The sun was setting and, while most might be settling in for the night, Morrighan was just rising.
She didn't used to be a night owl, but ever since arriving in this land, sleep didn't seem to agree with her. To make matters worse, with her returning mortality, the lack of sleep made her body feel weak. It was all a mess and the annoyance would be clear on her face. Although, it was not all too different from her usual expression. Hating the world and everyone within it was something Morrighan did best.
The mare was wandering again, this time towards the mountains. The need to explore tugged at her, but at the same time she felt a need to step away from it. This land was still new even if she had been living in it for a few months. There was no telling what exactly was out there and there was already talk of some monster attacking another court. Until she had her weapon again, it wouldn't be very wise for her to stray too far.
So for now, she would stay closer to the Night Court's borders until she had a better idea of what to expect out there. At least with the mountains, there was still a decent gap between the Night Court and the others. Plus, she couldn't deny that the view was breathtaking.
Standing before her was a temple unlike one she had ever seen. Of course, any buildings in this land were new to her. She was not used to such structures looming above her as her old land was much more primitive. For some reason, it made her feel more vulnerable rather than safer, but it certainly sparked her curiosity.
Morrighan continued forward, keeping an eye on her surroundings just in case. Once she was within the temple, she couldn't help but look around in awe. There are designs etched into the stone walls, ones she was not completely familiar with. There is ivy curling around the pillars with purple flowers peeking through. At this point, the sun was just about set and the lack of light seemed to make the temple even more spectacular.
Lysander knows it and yet he walks its crooked pathways, scented as they are with bonfire smoke and the dry-dust smell of dead leaves. Everywhere he casts his gaze there is a sign of her, a stretch of gold where there should be only dirt, a trail of flowers more delicate than any living thing. Her city carries its queen’s touch like a brand or a beacon and the stallion hunts each lingering sign like a bloodhound.
Of course it does not lead him to a storyteller-queen, nor to a Ghost with a starving knife. Yet when he falls in step behind a mare who leaks light like blood, whose skin is the red of firelight off burnished copper, his body goes tense as a wolf's.
Another beast of Ravos, loose on Denocte’s streets.
But Eshek is no Calliope. Lysander has not forgotten what stories he has heard of the goddess of fire, of chaos and light and ash. He had not shared her appetites there and to see her here (but more than that, to see her now, when the world is crumbling anew) makes something black turn over inside him, makes his skin shiver as beneath the feet of a fly.
It does not keep him from calling after her, from raising his head like a buck in its prime, from leaning into the wind that tousles the dark curls of his hair and tries to remind him, with its near-winter bite, what it felt like to hold all of life in the palm of his hand.
“I didn’t think I’d see you in a mortal world again.” The words are pleasant enough, dark green off his tongue and heavy with rich soil, but the smile he wears glints like a half-buried spade. Once Lysander would have wondered if she remembered him; now he does not much care. His vanity has been buried away, though it was slower to fade than his ichor and immortality.
Still he walks like the god he once was when he draws near to her, all the grace of reeds bowing before a breeze, all the strength of choking vines winding around an old dead tree. And his eyes, when he looks at her, remember the secrets of a hundred centuries. Down and down in the roots of his heart does he bury the trembling question are you still a god?
“Why have you come here, Eshek?”
you fester in the daytime hours
boy, you never sleep at night
They take her whip at the entrance, as if a girl with a strip of leather is anything like a threat to a Ghost.
Elif has only worn it for a few days but already she feels bare without it, as though it were her alaja they had taken. How slight the weight had been at her hip, and how comforting. Even the wind is left behind at the door, the last breath of a breeze cool against her cheek before the throne room doors are pulled closed behind her.
She does not look back. Instead, cat-wary and hawk-proud, she watches the silver king through eyes that spark green and bright, copper thrown on a fire. In this moment she looks less like a girl and more like a dragon, lean-shouldered and narrow-faced, her wings tucked tight against ribs stacked like barrel-slats. Elif is hungry, but she has been hungry before; she is thirsty, but that is nothing new to a Solterran daughter of sand and searing sun.
