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Her feet are little more than whispers upon the carpet. Her feet relish the soft beneath them, the cushion so unlike grass. There is nothing here that is like the wild outside these walls. Florentine is made for meadows and forests and wilderness.
The girl is the beauty of the sun and that, at least, is captured here. The torchlight turns her into liquid gold and she glitters as lavishly as a necklace. Petals are strewn in her wake and their amethyst is strange upon the reds and golds of the ornate carpets.
Polish oak doors heavy and lavish push open to a room of sin and wonder. Liquor pours as nectar from the gods, it is gold in this light – for all is gold here. All has a value more than she can pay. Sin adorns itself in jewels and fine dresses and smiles a queen’s smile. Nothing looks as dangerous as it should.
Here is no place for Florentine, yet she steps with eyes that glimmer wide and keen. Oh her gaze is the heat of the sun as it burns upon each table, greedy and consuming. Her heart thrums in her chest and it hums in her veins. Her ears are full of the chink of dice, the rattle of tables and the plaintive duet of violin and piano. Sin has a face here and it is glorious and glamorous and it beckons her in.
Even her dagger would have made Flora more fitting. Its chain would have winked in the light, its blade shining in the flicker of flames. But her throat is naked, her torso too, but for the strip of crimson cloth that wraps twice about her ribs and holds her wing tight. It came from a woman so utterly other – oh, she would not have been amiss here and such crimson is blood upon the gilt of Florentine’s skin.
She drinks a sip of alcohol – her first? No, Isorath offered her her first. She blinks away memories as diamonds turning from the light. Ah her throat burns, it scolds, her nerves sing with its whispering allure. Her slender limbs grow light as though the air itself blesses her. Florentine dances, high on sin, high on drink. She blinks again, slow, slow. Her lashes flutter with the idle grace of an ornate fan. They kiss her cheekbones and draw shadows across the glow of her smile.
A man draws her in, to a table with cards and the hands are dealt swiftly. Florentine is eager, curious. Her heart is a fluttering bird, its wings thrum, thrum against her breastbone as coins merrily jangle and skitter across the table.
“She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.”
F
able is eager to turn his wings towards home even though there is a sliver of worry digging at him like a shovel. It feels sharp in his heart. He thinks of the way his shell felt when it was cracking, like porcelain at his lips, sharp and brittle. He wants to get to the bottom of whatever hole it that shovel of worry is digging in his heart.
The dragon, still young despite his size, hopes that the bottom of that worry will fill him the way the first sight of his unicorn did. Will there be stories at the bottom of this war? Or will there be only death like the blackness at the bottom of the sea?
All he does know, when he lands in the gardens in front of his castle, is that nothing feels the same anymore. Nothing feels really happy, each moment feels stolen (like a dream he never wants to wake from). Even the night feels colder around him with more than just winter, it feels darker too.
He does not think it is only the absence of his unicorn that has made this place feel so heavy on his wings.
His bugle rings, quite and haunting. Fable tries to sound like a harp Isra once played for him when she told him a story of a ship sailing the sea and a captain looking for a way to heal his broken heart. It was so long ago (or at least it seems that way to him) that he's forgotten how it ended. He tells himself he'll ask her again, when he can return back to his unicorn.
When Moria finally comes to him, he stops his humming. On his neck there glints in the moonlit a scroll of silver paper. It shines like a small star against his dark scales. Fable drops his head into the flowers. The scroll falls loose from the kelp twisting around his neck.
The paper sighs against the flowers and whispers secrets in the early-winter wind. Everything about it seems to pray for a touch or a teardrop in the places where sand lies on the paper like a sheen of smoke. Fable knows how many tears went into the words, how each tear was made into a drop of bright dark ink (dark as dried blood in the sunlight). But he doesn't know how to say any of the words to Moria, and so he only breathes on the paper until it lands like a too-large firefly at her hooves.
It unfurls and the sound it makes on the petals sounds like, read me.. Or maybe he's only hearing it as a dragon would. Maybe it really says, I'm sorry.
The ink shines in the moonlight like oil, slick as the sorrow of the unicorn who bedded down under a high-noon sun to write it.
