Posted by: Antiope - 04-12-2019, 10:21 AM - Forum: Archives
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Antiope.
She steps off the boat and onto the dock like a goddess in new skin. Or like a new goddess, just birthed from the wind and the fire and the storm. Her eyes are the water, her body the earth and the clouds in the sky.
She steps off the boat and onto the dock in silence, and the other passengers part around her like a stream around a rock. They still eye her and her weapon distrustfully as they had throughout most of the journey, but Theofos is clean and strapped to her side. They only fear her because that is her purpose: to instill fear in other. And to kill them. That is how she's made, like a predator.
Perhaps they should fear the lioness in her bones, even though it still rides the high of the kill. It purrs, stretching lavishly and contentedly beneath her skin, full. For the time being.
Now there is a whole sea between her, vast and deep and dark, and the empty temple of dead gods she has left behind. Now there is a world between her and the memories of her lover and her child. But no sea, no world, could separate her from the truth. Could separate her from her anger, vicious and righteous as it is.
The docks are silent and dark, but in the distance stands a castle so bright with warm, flickering light it appears as though it's on fire. And in the air embers rise above it, small pinpoints of hot light. She moves toward it, lithe and graceful and powerful, and the shadows fall across her like a second skin.
Inside the walls she finds where all the life has gone. It has gathered on the streets and in the courtyards and the square. There are bodies everywhere she goes and they push and press and brush up against her and it reminds her so much of battle that the lioness in her stirs out of curiousity, coming alive and awake. There are fires, huge and roaring and the heat on her skin is the heat of everyone and of the flames all at once.
She pushes through the crowd and tries to forget the last battle she had ever fought. Tries to ignore that any one of these equines could be the one who put a spear through her ribs. In her eyes is a caged wild thing, feral and desperate to escape. Her hand is clasped about the handle of her axe out of reflex, but the mortal side of her wars with the immortal. The spear did not kill her, but she had still died.
Posted by: Na'eemah - 04-12-2019, 08:08 AM - Forum: Archives
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All my flowers grew back as thorns
The late afternoon sun glared down at Solterra’s main City, intent upon burning the very earth the Day Court’s inhabitants walked upon. Thankfully as afternoon drifted ever closer to evening its gaze was not as scorching as it had been earlier that day, and mercifully the winter’s chill abated the unbearable heat of summer.
Now that temperature was cooler the Market was loud and bustling. An orchestra of voices permeated the air, cleaving any hope of quiet in two. The chitter-chatter of denizens wandering the streets was punctuated periodically by the call of stores owners. Shouts of; “two apples for one signos,”; and “the finest silk in all of Novus, 50 signos, the finest silk,” could be heard upon the slight breeze, bellowed by grinning merchants intent upon reeling buyers in.
It was not unusual for Na’eemah to find her afternoons spent in Solterra’s market, even amid the busy crowds and dizzying heat. Whilst usually the femme was in town to meet with a contact or, beneath the cover of darkness, fulfil and contract, today the dun mare was there simply to enjoy what the market had to offer.
Where usually she found pushing through the meandering crowds frustrating and loathed the assault of sounds and smells upon her senses, it was for more enjoyable to join in. Naya was content to wander with the crowds, dragged by the tide of moving horses, and though she had no one with whom to converse she enjoyed eaves dropping on the loud conversations between others.
The air was thick with the pungent aroma of spices and herbs, a feast for the nares that reminded the beauty that she had yet to eat that day as her stomach rumbled quietly. But it was to the silk stands that she was drawn, by the myriad of beautiful, brilliant colours and the intricate designs that made her own scarf appear dull by comparison. Spying his chance, the vendor launched into his spiel about how it was the highest quality silk in all of Novus, a fine blend of colours and threads that were unique to his stall. Smiling and nodding along with only half of her attention, Naya admires a particularly beautiful blue silk with faint silver embroidery, rather tempted to purchase it if only it didn’t bare resemblance to the night court’s namesake. Instead she smiles once again at the salesman, complimenting his wares before slipping once more into the crowd, allowing her hooves to carry her forth.
