Dreams are full of wishes and nightmares are full of truths; eyes that do not see watch as stars fall and birds plummet, see burnt wings and flesh ripped from bone. Honeyed gaze drifts lazily over plains of fire under a full moon, watch as the feathers float on the wind as though they are not headed for disaster. This is a world where she knows it is not real, is not happening about her, but she does not mind the reprieve. Such a long trip was required to reach the Plains.
So Moira settles deeper into the blissful throes of slumber, letting events unfold and reality warp about her once more.
It is when butterflies peck at her back that she begins to move, skin withdrawing to that area, bunching up where the stick prods like lightning upon her spine. Brows furrow, an unintelligible mumbling given new life, and slowly she rises as though from the grave. At first it is slow, a single eye cracking open to glare at the twins who stare and stare and stare as though she is that girl again, the abomination in her house who had wings and dared wear them in polite company. They speak words that the phoenix cannot quite understand, and slowly her other eye opens to show the discontentment beneath her skin. Why was sleep so much to ask for in this god-forsaken pool of light? Didn't they know when to let someone just be?
Irritation curves into every crevice of her cheeks, her lips, her shoulders that rise and fall more quickly with the quirking of her brow as Erd's words hit her like a freight train. Moira Tonnerre growls, slow to catch up, snapping at the stick as it is pulled back for a final time and teeth bared in a savage snarl.
Who the hell do they think they are?
With a heave she lifts herself, standing taller than the two by at least half a foot. Down her nose she looks, and scolds with that heavy gaze. "And you are?" she asks, her soft, husky voice like a midnight caress, like the smoke at one in the morning when you can't sleep and stress and cigarettes are you last (and only) companions, like a storm you can only see but can't yet hear approaching to take you away. Oh, from the downward curve of carmine lips the darkening mood begins to show.
A glance at the water has her blinking, reeling away at last, curving her wing and nodding her cheek towards the hilltop before she turns to walk up, up, up and away from the temptation of falling into that glowing pool once more, letting it wash over her and drown her and consume her until Moira Tonnerre is so full of light and liquid that she could be floating in the sky instead of in a pool of death and decay. "Follow along," is all she says once halfway up, looking over to glare at the boys and demand that they come.
Perhaps you should not awaken a sleeping phoenix with toys that are not as sharp as her wit and wrath and temper when aroused. Perhaps you should think before raising the dead from their unholy slumber and demanding they respond if they are to rejoin the living. But they did not think, and now a beast is in their midst, guiding them onward and upward where answers will be gleaned, where knowledge will be gained, and perhaps those claws will be sheathed beneath her skin once more, sinking into slumber and cool pools where even the fire will not reach it.
"Speaking."
credits @Ard @Erd she's not very happy right now >.>
there was no reason for her to be here. t'was just another stop on the road. therein was no special connection to the sea. no deep meaning behind her presence here. no, she existed solely to travel. or so it would seem. so far she had settled not in any realm for long. faces were soon forgotten - both pleasant and crude - and names were merely stored away for further use. water, water everywhere she would muse cruelly as she stared at the ocean and yet not a droplet to drink. some she had found came by sea, across great distances in a wooden vessel. all her travels had been on foot. how interesting to sail on a boat. it was going to be on her 'bucket list'.
Huntington's back was to anyone else who came close, though her ears were well adjusted to pick up any noise. especially if one was to come up behind her, thinking themselves amusing and trying to frighten her. or merely take her by surprise. who knew? other people were a mystery to her. a continual paradox. her pale gaze would swing from the crashing waves, flickering to the shoreline she stood upon. perhaps it was wise to gather some ocean life before winter made the land naked? she could sell them for the coin native here if she was inclined to visit an inhabited area. a good plan to start procuring a map of Novus. she suspected the people here kept their more intricate items at a costly price.
With Eleutheria at her back, Avdotya’s once steady pace had come to a sudden standstill as the heat of the desert began to swathe her skin in its familiar touch. Her fire-lit eyes slipped closed and a deep breath drew into lungs that had been starved for far too long; this was where she belonged, in the vastness of the Mors and not stuck within the stuffy walls of foreign capitols.Secrets were a lovely thing, truly they were, but that was no life she wished to pursue any longer. Avdotya was meant to stalk the rolling curves of Solterra’s endless dunes, haunting the desert and striking fear into those foolish enough wander it alone as the Davke always had. And her timing, it seemed, was most opportune.
