[P] — altar of the moon

[Erasmus]

In the streets of Denocte he breathes decadence, the pungent sway of exotic incense and the aroma of sweet wines that carry in the breeze – of cigars, violet plumes, the rich perfumes of gallant dames trotting in the cleanest streets. It is cloying, suffocating sweetness that chokes him from the markets tonight; stirred from their cloud of luxury that looms above their head like dizzying heaven-smog. He escaped their wares – he aches for the wild, the feral, the untouched reaches of that which he may never have but oh to taste! On the edge of his lips and fangs and fingertips pressed to the barrel, longing, a distant cast of wanting eyes that seek everything within their property. His eyes are those of a hawk's – meekly set, though severe and covetous, for the world belongs to him. but tonight, luxury does not sate his appetites. Tonight, is the moon and her temple.

The eve unfolds as if a dream – the softened, heavy rest of pin-pricked starlight that cascades in galaxic currents, and its pregnant moon – a glow permeates through the treacherous ridges of the Arma Mountains. It smooths its basking pallor along its sharpest edges, lounges in the valleys of its lethal pitfalls. Milk-white and soothing, its ghost visits the deep with a breath of frosting chill, webbed along each star-kissed peak. And yet its fullest breadth finds its light in dawning upon the halls of the secret Temple. It pours in from each basking point – floods the halls and bathes the altar in a pool of misting lunar shroud. Each glimmer is a star plucked from the night sky. Each golden vein is a ray stolen from the godless sun. And while the winds scream in the wilds of the mountain, a restless silence stands in the solemn halls, the pristine rooms of decadent marble. Or was it – he could still not determine their unearthly craft – were it marble, bone, milky quartz, that of ivory or granite. All he knows is that they are not cold to the touch, as they should be – as a monument of stone should, in years of neglect, harbor some cold in the nearing gasps of winter that close over the mountains like a hound over a hare. They are not warm either, not as if they had absorbed the full length of daylight presented to them, or even that of which dawn could offer, cloudless and narrowed. They just were, simply put – suspended in a nothingness that he found more comforting than any grand hall that could possibly be offered to him.

His return was not something he initially planned, when he last left the halls to the device of others. Yet the temple resided in the back of his mind, thrumming there like a pulse that thundered against his skull. It moved him, called to him, the aching in his bones still – the awful knowing of the world and its workings and then again the grating unknowing that cursed mortality – a force of wind that took to storm through his veins, his machinated motives, his every dream tinged with the solitary whisper of curiosity. Were the wine ever too heavy to drown his every thought in pleasure and discord, his instinct forever remained, and it called to him still: to return to advent nature, prescribed his explorative need for conquest. and forever, his possessive whim.

The silence that winds through the halls are broken by the clap of his hoof against the dusty floors. And another, and another, it is as though he could shake the mountains in the weight of their echo – until their noise too falls into the quiet that unsettles the room with white noise and whispers of the protective dead. In him, his blood sings – for the air and for the milk-white walls etched in centurial wisdom that he breathes against, inhaling a deep drag of dust and an ancient air that with it brings a piece of its former glory. Immersed in this holy place, he cannot but consume every inch with a heavy gaze, wild and laden in the awe that isn't even hindered by a second glance. He is at freedom to peruse, to learn its every room, its every crook and narrow passage that seems carved by so godly a hand. 

@Katniss

[Katniss]

This particular evening, the wind was silent. Normally the peaceful way the wind would flow from one side of Denocte to the other brought a sense of peace to the Night Court. But not tonight. Tonight, there was an eerie silence that brought uneasiness to the warrior. She was restless, unable to sleep in the small home that she had made with Metaphor. Something was calling to her, tugging at her heart and it was a feeling that she could not ignore.

She leaves her bonded to watch over Metaphor, to ensure that this silence was not hiding something that could harm him. Should she lose her lover again, then she would never be able to forgive herself. And so, she assures Finnick that she is fine, that she can defend herself against the wickedness of the world. His job is to watch over Metaphor when she cannot. Reluctantly, her bonded agrees and keeps his watchful eyes over Metaphor as he sleeps.

Steps take her deep into the mountains, a place in Denocte that she feels safe. It’s ironic, really, that just a place offers her sanctuary. Most would not find solace in the cold bitter air of the higher altitude, the denseness of the forest, or the constant fear that someone might be lurking within the shadows. And yet, it doesn’t bother Katniss like it should. She feels alive within the mountains. She can hear the mountain’s heartbeat and she follows it as it leads her along a path she’s never been down before. But she is not ruled by fear.

