Fiona walked through the court commons, past tables and merchant stalls when a familiar flash of red caught her eye. Turning, she spied the man from the swamp whose mysterious profile had graced the page of her sketchbook only days after their first meeting. She noticed with a smile that he happened to be carrying a few books and she wondered what it was he was reading or researching. Pulling her sketchbook from the bag she had brought with her to the market, Fiona gently tore the page containing his sketch from its bindings.
The lavender girl made her way toward him, carefully holding the sketch against her chest as she walked. When he turned his attention away from the stack of books Fiona quickly slipped the sketch between a few of the pages in the one on top. A surprise, a pleasant one, she hoped, when he opened the book and found the little gift inside. Once she was sure the page was secure, she turned and slipped back into the crowd. Later when he would open the book, he would find a sketch laid out before him, with only her signature penned carefully in the bottom corner.
The pale fullness of the moon cast a serene light over the Illuster Meadow, dipping the world in silver and gentling the sharp planes of the two stallions’ faces. Walking side by side, as they had since leaving the stone walls of Dusk, the pair had traversed rivers and roads to reach the festival that Cynix had spoke of.
The festival that was nowhere to be found.
Incredulous, Raglan noted the trampled grasses and flowers of the meadow, the half crowns woven of blossoms, and the faint scent of bodies that lingered about the meadow. Slowing to a stop, the Crow looked about, hoping that the festival had just moved to a different location, but knowing that they must have arrived too late. With a disappointed exhale, the bloody bay scuffed a single opal hoof against the soft earth and cast a glance at Cynix. It wasn’t that they had missed the festival, it was that his friend had seemed so excited to get away for awhile, and now Raglan couldn’t hope to mimic the sort of company that was provided by dozens of strangers and gallons of wine.
Though it wouldn’t hurt to try.
Perking his ears forward and halfway opening his wings in excitement, the spindly stag performed a rather stunted read and tapped his hooves upon the ground in a quick jig-like pattern. “So!” He cried, grin splitting his features, “It seems we have taken the term ‘fashionably late’ a bit too seriously.” Punctuating his statement with a wry twist of his lips and a wink, Raglan ventured on, “But do not fret, Little Sinner, there are still adventures to be had! I’m sure there are some stragglers about here somewhere.”
Here we are. Muzzle came close to the edge of this creek, nostrils flaring as he admired what scent it produced. It was refreshing, but hardly did it do much to suppress a feeling of nausea. The smell of greenery was starting to get to him, his body not use to such lush greens. Although the showing of active life should at least content Kauri, he held a more dissatisfied look. Where was his sand and blazing hot days? Fall hinted at itself as a cool breeze went past him. Shivering in response, a sigh left him with hooves entering the water one after another. He would find a spot to lay in, so the water may flow over him. Almost was it rejuvenating, like a certain energy enveloping his core. Dried on tar was beginning to loosen from his coat, his skin slowly gaining the ability to breathe again. Mind was empty for the moment, but soon thoughts flooded in. Everything grew quiet, scenery became darker.
He wondered of his companion, his home, those that left their families to go search for him. They had no blessing to look for no more and clueless would those seeking souls continue to be for likely centuries. How long would it take for words to spread of his disappearance? How many would succumb to the desert before enough forewarnings told them to not risk it any longer? Guilt rained on him at the realization of abandonment seekers would face. Disbelief would be sure to come, then a growing mistrust for the deities of his home. Their link into the mortal world, their means of gratitude to their adherents—gone. Oh, his head was sure to be taken should he find his way back. You dare forsake us, our believers! You're pitiful. He didn't want to leave, not at all. Though would his demise truly be so bad? What a sweet release of death that could be. I'm sorry Naiosé, but such would be true.
You ass.
Kauri staggered back onto his legs, head shaking away what has clouded his mind. The creek seemed to do well with cleaning his left side, only his face and skull mask left with the mark of that bastard. Letting the water run off his body, he noticed a dark substance encircling him. It won't leave... A sort of rumble left his throat, muzzle dipping into the matter. He'd try to push it away with the water, but it seem to do nothing. A kick and a splash, a hop here and a stomp there. Even with exiting the water, it still followed. Growing frustrated, all he could really do was continuously beat the ground with his hooves. He neighed and grumbled, certainly becoming quite rowdy. The moon looked on at his silly antics—how could he be so afraid of his own shadow?
