Arkhandirr ""rich kid, asshole, paint me like a villain""
The court life, Arkhandirr did not find many issues in getting used to. While it is taking him slightly longer, since usually he would have found the nearest place of entertainment and started to mingle, this time he had been keeping more to himself. While he was still as infuriating as ever, even he needed a break from this. Learning about Denocte and Caligo had been the break he had sought for so long. He needed a purpose, something to keep him tethered on the grounds he walked on. While his personality may be deceiving to some, deep down he craved this guidance, a place he would be able to learn how to forget. A place he may one day call his home, away from all the hurt and heartbreak seated deep in his heart. Arkhandirr wasn't a good man, he did not feel a reason to change either, but he could not help wanting more in life than this. He wanted to have reason to change.
This is how he found himself wandering Denocte, trying to familiarise himself with the land and letting the winds guide him. This is how he found himself in the night court itself. He had not met those in power just yet, but if he was getting serious about actually staying, he ought to seek them out one day. Today would not be that, though. While he would not be against meeting someone today, he still found comfort just being alone. This is why he wandered more near the outskirts of the large stone building, taking in his surroundings for just a moment.
The question warranted a scowl from the palomino pacing the stone halls and impressive arches of the colosseum. His hooves rasped along the stone flooring, his pace a slow amble, but two-toned eyes of pale gold and slate blue focused on his feline companion with that dark, brooding look.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Simple and to the point, gruff and standoffish. It was not the first time that Ba’al was in a foul mood and Kit knew it wouldn’t be the last time, either. Still, it was her job to keep him from acting out or being too stupid or obstinate, and it was a job she relished and found herself remarkably good at. The golden tiger followed her companion along, blinking slowly at him, knowing that these moods weren’t his fault.
Ba’al was… Complicated. He struggled to make friends but thrived in making enemies, yet his heart sung for it to be the other way around. The soldier desired companionship and understanding like a festering wound, but his social skills were lacking and he understood nothing of intermingling with others. His youth as a child soldier had imprinted in him a terrible fear and skepticism, a deeply rooted anxiety that everyone he met could not be trusted. There was Helios, of course, the palomino’s only true friend, but the other soldier could not be around all the time, so the duty of socializing Ba’al had fallen upon her and Kit was ready for the difficult, complicated, misconstrued task it would prove to be.
’You do, you’re just choosing to be facetious.’ Ba’al paused, pale brows furrowing as his dark expression turned more complex, more thoughtful.
“I’m being what?”
Kit barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. ’Don’t play dumb. Helios said for you to relax and take things easy for a while. You’re pushing yourself too hard again and he’s worried. We’re both worried.’
Ba’al heaved a sigh, tail flicking in irritation. Of course Helios would have said something to Kit… “What am I supposed to do?” He asked his companion, letting the uncertainty that coalesced in his gut be seen, “I don’t understand what he wants from me.”
Of course, there were things that Ba’al wanted, he just didn’t understand how to go about obtaining them. All he knew was Solterra. Ever since he was young and impressionable, serving this sandy land was all he knew. It was his goal, his life’s mission, his sole reason for existing… Yet even after all these years of having his collar removed, he struggled to find reason amidst all of the chaos that came with freedom.
So? Ba’al stayed in Solterra, despite wanting to go elsewhere. It was easier here, patrolling these streets and halls and partaking in the occasional spar. It was familiar, and safe, and in the end, that’s what mattered. Or so he thought.
Posted by: Willfur - 08-23-2020, 11:23 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
Willfur
A smell of damp and salt and vast, open space saturates the mule's nostrils until he's sure he'll never not feel the dry tang of brine against the back of his throat or the way the sand shifts beneath his hooves, sucking him down into the shore like a jealous, covetous thing to use him up and spit him out again when he's hollow and smooth like the grit-worn shells dotting the beach. Cerulean blue dominates his vision, pulsating like breath or a beating heart, its dominion only challenged by the gathering violet clouds of winter weather.
Willfur sighs.
Winter is not his favorite season. He gets cold quite easily, surprising for someone of his size and build, and despite the benefit of instinctive foresight to thicken his coat each year, it never seems to grow quite dense enough to keep out the brittle cold entirely and he bitterly hates the shivering misery of a frigid night, even while being able to appreciate the quiet, austere beauty of a snow covered landscape in the daylight, all rounded edges and sparkling white with ice.
