Moving bone married to the bright opaline glint of a predatory smile.
The heaviest heart set against the lightest breath; bated, metal, rooted right into the earth upon which it crept.
The hunter is an author eager to draft great tomes using but the blood of its prey.
These words licked the inside of her brain like ravenous hounds, as though they had grown wants and needs of their own; urging her to follow their instruction with an urgency that could not be contained. They brought her placid pace inward, silencing the sound of her weight as narrow hooves pressed into the brittle soil underfoot until she came to a square halt. Memories scrawled their way across her vision, blinding her with their remarkable tangibility - Sabine wondered whether they would curl neatly into her palm should she extend one pale freckled hand? She knew they would not linger long, for nothing in her life ever did. It occurred to her, nevertheless, it to be strange that these very words belonged not to Raum ( Raum, who lurked like a fever-dream in the pitch of her peripheral vision ) but to her mother.
Sabine knew the sight of Rhoswen's lips moving over and over again, reciting the lines as though she were following an ancient script etched into her very flesh. Rhoswen's veins were caskets and her blood carried the corpse of a life she had once believed in. The last time Sabi saw her mother, she knew - like the moon knew the night - that such a belief was surely dead. Sabine had never known how to interpret these phrases; she had always wondered to what they might reference. Were they a gift? An instruction?
But now, as she stared out over the mouth of the desert, she knew.
They had been a warning.
It was as though time had walked right out of the door. Daylight bled into darkness, only to arise once more upon the dawn. Birds fell and fledglings flew. Leaves shrank into floridity before peeling into skeletal annihilation. What did the laws of nature matter to a girl whose father was the hunter in her mother's song? What did they call him now? (Lucifer, Abaddon, Apollyon) She wanted to scream but her lungs harboured blood and ash and grief in the place of air. They trembled and splintered, desperate to keep the anguish within from swallowing the little girl whole.
home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
A full moon was rising, a silent wraith overhead: just as it was cresting the horizon somewhere to the east, the sun slipped beneath the peaks to the west as if in hiding. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howl rang out, its sad and hungry peal echoing through the twilight sky. Something stirred inside of the pale man’s chest, his heart stuttering against its skeletal prison.
There will be hunting tonight.
He had not been here to witness their murders, nor to walk alongside their god; he had not even been here to witness the raging wildfires that had left the younger trees at the forest edge burned and blackened shells. It seemed he had missed all the interesting events, the first to happen since his arrival into Novus.
But he was here now. And as he slipped amongst the trees he became more and more aware of the change in energy surrounding the forest. No longer was it the bright and happy greenwood he had known from before; there was a darkness that clung to it now, a foreboding sense that was nigh impossible to shake. It was as if the forest was hiding some deep and dangerous secret; as if around any turn, he might come face to face with something sinister. A cold wind kicked up, sending his ivory curls into a frenzy of motion.
Winter was clawing at their doorstep — it was only a matter of time before it broke through and ate them all.
The tree branches creaked overhead, the stray breeze stirring them into motion. He passed underneath on silent feet, a ghost weaving through the forest. His eyes bright fever-bright, hungry as the wolf’s howl, searching the darkening forest all around him. He was on the hunt tonight, for clues, for information — for anything he could sink his teeth into.
Toulouse would need to be careful to not turn from the hunter into the hunted tonight.
I drink in the air like holy wine, like my last salvation tomorrow may burn, but I'll be ready for it.
She is spilled out – spilling out. A flood. Torrents held back by broken gates, seeping out through cracks and then plunging holes into the walls until there is no wall left at all, no stone, nothing; it’s all swept away. She doesn’t know how to swim. She knows enough to not drown, under most circumstances. On rare occasions her dreams are of that night in the maze and the ink-monster that chased her through Tempus’s creation, that river of black that tasted like ink and clung like tar when she managed to drag herself out and onto the banks, and sometimes she wonders if any of that ever really occurred or if it was just another nightmare, her mind struggling to fill spaces where something else should be. It grasps, sometimes. Seeks little threads. What was her name? (The real one, not that pale mockery, not that burning one.) Did her mother have a face? (She must have.) Her mind is not inventing any fictions for this particular overflow. It tastes too familiar, and it hurts too badly for her to mistake it for anything else, and, even if she wanted to, she couldn’t forget Raum, and she couldn’t forget what she had let him do.
