Morning in the Mors Desert: an unusual time of day when creatures scurried about according to the dictates of their paltry lives, fearful of the midday sun's wrath. Each morning Ezra took to the skies, a golden streak over the golden sands, drinking in the strain of his wings against the wispy shreds of half-formed thermals and the natural drama of life and death playing out on the desert surface - his own private television show.
The golden boy redoubled his effort, a pleasant fire igniting in his shoulders as the Opera below became a procession of ants drifting by beneath him and the Solis' burning eye warmed the backs of his wings.
O, to be a vulture, lord of the skies and ferryman of the unremembered dead! To stay aloft for hours on a single wingbeat, cresting thermals like a ship on the open sea. A hundred more months of religious exercise would not grant him such mastery - but at least he had the morning, and the satisfaction of the world rolled out beneath him like a sheet of golden silk.
At this altitude, all he could hear was the cold rush of wind along his sweat-shining flanks and the jingling of the fine chain against his cheek. He tucked his wings indulgently, falling gracefully into a reckless dive, opening them again only when the parade of ants below became a proper cast of characters once more.
Did they understand their place in Solis' grand design? Did it ever trouble their mortal souls to know that not even Ezra, who visited them daily in the course of his exercise, would notice their absence when their meaningless lives came to an end?
Perhaps in their eyes he was the sun god, wise and golden as he drew the burning orb in a chariot across the sky - but that was blasphemy, wasn't it?
Ezra Phillip Fontaine part of your charm, i suppose
Thieves,
Liars,
Lost Souls,
Traitors,
Terrorists,
Monsters,
and Secrets.
In the dark, whatever you are, you can be anything here.
In the deep.
In the quiet.
In the black.
--you can do just about anything.
Here in the core of the earth, where the heartbeat of the sun pulses through the caves in ultrasonic vibrations and the wind pulls air in and sighs it out in rhythmic living pulses, he sleeps. He sleeps all day and all night - or - he never sleeps at all. Sometimes he paces and paces and paces, and thinks and thinks and thinks, then runs and runs and runs and -- well -- to no place in particular. The night is vast and endless and it colors him the same as everything else, it is his cloak and dagger.
Dark.
It will never matter how rosen-orange his skin is or how viridian-green his eyes are - Night is Night and Night is the color of his skin this way. Night leaves the monsters alone, for this is their time. During the daylight, he will be no where but here, in his cave-dwelling. Though sorted and placed in Dawn - this particular caretaker of Delumine is better off alone, helping no one but himself. If they saw what he was before what he is now, they would agree. Vhetiveer should not meddle with the commoners. Should not speak to them. Should do no such thing as to communicate or participate or even rejuvenate his social career.
It is just better this way.
And,
As day surrenders to night,
And the sun to the rains,
It transitions, as Time will do.
Lightning interrupts the never-ending darkness,
And finally, the silence submits to thunder,
Outside, all Hell breaks loose in the form of a tempestuous storm.
If Vhetiveer feels anything anymore, he would know it means that something is coming.
Abigo Caves, home to none, is a brilliant place to take shelter from the elements, in no time other travelers are piling in to avoid getting washed down stream by the hard, persistent rains. To Vhetiveer, he wants to call it home despite being a member of Delumine's court.
Why? He does not care for the walls, halls, or rooftops. He does not care for their tomes of knowledge in the libraries, their pageants, parties, or their parades. There is no desire to incorporate himself into their society or to Know of Oriens and his people of Dawn. He feels no compulsion to go forward into such a tame country to find the same thing all over again; a kingdom and its obedient people. The very idea of being enlisted is an exhausting, time consuming thought that he quickly pushes past when he decides that - this time - he'll sleep beneath the bats instead of stars. He is not worthy of their shine - not anymore.
Thunder rumbles in his bones, damp and deep, sending vibrations through the sandstone and grit until things shift overhead to acknowledge a Greater power than any God could ever imagine. To become a storm and nothing but must be a beautiful thing and he is reminded of the Rift before it sank its teeth into him. He is reminded of that savage, meaningless magic that is wild and untameable --
Something is coming
Someone?