Moria,
There are a million words I thought of writing. There are a hundred moments that I thought of you and our city. But I don't know how to form any of those feelings into words and ink. It feels like a cruel trick of my heart, that I can shape the world into the strange and wonderful but I cannot make words form themselves on paper with any sort of meaning at all.
But for you I will try. I would do anything for you and our city.
Here the paper runs onward, moon-bright and shining. There are dots of ink on that empty space. Maybe there are shapes waiting to be seen in those puddles of ink. The unicorn who wrote it was too busy thinking of words and war. It was her broken heart that splattered the ink like tears.
I am not coming home.
Not yet..
The paper runs on blankly again. This time there are no ink tears in that stretch of shining silver.
I can't come home when there is still a monster that was created in our streets running lose in the world. Raum has taken Solterra hostage and the desert is alive with more suffering than there is sand in the dunes. The citizens are hungry and living in fear, I cannot leave them to that fate.
Moria, I am going to war.
I must.
There have been moments in which I knew I could kill him. Moments in which I didn't want to become a monster and so I swallowed my hate and stilled that final killing blow. I cannot make the same mistake again, not when so many are suffering for my softness.
The ink gathers closer together here, as if the world around the writer has quickened and tried to take her away. It looks like words running together, like fear runs on in the darkness. There is no pace to it but fear and heartbreak and each curl whispers a pattern of worry.
If one of us had to become war for this world I am glad that it was me. I am glad that the city still has you to watch it with love in your heart instead of hate.
And so now I find that I am gladly turning in my stories for blades and my love for rage. You are the only relief I have now-- you and the thought that Denocte will be safe even if I must become a beast to save it.
Love our court well. And know that I will love you more than that.
Do not pray for me. Pray for all the people who are suffering for my weakness.
The signature at the bottom is nothing more than a slash of ink. It looks like a blade that spells out the name--
Isra
And when Moira finally looks away from the letter she might see drops of saltwater gathering in Fable's eyes below the low burn of violence churning like a sea-storm.
And is it over now do you know how pick up the pieces and go home--
She has to wait until night has fallen to avoid the guards.
Seraphina has always been like night – like smoke. There is no fire written across the metallic silver of her coat, just a patchwork of shadow and steel. A snide person might say that she is better crafted for the Night Kingdom than the bright light of Day, an assumption she would likely silence with a sharp, offended glare; she might not be flame, but she is its aftermath or its harbinger, trailing ominously on the horizon for miles to see. It is, then, not too difficult to sneak past them and into the Oasis; it is a large space, and Raum hasn’t managed to afford many guards to patrol it. Yet. But she will still have to be quiet, and cautious, if she wants to avoid trouble; this is not like the night she met with Caine, where the barely-instated Sovereign was still struggling to gain any foothold in the rebellious golden kingdom. It was comfortable, then, even pleasant. Now, her movements are dogged with tension, and she keeps glancing over her shoulder. She could kill the guards – there are only two of them – if she had to. She knows that she could.
But – but they are her people, likely drafted into the new Sovereign’s forces by necessity, and it would break her heart to have to kill her citizens if she could avoid it.
Her mind still grasps at the steel arrow attached to her armor as she creeps along the bank, sheltered by the embrace of massive palm trees and emerald-green shrubs. She is quiet as a ghost; she might as well be a ghost, with her bloodshot eyes and dark circles, with the way that she has waned – no less muscular, but bonier and thinner, and she was a lean woman to begin with – in the wake of her death on the Steppe. Nevertheless, her mismatched stare is fire-bright and alert, and her stride, though wary, is smooth and comfortable, even as her hooves hover several inches over the sand. The silence is a relief; the levitation was an annoyance, at first, and she struggled to control it, but she has come to appreciate its stealth. (She was unaccustomed to sneaking, largely because she was unaccustomed to needing to and had therefore never had to hone her skills, save for on the battlefield. It made her a bit envious of the spies she’d managed to collect so far – she wouldn’t avoid the task, because the numbers of her fledgling rebellion were still so small, but she couldn’t match, say, Caine and his cloak of shadows for evasiveness. But, even if numbers weren’t so low, she likes to find people herself; she knows that she is walking into a war, and maybe it is because she wants to punish herself if – when – something happens to them or maybe it is because she feels like she needs to know every face that she recruits, but, in any case, it pulls at her sentiments. She needs to ask them herself.)