He could recall tales on the olden tribes that used to frequent the swamps, though if he were more specific, they were not tribes in particular, but shamans. Horses that dedicated themselves to a specific deity, and had easily become one with the swamp. The shamans had known much about the plants and herbs, the swamp itself, as well as mixtures of poisons and salves. He had heard word of mouth about them, and never in his years of living had he really seen a group like the Ilati. Once or twice, maybe, thousands of years ago, he had met a group close to such a thing, but they had devolved in to madness, melted away in to nothing.
Relic took in a breath and let it out again, the sticky heat of summer finally melded away in to the crisp air of fall. It was a perfect time to explore the swamp; less humidity and it didn't feel like he was inhaling water each time he drew in a breath. It was a cool sixty degrees or so, the very beginnings of the fall chasing away the dying summer. A perfect combination of weather.
Cloven hooves pressed in to the boggy ground, feeling it pull at them, the usually immaculate heavenly colors becoming quickly dirtied. Relic didn't mind, really. He was a sage, a scholar, not someone that winced at dirt and grime.
"I don't suppose anyone is around... though if I were an Ilati... I would be spying from the shadows and judging the one that came in to the swamp." The sage mumbled to himself more than anything, ears twitching forward as he moved another step or two, deeper in to the lands and feeling the lukewarm water lap at his ankles, thick and muddy.
Some arrived in singles, some in pairs, others in groups and hordes, but still they ventured forth to examine the god's handiwork. Tempus was not an arrogant creature--but it pleased him to see their curiosity, their openness. To see so many whom previously claimed disbelief to change tune so easily at the bidding of a god.
A century's worth of waiting all wrapped up in a week.
With a creak and a grown, the heavy wooden doors begin to creak inwards. They scrape loudly along the forest floor, creating widening a gap between the trees and revealing a dark and cavernous interior. One by one, lanterns hanging from the tree boughs come roaring to life with a flame, illuminating the clearing within. Ancient-appearing tapestries are draped in rows, depicting long-forgotten emblems and painted stories of the Courts' beginnings. 5 pillars stand as sentries at the back, arranged in a half-circle around a large stone table.
And at the head of a table stands a familiar statue. Tempus has moved his shrine from the peak of Veneror here to this clearing. The eyes and the rings upon the statues' neck are glowing with a light that shines from within. And the rocks that once lay at the statue's base have now risen, floating in a slow and lazy circle around the shrine, imbued with the same white light. He waits for the Regimes to enter, silent and present.
Every so often, you might swear you see an eye blink, or one of the carved forelegs twitch. But as you look more closely, the statue appears as stationary as always.
Back at the entrance the doors come to a stop, inviting the Regimes of Novus in.
Do you dare?
As a reminder, only the Regime and/or their chosen representatives may enter the meeting! Each Court is allowed to send a minimum of 2 and maximum of 3 characters to this meeting.
The meeting has officially begun! You now have one week to post your character entering the meeting. Each member is allowed 1 post in this round, a maximum of 500 words to keep things short and flowing. If you do not post in time, you will be locked out of the meeting.
This round will end on June 7th, 11:59 PM EST, at which point the doors will be closed and a new prompt will be posted.
your skin smells like light I think you are the moon
Seraphina.
A silver streak through a tangle of limbs, white hair like starlight in a sea of bobbing heads.
A crown of white lilies atop her head.
With a soft leap, dark curls flying, Cyrene crossed the glade of trampled grass as fleet footed as a deer. She was certain; her eyes, honed sharp after a life of daring excursions, had never deceived her. Hooves clicked a two-beat rhythm as grass gave way to stone, the path leading to the pavilion an onerous jungle of fabrics and legs and revelry.