"I guess it's time to break out the ear warmers." Cheering a little, he pulls two orange and blue striped sleeves of a soft, slightly fuzzy, knit material from the leather satchel hanging across one shoulder. It takes a moment of intense concentration to slip the not-so-little mule-mittens on, but once they're in place his satellite ears flick forward, expression visibly brightened. "Ahh.. Much better."
He swings his head experimentally, checking that the ear warmers are on securely and not bunched or wrinkled in a way that might pinch or rub over time. A little braid of single strands connecting the two tubes together jumps and bounces against the stallion's forehead with each sudden movement, punctuating every flick and toss of his massive skull.
She returned home without fanfare, which was fine. That was how she liked things nowadays. Simple, quiet, relaxing, and without any fucking trouble. Maybe she was getting old. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe the two were one in the same.
The twins, Ard and Erd, had begged her to sequester them away for a little while. They needed time to themselves apparently, and in need of a bit of a getaway herself, the Sun Daughter had escorted them to their destination of choice. It took some time but eventually they arrived, and Israfel took a few selfish days to relax and rest up before making the trek home. They could find their own way back.
She returned with the ending of the equinox, which… In a way, it seemed strangely ironic. Why not return when the celebration of equilibrium was upon them? To understand and know balance, and fairness, and justice?
… Fuck, Israfel was too damn tired to partake in philosophical debate right now. Her shoulders ached, and her wings would definitely be sore for a couple of days. Tucking the feathered limbs close to her sides, both to relax them and help ward off the chill, she pressed on through the quiet, empty streets. It was hours past dusk and most of Terrastella were surely tucked away in their warm beds, but despite her fatigue and desire for a stiff drink and a warm bed, Israfel found herself drawn to the court square. Overhead the skies were clear, the stars twinkling and glittering like gemstones amidst a dark sea. It almost felt as though she could reach out and pluck one from the very canopy, that’s how close they appeared.
The Regent stepped into the city square with a leisurely stride, vermilion eyes searching the area. A few late-night citizens passed, nodding to her before disappearing to presumably return to their homes, but her eyes were locked upon the gleaming statue centered in the square proper.
“... Well, that’s fucking new.”
Brows furrowed, the Sun Daughter pressed closer, gilded hooves scraping upon the cobblestone with every step. She did not have to fully examine the elegantly crafted visage to know who it was of, for the colors gave it away. The mixed opals of red, purple, and pink created a likeness of Vespera of which she had seen only once before, in a time of rain and flooding, but not even her previous anger to the Goddess could dampen the awe of beauty and splendor before her now.
Frowning a little in thought, Israfel glanced sidelong, catching the stares of two soldiers in waiting nearby. They were playing sentry, she could tell, and the Regent gave each of them a single nod in understanding before looking back to the statue.
She was not one to pray. Not anymore. Those days had come and gone and honestly, Israfel had begun to believe that ‘prayer’ did very little. Oh, but once upon a time she had prayed constantly, young and foolish and unchristened to the harsh realities of life. Why wouldn’t she pray? The product of a God herself, it would be foolish to not believe, to not have faith… But gods could be cruel. They would take and take and take and return very little to their loyal disciples, and for what?
Perhaps this mortal life had steeled her more than she thought. Letting out a long, drawn out breath, she lowered her head. At the feet of the statue were trinkets of various importance; some precious stones, a few haphazardly tossed signos, some necklaces, crude creations, even sketched pictures… Payments of fealty? Signs of devotion? Gifts made in fear of retribution?
Was there even a difference?
Another exhale, another plume of mist rising into the sky only to disappear. “... You and I haven’t always gotten along,” Israfel began, not bothering to hide her tones or her choice of words. If Vespera truly was ‘all seeing, all knowing’ like the Gods claimed, she would already be familiar with the Sun Daughter’s foul tongue. “I don’t agree with the things you allowed to happen. I don’t think I ever will.” She paused, chewing her tongue for a second, mulling her words. “... But I guess that was a different time. We can’t move forward when only staring at the past, or whatever the fuck that saying is.”
Again, silence. A faint breeze picked up, toying with the mare’s tresses. It was far too cold and the full grasp of winter would be upon them soon. She briefly thought of the twins, warm in their tropical getaway, and envied them just a little.
“I guess you aren’t too bad. I mean, I’m still here. Somehow. And I’m a pretty damn good judge of character.” A lie, but whatever. “But I’m also not here for you. I’m here for this land, first and foremost. It’s my home. Even that stinking, disgusting swamp that I always seem to end up patrolling.”