The winter winds seem to twirl about the stallion, swiping at his scarred legs with their stinging caress. The frost clings to the ground around him, crunching under his hooves as he shifts his weight. It doesn’t seem to bother Belial. After all, the cold couldn’t hurt more than the heaviness of his own chest and the cracking of his own heart. Everything about this winter felt perfectly placed, as if the land has changed to meet his own state of mind. He wonders, briefly, if his own mood will ever change like the seasons do. He doubts it.
Belial sighs, a puff of air clinging to the cold air like a small cloud before him. Eye of molten red and orange watches the lake as his mind wanders back to his travels here. He can’t remember how long he had wandered or even what he had seen on his way. All he could remember was that the further he got from home the more pain seemed to lift from him. The images of the blood stained grass of his homeland seemed seared in his brain. No matter how far he travelled he couldn’t seem to shake those. Perhaps they would always be with him. Just like the voices of his children, forever echoing in the back of his mind. He would sell his soul for silence if he could.
Pulling his aching wings tight against himself he turned from the water’s edge. The land around him seemed almost empty. For that he was thankful. He had never been good at keeping company and he doubted time had changed that for the better. He walks along the edge of the lake, aimlessly moving through the silent land. He had no plans or idea of where he was going. All he knew was that he had to keep moving.
Maybe that's why I found myself in Denocte, in the markets that held the most bustling life Novus had to offer. Sure, it wasn't my usual cup of tea, being surrounded by the drunkards, fools, and whores who found the outer-edges of the market home - but that wasn't why I found myself in the far corners of the bazaar that evening. No, over everything, I wanted to find them. Who are they, you might ask? Well, they may be the family I'd always been looking for. Though, I'd never rightly admit it, I'd always been looking for some excuse to fit in. It was hard, being a young, troubled orphan, with no place or option but to beg in the streets...or to give "favors" to those disgusting enough to ask a child for it. I wanted no part of a kingdom, nor did I want to pray to a "god" to help me...I didn't want to be treated like a servant or talked down to as if I was some sort of moron. No, those I sought out that night could promise me something better...or, at least I thought.
There was a certain level of allure to their secrecy, to the way no one knew exactly who was involved in their creation, but perhaps more intriguing, who could be part of their evolution. My hooves clipped the cobblestone, with no attempt to mask my arrival, I turned down the dark, foreboding alley on the edge of the market street, and stopped when I saw her eyes. Swirling cerulean and emerald, they reflect what little light reaches here. I knew this was where the Scarab lie, swift whispers spoke of the palace that lay here in the darkness. But I wanted more answers, I had questions - I was not going to approach it without any sort of ammunition.
"Manon," I said, looking to the peddler with eyes of steel. I was a soldier, I was no coward, but the way her stained-glass eyes bore into me, you could say in that moment I was one. "I've heard you're familiar with the White Scarab." I placed each word carefully, calculating them to receive a decent response. I go no closer, leaning against a brick wall. Cold white vapor exhaled from my nostrils as we stared daggers at each other. Tell me something, anything. I thought to myself, but said nothing, keeping my face stone cold. Manon could be the first link to a better life...if she knew something of the Scarab, they must've thought her worthy - or, they pitied her.
An orphan can smell another orphan from a mile away.
the motherland don't love you so why love anything
T
he scarab was quieter up here in the lounge, where the waiters glided near-silently past tables and patrons spoke in hushed voices. Occasionally the clink of glass on glass filled the air with a sweet, happy melody as drinks were poured and served and drank and reordered.
It was a game, a never ending cycle: drink, whisper, repeat. From back in the corner, which the light conveniently bent away from, the horned man was the only one it seemed not partaking in the lounge’s usual affairs. He was quiet, and he sat alone; a lonesome drink sat on the table before him, a trickle of condensation running down its length as the ice began to melt. But while he was alone, he was not idle: his green eyes were in constant motion, his ears swiveling to and from to catch any gossip that might drift his way. While most of the scarab’s patrons kept their voices low, Toulouse had notoriously good hearing, and his mind was adept at filling in the gaps between the stray words he caught.
