In the sprawling sandstone buildings of the Day Court, what was once simply a barricade against the snowstorm has become a full-fledged party.
Lanterns flood the white-blanketed streets with golden light, and from the outside, the Day Court may seem utterly serene. But the citadel, library, and even the shops of the main streets have exploded into a kind of festival, resplendent with strings of glittering lights, frost miring the colored-glass windows, and music booming through every building. Though no specific games or activities have been set up, people are finding plenty to do between flirting, dancing, telling stories and starting brawls. Food is easy to find, and alcohol even easier: hardly a single sober courtier is to be found in all of Solterra, and the festival is set to only get wilder as time goes on.
Though doors are blockaded and windows shut to keep out the blizzard, the mood inside is sociable, even carnival: uproarious laughter, singing, and even the deafening, intensive placing of bets can be heard all over town. Cabin fever has made the Day Court louder and more reckless than ever.
Just as Solterrans somehow learned to thrive in the harsh, arid climate of the desert, they can find a way to make even the worst situations a party.
Welcome to the Day Court’s first all-night celebration, set in place to keep everyone’s spirits up even as the storm traps them inside! (Don’t tell Seraphina how wild it’s gotten…) In the citadel, library, and in many of the shops on Solterra’s biggest street, huge groups of people crush into the buildings to drink, mingle, and ward off any fear about the snow outside, with bands and betting pools set up in various locations. IC, will take place as long as there’s enough snow to keep people inside, at least two days and nights but possibly more - feel free to spread out your character’s attendance as long as you see fit. Tag any related threads with the suffix “SNOW BALL”, and have fun!
HE MAY KNOW THE LAW OF ALL THINGS, YET BE IGNORANT OF HOW-
For all his dedication to staying on his feet, El Toro had collapsed shortly after Raymond shrunk into the distance. He couldn't breathe, really, and he bled quite a bit, and it grew hotter as midday approached and - really, these weren't ideal conditions for anyone - he fainted. The pale stallion had awoken to the setting of the sun, on what day he did not know. After laying there a while he wiggled about, wincing and groaning and sort-of breathing, before forcing himself up onto wobbling legs like a newborn colt. Everything hurt.
With a respectable amount of determination, Toro hobbled off in search of sustenance, not realizing until it was far too late that he'd wandered into the mountains and not the fields. Hunger and exhaustion overtook him as cool night fell upon the world; he slid down against a rock, wheezing, and fell asleep.
Posted by: Maximus - 07-24-2018, 07:26 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (3)
DIGGER, LISTENER, RUNNER PRINCE WITH THE SWIFT WARNING, BE CUNNING AND FULL OF TRICK AND YOUR PEOPLE SHALL NEVER BE DESTROYED
--- ♕ ---
He follows her in a quiet that is not quite—there is always a quip that could be exchanged; a challenge that could be issued. The excitement too, that makes his too-fast heart beat even faster, tests the limits of his patience. He takes a few long trot steps here and there, feeling the slide of sand beneath his hooves, tucking his chin to his chest where the skull bump-bumps.. It is all can to do discharge some of the energy that has built up in his fine, sinewy body.
After some time, the formlessness of Mors begins to take some shape.
First, the watery, paper-thin form of some oasis or another—glittering like a blue gemstone set in a golden crown. He shifts his jaw, feeling the thickness of his dry tongue. Mirages, each, as they fade from sight the moment he thinks they may be close enough to be believed—
Then, in the distance, the sand begins to build. Rising from the dunes and plains like an old soldier, the walls are pitted and weathered, but they stand all the same. Turrets, too, reach for the sky—battered and bruised, rippling in the heat. He squirts, his mouth set in a thin line that says he will not be fooled again. But, towards it, they go on, and when those walls do not crumble, when they do not fall like water to join the sand below, he begins to think this might be the more she had been referring too. “Day Court?” he asks, rhetorical, for it must be.
It is not grand, this bastion in the wastes, but it is impressive. It has withstood so much, and to some undiscerning eye it might seem weakened for this. He thinks otherwise—it has only hardened under the abuse it has endured.
