It had been weeks, and she could still taste the water. The nasty grain of it, flat against her teeth and tongue, stinging at her nostrils, her throat, her eyes. She could still taste the mineral quality, so sharp, that it brought to mind pools of blood or sharpened, razor-edged metal. She smelt it. She smelt it far from the shore, she smelt it in her dreams.
It was a combination of rot and life rolled into salt, seaweed, sand, sun, angry, angry smells. Whenever Boudika believed she had at last escaped, at long last, it came back to her—in a slight catch of the breeze, the sweat from her very skin, or when she was on the brink of sleep, the scent rushed back, aggressive, sickening, overpowering.
Boudika could admit she had not been doing all in her power to dissuade the scent; it was her last attachment to a life she no longer lived, to a self she no longer identified with. And so with it came a certain comfortable—and malevolent—familiarity. It did not smell of the Terminus Sea off the Night Court coast. No. It was all violence and cliffs and pitch black sand, that she smelled. It was a land far away and not far enough; and it clung to her skin, her dreams, her very breath. A haunting. A soliloquy of poetic images; all belonging utterly to themselves, and no longer to her. An addictive nostalgia.
That is how she awoke, long before the sun would rise. With the taste fresh in her mouth. Storm water and salt dreams. It was a routine she had practiced many times since arriving at the Court—and so she stirred from her slumber and rose, creeping quietly from the court to the outer reaches of the territory, seeking solace.
The only thing, ironically, that allowed her to escape the torture of it was to exercise in the same fashion as her youth. Vigorously.
Boudika had been running since before the sun. Having awoken early that morning, sweat-soaked and fresh with the taste of the sea in her dream, she escaped to the prairie. There was nothing like it on her homeland; nothing remotely close to the vast hills and grasses, with the brilliant and brazen sky overhead. No. Her home was mountainous island terrain, rugged forests, and always the sea—beckoning, beckoning.
Out on the prairie, she could not smell the sea.
She pounded along the earth in the sweet darkness of pre-dawn. The stars illuminated her path, and the moon; and Boudika followed no path, save one—forward. Pushing, always forward, toward the mountain range. Her route skirted the strange maze and took her over hill after hill, always summiting, practically chasing the sunrise. Her new life of an entertainer could not give this sort of challenge to her; dancing and song did not accomplish the rigorous vindication of weakness that came from pure physical suffering. It did not surmount her limits, or challenge her to truly strive. This did. Her lungs burned fiercely; her muscles trembled with each limitless, leaping bound. So she ran; and she ran for hours.
Boudika was a god.
Far from the sea.
Watching the sun crest the horizon, turning the world bloody, as though the Novus gods were warring in the sky they all claimed—and then daylight, breaking across the Night Court violently, casting the prairie to shades of gold and enshrining Boudika in the same hue. At some point she had turned back toward the Court, despite her desire to go where she had not gone—the mountains had loomed large and foreboding before her, and she reached for them. But it was not for today.
She slowed from her ceaseless, mile-eating canter into a walk. The Court came into view once more. However, Boudika was lathered in sweat, and unprepared to journey back toward civilisation—there was a restlessness in her heart that warranted more, more, more, and yet she could not name it. So she turned away, back toward the proclaimed wilds—searching with her crimson eyes, wanting something she could neither find nor name.
A name whispered at her from her heart somewhere, almost like a prayer—Orestes, Orestes, Orestes? it said, with an infuriating question mark. And her mind answered, fierce logic: dead, dead, dead.
And then Boudika smelled the sea, and she was no longer so certain. But her ear flicked away the direction of her distant gaze—had she heard something? Was she no longer alone? The thought brought a nervous prick to her limbs and a flutter to her heart. She was in no state for company, with foam on her haunches and withers, her chest heaving in great breaths, her mind half-wild for something Boudika did not know.
Posted by: Isra - 04-08-2019, 10:14 AM - Forum: Archives
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Isra who sent a sparrow
“Arm yourself, my heart: the thing that you must do is fearful, yet inevitable.”
This letter is not carried but a dragon but by a sparrow. The bird is almost nothing more than a spiral of smoke as he flies straight as an arrow between the bonfires. He banks around the small dragons lingering by the flames quick enough to be felt more than seen.
There is purpose in his small body, purpose and a strange metal sheen to this feathers that suggests he has not always been a sparrow. The bird flies like a wild animal cut free from a trap, and in a way he was. He still remembers having soft rabbit fur. He still remembers the feel of teeth around his spine.