Chaos, once again, seemed to have found its way back to the Court of Day. The Silver Queen was supposedly no more, stripped of her throne and overtaken by a man she’d only heard described as a pale, vicious being - little did she know it was Raum, whose blade she questioned not so long ago in the driving rain. But regardless of the crown’s new identity, Avdotya held a savage desire to make the desert her own again and she harboured no concern for what cost it would come at. Perhaps, then, that was why she traveled with the dismembered head of a House Hajakha noble fastened just so to her shoulder.
She had found the man mingling among other high-borns at one of the many grandiose affairs she’d slithered into during her absence, the viper having disguised herself well enough to lure him away from the party without recognition. It was only when they disappeared from sight that she shed her mock skin for her true colours, but still a moment too late for a man with senses dulled by the warm embrace of a fine red wine.
And now she intended to deliver it upon the doorstep of this new king, whomever he may be. A welcoming gift, she might insist, to mount over his silken bed and an ever so gentle reminder that if he was to rule Solterra, his choices best be wise when stirring a nest of serpents. While the fangs of some were filled with the promise of empty threats, others carried a venom far more deadly.
It would not be folly to assume that it was the capitol now that lay in her blazing sights, for this delivery was of great priority.. and really, Avdotya was quite keen to see what they had done with the place after her last visit.
Time is of the essence, something Moira Tonnerre knows all too well, and she can feel her heart thundering in her chest more quickly than the flickering candle flame before her as she rushes through the halls. This should not have come to pass - how is it that Isra was left so vulnerable as this; enough so that when trouble came knocking, only Acton stood, and fell, in defense of the queen. Disgust and rage and beasts stalk in her stomach, turn her heart to hellfire's wrath. Where she walks, head high, purpose in every stride, eyes cold and calculating once more like days of old, it is not a Pegasus that moves over the ground but a panther beneath her skin.
Everything about her has changed from that smiling girl in the kitchen, the crying woman in a room of wonder, to something far less expressive of all that she feels, something of glaciers and hurricanes and bedtime stories are made from.
Moira is no porcelain cup sitting prettily in a china hutch, she is not breakable like the dirt and hearts of children losing their favorite toys. So when she sits at the desk in her chamber - so empty save for a corner covered in sheets to hide the stains of paints and charcoals and pencils lining every bit of it - glances to the closet where a paper and quill float from, it is not sadness that coats the ink. No, something deeper and more raw, something so much more ephemeral and eternal and contradictory that is put into every letter, but does not quite shake hands with the words.
Asterion,
I do not know what to-morrow brings, nor what the setting of the sun will tell me. Isra has been taken, by whom it is unclear entirely other than a silver blade seen streaking across the land. In her stead, I stand as acting sovereign.
Our hunt begins with the baying of the hounds when dawn breaks to match the shattering of Denocte's heart.
It is my hope that this letter finds you well, stay safe and be merry where I cannot. May we meet again soon with a brighter moon overhead.
with love, Moira Tonnerre, Emissary of Denocte, acting Sovereign, healer for all peoples
The phoenix does not blow flames from her carmine lips as the ink dries, simply watches and waits before sending the letter off with a pale, lovely dove to find the King of Delumine.
every time we get this close it's always pulling us apart
Whispers spread faster than fire, rumors of truth are gleaned in empty halls where a meeting should have been but is not. All too quickly it happens, the maze begins to melt as the stars scream in the sky. The Queen is gone, she's been stolen. Even the air of Denocte rings in defiance, carrying fast to the newly anointed Emissary's ears all that has happened. A maid saw a man dressed in silver and a young boy helping to haul the unicorn coated in blood and blossoming flowers into the night, into the arms of the Arma Mountains where she might be spirited away.
All that talk of a world to be, of the glass spire that whispers brightness where all is falling and drowning and crashing in a world of damnation and ruination, it turns to sparkling diamond dust in the midst of Isra being stolen away. Within sparks the fire of a phoenix, ignites about her more brightly than the candles she demands to be lit in every window of the castle, from the ashes of her soul a new heart is born - a cracking and mending and never-ending lighting bursting forth until the Pegasus nearly shines with her righteous rage and fury.
In the night the woman strides through the halls of the palace where so many had lain while their queen was slipping away, warnings are set up in watch towers so freshly rebuilt from their previous disaster. Her steps are the tolling of funeral bells, loud and heavy and demanding those who hear come, come and listen.
