Posted by: Raymond - 06-18-2018, 07:21 PM - Forum: Veneror Peak
- No Replies
And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder
One of the four beasts saying, 'Come and see.' and I saw.
Raymond was off-balance.
It was a strange and unsettling feeling for him who had lived so much of his life with perfect certainty, secure in his purpose and his abilities. His was a simple life with simple needs. He did not suffer such things as regret and trepidation lightly. But either through the rift's insidious venom or the vast, sprawling tameness of Novus had gotten a claw in under his bright copper skin, and suddenly he was asking himself questions he could no longer readily answer.
His hooves carried him away from the noise of bodies and into solitude, toward grounds stained with the fervor of others' worship. Not because he wanted to pray - he wasn't really the type - but because he wanted to shed his masks and his uncertainties together like a serpent sheds its skin. He wanted half-healed, never-healing wounds to close. He wanted to be alone, but also not; the thought burned in his chest.
He wanted Ruth, but she was dead. A thousand years dead, in a world and time far distant from here, and thanks to Florentine's foolish mercy he could not let her rest. Perhaps that was why...that was why...
Tell me that your soul will always remember mine.
It would, oh it would, for what mighty oak could hope to forget the scorching kiss of a lightning strike or how its heartwood smolders and smolders in the aftermath? Raymond had not forgotten the face of his father; he would not forget Calliope, even if a thousand desperate gods sought to part them, and in so doing he understood that at the moment his oath would be tested, he could not be sure to strike the promised killing blow.
No path through the lands of the Peak seemed to suit his restless feet. To whom do the godless turn when their hearts are quaking? For his kind, prayer was inward, self-reflective, turned toward the self and the parts that came together to form the whole. But there are not many ways one can bring the inner self out, and the rendari did not pray lightly.
Standing proudly before him was a stone: not elegantly carved into the form of an ethereal beauty, as the statues of Novus' gods are, but rough and honest and truly stone. Here was the earth proud and defiant before him and bearing its heart as he could not. If he could not supplicate himself to the will of a deity by name, he would worship in the way of the rendari ancients.
His tail blade flashed once. Twice. Two equal, shallow gashes opened along the planes of his shoulders, spilling forth a deeper red than his crimson flesh that traced dark rivulets along the contours of his muscular forelegs and stained the bitter mountain grass at his feet. The red stallion touched his muzzle to each stinging wound, murmuring the proper ritual words just under his breath, and drew with his life's blood an arrow upon the sentinel stone.
"By my blood, and the blood of my forebears," he touched his red-streaked nose carefully to his chest, "grant me clarity."
There was something mysterious, something fickle, something dark that roiled beneath the waves. Tidal waters licked hungrily at the rocky coast, burying its teeth into the coarse sand and dragging it down, down, further away from the shore and into its depths.
But it was not just the sea that simmered angrily tonight. No - the clouds above churned fiercly and the winds howled a sad, haunting melody. Pellets of rain pummeled the ocean, rippling and losing themselves among the tide and wave.
And as the ocean roared and the sea foam coated the rocks, the lightning illuminated something massive that lay hidden amongst them. His wings summoned the crashing thunder and striking lightning. Wild blue eyes pierced through the vaporous veil that surrounded him, monstrous claws raking the clouds as if they were satin beneath his paws.
That dream, so vivid in his own mind and in hers still too, he was sure. He knew not how he had reached out to her, how their connection had come to be... but it was. As solid as the rock on the beach's shore, as constant as the storms both she and him summoned.
Through the clouds, through the storm that was as monstrous as he, across the land and in the distance - he saw the Denoctian keep, the regal tower where he was sure she was. Through time and space, his mind reached out to hers.
By the sea, a voice confident and strong.
As he was, so was she - and together, their storm would transform into a hurricane.
As a storm rages off the coastal shores of Terminus, something massive lies in wait behind the clouds. The lightning and thunder is summoned by Ramuh's wings, the storm a heralding of his arrival. Their bond already strong, he reaches out to @Aislinn and beckons her to the sea, to face and finally become one with his storm.
Thread requirements: 1 reply, 500 words. Please tag the RE account in your reply.
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may begin including Ramuh in your IC posts.