For once, there was very little to pique his interest. All the talk was of old news, of the queen that had disappeared in the maze and the borders that had been tightly closed in Delumine. Things he already knew, told in a hundred different ways.
He was about to get up and leave when he saw her, a girl with a necklace strung about her neck, at whose end a single twig was caught. She was dusted in russet and spots of brown, with hair as long and pale as his own. And when she moved about the floor, she did so as if she belonged; here in this den of secrets and vices.
He hadn’t seen her before. And her’s was a face he would have remembered.
His eyes followed her across the room, the rest of the horses fading away like static in the background. And when a server drifted by to collect empty glasses, he waved him closer.
"Who’s the girl?"
The server’s eyes, a startling blue that matched his sapphire attire, regarded Toulouse with an acquisitive look. With a slight frown hinting in his eyes, he slid a silver coin across the table - and only then did the server’s eyes turn to regard the serpentine mare.
"The red rose."
The server regarded her thoughtfully, before with a shake of his head turned back to the table. "You’ll not be wanting anything to do with her. Trust me. Another drink?"
Toulouse shook his head and sent him off.
When next the mare visited the bar, the palomino rose from his seat and followed.
"What’s your poison?" he asked as he came along beside her, his voice lowered in a way that was reserved only for her ears. He glanced at her from the corner of one eye, a smile playing at the edges of his lips.
Heart beating fast like a quick little S.O.S.
Tell me you heard it and you can come handle this
It was a normal night. Nothing was out of place. The festivities of the winter event within Terrastella were in full swing, and Erd was in good spirits. Most everyone was, which was a damn nice reprieve from the recent tensions and uncertainties that had drifted across the land since the madness that had gone down in Denocte. There were a lot of things still up in the air about the whole thing, and at times the tension seemed palpable enough to cut with a knife. So many questions still remained unanswered. Would they help in whatever fight was brewing? Was there a fight brewing? Would the Halcyon be dispatched to assist? Honestly, Erd hoped not. Despite their age, he and his brother had seen enough war. Hopefully Asterion wouldn’t make that the final call.
Despite that, he was happy and content, a pack of new charcoals tucked away so that he could surprise Ard when he returned to their rooms. Already he was looking forward to seeing the surprise and excitement spread across his brother’s face, and that thought alone caused him to pick up the pace, speeding up from a brisk walk to a leisurely trot. It wasn’t very often that he could surprise his twin, and every moment that he could was a precious one.
He wasn’t flying, not that night. Despite the winter season, it was surprisingly nice, and so there seemed to be no harm in taking a walk around. Winter had arrived and they were another year older, another year wiser. Four. Their birthday passed in time with the winter festivities, much to his eternal joy and eagerness, and that was a far better way to spend a birthday than what I had happened last year.
Not wishing to dwell, the young warlock continued on his path, ducking around a corner of the Dusk court proper. The roads were mostly barren, shadows lingering in the empty paths as most of the inhabitants had buckled down for the evening, or were busy drinking and drawing or casting their wishes to the churning waves along the cliffside. Turquoise eyes glanced upwards, admiring the twinkling stars overhead. He breathed in deep, smiling, watching mist and vapor disappear in the air following his exhale.
Two more roads and two more turns and he would reach the door to the small home he and Ard had made for themselves. There was no reason to be concerned. The peace that he had experienced within Novus so far had lulled him into a sense of security, a sense of peace. Nothing would happen, not here so close to home, and perhaps that was why he was unaware of anyone who might be following.
you kissed me that morning as if you'd never done it before
The drums called.