More than anything she is angry, and while that is nothing new, either, it feels new to her. It feels like a rage that could eat up the city.
But there is nowhere for it to go now, with guards on either side of her and a monstrous king before her. It only lives in her eyes instead, and the snap of her tail, and the wide flare of her nostrils as she stares.
And oh, what there is to see! There is no part of him that could belong to the desert; his is a silver that could only belong to the moon, to cold starlight on a metal blade, to bones picked clean at the bottom of the sea. And his eyes, blue and cold enough to make her shiver where she stands, to make her hot blood steam and hiss in her veins. Elif does not see his monster but she fears it nonetheless, and her fear makes her hate a little stronger.
She forgets what she had come to say, as she paces as near as the guards will let her. She forgets petitions to let citizens flee if they choose, or pleas to stop putting a chokehold on food and water and the very hours of the day.
Instead she curls her lip, and arches her neck, and thinks of the way it feels to have the sun on her back, her wings spread wide, high enough and fast enough that nothing could hope to touch her. And when she speaks, it carries some small portion of the heat of that feeling.
“If you’re only trying to kill us, then you should do it more quickly.”
Asterion came to the training yards to remind Theodosia that she needed rest.
He did not miss the way she pushed herself, the way she never answered no to a question despite the shadows like bruises beneath her eyes. The king has learned how sickness can be a black dog that always trails you, keeping to the shadows until it is hungry enough to hunt. He knows, too, how often it is she spars, the pale of her unmissable against the stark colors of autumn.
He is not wrong. Clear across the courtyard is the shape of her, though he can’t tell if it is sweat or lightning she gleams with, here at the end of autumn. The bay is inconspicuous, languid as he leans his shoulder against a fencepost and observes. The day is bright but the air is growing brittle and cool, and for a moment he wonders what it feels like to her, to have her wings spread with the sun on her feathers.
Absent-mindedly he runs the edge of his magic like fingers against the spears and swords and arrows in their wooden racks beside him, testing each tip and each smooth shaft, watching the Halycon train.
He thinks of Isra, missing. He thinks of Seraphina, dead. He thinks of Vespera and the destruction she had led into the gates of the city, all those lives lost for a test they could not pass. He decides then that he cannot tell Theodosia to stop, cannot order her to be careful. What care is there for any of them?
When Asterion steps into the training ring he is empty-handed, but there is a whirlpool beneath his skin and it wants something to drown.
“Do you need a partner, Champion?” he says, and the smile slanting across his mouth then does not belong to a dreamer.
Hunger walks with her through the red-limestone with the walls that taste like dust in her teeth when she breathes. It lingers in belly like a snake devouring its own tail with an arthritic jaw. With each circle it makes her rib-cage ache and her muscles quiver with want. But instead of making her hollow and meek, the hunger makes of Thana a wild thing.
She rarely talks when her shadow stretches out to tangle with another in the canyon. Each steps makes her more lean, more feral, more wanting. None of the shadows that tangle with hers stop her. They only look at the red unicorn with bolts of bone-white running down her face. They look at the blade dragging sharp lines in the dirt and look away as if she is nothing more than another hot breeze in the twilight.
Maybe they know she's wild. Maybe they can taste the 'other' on the air that gathers hot around her and makes her sweat. Maybe they know it's more than hunger that drives each of her steps on and on through the dusky shadows and red-rock.
There is no grass to wither and die at her hooves her, nothing tempting enough to taste (only to have it rot on her lips). The canyon hold in it's secrets nothing for her and that's why she lingers in the dust and heat. She doesn't notice though the way the rock crumbles around her blade as if a million sand-storms have passed in a moment. All she notices is red, red that swallows up her form when she lingers closer to the rocks reaching into the sky like towers.
