truly: a grumble that dvalinn ought to have kept to herself, but when one is as ornery as her, it can be rather difficult to accomplish. the ache had once more bloomed at her wing, and had settled deeply at the core of it's ability to move. instead, both would rest at her side, tucked away from the temptation to remove herself from the damnable plain and homewards to denocte. more oft than not it would be found bearable, and easily ignored when the time called for it. typically, an outing like this, it would be muted with use of herb and off she'd go back to her hovel among the night court. typically, that is, and not at all like that moment there, she'd found herself in.
herbs, she'd wanted and found and gathered. it was a simple task, that she was obliged and in scholarly pursuit to have gathered. herbs, damnable herbs that caused her to trek. each step was not difficult to take, and her stride was slow and steady as she began to slow march back home. it was her assumption that the pain would abate as time went on, as the hours trickled by; and in lessening the wait, it seemed reasonable to continue on her way to denocte.
an unheard whispering in her ear drew it to swiftly flick, and of course, deepened her frown. "hræsvelgr, i do not take kindly to your tone." an exasperated groan peeled itself from the sage, as frustration burrowed deeper into the nightwitch. how unkind, how rude! of course, for those observing, it would seem as though the little witch was speaking to herself, and by all rights, that was safe to assume. to the tormented and wounded thing, however, it was the little wretch at her neck being far less than charming. if one was to hear what was cajoling in her ear, it would have followed a little something like this:
" lovely thing, you seemed to have left something at home. i believe it's safe to presume you're falling into senility. it really isn't like you to leave yourself stranded so far from the nest. "
to which, the little witch replied, "i ought to have left you at the nest."
" now, who's being unkind. "
and so it went, the little witch and her would-be companion marching off to the horizon. an old wound from her youth burgeoning her yet again. the herbs tucked neatly beneath the maroon cape, and nothing but the supple, simple jingle of the gilded chains adorning her blackened figure. it was rather iresome, despite the joy she took in her appearance. the soft rattle of her movement only offered further annoyance as she would have much rather be in the air, and capable of faster travel. most of all, her great fear laid in being found by some sweet and kind Samaritan, looking to lessen the burden of traveling "alone." oh, that was the last thing she needed: more company.
‘Do not go into those woods,’ They say.
“You can never be sure of your way.”
The snow’s so thick
And the ice so slick.
With your life you will surely pay.
-------
He watches the little witch go. Ahead of him she drifts like a storm rolling in from the sea. If he would see her face, to see the angular lines shadowed with pain and displeasure, then he would surely call her a storm-monger.
She talks as she goes, her voice a thing of babbling, unsettled seas. She is fitful, he thinks; a creature as unstable as the winds that swirl wildly beneath a gathering tempest. There is no one but Polunin to hear the words she speaks and so, he surmises, she must be mad, or lonely to speak so freely.
Haunted a ghost voice whispers within his mind and his elegant nape arches high with distaste.
Firelight eyes blink once, then twice. It is with distaste that he finds himself here, so far from water. The only sea his body knows this instant is one of swaying grasses: coarse and ticking and irritating. He is headed back, the call of Denocte’s lake too strong. It is with adoration and curses that he considers that jagged body of water. For it had lured him here, a siren’s call in the dark, as he fled his old court of ice and snow.
It is ironic then, that the girl should be moving the same way as he… Was she the lake, come to call him back with her wild, wintry eyes and blue, blue skin? She is water in all its forms and as she goes, as she moves on through this dry, green sea, she staggers like choppy waters. His fighting eye, predatory with his marksman’s gaze, settles in upon her point of pain.
On and on the black swan stalks the wandering storm. On and on toward their Night Court home and it is only when she nears the edge of this damnable plain that he finally draws along beside her: the black front of her raging storm. His eyes bathe her in consuming fire and his teeth do clack whilst his wings spread once, then twice, beating the air to ease their strain. An eye falls to Dvalinn’s own feathered limbs held tight to her side, held stiflingly tight.
Knife sharp feathers fold away, like night daggers sheathed to await the cover of night in order to play, to destroy. The shift of his wings disturb the air, rousing the scents of sweet herbs and yarrow spices clinging to her skin. Fire-eyes trail to Denocte’s sage, looking for wounds. Polunin was a warrior, he knew the smell of newly cut herbs, ready for healing, ready for, “Poison?” He asks of her at last, his voice the rough grate of a coarse bird’s cry. “Or healing? Which do you collect those herbs for?”
As the black swan gazes down his nose at the mumbling witch, he feels her capable of either.
'perhaps it's too long a journey for a wretched prune such as yourself.'
the mind whispered, and she knew it to be true. if anything, her beloved hræsvelgr was just that: her conscience. set upon her to fill the void and balance the scales. it's unheard, after all. just a joining of words passing behind each eye, the ivy crawling beneath a dense wood: hræsvelgr. he had been special to her, in life. too special and too necessary to simply do without. her back felt bare without his claws; his death had left her feeling too alone. even when in flight, she yearned for the blackened reach of his wing span grazing hers; his deathly caw announcing the arrival of others. he would not have allowed the swan to come so close, not without making her aware of his approach. his voice was a blight, much like her own existence. and it brought a crawl beneath her flesh, reinvigorating her ire with every pass of each syllable. her teeth clenched behind the curve of her frown.
