It was in Dawn’s new light, that the girl emerges from the forest. Before her the castle rises high, high into the sky, framed in the pinks and golds of a cresting sun.
The dusk girl had been to every kingdom thus far and met each at its most favoured time of day. There was no escaping that the dawn was finest here…
It is upon the precipice of the trees, that the dusk girl is tethered. Awe binds her limbs to the grassy banks of the river that curls sleepily around the foot of the castle.
Her limbs ache, satisfyingly so, for her trek had been a long one; through night and shadow with only starlight and moonlight to mark her path. It was only as she reached the edge of the woodland, as trees began to thin and the world began to creep back in, that she saw the first light, brightening the sky.
She wonders if the sage was here. Charlemagne, the boy of books and dust with whom she had, had her worst encounter since arriving in Novus… The fear of meeting him again would not sway the flower girl from her task to greet each Court and their sovereign. It helped that adventure eased the ache of her limbs and fuelled her eager heart.
High above the golden girl the trees begin to sigh, rousing from their slumber by the morning songs of birds. Clad in dirt and dust, strewn with petals and flowers, and bearing scraped knees and muddy feet, Florentine appears a natural part of this forest life.
The water calls and she does so long for a bath, if not to let the waters ease the dirt from her skin, then just to ease the ache of her muscles. Lavender petals fall forwards, loosened from her mane to drift upon the water’s surface. Is it warm? she asks as they float off towards the sea.
She does not hear their answer, nor even wait to see it one would ever come, for with a sigh and a flurry of wings, the dusk girl ascends the walls of the fort. She lands, light and nimble upon the other side, her amethyst eyes gleaming as she drinks in its towering parapets and lavish stonework.
It is so quiet in these early moments as the rest of the world still slumbers on. Yet if any land was to be awakening first, it would be the denizens of Delumine.
“Good Morning,” She says, her voice a melody to accompany the choir of birds, “I bring greetings from the Dusk Court and Queen Rannveig.”
He heard the wings before he saw them, his gaze turned eastward to capture the colors shifting and changing upon the horizon. It was unsurprising that dawn would be his favorite time of the day; it had become as much a part of him as the court he called his home, shaping him with a sense of purpose he had been so thoroughly lacking during his time shuffled among the courts of Novus. It was refreshing, satisfying even: he hadn’t known what he was missing until he had stumbled upon it quite by accident.
The dawn reminded him of his place in the world. Of all the things he wished to be.
It was bold and forward, bringing the start of a new day and with it, hope.
He waited until the sun had risen a good inch (from his perspective) above the thin line of the horizon before finally turning away, basking in the early morning reverence. His hooves made satisfying clips upon the stone-paved path, his ears bouncing gently in time with his trot. Ipomoea wasn’t sure what it was he searched for, but the investigation invigorated him far better than any caffeine would, awakening his senses and preparing him for the day ahead.
It was around the next bend that he saw her, clothed in all the same creams and caramels as he remembered. This time there was no hesitation, no sudden sliding or stopping as there was the last time they met. He strode boldly forward, similarly as though he were greeting a long time friend. Which, to Po, they already were.
"Florentine!” His voice was hushed amidst the morning but served well to carry his joy across the courtyard nonetheless, accompanied with his characteristically easygoing smile. His
mottled legs carried him closer in his pause, all the better to keep his voice low and respectful to those still sleeping or starting their day. “Good morning!”
@Florentine @kasil
i hope you don’t mind po butting in here!
He’s not been sleeping well, these past few weeks. A wyvern stalks his dreams, following him through each dark twist of a maze where the hedges fade into row upon row of books, and both their feet echo on the library floors. At the edges of his vision there are licks of flame, but they are never there when he turns to look. Somewhere ahead of him, he knows, is the wiseman, but the wiseman will not help him - only pose a riddle, and laugh when he can’t answer.
Charlemagne wakes to the sound of that laughing when the light is still feeble and silver. He wakes alone, as he has every morning since arriving to the Dawn Court, and he stretches and shakes the tension out and slips as quiet as he can toward the courtyard and the fields. He likes seeing the sun come up (as surely most of them do) - for him it’s a reassurance. He is safe here, even if he is not…not quite happy.
Even so, hope builds in him as he takes in the proud walls, the careful placement of each stone in the courtyard, the way the dawn washes it all in gold. It’s clear this place was built with sunrise in mind, made to welcome it.