As they approach the defensive wall he falls back, much more reserved, bending completely to her lead (hard as it is). Sitting flat in the wind, he can see a banner bearing the image of a figure more Sun than anything. He opens his mouth to inquire when suddenly the first, fat flake of snow lands square in a red-pink eye. He winks, his long ears pulling back, “What the bloody–”
You envy the lake’s stillness. The water knows no worry, her glassy surface unblemished by any creases as she leisurely laps the shore. You stand just within her reach, feeling the cool kiss of a gentle tide grounding you in this moment. You’ve been in Novus for just under a week, but you’ve struggled to shake the memory of Viore. You think of the explosions that rocked the capital, of your father’s begging and your mother’s iron-jaw clamped shut as she burned for her sins, and of the cold black fear that you’d often wielded but only ever felt when you fled for your life. You even think of all the lives you’d turned over to the government. You think of their screams as they succumbed to the terror you imposed upon them and later of the unbridled hatred in the eyes of your accusers as they hissed and spat insults. Demon Witch.Monster.
Mostly, you dwell on the empty ache in your chest. It’s where you know the guilt should reside, constricting your insides with nauseating dread. Should…and yet, there’s a profound lack of anything resembling remorse. All you feel is the exhaustion in your bones. You haven’t slept much in the past few months and you’ve adopted an inconvenient habit of always looking over your shoulder. You curl into yourself, feeling the weight of the world press against every last delicate detail of your body. If you had a single shred of energy left, perhaps you’d conjure a raspy laugh at the humor of it all.
There really was no rest for the wicked, after all.
You lean down, lips poised just above the lake’s stoic face. Your own reflection gazes back, a wry and mirthless grin creeping across your features. You’re so far from Viore that you may as well be on a different planet entirely. Your sins shouldn't find you in the deep night of this place, wedged between the ruthless sea and inhospitable mountains. You doubt any of your accusers would travel so far. Old Viore had fallen, the lowers tiers and Resistance had won. Surely they were smart enough not to risk success for the head of one witch who slithered through their grasp.
The slightest noise rips your head up and away from the water’s edge. Perhaps you were too quick to assume that your days of jumping from shadows were over. You’d never classify yourself an optimist but maybe it was just a bit naïve to expect distance alone would bury your crimes. You snake around, turquoise eyes bright and narrow against the inky night. You find your mammoth wings unfurling without your permission, whether to prepare an escape or to increase your size you’re unsure. “Well you might as well introduce yourself.” You put as much command into your tone as you can muster but the treeline is as impassive as ever; there's no Viorian poised and ready to tear out your throat. Still, you don't relax just yet.
Maybe you're losing your edge to paranoia, but that doesn't stop the void in your chest from filling with ice.
The morning was quiet and dewey. Sunlight filtered down through the trees, dappling the vivid green grass below with bright beams of light. Nature hummed a soft tune that whistled through the trees' leaves, the Rapax River bubbling along the border of the forest.
Sometime in the early morning hours, the birds awoke. Their songs echoed and carried over the gentle breeze, a vibrant mixture of morning melodies and love-filled songs, even though spring and summer had long-since faded away into fall.
As dawn crested into the early hours of the morning, the wind began to carry a melody through the forest and across the meadows... one that was not of bird, of nature, or of the skies. It was something played, something artificial but still just as beautiful.
The enchanting melody happened to catch the attention of two small hummingbirds as they flitted along together. Jecooze was the first to notice the sound as it drifted along the wind, her bright eyes widening and feathers ruffling as she stared in the direction that it came from.
She perched up on a thin branch, and glanced back in Falcon's direction. Let's go see! she chirped at him, chest puffing. The duller male hummingbird's mind sighed, I don't think it's a go- he started to respond, before Jecooze darted away. He stared in the direction she flew to, a mental grumble resounding as he took flight. If he didn't protect her, who would, after all?
The brighter female hummingbird's curiosity knew no bounds, and she was entranced by the melody she heard. The birdsongs that crested the morning air were sweet, although unsurprising to her... but this. This! It was a mysterious song she had not heard before, thrummed by someone - or something - she had never seen before. Falcon was curious, although his was hidden behind a serious mask as he chided Jecooze for putting herself in so much danger for a simple song.