She’d heard rumors that Raum intended to wall up the oasis, and it was this that drove her to find Jaylin with a new urgency; she needed to warn her, and, well, perhaps Isra could help to free her from her palm-bound prison, but only, of course, if she wanted it. (But, she thinks, it might not be safe to stay – no matter how deep the oasis’s waters ran.) Shielded by the waterfall, she draws out from the cover of the trees, shooting an anxious look towards the guards; they are on the far side of the pool, barely silhouettes against the moonlight. They won’t hear her, unless she is – too – loud. A grimace curls across her charcoal lips as she draws the steel arrow free from the thick wraps of her scarf, allowing it to hover in the air beside of her withers; and then, abruptly, she shoots it out across the water, carving up spray. It only just breaks the surface, then hooks, flying back to her side. Seraphina eyes the water. “Jaylin,” she murmurs, lowly, and hopes that the hippocampus will come to investigate the disturbance.
Jump, take a leap of faith,
shake your heart awake beneath.
You have all it takes, open your wings.
The fields are crisp and dry in the oncoming chill, and their brittle grasses scratch across her legs beneath the force of the wind coming down the mountains, carrying wildly dancing flurries with it. The sky is dotted with cloud cover, the sun peeking out from behind it and dropping wide rays of warm light to the ground below. Samaira stands and looks up at the sky and shivers.
“You’ve got to do it at some time or another,” prompts a voice in her head. The pegasus glances at the great white heron at her side, and her nervous energy fills her silver eyes. The wind ruffles the feathers of her wings… both of her wings, for her previously damaged one had finally healed and been unwrapped. After so long with the bandages on, it felt strange to be able to move both of her wings away from her side. She opened them part way, allowing the wind to pull against them. “What if it’s weak, and I fall?”
She hates to admit it, hates that after all this time telling herself that the first thing she would do when her wing healed was fly, but now she is afraid. Samaira is afraid that she will take to the sky and it will be nothing like she has always imagined it to be. She is afraid that her dream will turn out to be a disappointment. “You won’t fall, everything will be okay. And I’ll be right here with you,” Alaunus says again. Her bondmate is young, but he is still her calm support system.
Even as her heart races wildly, unevenly.
Oh, she is afraid.
“Or,” he begins, “You can walk away, and never know what it is like to touch the sky the way you’ve always wanted to.” The earth colored woman sighs, her head dropping, her wings closing at her sides. “I’ll give up flying, and just stick right by your side forever. I promise it won’t get overwhelming. You know how I love to talk, and talk, and talk.”
“Okay, okay,” Samaira cannot help the bubbling laugh that escapes her, and her gratefulness at her bondmate’s ability to make her smile is a warmth in her chest. She steels herself, breathes in and out once, twice, three times. When she lifts her head again, the sun is pouring through the clouds. “I’m going to do it,” she says, as if trying to convince herself. She bunches her legs, opens her wings again. Hesitates.
Tonight, the world is black. It is cast-iron cold, bitter and silent for all but the winds that carry on in the distance – or were they the howling of a beast, uncertain – residence for the unsettling air that rises and falls like the breaths of god. The shadow the mountains fall; valleys deepen their rut, the earth swallows everything into a vat of darkness that proceeds on – on – on into nothing. The world is succumbed to a moonless sky. It is hapless, forbidden, and all around is the magnetism that a monster may like, that electricity that runs along your spine and prickles your skin with a hundred bites, that sends tremors through your bones and makes you think that maybe – just maybe, the ground is alive beneath you. And it is hungry.
It is a nightmarescape made of jeering teeth, clawing needles, the ripples beneath your feet that you feel just faintly in your gut. As the sun drowns beneath the rising backdrop, it drags all niceties with it – all fragrance of violets, lavender, flesh and leather. What rises is a curious nothing that burns in your nose. You wait.
Silence so thick you can hear your heartbeat. Is it yours?
You hope so.
Because if it's not, you can see the possibilities are endless in this fresh new hell – there is nothing for miles but quivering brush, flat land that offers no shade or mercy. The shadows that pass over head are ambiguous, and large, you think, so large that you may not care to discover their nature of being. There is nothing here that speaks to you of humbleness or anything pleasant, even if the night breeze against your flesh is a kind touch compared to the scorching daylight you witnessed before. There are other things, things you haven't seen, things you aren't prepared for.