The Tonnerre woman would tell you she did not ask to be queen this time; once, when Caligo was in want for a champion and Denocte needed healing, once she'd raised her hand for the throne. Now... When her dearest friend who is family but not blood is taken, all she feels is ice running through her veins, so cold it burns. Ice from before the world was born, before the sun ever knew how to blink and radiate and shine, from something colder and far more dangerous than any living fire ever could be.
She reaches the antechamber, sweeps through it like a storm, leaves the kitchen-staff she's come to adore gaping. Like that the woman is through the foyer and on the front steps of the castle as the court awakens before dawn ever lays eyes upon the lot. The phoenix can recall a night like this, a night when Isra was crowned and called forth her court. That day, music came from the chains about her ankles as sweetly as the words came from her lips; it was a siren's song that had called them all to the steps of the great castle that held strong through many a night worse than this.
Now, as the bells ring over all of their realms, one warning after another, it is not so sweet an awakening that her Court will be given. "Brothers, sisters, friends and loved ones. Come, come fast to the arms of the castle. Tonight," she cries out with sorrow on her tongue and defiance in those honeyed eyes, "a great wrong has been committed ! I call you forth to aid all of Denocte !"
Moira Tonnerre is not one for grand speeches to address a crowd, but she knows it is not yet time to tell them Isra is gone, not until all are gathered. Then, only once her court is here at last can she weave starlight into their souls and give them tonics for courage and brightness for their hearts. Only then may she tell them their queen is stolen, and war-games will come at last where she wished them never to be.
All NC members, Moira calls you forth now so we can start our manhunt search for our queen and bring her home safely! The maze is collapsing and Acton's body is the only thing to lie among the rubble as it falls, whispers are about that a silver man was seen spiriting away our beloved Isra under unknown conditions, and you may or may not have heard of this. Let us come together now to right these wrongs and keep the tenuous peace from shattering.
xploring the court had been a joy, and enlightening thus far, but without the sounds of her traveling home and no one to distract her, Mesnyi found herself wandering out to the wilds, dancing through forest and meadow before finding herself at the bank of a rushing river. It was untouched by fire, being so near the court, and she liked it that way (beautiful). She liked its energy, the rolling and foaming, and so she decided to stay. With her she brought her most favored violin, and finding a log to set it down upon - perched just so that its melody could reverberate through its core - she thought its bow into motion, calling up a hard and fast and dancing tune that reminded her of the very rapids before her. It took the lavender mare a few minutes to find somewhere that didn’t suck at her hooves or threaten to fall away, but when she did, there was no stopping her from dancing in the freedom and music of the Mercurial. Lost in the twirling of her mist-white hair and the song of the water and glass, it may very well be that she would not notice a stranger approach.
A stiff breeze whips down the corridors of Solterra, scouring the pathways of sand and debris. It is an echo of Elif’s own mood, jittery and half-feral; if it weren’t for the girl beside her the pegasus might spread her wings, might ride that wind until she was wrung-out and slick with sweat.
As it is she glances back at O, her green eyes too wide and bright in her narrow face. Around them the bazaar bustles on as normal, but there is a tension like a coiled snake running through them all. Even the rugs flapping in the wind seemed only to urge them on into savage frenzy.
Seraphina has fallen, a murderer once again rules the desert kingdom, and anxious energy runs like molten gold through Elif’s veins.
It is a perfect time to purchase a weapon.
“How did you come by that, anyway?” she says, voice low, and indicates O’s hurlbat with a flick of her dark tail. Her gaze never leaves the crowd around them, each face reflecting her own tension and suspicion. Where was Solis now?
She pauses alongside a table of scimitars, each glint a promise and a warning. Their curves make her think of the sickle moon, cool silver; it spurs nothing in the begging of her blood. A row of slim whips catches her eye next, and she sidles over, red-shouldered wings tucking more tightly to her sides.
Before she can get a good look at them a walking shadow makes her lift her head, and Elif’s green eyes narrow like a desert cat’s as they fall upon Caine.
“It’s you,” she says, and her sharp voice manages to make it sound like an accusation - but then, Elif is a naturally suspicious creature, anyway, haughty and wary as a hawk.
Besides, there is some part of her (though of course she feels shameful for it) that leaps at any chance for a fight. The beat of the sun, the snarl of the wind, the covert stares among the crowd - today’s is the kind of tension that can only be lessened by a blood offering.
