not yet sure as to how all of this worked and how things were done here. Plus, he was curious on what their prairie held.
That was the real spot that Lasairian had planned on going, and why he was currently here, looking around. He had borrowed a little sack to put the plants into for the day to take home, hopeful that he would find a few things of interest here. Getting an idea as to which plants grew where was part of gathering information on other courts and medic field stuff on them, and Lasairian was taking these things seriously. The more he knew, the better prepared he would be, the better of a medic he could be. That was currently what he was reaching towards while here, though there was no doubt that Lasairian was still hoping to regain magic once more.
Something for another day, though. Today he needed to sort out plants, because he could actually reach for a better medical position through the work that he did, the knowledge that he sought out about such things. The prairie had to have something of interest to collect, and so that was what pressed him into walking through the area, nose closer to the ground than usual to inspect the plant life he came close to. At least when something looked interesting here, since some medicinal plants did grow closer to the soil than others. Some of those could be really useful, but he could only hope that there would be good stuff here.
If not, then Lasairian would have to go and try elsewhere, though there was a fair amount of places that he could check into and see. He could have stuck to the meadows of Delumine, but that seemed too easy of a place to start with. He could always do that at any given time. He didn't need to be so close to notice a flowering plant that he suspected was helpful, and he went to the white, almost daisy looking flowers to inspect it more. More in the amount of petals in layers and a different smell, larger yellow middle. Chamomile. And Lasairian took no time in beginning to collect some of the plant with short, quick snips of his teeth.