And how the want starts in you like thunder that rolls beneath the veil of your flesh and rises, unbidden, behind your teeth. The terror is nameless and deep, and it welcomes you as if you have always belonged. As the desert night grins at you, you grin widely back at it. And your mouth is not a boy's – it is not flush with promise, sweetness, and grins full of sunshine. It is full of treachery, a forked-tongued thirst, fanged and possessed with all the wrath of a stunted god. Something in you moves, and you move with it.
As Erasmus approached the deep split in the vast plate of desert sand, he watched the starlight unfurl from behind the web of shadows, each star a pin drop that burns brightly with every birth. They dot one by one, then by threes, then by hundreds, until the night is full of galaxic current, heady and deep as any sea. He thinks he may drown if he dotes on it too long, and returns his gaze to the canyon. Something in its dismal reaches calls out to him, and he finds comfort in its peril. It winds down, down, and he is unsure if the depth ever truly ends – but he suspects that he can see the ridge of a bone-white rib jutted from one of its shelves, and he is intrigued.
But he isn't here to spectate the wonders of a geographical beauty. He is here for answers, and to follow the distant pulsings of a war drum that has echoed since he left the gates of the Night Court. For Raum, Raum, Raum, the wanted poster slips past in his mind, tattered edges fluttering wildly in the breeze, its illustration depicting one monstrous deviation of equine flesh - quicksilver and studded blue - and he struggles to find a deep-seated hatred for a villain as so many have done before. What had he done, after all, but threatened a queen, and taken the throne of another? Such ambitions he could only admire, this not-prince of the wilds. All was fair in war.
He wondered what that sovereign would think if she knew the things he had been required to do, even as a babe, and those things that he had done that were not required. Those simple pleasures that trespassed beyond morality. He regretted nothing. Would she still pity him then, this boy who found satisfaction in war? Would she have turned him away from the courts? After all, he posed no threat. He did not care for a throne or a crown, (or does he?) not for her blood or the delectable sound that rang in his ears, when a bone is snapped and crumbled to pieces. After all, she had a dragon. There was no resident disposition, even entangled in his pride, that spirited him with the gall (and stupidity) to wave a challenge in the shadow of a dragon.
He supposed he liked her, if only slightly, and the way she turns the floor beneath her to gold, and to obsidian, and to turquoise, and to rubies, like there was a wealth in her that could never be touched. The way her shadows danced behind the valiance in her eyes, grinning and laughing at her every softness with a promise that they would bubble to the surface if she ever forgot. The way, when she allowed those shadows to rise, the air around her seemed tight and wicked, and the walls seemed to breathe with a life that extended beyond herself. Or did they hum? Did they tremble?
Consumed in his thoughts, he hadn't realized that he was treading the paths that led through the canyon. Some were thin, almost too thin, some seemed to lead too far and steep, and some seemed to end abruptly. It was like a maze of trails with no discernible outcome, winding roads that twisted and turned and tangled and disappeared into the dark. The red rock was paled in the starlight, and all seemed to blend in ways that only the sliver of shadows revealed each edge. If some poor sod had tried to run through by fear or pure recklessness, one could only imagine how quickly he would be met with an end. This in mind, Erasmus chose his steps wisely – slipping from time to time, on a skittering rock that ricocheted forever down the crevice, and catching his breath as his sight pulsed after the swallowing dark.
It was time again for Toro to wander off into the wilderness and keep to himself. Everyone was always looking at him funny, always thinking nasty things and those - damn - Pegasi - they were always sneering and sniffing and he’d gotten into one too many fights. Or near-fights. Most of them didn’t have the balls to fight. Couldn’t have their precious wings broken, of course. Try living without them.
He had gotten himself quite far from the court now, the chill in the air was real and no longer a slightly-less-terrible heat upon the sands. He was nearly grateful for it, but his body was now accustomed to the Solterran climate and was beginning to rebel against his travel plans. It was all well and good; he’d had some days to cool off by now and was planning to turn back as soon as he could. He was starting to recognize this place and all he could think of was being beaten bloody by Raymond. What an asshole. Toro was certain he’d make it up to the red stallion next they met, but he hadn’t seen Raymond since (nor had he had a proper battle), and so it all went…unresolved. Toro never liked to let a loss linger too long. It was shameful.
