All is silent until the gods come, rising upon the sun. They tumble in through great pillars, streaming in gold and stirring the dust motes that swirl in idle revelry. Their laughter is wild and creativity burns in the ichor of their veins.
Upon a dias they gather, about a marble statue, white as innocence and rearing in fearsome wonder. The sun limns its marble limbs in light casting a warrior’s shadow across the tiled floor of its divine temple.
The statue is divine, it is a warrior’s cry, a violent twist of grace and ferocity. The gods admire their work, as all gods do. Even in their troubled hearts they find glory in their masterpiece. But it will not do, no matter its wild savagery and haloing sun.
It’s gods pull the winds in from the mountainside upon which their temple rests. They push it in, in to the statue until stone becomes animated and marble hair rises and falls at the zephyr’s touch. It is soft as silk, rippling in the wind, rolling like the sea.
But still the gods are not content with merely that and they turn yet more marble into flesh. Pink skin blushes and black skin darkens. Over it they lie snow stolen from the mountain’s cap and cover their statue so completely. Snow warms and yet it does not melt. It warms and warms, forging in magic until it becomes like velvet to touch. The soft down of equine hair gleams in the sunlight and oh how the sun shines upon this creation. Not content with merely white they take too a tiger’s skin, its fierce oranges and its swallowing blacks. They lay them across her skin and paint their creation with the bark of trees that grow within the temple’s atrium. Red roses bloom and they steal their petals and their colour, weaving them into ribbons that wrap about the flowing mane and rippling tail. Cherry blood is painted across each hoof and then, oh then, the gods pull the blue out of their sky.
An eye, what is in an eye?
They paint the marble blue and black, bright as the sky and dark as night. They run the sun along its surface but it does not gleam, it does not move. Not until they draw eternity down, down from the endless universe above. They trap time in its confines and weave it into nerves and bones and fibers and then, then they press and press and press it into their new creation too.
That great creature rears, it pierces the sky with its stone limbs and staring eyes. It’s lips are parted with a soundless, endless cry that reaches out into the stars. Yet so suddenly the silence is no more!
A life, endless and eternal, twines and twists through its warming flesh. It turns all into bone and vessels, nerves and airways. Her eternal lungs burn as the statue draws its first breath – it comes with the sound of groaning, creaking stone: an earthquake rumbling within a god’s creation.
At the beginning of time they named their creation Antiope and she is endless. Eternity burns fire-blue within her eyes. There are galaxies swallowed in her Time-born gaze and as universes grow, so does she.
@Antiope's Immortality quest begins with her creation - in the temple of the four gods of her homeland. The four gods arrive in the morning, gathering around a marble statue. Antiope's story will begin when they bring her to life - but the rest of her story is her's to write.
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.
How long had he been bound? Caged, and chained and kept. For so long he had been imprisoned and nothing had changed. He had looked at the same walls, the same floor, day after day after day. At first he had fought against the bindings holding him, but their magic had been too strong for him to break through. Every second, minute, hour, blurred into the next, and all his soul had cried out for the entire time was his Polyxena. She was all that had ever mattered to him, and they had taken him from her and locked him away and now? Now where was she?
But then one day the men came, they came and they took him away from that place. Erebos was observant, watchful. They treaded carefully in his presence despite the magic that kept him from being able to escape, but all he wanted to know was where they were taking him. He feared they would only take him farther from Polyxena, but all he wanted was to search the entire earth until he found her and they were together again. He couldn’t know their intentions, however.
So he waited.
The journey was long and hard, and Erebos felt the chasm in him without Polyxena only growing with each passing day. The men were not kind to him, ignored him often. But he listened to their conversations as though they thought that he could not understand them. They talked of rewards and trades, and some man who prided himself on a garden full of strange beasts. Erebos could only assume that that was the fate awaiting him, to be some prize. To never see his beloved companion ever again. Every day his soul cried and cried, and reached out, searching. Everything felt hopeless.
He had almost given up, almost resigned himself to whatever destiny may have had in store for him. They had unboarded one ship on a strange land, the men and their magic forcing him forward step by step, threatening him that they would not make the next in time if he didn’t move quicker. The desert was endless, the sun high and hot in the sky, the men and their scathing words biting into his skin like the grains of sand burying themselves into his fur from the wind.