He remembers a unicorn too.
When he finds the black mare walking through the merchants he lands before her with the start of a song itching at his beak. The knot tied around his leg is small and the ribbon holding it as delicate as tiny, sharp eyes. He tilts his head at the mare like a rabbit might, encouraging her to pick the note free.
Once it's unrolled Katniss will find tight, small words written in a ink that looks a little like soot on snow.
Katniss,
We spoke once about what it took to fight. I told you once that Denocte needed you.
Our home needs you now.
Something is coming for our home. I can feel it in the wind like a beast dodging my shadow. I need you to gather whatever is left of our army. I need you to lead them, train them and love them. Protect them against whatever comes. You must all protect each other while I try to protect us all from the greater purpose of Raum.
Isra.
The strange sparrow waits until the mare reads the first note before holding out his other leg. On this one the paper is as silver as the moon cut through with diamonds. It says--
I hereby name Katniss as Denocte's Champion of Battle. It is my hope that she will be the fierce protector that we all need in times such as these.
Signed,
Isra the Sovereign of Denocte.
The sparrow hops once like a rabbit before taking off in another wild display of freedom given wings.
Snow falls. The heart beats. The sun rises day after day. And, still, Michael cannot make any place or any person feel like home.
On one side of him stands the sparkling city perched like a bird on the edge of the world. It is far enough that he wouldn’t see it at any other angle, and Michael can’t pick out one building from another, one street from the many streets that sing with light and music. On his other side looms the mountain range, dark and cold and howling even in the pale winter light. The ground beneath him is white, marred only by Michael’s scattered footprints and the wet but snowless earth beneath each tree.
Michael breathes; he is watching the vapor rise and dissipate. For a moment he is at peace – not spinning wildly through space, not trapped in the fog of his newfound mortality – he can feel nothing but the cold and numbness of eternity with its hands on his ankles, begging him to come back. If he is a death seeker it is at times like this.
If he is a death seeker, it is why he angles his head up the mountainside and wonders if the snow would make it that much harder to climb up, up, up. He imagines standing at its peak and plucking stars from the sky, cupping each one close before asking where all his things have gone, where he has gone.
Michael has moments where he is okay.
Michael has precious few moments that remain like that.
Today he doesn’t have time to overthink, doesn’t have the chance to fall back into the old and painful routine of a downward spiral. Michael pulls his numbness close just as he sees a set of hoofprints in the snow and forgets to hold tight, so for once it falls away from him in heavy sheets. He is following the trail, alone with the snow crunching underfoot, until he isn’t.
They swing into view as Michael rounds a corner, thick mane cold and wet over his face. “Oh,” he says before a pause that lasts too long, “hey.”
Michael sees twins and he thinks of Salem, of Cyrus. He thinks of the tragedy that tore them apart. He thinks of the Dark. He offers them a placid smile. “Do you uh… hi. I’m Michael.”
As the night fell, Corr knew she would need to start heading into the Court hall where the real festivities were underway. Reluctantly, Hāsta followed, but not without her usual grumbling.
When she opened the doors, the hall is decorated beautifully in dusk colors and illuminated by the fires in the grates. There is paper and pots of ink lined up in sets along the table and much mead and wine. Since she did not take part in the drinking much for the event at the cliffs, she would certainly indulge herself now.
It appeared the paper and ink was for drawing. There were some prompts setup, but Corr was never one to follow those. She preferred to freehand it and just draw whatever came to mind. Although, she was not actually that much of an artist, so this would be an interesting sight.
Settling down with a cup of mead, Corr took up one of the spots for drawing and looked down at the paper with excitement. What to draw, what to draw…
Hāsta flew down and took a spot on the table, looking at the mare very unamused-like.
"Must we be here? It's so loud… I think some are already drunk."
"Well, you don't have to be here, but I'm having fun. You can always head back home if you want!" she replied, nudging the crow playfully.
The bird made a grunting sound, but budge and instead looked down at her feet.
Corr's eyes went wide and she let out a laugh. "You're afraid to go back home alone aren't you?"
Immediately Hāsta fluffed up her feathers and jumped up and down (almost like a mini bird tantrum). "Am not!"
