I watched as she left. Emotionless flames burned bright as her pale, ghost like form slipped into the mists that embraced the swamp she had chosen as the perfect place to deposit her unwanted spawn. She had never wanted me, that much was obvious. Rather than whispering sweet nothings and tales of what a great prince I would one day grow into, she stood there silent as I nursed, sulked in the shadows crying and cursing fate for leaving her with me.
Other children would probably be crying, screaming after their mother's to come back and love them and then when they kept walking the orphaned child would likely succumb to the whispers of the thick, unforgiving mud. But not I. At six months old I felt I was already much more jaded than even the most fierce of warriors. Midnight ears flicked back as the ghostly figure disappeared from my line of sight. She was gone, and I was here, left in a swamp where she hoped I would stumble into the murkiness and never return.
A snort escaped through flared, ink stained nostrils forcing the mist that wrapped around my small frame to swirl out in wild clouds before they settled down once again. Orange pools pulled away from the place they had last seen her, and instead drifted around my new surroundings. This was a dull place, full of danger, mist, the stink of mud and rotting foliage, the only sunlight that could creep through the thick canopy was a murky grey color as it tried to break through the fog. It was perfect.
My features twisted into the small ghost of a smile while inky limbs forced my presence forward, a thin line of blood crept its way down my chin when my lip cracked with the tightening of a smile. This strange land would do quite well, plenty of unfortunate situations to find myself in that would cause pain and discomfort to those who were normal, those who would roll their eyes in fear and lips to curl back in aggression over the oddity that is myself.
I kept walking until I found myself stuck. A thicket of life snatching thorns had been in my path, something I wasn't worried over since I could figure out someway to stop the bleeding later once I had found where I wanted to stop for the day. So, instead of finding my way around the blade like plants, my limbs kept walking. I could feel the thorns as they pressed into the thin flesh that covered my cannon bones, knowing only because my mother liked to spit the venom in my ears, that I was different and that this pressure should send me running in the other direction. But it didn't, I kept walking until the thorny vines wrapped themselves around all four limbs and I could no longer figure out how to get myself out of the mess I had found myself in.
"Shit..."
"speech"
ULYSSES
leave a beautiful carcass
@Fiona & @Israfel | 503 | both of you are more than welcome to reply, or just whoever wants to :3 |lunarblues
Where he ought to be running alongside his parents and romping with his sister, Regis preferred to stand quietly amongst them or lie beneath them as he napped, which he did frequently. He would rise on occasion to nurse, but never for very long until he was down again and basking in the sun.
Could he talk, he would complain about the way his stomach ailed him and the lethargy that wrought him completely. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal, and it wasn’t fair - but in the young span of his life, it was one of the few things Regis knew.
Those other things he did know were far more comforting, like the warmth of his parents against he and Anemone during the chilly nights, or the way his mother’s whiskers tickled him when she drew close. It was the gentle words of encouragement he didn’t understand from his father that the colt was drawn to when he had laid for too long, and the ever comforting presence of his beloved sister through it all. Those were the few precious things that Regis did know, and perhaps it was because of them that his weakness had yet to defeat him.
But today was better than most. With both his parents lingering nearby, just as they always were, the Dawn Prince had found a particularly interesting feature lying upon the ground; a stick. It could be no more than a foot in length and no more round than a garter snake. To anyone else, it was nothing special, but to Regis, it was so many things. A pen to write mighty words, a brush to create bold and beautiful paintings, a sword to defend his family or a wand for which to cast any spell imaginable.
Bending his front legs enough to reach it, Regis grasped the frail stick in his mouth and then pushed himself to stand as straight as his knobby knees would allow. Grasping it between milk teeth, the colt bobbed his head up and down and the stick, of course, followed suit. Stepping closer to the stone walls of the citadel, the little Prince dragged the stick along the rough surface. The noise it made wasn’t particularly loud, but it was there, changing it’s tune with every bump and crevice the stick was pulled across.
Had he the energy, Regis would’ve gone faster and faster to explore what it might sound like if he were galloping along the edge of the citadel, but he could manage no more than a tiny, pitiful trot one way before turning around and going back the other way.
But in his mind, he is as fast as the wind, and he is unstoppable.