But ahead black breaks up that red and the dusk-darkness. The stallion's form is a suggestion of night, of blackness, that makes her think of that snake in her belly. Thana moves closer and her blade is still dragging tracks in the sand behind her. Her eyes lift, bright purple stones in a sea of red. She wonders if he'll look over her like she's a hot breeze or if he will try to see what sounds a wild, starving animal might make.
Thana holds her breath like the waiting matters to her and she's not sure why.
It was the first time that Metaphor had ventured out from the Night Court without his beloved. Once, he’d wandered Novus alone… and that had brought him nothing but nightmares. Though he had been one to remain strong when exposed to the bodies in Delumine, the moment had planted a seed of darkness in the red stallion which had plagued him ever since.
Part of him burned with anger for the lack of justice, for the sheer heinousness of the crime. Some of him still was overwhelmed with sadness, and he shivered at night, visions of the bodies clouding his dreams with darkness. He needed to know why, needed to find answers for the dangers which presented themselves to those who called Novus home. Too much had already happened, and Metaphor had to know if the gods had a part in it, or if their own greed had led those in Novus to self-destruct.
The climb to Veneror Peak was tedious, and he had to stop and rest along the way. It was quite a distance to travel from Denocte, and by the time he arrived to the base of the mountain, night had long fallen on the land. As he climbed upward and upward, moonlight rose to light his way, as if Caligo herself was edging him on. Nearing the top, he stopped and turned, looking back on the path where he’d come from. In a way, the treacherous climb echoed his own journey through life. Brambles and jagged sticks had caught at him, leaving small scratches on his red coat, but it was nothing he couldn’t mend.
And the view, was worth the climb.
As he stood along the mountain peak, Metaphor raised his face to the heavens, sure that he could touch the stars from here. Caligo had blessed this place, certainly. The midnight sky is clear and calm, with only the slightest of autumn breezes to steal away his warmth and silver light beaming from every blinking star. It illuminated the simplicity of the temples, and he quietly made his way toward Caligo’s standing like shining black stardust in the shadows.
All around this place, there is a quiet hush of piety. While many had come during daylight hours to leave their tokens and prayers at the feet of the gods, very few remained now. Their murmurs raised to the heavens, but Metaphor ignored them and knelt before Caligo’s shrine with little more than a humble presence to offer. His own prayer is quietly spoken in his mind – not aloud. Caligo, we pray humbly that you protect the Night Court… for darkness has fallen upon us. Isra has been taken, leaving our world in chaos. All around us, the cries of war and justice are sounding – and I humbly pray that you watch over us, keeping us safe.
He paused for a moment, wondering if Katniss would approve of him pouring his deepest fears to a relatively strange goddess… especially one which she did not necessarily agree with. And Caligo, I ask that you bless my beloved, that you keep her safe as she marches to battle among them. Prayers given, he offers a nod to the temple, resting for a moment before beginning his descent back to the land of the living.
Posted by: Pan - 03-17-2019, 12:11 PM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
Pan
The boy was back to the mountain, drawn here with the stories of Solis dancing in his head. Long ago, Pan had worshipped Solis before all the others – before he knew Oriens to be the god of the Dawn Court. Here on the mountain, he’d met the most devout of Solis’ followers, worshipped beside her, called to the sun god. But those days were lost to time now, just as the rest of his memories had been. Now, the child comes back to Veneror Peak like a babe straight from the womb, without expectation or preconceived notions – he comes only to pay tribute to the god of Solterra.
By now, the path is well known to Pan, for he had been here several times of late to worship the goddess Caligo. Today though, as he nears the peak, he nods to the ebony obelisk with shadows gathering around it, making his way to the alter of sandstone. It stands stark and naked against the setting sun, a tower of gold against a sunset sky. All around him, the peak is awash with hues of gold and pink, a beautiful and fitting tribute to the god of day. With his breath caught in his throat, the boy has to stand and enjoy the beauty, even as his mind begins to wander.