It didn't take the pair long to come upon the riverbank, where Jecooze knew the melody originated from. It seems someone had taken to playing their lute in the morning sun, and the two hummingbirds neared the curious figure...
Two hummingbirds flit towards a curious river-side melody played by @Essielure.
Thread requirements: 1 reply, 500 words - and edit the Bonded section of your profile to include what type/subspecies of hummingbird Jecooze and Falcon, as well as their colors!
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may begin including Jecooze and Falcon in your posts.
The sound of metal clattering upon marble ricochets through the temple. At the foot of Caligo’s altar he casts his weapons. Two daggers lie half unsheathed, their twin bodies gleaming, silver and sharp. Moonlight lances along their razor edges and they glitter malevolently in the light. Their song is cut moonlight and bleeding black, made for Caligo’s ears alone.
Such weapons are but a mirror for the man above them. With electric blue eyes he stares at the altar of his goddess. Raum’s offerings lie, promising blood and chaos and above them he stands, their Deliverer, swathed in shadow and menace. Obsidian stones shed a dappling light that flickers like ants across his silvered skin. In the black, bathed in the only light that endures here, Raum is as silver as the moon. The moon, ah, it is the only light Caligo lets shine in her world of black, black darkness and far-flung stars.
In silence her servant stands, his offerings of steel cast before her shrine. The world slumbers beyond her midnight walls. The darkness here is enough to swallow stars, it is enough to eat the world and Raum is so very hungry. Oh his skin bleeds to black, black as the sins of his heart.
His scarf is a silken breath about his throat, a caress. His sides are bruised with Rhoswen’s final blow. His body remembers her, it will never forget. Ah, his head tilts back, his eyes closing. Denocte’s Ghost seems delirious then, drunk upon his thoughts. The temple whispers violence, it shudders with the presence of him, here, now. But still he stands oblivious: a dark deliverer, an angel of menace.
How long passes? A day? An hour? A minute? Or maybe it is mere seconds… but time stands still for his vigil. He leaves his throat exposed and his chest, with its ragged heart, open to be struck down. Denocte was lost. It was a flock of sheep scattered, with no shepherd left to hold it together. Raum had never cared for Denocte’s people, not in the way that he cared for his Crows and his goddess. But all was broken and twisted now and he had returned to this midnight Court as a prodigal son. Caligo had asked for a sovereign, but he was not made to sit upon a throne. No, Raum was made to desecrate thrones and raze to the ground the unworthy and greedy.
Acton is a spark in his eye, Rhoswen a burn of the sun upon his skin and Sabine a twinge of his blackened heart. His prayer is a vow. Its voice is the whispering of the blades that lie, waiting for their goddess’ command. These daggers yearn to pierce the world and watch it bleed beneath her justice. Her servant, her Ghost, had returned to Night but his lover, Rhoswen, returned to Day. The lovers had drawn their lines in blood this time and so, Raum stands, before this temple and vows his life to his goddess. Word of his risen goddess was feverish and bright across Denocte. But such hope was fleeting: there and then gone, His vow is devout enough that, wherever she is, she might hear it and she might know.
The Crows were gone, Raum’s family had left him. Just he and Acton remained, rejected. Ah, Raum had been an orphan once – still was! He knows now the rejection Caligo felt (no, feels!) and it steels his heart. Slowly his chin lowers and his eyelids open over blue, blue eyes. That azure gaze drowns and chokes everything in blue. He electrifies the world with that keen, keen gaze. There is no softening of this man. He is wicked sharp, even in the ache of his love for his goddess.
Raum would smother the world for the justice of those abandoned and rejected. Slowly his chin curls into his chest, long ears falling against his skull. His prayer to Caligo was thus:
The last time he had walked the winding hallways of Elatus Canyon, they had been painted in red and black. Now they were dusted with white, all the shadows turned to soft blue.
He was not the only one to leave the shelter of the buildings to watch the wonder of snow in the desert, but Acton wandered alone, orange as a flame amid the pale day. The snowfall was still mild enough that there was no bell ringing danger in the back of his head – if this was a sign of the gods’ coming, well, the buckskin thought it was kind of nice. It reminded him of winters as a colt, tucked safely in some Crow warren, warm drink in his belly and his makeshift family by his side.
