"Change is coming for you, more than you have seen already. You cannot escape it - you can only face it with the grace of the Mother."
The star-shed's voice range in Morrighan's ears as she left the tent after receiving her reading. Half of what the mare said confused her and, if anything, she left with more questions than she had arrived with. Then again, could anyone really read the future? That just didn't seem possible.
"I suppose, that whatever I say it is only yourself you will listen to."
The grullo mare scoffed at that line. What did she know anyway? Psychic weirdo. They were simply one of the many acts within the festival that targeted the gullible, only Morrighan was smart enough to see through their scheme. Even if some things that were said seemed eerily accurate, they had to be mere coincidences and she wasn't going to fall for it.
Suddenly she was bounced backward and realized she just ran into another horse. Wow, I'm an idiot. They were a mare, only slightly taller than Morrighan, and her coat was an interesting combination of patchy and spotted. The mare's horns were slightly intimidating, but she made sure not to show any kind of vulnerability.
"Maybe watch where you're standing?" she said with a huff, not caring that she was blaming this on someone else. Though, they were in the middle of the market road here so it didn't make a very good place to stand. This mare could've gone off to the side or somewhere away from the traffic. Idiot.
"Speaking."
Table by Layla ; Large pixel by Starrypoke ; Small pixel by Katherine
She has seen Anzhelo come from his tarot reading and she wonders what sort of information he had been given. He came out looking so bleak and alone. And yet, he almost seemed relieved that she had been passing by. But now it is Katniss’ turn to have her cards read. She has much on her mind and she wonders if the soothsayer will have any wisdom for her.
She enters her tent and looks to the pillows of red that she is motioned to sit on. Slowly, she makes her way to them and curls her legs beneath her. She looks to the reader of cards, her eyes heavy and full of emotion. For a brief moment she wonders what she should ask. If her daughters are alive, if Metaphor is safe, if she will succeed in protecting Denocte. There are so many things she wants to ask, but she does not even know where she should begin.
She silent a long moment before she looks up at the shed-star. When she asks her question, her words are heavy and thick with emotion. It speaks of her anguish, her guilt, and her love. She doesn’t hold much faith that this woman can ease her mind, but she figures it cannot hurt. “How is my family?” She asks of her twin girls abandoned in a world so many years ago and she asks of Metaphor - the one who currents holds her heart. She wants to know that even though they are not with her, that they are alright. She knows it is more important to ask if she will fail Isra, but she knows that will tell itself in the future if she is just patient. Her family, however, is something she fears she might never see again.
As a protector of Denocte, Katniss makes her rounds. She peered into the Maze, attended the Masquerade, visited the Festival Markets, and now she finds herself here: at the lake. But unlike what she remembers, the lake has been transformed into something new.
The shore is lined with vendors and Katniss takes her time examining each one. The first is a tattoo vendor. Katniss has never had a tattoo and it is not something she is too terribly interested in.
The second holds a jeweler. She spends time in this tent, admiring the small earrings that she wishes she could purchase. For so long has she wanted jewelry, but scared that she would lose them or they might injure her in battle. But perhaps what interests her the most is the weaponry. She cannot help but eye the daggers and knives, knowing that these weapons might help her in battle. But she passes by, knowing she is not here to purchase.
It is the third tent that brings back memories from her past. She remembers her ability to breathe underwater and she misses it. She had been born with the trait and this was the only place where such an affinity had not been automatically granted to her. She supposed she would regain her magic in time, but she knows this witch is not the way to go about it.
And finally she comes upon the lake itself. The path of wood and gold leading into the lake. Isra has outdone herself this time. Her eyes follow the lake as the path leads into the dark. She looks at the fish and creatures and she wonders what they must be thinking. She wonders if she will ever be able to commune with them. Perhaps in time, she might. Until then, she will admire their beauty from afar.