That was when he saw the small shape, a dark shadowy beacon against the shining sea of gold. He felt it suddenly inside him, like a thread being pulled taught in his chest. He did not need to see her sharp violet eyes or magenta curls to know. He knew it as surely as he felt the emptiness inside him filling, bursting, soaring. Erebos, great massive beast of the underworld, son of Cerberus, suddenly knew no bounds. He lifted his head and bayed, his voice shaking the earth beneath his feet. He fought his chains as wild as a storm and in the confusion, the first man dropped his spell.
That gave Erebos the upper hand he needed, the smallest sliver of space to break free. He threw off the magical bindings one by one, each man falling beneath his massive paws. They could be no match against the power of his love and his devotion, for there Polyxena was, just across the desert, shining even with a coat of dark charcoal. He was sure of it. “Xena!” he cried, his happiness, his longing, outweighing every other thing inside him. “Xena!” he hoped, he yearned, he believed. He had found her at last. It was her. It had to be her.
@Polyxena's Bonded has been unwittingly brought to her, his captors taking him through Solterra on their way to what they believe to be the home of his buyer. However, Erebos catches a glimpse of his companion through the haze of the desert, and seeing her gives him the strength to break free from their magic that bounds him. His roar echoes over the desert, his mind and voice alike calling out for her. Will she help free him from his captors, and finally reunite?
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
This quest was written by the lovely Katherine. <3
Isra who is not a howling wolf “The heart can get really cold if all you've known is winter.”
W
inter is a wolf across the meadow. Isra, as she waits fetlock deep in the snow, wonders if the eclipse is bringing it upon them like the moon brings saltwater to the shore. The wind is whipping against her skin even as the red moon is calling up something that lashes against her bones. Whatever it is needs distance and it needs it fast.
Isra looking at that smear of blood across the black, feels like she could step out of her skin and make her way to the moon. She feels like she could walk across a staircase of snowflakes to a balcony of wind and pull that red orb down from the sky until everything is silver and shining again.
She's so sick of red, blood-red. Nothing good has ever come for her with only red over its spine.
So she watches the stars dance and chant from a distance and she tries so very hard to feel a little bit of wonder and religion. But all she can feel is winter on her back and icy snow cutting sharply at her skin and she thinks that she's used up all her wonder for the night already.
But then her dragon lands upon the snow and the wind whips at her harder where he's shoved it out of his way like a wave shoving a stone. Isra smiles and cants her head back a little further until it's not blood-red that she sees but green frothed and dipped and pearl. I bet I could go to the moon. Fable smiles as dragons do, all teeth and scale, but Isra is blind to the sharpness of his teeth and the way his eyes glow like sick moons in their sockets. All she can see is love draping a wing over her until the snow is falling all around her instead of across her back.
The wind that reaches her smells like brine then. That lashing thing quivers and settles against her marrow. And this time when she looks at the moon shining like blood in the sky, she sees fire instead of death, and the moon swallowing the sun bleeding it dry.
“Someday.” She tells her dragon as she lays her cheek across his shoulder. Someday
Isra is still thinking of that someday when she turns at the flash of Moira against the snow. Fable lifts his wing even as Isra waves her horn until her hole body is saying, Come closer, sister. The snow cuts at her skin a little less when she pulls away from her dragon and towards another name etched across her heart. “I missed you.” Isra lets her voice be swallowed up by the wolf of winter howling below the moon.
She knows that there are not enough words known by her tongue and her teeth to say all the ways in which she has missed Moira. And so she lets the howling wind say all the words with a fierceness she could never possess.
@Moira | "speaks" | notes: I have also missed all your words
"And fire and ice within me fight Beneath the suffocating night.”
Once the press of bodies in winter would have made her long for shadows and summer brine. How far she's come, that she moves between the crowds and brushes shoulders with them like nothing more than another spire of life filling Denocte. Isra is full of wonder to behold the market. She does not think there will ever come a time when there is not some new magic hiding in the streets of her city
Tonight it is the lanterns waiting coiled and bright around the bonfires that feel like fresh magic. Stars dance between them, bright eyed and more mystical than she can ever hope to be. Jasmine and cedar rise up like dragons of spice offering themselves up to all the secrets of the universe. Music rings out, bloated with the sound of a flute and a soft voice. Her heart beats in time to a the low bass of a drum and she feels, for a moment, like everything in her skin is wild and loose upon the night sky.