"That's it, you're scared!" It was hard not to continue laughing at her companion. "There's nothing wrong with being scared. Besides, I may not be here all night. We'll see how it goes. Just try to relax and have fun!"
But of course, Hāsta grumbled again and looked around, probably eyeing all the loud drunks. Corr didn't mind. After all, how could you go wrong with some good mead and art?
At mention of the festivities, Corr was quick to pack her things and make her way closer to the Court's center. Of course, it wouldn't be a normal day if she wasn't met with Hāsta's protesting, but the crow eventually got over it. There really wasn't anything better for her to do anyway.
The pair had stopped briefly in the fields to meet with a stranger. They were revealed to be named Reckitt and had recently joined the Dawn Court. The strange part though was that the woman had known her in another life - or another world, for that matter. In this alternate world, Corr was a wolf and Hāsta wasn't even real. Her mind was still trying to wrap around these facts, but it was all so fascinating. Perhaps she needed to dive into some meditation and consult with the animal guardians to find out more of what this could mean.
Now they had continued towards their original destination with Hāsta flying overhead again to lead the way. She had seen the trail of smoke coming up from the cliffs, so Corr decided to make that their first spot to check out. When they arrived, a lovely dinner was laid out on the table with drinks. The smoke was coming from the bonfire that was set and there was dancing and laughter. The vibe here was just what Corrdelia needed to welcome the season change and simply get a change of pace. There were few visitors to her house in the swamp, so not only was she eager to meet more of her Court, but also perhaps get some more of those interested in her readings. Her desire to help was too great not to be fulfilled somehow.
It had been explained to her that one could set out wishes into the sea and gifts were being exchanged within the gathering. Corr decided to take a few moments to set out her wish before jumping right into the social circle. It would be a good time for her to collect her thoughts.
Hāsta kept her distance and landed on a nearby rock, waiting for her companion to be ready. She was not one for social gatherings, but the bird cared too much for Corr not to be with her (although Hāsta would never admit this).
Taking a piece of paper and a quill, the mare made her way to the edge of the cliff. It was a marvelous sight both in beauty and in the risk of danger. Thankfully she had wings, but others would not be so lucky since one wrong move would cause them to fall down. She would be careful still as losing her footing was not what she had in mind for this.
There was a long moment of stillness. In a way it was quiet as the roaring of the ocean waves below muffled the sounds of the horses behind her. A breeze tousled her hair and she had to shake her head to get her forelock out of her eyes. Yes, I think I know now.
Now satisfied with her wish, she wrote it on her piece of paper then released it into the breeze. It floated in the wind until it was so far away, she could no longer see it.
Quietly she uttered a spell to follow her paper wish.
"This simple wish is mine to cast,
a magic spell to make it last,
I close my eyes a little shiver,
this wish for me now please deliver."
Her eyes remained closed for a few moments and, when she opened them, a feeling of relief came over her. The spell was perhaps a bit childish, but it was something her mother had taught her and her sister, so she would always hold it dear to her heart.
Breathe... I thought, and simultaneously came to the realization that I could think again. Although it came more like a slow unwinding, images and memories creeping in like shadows from the corners. Cannot breathe, came the thought once more, except this time I could feel it, constricting against my throat with the force that a boa might its prey. I could not breathe. My eyelids snapped open, body convulsing in a panic. A bizarre sensation had its grip upon me. I could feel my limbs, the rise and fall of my lungs as I drew in air [fresh air] and still I could not breathe. Yet, I was breathing. Confusion rocked the already tentative frame of my mind and the only thing that made sense was to escape. It was the one thing I could fathom clearly in that moment and the one thing that the whole of me seemed to agree upon.
I did not suffocate, even as I scrambled weakly to my feet, tottering like a newborn. Whereas the rest of my senses returned with gusto, my sense of balance was taking its sweet time. It was so bright, the sun was blinding and I blinked rapidly in an attempt to assuage the burning. When I was confident I could see without being blind-sided, I opened my eyes slowly, and gasped. The lay of the land before me was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Only between the pages of a book had I read about the bone-white sands of the Clementine beaches, its fabled beauty even more so than mere words could describe. It was bordered by a wall of impenetrable rock, dark and unforgiving as it stood guard over the vast Artegrade Sea.