Vhetiveer only stops once to peer forward with his one good eye - the left one - to see stalagmites chaffing salt and water off their long-fanged points. For now it is the only movement he can see. Standing still against a backdrop of browns, greys, and shining minerals, he looks like he belongs to these very depths. As coppery and green as the precious metal in the rawest form can be, so is he. The copper of his coat seems tarnished in tones of patina in the dim glow of the cavelight moss. Here, it is almost impossible to see the horrid, alien stain of black that moves through him like a spell.
Someone is coming
Something?
Even though the thunder has long since grumbled and the lightning has yet to strike again, he can still feel its growling power lingering like an afterthought. Or is it the heartbeat of another that brings such life to these otherwise quiet, still caves? Is it the scrape of their hoof against stone that echoes like great thunder?
Vhetiveer, still unsure of his life and where it is headed at this moment, has time to move away from the main thoroughfare he wandered into and back into his niche in the wall. Very easily he disappears, ghostly like a bad memory one wishes to forget (and does). He blends in easily behind veils of grandfathered moss and lichen, behind the glow of the cave fungus where he goes to lay down, doe-still and unexpectant. He assumes no responsibility of whoever (whatever) comes this way, not realizing that the smell (his smell) of wild roses and piñon smoke is distinct enough - and recognizable - to seek him out.
V H E T
- alles nahe werde fern -
@Nestle lightning strikes in the same place, twice ...
Noise filled the streets, and echoed off the stone walls. Sellers rang out, crying into the streets in melodies, harmonizing with each other and holding up objects colorful and exotic. All around mares, stallions, and youths walked about the street dodging the still slightly too playful pygmy dragons and hawkers shoving items into their space. Beautiful in its flashes of colors and melodies, all while the sun sank below the horizon and the night dawned.
In all the glimmering trinkets and night life of Caligo’s market he might be easy to miss. Slipped into an empty stall, leaning slightly against a darkened side he stood looking out over the crowd. It was, he was finding, his favorite spot. From here he could see down the row of stalls towards the docks, then up towards the center, and just barely into it. Here the callers were the loudest and the dances, music, and laughter drifted down from the central plaza. Here he could lean into the shadows and not draw attention, here he could watch without being seen. A thief’s hidden post.
That afternoon he’d already nabbed a few coins, so the takings were small, but he hadn’t really been trying, just looking for a game. Now as night settled the gold drank in the maddening atmosphere in its smoke and colorful sounds. Why he loved this market he could not say. Oh to be sure the easy targets were quite a delight, but in this shadow he’d found, watching exotic colored coats, and shapes drift by, he did not want to leave. It was strange, even to him. All his life the gold, while enjoying the company of others mostly, had hated towering walls and thick crowds. Large gatherings he avoided by keeping to the outskirts and even lands of towering mountains he’d shrugged off. But here, here it fit. Here, it felt like close, warm, and encasing, but it slipped over his personality like a second skin.
The night was accelerating, the noise getting louder and louder as if at the height of a grand party. The crowd was at its climax for the evening, and now was the time for a real show. His own personal one. Slipping from his shadow into the crowds he walks down the street towards the center. He’d chosen his target an hour ago, having picked a leg cuff from it the day before (sold for a pretty profit too). A small crowd gathered around a jewelry stand, and had been gathered from some time. The caller had been enticing all kinds to try on the most ornate jewelry, set with stones and made from the finest metals. Its qualities he’d been singing all night, and his attempts to sell it were heavy. Strong eye contact, a seemingly captivated attention, all qualities to guarantee the young mare or handsome stallion knew they had gone from dull to stunning and brilliant with their chosen piece. Yet it also left him open for someone in the crowd to slip in, unnoticed.
The gold, coat set a fire in the torch lite street, slide through the onlookers to the stall. The caller was making a grand sale of the most elaborate horn cuffs and chains when extended down into a necklace. He’d pulled in several others interested in the same by making a show of the one. The gold bid his time, and made his way towards the less noticed side. There, a collared necklace. Silver, richly engraved and set with opals pearls and all manner of other stones. It would sit beautifully with his circlet, till he sold it. Earth eyes glance once more around as they turn to the mare all were admiring (noting the one guardsman in the corner, who was flirting too heavily with a pretty lass, distracted). Time to begin.