Dragons twirl above her head and sometimes one brushes close enough to make her hair sweep away from the hollow curl of her horn. Fable, where he's slumbering on the castle turrets, dreams of being as fast as these small dragons. He dreams of making art out of each beat of his wings until he can shape the clouds with a curl of his neck and a wave of salted water. Each of his thoughts runs in the back of her mind, like the pages of a book turned by a storm. It makes the world around her seem more surreal, more magical.
Isra joins the dancers, pressing her shoulders against theirs. Tonight she moves not like a queen, but like another wild star fallen from the black sky. Tonight she moves like there is no war beating in her chest like that low drum beating beating beyond the fires. Stones glimmer like stars in each place she steps until the firelight is a kaleidoscope of red across her dark coat. It feels like freedom, losing herself in the crowd with nothing upon her brow but a pillar of bone.
Until her lungs feel like fire she dances. Until her bones feel like rust in her skin she twines like smoke between the crowd. Only then, only when she feels like she's about to collapse, does she take herself from the thick press of bodies around the fire.
Back in the shadows, she lifts her head to the sky just as the lanterns catch on a winter breeze and take flight. Isra smiles at the mist curling from her lips like dragon's breath. A step echoes on the stone beside her. She turns towards the sound just as the first fat snowflake falls across her nose.
And still that drum is beating beyond the fires and the lanterns are still rising like an army of light into the black night.
Isra who yearns for a window
“Shall we mourn here deedless forever a shadow-folk mist-haunting dropping vain tears in the thankless sea”
At first Isra came to the lake only to lay beneath the willow tree, bury herself in snow, and listen to the glass leaves sing a sad song against each other. She wanted to dream of Eik who tucked clovers and sweet grass between her lips. Any dream full of rolling meadows instead of fire or waving flowers in the wind instead of waving swords in the sand. Isra is desperate for anything that feels like love instead of hate, peace instead of war.
Sometimes she feels like she's dying in her own skin.
The distant sea is still calling her home in that place between the dream and the real. Each day it's leaking out a little more.
So she came to bury herself in winter instead of fury. But instead she found a castle by the lake, shining with more colors than she could ever name. It looks like something too wonderful to touch (she thinks she breaks everything lovely she ever touches). Isra almost trembles when she gets closer, and when that old artist looks at her she feel like a lie of a queen. She's about to turn away. But--
She spots the widow on which a mare and a stallion lay tangled beneath a shroud of stars. Air catches in her lungs and her heart quivers like an arrow in her chest. She feels hollow and wanting, and, and, and...
And she feels like she wants to learn how to bury herself in whatever ice that window is cut from. Isra wants more than anything to lay her cheek against that plane of winter and scream Eik in her head until he can hear nothing in the world but her calling him home. She wants every mind in the world to echo with the sound of her sorrow, until he has no choice but to listen. It terrifies her to think that she wants justice with the seem fervor as she wants Eik.
A mare crosses before her, and Isra cannot help but look at all the elegant curl of her neck and think, this is how I should learn to move, always. She calls out and it's soft like the lowing of a swan at the crescent moon. “Are you going in?” Her hooves whisper through the snow and leave small moons full of rubies in each place she steps. The stones glitter like blood, like she's bleeding out a hundred small pieces of something hard and sharp.
“If you are, would you mind if I walked with you?” Because she's so very terrified of what she might do if she makes it alone to that window singing to her of winter, and Eik, Eik, Eik.
It began with a tremble deep below the dark waves.
The whales took themselves to distant coasts at the first moaning ache of the ocean bed. Sharks feasted on the schools of fish swimming in frantic patterns where the currents met their fins with unusual violence. The sea descended into anarchy at the first shift of the coral reef. Order became disorder, predators and prey shifted their values. All anything in the ocean wanted to do was survive.
The shores were the next to tremble. Waves crashed into the sand with abandon. Each granule of sand shifted like fine sugar, too thick to float away like flour. Dune grasses quivered in a wind that wasn’t born from any direction but under. Crabs scurried towards the mountains and sand swallows made their nests in desert limestone and mountain peaks. Seagulls swept down upon the courts, roosting like bats in any dark and high corner in which they could fit.