"Illu". The sound of my name on strange lips nearly sent me flying over the edge. That one syllable, I felt, did more damage just then than the entirety of my experiences up to this moment. For it was the truth. It confirmed that all of the chaos, blood, and gore was real, had been real. Not merely a figment of my imagination, a bad dream that had a particularly hard grip. It told me that this place, this stunning beach and lovely cerulean waves could not possibly be those of Clementine beach, because nobody entered The Storm, and came home. "Illu come, I do not have much time so I need you to listen." The Runamere, the pegasus who brought me to this place, this world? Spoke with such a gentleness that it was hard to believe it was his own voice. For such a monstrously huge creature. No... not a creature, Racthan. I remembered then as I turned frightened eyes upon him. Racthan, the emissary sent to retrieve me by my Mother. It was not uncommon for ranked Houses to have their own Runamere employed, however I think I would have noticed if ours did. It did not. There was no time to question him though as he came to me, carrying in his jaws what looked like a slip of leather.
I could hardly believe it as he lowered his massive head to my level to drape what could only be my Birthsake across my slim shoulders. A small, yet sturdy satchel hand crafted by my Mother to be given to me upon the day of my birth. The creamy leather nearly glowed beneath this worlds sun, recently cleaned and waxed from the looks of it. However I specifically recall this particular item being shoved into a cupboard somewhere, covered in dust and dirt from a lifetime of use. Yet here it was, tangible and weirdly weighted down. With a curious glance at the pegasus I flipped open the top to discover- a flashlight? No, not a flashlight, I determined as I brought it from the velvety insides of the satchel. Without a ruler I could hardly say exactly how long it was, but I would guess it was roughly seven inches, and fairly thick in diameter. The metal-or so I assume it is metal-was startlingly cold to the touch, making me wrinkle my nose. Strange inscriptions had been engraved into its entire body, but they were unlike anything I had ever read, a foreign language that meant nothing to me. But it was beautiful all the same. Veins of blue could be seen as the sunlight glinted off the surface, highlighted like hidden secrets within the dark broam grey. I rose my head to speak, to ask if he knew what it was, but a sound caught my attention. It sounded suspiciously like footsteps, clattering against stone and sinking into sand. Yet Racthan or I had yet to move. Quickly I secreted the object back into my satchel, roping the flap shut, and turning to see what it was that came to us.
Posted by: Michael - 04-07-2019, 03:53 AM - Forum: Archives
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I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
A hush falls over the mountain’s base where Michael stands, day in and day out, alone with the snow and the last few birds that are late to flee the oncoming storm. He can hear only the wet thump of a tree shedding its chilly blanket. He can see only the purple of a setting sun cast low against a clouded winter sky.
From somewhere within rises a voice that tells him, you should act like you want to be here. From somewhere far deeper a voice adds, you should act like you’re alive.
He doesn’t really see the point. He doesn’t think that the ache in his ancient bones is because he hasn’t spent enough time in crowds. He used to live for them. He used to be a spectacle. He used to live up to this complicated concept of “entertainer.” But that was before… well, before.
Fine, he thinks.
Fine, Michael will go to the city. Michael will stroll through its streets with his paper and pen and try his hardest to put a name to this feeling of yawning and cold and nothing that plagues him. So he goes.
Michael ducks into the capitol and is almost immediately filled with regret. He is sure that in time he would grow to love this place as he has grown to love so many other things – he is drawn to the colorful and the enchanting, to the song of instruments and the glow of so many lanterns – but it assaults him before he is ready. The markets roll out before him, loud and vivid and full of laughter, and Michael cannot help the pit in his stomach or the panic that tightens around his heart.
His is the expression of a man in over his head, his mouth drawn in a tense line and the soaking curls of his mane just barely hiding the solemn sinking of his brow. He will be glad when Denocte is not a sea of strangers and customs that lie outside his ability to reckon.
This is perhaps why he latches on to the first face he sees that seems at all familiar, shouldering his way through the growing crowd toward Runaveig, who echoes the darkening sky. He knows her from… the meeting, he thinks. So few of these things matter in the long run.
“Is it always this busy?” Michael asks, the way someone might ask why the bus is late. Around them there is music that floats toward the darkening sky.
@Runaveig I figured I'd leave it pretty open to like, if you wanna do the lantern prompt with them that's cool but if not that's cool too!