“Yes darling it looks so lovely on you.” He chimed in, easing into the flow of the sale. “But silver darling with such a pretty bay head, surely gold would suit.” The mare looked confused, who was he? But others admiring the jewelry agreed with this strange golden. The caller, knowing the price rise began to agree. “Then gold, surely you must have gold, let us see her in it.” As he spoke, the collar on the table began to steadily lift, hanging just barely above the cloth. The crowd called out for gold as well and the caller looked at his table to find the items he sought. He found it, as the gold knew he would, on the farthest end of the table, bringing it up to flash in the fire’s light. As the crowd’s full attention was taken away in a breath, the silver collar in the darkened quieter side, slide in a flash from the table and under the table, tucking under the table cloth. The gold’s smile as they placed the headpiece of the mare grew wild and bright.
Now to slip it from this stall to the next, where he could stash it until he could come for it later. He just needed to- “HEY!” A shout rang across the street, and the gold, along with the crowd turned. Tasseled tail instinctively sweeping to in front of the table cloth which still waved from the stealth. Earth eyes found the guard, alert, buffed up, and coming from his giggling girl….straight towards him. Great, Mr. Flirt wanted to show off.
Never one to panic, the gold let himself slip into a charade. Innocent face looked to those around, but the guard called again as he closed in. “Hey you!” Confusion bloomed on the gold’s face, wrinkling his brow and tilting his head. He went to speak ( “Yes wha-“) but was interrupted by the guard’s pretty little companion. “Oh be careful sweetie!” It shouted, full of a flirtatious anxiety. God he was going to be sick. If getting caught wasn’t bad enough, he at least should be spared being the reason this asshat got lucky tonight. The guard had chest puffed out more and spit at him. “Where’s the necklace you street rat.” Shit. Innocence didn’t play, next. “How dare you speak to me, a noble, that way! I have do not have a necklace.” Crowned head had risen high, cloven hooves step forward, regality settled on his body, and he met the brute’s eyes with the hard gold cores of his. It was true, he wasn’t hold the necklace, technically.
Even the gold could see the situation was…not in his favor (the self-criticism of his errors could come later), but if he was going to go down, then by god he’d make a show of it.
OOC:: Permission given to take over the guard/lady of the evening/caller ect
SPEECH
The Night Markets glittered beneath the moonlight like tears, like stars, like gemstones in a crooked crown welcoming Acton home.
For a long moment he only stood in the darkness, an autumn wind running fingers through his hair, carrying the scents of smoke and spice, perfume and incense. It was so achingly familiar that he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and berated himself as the worst kind of fool for ever thinking he could leave this behind. This was home. No king, no girl, no gods could change that. Each winding alleyway and crooked street (and grimy bar) was as familiar to him as the black spots freckling his skin. And Acton knew that –
Yank.
The buckskin’s eyes flew open, his ears already pinning, a hind leg readying to kick whoever had dared to pull hard on his tail. But when he glanced back, there was nothing there – until a bright streak darted between his legs and sat up in front of him like a cat, neat rows of teeth showing in a very satisfied grin.
It was not a cat. It was nothing that Acton had ever seen, except for one version that was much, much larger.
“The hell are you?” he said, but the magician couldn’t stay angry; already his ears were back forward, and he lowered his head to huff a breath at the miniature dragon, moonlight-blue and nearly glowing in the dim. In response it flicked its tongue at him, and then sneezed: a tiny plume of flame that singed a few of Acton’s whiskers. He drew back very swiftly, and with newfound appreciation. “Careful, buddy. You’re cute, which is lucky for you.”
The dragon only considered him, and he sat back a little on his heels, considering him back. It seemed not everyone had made themselves scarce after the Big Dragon had been set up as a guard. Slowly a little crooked grin bloomed on Acton’s mouth, and with a bit of concentration he conjured up another dragon, blue as a sapphire, which snapped its tiny jaws at the first.
The true dragon cocked his head and lashed his tail, then pounced at the imposter. But of course its claws closed on nothing, and it went rolling on the glittering pavement to the sound of Acton’s laughter. When it sprang up again, it was to stare at something just beyond the buckskin – and then it fled into the shadows beneath an empty stall.