The drums called in a violent crescendo of beats, both as steady as a heart and as undulating as a storm. Furiously summiting, then abruptly stilling; reaching toward a thrum of consistency, a beat, beat, beat, beat of hooves in disciplined chaos, and then a sharp turn into dark pandemonium, dark uncertainty, a rising, cresting, challenging thrum of noise.
There was an aspect of the Night Court that spoke deeply to her soul; and the drums of her dance were one. The guide-like company of artists Boudika had joined were happy to have her and her feverish, reverent dancing; they were glad to see her war-like passion in each and ever movement, the way the music possessed her, and the drums stole her control and turned her into a creature other, a creature possessed by near-poetic passion.
That night, during her performance, they had spoken to her in a violent way; a way that altered the course of her nimble feet, possessed her trim limbs, and made her fly with the furious violence of her old life. The flicker of firelight remaindered her of nighttime battles upon the cliffs; the capture of Orestes; the betrayal of Vercingetorix; the blood of dead Khashran splattered on her face; the feel of metal catching on flesh, bone. These things frightened her but, possessed in the dance, flying with the frantic urgency of the drums, she could not escape them.
Beat beat beat and—a spar between her and Vercingetorix, the deep pitch of his laugh when she bested him, the clean pine-stone scent of his skin, the clatter of a wooden sword—
BeatBEATbeat!—Orestes in his water cave, half-horse, half-monster. Rearing. Eyes bright and terrified and enraged—
Beat—beat—beat—Vercingetorix staring, handsome and suddenly steely, saying nothing, then telling her to leave, knowing her for her, for Boudika, for Boudika—
Beat--beat—beat—beat—beat—the falling of the mast, the crash of waves, going under the water—
The dance ended in a bow, and a study tap—tap—tap of a quiet, hollow drum. She sweated, eyes cast toward the floor, waiting for the curtain to close and the darkness to envelop her. There was a crowd; and they jeered, clapping hooves upon paving stones, impressed, their comments floating to her in disembodied sentences. It was excellent. She was excellent.
Boudika left her heart, her suffering, laid out on stage. But it warranted only claps; only the clamour and appreciation of talent, of flash movements, the flutter of her cloth and the effect of the firelight and heady drumming. Such was this new life, of hers, and she felt disorientated as she rose and bowed again, this time for the end of her performance and to recognise the cheering crowd. Then the curtain closed, and she was in the dark.
She left the borrowed garments of the guild at the performance center, and, upon the earlier recommendation of one of her fellow dancers, headed toward the lake to see the Castle of Ice and Colour. Its as a reckless leaving; a leaving that possessed her abruptly, impulsively. She needed to escape the sound of drums and crowds which, in a context completely unrelated, continued to bring to mind the disciplined rows of marching soldiers, the crash of an army against a tribe, the blood in the water—
Boudika’s thoughts were stilled by the silhouette of the castle; vibrant in the moonlight, both dark and bright all at once. It glistened, mirage-like, and the image dispelled her thoughts of war. The effect was the same as looking upon a placid pool, and the mare stood dumbstruck, possessed suddenly by the sheer beauty of it. It was a work of art, and the ephemerality of it made it all the more beautiful—and in a way, delicately tragic. She approached heavily, her breath fogging the winter air, uncertain of how to approach the place.
Her father would have hated it, she know. Vercingetorix would have loved it in his own strange, quiet way. And Orestes—what would have Orestes thought, from his prison bars, of such a sight? The stillness of the place quieted her heart, her mind, her emotions, and Boudika continued to approach, her hooves breaking the crusted snow to dispel the midnight silence.
AND NEVER WOULD AGAIN AND NOW I WRITE ANOTHER LETTER THAT I WILL NEVER DARE TO SEND, COLLECTING MEMORIES OF LOSS, LIKE CHAINS WRAPPED AROUND MY VEINS, AND IF YOU SEE A FIRE FROM THE SHORE TONIGHT, IT’S MY CHAINS GOING UP IN FLAMES. I WAS YOUNGER THEN AND EASILY FOOLED AND THE OCEAN WAS DEEP AND DARK AND BLUE AND I LET THE WATER FREEZE MY BONES. I WADED UNTIL I COULD NO LONGER WALK AND IT WAS TOO COLD TO SWIM BUT STILL I KEPT ON WALKING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA FOR I COULD NOT TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE OCEAN AND THE LACK OF SOMEONE I LOVED
The only thing Boudika had ever feared was the sea.