What a weird fucking place to wax nostalgic.
The snow and the clouds swallowed up every sound but for his breathing, silver in the cold air, and the crunch of each footstep, and the wind moaning through the canyon walls. Every desert-beast that had a lick of sense had fled to their caves and their dens; not even a buzzard disturbed the snow with black wing-tips far overhead.
In the surrealness of the moment, it was easy – blessedly so – to forget everything about the question mark of his present. Without the desert sun on his skin, he might not be here at all; this was instead a dream landscape, snowflakes melting to nothing on the bright fire of his skin and his hair dark as a crow’s wing, stark against the white.
Acton let all his thoughts wing away from him, gave himself over to the cold and the silence. It didn’t matter whether it was miracle or curse; he was here, either way, and everything was out of his hands.
Until he saw another flame before him, whipping like a scarf in the blizzard-white breeze. It was a shade he knew well.
“Rhoswen?” he said, and if it seemed a sin to break such a silence, well, at least it was with her name. He closed the distance between them at a trot, each movement crisp against the pale – this was no world he could hide in. Only when he was close enough that the clouds their breath made could mingle did he think of Raum, his eyes blue enough to burn, and the way he spoke of Solterran girls.
It almost made Acton’s stomach twist with unease.
But this was enough like a dream that he could pretend it existed outside of anything, outside of everything, and so he only cocked his head at her like a boy and raised his brows. “The fuck are you doing out here? I thought this was the kind of thing you left Denocte for.”
JUST BECAUSE YOU CAUGHT ME
DOES THAT MAKE IT A SIN
i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls
The hospital was a hum of activity. Upon the air drifted the scent of medicines, or plants Florentine could not name and remedies she had never seen before. Such smells stung her nose and others carried her into a whimsical sleep, stealing her pain, her energy.
Ah what a first night it had been when the flower boy left. Pain heated her skin to fever pitch. Sweat itched along her skin, turning the soft of her cushions to abrasive claws that scratched at her tender flesh.
When had she been so useless? When had she lain unable to move. Her mind soared where her fractured wing could not. It wandered through memories and daydreams made by herbs and flowers. In and out of a river of unconsciousness she drifted, awake and asleep. Oh how masterful pain was, it stole her energy, kept her weighed down by its anguishing dominance. Obediently she awoke with it and fell with it too. Ah it held her trapped and it made her dance as it lulled her to sleep and back again.
A wreathe of forget-me-nots lie upon the table beside her, their petals fallen upon her outstretched wing. Oh they are stark against her golden skin. When did they fall? And did they descend like tears, for they lie like teardrops, blue as the ocean. Florentine might have cried an ocean, if she could remember, if she could find the truth that lay hidden in layers of shock and trauma.
Slowly, slowly, her eyes flutter open and drink in the verdant hospital. Vines, laden with healing plants, crawl across every wall and up every step and staircase. All around her are memories of Lysander – for she remembers him now, in the spaces between her sleep and her pain, he lingered there, waiting to be remembered. And how could she ever truly forget?
Her head turns and there, beside her, the once empty bed is now taken. Breath traps itself in her lungs for her eyes are full of sandy skin and horns long and black, arched like scythes for the sky. That skin, oh it is so familiar and yet… Yet Florentine stares at the hair of this girl, it is so much and so strange, so different.
It is in silence that the dusk girl gazes at the mare and thinks of all the ways her dusty skin and obsidian horns reminds her of her dam. But Karou never had long hair and the eyes of a tiger do not peer out from the shadows. Ah, Florentine’s mother was not here. Disappointment is a bitter taste upon her tongue and her pain rises in anguish. The terrible gash upon her limb bleeds tears she cannot.
What it would be to just turn over, to close her eyes and sleep for a millennia! Yet Florentine is too weighed down in pain. To move is to be struck again by claws of fire and a fist of stone. So she lays still and instead swallows deep her pain and sets her gaze curiously upon the cream girl beside her. “And how have you ended up here too?”