Aim your arrow at the sky and leave me where I lie
Posted by: Raymond - 06-24-2018, 09:49 PM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder
One of the four beasts saying,
'Come and see.' and I saw.
***
It was high noon: the hour of judgment, after rendari tradition. Autumn had advanced since Raymond's last visit to the steppes and the white heat of summer was now only a memory in the warm touch of sunlight out of a stark, cloudless sky. The bordering trees were aflame with the turning of leaves and a wintry chill crept through what shade was to be had.
There was, however, no shade in the arena Raymond had set. There was no wind to stir the proverbial tumbleweeds across an empty town square. There was only the steppe, the sun suspended directly overhead, and the portentous weight of reckoning.
"Reichenbach!" Raymond called, his voice not so much shouted as projected across the space between them. His tail blade arced high, battle-ready and bloodthirsty, all semblance of jovial serenity smothered in a bed of hot ash. "You will answer for the razing of the Arma Mountains, for the violence you allowed to be perpetrated against your own people!" He lifted his head high, sunlight casting an imperiously fiery curve down the muscular crest of his neck. "You will answer for the tyranny of your regime, and for your silence as the ones who depended on you suffered at your doorstep!"
Twenty paces may have separated them, and certainly the bay stallion had the advantage of height, but Raymond did not need height to tower over the steppe. They were the image of an old West showdown, Marshall facing off against outlaw - but which was which? In that moment Raymond was a primal thing, as vicious and wild a beast as any that had walked the earth in ancient times. The light in his eyes was Judgment; the beating of his heart a gallows tattoo.
"You have forgotten the face of your ancestors, Reichenbach. Surrender your crown, or prove to me you are still worthy of it."
***
Raymond
And at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
When the man comes around.
It had never been said that she would shirk her training.
She paused in her movements to consider the straw-stuffed dummy a dozen yards away from her, the dagger she had borrowed from the armory halting next to her shoulder. There are several others sticking out of the ground around the target, one with hilt still quivering, but none have actually managed to hit their target. It shouldn’t have been this hard to control the small, light daggers -- hell, they were practically made for this, and if she couldn’t hit the target while firmly on the ground, how was she supposed to do so while in the air?
A scoff leaves her lips, her mind extending and yanking the daggers from the dirt to clatter into a pile at her feet, her pale eyes narrowing. There had to be a trick to this -- she just couldn’t figure out exactly what it was, how to keep the blades steady in the air once she sent them flying.
With a frustrated grunt, she sends the hovering blade flying -- only to watch it embed itself into the dirt at the foot of the target, quivering as though laughing at her feeble attempts.
She’d never thought about how well a bright crimson would contrast against her pale coat, the single stripe of a new recruit standing out starkly. She wears it with pride, her head held high as she slowly makes her way along the winding path that leads towards the very peak of Ruris -- a place for worship, she had been told, and very recently, a place of upheaval and confusion. The Summit had occured only days before her arrival in Novus, the Gods themselves coming alive from their previously-still statues and beginning to walk amongst mortals.
She had never been particularly devout -- she was the renounced child of a god, so she knew they existed, but none had ever drawn her loyalty -- but now she found herself sworn to the service of Vespera. Everything she had heard, so far, had only drawn her interest all the more -- the Goddess seemed a far cry from the sort she could remember hanging around Thyterios, and she thinks maybe her service can be true.
First, though, she feels the need to connect to her chosen Goddess, to offer her a sacrifice in return for a prayer possibly answered.
Her hooves are quiet against the worn path beneath her, pressing lightly into dew-damp dirt and leaving the lightest of prints behind to mark her travels. Around her, the fog of an early morning swirls about, obscuring her vision beyond the next turn, but she finds herself in no rush -- she wasn’t due to meet Marisol in the Steppes until noon or later, and so she has the proper time to devote to her worship. Occasionally, her thoughts wander to the scheduled spar with the commander, a knot of anticipation tight in her stomach -- she knows that she can fight, but can she fight well enough to impress Marisol, to truly earn her way into the ranks of the Halcyon?
Before her, weathered columns appear out of the fog as though carved from the mountain itself. The air here is hushed and reverent, her footfalls slowing as though a rogue step or kicked stone could ruin the moment -- and perhaps it could, but her attention isn’t on where her feet are being placed.