The moonlight catches on something up ahead and Katniss slows her progression as she comes around the corner. The moonlight has illuminated a white temple made of what appears to be marble. But as she comes up to the steps, she cannot help but wonder if marble is truly what the stone is. Surely the gods have constructed it of some sort of material not found in Novus. Perhaps she puts too much faith in the gods. Perhaps it is just a plain white marble.

Regardless, she begins to ascend the stairs when she hears that she is not alone. She can hear the footsteps of another, a stranger. She can smell him up ahead, his scent musty and strong. It’s a smell that she has not encountered before. Cautiously, she steps forward, towards the other. She careful about where she steps, stepping on dead, fallen leaves to mask the echo her hooves make against the stone flooring. And then she sees him. He’s dark, blending into the night. Eyes follow his figure, learning his color, his horns, his everything. “What has drawn you to the mountain?” She’s seen him before, from a distance. He’s a Night Court soldier, someone she should know better than she does. Perhaps it’s time they try to form some sort of bond. With all that was happening in Novus, one could not be too careful.

She comes to settle closer to him, her tall form looking out at the markings etched into the stone. She feels at home here, and she’s unsure of why. “My name is Katniss, by the way.” They should at least formally introduce each other. At least perhaps then they might could build on some sort of working relationship. Time would tell if friendship would blossom or if it would remain plutonic.

@Erasmus

[Erasmus]

Enamored with the night – her fortune's splendor embellishes the runes inscribed on the opaque walls of the temple; they are words, or tomes, or an otherworld gibberish none can fathom – but as he eyes the constellation he finds little familiarity. They are pricks in the quartz, here and there dimples that connect in odd and uncertain forms and shapes that collect and loosen and shimmer ambiguously winking from between the shifting shadow and strains of marbling. Their encryption is one he is not certain he is even meant to decode – but he strains, o, it is another conquest he seeks desperately in the dark. And he thinks - (though he wants to know, he aches for it) that he spots a few glimmering twins to the etchings, but he isn't sure all is for naught, and everything seems to change with every cloud that mists over the glow of the moon.

For long he remains suspended in awe and study, his gaze pressed tight to the cut stone. And whether he imagines or falls in with truth in his findings, he suspects that their relation to the skies above is still betrothed to a heavy mystery, one a foreigner cannot be expected to understand. 

His eyes stray, and fall upon the altars placed in the corridors. And perhaps, how he thirsts for the possibility, this is his lock and key for understanding. But those shelves are empty – except for what nature has provided, the coagulation of dust and shed leaves and whatever manner of insects that scurry about beneath – and he can only assume what their nature may be. By recollection, his tribe had honored few gods, but were keen to celebrate the faces of nature – and their sacrifices were few but thoughtful, all things of value that a god could ever ask for. And what is it that a god truly wants? He assumes their power can only come from their patrons, fueling their pleasure with the utmost veneration of squabbling armies and murmuring scholars. So is it blood, then? Blood, and blind adoration, and the pact only a soul can make when kneeling before the lifeless stone. These things could not sit on those shelves. But blood, he could provide.

During the wild passages of his mind, he had heard the faint change in the breeze behind him, and so an ear swung in its direction before she spoke. He turns, and for a moment he remembers that his mind cannot grasp for his prized dagger at his side, nor reach for an arrow from a lost quiver. But he himself is fangs and claws and a desperate need to survive, all things sharp and gnarled and feral. And it is in his eyes, and it in his teeth, and it is in his blood, as he turns to face her. His chin raises and the moonlight traces over his austere features – it pools against the sharp cheekbone, slips across his square jaw and the angles of his nose. But they do not reach for his eyes, no, they do not dare. Those speculate and calculate, their bright gold slivers peering from a vat of black, penetrative and cold. For a moment he drinks her in, all curves and brightness and a softness he does not know. But she has not come to harm him. 

She speaks again, and he recalls her only vaguely from the halls of the Night Court. All faces are a blur, and names are lost on him. But he secures her in his mind now. “Erasmus," he breathes like a spell, and it slips from his tongue like a whisper as the shadows quiver. As he stands beside the starlit stone, his reflection in it is dark and looming, a pool of misting shadow interrupted by strains of gold that are found amicably by the hungry mirror. They too share their wealth with him, and between them it is uncertain where one strand begins and another ends. “I came across it some nights ago, on my way north. But it was occupied." And I lack patience for the living. His words do not reflect this impatience, and they are not even empty or disillusioned – they are full, and echo softly from the dark that slips between the cracks and crevices, curious and pliant. “I want to know what it is." As if she could provide answers – he could tell she was older than he, but not for the lack of looks. The way she moved, spoke, he allowed his assumptions to wander over how long she had lived in the Night Court. And he hoped that she had more answers than he did.

@Katniss