He’s nearly to the gates when he hears the first good morning, and something about the voice is naggingly familiar, but it’s muffled by distance. It’s not until he, like Ipomoea, rounds a turn and sees her that he realizes why he knows the voice. It’s her. The girl with the dagger, the girl with the grinning insults.
Florentine, the paint sage cries, quite happily, just as Charlemagne opens his mouth to say something far less welcoming. The unicorn shuts it again and huffs a breath, unsure how he feels about the pegasus being greeted so terribly fondly. That, and wasn’t Florentine the name that Pan had mentioned, almost reverently? Clearly the experiences others had had with her differed quite a bit from his own.
His first impulse is to turn away, but he doesn’t allow himself to; he is not a coward, he is not, he is not. He survived the maze, survived the dragon, survived the desert and Bexley. He would survive a second encounter with the girl.
Instead of saying anything, the young stallion only watches her from across the courtyard, neck arched and expression as brooding as he could make it.
A fitting time of day for the Sovereign of Delumine. His eyes were closed as he faced the sun, imagining in his mind’s eye as Oriens began the task of carrying the orb of light over the horizon. He liked to imagine what the god might be thinking, or perhaps saying to himself as he set about his task. Would he be well rested from the night? Would he have concern over the inhabitants of Novus and Delumine? Would he be thinking of the Sovereign, perhaps praising him or..more likely chastising him. The thought brought a frown to his face, the concern over whether or not he was fit to lead the Dawn Court an ever present one.
He had intended to visit the mountains to pray, but he had found himself littered with duties that required him to stay within the bounds of the Court thus far. There were so many new members, and he wanted to know them all by name -- to hear their concerns and there was of course...the higher ranking positions to consider. There were several individuals who had expressed an interest in his Emissary position, yet Kasil delayed in naming a successor. He wanted to be sure of the person that he called his counsel. Word had reached him, however, that he was alone in regard to choosing his higher ranks. It appeared that the other courts had swiftly put others into place and he envied the confidence that the other Sovereigns had in their choices. How lucky they must be to have close allies already.
The stallion ruffled his wings, the dark feathers stretching out wide with the desire to take flight. Soon, he decided. He could use the time away to clear his head.
He returned to the Court, his stride purposeful as he moved through the outer ring. His steps ring out against the stone path, as he fiddles with the gold adornments that kept his hair out of his way. His blunt cut tail swishes along behind him, barely brushing the back of his feet. It was Ipomoea, or Po as he preferred to be called, that caught his attention first -- the cherry colored stallion a sight that was starting to become very familiar to Kasil. He was quite easily recognized with those winged feet of his, and Kasil opened his mouth to greet him when he noticed the object of his subject’s attention.
The female was of slight build, coated in a luxurious cream. Flowers clung to an entanglement of fine hair, honey gold. Kasil thought that perhaps he would never be accustomed to the beauty of women. He supposed the lack of them in his childhood had something to do with that. Sheltered away in service to his grandfather, he had no time for women -- and his travels as a youth had been filled with such a strong purpose and then desire to run away from it all that he had been blind to them then as well. Only now, with thoughts in his head as a king and his desire to know all the subjects of Delumine did he see women. Strong and beautiful, he was surprised at how little he had considered the other sex although they had most certainly always been there. The mare called out her greeting, announcing her loyalties -- and Kasil found himself stopped again.
Dusk Court. Queen Rannveig.
Ah, how fortunate! And by Po’s enthusiastic, albeit hushed, greeting of this...Florentine, they could be considered a friend. Kasil is unaware of the brooding silence brought into the court by the young Charlemagne -- for he might have said something to him. Instead, the Sovereign was enraptured by the commotion created by the mare’s appearance. A smile lifts his features, his body ushered forward with a restrained pace that is meant to keep him from appearing too interested.
”Po,” Kasil said lightly, his dark gaze travelling over his friend -- before drifting to the mare. ”You know this young lady?” He asks, dipping his head in respect to the Dusk Court mare. ”Florentine, is it? Welcome to Delumine.”
coding by Avis <3
@Ipomoea @Florentine @Charlemagne
08-17-2017, 11:21 AM
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Obsidian [PM] Posts: 380 — Threads: 45 Signos: 25
Ipomoea is the first to come, and arrive he does to the rhythm of clicking feet upon smooth flagstone. Her amethyst eyes glitter in the soft-low light, now ready for the blush of rose and wreath of flowers atop his crown.