Posted by: Euryale - 01-27-2019, 02:36 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins & you can sharpen your knife
WHEN SHE TURNS TOWARD THE FACE OF DAWN, TO LET HER HUNGRY EYES LINGER ALONG THE CARIBBEAN-BLUE COAST, HER GAZE DRINKS THE RUBY SUNRISE THAT DROWNS THE SKY IN VIOLENT, VISCERAL PRAYER. WHEN SHE TURNS TO FACE THE SUN. HER LIPS CURVES UPWARDS INTO A DEVILIVISH SMIRK; FEELING THE BRUSH OF SATIN LIGHT, HOTLY, CARESS HER SKIN LIKE THE WINGS OF A HUNDRED, STORMING FIREFLIES RUSHED TOO QUICKLY, TOO SUDDENLY OVER FLESH.
TODAY, SHE DANCES IN THE RED GARDENS OF TERRASTELLA. DRINKING IN THE RAW, MORNING LIGHT. SHE DANCES AND SLIDES PAST THE TREES, IN A LACONIC PURR OF WHITE AND SCARLET. BREATHING SOFT, FERAL BREATHS, AS SHE WOVE THROUGH THE DEEP SHADOWS OF ITS STILL-BEATING WILDERNESS. IN THE BACKGROUND, EMBLAZONED BY FIERY HUES, THE OCEANS WERE NOTHING MORE THAN A STEADY THRUM OF LANGUIDLY, LAPPING WAVES; WAVES, THAT SMOTHERED THE SHORES. DRUMMED, AND SANG IN TUNE WITH THE RHYTHM OF HER HEART.
TODAY, THE SUMMER HEAT DOES NOT RELENT; HOT, SWEET, STICKY WITH GILDED WARMTH. RED HITS THE PALACE IN A BURST OF SMOLDERING FIRE AS SUNLIGHT WEAVES FEVOR, THROUGH THE BOORISH CLIFFS. ITS CARESSIVE TORRIDITY, SWELTERING RAW GOLD THROUGH THE SINEWS OF ITS GRANULAR-SCULPTED HALLS, AND ROCKY CREVASSE. AND SHE WATCHES THE SUNFIRE, AS IT DRIPS LIKE YELLOW BONES FROM SLIT FISSURES UPON THE CLIFFS AND MOUNTAINS.
UPON THE FERAL SAVAGERY OF HER CURVES, THE RAYS OF SUNLIGHT, SPILLS, IN smooth curves of blinding, acid-white. tracing THE LIGHTENING EDGES OF HER SPINE. SLEEK WITH HOT-WHITE WARMTH AND STEEL AND BLOOD. SHE IS THE VIOLENT, CRIMSON SONG THAT DANCES WICKEDLY THROUGH THE HALLOWED HALLS. HOW HER HEART POUNDS IN HER CHEST. HOW HER MIND, HER THOUGHTS, STRAY BEYOND REALITY - PLAGUED, BY THE SCREAMS OF WAR. EVEN AMIDST THE GOLDEN BREATH OF DAWN, THE BITTER SONGS OF REVELATION, TORMENTS HER EVERY WAKING HOUR.
SUDDENLY, SHE IS FAR AWAY FROM HERE. SHE IS FAR FROM THE BEAUTY OF TERRASTELLA. SHE IS FAR FROM THE PURIFYING MELODY OF THE SEAS. THE LOW WHISPER OF ITS INTIMATELY RUSHING TIDE; THE DEEP WAVES OF AZURE, THAT THRASHED GENTLY ASUNDER, DREAM AFTER DREAM AFTER OPIATE DREAM.
SUDDENLY, INSTEAD OF BEAUTY, SHE SEES BLOOD. INSTEAD OF ROSES, SHE SMELLS GUNPOWDER. SHE REMEMBERS THE WAR. SHE REMEMBERS EVERY VISCERAL DETAIL. EVERY FLOW OF DARK, CRIMSON BLOOD, DAMPENING HER SKIN AND THE SCENT OF RUINATION AND DEEP, RED TERROR. THE MEMORIES OF BATTLE-FORGED ARMIES. BROKEN CIVILIANS. TORN CIVILIZATIONS. HER SISTERS, HER MOTHER; SUCCUMBING, TO ITS IRRESISTIBLE DESTRUCTION AND INEVITABLE FATE.
