All his life, he had heard whispers behind his back. Some were waspish and hurried, others were spit in his very face when he was only a small gangly creature of all limbs and awkward angles. Abomination. Heathen. Creature. He'd heard it all as he'd grown and somehow... somehow it had never affected him as it had his twin, Siavax. Their sister would never know what they had endured, being raised in Solterra as she was, oh no. She was lucky, or so Cynix believed, as he hiked up to the peak. For once in his life... he wished for some sort of peace, some sort of validation on his existence. His mother loved him, his father loved him, his family loved him, but the people of the court he was born in to viewed him through skewed eyes and bared their teeth at him from the shadows.
Perhaps Caligo would have an answer for him, or at least some sense of peace.
The amethyst and ivory man had felt the shudders of the world under his hooves, the tremble and groan of the earth, the rocks. He had seen the Summit, but now he trekked elsewhere, to seek out the statue of his ruling deity, of Caligo. She too, had suffered at the whims of those that saw her different, and in his heavy heart, he wanted to know what he could do. He was no deity, he was only a mortal, barely out of being a boy. Young, so very much swayed by hatred aimed at him like barbed hooks, to dig in to his flesh and tear at him.
So as he walked, he finally came to a halt, coral eyes wide and his wings flaring out as his heart leapt up in to his throat. Tears pricked at those eyes, and he shuffled forward on feathered legs, letting out a noise from the back of his throat that was torn and ragged, his body shivering.
There was nothing left of the once proud statue of Caligo. Rubble lay in its place, and he felt his knees buckle a moment, the hope he had held on such fragile strings suddenly sinking as they snapped away. "Oh no.. what have they done...?" His heart ached as he stepped forward, and his head dropped as tears shone in those eyes. "Caligo... where...?" There wasn't much on the ground, flakes and bits of rubble that could have just come from the shakes of the earth, rather than a statue.
All the same, he ached. He ached and felt his insides tighten, his chest grow heavy with the weight of reality. This was... a surprise. He had come for his worship, for an answer perhaps in the form of wordless guidance, but instead there was naught but an indentation where a statue had once stood, proud and sparkling as the night skies over the court that had forsaken him so.
Cynix drew in a shaking breath, blinking stinging eyes as his hooves shifted, and he lowered his head, pressing his nose to where the statue had once stood, a pedestal bare of any deity that had been there. "I came for advice, Caligo... but you are gone. Perhaps I was not meant for this, for anything. I was to be nothing but some abominable child, born between Solterra and Denocte. My parents... they love one another, but... in Denocte. They see me, my brother.. they see us as nothing but unnatural creations. Something that should not be. I wish you were here, Caligo, just to see your face, and perhaps gain peace. I've only lived three years yet I feel as if it's been an eternity. I'm tired, so tired... of feeling like I do not belong."
His voice hitched, and Cynix drew his head up and back, tucking his chin to his chest as the wings behind his ears fluttered and cupped against his skull.
He wanted a home, perhaps a beam of hope. Something. Anything.. to make him feel as if he belonged. Even if his words were spoken to nothing but empty air.
@Random Events || please leave my poor boy be, he just wants to pray in peace for Caligo
Raymond. and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
The Dusk Court was an easy destination to find, and the raven might have been offended at the request had the recipient not been so esteemed. Although the landscape to the north had changed with the restructuring of Veneror Peak, the pathway into Terrastella was clear and familiar below. The tower inside which rested the seat of power stood proudly against the sunlit horizon as the raven drew near, and it did not wait to be addressed by guardsmen before flying through an open window into the presence of the flower-crowned sovereign herself. It greeted her with an insistent kraaaak, chest puffed as it presented the small scroll bound to its delicate foot.
Florentine
I owe you a great debt for the kindness you showed to Ruth when she was alive - perhaps greater than I can ever hope to repay. I thank you for the opportunity to serve you in whatever capacity you allow, but however indebted I am to you as a friend my allegiance cannot lie with Terrastella.
I told you I would try my best to serve as your Champion, and I fear that my best is far short of what you as a person and a queen deserve. A champion should be loyal to you and your people. I am not. As such, the best I can offer you - as your champion - is to allow you the opportunity to appoint someone worthy of the honor in my stead.
This is not intended as a farewell. I still count you among my friends, and if as a friend you have need of me I will come if I can. If I perish, please look after Calliope. She is more valuable than words can say.
Raymond. and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
The raven knew not the contents of the note strapped to its delicate leg, but in its way it knew the gravity contained therein. It flew dutifully and with singular purpose, button-black eyes scanning the ground as it scrolled by below. The beach was a pale, tenuous, ribbon separating land from the wild seas, but it pointed the way toward its target.
It sought another of night-blackness, lightning-struck and vicious as a captive storm, and as the tiny shapes of horses popped up across the landscape it flew lower and more swiftly, squawking irritably each time the face that drew near was the wrong one.