Her father had taken her to it when she was newly born—stumbling on trembling, confused legs, without speech to clarify her thought, without words for the emotion she felt. The memory stood out starkly. There had always been something missing about the moment; and it had taken Boudika many years to conclude it had been the presence of her mother, who had died in childbirth, an act of matricide her father had never forgiven her for.
These were her thoughts, as she stared at Terminus Sea, out on the edge of the Night Court. She stared and stared.
Her father had taken her to it, on her trembling foal legs. He had taken her to it, and with an aggressive muzzle, pushed her forward, stumbling, into the surf. It had foamed at her hooves and an innate fear had struck her, a fear like a lightening bolt—she had leapt back toward the presumed safety of her sire, only to be pushed, again, toward the danger of the sea.
Boudika would later learn this is what the Oresziah, her people, did to those young infants who were cursed as mother-killers. Especially the young fillies, the females. They offered them to the sea. Yet that day had been storming, tumultuous, and it drove the Khashran from the dangerous ocean; they would come to shore stark, raving, slick as oil and as untouchable as the deep of Mariana’s trench.
Her father’s insistent urging against her instincts drove her step-by-step into the angry waves, until she stood up to her chest, and press of water nearly took her from her feet. There were shifts in the waves all around her—breaking, crashing, slippery shapes, easily mistaken for flashes of light or shifts of sea. Boudika was too young to fully comprehend the swarm of Khashran that had appeared, that swam beneath the water in forms foreign, in forms unknown.
Her father had watched anxiously from the shore, for his only offspring to be taken into the deep. And Boudika had stood with steel and iron grit. She had stood without trembling, without the heart palpitations of true terror—even when the surf had broken before her into the form of a horse—but only a creature trying to be a horse, a creature almost ripped apart by the urge to be something else— bearing a ghastly smile full of teeth, and she had later thought she knew what the gods were, and the gods were cruel, primal things.
The eyes on that almost-horse would visit her for many years in her nightmares; reptilian and fish-like all at once. A ageless a shark’s primordial stare; slick with silver and running water. The stallion had stared down at her, with a mouth full of razor teeth, a mouth of crushing jaws, a hunger for flesh. Those eyes slid from her, too-slick, and had settled on her father beyond.
That day, the Khashran did not take her. And her father walked her back to the cliffs as she shivered against the brisk breeze. He walked her back to their homestead and shut himself away for many days before reemerging. When he did, he told her she had been chosen; he told her she would never be called Boudika again, only Bondike, and they would disguise her as a colt. One day, he said, she would be a general.
Because she had no fear.
Now, at the Terminus Sea, she felt that fear again. He had been so wrong, to say that; her fear had only been masked, perhaps, by her curiosity—her draw to the siren’s song, the allure of the Khashran her people had long-since forsaken. But even now, to wade into the cold, winter-wet surf… it was difficult for her. She knew these waters were not populated by the same monsters; she had been told as much. For each step Boudika took into the lapping waves, her gaze jerked along the near water, then the horizon—searching for the quick and deadly shadow of her old enemies. There were none, and somehow, inexplicably, that disappointed her. Why did they have such dead eyes? She had wondered. Why did they look so predatory?
You’re just a dancer now, she remaindered herself, transitioning from her questioning, the words ringing hollowly within her. Another step, and another—pushing now, chest-deep into the sea. Her mind rang with an emotion; her heart; her body. What was it? She did not know, but part of her wished it could be consumed. Another step, another—her feet off the sand, the waves pushing her from the solidity of the ground so she was weightless.