She was never quite strong enough, never solid enough, never crafted of the right concoction of parts to be charming or intimidating or charismatic or powerful or tactical or ruthless or merciful or any of those things that leaders were supposed to be; there was always something carved out in her chest where those things should have been. Now, she is very tired. Now, with the taste of ash and blood and the scalding bitterness that she has come to associate with a particularly humiliating form of failure caught on her tongue, her feverish mind struggles to come up with a reason to grapple with the floodgates. She can’t patch them. She won’t win; she’s fighting a battle she knows that she will lose. She probably deserves it – Solis only knows how many people are dead because of her. She’s condemned them again, now. There is a river swarming down the canyon, and she can’t get out of the way of it, and she can’t hold it back. All of her stones are swept away, and, even if they weren’t, she can’t build anything with them before the water will hit her. There isn’t the time. She can only watch, suspended, helpless, flailing in the muddy riverbank as the water crashes closer and closer, the sound of its froth against the banks growing to a deafening crescendo-
but there is something else.
She has felt it before, faintly. Deep down. Deeper than she likes to look, and it flickers like a lantern or a tiny sun, even in the midst of this- overwhelming darkness. She feels it occasionally. A prickle. She is ashes, smoke – a dash of grey. She is not fire, just what comes trailing after it, but, sometimes…
sometimes it wants to burn.
She grasps blindly at this little ember, this spark, and she begs it to flame. She is a Solterran. She should burn, shouldn’t she? There is no honor in a body dragged beneath the waves, only one reduced to ashes atop a funeral pyre. But the water comes as a rushing darkness, and she doesn’t even have a candle, and-
She is dying, and she wonders if dragging it out is worth the fight.
Nevertheless, she can’t let go of that little light – she can’t let it go, or she will lose more than her life, she will lose…
She doesn’t know. She clings to it anyways, a solitary flicker against the black.
tags | @Isra notes | hello, I have no idea what's going on here, but there's a lot of delirious imagery. fun fact, the opening line of "Woman King" was the tile of the thread in which Sera became sovereign.
It is impossible to ignore the ocean and the way its lulling, crashing, breaking waves have called to her ever since arriving here in Terrastella. It waited for her, beckoned to her, from just beyond the walls of the court.
Like the city, Samaira had never seen the ocean but for drawings and depictions in books her parents had shown her as a child. To be truthful she did not even know if her home had an ocean. Perhaps it had been landlocked and she had never known it.
So it is all of these things that brings Samaira to the beach on this autumn day, with a chill brushing its fingers across her skin and the sun hiding beneath a cover of clouds. She stands where the water rushes up to meet her hooves and she looks out toward the endless blue horizon and she breathes in the salt of the air. There is peace here. There is breathing and solitude and the ever constant ebb and flow of the waves.
It has been a month since she crash landed on this world, in a way she could have never fathomed was possible and still scarcely believed. A month that her wing had been bandaged to her side, useless, healing. Healing. This was the thing she reminded herself of.
One day she will fly again.
And when that day comes Samaira promises herself she will spread her wings, catch a breeze and follow this very ocean for as far as they will carry her. When her wing is well she will find a way to see all the things she has never seen before.
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run Bang, bang, bang goes the farmer's gun Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run
Messalina's pallid lips formed the syllables of the rhyme over and over again in a soundless chant. It had been a tune the stable boys used to sing on summer afternoons, while they chased each other with sharpened sticks masquerading as swords. She had watched them from her room, condemning the game as silly so she would stop wishing so desperately to join them.
But that had been a long time ago.
The rushing wind whispered haunting things in her ear, of men and monsters and death. Messalina's pace quickened; her strides grew longer, her breath came sharper. Her thoughts turned to wicked things, to beasts ripping throats and hunters notching arrows. Something echoed through the trees, and her heart beat so fast she thought she would faint.
