you shouldn't have to pay for your love
with your bones and your flesh
Toro,
I hope this letter finds you in good health amongst all of the chaos recently. There is a lake some distance between our two Courts, where caves seem to dot the surface of the mountains -- if you would like to meet there, I would enjoy your company. I have a request of you.
Your friend,
Anzhelo.
He seals the letter with trembling telekinesis and a faint flicker of hope deep in his chest, despite all of the turmoil currently plaguing his home. He worries for the horned stallion -- he is brash, and reckless, and there is a silver man currently holding the crown, one that dominates whispers of crows and blood.
The bird that carries the letter away is swift, and he can only quietly pray that the words will find their intended receiver without tipping off the wrong sort of person. There is danger in what he has agreed to do -- if he is discovered, he has little doubt that he will be punished accordingly, but if it might help bring Isra home, he is willing to do so.
He departs his Court that night and makes it to the Abigo caves by daybreak to wait for what Toro's answer might be, before he continues to the next part of his mission.
Seraphina's death couldn't have hit anyone harder. And Eik is accustomed to life's blows. Anyone could read the stories written in his flesh, scars scattered like grotesque constellations, and anyone could only imagine the stories unseen, writ on the inside. Stories of bones and magic and a terrible, aching loss. (loss like that never leaves you, and with time you don't want it to-- absence becomes a friend, a
voice in the dark: "didn't you want a hunt, didn't you crave something as familiar as dismay, you--")
It would be too much to say the world was turned upside down. The word does no such thing on behalf of man. The sky is still up, the earth still down, and the sun still rises and falls each day, but as he walks through the canyons it does seem as though the colors of the desert aren't quite right. And when he finally returns to the court proper, the feeling of wrongness only grows as the walls of civilization rise up around him like tombstones. There is something missing, an essential shade of silver(, or blue, or gold) and his mind is having a difficult time drawing lines between the points.
(remember the library-- smoke rising like unwanted memories between you. remember, remember, remember what you lost-- what was taken-- don't you remember?)
As he walks the sandstone streets, it hurts to see the state of the court he had slowly come to think of as his. What hurts more is how his magic, at times beyond his control, made fierce with rage and sorrow, siphons the thoughts and feelings of the collective mind and floods his head with them. All that pain and anger and chaos, and the devilish glee that accompanies chaos, all of it good and bad and coming in waves he can't control--
But what hurts the most is the dawning realization of how selfish he had been. Wrapped up in his own grief and anger, captivated by vengeance, he hadn't even thought of Solterra and what this all meant for his country. It makes him feel sick.
(You've been gone too too long and look what happened, look at what you've done, death and war on your hands, your-)
A bell rings. His magic, casually gleaning through the minds of strangers in the street, has noticed something that needs tending to. It is a spark of recognition in someone's mind as he walks past. "That's Eik," they think, and he quickly, carefully reaches with his magic and snuffs out the thought (easy as blowing a candle) before it can grow and spread and trigger a chain reaction of thoughts. (a candle is easier to blow out than a wildfire). The stranger looks Eik in the eye for a moment, and all he sees is just another man with a blanket of scars. For a heartbeat he feels confused, but he does not know why. It must not matter, he looks away, and his mind turns to the coming day.
Eik makes sure of it.
In this manner the once emissary maintains anonymity as he walks the streets of the capitol, grinding his teeth and watching and watching and watching.
The mountains gave Metaphor room to breathe, room to quiet his wandering mind. He walked silently along the tree lined paths, cut by horses who strode here long before himself. Autumn breezes turned colder the higher that he climbed, and though the red stallion shivered some when the wind caressed him, its touch was not unwelcome. His dark eyes take in everything, drinking greedily like a child who could never see enough. Scents of autumn filled his senses – damp leaves, crisp mountain air, pungent cedars and firs. He was at peace here, despite the chaos in Novus. Metaphor was relaxing into his life here quite nicely, not sad to see the strange magic of the Rift go by the wayside. Here, life was simpler, in a way.