The water was stinging cold. The type of cold that was so cold it burned, it became hot. She stared at the bleak horizon—the weather didn’t even know what it wanted, half-way to a storm, but not quite there. She closed her eyes and with a forward propulsion of her limbs, dove beneath the water, exhaling deeply.
Deeper, deeper—and then her lungs burned, her muscles ached, her body demanded a reprieve—and she sat heavy, fighting her own buoyancy, thinking about what it would be like to drown.
But the call for air was too strong and she reemerged, quite a way from the shore. She gasped for breath and wondered for how long she had been submerged—too long, not long enough. It was a trick she would never have dared to try on Oresziah—the thought, sudden, abrupt, unwelcome, shook her to the quick. She immediately moved back toward the shore, fighting down a feeling of sickness, of great and terrible fear.
Boudika, when her hooves struck sand beneath the waves, began to run. She was slowed by the water, but began to make time once she got knee-deep, then shin-deep, then ankle-deep, and she was breaking free. She shook her head, violently, snorting water from her nostrils, blinking against the sting of salt in her eyes.
What had changed? What had changed that she could fight her fear and swim in the sea? What had she been looking for, beneath the waves? She licked the salt from her lips, from her hide, violently flicked her whip-like tail—and stared, stared, stared at the sea. What had changed? There was something in herself, growing larger and larger every day, that she did not recognise. Something wild, untapped, undisciplined; a surmounting desperation, a need that was borderline lustful, but for what?
with all our demons, our hells, our heathens,
so let them rest in peace
“Ard?”
The question of his brother’s name was spoken on a delicate whisper, a gentle caress of concern and love. In an asinine sort of way, Erd was concerned that if he raised his voice too loud, the frayed edges that held Ard together might finally tear. It wouldn’t have been the first time that his younger brother had fallen apart from the duress of social situations, but it had been the first time that it had happened during their life in Novus. The recent events lingered like the unpleasant paranoia of a past nightmare, potent and poignant and all consuming.
Leaving Terrastella behind for a brief moment had meant to serve as a relaxing reprieve from their worries, not turn into, well… Into that. Erd still felt terrible. Truthfully, it had been his fault. Good intentions or not, he hadn’t really planned out or anticipated what would happen after so rudely waking Moira up from her nap. Maybe a bit of general displeasure? But watching Ard’s very visceral, very alarming reaction to her fury had been… Well, to put it bluntly, alarming.
Regardless, they returned to Terrastella. Side by side and not without constant contact, Erd stayed with his brother as they ventured back to their home in the Dusk Court, tucking themselves away into the privacy of their small, single window room. It wasn’t fancy. It was nothing like Israfel’s quarters, emblazoned with silk scarves of crimson and gold and a rough map of her homeland adorning the wall, with double doors that lead out onto a balustrade. It was simple. It was all they really needed.
Pushing the door open, Erd guided the way inside. The candles were still unlit from when they had left, shrouding the room in a familiar darkness. His turquoise eyes scanned the small confines, taking in their meager place of living. A small cot of quilts that they shared lay situated against the far wall, one corner of the room set up for Ard’s charcoals and paints, the dried mixtures and sticks of charcoal haphazardly strewn on top of pieces of blotchy parchment. His own working station was in the opposite corner, tools and crudely-pieced together amalgamations shoved to the side so that they wouldn’t trip over anything and risk spraining a fetlock. Ard had always been the more organized twin, but looking at their room now, well… It was quite the mess.
The older twin moved out of the way of the door so that his brother could shuffle in after, and turning about, he used that strange telekinesis to close it once Ard was inside. His gaze remained rooted on Ard’s pale face, spotting the worry that pinched his brow and the shadows that stained his eyes. Erd knew his brother better than anyone, probably better than he knew himself, and this was terribly concerning.
Taking a step closer, Erd’s frown deepened. He reached out, both in mind and in body, and offered his muzzle to his twin. “... Are you alright?” It was a loaded question, and one that he already knew the answer to, but love, care, and devotion caused him to ask it anyway.