SHE REMEMBERS THE STREETS HAD LAIN, EMPTY. BARREN. MOLTEN CARNAGE, POURING FORTH, FROM THE OBSIDIAN SHROUD. THE BLACKNESS. THE SALIVATING JAWS OF HORROR, THAT CONSUMED THE DYING AND TORTURED THE DESPAIRED. SHE REMEMBERS THE BEASTS OF WAR, THAT DRENCHED THE HEAVENS IN ITS VENOMOUS EMULATIONS. CULLING SOULS, WITH EACH WHISPER OF GRISLY END. SHE REMEMBERS THE SMELL OF DEATH. HOT, AND HEAVY, AND MINGLED WITH RANK DEBRIS AND ETERNAL ROT. TWISTING THE INSIDE OF HER STOMACH IN TIGHT, KNOTTING FISTS.
DESTRUCTION, LAY EVERLASTING. RUIN BREATHES ETERNAL. ASH, FALLS DOWN LIKE DEATHLY-PALE SNOW. LOITERING AND DUSTING RUMINATED BUILDINGS AND SHATTERED HALLWAYS FULL OF BROKEN GLASS, AND BLOOD-STAINED CARCASSES. SUCH A DELOSATE STRETCH OF APOCALYPTIC VACUITY. A SILENT HILL OF CONSTERNATION. THE GOREY NOTHINGNESS, THAT WHICH MIRRORS THE EMPTINESS IN HER HEART. IN HER BODY. IN HER SOUL. SHE REMEMBERS IT ALL AND HER HEART BOTH SCREAMS AND ACHES WITH A WILD, UNCONTROLLABLE VENGEANCE. SHE IS HUNGRY FOR RELEASE. WILD, FOR RETRIBUTION.
O, WHEN SHE TURNS AWAY FROM THE OCEAN, SHE CAN STILL HEAR THEIR SCREAMS. AN ECHOED FABRICATION, VIOLENTLY TEARING INTO HER REALITY. WHISPER AFTER WHISPER AFTER SHRILL WHISPER. BROKEN, WITH THE PRAYERS OF THE FORGOTTEN. OF THE DAMNED. THE SHADOWS LEAVE HER MIND; YET SHE CANNOT LEAVE ITS DARKNESS - SHE KNOWS SHE CAN'T BE SAVED. THESE WALLS WERE NOTHING MORE THAN A CAGE; A CAGE, TO SAVAGELY ENTICE THE HUNGER THAT IS OUR WICKED EURYALE.
WHISPER AFTER WHISPER, SHE WANTS TO PULL AWAY FROM THE VIOLENT REVERIE. TO PULL AWAY FROM THE SIREN CRIES OF VIOLENCE AND HUNGER THAT CONSUMES HER MIND. AND THUS, WITH TEMPERED GRACE, HER BODY BRUSHES THRU THE GARDENS WITH A FERAL SIGH. SENSUOUS AND EARTHLY; SHE BOWS HER CROWN, AND MOVES IN a SASHAY OF DEVILISH ABANDON. SHE BREATHES IN THE FIERY MORNING LIGHT. INHALE. EXHALE. SHE BREATHES SOFTLY, AS AIR EXPANDS THE LITHE DEFINITIONS OF HER SO-GIRLISH SKELETON.
HER HAND IS SILK. HER NAILS ARE KNIVES - STAINED, IN BLOOD. THE WOLF'S GRASP COMES IN THE FORM OF IRON. HER BODY IS EUPHORIC; LACED IN SCARS - TRACED, IN VICIOUS MALADY. SHE UNFURLS LIKE A PYTHON OF WILD LILAC, BEFORE THE RUSH OF SCARLET. WITH DARK CURVES, TWISTING IN THE LANGUAGE OF VIPERS - HOW SHE WRITHES ALONG THE RAW PATHWAYS; HER BODY OF VERMILLION, DESCENDING, AND TATTOOED SNAKES MADE MANIFEST.
RIBBONS OF JADE, SNAKE BESIDE HER THIGHS; BRUSHING HER FLANKS IN A SMOOTH CARESS OF VIOLENT SATIN - HOW THEY FLOW BEHIND HER LIKE A RAVISHING GOWN. ALL SILKEN CURVES, AND RED ANGLES OF HER, SWATHED IN THEIR UNABASHED, SEMI-TRANSPARENCY. THE MEMORY OF EURYALE'S FRAGRANCE, LINGERS LIKE THE AFTERTASTE OF CANDIED SANGUINE. THOUGH FAR MORE TAINTED, FORE IRON LAY BENEATH ITS SOFT PETALS.