As he stands before the temple, Pan wonders what others had been here. Solterra was a land of warriors, and he could easily imagine the bended knees as they humbled themselves before the god. They would bring him tributes of war, he imagined – spoils like gold, dripping with the blood from their conquests. And he would appreciate it – this Pan knew. For Solis took pride in his fighters, and even more pride in their victories. Such was the way of a warrior tribe. And the boy has to wonder if he would ever be considered worthy in the eyes of the golden god, for he had no skills for fighting.
Still, he wants to be known by Solis, fishing in his bag and disrupting his sleeping companion. In response, the otter squeaks indignantly at his master, rummaging along with Pan and drawing out a particularly shiny piece of silver foil. Where it had come from, Pan could hardly say – but he’d found it washed ashore on the beach, knowing that it was worth holding onto for a special moment. Deciding to offer it to Solis, he stepped forward proudly, laying his prize along the base of the sculpture with his chest puffed proudly.
I know it isn’t much, but I want you to have this. The child’s voice is as sincere as any of Solis’ other followers, tinged with respect as he settles upon his knees on the hearth. And in the dying sun, the scaled boy waits, until the last flickers of day begin to blink past the horizon. With a smile on his lips, Pan feels whole and warm, as if the day would never leave him. It was enough, he knew – for Solis was probably too busy to personally thank him for his gift. Nodding and turning with a parting smile to the sandstone shrine, the boy returns to Novus, leaving his tribute behind.
It is an autumn night in name only, there on the cusp of winter, and every breath of wind has teeth.
As Lysander walks the now-familiar streets of Denocte he thinks of thunderbirds. He thinks of black gods who soften themselves with starlight on their skin, who speak softly and smile and pretend to be anything other than what they are. He hates these gods.
Neither does he care for their people, the way they stand and shiver and wait for the next foul thing to befall them. Perhaps he should not blame them but Lysander finds he has enough blame in his mortal heart for so many - and chief among them a Ghost, a king, a madman, a murderer.
It is not like him to keep to the city, not when the mountains beckon with laurel and pine, not when the sea winks like a siren as the moon passes from cloud to cloud. Normally when he is caught up by too-mortal a feeling (his rage and hate and helplessness) it is the wilds that soothe it, that remind him that time is nothing but a circle beaten flat and stretched long and everything that has come will come again. That he still has ichor beneath the blood in his veins and this world is nothing at all to him but the most recent name on a list of them.
Tonight he does not want reminding. Tonight he is wild and reckless as a young Greek and he makes himself forget that he was not made a hero. He is glad Florentine is not here to see him, nor Isra - they might not care for the salt-rimed curl of his dark hair, or the shadows in the woods-green of his eyes. Flora’s dagger swings against his chest with each step, another heartbeat.
He is not sure what he is looking for, except that his eyes pass over each stall and its merchant, each cinder-spitting bonfire. There are still stones missing from Caligo’s emblem and this Lysander does notice, and hopes they are gone as dead stars.
The street he walks dog-legs into darkness and there he meets the minotaur.
How could he be anything else? He is more myth than Lysander, who was a god; he is a black mountain in the darkness with gold glinting darkly from his horns. With no other option the bay stallion stops, and when he drops his head so that his arch of antlers dip it is not only a greeting they speak.
But Lysander is not yet so foolish as to pick a fight with a stranger for nothing more than the shape of his shoulders or the glint of dark eyes. He takes a step back, cocks his head like an invitation. “My,” he says, “I bet nobody fucks with you on a night like this.”
you fester in the daytime hours
boy, you never sleep at night
I imagine death so much
it feels more like a memory
Something is wrong. It hangs heavy in the air, oppressive and unrelenting. Kratos doesn’t know the cause of it, but as he traversed through this strange, new, foreign land, he knows that time reveals all. He’s a patient creature, but he is not content with the unknown.