He hugged the mountain’s edge, looking over once or twice and wondering for the briefest of moments what it might feel like to fly. Metaphor was a simple creature though, as simple as they came. He had no wings, no horn, no magic. What he did have was a level head and a calming presence. With a whimsical sigh, he stopped for a moment in his journey, staring out on Novus and appreciating the beauty that the land had to give. Here in the mountains, he had a birds-eye view of the world, and a part of him never wanted to go back to reality.
Turning back, he almost began the descent back toward his and Katniss home on the edge of the woods… but something stark white against the greenery caught his eye. Looking closer, he could see it was some sort of structure, and curiosity has Metaphor pressing closer to learn more, even as Maaemo’s orb hummed a bit brighter behind him. Stepping carefully through the underbrush, he moved closer and closer to the temple, until at last the red stallion finds himself beneath one of its massive arches.
His hooves clatter against the stone, and Metaphor’s eyes turn this way and that, taking in as much as he could. It was a splendor to behold, a temple clashing with nature and civilization. Purple flowers climbed the walls that seemed to stretch forever to the heavens. It was a place which hummed with piety, speaking of some religion or god lost to time. Standing beneath the vine-heavy columns, he whispers reverently to whomever might be listening, “What is this place?”
Could Pan feel the magic in the air? It runs like an undercurrent, invisible but always present. And through all the noise of the day, all the hustle and bustle of rushing equines, a subtle humming began to take place.
It might start off as an annoyance; with all the excitement going on - if murders and kidnapped queens could be considered exciting - it would become a distraction. But over time it will become more insistent, forming a rhythm of its own that beats away inside of his ear. And when Pan finally escapes the hubbub of whatever capitol he finds himself staying at, he’ll realize it’s not just an annoyance buzzing away in his ear.
It’s a pulse coming from inside of his heart.
He might feel a tug, like an invisible rope has been lassoed about his heart and is tightening with unsteady tugs. Someone has captured him, ensnared his very soul; but who?
The magic whispers in his mind, foreign yet strangely familiar. It’s calling out with him, with words unintelligible but a message that’s all too clear: come.
He might try to resist it at first, or he might find the interference exciting.
Whatever his reaction is, he’ll have no choice but to follow. With every step the tug will grow stronger, and it will become harder and harder to resist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The water was cool and clear, and relatively calm in comparison to other sections of the Rapax. Here it ran so slowly you could see clear down to the smooth round stones decorating its floor; and, of course, you could see the stray fish that darted back and forth.
As the sun shines down and reflects off the surface of the water, a large splash breaks up the surface and sends hundreds of tiny droplets raining down like drops of gold. A whistle pierces the air, sharp and clear. Oliver arcs through the air like a bullet, his body wiggling, fur glinting, before dropping back down to the river with a similar crash. Submerged again, he darts off.
The river otter is a flash of brown that flies back and forth. He twists and turns, spins and rolls, his movements so graceful he seems more a dancer than a swimmer. He doesn’t know what’s brought him to the River; only that he’s here now.
Like Pan, there’s a ringing in his soul that tells him to stay, that whispers this is where you’re meant to be.
He doesn’t question it; he simply dances in time to the music that magic is playing in his veins. The same magic that is slowly but surely leading his bonded to him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Despite the border closures at Delumine, it is to this section of river that the magic brings Pan. The closer he gets, the more right it will feel: it’s as if the magic is humming in excitement, as if it can hardly wait for the meeting that is to come. Just a little farther, it tells the Vagabond. You’re almost there.
When he finally arrives at the river, the magic calls him closer still. He’ll be drawn to the edge, where the water laps at his ankles.
His bonded will be floating lazily down the river on his back, admiring some shell or rock or other trinket that he’s picked up during his adventures. But when he sees Pan, he’ll cast everything aside and swim to him.