Acton turned and his matchlight gaze fell on a mare the color of moonlight and shadow, with antlers a neat arch. He remembered her from that awful day – but he’d never known her name.
Still, he tilted his head toward her, a slanting sort of nod, and his grin did not waver. “’Lo,” he said. “Nice night, eh?”
Posted by: Thranduil - 07-14-2018, 09:34 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
It looked picturesque, it could have been. From a far you see the gold brute, basking in the shadow of a rocky overhanging entrance to a cave, standing in the water of the small creek running out of its depths. Light, refracting against the sides of the towering mountains and rock walls, pools down into a soft glow on his hide. Each step he makes in the creek is with a tender grace, carefully placing a hoof or looking back behind him. A refined creature of mythical characteristics. But of course it was only said that it looks picturesque, nothing was further from the truth in reality.
In reality the thief hisses in the creek, cursing under his breath at the freezing cold waters. He picks up a hind, holding it above the shallow waters before carefully placing it back down. Had he known his little show would have caused himself this much trouble, he might have thought more carefully. It had seemed like such a classical move. Slide down the rock laid slope to the awaiting creature. Simple right. Apparently not.
As payment for his show, he now paid in scrapped hind hocks, and ruinous dark ash staining his golden coat. The coat had been easy to deal with, tasseled tails have their uses, but his hocks were not so easily repaired. Already in his walk they were tender and though the ash had sealed them, red stained the long hairs on his fetlock. It was all washed clean now of course, but it also exposed the small cuts, and hadn’t yet numbed them yet.
So he stood, letting them soak a moment more. It wasn’t the first time he’d have wounds to seal, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last, but the fact that it came from the cost of his own foolishness resulted in him being here. Earthen eyes look to the small path on either side of the creek. There was still no sign of anyone. That was why he’d come here. Unlike the larger streams and rivers where many journeyed for water, this place was secluded and quiet. No lingering eyes to ask him how he’d gotten those scrapes…though he’d probably tell them he’d been in a wrestling match with a snake, or slide down a cliffside to reach an ancient treasure.
After a time he, when his skin did not feel the pin pricking cold, he stepped up and out of the water. Feline tail sweeps from side to side as he licks, brushes, and preens away the last of dirt and pain. There was also, you see, another reason he’d chosen this spot. Earthen eyes pierce into the dark of the cave before him, trying to penetrate its depths and possible holdings. Caves were places of hiding, down in the depths where natural fear served as a protection creatures felt they could hide all sorts of precious objects safely. It drew him, and called him in. Attention, for the longest while, lay in the shadows of the cave, thinking, pondering. Would it be worth it to journey there? Perhaps many didn’t journey in these places because they were scared of the dark, but the gold was sure there would be other protections of much more frightening design.
Tasseled tail flicks and curls, decisions were made, as he stepped out of the light and into the shadows.
OOC:: Obviously the table lies and there is no Haldir.....I can't get it off without scraping the table though, so forgive me? Its such a pretty table....
ALSO YEAH FOR THREADING TOGETHER!
There was never a good time to traverse the desert. Always it waited, sure as the sea, to consume with heat and wind and time as surely as the ocean did its drowning. Neither of them were quick to give up their bones.
But autumn was a little better than summer, and for Shrike, it would have to do.
She walked now like a fly across the spine of a great and slumbering beast, a small speck on a looming dune. The paint had walked through the night, beneath a sickle moon like a crook of bone, and now dawn was turning the world to soft pearl. It was as alien a landscape as any the riftlands had conjured, and it dredged up in Shrike a strange kind of nostalgia, a homesickness for a place that had tried a thousand times to kill her, and succeeded once.
Ah, but before that she had felt so very alive.
Now she half-dozed as she walked, her dark eyes heavy lidded and ears languid. There was mist at the summit of dunes this high, and it was a cool whisper against her pale flesh.
At last she paused, and looked out over the world, full of blue shadows and faint rose sand: an apt landscape for hunting phantoms.
She had told Raymond she wished to learn more of the world that feral magic had deposited them in, and Shrike was no liar. But she had said nothing at all to Calliope, slipping away from Denocte like one of its thousand shadows, and for that she felt almost ashamed. She was unused to keeping information to herself.