The mountaintops are a treacherous place to traverse when the sun has fallen beyond the horizon and only a sliver of the moon remains to guide the way. Every step is taken with a dose of caution, every winding path carefully inspected as the pair gradually descended, but never did they falter with fear. Where he was going or even where he currently was could be anyone’s guess, and as far as he was concerned, he didn’t necessarily care so long as they made it there soon. The wind was bitter and numbing as they carried on through the night, but with seemingly each step that carried them further south, the more eager Pryna grew and the more powerful the inexplicable pull became. The feeling itself was bizarre and unlike anything he could remember feeling, yet somehow, it felt wretchedly familiar – and that was perhaps what kept him moving through the night more than anything.
“How much further?” The nebulous man asked aloud, ears twisting and laying closer to the crest of his neck as another gust blasted against his side, tousling his mane from one side to another in a wild mess that was sure to be fixed as soon as was possible. Until then, he would just be thankful that Pryna was the only witness to his disheveled state.
Flitting about in the blustering winds, Pryna was noticeably struggling to maintain her position as the wind continued to pick up. She was a resilient little thing, though, and with only minor difficulty did she turn around and make it back to Kratos, finding purchase on one of his curling, twisted horns. ”Maybe a couple more hours,” she proffered, ”But maybe not.”
His features creased, mostly from the harrowing breeze but partially over his companion’s unhelpful statement. “Maybe?” He repeated, scoffing softly and resisting the urge to roll his eyes. The dragon wouldn’t see it, but he knew she’d know he had done it anyway. “We can’t even be sure there’s anything beyond these mountains. What makes you so certain there is?”
Settling down closer against her bonded to ward off the chill, Pryna wrapped her tail about his horn. “Because,” she stated matter-of-factly, “I can feel it. We’re meant to be here.”
Sunlight glinted off of his golden chains as he walked, and for the briefest of moments, Rufio wondered if they were too heavy in such a harsh climate. Shaking away the thought, he jingled as he walked deeper into the canyon, far away from the blasted desert where the Rift had dumped him. Though the boy had been at Novus for several days now, it wasn’t home. It would never be home. A scowl crossed his face as he pressed onward, eager to get the fuck out of this desert, but finding that it stretched further than he’d care to travel. Resigned, he had simply tried to get as far away from Mors as he could, grumbling with every step, annoyed and completely over it.
Sweat gleamed along his curves, and even the wind seemed to tease and dance away again, not willing to give him respite. This place sucked sweaty balls, truly. How anyone could find beauty in the desert was beyond Rufio, for he wanted nothing more than to get away from it all, tending to now wander at night to avoid the harshness of day. Still, a part of him knew that he needed to get used to it. It was unlikely that the Rift would swoop down and pick him up again. The magic just wasn’t that kind. It was punishing him, perhaps for his years of overindulgence and selfishness in Neverland, but Rufio didn’t give a fuck… he was still pissed.
Grumbling as he pressed closer to the canyon walls in search of some shade and respite, he screamed aloud in frustration, his cry met by little more than the flapping of wings as a couple of vultures frightened away. Figured, nothing around here seemed alive anyway. Perhaps they were here to pick at his body, for surely Rufio couldn’t survive in a place like this for long. Licking his lips to moisten them, he crept onward, tired and hungry, and ever so annoyed.
In the distance, he spots her – blinking and wondering for a moment if she was an illusion. Hello? His question wasn’t so much given in kindness, more to check on his own sanity as he approached her. As he nears Eshek, something eerie washes over him, as if she didn’t belong in the land of the living – even if her coat glowed red and hot like fire, real enough to touch. He doesn’t touch her though, pausing with his breath caught in his throat as her hollow eyes catch his, afraid he might never be warm again.
What are you? His voice hovers between reverent and curious, as he waits beneath the autumn sun to know more about the stranger and her mysterious presence.
mischief managed.
@Eshek | "speaks" | notes: <3 sorry he’s an asshole