Florentine’s smile is wide as she lifts her nose to better stir the tendrils of her fringe and see the boy in his dawn light. “Ah,” She says, as if surprised, yet her voice is warm with knowing, gentle with welcome. “Ipomoea.” Flora acknowledges him, her muzzle brushing against his shoulder fondly. “Have you seen our eagle again yet?” To the skies her eyes lift, as if hoping, upon a whim, that the creature may fly there, for the pleasure of their gaze.
But alas, the eagle was not one to answer to their whims.
The flower girl’s skin tingles with knowledge of another’s arrival. She steps closer to Ipomoea, to better peer around his slender form and greet their newest arrival.
Yet her eyes descend upon a horn she knows too well, skin she knows the scent of and eyes whose colours haunt her most guilty of thoughts. Her stomach twists, her limbs so suddenly ill at ease. She shifts in place, stirred by his presence, her smile gone, passed like the sun behind the cloud of his stony countenance.
Their silence speaks a thousand words and sheds a thousand tears. And yet they let it draw on, just as tight, just as painful. The girl’s tongue is held tight and then tighter still, until she can no longer bear this stillness of silent words and tears. “Charlemagne.” She breathes at last, cool and pained. Florentine cannot place just what he is to her, she cannot sort the feelings his presence has stirred. He draws her anger, her upset, her every bad quality. She teased him until she drew pain, but only because he had (unknowingly) drawn blood first… Now she is the worst of herself within his presence and she hates it.
Their meeting lived on, within her, far longer than she would have liked. His passion for books awoke a curiosity she could not shift, until at last, she found herself within the Dusk Court library, surrounded by dusty tomes and scrolls of histories long ago lived. She fell asleep too soon, too fast.
She was no sage.
“How are your books?” She asks, with both spite and interest and it arrives upon her voice in a lightly broken melody.
The twilight girl is saved from further struggle when another man arrives. For a moment, still troubled by Charlemagne’s presence, her eyes flit to him and she bears no smile for the Dawn King. Just a lingering frown that is fading, and fading, too slow, too slow.
Her eyes flit to Ipomoea still close, still warm with greeting and she falls into his comforting presence.
You know this young lady?”
All at once, with his quiet words, the Dawn King leaves Florentine a tangle of shyness and longing. It had been so long since she had been called a young lady, the last lips to ever call her so was her father and with her dagger broken, she does not know when she will see his face again – if she ever may…
With thick lashes sweeping her cheek, dusted with Dawn’s new light, her breath fans out. When those lilac eyes open once more, her gaze is upon Kasil, a smile valiantly playing along her lips once again. “We have indeed met before. One morning in the forest, I came exploring and Po was kind enough to grace me with his company for a time.”
He turns his own gaze skyward, the smile light and jovial across his lips. “I have not,” he confesses, leaning towards his new friend in easy companionship. “But I’m sure he isn’t far, if you stay you may just see him again.” The offer is subtle, as though to Po it would only make sense that she would stay in the Court of the rising sun for some time. Truly, he would not be disappointed if she did—and he would not have expected anyone to disagree.
The brooding stallion’s presence lingers in the back of his mind, a confusion he hesitates to address. It’s a demeanor he doesn’t quite recognize, a hostility he hasn’t yet encountered in his first few years of life, and it puts a sickly feeling right at the base of his withers, a discomfort he wishes to shake. Florentine’s reaction to the chestnut’s appearance does nothing to reassure him, in fact it has the opposite effect; if the girl of wings and flowers and smiles loses her charm at the mere sight of him, what good could come from his arrival? But Ipomoea is ever the optimist, ever the inclusive type, even if the many signals he’s given from both Florentine and Charlemagne seem to scream otherwise. “I’ve not seen you before,” he says tentatively, but not meanly, in the direction of the horned man. “Have you come to watch the sunrise, too?” He wonders briefly if he visits the Court with Florentine, but the wondering is quickly dismissed. They certainly do not appear to be friends, much less traveling companions, if the dun girl’s curt words and abrupt frown were any hints to him.
