Azrael is drawn to this place, with its carved-out grasses and light-lit paths. It is a place of wonder, a place of eerie brightness, and the star in him delights in the light. As he walks along the shadowed sheaves of long summer grass, his own body casts a turquoise glow, only adding to the allure of the festival. He is quiet - respectful and deferent - for this is not his land to walk upon… and yet there is a welcoming aire to the celebrations, Delumine’s doors flung open for visitors to come and enjoy their landscape.
He knew very little of Delumine, having drifted for most of his time in Novus among the mountains and the stars of Caligo’s court. What he knew was only what he had read – that Oriens’ people were scholars and lovers of nature. Perhaps then, Azrael’s own presence would not be so far-fetched in a place such as this, as he walks among the revelers. He stops only once or twice to stare at the autumn sky, noting that the stars seemed further here, drowned out by the brightness of lanterns and candlelight, but still he feels at peace.
Not far away, children play, and women sing to the spirits of the forest. Azrael watches them for a beat before moving onward, a sparkle in his turquoise eyes as he regards the stardust world, reverent as always for the magics at play in Novus. He travels the length of the runic signs in the meadow, speculating as he goes about their meaning, even as he stumbles upon another in the maze. Murmuring a quiet apology, his cyan gaze locks onto the stranger, and he manages a greeting smile.
“Good evening.” Azrael’s voice is even and soft in the din of celebration. “This place sure is something… have you seen the likes of this festival before?” It was small talk, and awkward small talk at that – but Azrael had nothing but pleasant acknowledgment to offer the stranger, as dark as he was light in the night.
He likes the festival, he thinks-- as much as Andras can like anything. It is comforting to see Delumine so full of life when it is usually sleepy and still. More and more the lights, and the dancing, the art, and the music feels like the country gasping for air after sinking so long in the terrible, entirely hellish year they've had.
He feels like he's watching it gasp, watching its lungs fill, and then, like nothing had happened at all, the Dawn Court moves on-- and Andras tries, also, but Andras is a creature of habit, and it is hard to replace the sense of purpose he had with whatever he is meant to do now.
Still, he thinks. It is better than the alternative.
It is perhaps because of this--the lights, the dancing, the art, the music--that when he hears a voice say good evening to him there is nothing but a quick flash of lightning to betray his annoyance. When the man approaches Andras is watching lantern wink in and out of the trees as they drift toward the ocean. Throughout the night there will be wave after wave of them, released in clumps, each sent off with a wish for some new, bright thing to come to life in their place.
Andras wonders what he would wish for.
He thinks he knows. He knows he knows. But he would never say. Not to this stranger. Not to anyone. Not even to himself.
When the Warden turns, his face is hard but not unkind. For a moment they match, blue light on blue light, each dancing in the lens of his glasses, before Andras' dies out and he is lit only by the glow of his companion and the strings of luminescent flowers scattered across the meadow. "Not this one in particular. I can't remember the last time I thought about a festival, let alone saw one." Andras frowns. "So, who are you? Do they have festivals where you're from?"
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
@azrael
(I'm so sorry trying to write actual conversations with Andras is like pulling teeth lmao)
The stallion was matter of fact, which Azrael did not mind. In fact, there is something oddly soothing about his presence, and so when the gruff voice questions him, the shed-star simply nods and offers his answers in a fashion much the same. “The place where I’m from is gone now, destroyed by dragon fire.” There is a hint of sadness when he speaks of it, the wounds still there, though healed some by the passing of time.
Now was not the time to reflect on lives lost though, Azrael thinks as he turns to watch the lanterns float to the skies. They were symbolic, he supposed – lights for the heavens. He liked to think of them as a way to remember the fallen, and had even released his own with a silent prayer for his people – a prayer for hope and memory.
“But now, I reside in Denocte… we too celebrate the autumn.” The Night Court seemed to celebrate any reason to celebrate, a strange thing in his mind, but not a bad one. After all, festivals drew strangers together and offered a place of relaxation and camaraderie. “My name is Azrael, and you?”
He finds it curious the way a silver spark seems to lick along the stranger’s spine, flicking a glance at the male and wondering without asking about the stranger. After all, it would be impolite to pry. He supposed it was some kind of magic, a thing Azrael too knew – for the stars had granted him a magic of his own. He was still honing his craft, but the shed-star had made a pledge to himself to learn more about the meaning behind his dreams, to try and make sense of his new gift.
“I’m told there is a library in Delumine – have you been there?” While he couldn’t claim to be a scholar, perhaps the tomes were just what he needed to begin his journey of self discovery. For when the stars could not provide answers, he would rely on the scholars.