– Calliope – Do not be afraid. I am the first and the last
*
Calliope is there, as restless as hungry lion, as the courts file into the meeting ground.
She's there to nod grimly as Florentine and Asterion walk by with hope and youth a glimmer in their eyes. There is nothing left for her to say, no warnings she has left to give. But that nod, a short and wicked dip of her horn promises that their lives will not be forfeit by trusting a god. Calliope refuses to let such a thing happen.
It would not be the first time that she's smiled at a god and promised to find an end to faith.
She's there to watch with a warning as the dragon court filters by. I know, her eyes seem to say between blinks. I know, that horn upon her head flashes in the daylight and echoes the words of her eyes. Her body is tight, coiled like a wildcat, as she watches them go by with a confidence as thick as air. They walk by as if guilt is nothing more than a fleeting dream that they perhaps once had.
That is when her rage first begins. It roars in her blood like a maelstrom, a hurricane, an abyss that even an entire world cannot fill.
When the gates close behind them all her rage begins to overflows. It trembles out into her muscles and she paces back and forth, back and forth. Her tail lashes about her legs like a whip as she paces. Had that lion still lingered in her bones she would have roared for the gods, for the way they always swallow up the believers behind stone as if they are nothing more than dust to sweep away from sight.
She can hear nothing vital on the this side of the wall. Only the soft sound of other horses at her back, other mortals left behind. Calliope isn't sure which of them are the trapped ones. Perhaps all of them are and this is nothing more than another world gods will destroy with ignorance and greed. They act as if they could hope to understand the fire and fury of a mortal, the way they rise up and up against like a sea.
And then the world trembles and the gates collapse into rubble and she knows without doubt that Asterion and Florentine are trapped.
Calliope erupts.
This is the rage that shook Velius when her sister was stolen. The rage that struck down dragons for vengeance and watched them wither and die in payment. This is the rage that electrified an entire sea and trapped an entire herd of sick monsters and left them to die.
This is the darkness of Calliope, the monster, the unicorn, the lion ,the reaper. Her bones feel alive with war, with fury, with a lightning storm that needs no thunder or bolts to consume everything in its path. Perhaps it's a blessing her magic is gone, dried to dust in this world of faceless gods. If she still had her storms and lion teeth nothing of Novus would have been left by the time this rage burns out.
She lunges towards the rubble, leaping upon the incline of it as only a unicorn might. The rocks are slick and slide under her hooves but she's headless of the recklessness of her fury. All she knows is rage and how it feels like a volcano is rising beneath her skin. She has even forgotten the names of the horses are her back, so consuming is this hate.
A war cry rents the odd stillness that follows the collapse of the gate. It rumbles through her chest like a roar. It's a gunshot in the silence, a tolling of a death-bell, the cry of a gavel as the scales of justice tip way out of line.
Calliope screams and screams and screams.
This rage of hers knows no boundaries now that it's been set loose.
NOTE: This takes place right after the gates of the meeting area crumbled and trapped the court leaders inside. Anyone is welcome and encouraged to join.
She was there. Air blossomed thin like fine frost between the creams and blues. A feral wind blew firmly against a body once chiseled from the ice itself, then finding little alleviation in solitary stance on the mountain peak. The sun bothered not to send a cordial farewell as its diminishing frame fell from sight—dusk would climb and take influence of the mantel they had given themselves to. Then with the fading light she would dredge way to a place she had long abandoned; her path was ruin, and despair wrote itself in the mountain side. The supposed-great Winter Wolf, heir of a Court she turned away for a cause more worthy than a throne, reduced to rubble. A Painted Queen, a sovereign to a home she found solace in, a family she belonged to more rightfully than her own, all cast away at her inability to uphold their values. The shrine brushed with ageless beauty and a power she could feel long before she reached their dwelling scarcely invited her to its footing, but she was a fool before so who was she to be any different now.