SHE SMELLS OF BLOOD, CARAMEL AND DEEP, JASMINE FLOWERS. SMOULDERING, AND PERMEATING DELICATELY; THE SWEET, SACCHARINE LINGERING OF ETHEREAL FEMINITY - BATHED, IN HOT IRON. ACROSS THE EARTH, SHE PADS WITH A GROWL. HOOVES LIKE TALONS, SCRATCH THE HARD SOIL. HER SONGS OF CARMINE VENOM, UNFURLING IN THE SILENT KISS OF HER WAKE. SHE DOES NOT SLEEP IN THE CASTLE WITH THE OTHERS, BUT HUNTS AND PROWLS IN THE WILDWOODS, BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.
THE SHE-WOLF HAS SPENT HER EVENINGS HUNTING THE ANIMALS OF THE FORESTS WITH her LILITH. SKINNING THEM, THEN BRINGING THEIR SKINS TO LAY LAVISH UPON THE FLOOR OF HER BEDROOM. Even THE GARDEN WALLS PULSATES WITH THE PERFUME OF HER ARRIVAL. EVEN THE RED ROSES, GROWING WILD WITHIN THE GARDENS, QUIVERS AT THE intimacy OF HER TOUCH. EURYALE MOVES RESTLESSLY, RUNNING HER BODY AGAINST THE CASTLE WALLS. THE SIREN LETS A PURR LEAVE HER LIPS. SAVOURING THE COOL OF SHADOWS, THAT MAY SOOTHE HER WEARY MIND.
HER LIPS, CURVES AROUND A SILENT PRAYER AND HER VOICE, SOFTER THAN A SONG, DRIFTS INTO THE MORNING LIGHT. into the brewing waves of relentless oceans, that howled with the hunger of her heart.
however big, however small let me be part of it all
S
amaira was a stranger to cities, having never lived in or even seen one her entire life. Although she’d been told stories, about busy streets lined with stone and houses and buildings that pressed up against each other, she found that no words could truly describe it. The sensation of her steps against the cobbled road, it was so different even from the wooden floors of the homes she had always called her own.
The signs and sounds were sensory overload. It was a beautiful summer day and the streets were full of conversation, laughter, shouting. And the colors, of flowers, of wares, of the outfits adorning each equine who walked by her, let alone the equines themselves. So diverse, each one different from the last. Samaira didn’t know where to look, couldn’t decide what intrigued her the most. Her silver eyes bounced eagerly from sign to sight, her ears twisting this way and that atop her head.
All the hubbub had managed to take her mind off her wing, bandaged closed against her side as it was. And in her distracted, Samaira found herself on a collision course with more than one unsuspecting equine on the street, though she managed to catch herself in time and prevent any accidents. Then she saw someone brandishing an instrument, playing to a small gathered crowd.
Distracted again, this time she did not see the body that her steps were taking her straight toward until she was almost upon him. Samaira came to a stop suddenly, her eyes widened in shock, her cheeks warming slightly with sheepishness. "My apologies, I’m not used to such crowds,” her accented voice was maybe the first giveaway that she was not from here, smokey and lilting. “I should be more careful,” she said as she got her first look at the stranger.
Isra, oil-slicked and drowning “We all have a Monster within; the difference is in degree, not in kind.”
By the time the night has reached it's lowest hour, just as the sky is dark enough to sing, Isra (as if she is the night-sky) has started to bend low before her own exhalations. Every drop of magic in her bones has turned to dust and rust and it feels like sharp, scaled beasts are swimming through the seas of her blood. Her eyes are desert dry and the whites of them, when she looks at the stars with sorrow, are shot through with crimson bolts of blood-lightning.
And in her weakness even the dull-throb of aging teeth marks at her throat feels like nothing more than a needle in a wave of knives.
The tall, prairie grass tickling the pale scales on her belly are just grass, nothing else. Although she does, when she looks towards the mountains and remembers that look in Acton's eyes, imagine that the hill would be almost lovely covered in rapier blades as tall as trees. All her magic can do is turn one blade out of the hundred to steel that is bendable, dull and weak.