Run rabbit, run.
She shook the fear away. Whatever had killed Moore and Casper had gorged itself on their bodies. The thought turned her stomach, but she could not deny the logic. Whatever it was, its hunger was sure to be satiated. For now.
I must alert the guards. I must lead them back to King Somnus and Lady Eulalie. There is danger in the woods. Her hoof caught on a hidden root, and she stuttered on her rhyme as she fought for her balance. She won, just barely.
Her head ached. Her lungs screamed. She couldn't remember the last time she had run so fast, so far.
No — her breath caught when she remembered. When Mother disappeared in a cloud of smoke and stars. When they hunted me, the Witch's daughter. I had run faster than this. The memory sat bitter on her tongue, and she chased it away with a renewed sense of urgency.
The castle gates loomed in the distance, towers twisting to the night-black skies. She could not seem to get there fast enough. The shouts of the guards went unheeded as she tore through the open gates of the citadel, her moonlight hair a ribbon behind her. Her braids had long since unraveled.
"You there!" She caught the arm of a passing soldier, her grip as cold and unyielding as ice. His gaze snapped to her in wary surprise. Messalina's breath came in gasps and hacking coughs. She had barely enough air to speak, but she did not care.
"Find the warden. Tell him to assemble a troop of soldiers immediately and head towards Viride Forest. I shall meet them at the mouth of the trees." After a moment of thought, she added, "Double the guards at the gates."
She did not know if she had the authority to dictate so much, but they did not have a Champion of Battle. Dawn was a peaceful court; the lack of one had never been felt as sharply by her as it did now. She had to do what she could.
The guard hesitated. "What are you doing?" Panic had sharpened the girl's voice to a knifepoint. "Your Champion of Wisdom commands you," she said coldly, "and you shall do as I say." The threat in her voice surprised her, but it was enough to move him to action. He nodded at her once, murmured a quick "Apologies, my lady," and sped off down the hall.
All strength seemed to leave her body at once. She coughed again, wiped at the sweat dripping down her brow, and steadied herself against the smooth stone walls. Everything ached — her head, her chest, her legs.
But she could not rest. There was someone else she needed to find.
---
"Ipomoea!" She did not pause to knock at his door; she simply pushed it open with a grunt and stepped inside. Blindly, she fumbled along in the dark until the smooth glide of polished wood met her groping touch. Looking up, she made out the shape of a looming bed frame.
In the dark of the regent's chambers, the fear and weariness Messa had locked away poured out of her like blood from a cut artery. The room spun.
This time, she had not the strength to save herself, and down she fell to the cold marble floor.
Pain lanced up her leg when her cuts reopened, though she made not a sound in response. Tears sprang unbidden to Messalina's eyes. She hastily wiped them away.
With the last of her strength, she dragged herself to her feet and padded heavily to his bedside.
"Ipomoea. You must wake up." The softness of blankets pressed like petals against her when she stretched a trembling hand towards his sleeping form and shook.
"Something has happened." Blood fell like tears onto the silken sheets. Hair tumbled like liquid moonlight across her shoulders. Her eyes, the ice melted to pools of bottomless blue, were dilated wide with pain and fear. "I have done all I can, and still it is not enough."
I don't know what to do.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: she'll gasp in horror at her boldness later ;D
home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
The sand was warm underhoof, soaking up the heat of the sun like a sponge soaks up the ocean water.
Only there is no water to be found here. Only mile after mile after mile of desert, ever shifting, ever changing. The dunes remade themselves in the blink of an eye out here in the Mors, rolling like waves that crash and rage against the shores. Had Toulouse known what had happened just southwest of here, he might have understood the desert’s rage. But he, like the rest of the nation, was oblivious to the stranger that stood on their doorstep, the change that had come knocking in the night.
A breeze catches the ends of his scarves, sending the spinning all around him. The breeze is refreshing; he stops to drink it in hungrily, eyes closing with a sigh.
“Does it ever end?”
The question comes unbidden to his lips, taking him by surprise. His green eyes open to glare out at the expanse of desert left before him, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.