' poison. ' it was a phrasal sneer, slicked against her mouth; offered from the side of her lips.
it was a spoken as a gesture meant to keep him guessing: just what were her motives? it was an incantation, a guarded word to safekeep her from prying eyes and probing words; for those, like him, who asked too much. her eyes clipped into his direction, icily regarding him as though he were a gnat. of course it was reactionary, spurned by the intrusion and immediate thought he was just another stranger (never mind the fact that all were strangers to the little witch). her mouth was parched, and far from warmed by the badgering use of quieting the stone around her neck. it was with reluctance, she bade him some atonement for her chilled acknowledgement; guided by a simple look of surprise in recognizing him. it was with a huff, and a clipped sigh -- exasperation, and unplanned comedic relief.
' oh, it's you. '
there was evident jealousy that rose in her stare, having now realized she was in the company of someone at least partially familiar. she knew him of denocte: carrying the same withering, sweetened scent of their home. that, and embarrassment of being discovered, was that within itself enough to tame her tongue. the jealousy, however, laid within his ability. she was still painfully grounded, whereas his were still of precision and ability -- a blade, she would shamelessly steal if there was the capability. having halted, she watched him from beneath the heavy veil of her lashes.
' a pinch of both, i imagine. ' she considered teasing him, offering him but a taste of her wares: let's find out. her tongue pressed itself against the hood of her mouth, ' peaceful times beget wandering souls, it seems, yeah? ' it was unlike her to partake in idle chatter, and so this was more meant to comment on his presence there, as opposed to making conversation. she was unsure of his station within the court, but it (to her) was unseemly that he too took to leaving denocte.
The colt had walked the entire way to the plains, and it wasn't as if it was a hideously long journey from his nest within the realm of dusklight and stars, but still a feat that he was unlikely to accomplish more than once. Why, you might ask, did a young growing boy force himself to journey so far on foot when he could have easily carried himself on his wings. Instead he had trudged over gras and fern, dragging that monolithic length of tail hair behind him like a ball and chain.
It was training - or rather, that's what Dohv called it. To be a strong and mighty warrior, one must train from dawn 'til dusk and prepare body and mind in all aspects of life. It was both the physical and mental demands of a warrior that drove Damascus to test his own strength by making the remarkable journey on foot with the ginormous weight of his tail in tow.
It was oly when the boy reached the height of the plains that he stopped heaving and instead flopped the great mass of hair over hies left wing joint in oder to carry it closer to his center of gravity - it made travelling much easier, it collected less sticks and snagged on less branches when it was coiled upon his wing. Dohv had already taken to riding on the soft pillowy feathers between Damascus' wings when the voices emerged from over yonder, diverting both the child and his jerboa's attention their way.
Staring with an odd curiosity, Damascus watched as the witchy woman picked a bloom and held it to her breast, soon to whisper about poison to an approaching stag. With his gold-leafed wings and rackety steps there was no way they wouldn't have spotted the boy by now, so instead of hiding he instead began to approach with all the curiosity of a cat.
"Poison?" the teenager boomed through a terrifyingly deep voice. (Mainly because he was a child; Most grown men's voices never developed such a dark timbre.)
"Poison need you what for?" Damascus couldn't understand why anyone would be out here gathering herbs for a poison of all things - who on earth were they planning to use it on?
‘Do not go into those woods,’ They say.
“You can never be sure of your way.”
The snow’s so thick
And the ice so slick.
With your life you will surely pay.
-------
Onward through this grassland sea the pair did walk.
They were as if from a fairytale: the witch, beauty and crookedness and the swan, grace and aggression.
They sailed on towards the night, tendrils of darkness herding them like dogs, nipping at their heels. Darkness was coming, but it was nothing compared to the darkness toward which they moved.
Dvalinn’s answer lingered between them, holding fast through the rustling of grasses and the stirring of the approaching, midnight bathed trees. That innocent scent of herbs and spices, accompanying the witch’s beauty, would be enough to ease an innocent mind.
Yet Polunin is no such creature.
He has seen devils shrouded in black. He has made a deal with a frost demon: his death for eternal life. The demon would not let him die until his time was served, and so, what was there truly to fear in this diminutive creature of stormy grey and wild, silver eyes?
Blood red lips pull into a smile, the first that had graced his lips since he arrived. The smile was a beautiful thing, set upon ever more beautiful lips and a beguiling face. And yet, there is something dark that lingered there, something unsettling that sets vipers writhing in the body of its beholder.
Polunin truly cared not if she bore poison, maybe she did, it would make the crone only slightly more interesting in his eye. She goes on, mundane conversation pouring from her lips as his eyes scold her skin from the outside in - oh to see what lay beneath this slim witch’s skin…
“It seems they do. Tell me, who were you talking to, little witch?” He asks, his voice a soft, soft hiss that slips from avian lips. His head, pointed and elegant, tilts suddenly, avian curiosity seeping out to marry his avian voice.
Polunin moves, maybe speak again, when a voice resounds like a clanging gong between them. Muscles flare along the night swan’s spine, tightening like rope against this invasion of sound and proximity. Ember eyes light to flame, searing their way from the little black witch and off to the tall, tall teenager with his river of hair.
The boy slinks up like a curious cat, and for each step that carries him closer, the swan’s neck arches tighter. His sneer grows darker and darker as his wings flare higher and higher. Feathers, point and arch in aggressive warning, yet he makes no move to attack… or fall to rest. Instead he keeps walking, holding the boy in his gaze with chains of fierce fire.
“What do you think poison might be used for, boy?”
@Dvalinn @Damascus - Sorry, initially posted this as Florentine. Consider me a royal doofus.