Then it reached the cliffs, and its search bore fruit.
Indeed she was a storm, tall and sleek and streaked with electric white, and her bright blue eyes struck fear in the raven's heart. Insistence overpowering exhaustion, the blackbird buzzed the mare's ear and landed on the cliffside next to her, presenting its bound leg with haughty expectation.
In a hurried scrawl, the note read:
Calliope
You were right about the dragon but we can't fight it. I will do what I can. Protect Flora, see you soon.
Posted by: Albrecht - 06-23-2018, 11:29 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (3)
...
Sometimes, just sometimes, there are worse things out there than hangovers, vasectomies, and having your leg torn off by a massive prehistoric animal that for some fucking awful reason - still lives. If I want my stipend, I have to make due diligence, I have to go to church and I have to smile while I do it - I might as well call Sunday worship a death sentence. But hey, it if keeps people off my back about all the things they whisper about me. If they see me here, praying to rocks, they'll probably leave me alone. It is likely I will not be suspected for anything (not that I have anything to be suspect for/my whole life is an anthill).
When people ask me, "Why Solis?" I say to them, "He was made out of pure gold - I couldn't resist myself." -- it is usually the charming grin that makes them laugh (or smile) and I laugh (or smile) with them. And then they ask me "No really .. why Solis?" It is apparent they are the seriously religious type. It is obvious that they take this worship shit to heart while I use it for the chance to escape my maids who clean my chambers every Sunday morning. They usually get a little clucky with me about the state of disrepair my Saturday night soiree's leave the compound. But I say to them - always this - that this job of theirs is job security and a home away from home, less talking, more scrubbing.
The trip to Veneror is easier than it looks - for me, that is. The pilgrimage on foot is one I wouldn't take even if I wanted to. I love wings - I love big wings. I feel incredible being so far removed from all the people down below me, hoofing it in the hot summer sun while I soar through misty-wet clouds and cool my face and wax curls in my hair with the balmy ionic airwaves. It is incredibly disappointing to know that Veneror is so close now, if I could pray for anything - it would be for Solis to move Veneror farther away from the Mors so that I can have more time to think about what I don't want to say to him (or others).
Veneror seems to already be under construction, I didn't get the memo. Landing in rubble and taking a good look around - I wonder to myself, am I still drunk in bed with Tessa, Cheri, and Jack? - I'd pinch myself if I had fingers, but the cooling breeze that pulls at the chains on my neck say otherwise. The temples have been ..
I've spent too long inside the compound. Hearing turned up, eyes alert for anything moving, I have to assume that something might still be here. That something has changed without my knowing (many things have changed, actually) - but it isn't my fault this time. This time, my severe lack of love for Heaven and Hell have kept me from listening to the conversations about Gods and Monsters. While I've been streamlining my business, shuffling girls around, and making sure my collections are ready to go to market -- people have been praying.
But to what? Solis is missing from his shrine. Completely gone. Not a gold flake to remark where he stood so elegantly (honestly, I wanted to take it and put it in my home) but luxury always has a price tag. And as skeptical as I am of anything with or without powers being a lord over me .. you cannot help but wonder if I -had- stolen Solis, would I have been smote?
This whole thing is fucking absurd is the first thing out of Bexley’s mouth when she storms free of the previously-collapsed Summit. The lament is aimed at no one in particular, but it is absolutely venomous. Covered in a thin film of dust, braids starting to unwind, setting random patches of dry grass on fire as she prowls over them, Bexley’s first and foremost thought is I want to leave, followed immediately by a craving for alcohol as she remembers that it’s up to Seraphina to dismiss the regime. Bex can’t help rolling her eyes at the thought of lingering a moment a longer, but the deeply submerged, logical part of her at least recognizes that only the gods know what will happen next - if were something to happen in their absence, leaving too early might set them at a distinct disadvantage, and Solterra simply can’t afford another disadvantage.
So drinks it is.
An obnoxiously large horde of civilians has gathered just beyond the clearing, milling around as they kill time in nervous wait for their regime. Bodies on bodies on bodies - Bexley’s not sure she’s ever seen such a big crowd in Novus, sans the one that gathered around the opium tent at Dawn’s festivals. What a wonderful scene to return to. With a curled lip and a huffed, annoyed exhale, Bex steels herself and plunges in, shoulders squared, head ducked, ignoring the questions of what happened and where are they? that flood her from every side as she tries to pass through the throng. Bodies jostle her from every side. The stinging scent of sweat and fear fills the air. And of course, Bex is disgusted by it.
