The moon hangs just above the horizon like a heavy silver fruit. She stirs him from sleep with a light touch, beckons him with gentle kisses. He faithfully moves towards her embrace. Across the hills the court is built into, through the fields that surround, and finally down the cliffside trail that leads to the long, thin stretch of beach. Everyone knows that a full moon requires a body of water to be appreciated properly. All the way he prances and two-steps like a colt trying to impress a filly. If anyone were awake to see, they would either think he was a little cuckoo, or they would recognize him, roll their eyes at the boy and his antics, and go back to sleep.
If it isn't the moon he's courting, it's a pretty stranger or the sun.
He breathes in deeply the cool salt air, lets it whip his mane against his neck. As he walks he looks at the moon coyly, from the corner of his eyes, and begins to croon sweetly to her.
"I have you to myself tonight,"
Mateo's voice is the burnt gold of autumn, the warm spice of mulled wine. His wings unfold as though to better let his song flow through them; they gently move with the hymn as though we was gliding. Mateo loves flying almost more than life itself, but oh- what no one knows is that song is his secret set of wings! Certain the rest of Delumine is asleep, he raises his voice so the moon may hear him over the gently crashing waves.
"So hold me closely, hold me tight,
Wrap me in your silver li-"
Just when he thinks he might get a blush out of his pale beau, a quiet splash! interrupts his song. He stops abruptly, peering into the water. Was someone... was someone swimming at this hour? He feels suddenly as though he's swallowed a belly full of ice water as he wonders- did they hear him??
He thinks he might vomit.
"H-hello?" His speaking voice has all the honey of his singing voice, but not much of the spice. He sounds young, boyish. Spring, where he once was Fall. He hears the high, nervous pitch in his voice and it makes him cringe. "Is someone there?"
The seaside is painted in shades of silver-blue, but if it weren't then perhaps he'd catch a glimpse of rainbow-colored hair.
- - - -
@Odessa I made the executive decision that this needed to happen, I hope this is okay!
Efphion is restless and has paced the distance of all Solterra in just a few days, and she has not yet left the borders of Solterra. She burns with wrath and fury, it consumes her. She is nothing more than violence and hatred when she stalks into the Oasis that has brought her the relief of cool waters. The ash stained mare moves with determination, as though the Oasis will cool the hot fury that has ignited a fire inside the warrior. She is a wolf starved of their kill, though hers is a sort of vengeance that cannot be killed with time. Effy will starve until she takes a bite out of the justice she seeks from the flesh of her blasphemous sister. The tides of war would crash around the one who had shamed the Sun, as a child she was a disease to be culled from the herd. Effy's breaths come out with forceful aggression as she reaches the small shelf of sandstone that hangs over the Oasis.
She stares into the pristine waters that are framed by the dull colours of sandstone. The oasis does not shy away from the ire in her gaze, nor does it offer her solutions or solace for the pain that her fury brings. It threatens to consume her the longer she puts off the expression of her violence. Eik had promised her a fight, and she has half a mind to seek him out to tear into him to relieve herself. Instead, her wrath spills from her ink kissed lips. A violent cry escapes her lungs, the tides of violence quickly recede and the sound becomes no more than a snarl. Effy plunges into the center of the Oasis, and the water that surrounds her does not soothe the burns brought upon by the tides of her wrath. She emerges from beneath the surface with a furious gasp. Effy wishes for pain, or for something to soothe the heat of her wounds that none could see. Nobody but her.
Far beneath the summer moon, the green scald boy waits with anticipation for something. But he doesn’t know what. The grass is cool against his legs, long and unkempt as he strays from the well manicured paths of the garden. It whispers as he walks, brushing against him and creating a quiet sort of scraping sound as it rubs against his scales. He likes the feel of it – for it reminds him of the water’s soft embrace. Nibbling at the ends of it, he tastes a shock of sweetness like a honeyed sort of clover. The Night Court gives bountifully, and Pan must sample it all.
Deeper he walks, further from the lights and fairydust lanterns. Night sounds begin to fill the air, first quietly with the thrum of crickets calling to their mates, but they are joined now by hooting of owls and the lonesome cry of a wolf, far in the distance. Still too, there is a sound that is closer. It is this which calls to Pan, as he twirls to meet the approaching equid in the moonlight.