A breath, and a pause. Four steps forward, and a pause. Two breaths, a pause. One step, a word. A name. "Vespera." Desperation hung heavier than her cloak of wolf fur, each syllable a fine line she dared to whisper across. There was no glory in her quiet call, no pride in the stars she wore; her cape drug, and a head once high with a crown did not rise above knees hesitant to keep hold of the weight they bore. She was not worthy of the place she stood. She did not deserve the chance to utter the name of a Goddess, once one she carried so proudly for a kingdom. It was thrown away, her crown. Her pride. Her loyalty. She was stripped of all honor, all she held close given to a girl not nearly ready for the constrains of being shackled to such burden. She did it without heart and in return she fled to the confines of a place of her past; a land so bitter with cold that she finally felt the bite of life crawl beneath her skin and shame her for her actions. Aerus, a brother long-forgotten upon the seat of a home she held little connection to, welcomed the previous Heir of their Hiemsterra Court as cordially as any guest. Then with the death of her parents she no longer felt the pull to her birthplace. She left it, too, sitting behind while hooves marked their way back across snowy-scapes; Máni stood with her unfalteringly, and between them a child was born.
Go away, the urge to turn and abandon the Gods—her God—caused motion to cease for good before she could even press her nose to the face of Vespera's perch. She didn't belong there, not just there where the trail thinned and the air stung from lack of oxygen mixed with the bite of almost-winter tips, but the place she let go of when she called for arms and the Kingdoms were moving together into a real semblance of a nation. There was nothing she could do then, and there was nothing she could do there where she barely stood before the might of the Gods. She worried that her time had passed, that all she could offer was laying behind her in a heap at the foot of the Dusk's stone tower.
Legs finally buckled beneath the weight of humiliation, guilt pulling her down toward gravity's lips. And she was left to beg, body collapsed with appendages beneath, beg for forgiveness from the deity she swore her life to. A forsaken tear—perhaps the only thing she had ever cried—dripped on the ground of the altar, a stain on the shrine that only she would know was carved into its surface.
Darkness shrouded the statue and wrapped it up in a fine mist that blotted out even the brightest of stars upon her stone hide. Her mane - wild, free, and chaotic - was once so solid, yet now each tendril flowed freely, bound by no mortal material nor being. With a momentous snap, a crack jettisoned up from the base, winding in a jagged line all the way up to the sharp, dominating curve of the Night demigoddess’ neck. And from the depths of that crevice spilled a smog blacker than the darkest of any nights, flowing downwards and then rising up, up, up. Static white noise buzzed through the air and hummed in the ears of all those unfortunate enough to be nearby, obliterating their concentration and numbing their mind.
Pebbles of obsidian, of onyx, of coal, of scattered diamonds and so much more tumbled from the crevice, almost as if Caligo was crumbling before their very eyes. They piled up at the base - and then continued to stack, until they overtook the whole of the statue in a sweeping, hypnotic motion. The smog swirled and filled the spaces between the pebbles, until it too overtook everything.
Then it was all gone, swept away so suddenly by the wind.
And in its place, stood a towering expanse of a mare. Her skin reflected the allure of the deep night sky, her eyes a void darker than any black hole within the galaxy, her hooves harder than any diamond and blacker than any onyx - but did they even touch the sacred, worn stones? The hair that graced the strong crest of her neck - borne heavy with the weight of the world and the hatred of her siblings - wafted elegantly and weightlessly, surrounding her form like a haze. Star-like shimmers reflected across her pelt as diamonds embedded painlessly into her skin. Her manifestation was as ephemeral as it was solid.
She was glorious, beautiful, but oh so bitter. The resentment that exploded within her heart continued to radiate as an immense presence, drowning out every noise and silencing each word. At last, she was here.
She was ready to walk Novus again.
After a pause, Caligo turns from her shrine and from her siblings', and begins making her way down the winding mountain path in her new form.
Caligo's statue has disappeared from her shrine in Veneror Peak! The deity has materialized into her statue's form and is now wandering about Novus as a horse--who knows, maybe you'll encounter the Night Demigoddess herself!
Any threads posted in Veneror Peak for the next 2 weeks has a high chance of encountering the wandering demigoddess!
Deep in the Tinea Swamp is a refuge, a haven for any who might find themselves in need. It’s hidden so well, many might pass it without ever noticing it’s there—but to any of the sick or the injured, they will find themselves stumbling upon Vespera’s threshold. They may not know what they’re looking for, but rumor has it if you wander in the Swamp long enough, you’ll find the help you’re looking for. Or rather, the help will find you.
All you need is to follow the trail of white lilies.