The mention of books causes Po’s ears to perk, his avian friends head lifting slightly from his crown of feathers in interest. He wants to ask what kind of books, their subject, their length, their language—but this seems to be a dialogue meant for the man and woman and they alone, and he doesn’t wish to intrude any more than he already has.
The Delumine Sovereign appears then, and seems to save Po from his discomfort, sure and purposeful in his stride, his presence filling the courtyard at once. Ipomoea’s smile returns, wide and loud as always, as he takes a step and inclines his head in respect for the pegasus. Again, Kasil addresses him by name, and Po feels a flutter of joy in his chest, one he struggles to push back down before he makes a fool of himself.
“I do!” he exclaims, forgetting momentarily that the morning is meant to be quiet, to be still, that he should reflect it. He corrects himself: “I do. Her name is Florentine, and I call her my friend.” He casts his cerise eyes to the winged girl, his smile more tentative as he makes that assumption, hoping she would agree. He nods as she speaks, validating her story with himself as witness. “I hope our Court is as splendid as our forests?”
He is not prepared for the way her expression falls when she sees him, especially after seeing how bright it could be when she was with a friend. She’d gone through many expressions during their brief meeting on the beach - he supposes they both had - but never one quite so warm, so comfortably happy.
Charlemagne can’t remember the last time someone smiled at him that way; he only realizes then how fiercely he wants a friend, how lonely he is. Even in a short lifetime of loneliness, the ache of it here in Novus is different, for he had hoped for — oh, so much more.
He’s too sorry, then, to feel guilty or glad at the way she looks at him. The chestnut almost startles to hear his name on her lips - he hadn’t thought she’d remember it; she’d only called him other names, names that fit just as poorly as his own. He takes a few steps forward, further into the courtyard where the light falls soft and gold. “Florentine,” he answers, though it seems strange to say her name when she hadn’t been the one to give it to him. He wonders if she’s sorry he knows it.
Her question makes him wonder more - does she mean to tease him again, here, in front of others, in his own home? - and his gaze darts uncertain and brief as a dragonfly to Po before settling back on the girl. “Likely duller than your adventures,” he says, but he does not say it cruelly, only softly. The cherry-and-snow stallion addresses him then, and Charlemagne smiles, but it is less cheerful than rueful. He does not say that he’s seen the other boy - knows his name, even - from the court gathering. Few, it seemed, had noticed his presence there. Instead, he nods. “I can’t imagine a more suitable place for it,” he says, still soft as the light in question, “though I should like to see it from every court.”
He is spared from saying anything further by the appearance of their King, and he ducks his chin at the dark bay’s appearance, unsure whether to feel further humiliation or relief that the man neither greets nor possibly even notes him. Perhaps he ought to have been a spy and not a sage. He watches with longing and sorrow with the way Kasil greets Po, the ease with with the three name each other friends.
Between the shadowed hallways and the open stones he is caught; between slipping away and joining them, speaking and silence. It feels like more of a crossroads than any in the maze had been. He closes his eyes and sees the Shaman’s sneer, sees the mists begin to rise, hears the mocking word: Wrong.
Charlemagne is so very tired of being wrong, even when he feels he is doing right - especially then.
With a held breath he steps forward to join the trio, his gaze finding Florentine’s, wearing a smile that grows gradually less fragile.
He was happy with the easy camaraderie that Po and the mare shared, this Florentine. The bay stallion listened with contentment as they shared their knowledge of each other, without a single negative thing to say about the other. He smiled, nodding in the direction of the splashed stallion. ”That’s good to hear.” He said, his voice a lilting thing as his lips upturned. ”I would expect nothing less of my Emissary.” He spared only a glance, if only to see the surprise on Po’s face when he realized just what had happened.
The sovereign had been thinking a lot lately about his empty ranks, and who he would get to fill them since the meeting that he’d held with the court. Kaladin had made a good point at his initial meeting. His higher ranks were empty, despite the growth of his court. All for good reason, he counseled himself. But it was time to start making some hard decisions, and Po...the few times they had met, well...he had stuck out to Kasil. And he hoped, despite his youth, that the boy would grow into his role.
”Forgive me, I’m Kasil. He said, pausing as he noticed Charlemagne for the first time. How long had he been standing there...in the shadows? The king recalls the failed attempt to introduce him to Nimue, a twinge of regret causing him to step to the side and makes space for the sorrel to join them. ”Charlemagne, it’s good to see you again. Come, join us?” He indicated the space beside him, his ears twitching with an eagerness to hear the young stallion’s response.