In actuality, he had only been walking a few hours; a quick trip to the Oasis to escape the capitol and refresh his mind had been on the agenda. But with every step he took, he regretted his decision more and more. It was supposed to be fall; but the seasons seemed to have no grip on this corner of Novus.
Force of habit has him steadying the pair of horns about his head, rearranging his hair so they fall just perfectly to cover the base. He knows it’s pointless: the horns have never fallen from his brow before, why should they now? But it’s a force of habit, and it gives him a small semblance of peace.
As the breeze dies down again, disappearing back to whence it came, Toulouse opens his eyes. ’One step at a time,’ he tells himself, willing his legs to move again.
Soon, he would be at the Oasis, and he would receive his well-deserved respite.
The boy knew he wasn’t particularly welcome here. There was just something about the Day Courtians that was downright unfriendly… but it didn’t sway him. The world was Pan’s stage, and he refused to let something like bad attitudes get in the way of his explorations. Besides, he knew well enough to respect the land and its deity. If they knew that he was more than happy to pay tribute to Solis, perhaps the war-clan nomads who roamed the Day Court would pay him little mind. At least, this is his thought as he wanders through the desert, head on a swivel, looking for pirates. Better yet, looking for mercenaries, for Asterion had told him they existed here.
The sun beat down on Pan as he danced over the sand like a sidewinding snake, his hooves creating divets in the dunes that seemed to wash away with the whispering winds. Sweat gleamed against his skin even as the autumn breeze sought to cool him… but alas, it could do little against the desert sun. All of this was part of the appeal, he supposed, and Pan thought himself some kind of crusader seeking the secrets of the pharaohs as he traversed across the Mors Desert.
Ahead, there is a shimmer that looked too good to be real – a veritable paradise in the desert. Drawn toward the illusion, Pan felt his mouth begin to water as he thought of the crystal blue water touching his parched lips. It would be helpful for him to stop for a bit… to rest. As his lithe body travels closer and closer, it seemed that the oasis became more real. Remembering a cautious tale about the desert playing tricks on the mind, Pan is hesitant to believe Vitae Oasis’ existence until he is literally standing by the water’s edge. Now, he looks out upon it, his green eyes drinking in the sights as he dares to drop his lips to the smooth surface for a drink.
There is a hushed silence which falls over the land, and Pan’s ears prick forward and back, searching for any signs of danger… but what he didn’t expect was a ripple against his lips, distributing the still water in an anomaly with no explanation. Who… who’s there?!? The boy yells out to the empty desert, confused by the ripples that seem to start from the center of the pool. Stepping back, Pan is shocked to see the ripples followed by a series of bubbles. Something was under the water. Something… dangerous? Come out you yellow-bellied codfish! His words are all brashness with little bite as he smiles now, eager to see what his demands would expose.
It seemed the oasis had its own secrets to explain.
we will travel this life well worn
no matter the cost, no matter how long
Eulalie is restless this night, unable to fall asleep as she lays next to Somnus in their rooms. She looks at moonlight cutting across the ceiling, watches the way her love’s chest rises and falls in the dark, feels the warmth of his skin against hers. Normally these things would lull her to sleep easily; peace, love, comfort. But not tonight, tonight something is pressing down on her, a strange and unsettling feeling. She thinks it might be her concern for Regis and the ivory maiden rises more than once to check on her quietly sleeping son, making sure his temperature has not climbed, making sure his breathing is even and steady. Every time she peeks in on him, nothing changes. Eulalie can’t place the heaviness knotting up her chest, but it only makes her feel as if something is about to go horribly wrong.
She returns to Somnus’ side one more time, gently pressing her cheek to his. “I’m going to go for a quick walk, I can’t sleep” she whispers, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Then, “I love you,” and she presses a kiss to the same cheek before pulling away and turning toward the doors. Just before leaving, Tabbris stirs, but she shakes her head no. There’s no reason she should drag the gryphon out into the night with her. Then she is into the hallways, through the courtyard, out into the silent, midnight streets of Delumine. There is a chilly autumn breeze and it tugs at her loose golden hair, unbraided. She stands for a moment in the calm and looks up at the sky, watching stars twinkle in and out, in and out. It reminds her of the night that Somnus and she had stood in Eluetheria and he had told her stories about the stars. A smile touches her lips, and she breathes a little easier.