There are only two of them – the boy, and the queen. All around them, the world hushes until only the two remain… and he watches her quietly before taking one step, then two. Nearing her side, he smiles, reaching toward her and ever-so-gently placing his teacup muzzle against the cool glow of her scales. How like they are to his. Perhaps then, this queen of darkness has a story to share, some explanation for what was happening to the boy – for where he’d come from. The scaled boy is silent – his eyes, quietly pleading… lost… and he offers Isra a knowing smile.
Do you believe in fairies? For tonight, the air was rich with magic. Tonight, Pan would let himself believe the dreams were real.
Pan had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t welcome in the harsh desert. Long ago when he’d come to Novus, he’d been accepted into Solterra... but it had only been when he’d paid homage to Solis. That was before he knew the lore, and that the sun god wasn’t his to follow. All of that had changed now though. Maxence was gone, Inkheart was gone, and Pan had forgotten all that came before. He looks on the land with fresh eyes, ignoring the tingling sensation along his spine which suggested he’d seen this place before. It must have just been a dream, like all the other strange and fantastic dreams he'd had. All his memories were that now, just dreams.
He hesitates on the borderlands only for a moment before stepping toward the canyon. After all, Pan was on a mission. When he’d found his treasure cave along Rapax River, he’d found the stash of things that were once his. Long hidden, they’d collected dust in the back of the rocky structure, and as he rummaged through them, he discovered his treasures all over again. Of particular note was an old book. Pan could not tell you where it came from, only that he’d poured over it long into the night, when the moon rose high to light the pages with silver stardust. It was a book about herbs – specifically, about the herbs of Novus. Through its words, he learned that he was, in fact, in a land called Novus. It didn’t get into the specifics of each land, but instead focused on the plants which lay within it. And now, Pan began his scavenger hunt to find and collect each one.
Thus, the boy was here now, looking for the illustrious and fabled Nightdew Agave.
A crudely drawn picture of the plant showed that it was large and spiky, with flowers growing from it. He quickly looks around, not finding it, but finding instead a creature in the distance. Blinking against the sunlight, Pan shook his head to ward away the feeling that perhaps he was just imagining the other horse… but as he grew closer, he saw that indeed, it was a dark mare with silver loops and chains adorning her proud stature. Smiling as he grew nearer, Pan didn’t even bother with caution. Instead, he marched right up to the mare with a confident Excuse me? Do you have a minute to help me find this plant? And he thrust the photo toward her, waiting impatiently to see if she would help.
Posted by: Pan - 01-20-2019, 08:30 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
Long ago, Pan had been a member of the Dawn Court – a faithful follower of Oriens. That was before. Before he disappeared from Novus, before he forgot the lore, forgot his past, forgot… himself. Gone are the memories of the god who gifted his immortality, of the god who he’d worshipped with Inkheart, of the god of Florentine and the Dusk Court. Despite this, Pan is a creature who honorably follows the gods. All the gods. He doesn’t show allegiance to just one, but has learned in his long life that all gods are to be respected.
He didn’t remember that this mountain was a sacred one, nor the gods who were worshipped here. But Pan was an explorer. Off on another adventure, the scaled boy had explored the Night Court and its summer festival. It had been a wonderful visit, and he’d met and discovered so many strange things and wonders. From the fire breathers, to the henna painters, to the ribbon dancers… it was the most beautiful party he’d ever been fortunate enough to attend. Still drunk from the excitement of it all, the boy is all smiles as he remembers, his steps light and airy as he seemed to dance along the sand-strewn path.
Up and up he climbed Veneror Peak, searching for something… searching for meaning. The path was long and parts of it were treacherous. He slipped and slid where the gravel was loose, hooves seeking purchase as he pushed onward to the top, driven by an internal need to know what secrets lie beyond the naked eye. The journey took him several hours, his breathing labored through the last bit of the climb, his body wet with sweat from the summer sun beating down upon him. But he made it. Sighing from exhaustion, Pan took his final steps to the top as his eyes began to scan the temples at the peak.
It was a simple place, meant for worship and quiet reflection. Clearly, others had been here often, for small piles of tributes lay strewn here and there. He’d expect that in a land for the deities, there would be grand temples… but the land was simply barren, with crudely carved statues of the gods facing each of the four directions.
