Apsara’s smell had sunk deep into his blood. He could not be rid of it. Still his nose remembered the smell of woodfire, the taste of sweet things, the dirt of the city. It was nothing like the clean and clear scent of a wild flower wood. He disliked the smell and yet… why would it not leave him? That smell was unfinished business upon a forest boy’s palette. It tasted awful and yet, he wanted to see the origin of all the things he smelled upon Aspara’s body.
His curiosity brought him to Denocte. For many nights he did not venture out from the woods that wrap around the city like loving arms. For many nights he watched the way the mountain slumbered and torches ascended up the trails like ants. Even where he stayed, amidst the quietude of the slumbering wood, he could hear the terrible sounds of the city. So loud. So piercing. Never silent. A wild wood boy needs silence.
He wandered between the edge of the wood and the great lake at its other end. He bathed when the moon was just over its peak and all the revellers had turned for their beds. Leonidas never stopped to ever wonder why the slept inside. For him the stars, the leaves, the roots and the flowers were beds and pillows and protection enough for him.
Finally too many days had passed for a boy with little patience and besides, this night is so very different than all the others he has spent here in Denocte. This night a festival pours herself out in colour and light and frivolity all through the cobbled, moonstone streets. The denizens dance in masks and from his woodland kingdom the boy-king finally steps out. He skirts the city until he finds the shortest path in to the busy markets. (It would also stand as his fastest escape when the smell, the noise, the terrible city clamour becomes too much for his senses).
Out of his comfort and in amidst a wood of stone and brick and slaughtered wood, the boy begins to creep, slow and careful. He moves silently, silently, nimble and spry, even with his brace of gilded tines atop his brow. It is his crown, he wears it proudly, even when autumn and winter come to try and pluck it from him. The crowd is thick and deep and so terribly loud. He hears the laugh of children and watches with leonine eyes as they run and dance past where he hides. Soon a child’s curiosity is too much and he steps out from his dark hiding place. A girl streaks past in ribbons of gold and crimson. A firebird she is and yet she nearly collides with him, but Leonidas is fast and returns to his hiding place as if she has run only through shadow.
she listens to wind secrets and echoes of distant star songs
T
here is something really intimidating about the mountains. I'm not sure if it's how big they are and how they almost look down on Denocte like a disapproving parent. Maybe it's the thought of all the creatures that live up there or how if you stand too close to the cliff's edge, you could fall into its depths. I wouldn't know, I've never tried any of those things.
Even as I look up at them now, I don't have any plans to climb up there. They are really pretty to look at though, especially as the sun is setting. There is snow at the very tip of them, so it almost changes the color of the snow to match.
On another thought- I can't wait to experience snow. Momma tells me it falls from the sky like rain, except they're tiny crystals. Sometimes they melt in your mouth or they'll collect on the ground and form soft piles you can run through. I'm enjoying fall for now, despite how unsure I am of the not-fire trees.
For now, I'll go without it all and admire all that snow from afar. I found myself wandering out here from boredom. Momma Morr will likely be looking for me once she realizes I've left. She had been taking a nap in the castle, but I wasn't tired so I snuck away. Something called me here, but even now as I'm here, I can't explain it. I think it's a calling anyway. It just felt like a nudge that I needed to be here.
A few moments pass and I'm thinking of leaving, but then I hear footsteps behind me. When I turn, it's a palomino lady I haven't met before. Is this why I'm here? Is she someone special? She looks pregnant, so that's cool I guess. Maybe I'm just overthinking all this.
"Hi!" I greet happily anyways since meeting new people is fun. "Who are you? I'm Maeve!" She doesn't look like anyone I've seen in Denocte before, but then again it's a big Court. I hope to meet everyone from here some day.
I look to the mountains again as the colors seem to get even brighter in the sunset sky. "Aren't the mountains just so cool? Have you ever been up there?" She's definitely older than me, so I just assume she's done more things than I have.
've been watching the way the leaves have been changing and it's like some kind of magic. They've gone from green to varying shades of golds, oranges and reds. It reminds me of fire and it scares me a little. Will the leaves burn me if I touch them? Is it fire that makes them change their colors and fall to the ground?
It all still seems like a kind of magic while I watch it happen around me. I haven't gotten too close to one yet, just in case it might burn me. I can't shake the curiosity though. It's all too interesting that I can't resist. I slowly get closer, one cautious step at a time.
When I look around to take it all in, the forest is pretty, and I like the way it smells. It's nothing like fire but a kind of damp earth sort of smell that blends with the dampness of the lake. It's a funny but good smell, so I don't mind it. My heart catches in my throat as I get closer and I see more leaves falling from the branches. They don't set the ground on fire when they land, so it must be okay, right?