The Hospital is perhaps Terrastella’s best kept secret; few know of its exact location; only that it exists, somewhere, deep in the Swamp. It seems more like an urban legend than fact—even the equines that emerge from the Swamp claiming of their healings have difficulty retracing their footsteps to the mysterious grove of swamp trees.
It’s because of the work of the healers that this is possible. They conceal the entrances carefully; they hide their lifts and tend to the swamp to remove traces of their existence. Some say they were even blindfolded before they were released, healthy and whole once more, into the swamp. That’s not to say you’ll be denied service at the Hospital. The healers do not discriminate; if any in need venture forward, they will come, and they will help.
Most of the Hospital dwells above ground, up in the trees. The canopy above is thick, and obscures the walkways with foliage and leaves, but they are there. Wooden planks and rope suspensions allow equines to walk freely from tree to tree, where the insides have been hollowed out in bell-like shapes to provide rooms and shelters. The trees themselves have grown around these rooms; they are not hollowed by means of the doctors, but by the will of Vespera.
Down below, similar wooden walkways provide horses to wander through the swamp without fear of getting stuck in the mud or stalked by the swamp predators. They’re congregated around the Hospital, and many seem to lead directly into trees—and then stop, their paths disappearing.
But to those who might look closely enough, to any in need of help, this is revealed to be a fallacy. Many trees below also sport doors and rooms inside, stocked with basic medical equipment designed for emergencies. These rooms are rarely found without the help of a healer, or one already well-acquainted with the Hospital. At least a dozen of these rooms exist, interspersed throughout the swamp, waiting for the next patient to stumble through.
The Hospital is composed of wings: the healing, or operational wing, the recovery wing, the supplies wing, and the rehab wing. Somewhere in the center is a compilation of rooms that seem to have no specific purpose, but are available for gathering and conversing. Often, this is the first area a newcomer will see—unless they are rushed to the operational rooms.
The operational rooms are simple: rounded rooms, large enough for a small team of equines, with a raised stone slab in the center. More often than not, there is room for a fire nearby as well—encased in iron, to protect the trees the Hospital dwells in. Rough kits are provided in every room: thin bone needles and sinew thread for stitching, rags and poultices for staunching blood, potions to manage pain, crude scalpels made of stone, and all kinds of salves and bandages. Although the materials themselves may be crude, the healers of Terrastella know their craft well, and many will find themselves in capable hands within these rooms.
After a visit to the operational theaters, an equine will likely find themselves shuffled to a nearby recovery room next. These rooms are more simple than the previous: supplied with a low bed stuffed with straw and wool, with sparse pillows and bedding for comfort. Again, a place for a fire pit is supplied within most rooms to provide warmth, as are rags for cooling fevered patients. Bandages and salves for dressing changes are hidden in cabinets built into the tree trunks. These rooms, unlike the operational rooms, are built with windows that look out over the Tinea Swamp—the view is often of skies and the tops of canopies, but nearly all rooms face the west, and therefore the brilliant sunsets that light up the Terrastellan horizon.
Nearby are the supply rooms. These rooms are small and filled with bookshelves and cabinets, hosting every kind of potion, salve, bandage, and tool a healer could need. Herbs grow in clay pots often hung from the ceiling or place in windowsills, ready to be clipped and put to use. Additionally, there are dozens of scrolls and books detailing medical procedures, diseases, cures, proper handling of patients, and more. These rooms may be small, but they’re filled to the brim with information and remedies. It’s imperative for those who call the Hospital home to keep these rooms organized—the ability to find a specific ingredient or excerpt may mean the difference between life, and death.
The final wing hosts the rehabilitation rooms. These are the biggest of rooms within the tree buildings, and also the easiest to access and move around. The floors are heavily carpeted with moss, water supply is abundant, and the rooms are often oval in shape. Here is where the patients can begin their true recovery after serious injuries or ailments, regaining their strength and their functionality. An often overlooked part of medicine, these rooms are more often used for hosting games and contests between the healers and patients than truly exercising. But joy is also medicine, is it not?
Lily Flowers
These flowers have not been planted by mistake. They’re designed to lead horses to the hospital; dispersed at the edges of the swamp, they all gradually lead to the very center, helping disoriented travelers find their way to safety.