He was about thinking of turning around when spotted a piebald stranger not far off, and, having buried (in shallow graves) his most recently suffered indignancies back home, thought to say ”Hello,” (from a good distance of nearly ten feet away).
Magic hovers in the air, an ever-present thrum that shivers and sighs at every whisper of movement, shuddering at every touch. The wind is pushing it farther, farther out into the land - like a weed it grows, taking root deep in the soil, crowding out every other stray bit of magic that comes too close.
Like the pool of light, the work of magic that was leached from the blood and magic of the sun god, more and more strange occurrences are popping up around the world of Novus. A whisper here, a push there; subtle changes that warp the flow of energy. The air is sweeter; the water holds a subtle tang whose flavor changes at whim. A light that winks in the distance at night, a strange beetle with a reflective shell -
- A field of flowers blossoming overnight on the battle marked fields of the Bellum Steppe.
But these are no ordinary flowers.
They dance in the wind, bending on long stalks, petals curling delicately at the edges. But oh, how they shine: they glisten in the sun like a million sharply cut gems, their edges sharp to the touch. They come in every color under the sun, so vibrant that they seem to pull their saturation directly from the rest of the world itself. The steppe seems suddenly dark in comparison, its grass brown and wilting around the wildflowers.
And as you approach, you may become aware of a sweet melody playing in the distance, like an orchestra heralding the arrival of magic. The wind plays music as it dances through the flowers, carving notes along their petals. Its calling to you in a voice that’s nigh irresistible, with words that awaken your soul but puzzle your ears. Come closer, it whispers, come see my beauty for yourself. There’s a promise hovering in the air, as if just by being in the presence of the flowers will bless you abundantly. But will it? Or is the sweet music masking a hidden danger?
Still you follow the sound, until you’re walking amongst the flowers and feeling their glassy blooms brushing against your legs. Whether they’re safe or dangerous, their beauty is undeniable. Their entire presence is a miracle of nature, and a testament of the gods’ broken magic.
But which god’s magic is responsible this time? Will your curiosity get the better of you?
How to Participate!
The Bellum Steppe has erupted in blooms, scores of wildflowers coating its fields. But these are not normal wildflowers, for while they act and move like normal plants each one is carved from precious gemstones. Their vibrant colors can be seen from miles away, calling anyone who catches a glimpse to come closer and see for themselves. But are they truly as harmless as they seem, or is there a danger hiding beneath their petals?
There’s only one way to find out.
Each character may reply to this post only one time. Rolls will be done and a staff edit will be posted at the end of each reply with Random Event results. You are more than welcome, and encouraged, to branch off into individual threads to interact with other characters. You may respond to the characters before you or your reply could be set at a different moment it time (this is totally up to you).
If you reply to this thread, it gives you +1 post in an IC event; if you replied to Water So Bright it Burns as well, you will now have a total of +2 posts in an IC event. There are more threads like these to come, and once you gather 4 replies total you can claim them for EXP!
All replies after May 1st, 2019 will not be considered for a RE roll.
Possible rolls and their rewards are as follows.
1 : Spring is in the air! Being around the flowers has awakened something in the character. Character will receive the common agora breeding item: healthy pregnancy.
2: 50 signos
3: Enchanted by the flowers, the character has decided to pick one and take it along on their next journey with them. But perhaps a day, perhaps an hour, perhaps only a minute later, bad luck will begin dogging the character’s heels. The ground may become unstable under foot, or perhaps a swarm of bees begin to chase them. The exact details are up to you, but for half an IC season your character will find themselves constantly plagued with various misfortunes, perhaps prompting them to get rid of the stolen flower.
Character #1: @Somnus Bonded: Yes, Alba the Barn Owl Magic: Yes, Blood Manipulation at Vexillum Tier Armor: No Weapons: No Current Health: 22 Current Attack: 18 Current Experience: 40
Character #2: @Eulalie Bonded: Yes, Tabbris the Gryphon Magic: No Armor: No Weapons: No Current Health: 11 Current Attack: 9 Current Experience: 20
No man was ever wise by chance.
”Are you ready, darling?”