Not an issue, not an issue, Cyrene hummed in agitation as she stretched her neck high to scan for a flash of starlight hair. Solterra’s Queen was here, a startling appearance after months of sand dusted correspondence sent by hawk (and dove, in Terrastella’s case), and she was not going to let the chance simply waltz away on silver legs. Not when they’d barely gotten past greetings the last time — the first time — they’d met.
Expelling a soft breath, the Emissary tucked her wings tightly behind her and dove headfirst into the belly of the beast.
There was a performance going on, and from the cheers exploding like fireworks around her, it was going tremendously well. A sliver of curiosity inched into her thumping heart — curiosity had always been her downfall, she supposed — and Cyrene slowed her relentless charge just a tad to spare a quick glance.
And almost laughed in surprise. She now knew why the crowd was almost exclusively female. The musicians, foreign perhaps?, were good looking lads, their marble-hewn cheekbones flashing under the light of the lanterns. With a sly smile, she turned away.
She knew someone prettier than them. Shame he wasn’t here.
The crown of white lilies was moving farther and farther away as she lingered, and with a gasp she twisted her shoulders and slipped like an eel through the last bits of the crowd.
“Seraphina!” She paused for breath when she caught the silver queen at last, a bright grin tugging the corners of her lips skywards. “I knew I hadn’t imagined it.” Crimson wings settled like a downy cloak along her sides as she idly tucked a curl back into her braid.
“The festival has gathered all the kingdoms under one banner, if only for a night — I am glad of it, as transient as it is,” she said, amber gaze flicking idly towards the crowd. And then, like a lantern extinguished, her eyes dimmed as her voice turned solemn. “Have your wounded recovered well?”
-- ♥︎ --
@Seraphina | "speaks" | -wipes sweat off brow- now that I plopped this up, have a much more upbeat cy!
I thought of angels choking on their halos get them drunk on rose water
Oh, this was the sort of environment that Pandora belongs in. The wine, the smoke, the music – the revelry. There’s certainly fun to be found here, and she intends to seek it out like a prowling bloodhound; god (or, her mother) knows that she’s been nothing but bored among all of these scholars and bookworms for the past few months. Where was the scandal?
That infectious, sly smile curls across her dainty lips as she sashays through the crowds, reveling in the attention garnered by her every exaggerated movement; she is a performer, after all, and she always has a show to put on. Wild curls of fire tumble like silk behind her, drifting just inches off the ground thanks to her rapid pace; carnations and clinking golden jewelry adorn her forehead and limbs, and a beaded skirt (just as golden) sits on her rump. Only for the presentation, of course, and loaned by a newfound…friend. She’ll have to invest in some sparkly adornments of her own, soon, but for now-
Her slender hips brush against a stumbling drunk, who whirls to face her; his ram-like horns narrowly miss her flank, and she bristles with indignation. How dare he almost mar her when she’s all dressed up and prepared for a show? (It was most certainly an accident, but she doesn’t care about things like that.) The furious look he gives her isn’t an accident, however, all bared teeth and snarl – oh, she’s seen men like this before. Angry drunks, out to pick a fight with anyone who crossed their paths…even if they happened to be as tiny and delicate as Pandora. “What do you think you’re doing?” He growls, red-rimmed eyes narrowed to glare at her. “Watch where you’re going, you-“ She cuts him off there, brushing her pale lips against the curve of his neck; he jolts, then freezes, staring her down blankly. Best not to cause a scene.
Pandora smiles insidiously, tossing her head and shifting so that all of the gold that coats her frame catches in the midday light – the red of her hair gleams like flames.“Now, now,” She says softly, her voice dipping low and throaty, “Wouldn’t you rather hear a song?” Pandora practically dances around him, each step as dainty and deliberate as a ballerina performing a carefully-choreographed routine; he watches her, eyes darting the length of her frame as she twists and curls, hips swaying as though to the rhythm of a song that no one else can hear. All the while, that pleasant, hungry smiles remains stretched across her soft lips, tantalizing and needy. Watch me. He moves forward, as though to reach out and brush his muzzle against her withers, but she dances away from his touch, all white-teeth and pale flesh and gold.
She laughs, infectiously.