All she wants is to leave. To go home, to sleep on the cool, cricket-loud shores of the Oasis, maybe to apologize to Seraphina for all the damage that her big mouth might have done. But none of those wants are accessible. Gods, if she could just get a drink -
Like an omen, a familiar form appears ahead of her, caught a few strides away in the huddle of bodies. Bexley’s head snaps up. Is that her? - yes, that rose-quartz skin, the spiraling horn, the only face recognizable in this teeming, horrible crowd. Relief washes over her. Pavetta! she calls out, shoving her way toward the caretaker. I need to get drunk. Wanna come?
I was unsure just how long I had traveled through the open landscapes of this new found land. The sun gleamed across in the horizon casting a variety of warm tunes through the open skies mending with the lighter hues of blue before the deep navy would overtake the skies. There was a place I had been to, briefly, before the isles demise. Though the fault of that land was not placed upon my shoulders, instead it seemed to crash and burn all it’s own. For the most part it had been peaceful, something I struggled finding within myself. How did that saying go? All good things must come to an end? I suppose that could have been the truth of that place.
Delicate ivory lobes flickered listening to the music of the land. The few birds taking to the skies to sing their final tunes before hiding away to rest until the coming day. Rustling leaves from the few small animals seeking refuge and a hoot of an owl somewhere in the trees. I felt calm enough to close my golden gaze entrapping my mind within the darkness behind my lids. Standing in the open I took a breath of the air finding traces of many scents from times past and some new. Thoughts began to fade my mind coming to a halt and in the end there was just the subtle sound of my own breathing.
Slowly long blue lashes fluttered allowing my golden gaze to peek out over the darkened landscape. It was beautiful to say the least, enchanting really. I let my cranium tilt upward viewing the stars and how they sparkled high in the sky. If a moment could freeze and last forever, I would have chosen this one. Though the silence was broken, footfalls began to emerge the thumping of another catching my attention. Turning my ivory cranium to the side in order to get a better look of whom may have come. Perhaps this stranger came to enjoy the sight just as I had.
OOC: Open for anyone who would like to respond. Apologies for the quality; I need to shake off the rust.
The wind blew, bitter and cold with the promise of winter. Somnus entered the mountainside along the worn pathway carved by hundreds of others before him with a humble air, uttering not a single word as he stepped inside and out of the wrath of the buffeting winds. The only sound was that of his hooves scraping against mortar as he made his way inside, eyes forward and locked upon his goal, ears at attention as he listened to the echoing sounds of his own footsteps. The silence that loomed around him was omnipresent and all consuming, and the Dawn King would have sworn that he could hear the sound of his own pulse echoing off of the walls.
Perhaps, of course, it was the heartbeat of the very mountain itself. Or the heartbeats of the Gods. He had never questioned their existence, but they felt all the more real after the events that transpired at the summit. Tempus’ words echoed once more in his head, and the dunalino’s expression grew grim.
The world was changing. Somnus knew. Change was inevitable.
He knew it in the way that he grew older with every passing year. He knew it in the way that Eulalie’s belly, once firm, toned, and supple, had grown larger with every passing day, heavy with the twins. He knew it in the way that he now knew his two children; Anemone and Regis, one strong, one weak. Somnus had become many things in his life; a politician, a tactician, a survivor, a Sovereign, a father… Change was a constant companion, both welcome and unwanted. Fighting it was pointless.
Bowed, but not broken, Somnus was a man accustomed to change. He knew the agony of survival, the agony of living when the things one loved most had been stolen away, but he was also knew the joy. The glory. The thrill. The pleasures in simple things. The good that outweighed the bad.
The dunalino’s eyes slid closed but for a moment as he came to a stop before the statue of his patron deity. Oriens’ knowing eyes stared out at him, seeming to stare into his very being, passing judgement where he saw fit. Verdant eyes opening, Somnus returned his stare with one of his own. When he spoke, the timber of his own accent surprised him as it echoed against the stone walls.
“… I am sorry that I have not come sooner. Perhaps it is out of desperation that I come to you now.” Desperation, yes… But not from what others might think. Yes, change was inevitable. Somnus understood that. Change would come whether he wanted it to or not. He knew that he would not serve Oriens as Dawn King for his entire life; he could never be so blessed. The title would eventually be passed, or stolen, onto another… And yet, amidst his duration of holding Oriens’ blessed, wise crown, Somnus wanted nothing more than to be the best sovereign that he could be.
For his Court. His friends. His family. His children. He thought of them, of brazen and brash Anemone, of timid and fragile Regis, still so small and unwell. He thought of the beautiful and strong Eulalie who had gifted him with not one, but two children, of dear Ulric and sweet Ipomoea. He thought of the others he had met since his arrival into Novus a little over a year ago; Kasil, Florentine, Orion, Pavetta… So many names, so many faces. Somnus even thought of his beloved Vhallen King, dead and gone from his grasp forevermore.