All the bones of Novus shivered and the wilds grew cold with dread.
Soon there was no hiding the way all the joints of the world ached, or the way the sky started to look darker in a line across the southern horizon. It hardly took anytime at all for everyone to know the volcano was overflowing with electric heat and acid. Horses started to gather on the southern shore, sure that the island was further out to sea than it seemed. They were sure nothing could harm them when there was sand beneath their hooves and sun on their backs.
Pillars of smoke started to rise from the distant island. Embers started to dance on the wind like locusts from the underland, red as fire and as wild on the winds as a million starving hawks. The island groaned and it sounded, to the horses on the shore, like the earth was waking up. Teeth of rock were cracking wide and blood of salt was flowing. That distant island was becoming, although no one could say what it was becoming.
No one could even remember when that distant island rose from the sea like a leviathan of the black waters. Each horse told the one beside it a different story, and each horse beside a horse told another horse a different one.
“I saw it rise as I sailed the Terminus.” A bay stallion told a purple mare. His wings shifted like flies at his side. She thought that flies would know the truth of that island in a way horses never would.
“There was a storm a month ago. I think the sea swallowed it and made that distant peak with the energy left behind from lightning.” A unicorn looked at foal and its mother. The unicorn smiled but it was a sad smile. It was sad in the way that fear is always a little full of sorrow even when it’s terrible.
“That is no island. The peak is a monster. It has come for us all to leech all the hate and violence from our blood like a plague leeches out weakness.” No one wanted to look at the old mare who told that story. No one wanted to know that it was their own black hearts that rose that distant volcano from the bottom of the sea to be an altar for their sins.
In the end though all the stories didn’t matter, because the volcano was erupting. The earth was weeping out her sorrows in the most violent way. It didn’t matter because soon the horizon rose like a black wave to swallow up the setting sun.
And if the stars came, there was no one on the shore who could have told night from day.
How to Participate!
There is an island far out to sea that is just visible along the horizon. Upon that island is a volcano that has started to erupt. Smoke is rising up into the sky. Soon daytime over the sea looks like a black and moonless night. The ocean waves are crashing against the shore and each one is larger than the last. The sand is shaking finely and an army of crabs is marching across the shore to higher ground.
Horses are already gathering and they are all wondering if disaster is striking Novus once more. Surely, most of them think, the island is too far out to sea to bring chaos to courts. But deep in their hearts they know that their world is changing once more.
A NOTE: The island is too dangerous to travel too. Even with wings-- the sky is full of ash, smoke and fire. Trying to venture to the actual island itself is almost certain death. This event takes place strictly on the shorelines of Novus.
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 May 17th, 2019 will not be considered for a RE roll.
The merchant couldn’t have said where the fabric and flower crown came from - only that it was beautiful, that to look at it and have that warm gold reflected back at you felt like basking in a summer day with coins in your pocket and a song in your heart.
Maybe he’d picked it up in the old country, where he knew that such lilies grew thick along the sides of the roads (though of course they were plain in comparison, their rich orange not lit from within). Maybe he had won it in a late-night game of cards; there were times, after a festival when he’d successfully sold most of his wares, where he allowed his celebrating to get a little out of hand. It was possible he’d woken up one morning with a terrible hangover - and a drape and crown imbued with the light of the setting sun.
Anyway, none of that mattered. What did was finding the perfect customer for the piece - not only whoever happened along wanting it (and many did, for its glow was as captivating as an open chest of pirate treasure), but who it would suit. The merchant prided himself on finding the right partners for his wares, and this one was more special than most.
“See the way it sparkles,” he told those that wandered by his stall that early autumn day, “the way it seems to trail fireflies in its wake.” He hefted the crown, and like campfire embers gold dust drifted around it, vanishing to dust on the dark wood of his table. Gingerly he set it down, careful not to disturb a single enchanted petal. “Feel this,” he murmured to an interested mare, lifting the drape to her cheek. “Have you ever encountered such a soft, silky fabric? It will never lose its glow.” And he smiled at her, the gold reflecting in his eyes, even though he knew it would never be hers - it was lovely (would be lovely on anyone), but it did not suit her color, the tones of her skin.