For a moment, both the otter and the horse will be still as they stare into one another’s eyes, unsure what to make of the other. But something about the river otter will feel strangely familiar to Pan… he can’t quite place where he knows him from, only that he knows him.
Then Oliver will twist in excitement, returning to his dance from before.
”What took you so long?” he’ll seem to ask, not in words but in chatters that mean the same thing. ”I’ve been waiting ages!”
Pan has met his Bonded.
@pan will slowly become aware of a buzzing in his ear, a hum that doesn't go away no matter how hard he tries. Over time it will intensify, unable to be ignored, and Pan will feel an invisible tug at his very soul. Should he choose to follow it, he'll be drawn to the ever-familiar Rapax River. There he will see Oliver floating down the stream, but when their eyes meet the otter will come to him at once.
Pan has (re) found his Bonded. c;
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The day had finally come to a close, ending the onslaught of heat and slowness. The moon had risen high in the sky, and the beast of shadow looked up with a faint tinkling of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, this would be the place he found them. Yuki and his twins. They had been missing since the implosion of one of his last homes. He didn’t remember much – only that he woke up and they were gone, ripped from him. His heart hurt with their loss; a hole that he tried carefully to avoid during the daylight when others could see him; but he dove head-first into it at night. Night was also the only place he felt comfortable spreading his wings – wings that he held tight to his body, which was so thickly furred that the wings melded with them. He hid his wings since he was a young colt, and Yuki was the only one he had ever willingly showed them to – aside from his children.
It was now, in the darkness of the trees that he stretched them again. Each joint of the pathetically small wings popped into place, a painful relief. He flapped them a time or two, knowing they were utterly useless to him. He would never fly, but then, he was ok with that. Ankou stretched out everything else – his neck, his back, his legs, and gave his wings a few more stretches before folding them carefully against his sides again. Aside from the benefit of hiding his wings, his excessive fur also insulated him against Yuki’s ice element. It wasn’t her fault she was cold – just like it wasn’t his fault he was black. She had struggled to find someone who could stand to be near her, and he had longed to find someone to love. Their pairing was a match made by the gods. There was no other explanation for it. And together, they created a perfect set of twins – the little filly with wings and ice; and the little colt with wings who was able to fly. They were perfect.
But they were also gone.
His heart ached again. Ducking his head, he started walking aimlessly, knowing there was a herd around him, and that he was not truly alone; but that did not stop the feeling of lonely from wrapping its claws around him. With a sigh, he moved, black eyes reflecting the moonlight and the faint stars. He still hoped to find them. One day, he would be reunited with them. He had to be.
It’s high noon when it first starts; a little flame on a patch of dirt. It is dwarfed by the cliffs, whose shadows contour each angular plane of its face in the severity of the midday sun. The water below stretches with no end and with a glaring reflection of the sky so bright it could blind. No one notices the rising fire.
No one, save a single winged mare in the heart of Terrastella.
Fire runs in her veins——her every step, her every word roars with its passion and mettle. Its manipulation is a power she has possessed before, and wields again. It is no coincidence she is the one that it calls upon. It had been her end.
And now, it will be her rebirth. All she must do is find it.
Should @Israfel choose to seek out the fire that wordlessly calls her, she will come upon a path of embers floating in the air, each a step nearer to their source than the last. The darker the sky, the easier they are to see, and the brighter and higher the final flame burns. The fire grows in time with the sun’s descent: slowly, as if it were a vehicle of animation, rather than destruction; a single column of heat and light at the Praistigia Cliff’s edge.
Even before Israfel can see the fiery pillar, she will hear its crackle and roar. It is faint at first——could be written off as a figment of her imagination. The closer she gets; however, the more certain she will become that something is burning.
As twilight draws nearer, the sky begins to glow a crimson red. The sunset bleeds into the ocean, and the fire stretches into the sky. There is no distinction between the three, only color. When it reaches its full height, the flame throws up ashes to dance upon the breeze; black stars in a red night.