There: a dark line like a gossamer thread, the same kind of line she was leaving behind her. Shrike cut down across the dune, slipping some, leaning back on her haunches when needed, until the sand heaped up above her and she walked in its windless shadow. From high above, the trail had looked like the kind left behind by a snake. Now it was remade into nothing more than half-moon prints; a horse just like herself.
Yet left by a viper still, she thought to herself, and smiled grimly as she followed them.
Asterion is grateful that he is not alone when he climbs once again to the peak.
Oh, he is accompanied by no other beside him, but his bonded is there in his mind, as real and vital as though she sat on his withers or soared lazily on the currents of air far overhead. They had agreed (or rather, she had cajoled and he had insisted and she had begrudgingly acquiesced) that this was something he needed to do by himself. Even so, the gull is no less present in his head as the trees thin and the dirt turns to stone and the autumn sunlight doesn’t stop the wind from reminding him that winter is coming.
Tell me what you’re seeing, he thinks, a game now well-familiar.
Pelicans, she thinks back, and Asterion almost laughs at the sour note in her tone. They’re migrating south, and hogging all the fish while they do. And the tide is coming in, washing in logs from that storm the other morning, and I think I saw that sister of yours, chasing clouds again.
His smile is no less warm, then, although no one can see it. So all is well.
All is well, Cirrus agrees, and the Regent grunts and continues up the endless slopes.
The trails are still well-worn from the meeting at the Summit, but the bulk of the fervor has died down. There are no other worshipers this day, as afternoon turns to golden evening, and why would there be? For the gods lived here no longer. They were free (if they had ever been bound), and maybe that makes what Asterion is doing foolish, but that has never stopped him before.
Indeed, he almost feels relieved when at last he reaches her shrine. There is nothing but unholy dust and a vacant pedestal and thin sunlight and wind.
It is easier this way, he thinks, and then on the heels of it: I should have brought an offering. But Asterion would never remember to be anything but what he was, unadorned, carrying nothing but himself.
Almost he has forgotten what it was like, to have magic; but he has never forgotten standing beside No, the water-god of Ravos, and speaking to him as though to a friend.
Water has a way of reshaping things to its own design eventually, he’d said, and Asterion wonders now if the words are still true. If there is any saltwater left in him, or if there were ever any design, any plan for any of them. Maybe the gods were just guessing too – ah, but that it is a fearsome thought.
He does not know if Vespera can hear him, now that her ears are elsewhere. But he thinks of Marisol, and her steadfast faith, and he drops his head to touch his dark muzzle to the empty base where the god’s statue had sat.
“Thank you for Cirrus,” he says softly, as a chill wind that smells of pine rakes its fingers through his hair, “if you are the one to thank. I know I have not been faithful to you, or to any of you, but I hope you forgive me.” A wry smile shapes his mouth. “I was hardly faithful when I saw gods perform miracles before me. I just wanted to give my gratitude, but…oh, Vespera, I don’t understand. I don’t know what any of you want. I don’t even know what I want.”
With a sigh he leans away, and stares out over the whole of Novus, unfolding before him like a map. Always he’d longed for adventure, and perhaps here he’d found it – perhaps he’d simply never known what to do with what he had.
“I just want them to be safe,” he says, his voice a whisper of seafoam, and the wind tears that away from him, too.
Being away from his father was a feat, but it didn't really count when he was only wandering one part of the Court, where his father kept an eye on him. Of course, little Pyxis didn't see Orion lingering nearby watching him, he only explored.
He was still young, approaching a yearling age, and was stronger than he had been. He was still incredibly small too, tiny hooves kicking at small rocks as his ears twisted and he glanced around. There used to be so many others wandering around, and now he found this place to be a little.. emptier. Maybe they were all busy.
Dad was always busy, he knew. He talked about far off lands and other horses that seemed like fantasy places, and Pyx had sat there and listened to him with big, lavender, bright eyes. He had listened, had been fascinated, and now he wondered if his father would ever take him to those places.