“Vespera,” The name slips from her lips in hushed tones as she enters the worship grounds, folding her forelegs so that she could touch her muzzle to the soft moss that blanketed the peak. “I know that I’m not one of your children, that you have little reason to listen to my prayer, but I hope that you do. I don’t know very much about you, I’ll admit that, but from everything that I’ve heard so far…. I think I’m doing the right thing, pledging to serve you and to defend Terrastella.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes closing and a soft sigh slipping from her lips.
“I’m asking for your blessing, Vespera, to become part of your Court. I’ll serve you to the last of my strength, until my wings can no longer carry me, and my voice can no longer speak your praises -- this, I promise.”
I HEARD HEAVEN & THE THUNDER CRY.
@Random Events i suppose if someone else wants to wander in they can! theo's just seeking vespera's blessing (and perhaps some reassurance) that she's doing the right thing
Syeira weaved her way through the crowds of the court, past the merchant stalls in the marketplace, toward the heart of the citadel. After some asking around, she had figured out who it was she should be looking for. The one they called Regent, Stormsinger, Aislinn. Her niece, apparently. Freya had come to this world and she had started a family, and the ruby eyed woman could not wait to meet this niece of hers.
She scoured the streets for signs of Aislinn, winged with ivory hair and the fierceness of a warrior residing beneath her skin. She expected nothing less of her sister's child than to have been raised a fighter, and from what Syeira had heard, the girl lived up to that expectation.
Every body that passed, every set of eyes she met, the smoke haired woman searched. She was about to start asking questions when she heard the name. It slipped through the crowded street like a snake, whispering over the air until it reached her ears. Syeira stopped, her head turning in the direction of the word and her eyes alighted on someone of familiar coloring. Dark like the sky with a faint dusting of earth tones, they could have been cut from the same stone if it weren't for the more obvious differences.
Shoulders set and eyes focused, Syeira parted the crowd like a wave and emerged on the other side, just behind the girl of ink and ivory. Then, she paused, not out of uncertainty or fear of what would come but to simply appreciate this moment. She was, after all, about to meet a niece she had never known existed.
At last, the woman breathed in and spoke, "Aislinn." She waited, allowing the girl to turn, giving her a chance to see who it was that addressed her, and then she spoke again, "You remind me of her, of your mother." Her lips curled up at the corners, a small offering of kinship. She was not one to mince words, to dance around the point, but she did not want to overwhelm Aislinn so early on. She had no idea, after all, what Freya had and had not told her. "I am Syeira, but I am also your aunt."
Syeira stood on the shore of the lake, the mountains at her back, looking toward the far horizon. In the distance she could see the looming shape of what she now knew to be called the Night Court, resting at the southern point of this kingdom called Denocte. When the silver haired woman had first arrived in this world, effectively leaving hers behind, she had scarcely known in which direction she needed to begin her search in order to find her sister. She did not even know if this was where Freya was but it was the direction in which she had been pointed.
She dipped her head to drink from the cool water, long mane dragging along the dry fall grasses, and her ruby eyes drank in the perfect reflection of the world around her on its surface. This world was drenched in the warm, fiery colors of fall and although the afternoon air had a bit of a chill to it she was sure the nights were quickly growing cold. Too soon winter would be here. Syeira hoped she would find her sister before then.
When she lifted her head she focused back on the silhouette of the citadel once more and she wondered what she should expect of this world. She recalled the huge raven gates she had passed through to get here, and the way the land surrounding it had been reduced to ash by someone or something. If she had entered a place in the midst of strife and struggle, the woman was more than sure she would find her sister. Freya had always been full of fearsome warrior spirit.
Syeira closed her eyes and lifted her head to the sunshine though it offered little warmth and a small breeze picked up, tugging on her hair. "Where are you, Freya?" she murmured, as though the wind would take her inquery and deliver it to her sister itself. If she only allowed it some time, she thought perhaps this world would give her a sign of where to go next.
Evening had fallen upon the Day Court.