The question echoed amidst the chilly air, a winter breeze blowing through the air and tousling the hair about their very heads. While the cusp of winter had arrived, Somnus and Eulalie had managed to sneak away to the Steppe before the first snowfall of the year. The pock marked earth beneath their hooves was frozen and hard, the soil having little to no give beneath their large bodies. There was a very high risk of a sprained fetlock should they not be careful, and not for the first time since departing Delumine, Somnus wondered if this was a good idea.
It wasn’t that he doubted Eulalie’s abilities, not at all… He simply felt as though there was something indescribably wrong with physically fighting your soul-mate in battle, even if it was just a test of mettle and skill. Despite what some might believe, Eulalie was a soldier of Delumine, and Somnus knew that he needed to treat her as such. The last thing he wanted to do was offend her by turning down the offer of a friendly spar.
Together, they had left Delumine behind in favor of the expected battle grounds upon the Steppe. Side by side they had walked the familiar paths and trails through the forest, traveling south at a leisurely pace. They flirted as young lovers would, and more than often Somnus would brush the feathers of his wing against the ridges of Eulalie’s pale spine simply because he could. They were married now, after all. They were one.
Married. He could scarcely believe the thought. Oriens, the mighty, knowing Oriens, had blessed their union himself. Aside from the day that Regis and Anemone had been born, the day of their wedding would forever be the one that brought him the most joy and heartfelt warmth. Since that day of the blessing beneath Oriens’ early light and knowing eyes, Somnus knew Eulalie in a way he had never known her before. Within his breast, in the cradle of his heart, he could feel her there. A steady pulse, a steady presence, the beautiful woman of ivory and gold was always with him. Their spirits intertwined forevermore, they were intimately familiar with one another that in no way had to do with physicality. They were more than that now. Spiritual, perhaps. With all of the words he knew and had at his disposal, Somnus knew that he could never properly articulate the wonder that had accrued between he and his wife.
With hushed whispers and soft laughters as though they were on their way to a date as opposed to a spar, both husband and wife arrived at the Bellum Steppe. They got into position; Somnus, with his back towards the southern coastline of the Terminus Sea and able to to see the impressive peak of Veneror to the north, allowed for Eulalie to pick whichever point she desired to begin their battle. The afternoon sun shone brightly overhead from an overcast sky, revealing a battlefield of upturned earth. The trees surrounding the steppe shifted and swayed with the might of the winter breeze, and even though Somnus shivered from the chill that swept over him, it was also in part due to his excitement.
The dunalino’s emerald eyes glittered as he watched Eulalie, awaiting her confirmation of preparation. Alba soared in lazy circles overhead, uncertain if she would be needed on this easy-going spar or not. Somnus had no intention on using his bonded in this fight, at least not yet, but that might change. Eulalie was a brilliant tactician, just as he was, and even though this was just for fun, well… Things always changed on the battlefield.
Already Somnus’ pulse was pounding in his ears, the beat of his heart seeming to increase ten-fold. The wide, exuberant smile adorning his dark lips gave way to his genuine eagerness and excitement, and he quivered in anticipation.
“Good luck, my darling wife.”Wife. His eyes sought out Eulalie’s pools of warm, loving brown, and he drowned in her stare. You are that and so much more.
tag:
Summary: Somnus and Eulalie arrive to the Bellum Steppe. Somnus is waiting for Eulalie to make the first attack, facing north towards Veneror Peak. Alba is circling overhead waiting for Somnus to call her if he wants to.
Attack Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE AN ATTACK) Attack(s) Left: 2 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE AN ATTACK) Block Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK) Block(s) Left: 1 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK) Item(s) Used: LIST ANY ITEMS USED, IF ANY
A set of eyes had pinned him
Became his version of a kingdom
She's everything the devil can't be
When she's singing to me, "Glory"
Solaris knew where she was going. She had been there before, and this was no different. Overhead the Viride did the Phoenix fly, her magnificent body alight in flames and embers like a beacon cresting through the evening light. The cusp of twilight had begun to touch the evening skies of Novus as stars flickered to life in the expanse of the heavens, the encroaching darkness breathing life and light into her flames, but she was focused. Solaris had been given a task, and she would not stop until it was completed.