Still, tiredness does not come to her her. Eulalie turns away from the heavens above and begins to walk, the clip of her hooves against the cobblestone the only sound other than the breeze in her ears. She passes dark windows with sleeping bodies behind them, tucked safely into their beds for the night dreaming peacefully, she hopes. She thinks of their faces as she does, all ones familiar to her and she thinks of how different her life is now than even two years ago, just after she had come to the Dawn Court. Then, Eulalie had kept more to herself, had no friend other than Ulric who she had always been fond of since their chance meeting out on the edges of Delumine’s territory. Then she had been only a warrior searching for a new start.
In the end, it had found her.
Now she has Somnus, her children, Tabbris, still Ulric of course, and a court full of those she considers both friend and family. How quickly life could change, and Eulalie believes it all a gift. She is truly fortunate, and grateful, for all those she has in her life. Of course life in the citadel is glamorous, with servents willing to do whatever she needed of them, and a spectacular view of the court and the lands beyond, but those things did not matter to her. Wherever the ones she loves are, that is her home. They are her heart and her life, and she would give anything for them. She is still smiling when she turns back toward home, ready to settle down at last she thinks.
But a sound like whistling catches her ear and Eulalie pauses, waits, listens. She thinks it might be the sound of the wind rushing down an alley or catching on the corner of a roof, as she hears no other sounds to accompany it. After a few seconds it is gone and she begins to walk again, and still the wind picks up, causing a shiver to run down the length of her spine and she can’t wait to curl up next to Somnus and relish in his warmth. Then she hears it again, a whistling, faint and crooning, but this time it sounds as if it is accompanied by steps, clicking against the street. This time when she stops, Eulalie glances behind her, not truly expecting to see anything, but there at the end of the block of homes stands the shape of another, half hidden in shadow. Still it is unmistakably equine. They do not move, she does not move. For a moment they only stand there in silence, looking at each other.
Then the shape begins to run toward her.
Eulalie doesn’t wait to see who it is, she turns and races further down the street, her hooves almost slipping on the stone as she turns the corner. She glances behind her as she does so and breathes a sigh of relief when she no longer sees the mysterious stranger there. For a moment the ivory maiden thinks perhaps she really is tired and her mind is just playing tricks on her, but she thinks it too soon for when she looks up they are there again, at the end of the street, staring at her. Eulalie’s shock is plain to see on her face she is sure. How did they get in front of her so quickly? Again, they do not speak, but they begin to move. More slowly this time, walking even, casually as if they were simply strolling down the street.
She thinks quickly, her heart beating a staccato in her chest, fast as a hummingbird’s wings, and in her mind she pictures an alley just on the last street and disappears back around the corner, her legs carrying her as quickly as they can toward it. The steps behind her don’t speed up, and as she turns into the alley she backs as far into the shadows as she can, trying to slow her breathing and make as little sound as possible. After what feels like hours of waiting, the figure passes by the mouth of the alley. Eulalie waits still, with bated breath, not wanting to risk moving out into the street again. More time passes, there is no sound, nothing to indicate whether they are still out there or not. With hesitation Eulalie takes a few steps closer to the street, and that is when the figure arrives, blocking the entrance to the alley.
Their silhouette is tall, heavy, nondescript in the heavy darkness between them. “Who are you?” she says, lifting her head a little higher, standing her ground. “If you expect me to cower before you, you would be mistaken.” And though her voice is solid and strong, inside a part of her shivers, because she has no upper hand in this situation. Whoever they are, they have blocked her exit, and even at this distance appear much larger than she. Eulalie thinks again of Somnus, resting peacefully in their room, and then she knows: this is what her intuition had been telling her about, it had to be. She breathes in deeply, preparing herself for whatever may come.