It was still choking hot, and she imagined that it would be for some time – the nights were cool, and the evenings were less suffocating than the day, but they were far from pleasant, even indoors. Seraphina stared out the broken windows of the throne room, past the ramparts and towards the unforgiving expanse of the Mors; she felt a small, immediate pang for the simplicity of warm sands and wide-open spaces, after a long day listening to various grievances and scouring over blueprints, but she still had work to do, tempers to soothe.
(When didn’t she have work to do, though? It was, at least in part, a self-inflicted disease; her rare moments of idleness were generally spent finding more work for herself to do. There were a number of things that Seraphina disliked, but idleness was relatively high on the list.)
A part of her bristled at the implication that this decision was really for peace; as far as she was concerned, her warden had won a fight, and there was no crime in that. (Distasteful as his behavior apparently was, she understood that it was not attempted murder, and, in her mind’s eye, she sees Bexley Briar, trapped beneath stone.) She didn’t want a peace that meant rolling over on her back and showing her stomach, leashed and desperate as she might be from the restraints placed upon Day by the Davke attack. Oh no. The thought had crossed her mind immediately, in the aftermath – indifference was a crime, too, though one of a different sort, and Avdotya’s betrayal had bred in her some desperate need for loyalty among her advisors beside. Perhaps loyalty was the wrong word, however. Agreement was irrelevant. Dedication was valued, to her nation and her people.
It was with that in mind that she strode across the room and towards the great double doors that spilled open into the castle. A pair of guards stood watch by the door, and even more patrolled the halls, seen or otherwise. She knew the one on the left. “Mairi,” She said, softly, head turning to regard the guard momentarily, “bring the warden.” Gods knew how long that would take; the incident with Aislinn had proved nothing if not that she had very little idea of her warden’s movements. Mairi nodded, and then was off; she did not turn to watch her go. Rather, she moved back into the room, doors still flung wide open behind her. Her eyes darted back to the windows. Was the great expanse of desert outside still her homeland? Only a year ago, she would have said yes without hesitation. Now, she was all the less certain that she had ever been home there at all. (But, she supposed, that was not the sort of thing that one chose.)
(Regardless – she would protect it with blood and bone and breath. Nothing else had ever mattered; nothing else ever would.)
She waited amicably, her eyes trained on rolling dunes that marked the distant horizon.
--
tags | @Torstein notes | finally. I have been working on this post for weeks. >> no rush at all with this, of course - I know you're still dealing with a lot, and it's not like I'm going to be around as much anyways. (or that this isn't already ridiculously late.)
but oh, my heart was flawed, I knew my weakness so hold my hand - consign me not to darkness
They say that a person who steps out of a room is never the same person who stepped in.
The Queen of Solterra prowls in front of the sun god’s golden statue like a lurking tiger, albeit without any trace of hungering subtlety; each fluid stride clatters, vicious as a thunderclap, against the marble dais. Hours have passed – a day, perhaps – since the Regimes clawed their way free of the wreckage that Tempus had trapped them within, haloed by rubble and sunlit grit. Dust and debris still clings to her coat like a second skin, dulling the silver beneath. Only the collar around her throat is left to shine. She had believed in them.
As a child, stiff as a soldier on Viceroy’s heels, she had been taken to the peaks of Veneror time and time again to offer her devotions to the god she served. Part of her induction into their particular brand of nationalism – they wanted her to know that she was doing god’s work. In her desperation, she cried to the gods to save her; in the depths of the night, nursing wounds that kept her awake for countless hours, she whispered to them, if only to create the illusion of company. They all did - she saw the starving, in the streets, wailing to the gods. When chaos and fire reigned supreme after Zolin’s death, people took shelter in the shrines; she remembers the crescendo of crying, sobbing, begging. As she grew older, as she was finally freed, she made the trek herself; she offered proper respect to all of the gods, with little offerings, though her worship (and the finest trinkets she could find) was reserved for Solis. Before each battle, she spoke his name in prayer. Even as her work – and rank – increased and she had less and less time to devote to her personal desires, she made her way to Veneror with some degree of regularity. She had taken comfort in the atmosphere, in the knowledge that the gods were watching; the divinity that now felt so suffocating was a shield from an outside world that was tumultuous and painful. Seraphina had been softer there - knowledge of their celestial presence peeled away the rugged layers she built up and left her barer than she wished to admit. They didn’t have to do anything, or so she thought. They would simply watch, and watching – no, listening - was enough.