Her graceful steps lead her to the center of the group that has slowly formed around them. The man edges back. “If you’re going to sing, little songbird,” He says, voice dipping to a hiss, “then sing.”
Well. Any attention is good attention for Pandora.
She hums indistinctly; it clears, slowly, to song. She sings in a foreign tongue, something that she finds unpleasant. (She takes great pride in the way that her dances adhere to the stories she tells.) However, she does not know any stories of Novus yet, so this is as it must be, regrettable as it is.
She moves like wildfire; sweat makes her more like gold, and the flashes of sunlight bring out the flames of her hair.
Most dancers have a few years of experience – she has thousands. Her body moves and twists at angles that should be impossible, adhering to her every desire; the beads and golden jewelry clink rhythmically at her sides, accenting the birdsong melody of her voice. Her eyes creep along the crowd all the while, even as she sings her song, even as she dances.
She bats her lashes at them.
When she finishes, she is dripping with sweat, and the crowd is quiet. She flashes them another, conspiratorial smile – as though they have just shared the most wonderful secret – and promptly recedes back into the crowd, before she can find herself in anymore trouble.
The tent stands leaning slightly to the West as though already cringing from the inevitable sunrise. A warm light seeps invitingly through the cracked entrance, and from outside the muffled sounds of gentle music can be heard- a harp, played rather primitively but somehow more charming for it, and husky singing in a foreign tongue. Despite the closed doors (not really doors but entryway, as the structure is a few massive cloths draped over a wooden skeleton) the tent is remarkably inviting. Horses seem at ease entering and leaving, and even the night itself has a different feel here. There is a drowsy peace settled over the entire area, and the stars seem close to the earth despite the orange glow and smoke of the bonfires.
After a few moments of uncertain observation, the scarred grey man's curiosity gets the better of him and he steps forward to nose the entry curtain aside. Within the tent, oil lanterns cast a heavy warm glow over everything. Incense of some sort (sage?) mingles with horseflesh and oily smoke. A hole is cut in the middle of the ceiling so that the heat and smell and smoke and sounds do not become unbearable- and also for what comfort the moon pay provide as she struggles to pierce the orange haze of the tent.
The floor is covered with thick pillows and horses lay sprawled about, some engaged in slow conversation, others passed out in a comical splaying of limbs. In the center of the room, tea is poured into small bonze cups and swallowed in quick, wincing gulps. A slender mare wearing a golden mask beckons him in and lifts a small cup to his lips.
His heart races uncertainly against the calm pluck of the harp, but the mare has a kind look in her eye and the whole room exudes a sense of peaceful calm. So he downs the cup, refusing his body's urge to spit the bitter liquid out. The matron gestures for him to make himself comfortable.
The tea's effects begin to wash over him in about fifteen minutes. The first wave rolls over his body, easing out the aches in his muscles so completely that he begins to forget what pain ever felt like. Or rather- it is not a forgetfulness but a complete indifference. Next his mind begins to slowly, slowly peel away from his tattered horse form, and a faraway smile stretches across his lips.
Here, in the heavy-lidded state between sleep and consciousness, a place that once seemed a dotted line on the map now becomes the map itself. It seems to him the secret of happiness is upon him, but it doesn't matter anyway. Eik giggles softly at the thought, but the sound of it makes him abruptly stop. He reaches out and places his head on the rump of the horse next to him, meeting their sleepy gaze with his gleaming black eyes.
- - -
Tagging @Soleil, @Florentine, @Sid, @Lysander
but any and all are welcome and encouraged to join the opium den <3
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
When her people make the long journey to the Summit, she stands at their head.
She strides with the same collected confidence she wears when racing across the dunes, chin raised and eyes set on the path ahead of her, but her heart is in her throat and her pulse quickens with each step towards the peak. Her hair is tugged into tight rosettes, her skin painted with streaks of glittering gold – in long slashes under her eyes and on the forehead, a traditional sun design, down the length of her spine. Like the tribe-queens of old, they had said, when they adorned her for this visit, and she does not appreciate it, but Seraphina is a creature with little care for aesthetics. However, she knows that her people need a queen, not a wild-eyed and scraggly guard, so she tolerates the adornment, simple as it is. Perhaps, in a profoundly different time, wearing the paint of her ancestors would have brought her some sense of pride in the land which she represents. Now, it only serves to further irritate the itching, uncertain sensation clawing beneath her skin; she cannot look at her gods or her history or the deserts that she roams in the same way that she did once, and the realization makes her chest hurt, until she looks back at the faces of her people, alongside her at her Regime-
Damn their past, their god, their lands, the entire continent; this was Solterra now. There was nothing she would not do to protect it, regardless of what this Summit might have in store for her.