He was taking it back from her, ever so gently, when he spied the man who he knew would wear it.
The stallion was clothed in the colors of a rich autumn wood, and even across the path the merchant could see the color of his eyes - the same color as the enchanted items. His own gaze grew keen at once, beseeching. “You, sir!” he cried, ignoring all the faces that turned his way in favor of the dusky man’s. “Surely this was made for you - you cannot convince me otherwise!” To his great pleasure, the stallion turned - began to approach -
Normally the merchant enjoyed the banter, even the haggling of selling his wares. But even he was not interested in prices today, and as soon as the man was near (still ignoring the others who gathered, curious) he held the crown and silken fabric toward him in near supplication. “It suits you,” he whispered earnestly, “and it is no normal piece - this is enchanted, sir. Make this yours, and you will never be left in the dark.”
@Kai in another time and another place, will find himself wandering a market full of strange and wonderful treasures. The air is thick with the sounds of merchants yelling over each others. All the pathways between the stalls are full of horses too numerous to count. But as he walks, one merchant calls out to him. But perhaps his eyes were already turning to that shining bit of fabric before the merchant ever bid him to come closer. After all who can deny such a lovely treasure?
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
Like a pearl it changes, so slowly, building itself over time into something new. But instead of sand and nacre the thing it gathers to itself is magic.
It knows that Only will be back for it, one day. It has not carved its last ghastly smile for him. It will be ready when he comes.
Tinea is a holy place, and not only because the goddess Vespera’s footprints are still pressed into the soft soil, blooming now with wild poinsettias. Their petals are red, as red as the blood spilled by and from Ilati in this sacred place for century after century, building that strange divinity up and up like a pearl, like a magic blade.
It has learned to be good at hiding. It has disguised itself with rich and fertile mud from autumn rains, with a blanket of a hundred leaves of crimson and gold all broken down now to death. It has learned from the things of the swamp, from the herons and the lizards to the owls whose wing-shadows fall over its home as they hunt at night.
When Only comes for it, it will have learned to hide, too.
Tonight the world holds its breath. Tonight a little bit of the blade is visible, gleaming in the thin starlight filtering through the canopy like a small sliver of moonlight cut free and left to fall. The knife has absorbed the magic of the strange swamp, and the crickets and the frogs sing in a chorus around it, all of them crying here, here.
Wherever he is, Only will hear this song (or perhaps Stephan will hear it first). Perhaps he is searching Tinea even now for the thing he has lost; perhaps he is dreaming. Either way he will feel it, at first like an itch in the back of his mind, a presence that gnaws at his consciousness here, here. All the night-hawks and the bats are in a frenzy tonight, converging above the space where the knife rests - where it waits.
Oh! It wants to show its master all the ways in which it has learned to hide, all the magic it has drunk up for itself so that its blade gleams bright with secret things. It wants to cut for him, wants again to be wielded, wants anything but to wait beneath the black leaf-litter and deny the rust that comes to eat it up.
The knife can hear him coming, slow footsteps on soft ground. The water is murky, restless, reflecting the baleful eye of the moon. The bats are shrieking but it sounds like thick silence, the same sound the knife makes. Here, here.
There is only a gleam of it visible, like the shine of an eye in the darkness. But a weapon does not worry.
It knows that Only will find it.
It is so eager to be reunited.
@Only will feel a pull the moment the moon rises. His lost blade has decided that it has waited long enough. It's bloated with magic and it has made itself a clever weapon by all the secrets held in these swamps. Tonight the air feels heavy with a strange magic and it might feel like he is moving through oil instead of brackish water. The bats are flying in patterns they've never flown in before. The whole swamp seems gathered by that blade glinting in the moonlight. Only's weapon has missed him.
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
Above her, the desert sun beats down without mercy despite the veil-like cape that drapes over her haunches, meant to protect her pale skin from burning -- she can already see it is only barely working, her body beginning to take on a pink tinge where the veil doesn’t cover, and she is glad this is only a short visit to Solterra. She had only wanted to visit the marketplace so spoken of in muted whispers, where for a pretty penny she could purchase herself a piece of Solterran steel -- she had, after all, been seeking out a dagger that could withstand whatever abuse she could throw at it.