Denocte glistens like a jewel in the valley below him, the flames of its bonfires reduced to a scattering of lights on the horizon. If he’s still enough, and patient enough, and imaginative enough, he can almost hear the pounding of a drum when the wind shifts. It beats in time with his heart, thud, thud, thudding inside of his chest, echoing through the halls of his veins. It’s a wild music, one that ignites a fire somewhere deep inside of him, a fire that burns and rages, that sings and loves, that makes him want to dance.
He loves it, and he hates it.
He knew his brother would only love it; he had always been the reckless twin, the one that threw inhibitions to the wind and always hit the ground running. He was the wolf, with an insatiable hunger.
But Toulouse was the snake in the grass, waiting for his moment to strike, happily biding his time. They played the same game, but only one of them understood the importance of patience.
Below the lights are still calling his name, with a voice that makes him simultaneously want to lean in closer and claw his ears out. He grits his teeth, green eyes turning back to the mountain path. He stood nearly on the border of Denocte, a stranger from another land. Could they feel him watching? Did they know a snake was on his way to their Court? Did they care?
He supposed they had snakes of their own to worry about, both reptilian and equine. The southern court was a melting pot, home to those from all walks of life. Toulouse had fit right in here the last time he had visited, had pressed a black card into his brother's hand and whispered a tale of the white building in the markets. He was determined to live up to his twin's reputation tonight, and for as long as his stay in Denocte lasted.
A smile slipped into place across his features, his wolfish teeth glinting in the moonlight. With a dip of his horned head and the echo of the drums reverberating through his soul, he stepped back onto the path that would lead him to Denocte. Overhead the stars are smiling, the moon is singing in rhythm with the pounding drums and the crashing waves, and he weaves a dance into his steps. Tonight, like every other night he would play the part of his smiling twin.
the motherland don’t love you
but you love everything
@erasmus
suuuper late starter for you, feel free to intercept him on the trail however you’d like c’:
It seems to Michael like he closed his eyes to blink, and when he opened them again it was winter.
Where Michael grew up, it rained a lot. Winter was not so much thick pads of snow as it was a constant and dreary trickling from heavy, dark clouds. Here the sky is as white as the courts below and Michael is struggling to pull himself together in Isra’s absence, to dedicate himself to anything but waiting for her to come back home. It was not Michael, in the end, that was called to action (and probably with good reason) but he cannot help that he still feels restless even as his legs are heavier than his heart has ever been.
He has tried to write, carries with him a pen and scrawls bits and pieces here and there, now and then. He wants to be something he’s proud of. He wants to be anything at all.
The words do not come. He thinks of Isra and how she was a bubbling spring with words rising from her depths that she could barely contain, a balloon ready to pop.
Michael’s pool is still, his body unstirred even by the quiet chirping of the year’s last birds as they gather up their things and head out. He has stood here so long that snow is bunched in the valley of his back. He supposes that one must have genuine feelings to write. He supposes that the wide and hungry canyon into which all his attempts to reach anyone falls is eating him, too, from the inside out. He worries it’s going to be like this forever.
He swallows. He shakes, and the snow falls off him in wet clumps. Michael is fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s doing fine.
Of course Asterion did not want to get involved. Of course. Of course. And she cannot even blame him, not really, not totally, because it is not their problem - it has nothing do with them.
But Marisol has been thinking far too much of Isra and of how it might feel to almost-die, and she has never been one to shy away from duty.
So she takes off from the barracks in the dead of night, if not to start a fight then to gather information. All of Novus is dark and sleepy as she soars through the thin clouds and over the mountains and valleys; it is quiet except for the song of her heart, the beat of her wings, the sweet and innocent sound of birds singing in the air next to her. Despite the direness of the situation, it is almost peaceful. The quiet. The dark. The knowledge of righteousness.
The air shifts a few degrees warmer. The moon has started to settle and the sun to rise, and miles below Mari can see where the green of the fields fades into deep, golden sand. Her pulse ratchets a little higher. Now the citadel pours over the dunes, and she can see the beginnings of a sandstone civilization. With a sigh of discontent Mari folds her wings to her sides and starts her dive down, down, down -
When she lands, it is just outside the city center. Her hooves sink into the dry sand, and wind scrapes away what little comfort there is in her coat. It is dawn now. The sky simmers with light pink and oranges and purples. The streets are empty, though Marisol cannot be sure whose fault that is, if it is in anyone.
Without her warpaint or her sashes, she is nothing more than a girl shouldering her way into Solterra for the first time. Nothing more than a stranger doing her best to fulfill her duties.