'You're too young right now, and you need to grow more. You need your strength to make journeys like that.' It didn't help that he couldn't really do anything in the dark either. It would slow them down, his night blindness.
So instead, the hybrid colt let out a soft sigh, his ears falling even as his scales glittered in the autumn sun. His tiny head dropped, antlers just starting to bud more on his head, no longer little buttons that had simply sat there looking strange.
The rain drives in across the plain, thrown from a sky bleak and dark. Stems of grasses bow beneath the sheeting downpour. The meadow ripples as winds rush before the oncoming clouds.
A storm grumbles out at sea, crying out as if it were a monster, lured in by the power of the gods. Ahead of it, flagged by the charging winds, the Crow stalks through the plain. Verenor is little more than a black peak rising toward the monstrous cloud. Lightning splits the sky and lights the jagged face of the mountain.
The Crow does not return to Delumine, but neither does he return to the open gates of Denocte. Rather he stalks, his skin lit by the electric glow of the crashing storm. The meadow is alive with static, it prickles along is silvered skin, and threatens him with the might of the wild.
Slowly Raum’s skull turns, those blue eyes glinting in the haphazard light. There, beside him, her body a shadow, made angular by the spear at her side, is Avdotya. Even in his dreams he would know this girl; a creature with sand in her bones and sunfire in her blood.
His dagger sings with the presence of her spear, and he wonders how much it thirsts for violence. Raum wonders if it hungers for a taste of her skin, her blood. He wonders if he does too. The girl was an enigma, a rebel. Disgraced, fallen from her position, she stalks with pride, with malevolence licking at her heels. Curious his eyes are as they behold this blackened girl, made more frightening by the storm that rushes to embroil them both.
In the silence between them (the spaces where the storm does not cry its thunderous call) he drinks in the snake of Solterra. He knows what it is to carve a solitary path, to seek vengeance and retribution. Maybe that is why he does not move to rile her, to caw like the crow he is, across the distance between them.
No, Raum merely offers her a simple, “Avdotya” that purrs like the thunder and cuts like a blade.
Again he wonders how they both might bleed; in black, in gold.
Afore the great circle, Rhoswen stood drenched in silence and, strangely, it suited her. For a creature so incandescent this isolation, cool and bleached, sat well behind her avian silhouette, for against it she burned like a pyre. The autumn wind whipped her hair into a cardinal cyclone worthy of Medusa's name and her eyes, carved from dragonsmoke, strangled the mountain as slowly they etched higher. To the peak her gaze climbed, battling high winds and thin air, and a thought began to form like smoke in her mind. Were the Gods watching her now? Her heart did not flinch at the notion, if anything it steeled itself an inch more as her chin lifted against the breeze as if to match their divinity with a scarlet punch: fuck you, Calligo. I hope you're listening. She had come to the summit later than most. The regime's meeting had adjourned several days ago, and many had already scuttled back to their nests of gold, red, purple or blue; but Rhoswen had been patient -- unusually so. She had not wanted to wait in the clamour, breathing in their panic; nor had she felt inclined to mingle among the masses that had gathered around the stage Tempus had set. So instead she had dwelled in Dawn, alone and alive, postponing her leave from Delumine until the very last moment. She was never going back.
So much had changed in her bloodred world. She was a mother, a woman, a traitor, a lover, a fighter: what skin would she adorn next? Where would it end? She knew where she hoped it would. She knew it like the back of her hand, for all the times she had wandered it in her dreams. Its scents, its sounds - they haunted her like ghostships passing her by, drifting further away with every aching moment. Solterra. Did it miss her too? Did it turn skyward to honour her absence, staring into the eyes of a sun stood sentinel for every day she did not pace its halls. At such a thought, she smiled: it was a rare, splitting thing to see Rhoswen smile these days; it cracked her marble skull in two to match the chasm in her heart. Of course the desert did not miss her; what was she but another body to litter its ancient sands? Rhos did not shrink from its magnitude, nor its brutality: she was born from the fire, and the fire was born in she. Spring and summer were behind her now, committed to the very darkest recesses of her mind where she refused to venture. There was no uncertainty - no fear of unbelonging left to be found. What was left then? What was the sister of Thieves made of now? She'll tell you if you come a little closer.