She should be afraid to be so dead in the ocean of grass. She should be cautious of the heavy darkness and the fading stars (winking out one by one, like fireflies). But that hum of Fable's dreams in the brightest corner of her mind only makes her brave. She forgets that she's nearly alone in the twisted, melting remains of her maze.
Isra's long since lost track of time as the stars sink around her and the skies darken to something blacker than black. Her eyes flutter behind in her lid, in and out of dreaming and nightmare and reality. The pattern of her lungs ebbs and crests like a tide. It's not until it peaks and she's ready to bed down in the meadow like wild-thing instead of a queen that a colt joins the cicadas in breaking the silence.
It feels like floating through oil to lift open her eyes and smile. Perhaps if he was older he would have seen the cracks in her gaze, the prints of heartbreak not yet healed, a glow of love that still shines brighter than her scales in the moonlight, or the way she tucks her nose to hide the wounds and dirt coating her neck like satin.
“Perhaps you could bring me some water?” Isra offers when the colt asks her if she needs anything. When she watches him go she begs her magic to rise like a river in her blood again so that she might make a stone into a meal for him. Because even though her bones feel like water and glass Isra still isn't content with the way the world is.
Nothing happens and the night still ticks onward, careless of the unicorn drowning in darkness.
rulers make bad lovers, you better put your kingdom up for sale
She rests beneath the surface of the Oasis, with only her dorsal fin breaking the surface -- absorbing the warmth of the sun in the lazy afternoon air, her forelegs stretched out along the shallow muck, her body submerged in water just deep enough to hide her. There was no need to lift her head above the water for oxygen, this strange body of hers adapting whenever she found herself submerged, and so she simply lazed beneath the water.
At least, until a disturbance above managed to draw her from her reverie, her narrow snout breaking the surface of the water and quickly followed by the rest of her neck and chest as her legs straightened beneath the water. It was a mare she’d never seen before, one bright and flashy with horns of ruby red, and she found herself intrigued almost instantly. A quick wiggle of her tail freed her from the sandy floor she’d been resting upon before she was approaching the fair lady, ears perked and fins flared up along her neck.
“You seem to wear a crown meant for a queen, my lady,” She calls out with a smile that shows the sharp teeth beneath her lips, her eyes scanning across the wide, proud horns and the roses that decorated them. “Might I be lucky enough to learn your name?”
Fight Type: CHALLENGE Prize: Sovereignty of Solterra Contact Made: Yes
Character #1: @Raum Bonded: No Magic: Yes Active magic Armor: No Weapons: No Current Health: 7 Current Attack: 13 Current Experience: 10 (i really should update it one day LOL)
Character #2: @Seraphina Bonded: No Magic: No Armor: No Weapons: No Current Health: 17 Current Attack: 23 Current Experience: 50
Shivers wrack his body as Denocte's Ghost steps out from the black overhang of the sentinel trees. He is no longer a phantom as he stalks in the open, lit bright beneath the moonlit night. All about him the Steppe is silent, watchful, waiting. Upon him is a ransom, upon his tongue is still the blood of the Night Court Queen, within his memory is still the soft resistance of his best friend's trachea. He is a wanted man but he stands here, as bold as the moon above him, as savage as the storms that blow out at sea.
Peace is water in Raum's grasp, it slipped away and now his cupping hands are bone, bone dry. Fury is a twisting, contorting, rotten thing within his belly. With rabid, visceral delight it places one limb in front of another, again and again until he is adorned in silver and brilliant within the middle of the open. He does not deign to hide in shadows in this moment. He does not need to blend his skin into another beast. No, Raum stands bright as quicksilver, as sharp as a blade. Seraphina had been gone too long and Day Court has taken too much from him. It had choked him with dust but now he stands with righteous revenge as sweet as berries upon his tongue.
"Seraphina!" The Crow's voice is lightning to match the crackling electricity of his blue, blue eyes. His tail slashes like a serpent's against his sides. Corvid, his skull tilts as he listens to the whispers, the midnight groans of the meadow and its restless grasses. He studies each shadow and waits for the Day Court Queen. "I want what is yours," he growls, leonine. There is a lion roiling beneath his skin. His magic burns, begging release.