There is an easy silence which falls between Mephisto and Huntington. Neither one appeared to be an outgoing sort, which could have added a tone of awkwardness to their journey, were it not for the comfort of having another about. For though she did not mind being alone in the slightest, Mephisto was wise enough to know that there was safety in numbers. With talk of war on the rise, and strange magic in the forest, it was inevitable that danger was only a heartbeat away. If anything, Huntington seemed ready to fight if provoked. Time would tell if the dark Pegasus could trust the white-faced mare, but for now, there is a simple acceptance and gratitude for the the company.
Their journey was not an easy one, for the gods would make it difficult to summit their mountain. High into the heavens it stretched, and though they began their trek in a world bathed in moonlight, it quickly grew dark as shadows gathered to coil about the silver moon. Now, there is barely a swath of light as they stumble their way through the winding path to the top, stopping from time to time to gather their bearings. Onward and onward they press, with a singular purpose in mind... to summit, and to meet the gods of Novus.
While it was true that she could have simply flown, there was no true gain in that. With her feet firmly on the ground and her wings pinned beside her, Mephisto was much more able to understand the land and take careful observations of the world around her. She noted every rustle in the brush, every crack of hoof against rock. Though the two are alone in their trek, eyes are watching their every move. Whether it was a predator, an owl, or simply the chirping ciacadas remained to be seen. More than that, she knew that the gods were watching from whatever perches they viewed the mortal world. That alone is reason to keep on.
Summitting the top, the dark Pegasus stilled and looked around. It wasn’t much to witness, but she wasn’t sure whether she’d expected grand temples or simple stone statues. What she found was something in between. Four obelisks reached toward the sky, some more crude than others. The loyal had been here, placing their baubles about and saying their prayers to the deities whom they were called on to worship. As she looks from one to the next, a brow quirks as she notes Vespera’s own monument to be visibly barer than the rest. A testament to her betrayal, no doubt.
Still, it is evident that this is a sacred sort of spot. Even the winds seem to hush as the two mares walk quietly among the stone circle. She does not offer a token of her loyalty, not yet… for Mephisto refused to worship such gods if she knew nothing about them. That, and she needed to hear for herself what Vespera had done to earn such disdain from her people. She is still reverent though, waiting beneath the moonlight with a subtly ethereal aire about her.
some time had passed since her encounter with the mare at the plains. further time had been wasted at the peak, learning of the deities here. time was a luxury she did not have, for she was embraced tightly by mortality like so many others. it was a disease she hoped to cure. if they bestowed immortality here in Novus, she would learn how. if it was by the gods' hands, well, she was merely going to find another way. she bowed to no god. not even for a token of their longevity. power was another thing completely. she could easily twist it about to work in her own favor.
steps took her back down the mountain's peak, entering a place she had not been before in this land. yes, she was ignorant of the true intentions of this particular area. she did not know it was meant for lovers nor beings looking for a quick tryst. it was merely on her way deeper into the realm. by now it was midday, however. having spent all night in the presence of another without a contractual obligation to remain or join her court, Huntington would leave the other be. especially in favor of continuing on alone. she stood out like a sore thumb in the day; her dark coat did nothing but hide in shadow. to many, she could appear odd and foreign. and she rather hoped no one would approach with foolish questions.
Huntington was merely looking for the exit.
@ anyone ooc; ignorant of this creek ic, oocly want to have fun >D anyone welcome set after she visits the mountains with mephisto
ignorance was something to never be tolerated. blessed be - if one had to bless anything - the power of knowledge. she would rather die than be idiotic. idiots themselves she could tolerate; if only for a little bit. being an idiot? well, place a bullet in her brain. she was better off dead. though she was not quite ready to lay down and die. Huntington would place her steps forward, curiosity driving her further away from the neutral lands and into court martial areas. she held no light in her eyes as she stepped, ever forward, and wonder would fill her body instead of expression at the site of the library.
perhaps this land was not entirely doomed to idiocy.
they had a place of learning, even if it was in this court alone. she wondered if the native residents visited often or allowed them to be tended in solitary? ah, but inside... she was met with a flurry of activity. small creatures rushed about, tidying things up and placing them in order. librarian assistants. how quaint. the woman would wordlessly step forward in the 'lobby', eyes trained to the scrolls littering the area. where to start, what to read first... she had time to do most of this. if she sat down and did not move for years, she could finish at least sixty percent of this collection.
though that was by mortal standards, taking into account her own lack of immortality. t'was just something else to accomplish. she wondered briefly if this land had immortals. Huntington would approach a table, eyes lingering upon the text the scroll provided before turning away. she barely registered if another approached her. she was lost in her own thoughts now.
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