They arrive in a swarm of sand and desert heat.
The landscape looks wrong, and she thinks, again, of the strange maze she had traversed while searching for the Relic of Tempus. It is not the mountainside she is so accustomed to, and those trees…something about them feels strange, but, then, she spends most of her time in a desert, so she can hardly consider herself an authority on foliage. Perhaps it is only the circumstances that makes them seem so.
There is nothing to do now, save wait for further instructions; she practically hums with anticipation. Her warrior’s training tells her to familiarize herself with the landscape, in case of a fight, and explore each nook and cranny of this strange new gathering-place. Her more diplomatic training demands that she seek out the leadership of the other courts, who seem to be scattered variably across the plateau, and see if they have any further information about what lies in store for them – considering their presence, she can only assume they have received similar, or identical, invitations. (If she can call a demand an invitation.) “Now,” She says, to the citizens still crowded around her, “We wait. Explore as you will, and visit with our fellows – but remember that we tread on sacred ground.” Her voice steels with cold warning, and the look she gives her citizens is practically wrought iron. With that, the crowd of pilgrims begins to disperse, and she steps back, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the spotlight.
She sweeps the faces of her sister courts thoughtfully, contemplating how to proceed, when she becomes aware of eyes on her. This is not unusual; she imagines that she has attracted more than a few curious stares as she arrived with her people. However, something possesses her to turn to meet those eyes – perhaps they feel different than most.
Her gaze comes to a rest on eyes that seem to her to have been carved from the moon goddess herself – pale as Calligo at her fullest, near overflowing. Renwick. The sight of a friendly face is more than a comfort to her frazzled nerves, and, although she can’t say that the circumstances are ideal, Seraphina finds herself genuinely pleased to see him. It has been far too long. She lets her gaze linger on him for a fraction of a second, taking in flower-strewn locks and dark velveteen skin, then turns towards him. “A friend of mine,” She says, with a glance to her Regime, but she offers little more explanation as she veers aside to approach him. The crowd parts for her to pass, but, in spite of her elevated position, most appear to be too entranced by the changed landscape to pay all too much attention to her. She can’t say that she’s displeased by the distraction.
She comes to a slow halt in front of him, breathing in the oh-so familiar scent of flowers – it accompanies all of his letters, in some capacity, and she wonders if she hasn’t taken to imagining it sometimes. (But that would be foolish.) Seraphina lowers her skull, her posture dipping into a ghost of a bow; a rare show of respect from a Solterran, much less a Queen, particularly towards a citizen from Denocte. (Such formalities were rare in her court, at least.) “Hello,” She murmurs, almost uncertain of how to proceed, and raises her eyes, “Lord-Commander Renwick.” In the past, they’d met in comfortable privacy or over letter – this was far more…public, and now she treaded a line, all too cognizant of her position.
Here we are. Muzzle came close to the edge of this creek, nostrils flaring as he admired what scent it produced. It was refreshing, but hardly did it do much to suppress a feeling of nausea. The smell of greenery was starting to get to him, his body not use to such lush greens. Although the showing of active life should at least content Kauri, he held a more dissatisfied look. Where was his sand and blazing hot days? Fall hinted at itself as a cool breeze went past him. Shivering in response, a sigh left him with hooves entering the water one after another. He would find a spot to lay in, so the water may flow over him. Almost was it rejuvenating, like a certain energy enveloping his core. Dried on tar was beginning to loosen from his coat, his skin slowly gaining the ability to breathe again. Mind was empty for the moment, but soon thoughts flooded in. Everything grew quiet, scenery became darker.