He turned toward the north, the wind stinging against his face as he stared up at the Plains. The Northlands were barren and naked, with Delumine’s forests to the west and Solterran deserts to the east. To the south, he found himself staring down a mountain range, flanked by Terrestella and Denocte. Here, he found a spectacular view… and Pan knew. He knew this place was sacred, even if he didn’t know the lore.
Without a god to serve, the boy simply settled in the center of the mountain, falling to his knees and closing his eyes as he whispered quietly to the wind. He reached in his satchel, drawing out some of his most treasured items – sand from the dunes of the Mors Desert, a smooth grey river rock from the Rapax River, a piece of a seagull’s broken eggshell from the Praistigia Cliffs, a sequin from a dancing gypsy’s costume from the Night Court, and he left them as tribute to whatever gods might appreciate them.
Posted by: Pan - 01-20-2019, 06:35 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
As he walks along the maze, Pan shivers with anticipation. This place was an eerie sort of land – one which promised danger and adventure… but as he searched along the hedges for an entrance to the maze, none can be found. Clearly, this land has already shared its secrets with someone else, and Pan found himself pouting that he was unable to participate. But the feeling is a fleeting one, for as he wanders along the eastern edge of the hedge maze, a flash of fire catches his eye.
He rounds the next corner, and gasps as a great orange streak is pulsed from the mouth of a Benevolent. Curious, the boy creeps forward to try and understand how someone could be breathing fire, even as the strange creature dances with a spinning flame around him. He jeers at Pan, as if beckoning the child closer, even as a wash of “stranger danger” falls over the boy as he turns to dance away. As the tingling along the back of his neck begins to subside, he presses deeper into the land, looking for what other secrets were hiding along the borders of the maze.
Rounding yet another bend, he smiles as silver ribbons slice through the air like a knife. The dancers were beautiful, and he watches as their bodies gyrate to a tinny music and his feet pick up their dance to the noise. He cheers her on, reaching into his satchel and tossing her a wildflower as he attempts (badly) to follow her rhythmic motion. Where she seems as graceful as a swan cutting through a glass-like lake, his own motions are clumsy and awkward in comparison… but the green boy doesn’t seem to care. He is unbothered by what some would consider embarrassment, and instead simply grins and moves over to allow others to join in the dance as well.
This is where he would be found, among the circus performers, feeling every bit an entertainer as they, his frustration at finding the maze locked to him, long forgotten.
The boy could stay in this place forever, with its brightly colored tents, and the din of the night drowning his senses. There is too much to see, too much to hear, too much even to smell in this world. It is a place that dreams are made of, and the boy is lost in the magic of it all. He takes everything in, wanting the market to consume him and take him into this land of play and mystery. Wandering between the booths, his emerald eyes are wide and eager to drink it all in, scouring this place and committing it to memory.
He narrowly skirts the fire breather, close enough to feel the heat of the flame against his scales. Sweat sheens against him – whether in fear or in warmth – and he offers a sheepish smile to the jeering male as he skirts away and toward a gypsy dancer. Shaking with her music, he jingles in his own way, the items in his satchel tumbling against each other as he trots in place and swings his head from side to side. Grateful for her music, he tosses her a coin before continuing past the smoke and chaos toward the strange grey tent.
Blinking, the boy steps inside where he is met by the toothy grin of the soothsayer. She whispers to him, low enough that only he can hear, and promises him the moon. Drawn into her spell, the boy nods eagerly, one thought rising above all the rest. Who am I? But these are not the answers she offers. Instead, his mind shifts to the dreams – the ones he’s had for as long as he could recall. Of the girl with flowers in her hair, the magic dagger, the spitting anger in a chain-laden boy’s voice, the chittering of an otter, the tangy scent of blood against mounds of winter snow. What do they mean? He asks quietly, the dreams…
Pan is drawn to the gardens by the scent of sweet flowers in the moonlight. A swath of silver bathed the night with light, and he danced along the gilded path, deep into the forest and deeper still to this place where the sacred garden lie. Caligo’s followers had done an admirable job of decorating the area, and Pan stops to marvel at each of the twinkling luminarias which light his path. It is a place built for romance, not that the boy has any whimsy or time for such things, but he can still enjoy the quiet beauty of it. For once, he is at a loss for words, not humming or yelling, but simply appreciating the splendor.