A fire at the edge of the world surely marks the end of something, one is bound to think. Indeed, “Come,” it seems to command, (and not simply to come to, but) “come through”——through, and over the edge of a cliff. And yet, the flame seeks not to harm, but to bestow a gift upon the embodiment of fire itself. It will take both faith and bravery to step into the pillar of flame—the very thing that killed Israfel,—for if the fire scorches her feathered wings, the only way out will be down.
Should @Israfel choose to follow the ember path, she will find herself at the edge of the Praistigia Cliffs in front of a column of fire not dissimilar from the one that killed her previously. When she steps into the fire, she will feel a fierce sensation of heat in her gold markings and wings akin to the intensity but painlessness of warm water on cold skin. Once the feeling fades, the pillar of flame will disappear back into the dirt from which it came, leaving Israfel in the black of night.
She may or may not be aware of her new immortality.
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If you want Israfel to begin aging again: contact staff. If she becomes mortal again, you won't be able to re-instate her immortality without purchasing it again through the Agora.
TW: violence, blood, murder. brief and not particularly gory.
a king walks among us
He had not killed in months. He did not miss it. But no one told him “good job” anymore. But he was not supposed to kill. Soldiers protect.
There was so much blood at his feet.
El Rey did not understand the nature of those who picked fights with the strong. So many, far smaller, less equipped, less practiced, had fallen before him. It was not as if he’d never fought off a group.
The alleyway was meant to be a refuge from the stimulus of the market, not a trap.
It turned out to be a trap.
A wicked little colt at one end, dagger in his teeth, halted El Rey. A shadow of a young stallion closed the mouth of the corridor.
”Give us your money.”
From what Rey had seen his father paid after fights, he did not make very much from being a soldier. He said, ”No.” He pressed his rump against the wall, thieves creeping closer. ”You are not very threatening."
”You’re not very smart,” the larger one sneered.
The black bull recalled every time his nursemaid and father had called him a clever boy. For fighting, for reading, for writing, for winning. ”You are wrong.”
The colt with the dagger lunged at El Rey. He did not have time to scream. Gold had pierced through the supple flesh of youth before any piece of iron could. The thief gurgled as El Rey lowered his head and let him slide off his horn, onto the ground.
”What the fuck.” The stallion was backing away now. Rey would understand if he ran from death.
But Rey was not supposed to kill anyone.
”You can’t tell.” Rey leapt at the stallion, a sharp twist of his head catching the thief as he tried to turn away. Their bodies collided with the floor as Rey drove his horns through the stallion’s throat and into the hard ground.
Now he’d killed two people.
But now there was no one to tell.
The black king slowly slid his horns from their perfect, gory slots. Thick, red blood dripped down his nose and onto the cobblestone. He said, ”You are not very smart.”
@Eshek
”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“ I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
Into ranks. Into people. Things. Clothes. Weapons. Noise. Color. What has he known but the darkness of his home and the redness of the ring, oh, the first time he heard all that shouting he almost died, and he wasn’t the one with a horn through his throat, oh no, he wasn’t.
There is no option save victory.
El Rey stands in the crowd with a black ball of twine unraveling in his head. Think of the cellar. The cellar. The cellar. How quiet, how silent and still and comforting.
And the market —
It isn’t as bad as you think.
But he cannot move and in his height he is a great divider in the center of the crowd. Too much smell. Too much taste. Too much sound. Too much touch.
He came here for a reason.
I am hungry. Yes. Hungry.
Instead of lurching into motion as a great beast he peers over the crowd for something appetizing but the spices and variety of this world are too much and he resolves to either stop panicking or starve. Neither will happen soon enough, and so everyone will keep walking into him.