A simple order, a plea. ”Find him. Bring him to me.” Emotional and troubled in a way that Israfel was not meant to be. Leaving the Warden of Terrastella within the confines of the Amare Creek had been difficult, but Israfel had not wanted to travel. Solaris understood that only her bond-mate’s hope that Ulric would come to a friend in need would suffice.
If not? Then they would weather this storm together, but Solaris was confident that Ulric would not leave Israfel wanting.
Upon finding the blue roan stallion, the Phoenix swirled overhead, letting out a piercing shriek to gather his attention. She soared down, gliding with wings lit and churning with flames, and made to land just in front of the Warden of Delumine. Fierce pools of lavender stared hard at Ulric, letting him remember her and realize what she wanted, before tossing a scrunched up note of paper at his hooves. If he picked it up and read it, it would read something like,
’Hey, good lookin’. Be a dear and pay me a visit, would you? I’m at the Creek.’
The note itself wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. Ulric was smart and he would understand. What he might not realize, however, was that the ink was smeared from drops of water, causing some of the words to be distorted. It had not been water, however, but tears. Yet he did not need to know that.
Only when he had read the letter did Solaris sweep back up into the evening skies in a flurry of feathers and fire. ‘Follow’, her flames seemed to say, guiding him in the darkness like a beacon, ‘follow’.
When Ulric arrives within the Amare Creek, nestled within the heart of the land and beneath the trees of vibrant oranges and yellows from the palpable kiss of autumn and winter, Israfel would be easy enough to spot. The Warden of Terrastella stood at the shore of the creek itself, an ivory and golden stain against the thick darkness creeping through the trees, gilded wings lax and loose at her sides. The woman’s gaze remained rooted into the passing body of water, watching the water as it twisted and curled through the riverbank. It was only at the sound of his approach, Solaris strangely vacant, that Israfel tore her gaze away to focus on the approaching stallion.
Despite the confidence in which she carried herself and the attempt at a rueful grin, the Sun Daughter’s lip quivered as tears, terrible, damnable tears, swam within glittering pools of troubled vermillion.
The crisp scent of winter clung to the air as Corrdelia woke from her slumber. Autumn did not stay long, although it usually never did. Leaves changed in a blink of an eye and the trees shed with the blustering wind. The earth crawled into its den to hibernate for the season, but this would not be the case for Corr. It was very tempting to give in, stay inside where it was warm and sleep until the world came alive again.
Within her cluttered home were bottles and bottles of stored herbs and elixirs. She stared at them now, organizing some that had fallen over and eyeing the stock to see if she had missed gathering anything she might need. Her time was nearly out to grab anything else, but she may get lucky and not everything would've been ruined from the first frost. Thankfully it looked like all the important herbs were all set, although she noticed she could always use some more lavender.
A caw echoed off the walls as her crow familiar flew in from the roof. There was a hole just small enough for the bird to come in without anything else getting into Corr's home. Hāsta came down and landed on her perch that stuck out from one of the ceiling beams, eyeing Corrdelia as usual.
"Did you find anything interesting?" she asked, not taking her eyes off of her task. "Well, I saw a bunny get taken out by a hawk, but that was about it.""
"Poor dear. Were you able to find something for yourself to eat?" "A little, but the pickings are slim this time of year… I hate winter."
"For the record, you hate everything," Corr replied with a laugh, then gestured towards the counter in the kitchen. "I thought you might get unlucky, so I put together some stuff for you. It's over there."
Without another word, the crow flew over to the pile of dried fruit and nuts. It was her own version of "trail mix" that she kept in stock often enough just in case her friend got hungry. Although Hāsta rarely said thank you, she knew the bird appreciated it.
When Corr was satisfied that everything was in order, she turned back around and decided it was time to tidy up her crystals. It was always important for her to make sure everything was in order to keep the aura of the room clear. Also, disorganized crystals made for not so great energy during readings. She didn't get very far before she heard a knock on the door. Her gray ears twitched and she looked up, trying to see who they were from the window. However, it was just a bit too dark to make out a form.
"Come in, the door is open!" she called to the stranger.
Curiosity stirred within her as she wondered who that might be. Hopefully, it'd be a potential customer. It had been a little while since she had tapped into her psychic abilities for someone else and she was itching to do it again.