@Annabeth <3 and any others who may wish to join us!
A low, reflexive groan heaved beneath Annabeth's slender ribcage before abruptly cutting off in surprise. Where was the pain? It had been so constant, she hardly registered its absence. Eyelids flickered open (how easy that was when they weren't encrusted in salt!) and confusion crinkled her brows. Bright light filtered through layers of thick foliage in what was clearly a hospital, though Anna had never been in one before now. How she got here was a big smudge across her memory. She furrowed her brow and dredged up the image of a soft shawl and soothing presence. Maybe a healer had found her? and yet, she swore she walked the path of lilies alone...
The recollections swirling around her mind required too much energy to maintain so she let them slip away. Instead she focused on the first kind face she had seen in a year. The healer entered the room without fuss and gently tended to Anna, gently instructing her to continue resting to recover her strength. As soon as the equine left, Anna began to do the exact opposite. She hadn't been sick a day in her life and she certainly wasn't going to waste time languishing now! Besides, she wasn't sure just where she was... who knew if she was even safe here.
Stick thin legs unfolded and a familiar determined light rekindled in Anna's eyes. Carefully, slowly, Annabeth made her escape. Though Anna didn't look quite well enough to be out of bed, it was plausible that she was supposed to be out for some light exercise. Sidling around like an emaciated and inept ninja, Anna's heart clenched every time someone looked her way and she would freeze like a foal caught with their nose in a honey pot. Most looked away soon, preoccupied with their own problems. Some lingered and reminded Anna that she was in a strange place. She would summon a shaky smile at them and turn to escape their scrutiny, heart pounding. Desperate escape plans would blossom before being quickly dashed. The mare was hardly capable of standing upright, how in the seven hells could she manage to slip away? The thought was disheartening and she leaned despondent against a wall.
Pent up frustration and fear began to leak into fat tears. Silently she pressed her face against a convenient gap in the wall and let the hard lump in her throat choke off her sobs. The last thing she needed was to make a scene in front of those who might be her new captors. Unless they came close, all they would see is a tired patient resting. Only the close observer would note the crystalline liquid that was beginning to dew from her eyelashes.
ooc: Getting back into the swing of things! Anna's usually not this despondent, just confused and weak and needing a friend or not, my gal can always be broken some more >:)
Efphion could feel the fury billow through her core, and spill over the edges of her being. She could hardly believe the blasphemous words spat by the golden mare in the temple. She displayed such power that had been stamped out by Solis in retaliation. Effy couldn't help but feel satisfied by the actions of her new god, but her fury could not be quelled. The sovereign had been there, and the mare she held a great fury for now was known as Bexley. Effy's steps were precise and agitated. They cut through the terra beneath her feet with white-hot rage. "Bexley!" Effy roared, her voice soared with the symphonies of violence. It was a sound that did not seem to originate from this world, or any in between. "Blasphemous! How dare you!?" Her voice rumbled from her chest, it announced the arrival of the storm.
The wrath of the sun was upon Solterra. With each breath she drew, her lungs flooded with the fury of the gods. The heat of her anger was reaching a peak, and it would deftly tear into the blasphemous Day Cour maiden. Efphion snarled as her voice died with the collision of the stone walls that rose high above her. "Come out and face me! I will show you ceaseless wrath. You will burn for turning your back on the kingdom and god you dare align yourself with! The rumble of violence spilled from deep within her chest, each word was predatory and each barb laced with venom.
She paced, her neck hanging parallel with the ground. Her gaze vicious, violent. Each strike of her dagger fell exactly where she intended it. Effy would now bow to anyone who dared renounced the glory of the sun. This was not Reth, but she would rain the fires of Xamis upon Bexley for her treatment of the one who filled the place of her former deity. Effy cast vicious glares to anyone who dared sidle around her, a silent challenge to anyone who spoke up in defense of the golden, feminine minx. Another snarl escaped her lips, her anger continued to billow and spill out. Her muscles were pulled taut with rage. Each one coiled and ready to spring at her victim.
![[Image: RDRqoj2.png]](https://i.imgur.com/RDRqoj2.png)