So when I do finally stand close to a tree trunk, I look alllll the way up until my eyes burn a little from the bright sunlight above me. This tree doesn't have many of its leaves left, so it's very bare. It has all orange leaves, so the color that most resembles fire. I take a big gulp as I see one leaf start to fall down towards my face.
I need to face my fear eventually, probably.
But not today.
I jump and start walking backwards, but I don't take my eyes off of the leaf as it falls. Of course, silly me doesn't realize that someone is behind me, so I end up running into them.
"Ooof!" I shout, although I guess it's more of a squeak. When I turn around, I breathe a loud sigh of relief when I see it's not Momma Morr. Still, I feel really bad for bumping into her. I recognize her as the woman Momma can't stand, although I can't figure out why. She's pretty and looks nice. Then again, Momma seems to get mad at just about everyone, so maybe that's not a good way to judge people.
When I remember this though, I realize she might be mad at me because she hates Momma, so I look up at her with wide eyes. "I'm so sorry, miss Moira! I-I really didn't mean to…" I look down at the ground then, feeling completely ashamed. I hope she won't be too upset and will forgive my foolishness. I don't even know how to explain what I was doing either, so I hope she hadn't seen too much of it.
§
she listens to wind secrets
and echoes of distant star songs
AND YET I SWEAR I LOVE THIS EARTH that scars and scalds, that burns my feet -- and even hell is holy.
I do not know what it means to exist outside of time.
Ereshkigal does. Or, she says that she does – I can never tell, despite everything, if she is speaking the truth or lying. (And, if it is either of those things, I am not sure if the knowledge is meant to be consolation or some new horror.) I know that I am not especially old, though I am older than I had ever expected to be. I had become accustomed to the idea of dying. Sometimes, I still think that I should be dead.
Sometimes, I still wake up and swear that I am dead.
It is not hard to tell that I am no longer myself, that I have shed some kind of skin – one after another. I have not changed. Not since I died. I should have changed. Time has passed, and I have not passed with it. I look the same. Feel the same. Even if I did not want to admit it, at first, Ereshkigal will not let me forget the truth of the matter, which is that I no longer change. Perhaps this is some last gift from Tempus, or some curse. It is hard to tell the difference. Time is his domain, and he has always been fickle. I am not sure that this will last forever. One day, I might wake up, and age might catch up to me; time might come biting at my heels all at once. I think that I will be ready, if it does. I think that I have made my peace with it.
But. One day, I might grow as old and worn as the desert sands. The thought is nauseating, or staggering, and I am not sure how I can ever come to terms with it.
I do not know how long I will be here. I suppose that none of us do.
I think that, sometimes, redemption is impossible. I am sure that it is impossible for me. I have never meant to be evil; it is nevertheless difficult to deny that I have done evil things, intentionally or through negligence. I am sure that, no matter how long I wander these sands, no matter what I do with this time I’ve been given, I will never be forgiven for what I have done or what I have allowed. I will never be redeemed, much less saved – but salvation has never been the issue. What is redemption? How can it be classified, picked apart, dissected? If it is simply a matter of mathematics, time could certainly make up for my sins. I’m sure that I could find a way to save enough lives to make up for the deaths that I have caused.
But it is not math. Lives are not an equation; each one is unique. And no matter how many I might save, no matter how much good I might do, there is no way to bring back the dead, or make up for their absence. So. Forgiveness is irrelevant. Redemption, too. Striving for either would be useless.
I have never been good at knowing what I wanted.
I don’t think that this is it, either. But – what can I do? Solterra has her share of ghosts. I do not think that one more to haunt the sands will be too many, and I am sure that I can stand the quiet. When I stand in the center of the Mors with nothing but sand and sky and jackal-howling wind, I can almost remember something I forgot long, long ago. It is almost warm. Not scalding, or burning. Just warm.
I promised my life to Solterra. Not once. Not twice. More times than I can count. I am still living, so I will not break my oath, even unseen. Even silent.
I think that I am tired. Very tired. Eroded. I am sure that I could find a more comfortable fate – but I have always been a woman ill-suited to comfort, and Alshamtueur is always starved for blood.
I stand amidst the dunes. The heat would be unbearable, but I barely notice it; I barely notice the way sweat streaks my skin. High above, Ereshkigal circles in the morning sky, a small blot of darkness against an overwhelming and brilliant blue. The sands might as well be molten gold.
When I was a child, I was taught prayers to Solis – forced to memorize them. I am no longer sure that he is worth praying to; I am not sure that any of the gods should be entrusted with our fates. Still. I am too used to talking to him to fall silent now, even after all my disdain, even after struggle, even after violence or revelation. I am not sure that I forgive him. I am not always sure what he did wrong. I am not always sure what I did wrong. I whisper a prayer, regardless.
The sun is just visible over the horizon – a burning orb.
I walk towards the light.
@ || welp. it has been done. "Speech!" || "Ereshkigal!"