Overhead, a pair of morning doves coo and fly in the darkness, a strange thing for night, but they too cannot seem to escape the draw of the festival. He walks along the arched paths, stopping here and there to smell a flower, and as he looks around to see if anyone is paying attention, the gatherer quietly collects a sprig of Alpine Forget-me-Nots, tucking them safely into his bag in case he needed them in the future for healing.
Moving past the floral fields, he finds his way to the center of the garden, stopping next to Caligo’s statue and staring at it carefully. The rock seems old, with many stories to tell – but he does not know the goddess or her lore. Instead, he finds only a beautiful piece of artwork, and gathering a shiny gold pebble from his satchel, he lays it at the base. After all, even as an unknowing visitor to this land, there is something regal about the face which stares down at him… and Pan knew such things were rarely a coincidence. Never one to toy with lore, he waits, to see if someone can explain the statue further.
Pan needed to find a cave. His bag was growing heavy, and as he followed the river, he began to search for one in earnest. As he walked, the treasures he’d collected jingled like a gypsy’s dancing chains, creating quite a clatter with every step he took. His breathing was labored a bit in the harsh heat of summer, but instead of complaining, Pan was singing an off key but jaunty tune. I won't grow up, I don't want to go to school… Just to learn to be a parrot, and recite a silly ruuuullllleeee! His voice was quite off key, but he grinned and only sang louder as he danced along the river, an oddly familiar tingling along the back of his spine which suggested that here too was a land he’d been before.
In fact, as he grew nearer to the Dawn Court, his body seemed to take a path of all its own, as if it knew where it was going. Deeper and deeper, the boy worked his way toward the river, until he found himself almost without looking at the entrance to a small cave. Curiosity crept over Pan as he stepped toward it, gasping as he stepped into the mouth of the cave and a wave of surprised pleasure washed over him.
Along the walls were crude shelves stacked high with beautiful things. There were things he’d swear he’d seen before… even more, he got the distinct impression that these items were his. That maybe he’d actually been the one to put them there. His lips wandered over a knotted ball of rope, a curious silver thimble, and a vial of stardust flecked liquid on a delicate silver chain. Dropping his bag, the boy began to empty it and make space, replacing what he’d brought in, with the items from the shelves. Now, the vial was tucked around his neck, bouncing against his breast while the thimble jangled against his favorite shell – a token he’d unwittingly acquired from the god Oriens.
Suddenly, he heard a sound, and jumping back, he braced himself to defend the cave. Who’s there!?! Pan yelled at the intruder, his green eyes flashing with surprise and caution as he peeked from the rocky dome. Are you a pirate, coming to steal my treasure?
At the edge of the sea there rumbles something like promise, cold and wet and dark.
And Marisol’s white-and-shadow wings are freckled with saltwater, her short hair tousled by the wind, tail tangled against her legs, but she does not seem to mind; in the chill and the dusk she trudges toward the shore with her head ducked low and gray eyes brightly watchful, casting moonlight on the grass beneath her feet. Behind her, Denocte’s inner city glimmers with warm light. But it is almost completely obscured by the distance she’s put between herself and the township, and the fact that she is careful to keep her eyes ahead of her, on the grass-and-gravel path and not the civilization at her back.
She does not think - or tries not to - of the ghost of Isra’s kiss on her cheek, dirty and sweet. She does not listen - or tries not to - to the low, glacé whine of music from the citadel, still following after her, like a ghost. And she especially does not feel (or tries not to) the way her heart dances, rough and criminal, against the inside of her chest, thrashing and biting like a wild thing.
At the edge of the cliff, Marisol comes to a short stop. She flares her wings out a little against the sea breeze. Hundreds of feet below her, past the sharp-steep drop of the cliff crumbling away at her hooves, the ocean roils and churns in a foaming mass, spitting up bits of salt and seaweed high into the air. Mari peers down at it and wonders if she is already living in a world in which violence equals power, and then wonders, a moment after, if she is destined to live in a world like that anyway.
Absent-mindedly, she knocks the butt of her spear against her leg, like a drumbeat.