Rolling her shoulders, the joints still terribly sore and aching from her flight, Israfel sighed once more. “I guess what I’m trying to say is despite everything, we’re still here. And I guess that’s all that matters. Mari’s a good Queen, but I can’t say you deserve her.” Honestly, none of them did, so it wasn’t like she was being unkind.
The Sun Daughter’s glittering vermilion eyes focused down upon the offered gifts and tributes once more and she bit her lip, pondering. There was nothing fancy on her person that she could hand over. Was she supposed to leave something? Glancing over at one of the soldiers once more, she arched a questioning brow. He returned her look with a bit of confusion before shrugging a shoulder, and the Regent shook her head.
“... Okay. Sure. Um. Here.” Pulling something out of the borrowed traveling satchel, Israfel set the glass item down at the hooves of the opal statue. The nearly empty liquid sloshed around at the disturbance, it’s rich amber color darker in the sparse lighting. “I was going to finish it, but… I guess you can have it. I don’t know if it’s your thing, but maybe you need it more than I do.” There was a hesitant pause before Israfel stifled a yawn, barely resisting the urge to stretch as well. “I need sleep. Goodnight.”
And with that, the Sun Daughter turned on her haunches to amble towards the citadel with her room in mind. In her wake lay the various types of offerings, and now among them, a mostly-empty bottle of amber colored whiskey.
He disliked the propriety of it all, the way that everyone gathered to preen their feathers and boast their praise. Everyone had arrived sporting their absolute best, their coats groomed a sleek shine and hair adorned or braided or left to veil. It stank of alcohol and smoke, and more than once he’d caught a whiff of opium but left it at that. So long as no one was causing any trouble, he wouldn’t interfere.
Oh, he’d received an invitation as well, but he’d left it in his quarters with absolutely no desire to attend… Yet here he was. Helios had claimed that ‘it would be good for him’ to get out and go, even if it was to simply keep watch on things. He was a soldier, after all, and hardly could he see himself dabbling in such pompous, egotistical, self-absorbed tomfoolery as everyone around him was doing.
Drinks. Special cocktails, he heard some bedazzled dame exclaim. Games. Truth or dare and scavenger hunts. What, were they all dumb little foals needing to be lead to the teat for a meal? Could the adults not act accordingly? Ba’al scoffed quietly and rolled his eyes, nonplussed. Parties.
The sooty palomino shifted uncomfortably as he played sentry in a quiet corner of the courtyard, letting out a slow, measured breath. Two-toned eyes of rich gold and gentle blue glanced about, taking in the various faces and shows of grandeur, watching the party goers gossip and mingle and strut their stuff that reminded him of the way peacocks bragged their feathers. He recognized very few of them, and that stirred something in his gut that forced him to look away.
Envy? Anger? Yearning? It was a word he didn’t have, a foreign language upon his tongue, and so Ba’al kept his silence and continued to scrutinize and judge and watch. He was there for a purpose, to keep the peace, and had no intentions on being drawn away from his self-imposed employ.
Even so, his eyes wandered, trailing after a finely dressed fellow in subtle admiration. Handsome, that one. Shame there was a pretty little mare at his side, all dolled up and glamorous. Letting them pass without a single word, Ba’al resumed his vigilant watch, letting the ambient noise settle over him.
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
The hissing sound of blades upon ice slithers through the night. Leonidas comes, stepping out of the shadow of the trees about the lake. His aureate eyes drink in the dark figures, limned in moonlight as they appear to float through the silver-dark night. Laughter and screams bubble up from smiling lips and fallen bodies. He is in no rush to move and stands dark as a shadow, his body a stag, his antlers leached of their gold in the moonlight. They glow pale as bone.
Nicnevin.
Leonidas speaks the name, over and over within his mind. Then he lifts the parchment he holds and beneath the moonlight studies the words. Nicnevin. He speaks the name aloud, lets the syllables, the sound of it dance across his tongue and lips. He thinks of how he makes the noise and looks to the page and all the dark, cursive letters. The wild-wood boy does not know which pattern makes each noise. He does not know where that name Nicnevin, is written. He would like to… Though a year alone within a wood has taught him many things it has not taught a boy how to read. He found the letter pinned to a tree he passes day in and day out. He plucked the invitation from the bark and knew it contained words. He knew none of them.