Holy water cannot help you now
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out
some say the moon is indifferent to your suffering. some say, the moon is too reclusive, too cold, to find comfort in. perhaps, it's only between those secret hours between deep sleep and not-waking. when streets are empty. when hearts are broken. when the oceans purr a steady hum of recognition, yet still, it's the loneliness that is promised back to you with every darkly, ushering wave. with every retreating dream, that leaves you by daybreak, wondering, who are you.
the moon knows you in ways like this. touching, but not touching. feeling, but not feeling. loving, but not loving. how can you kiss the moon, when she is so buried in darkness and in stars? she comforts you with her silence. in the deep of night, her white burn, is far hotter than any sun. yet still, she lets you gaze. still, she lets your eyes wander over her with intimacy, with hunger. so that you may find peace within her cold embrace. she gives you light, where god has abandoned you. she tells you that you are made of darkness, and the stars and the oceans and the mountains and forests, too; they all whisper in helpless affirmation, she does love me - the moon.
euryale is wildfire in a tempest sea of blue. her misty ribbons hold her close, as the night draws its arms around her like a lover. when she descends the palace stairs, she burns hot, cruel. and like a wicked hurricane, so gracefully does she take the whole night with her in a wicked storm of irresistible violence. her hair flutters in the wind. her curves shimmer with heat. the stars stir with passion for the way silver comets dust her blood-red bodice and dips it in celestial ink. tonight, her blood skin looks almost silver. tonight, she is not flesh and bone, nor sin and hunger and blood-stained sheets; but smooth porcelain, iron. arrow. sword. and when she feels this way, when she feels like winter. she is almost never in the cities of delumine. she does not care to be with them, who linger behind warm homes and hold their families, close. she does not want walls, nor mortals and kings and gods to offer her false revelations. somethings are too wild to love. some lovers, too beautiful to be kept in a cage. euryale is not made for love.
"sometimes, i dream of kingdoms. but instead of brick, i would have bones. instead of walls, i would have forests. instead of a fireplace, and school and church, i would have fur and blood and sacrifice keep me warm. i would sleep beneath the stars and become their religion," she sneers into the woods. her breath, spilling as pale as her curls. into the wild darkness, she knows he is watching. somewhere in this darkness, she knows the devil is there. she turns her face towards the shadows, to where he might linger, and without smiling, "do you like adventure?" she gestures to the forests, to the purring wickedness that stirs like slim hunger between the trees. she can hear death whispering, whispering. and she wants to run, to hunt. to enter places where mortals dare not enter.
But it will not be long
Before their wild confusion
Fall wavering down to cover
The poet and his song.
She has not come to party exclusively, no, this is the best time for her work and so she is at the festival’s center, whenever she can, dancing and dancing and dancing until her cup is full of coin or she has seen enough smiles to say, “I have done enough work,” and go drink and dance and sleep, under the seasonal lights, or alone or with company.
So today is one of such days, during the festivities, where she is in the middle of it, her violin belting out jigs from worlds beyond. Mesnyi is always looking for patrons, though thus far none have lasted for more than a few weeks; she is easily bored and so are they. She hasn’t found the tireless lover who would give all his money to support her mere existence. That is part of why she often toys with leaving Novus, but there is nowhere to go but farther from where she might be found and so she is still here.
And it is in her tireless search that she sees a finely dressed young man. There are many, of course, and countless Deluminians and travelers alike wear their nicest garb for the festival, but he looks expensive. So it is without any illusion of coyness that she dances up to him, shimmering with sweat and her natural iridescence, jasmine-scent blooming around her. ”Good afternoon,” she bows, and rises again; she never stops moving.
I am the daydream, bring you faith and conviction
I am the nightmare you've been crawling through
Lucinda isn't entirely sure why she's still in Delumine and not back in the embrace of the sea. Perhaps it's because of the man with the devilish smile who she met by the shore. There's a part of her that hopes their paths might cross again and another part of her that still wants to rip out his throat. (Though, who is to say that she wouldn't want to do that anyway? He should be honored then, to be Chosen in such a way)
The kelpie has wandered to their meadow and she soon realizes it's a mistake. It appears this Court is holding their own autumnal festivities. Everything is so disgustingly tranquil and happy here that it makes her sick. From the way the flowers light up like stars to all the couples with their kids smiling from ear to ear. How lovely it would be to break this all up with a little bit of chaos. Unfortunately, she is a little out of her realm here so far from the sea.
Abraxia follows beside her with a similar expression of disgust. She can feel how restless the dragon is through their bond. How easy it would be to light the meadow up in her green fire. For now, she gently pets the creature's head with the tip of her wing. Her eyes briefly glance at the strange markings cut out of the grass, but she dismisses it as some strange Court custom.