Her wandering thoughts are thrown out the window the moment she catches sight of the scale, however. She would know it in an instant -- the opalescent sheen of a dragon’s shed scale, so often seen around her dam’s neck, except that the tall stranger wearing the necklace is decidedly not her beloved dam.
In a flash, she has crossed the markets, jewel-tipped antlers pointed at the bull-like man and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where did you get that necklace?” She demands of him, knowing that her dam would not easily give up his treasured possession, and a pang of worry crosses her heart. “What did you do to my mother?”
Character #1: @Caine Bonded: no Magic: yes, dream illusion Armor: no Weapons: silver dagger Current Health: 8 Current Attack: 12 Current Experience: 13
Character #2: @Seraphina Bonded: no Magic: yes, greater telekinesis Armor: yes, leather and steel fabricated with steel arrow Weapons: yes, enchanted sword Current Health: 17 Current Attack: 23 Current Experience: 51
are ye happy? (we are mighty.) are ye happy? (no. art thou?)
In Vectaeryn, they had called a storm fierce enough to rip the sails off a schooner’s mast — torn clean like Abaddon's wings — a goddess’ reckoning.
In Solterra, during the height of the wet season, they called it weather.
The wet season is not for months and months. Solterra sits at the tail end of autumn, at a time when her seas of sand should stay drier than a sun-baked bone. Few of the Solterrans Caine passes on his way to the Elatus, however, seem particularly bothered about the bizarre arrival of rain. Perhaps, he thinks, they are simply relieved it is not snow. As is he.
The last rays of scarlet dusk sulk into night by the time he steps into the looming mouth of the Colosseum. The storm’s punishing gales have eased into a dreary drizzle, yet its earlier ferocity makes clear that the evening will not be a dry one.
Caine is soaked through to the skin. His hooves clip a wet rhythm along the stone corridor snaking down towards the Colosseum’s sunken, bloodthirsty heart. Water sloughs off him in rivers, though the puddles he leaves in his wake are considerably less substantial than if he had not threaded his inky-black hair into an intricate braid of braids, running the length of his kelpie-slick neck.
A variation of Fia’s handiwork — which Caine had resolved to replicate, when he realized how efficiently it held his copious lengths of hair. Darned with yarn, not even Solterra’s version of weather can rob it of its stubborn neatness.
The arena sand holds its shape under his hooves, packed down by the rain. If nothing else, the storm has provided him with good footing. The top of the limestone-hewn behemoth opens up to the sky, and Caine cuts his gaze to the starless black, pensive, before a steady stream of water forces his lashes fluttering closed.
It is an interesting night for a spar.
Spar. His lips shape the word carefully. He is unfamiliar with it — Agenor had been overly fond of lesson and demonstration, though in practice they were more like euphemisms for punishment. The Garde did not train its assassins to fight. They trained them to avoid engagement, and armed them with just enough combat knowledge to ensure a job would be seen to its bloody end.
Survival, they left up to the whims of the gods.
Caine’s eyes squint in the poor light when he spots a silver figure moving wraithlike along the crumbling arena wall. Fia. She is here. He makes his way towards the center of the arena. Enchanted torches, their flames undeterred by the rain, cast wild shadows on the wet sand. Mounted on every other pillar, the torches provide a weak bubble of light that permeates only barely through the gray drizzle. Just enough to see a glinting hoof moments before it finds its mark.
The boy is at once grateful for the hours he has spent stumbling through the alleys half-blind under his shadow cloak.
“Charming weather tonight,” is the greeting he offers Fia when he steps up to her, along with a fleeting smile. Without hesitation, he draws his dagger out from the folds of his wings and drops it to the sand, not allowing his gaze to follow it down. No weapons, as agreed.
Just hooves and teeth and flesh and bone.
“By your move, then.” He bows neatly to her before withdrawing to his side of the arena, wings slicked tightly against his sides. Caine flexes his shoulders grimly. The sodden, heavy things will either become his kryptonite or his shields. Soon enough, he will find out.
@Seraphina | "speaks" | notes: nothing like a sudden rain shower to spice things up
Summary: Caine muses about the terrible weather among other things, and arrives at the Colosseum soaked to the skin. He scans the terrain and considers the various conditions that could affect the spar. He then sees Seraphina, greets her, and moves to his side of the arena to await her move.