She comes on a draught of cool air with winter hanging like sharp tipped icicles between the molecules of wind. Darkness hums between the cells of the autumn chill and the bright blood sheen of her skin. Each inch of blackness that pools like ink the the harsh lines of her cheeks whithers and dies when she opens her eyes and light pours out like frost.
She blinks, slow and aimless, and white-light from the center of the sun makes strange all the bits of sand rising in her wake in great clouds of dust. Every granule of sand seems to creep and float like flies freezing in the air. And through that strobe of her eyes, as they blink, blink, blink back the grit of a hundred universes, she moves closer and closer to the gates.
The stone feels hot beneath her when she pauses and lays her cheek against the red-limestone in a queer caress. It whispers to her of fire, of hate and she can taste ash in the grout holding each stone to the next. It coos to her (like a lamb) of holiness and light duller than the bright universe churning inside her belly.
This wall makes that universe (and all the others) churn like a whirlpool in the deep in the bottom of creation. It rolls around and around itself and she hums to the pulse of it. It sounds not unlike a heartbeat thrumming and clanging in her bones. Her lips tingle and her teeth ache in her smile like forty swollen, ivory bee-stings.
She walks along the wall for what seems like miles. It stretches out before her like a spine and her shoulder brushes it with each step like a contracted muscle. In the places where the darkness gathers deeper, and where it tastes more like snow, she lingers. There each spider and fly crawl out to meet her and they all linger together, in the light of her, for a single blink of her eyes. Still she continues moving-- shoulder to stone, light to darkness, frost to adoration.
Finally the gates break up that spine of wall and she smiles at the old, knotted wood and the rust lingering in the places where the hinges are peeking through like bones through a wound. Her left hoof strikes out at that knotted, ancient wood.
There was a restlessness stirring inside of him a deep-set ache that kept hammering away inside of his head, telling him to run, to fly, to go. It had set in ever since Messalina had come bursting through his doors in the middle of the night, since he had seen the paleness of her face and the blood dripping from her cuts. It had only intensified when he’d heard of the murders, when he’d posted the letter that closed the borders, when Somnus called a meeting of the Regime.
It hadn’t stoped. It had only grown, eating away inside of him, gnawing at his heart.
But he couldn’t fly; his wings weren’t big enough for that. Nor could he run; that would be improper of the Regent, he had duties to tend to. He couldn’t escape, because the borders were closed and he needed to be here. But as the days passed, each one as tense as the one before, the need to get away intensified.
“I won’t go far,” he promised Odet, who fluttered nervously around him. “I just need some fresh air.”
So the steller’s jay followed him, albeit at a distance, always keeping an eye on his bonded. Times weren’t safe, after all; even a day at the beach could go wrong if he was alone.
The sky is a cascade of colors overhead, blue fading into the wonderful pinks and golds of twilight, and it comforts him. The sea breeze fills his lungs, the squawking of seagulls greeting his ears, and just for a moment he can pretend that everything is as it should be. As the grass gives way to sand underhoof, and he loses sight of the capitol behind him, Ipomoea has a reckless desire to gallop; to kick his heels up and run headlong down the beach, where no one is around to see him pretending that he could fly.
And he’s about to - the desire is nearly overwhelming inside of him - when he spots a figure wandering the beach. For a moment he’s almost disappointed that he has company, but then he catches himself and brushes the unkind thought from his mind. ”No company is bad company,” he verbally reminds himself, and wills his legs to take him closer to the silhouette. “Maybe you’ll meet someone new today.”
With every step the figure grows a little more clearer, her pale form taking shape and solidifying. It doesn’t take long for him to recognize her.
“Eulalie!” he calls, lifting up into a trot that carried him closer. It doesn’t cross his mind that maybe, just maybe, she had wanted to be alone.
“I guess you wanted to get away, too?”
hearts are breaking
wars are raging on
you’ve got me nervous
i’m at the end of my rope
hey, man, we can’t all be like you
i wish we were all rose-colored too
my rose-colored boy