“I come not asking for much, Wise One. I am but a humble servant in your name, a servant to your Court… But I implore you now for understanding. For guidance. Please.” Letting his head droop, his wings relax, Somnus’ posture loosened as he bowed before his patron God.
“Help me to help them.”
tag: N/A
Please leave Somnus be! :D This isn't an open thread.
If Sacha were smarter, he might've prepared himself at least a little before interrupting the summit. As it was, he showed up laughing, clueless, and more than a little drunk.
It wasn't his fault, not really - when he had stopped by the opium tent to tell everyone he was leaving, a little later than most others had left but mostly hot on the heels of the Deluminian regime, Paphos had, of course, sent him off with a toast. Then the toast turned into a round of drinks mixed with some nerve-tinglingly strong whisky, then another one, then another, and by the time Sacha had actually made it out of Delumine his blood might as well have been red wine for how loosely he could almost feel it splashing around in his head.
It didn't matter, at least not to him. Gods be damned if a little day-drinking would stop him from following the party. Intoxicated and laughing he had stumbled off toward Veneror, and with an almost unbelievable amount of luck, here he was, arrived at the summit - still tipsy, with twigs in his hair and new scrapes peeling back the deep-red hair on his chest, but still in one piece by most anyone's standards.
When he entered, the Summit was packed nearly wall to wall with strangers from every Court, and, he suspected, perhaps far beyond: not a single face looked familiar, even when he squared his broad shoulders and began to push through the crowd. Murmurs passed through the air. Tensions rippled like drumbeats through the ground. Obnoxiously indifferent to the importance of the situation, Sacha raised his head to scan the horde more thoroughly and smiled as he realized just how many had come here. The attitude of the meeting was half celebration, half death knell, but if he had anything to do with it, it would be a party regardless.
"Hey," Sacha bellowed in the ear of the stranger closest to him, an unsuspecting outsider he couldn't have been paying less attention to if he tried - "What are we all waiting for? Where'e the drinks?"
SACHA;
open to anyone! | this is his first post so bear with me i know it's ugly |ellipsiem
Traveling through Denocte felt a bit like walking into Narnia - not because it seemed particularly magical, or because he expected to run into any biblical allegories along the way, but because the farther he walked the more he expected to find old moth-eaten clothing and boxes of forgotten junk lining some interdimensional closet walls. The land itself seemed dormant; the red stallion's progress was marked by curious eyes not because he was an interloper, but because he was there at all.
Still, his swift and purposeful steps were enough to carry him into the heart of the kingdom unmolested. He was a political liaison, perhaps, or a merchant out to settle some boring economical dispute, and the faceless few he passed along the way likely remembered the blazing red of his coat rather than the unassuming presence of the blade at his heels. One such resident, with whom he had shared words long enough only to point him in the right direction, would remember him as most charming for a foreigner.
Now that he was here, his eyes darkened at what he saw. It had all the seeming of an echo, cavernous and fading away under the creeping corrosion of disuse. The pathways that seemed fit for many catered to few, and if a court should be a living thing then this one barely rattled out sickly gasps.
It looked like the half-empty shell of s mall just waiting for the clock to run out.
The tableau gave him pause, and for a moment he did not know quite where to go next.
Raymond. "he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetime “”
Beneath the midday sunshine's glow,
Myfanwy had heard tell from the travelers through her forest - she called it her forest, displaying a possessive sort of fondness for the lush undergrowth and the creek glittering like crushed diamonds as it gurgled and leapt through the heart of the wood - of other gods, whose names were marked only as an afterthought by the kelpies in the swamp. Their god was Time, a mistress as mutable as the tides whose love waxed and waned with the seasons just as the séasúr did.
Just as Myfanwy did.
But Time could not give Myfanwy what her heart desired, for the goddess loved her wild children and the depth of their winter savagery as much as she loved their grace in spring. They were her promise to the future that beauty would always be dangerous, and civilization could not corrupt everything. But what good was that to the lilac girl whose love of adventure didn't ebb with the onset of her hunger, whose curiosity drove her to discover even as the seasons drove her to destroy? All she wanted was a way to marry the disparate edges of her nature. Was that too much to ask?
She followed the path worn by countless years of worshipful wandering, timid now so far from the water's edge. Never before had she ranged so far, and the hunger that bore her hence could not even be sated by blood. Exactly where they said it should be stood a grand, mysterious statue on a stone plinth, gazing resolutely out over the peak: Oriens, he of the morning.
Strange to see something so powerful and so solid. Time was insidiously invisible as she brought all things to heel.
Sweeping the veil from her eyes, she met the statue's sightless gaze. "Please." Self-consciousness surged into her silver-freckled cheeks. Was it arrogant to ask mercy from a god?
"Don't make me face the hunger alone."
And on your cheeks O may the roses “”
Dance for a hundred years or so.