He cleared his throat, turning back to the mare who had brought three stallion’s to her small gathering. ”What brings you back to Dawn?” He asked her, glancing between Po and Charlemagne. He had a sense that he was the odd one out here, the stranger.
Her eyes join Po’s where they peer up to the pink-dawn sky. There is no sign of undulating wings, not slim figure ghosting its way across the sky, arrowhead quick.
His welcome, his assumption that she would stay, brings a smile to her lips and slowly she lowers her skyward gaze, to settle upon his rose coloured skin. “I will come back Po, but sadly today is not the day for bird hunting… You will consider me your partner for all bird hunts though, won’t you?” Teeth bite over her lip, hope mingling that one day she may return to join him in their search for their dawn eagle.
Her eyes shift when he begins to address Charlemagne. Oh that ache in her stomach, that grim guilt still lingers and yet she tries, as he does with a small smile. Ipomoea’s light words, his introduction is a balm to their wounds and the Dusk girl takes comfort in the rose boy.
Her name upon his lips, the way he forms it, is sad, the moment poignant . Of course, she had never given him her name, choosing instead to keep calling him by names he did not enjoy. They were not names she ever thought someone would truly dislike, not until him.
She blinks slowly as conversation drifts to the dawn. She turns to gaze at the sky through flowers and tangled hair. The sun blazes gold, large and young and eager for this new day. “Eh,” She says casually, “Dawn’s not so great in Terrastella.” Her gaze drifts to Charlemagne, her words for him more so than even the king, or the rose boy stood beside her. “The Sunset, however, you will never see one finer.”
She watches the smile begin to grow upon Charlemagne’s lips and she begins to think it is an even finer thing to see that the new sun rising.
The mention of Emissary captures her attention and she looks between the Dawn King and his newest appointment. “Oh!” She exclaims, ‘Congratulations Po!” Her lips reach for his cheek, a fleeting kiss of celebration as her wing nudges his side. “Glad to meet you. Seems we won’t be rid of each other that easily.”
What has brought you back to Dawn?
She considers the Dawn king’s question, her dusk eyes gleaming. “Only to see the Dawn and to bring greetings from my queen, Rannveig. Only boring stuff really.” The girl pauses, considering the boys in front of her. “Can I have a tour?” Flora asks, quite brazenly.
There is some disappointment when Florentine replies, but it is short lived and fleeting. “I can think of no one better to join me,” he assures her, a hopeful smile accompanying his words. “I will be sure to seek your company above any other’s for them all.”
Ipomoea finds himself nodding along with the chestnut’s words, striving to make his smile as warm and encouraging as he could, though it remained small. “I’ve seen it in a few places myself, and here it seems the most magnificent of all,” he confessed, taking a bit of pride in having already traveled so far while still so young. “But there’s nothing quite like experiencing something you know in someplace new,” he added, not wanting to take away from the unicorn’s own wishes. “Watching the sun change positions would be incredible anywhere.” Aware now that he was rambling, he cut himself off a bit shorter than he meant to, hoping his smile would accommodate for it.
His attention is still focused on the brooding unicorn when his king speaks, and for an extended moment he does not quite realize what Kasil’s words mean. He hangs there, suspended in time, Florentine’s kiss nearly unnoticed. His eyes are saturated in surprise and wonder, locked on his king who seems to quickly focus himself on something, someone, else. Ipomoea opened his mouth to question him, to correct the king on his mistake (was it a mistake?) but his time is already up, and he can only sit there, a whispered “Thank you,” finally spoken as the sovereign turns away.
It is a slow thing to shake himself out of but he manages, the ringing in his ears soon replaced by Florentine’s voice. ’Boring stuff, really.’ He has half a mind to interject, to remind the dun girl that there is nothing boring about witnessing the birth of a new day, but his mind moves too slowly, and she is already speaking once more.
“A tour?” Ipomoea asks, thankful for the diversion his mind has been given. He spares a glance at his king, peering at him from beneath long eyelashes. “I think that could be arranged?”
@kasil @Florentine
def not the best but i wanted to get something out! i wasn’t sure if i should leave out charlemagne entirely since he’s been deleted but i had that part already written so i just went with it lol
”!!!”