Not only do these flowers form a path, but any who might nibble on their petals will find both a pleasant taste—and a distinct feeling of pain alleviation. The petals work as an analgesic, the stems as an anti inflammatory medication. These flowers are invaluable to the hospital and its healers—and often, serve as the symbol for them, the famed Ilati—and for Vespera herself, the goddess of Terrastella.
Gondola Lifts
The only way into the main floors of the Hospital is via lifts. The lifts are often obscured, hidden in the foliage above—but are able to descend at a moments notice. They work as a pulley system, ropes and thick swamp vines supporting wooden crates, baskets, and planks to carry equines into the treetops. Each of these will bring the horses they carry into a general “holding” room—where they may be evaluated for security reasons, or whisked away into an operating room for healing.
Supply Rooms
The supply rooms boast every herb known to horse, found and collected from all over Novus. Some have even been shipped in from across seas—these are used sparingly, for supply is low, and they are often difficult to attain.
Connected rooms boast cauldrons and tables meant for mixing potions, salves, and poultices, for grinding up herbs and creating the best of medicines to patients in need. The lemur-like helpers are adept at creating these elixirs on their own; for much of their work, their is no recipe to follow, only their minds and ingenuity, instilled in them by the goddess who created them.
Healing Helpers
These lemur-like creatures have vibrant green eyes and distinct rings on their tails. They come in a variety of muted colors, but several also boast streaks of green or yellow in their fur, mottled to camouflage them in the swamp.
These creatures were created by Vespera, equipped with opposable thumbs to make them the perfect companions for healing and potion-making. These animals are more than happy to help the doctors of the hospital—but also are they perfectly happy to nap on the beds of healing patients, lounging in the sun let in through windows. They cannot speak the same common tongue as the equines, but they do like to chatter and can mimic tones and expressions. When happy, they purr almost as distinctly as a cat; and nothing makes them happier than a happy (and healthy) patient.
When Caligo made the Denoctian capitol, she poured every bit of heart and passion she had to offer into it. She needed a place not only where she could feel safe--but also where her people, the equines of Novus who chose to stand beside her, would also be safe.
So she gave them the Markets.
Winding streets of cobble- and gemstones, twisting between the stands and huts and houses, spilling outwards from the castle. She was deliberate in building her Court within the very heart of Denocte, under the stretch of sky where the aurora borealis touches night after night.
The Markets are a creation of Caligo herself, crafted to embody the community and passion the goddess cherishes.
Just beyond the castle walls sprawl a collection of stands, huts, and cobblestone pathways, far more sophisticated than any others found in Novus. Imbedded into the streets are a myriad of brilliant jewels of all colors: white, gold, red, blue, green, purple, and more. It’s as if the stars themselves have come down and spilled themselves the ground: the jewels sparkle brilliantly in the sunlight and nearly appear to glow on clear nights. Galaxies and constellations decorate every inch, creating a celestial walkway that may appear almost three dimensional to those who are not familiar with it.
At the center of the markets is a large circle carved into the ground, covered with glowing opalescent jewels. However, these jewels do not glow all at once: they reflect the moon cycle, creating patterns each night that shift between crescent moons and half moons and full moons and back again. The streets extend outwards from this point, reaching into every depth of the capitol.
Iron seems to erupt from the ground in the form of light posts and fire pits, their welding catching and reflecting the light in an opalescent manner. The flames within never appear to die out; they burn day and night, casting light and warmth to the streets and vendors. Bonfires light up every corner, their brilliant flames nearly as wild and untamed as the citizens, raging against their confinements.
The Markets have always been a part of Denocte, beautiful and glistening at the heart of the Court.
Caligo crafted the Markets, laid out a path of stars for them to converse on—but it is the children of Night who truly bring the streets to life.
They come to the Markets by choice, not by necessity. Some are born within the borders of Denocte, but others have wandered in and found home. Here is community, filled with joy and passion and laughter. Denocte is a family, in all of its chaotic glory, and the Marketplace is where they come together each night.
Bonfires light up nearly every corner, smoke weaving through the streets and mingling with the smell of spices and perfumes, of delicacies and exotic foods. Expensive silks and colorful scarves drape the tables, vibrant backdrops for every possible ware and good that could be offered. Items from all over Denocte are shown in full force—but the stalls also feature the best of products from all over Novus and continents across the sea.