But now they had shown themselves, and the only intention or explanation they had offered was that they intended to intervene in the quarrels between the courts, and it was as good as a slap to the face; unlike the one she had been given by the Stormsinger, however, this one hit its mark, and she was left bloody and raw and clawing. In the rubble, she had been like a caged animal, but now, the loathing was left free and festering, a sandstorm set to swallow the face of the desert whole. She had always told herself that she was just, not vengeful, but maybe she was – the weight of Solterra’s screaming had yet to be paid, and, for their indifference, the gods were compliant in her nation’s suffering.
She does not know how, but she will make them answer for it or die trying -- some part of her tells herself that this thought, this knowledge, is rash and foolhardy, that they have not explained themselves yet, but their silence is a crime, too. Her expression remains stiff and cold, utterly contained, but her movements are as fluid and rippling as in the heat of combat, and her eyes still burn like twin suns, fueled by fury enough to guide her path with or without the god of day. She was unblessed in the gathering, and surrounded by the favored, – with magic, or company – but she wants no blessing, no obligation, nothing from them; she has the sweat of her brow.
Seraphina is not alone.
Suddenly aware of another, familiar presence, she whirls. With a soft prickle of something akin to shame, she meets the gaze of her advisor, her left hand, her head diplomat, and – and her dear, dear friend. “Eik…”
olis was up on the mountain. It was a whisper that spread like wildfire, consuming the minds and hearts of all of the citizens who had made the pilgrimage to the summit at the behest of those beguiling fowl who spoke with the voice of a god. She had felt his appearance, the entire air had hummed with the promise of his return -- an electricity like that of a rolling summer storm, felt long before it was seen. Her breath drew in short, ragged sips of the crisp autumnal air as her hooves dug into the rocky ground finding purchase. Her golden bodice was glittering with sweat, the ivory hood torn back from her head to allow her tresses to fly freely.
Storm colored gaze was locked upon her target, the peak of the summit, and the home of the gods of Novus. Gods that she had worshipped her entire life, a devout faith that she had held close to her heart even as a child. Solis bore the weight of the sun on his own shoulders for the entire day. Her young heart had filled with wonder and pride that her warrior god would be entrusted with the powerful sphere that bid the grass to grow and the birds to sing.
A bitter wind ripe with the promise of winter threatened to steal her breath, the girl force to bow her head against it's mighty whipping. Blonde hair streamed like a ribbon behind her, sure to be a tumulus mess by the time she reached the peak. Perhaps later, if she got the thing she wanted the most, she would be horrified by her appearance -- but for now, all that mattered was seeing for herself what others had told her they had seen. A part of her felt foolish, rushing up here upon the wagging tongues of others. But hope was a hard thing to kill, even when it seemed to be extinguished -- it somehow managed to flicker back to life.
Upon reaching the summit, she entered the mouth of the cave -- and found it to be empty. Her heart, pounding with expectant hope seemed to sink to an unfathomable depth. Utterly...desolate. The statues, missing from their places. The remnants of offerings the only clue that they had ever been situated within the bowels of the cave. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, her breathing still ragged from her haphazard climbs as she cursed her foolishness. How could she have been so stupid? The missing statues must have been what those idiots meant. The gods were gone, no it was only their altars.
A scream of indignant rage bubbled from her throat, a raw screeching unbefitting her noble blood. Her teke ripped across the place where Solis' gold form should have been, scattering his offerings across the floor. Her scream echoed around her, causing her ears to pin back from the sharpness of it.
"YOU ARE NEVER THERE WHEN I NEED YOU!" She yelled into the void, feeling her knees begin to tremble. "My family was faithful to you! I have worshipped you from my first breath. Blessed by your hands...and you....you…" Her voice quivered, the volume falling until it was a whisper. She had hoped to seek his counsel. She had hoped to find the faith she had long held to be worth its weight in gold, and instead it felt as though it were little more than lead. Her head lowered, her skin quivering along with her knees. Her heart was crying out, but she had not felt that alone in a very...very long time.