Among all the happy families, Lu notices someone who is alone. She decides to walk towards them and wonders if they might feel the same about this celebration (or whatever it is they're calling it).
"How tragic, really," she says to the woman upon her approach. Her green eyes seem to glow even brighter among the not-stars. "How little they know of the real world." She watches as one child braids another's mane and puts flowers in with it.
Oh to be a child again and not know of all the horrors and the monsters lurking in the shadows. Lu no longer remembers how it felt to be so innocent and so unchanged by the world. Her scars still sting sometimes.
His trail diverged from Juniper's long ago. He wished they could travel the world, side by side, two lone souls in a picturesque wilderness that forgave them for being what they were. This is not their reality. It likely never will be.
More than once he has thought of throwing himself from a cliff, or simply disappearing, gone into the night like a shadow forgotten. It would kill him to abandon her, but it would be better, for both of them. Wouldn't it?
Why urge himself to live, only to end up alone once more?
The black bull cut through the mountains; treacherous as they were, the plains would leave him open, and he couldn't be sure yet that nobody had followed, or would follow. He had a better chance of losing anyone still trailing him. Dry blood still clung to his coat, and as he skittered down the mountainside, the lake which opened up before him cried out in his mind. Come, drink, bathe. Wash away your sorrows and be free. Rey had never been much of a swimmer (he's never gone swimming, at all), but the desire to do so was indescribable. But he did not dive headfirst. For a while, he only surveyed the area, and the waters, and the cavern mouths. If anyone was here, he would gut them before they had the chance to scream.
He was alone.
Finally.
The black stallion sunk into the water, dirt discoloring it all around his dark form. He drank - when was the last time he'd seen water? - and scraped away the blood and sand that doggedly stuck to him. All around was quiet, save for El Rey.
@Lucinda ”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“ I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
THE ANCIENT SKY BURROWS IN
WITH ALL THE DEAD WORDS
WE CARRY AND CANNOT USE
Silence was once mine, and no one could ever take it from me.
Some people say the same about their voice, but I knew that to be untrue. I knew how tongues could be ripped from the mouth. I had seen how the throat could be slit, just so, not to kill but to silence.
Not to mention the sounds they could force from you if they knew you would make it: the begging and the whimpering, the kicked-animal bellow of submission. I hated these sounds. I hated to think of myself making them.
But something was changing in me. Something was growing, hungry, selfish.
-
I was only a quarter mile into the catacombs. Some rich librarian (I know, I know-- rich librarian? Solterra never ceases to surprise) had chartered an expedition to search for an ancient library, so close to being forgotten it existed only as a myth-- its story whispered around the fireplace, wondered about in the slurred space between waking and dream.
I was only a quarter mile in and already I missed the sun. I had never appreciated it until it was gone-- they say that’s how it often goes. When I heard footfall behind me, I quickly turned and raised my torch against the tomblike darkness. I stared without fear into the shadows beyond the torchlight, and I asked in a voice that did not waver:
Character #1: @El Toro Bonded: Hajduk, an enchanted lion. Paws can become extremely hot or cold. Magic: n/a Armor: n/a Weapons: n/a Current Health: 7 Current Attack: 13 Current Experience: 18
Character #2: @Amaunet Bonded: n/a Magic: chaos magic Armor: n/a Weapons: n/a Current Health: 8 Current Attack: 12 Current Experience: 18
we were the ploughman and the ploughed, our eyes were red and blind.
When Toro arrives at the arena, he looks like a dead man risen.
Not dead by some opponent’s hand, no, but he wears the canyon-red sand like a skin and old, dry blood crusts his legs and chest like child-high war paint. Hajduk prowls beside him, still snow-white, like he instead is champion.
El Toro is a hungry man with blood-red vision. His men got no answers when he passed through the fighter's entrance, and no healer was permitted to touch him. Whispers precede him.
He is possessing of only a single-minded mission.
The white bull does not enter the colosseum at a canter, looping around to the whoops and hollers of his people. He walks into the center, and he waits.
”El Toro, our very own Champion of Battle…”
She arrives.
”And Amaunet, a demon of the underground...”
Gods, does she look like it.
She would be beautiful - no - he would be allowed to think her beautiful had she not looked as though she was out to castrate him. He’d heard her name before, whispered among his soldiers when they thought he wasn’t listening to their gossip. She was a demon. Perhaps she always looked like one.
The white bull nods to her, should she stand before him. Hajduk’s tail whips to and fro beside him. Toro cannot deny the thrill that dances up his spine; perhaps he cannot sever the horns from another bull’s head, but he most certainly can pull the wings from a fly.
Summary: El Toro and Hajduk arrive at the arena. Toro is still a little bloody and sandy from his run-in with Rey. Hajduk is unmarred and clean. They walk to the center of the arena and Toro nods to Amaunet, if she's in front of him.