While the stands themselves are rough, made of wood and occasional stone, it’s what decorates them that makes them unique. What the Market has to offer is dependent upon the citizens and traveling merchants who open their stalls to the public. The streets are their canvas, and they the artist—what Denocte is, and what it becomes, is their’s to decide.
Merchant Stands
Rows of tables and small huts line the streets, waiting for the next trader to set up shop. No matter what you’d like to sell, it’s guaranteed that you’ll find both a place and a customer. Food and drinks, clothes and silks, jewels and jewelry and perfumes and spices—you need only the imagination and the vision to make a decent profit.
Wares from Across the World
Despite its history of closed borders, Denocte’s small port allows for exchanging of goods across continents. The Night Court’s traders have an eye for only the finest of products, and seem to have stopped at nothing to acquire them and bring them back to the markets to sell. Here you can find a wide variety of items not only from within the Night Court’s borders, but also from the rest of Novus and the outside world. If you’ve got your eye out for something specific, you need only to stop by the Markets! Oftentimes you can even find a traveling merchant who would be willing to go out and find your items for you… for a small price.
Celestial Decorations
In the middle of the Marketplace is the carving of the moon, its opalescent rocks shining in reflection of the moon. It shifts each night according to the movement of the heavens, a constant reflection of the real-time moon cycle. The carving is huge, with a radius of 15 meters.
Additionally, you can find many moon and sun symbolism throughout the Market, be it carved into the stands themselves or painted upon the streets and walls. Depictions of Caligo are also abundant, the peoples’ way of keeping their patron goddess nearby.
Performances
The area directly surrounding the moon carving at the center has been cleared, making way for dances, meetings, storytelling, ceremonies, performances and more. While organized concerts are frequent, it is not unlikely to see impromptu acts of horses getting up and showing their skills! No matter the occasion, anything you might need to put on a show can be found nearby.
Caligo’s Pygmies
Pygmy dragons of every color have returned to the Markets. Once thought to be extinct, they have made their reappearance since the Summit of 502. They add liveliness and joy to the Markets, a representation of Caligo herself as they flit back and forth and add flashes of fire to the sky. The dragons range in size from hamsters to large cats.
While many are feral, it is not uncommon to find some friendly faces; occasionally the dragons will lounge across the merchant’s stalls or nap on the backs of horses. They especially appreciate shiny objects or gold, and may be coaxed or bribed into acting tame. But watch your pockets, or they may decide to take more than what you willingly offer.
Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetime “”
Beneath the midday sunshine's glow,
A bleak morning mist shrouded the creek, casting an otherworldly softness about the tableau. Sounds echoed softly into silence as though passing through a world of dreams and half-truths, and a face not twenty paces off might have belonged to a lover or stranger with equal surety. This was the killing hour.
Myfanwy ached in the quiet shadows of her creekside pool, the shimmering lilac armor of her scales heavy and uncomfortable as it constricted her lean, hungry frame. There were no lovers now to look upon from the depths with wistful eyes. It was only her, alone with her hunger and the creeping dread that each day the hunger would grow with the reddening of the leaves and the onset of winter, until not even she would know herself anymore. The lean times were like a waking nightmare, all vivid color and sound and gnashing teeth, and there had never been a time that she did not fear them. But she could no more escape them than she could escape her kelp-tangled mane or the gape of her fanged, predatory jaws.
So she cowered instead.
A disturbance stirred the surface of her waters and, driven purely by instinct, she flitted toward it like a whisper in the crystalline depths. A fawn, one of this year's crop by the spots stubbornly clinging to his hide, had wandered from the safety of his mother's side to quench his thirst in the misty pool. Myfanwy sighed happily at his innocent loveliness, the twitch of his black nose, the grace in his long and delicate legs.
Then she lunged, and the last thing the fawn's dark-almond eyes would see before it succumbed to the red froth of his watery tomb was a flash of teeth and prismatic brightness, echoing endlessly of hope and regret.