When had he last passed through Bellum Steppe? When he last saw Rhoswen, he knows. It was when they finally broke like flotsam beneath the ire of their wondrous storm. Everywhere is the whisper of his Day Court girl, everywhere is the whisper of their daughter. His ears are flat upon his skull and he stands proud - no longer slinking, no longer the spy. He will not infiltrate from the inside, not today. No, this day he will take before all of Novus.
Summary: Rum enters and challenges Serpahina for her position as Day Court Sovereign.
Attack Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE AN ATTACK) Attack(s) Left: 2 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE AN ATTACK) Block Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK) Block(s) Left: 1 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK) Item(s) Used: LIST ANY ITEMS USED, IF ANY
The land was familiar to Pan – so familiar, that he didn’t have to stop and look at where he was going or ask for directions. It was as if his feet knew that if he turned to his left, a hundred paces from here would be a tree – and a hundred further, a moss laden rock. He’d certainly been to this place before, but Pan couldn’t tell you when or for what reasons. If only the trees could talk… the stories they would tell about the boy. They would tell of different faces and a different king, but of Oriens all the same. Delumine would always hold a special place for the boy, even if he could not remember his first venture into Novus and the Dawn Court.
All around him, there is life. Perhaps this is what first drew him to settle in the Dawn Court – but now, the Vagabond knows nothing of home and is only drawn to the magic of it all. There are birds singing their summer songs, the rush of water over rocks as the Rapax River brushes the borders of the meadow, flowers – as far as his eyes could see. Pan sighed a whimsical sort of sigh, reaching down to brush his lips along the tall grass, nibbling a bit for good measure.
This is how Mateo would find him, exploring with his senses as he whispered to a prairie dog who chittered and dug tunnels nearby. The boy turned to grin at the approaching stallion, rising to his feet and dancing toward him without hesitation. Hello – I’m Pan!
There isn’t a shy bone in the boy’s body, and energy seemed to seep from his very skin. Where am I? This place… I mean… I think I’ve been here before. It would all sound very odd to this stranger, but then, Pan didn’t really think these things through. He was prone to just letting words travel from his brain to his mouth, without much of a filter… and as a result, his thoughts were often jumbled and given without much context.
Posted by: Pan - 01-23-2019, 08:56 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (2)
Pan
He played in the wildflowers, dancing and skipping with joy as his laughter peeled against the summer air. It was a perfect summer’s day, and the boy was oh-so-cheerful, frolicking without a care in the world. Sunlight glinted from the green on his scales, reflecting in a beautiful array of prismatic light, splayed across the meadowlands. In a word, the boy was at peace. Here, he found himself in his element and thoroughly enjoying the day.
Not far from the sprightly boy, a faded brown satchel lay in the grass. Inside, it was filled with Pan’s treasures, the sides of the bag swelling with his collection. Of course, that wasn’t everything the boy had… for he kept a series of caves scattered about, where he could store his more precious wares. One such place was not far from here, deep in the Tinea Swamp. He’d spent some time over the past several days gathering skunk cabbage from the water’s edges. It was a foul plant, and he’d had to breathe through his mouth to avoid gagging as he scraped the leaves from the muck. Still, the boy knew that the plant was valuable – it was written in his book of herbs as a healing plant, so he collected it much like he’d collected the others.
The flowers that dotted Sunsurro Fields were a pleasant sort of change for the boy, and he carefully extracted some in vibrant blue and pink hues. Some, he would use for healing… but others he just liked the look of. Without a care as to how “girly” it looked, he plaited a few into his tail, smiling at the way they looked so cheerful against the snowy white of his fur. As he looked around, listening to the bird song, Pan heard a nearby rustle in the tall grass.
Who’s there!? the boy challenged with a grin. Are you a pirate?!?
Pan rose to his feet into a mock fighting stance, spinning around and laughing as his flower laden tail whipped about him like a flag. Come out you great codfish, and meet your fate! Nevermind that the boy was simply playing and truly didn’t expect someone to respond… but someone was indeed watching… and hopefully he didn’t scare the girl with his burly words.