Posted by: Pan - 02-17-2019, 10:37 AM - Forum: Archives
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Pan
The path was known to him now, and Pan sidesteps brambles which reach out to tear at his skin with ease. He knows the juts of the rocks, the places where sand gives way and leads to slippery footing. He knows the way the sun beats down (and specifically chose late afternoon when the sun was setting for exactly this reason). As he climbed, the sky began to tint a palette of pink and gold. In many ways, his journey was two fold. Of course, Pan came to study the gods… but he also climbed the mountain to see Novus from the top. Without wings, Veneror Peak was the closest he could get to the heavens, and the breathtaking view was worth every inch of the climb.
The boy was not particularly athletic, but what he lacks in brawn he makes up for in zeal. Pressing onward even as his breathing labored, he climbed higher and higher toward the gods. Only once he’s reached the top does he stop for a breath, laying on the soft loam of grass, rolling with his belly to the sky. Here, he could watch the clouds and almost touch them. They formed pictures, and with a little imagination, Pan could see a great whale, a ticking clock, and a tree laden with acorns in their fluffy forms. He smiles easily, at peace with the world as he draws a juicy apple from his satchel. Crunching down, the sweet juice licks at his tongue, and Pan gives thanks to the gods… for he knows this land could not be without them, even if others saw things differently.
The vagabond adventurer had no reason to follow any specific god, and since returning to Novus, he had only be re-introduced to Caligo. Rolling to his side, Pan stared toward the Night Court, thinking fondly of his time there at the festival. He’d met many friends in the short time he’d been there – Saphrax, the boy of flames and pride – Katniss, the warrior who’d taught him about Caligo – Isra, the mermaid with a cool dragon. He didn’t know the lore, but wanted to know what had happened here before he’d arrived. After all, something had caused the residents to turn quiet when asked about their goddess. He intended to get to the bottom of it.
He rises to his feet, walking to the dark goddess’ statue first, a crude thing jutting into the earth and tipping toward the north star. As the sun begins to fall behind the horizon, darkness falls over the peak, bringing the chill of the autumn wind to sting against him. Beneath the moonlight, Caligo’s obelisk is even more enchanting, and Pan sits quietly before it as if begging the demi-goddess to appear. Caligo he offers, I enjoyed your festival immensely… Drawing the music box he’d purchased from the night markets from his satchel, he lay it at the base of her stone, winding it and letting the gypsy music soar into the air.
And this is how they would find the boy, sharing a moment of music with the faceless goddess he wanted to know so desperately, waiting for the greeting that would likely never come.
he day which Mephisto came to Novus was a day like any other. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to suggest the disruption of a newcomer. It was just as she would like to make an entrance, unnoticed and quiet.
Far above the world, she soared like a dark cloud against the gathering night, her black wings stretched to the heavens. Mephisto was a silent of hunter, watching – always watching. Her cerulean eyes lock onto the world beneath, determining as she travels where she might settle herself. In a way, she was a nomadic sort of creature. No one could tell you where exactly she’d come from, originally… only that she’d appeared first in the Riftlands. She is a creature of contraries - born to live on the outskirts, never quite fitting into herd life, yet she sought something more than solitude tonight.
With the moon at her back, she turned toward the west, following the path of the dying sun. Circling the Dusk Court, Mephisto lands soundlessly in the brush. Her eyes are cold and blue as the winter sea as they fall on the horses that lingered in the darkness. While the day might be filled with laughter and play, those who gathered in darkness were seldom up to such jovial matters. Instead, there is a quiet sense of serenity in this place, and Mephisto appreciates the stillness. Astute and cold, she stayed far from those preparing for sleep, shielding herself in a blanket of caution and careful calculation.
Her wandering spirit carries her about the kingdom, until at long last she stops along the treeline, listening as an owl takes flight in the growing darkness, its wings beating against the indigo sky as it went to hunt a mouse. Focusing on the place where the sky met the earth, she watched as a stranger on the horizon grew closer and closer. Only once it is close enough for the scent to permeate this place does Mephisto step forward, moonlight inching across the black and blue hues of her coat. Intelligent eyes focus in for a moment, making out the stranger’s form, and beneath the autumn moon, she waits in silence to see if she would be welcomed here or sent away.