It took him a day to find someone who might read it for him. “Leonidas,” They read, “You are cordially invited to a playdate with Nicnevin. Meet at night upon the Vitreus Lake when the moon is at its fullest.” And he peered at the invitation after, eagerly scouring the words for his name. He spent hours gazing upon the paper and its elegant type, wondering which pattern bore his name and which one said ‘Nicnevin’.
The invitation is worn from his attention, its corners are bent and worried, and creases lie sharp across its face. When at last he tips his solemn gaze up from his invite, the lake is ever more full of horses. How would he find Nicnevin amidst them all? He turns, reluctant and defeated. The woodland calls her orphan boy back to her and he goes. Except…
Except for a flash of gold and bronze that glows beneath moonlight and sings like a blade. Oh, Leonidas knows the song of that body. He knows her laughter in the air. He smiles as he moves to her. The sight of her sets static coursing across his skin, he shivers in remembrance of their dance and the storm that framed their meeting.
“Wildling,” Leonidas breathes and presses his muzzle to her neck, relieved, emboldened by a familiar face.
The meadow is gleaming. Warm light, cast from the strung lights, glitter across the icy meadow. Sereia stands upon the edge of the meadow and drinks in the sight. It is like nothing she would find at the bottom of the ocean. The glow of the festival is gentle and warming. It wards off the bite of winter and sets it prowling along the wooded edge of the Delumine meadow.
A covered walkway welcomes daters into the meadow. It is a living tunnel, the greenery frosted silver. The plants grow over metal archways, woven through with ice flowers and lights. Sereia feels the soft light dapple over her buttermilk skin. As she steps of the far end of the tunnel she sees yet more archways dotted about, between them small tables are set up, each with a flickering candle and fireflies caught in a jar.
Sereia blinks, slowly, slowly. Couples and groups are littered across the meadow. It was a blessing she had met Elena once before and Sereia looks for the sun-drenched skin of the other girl. She sees the flash of a snow-white heart and edges toward her.
“Elena.” Sereia smiles when soon they are close. It is a small smile that teases her lips. It is kept small, her makeup artfully applied to conceal the too-wide, too-sharp line of her predatory mouth. “I brought you a gift.” Shyly Sereia lifts the carefully wrapped present. Beneath the painted paper and the bamboo bow, a book lies bound in soft leather. It sings and it begs for words to fill its empty leaves.
Sereia waits until she opens it before she murmurs lightly, “I thought you might like it as a place to lay your thoughts…” her eyes trail over the soft leather, the gold leaf pattern curling delicately across its face and spine. “Did our research in the library that day help you with finding out more about the Night Order?”
Her lips curl up, “I almost wish we had met there again.”
my inner life is a sheet of black glass. if I fell through the floor I would keep falling—
It is on the coldest day of winter that I first see my mother in her warpaint.
Outside, the city is covered in snow. The roofs of the barracks, the storefronts, the prayer-places, are all capped in thick swirls of white; they look like the buns that the bakers downstairs are always careful to slather extra icing on when they see me skipping out of my room. And the little flurries in the air make everything faintly smudgy, so that the streetlamps bleed into one another like stars in a fairytale. When I press my head against the window to look further out, the glass is cold enough to make me flinch, and from my silent room I watch the snowflakes drift softly down and glaze the world in pale glitter.
I feel peaceful. It’s the only feeling I know so far.
When my door swings open, I don’t jump. I don’t even turn to check who it is. My mother’s steps are a pattern I’ve come to recognize within just a few beats, and the scent of pine needles and clay paint that follows is another confirmation of my suspicions; when she reaches out and touches her mouth to my small shoulder, I know the shape of her kiss and lean back into it. Her breath warms the back of my neck. I tell her: “I was watching the snow come down.”
“Do you know why it snows, elskede?”
“No,”I tell her. I turn to press my forehead into the warm curve of her neck; and that is when I see that her usually unmarred dark skin is marked now with cracked lines of paint. A setting red sun is painted on her shoulder, underlined with angular waves. Little streaks of red and white flow down the side of her neck and from her forehead over her eye; her wing is dipped in white, drawn on in narrow lines: she looks dangerous, beautiful but intimidating, and I stare at her with my eyes blown wide in surprise, silent in my sudden awe. “What—what are you wearing?”
“My warpaint, elskede.”
Without thinking, I ask excitedly: “Can I wear it too?”
I have never seen her disappointed in me. It is my first taste of real pain.