*
The onset of a bright midday sun had burned away the mist, and with it all evidence of the murder that had taken place that morning but what grass and mud could tell. Myfanwy lay under the dappled shade of a willow tree, all traces of her true nature tucked away behind the dry-land glamour of her kind. Her face was veiled with sheer rose-colored fabric, but beneath that her eyes turned skyward with the full dreamy weight of her woolgathering behind them.
The lilac lady looked lovely, serene. Not a drop of blood left on her, or spilled along the shoreline for any heartbroken doe to find. That morning might not even have happened at all.
That was how she preferred to think of it. She fed on her sad, red dreams and awoke refreshed and peaceful, with the shadow of her hunger a distant whisper in the dusty corners of her mind. The world was lovely and kind and safe, like her. Perhaps later she would rise and wander the forests around Amare Creek, share stories with the travelers that passed by her waters from time to time. For now she was content to salute the sun and daylight, and dream of brighter futures.
And on your cheeks O may the roses “”
Dance for a hundred years or so.
The crisp autumn air stung at her nose, though she was used to far worse where she had come from. Here, in the autumn in the south, it was.. warm, very warm. She wanted to shake herself off and try to shed fur, but she was still in her summer coat, soft to the touch, to allow her some air to cool her off. She wished there were cooler breezes, but she only sighed as she lifted her head, blinking gold eyes as she pressed her hooves in to the sand, digging in a little more.
Taking in a breath, she let it out again, her chest puffing up before deflating as she gazed out over the roaring sea. Here at the shoreline, the air was cooler with more of a bite, but it wasn't enough. The valkyrie merely shook her head, tossing creamy hair over her face and neck. This was Novus. Her parents had told her much about it, but they had always neglected to mention the warmth of the south, and their differences in nature.
The summers in the north still had patches of snow on high peaks and green grasses, but the heat was nothing like it would be here. She felt like she was in summer, despite it nearing the cusp of winter. The woman merely drew in a breath and turned herself, beginning to take a slow and steady walk down the beach, curiously keeping her ears perked to listen for others that could potentially come crunching across the sands.
Isra has not braved the sea since the day she tried drown herself with all the weight of her chains. Even the salt and brine couldn't replace her sorrow and those black, vicious memories that clung to every cell inside her body.
The last time she came to the sea her blood felt like oil and she thought she might kill every creature in the deep with the poison that leaked out from the open wounds that covered her in more numbers that there were stars in the sky above her.
In her solitude it's not surprising that she again comes to the sea at night as the tide washes away from the shoreline. She wonders if even the waters avoid her, choosing the moon instead of the marked girl who is as forgotten by the world of Novus as a single daisy in a field of wild roses.
Even the sand, soft with sea-water, wipes away her hoof prints as she continues down the shore. Isra could be a ghost, all sharp edges and scales that look like nothing more than a reflection of the waves on the soft moonlight that paints everything in silver dust and glow. Her bay skin looks black and her horn is almost invisible but for the glint of star-light on the tip of ir.
Perhaps she's a ghost after all, a shadow seen only in glimpses and forgotten in less than a blink or a turn of the eye to something brighter and more lovely than a hollow specter.
So Isra carries on, unaccounted by the lovers sneaking away under the moonlight and the devils hiding in the crevices of the rock-faces at her left. Any sound she makes is devoured by the waves crashing against the rocks revealed only at low-tide. Part of her hopes that when the tide comes crashing in it might take her away with it and deny that oil of her torment no longer.
It's hours yet until the tide turns so she continues on, this ghost of a girl that even rattles like a dead-thing chained in a grave so that it might not rise and rise again. The cool autumn night feels like a blessing, a respite for the parts of her skin that still remember what it feels like to burn by dragon-hate.
Just before the tide retreats as far at the moon will take it Isra turns and walks into the waves. A sigh for the sting of the icy salt-water breaks the silence of her lips. Seaweed tangles about her legs and it feels like a hundred little caresses of things that do not want to forgot the ghost girl of the sea.
And just as the moon starts to sink and the night is as dark as it will ever be on this start of a new day she smiles. It feels like a private thing. The way her teeth flash like a comet, white and silver against all the blackness of her form (and her broken soul).
Ahead the moon sinks even lower. As the sky starts to lighten and the silver begins to turn gold her smile fades. It was a gesture as fleeting as a comet too. Only her solitude and the sea go on and soon the waves crest just below her belly.