She says something to me—something kind and loving, I’m sure, if a little stern. But I can’t hear it over the rush of blood in my ears, and the way my heart beats at the way she looks at me, her lips turned down into a frown so mild it’s somehow worse than being screamed at. (But she would never do that, anyway.)
And if she finishes her story about why it snows; well, I don't hear that either.
The snow is still falling lightly when I make my way outside. My eyes are puffy and red, and I rub them agitatedly against one shoulder and then the other as I walk, white hair streaming loose and wild around me, my head tucked into my chest. I don’t know what the feeling in my chest is called, exactly; but it burns and steals my oxygen, and I have a hard time breathing properly as I walk.
I’m headed to the barracks, but I don’t think I know that.
The sea warns the beach, but the sand does not listen.
Death came and claimed and yet was overcome, between a girl’s teeth and within another girl’s blood. She rises up out of the sea, more alive than she has ever been. The inky waters churn and sluice from her hips and her hocks. Seaweed, bruised with purple night, hangs from the curve of her spine and her shoulders like a cope from a priest.
Leto is reborn. Old gods are renounced, New ones replace them, upon her silver lips she bears their names. Steam hisses, sea-water scolded away at it dares touch the glow of her veins. She rises out from the ocean in a plume of steam. The sea is a mirror, even as it fractures with waves and froths like glue upon its broken bends. Within the shards of the sea, Leto slinks, celestial and monstrous toward the unprepared sand. Her body is the swallowing black of the universe. Her veins cracks of light breaking in, obliterating darkness in heat and awe and ire.
The stars tremble in their pin-point places, scattered through the sky. They rage like the fire they set ablaze within her star-white veins. The shed-star girl lands upon the beach, like a wave that bends down to prostrate itself upon the sand. She steps out from the wave’s embrace and feels out it returns, pulled back by the moon and its deep night.
Within her hair bones and bells chime like siren songs drifting in upon the seabreeze. It is a lullaby as sharp as the teeth between her silken lips. The earth groans relief at her return. Leto listens to its whispers as she paints her torso in sweeping tribal patterns. Ilati charms, Ilati histories play out across her midnight flesh as she reposes, a mermaid, a cat, a piercing star upon the beach.
Once painted, once adorned in spells and ancient histories she rises from the sand. It is glass beneath her body. Glass where the heat of her starfire veins melted the earth. Leto laughs as a toe taps upon the glass. It strikes a divine note that sets the heavens weeping. The stars peel out of their places, her magic serenading them down, down. A solitary star falls, keen and wicked and bright. It laughs as it descends in ribbons of light and fire and smoke. It strikes upon her cheek and her chin tips up towards the sky, her lips painted in silver, her tongue demanding red.
To be reborn is a blessing. Its cost is that of blood.
Dune is at the bar, about to knock back a drink alongside some hungry-eyed noble with one too many golden baubles. Piercings on piercings, with golden chains strung between them... at what point does decoration become a burden? Perhaps such a point does not exist if everything is made of gold- it would not surprise Dune if this stranger put a gilded bit beneath his tongue and called it fashion.
But he’s... he’s tipsy, and losing track of the story. Focus. The story is: he is at the bar, about to knock back a(nother) drink- no, he’s knocking it back, the pale golden liquid at the back of his throat, when he glances across the room and sees the child.
Dune chokes, coughs. The decadent stranger pats his back reassuringly with a wing… the gesture is performed with far too much eagerness, and the bay (still sputtering) recoils from the touch and begins to claw his way through the crowd toward the girl. One side of his body is covered in intricate golden paint. It is smudged in places but still mostly distinguishable as some kind of art and not just a smear of gold. As he bumps into strangers the patterns melt together more and more until they look like flames. Until he looks, if you squint your eyes, like Midas on fire.
He reaches the child just as a laughing stranger is passing her a drink. A crystalline voice oozes “You’re so cute!” when Dune barges in with a glare, ears pinned to his skull. “Don’t drink that,” he advises the girl as he snatches the glass away.
(for a moment, he considers drinking it himself, but the logical part of his mind, as faraway as it is right now, murmurs sagely to him that this would appear hypocritical.)
He pours the sweet-smelling drink into a potted plant nearby. The generous stranger pouts and shuffles away, and Dune sighs heavily as he turns to the young stranger. She didn’t have the look of an orphan- and Dune knew that look well- so her parents must be close by, but the young stallion felt protective of the girl nonetheless. Someone had to. His voice softens considerably as he exhales: “Where's your mom and dad?”
☾
And what on earth are dreams if not our only way of speaking?
