There was something limitless and horrifying about the sea that demanded reverence even from those who would deny the same to gods. It could neither be denied nor defeated; it could not be reasoned with or slain by a thousand swords. All you could do was adapt to its tempestuous moods, the ebb and flow of its roiling and passionate reach.
Like Calliope.
The tide had retreated under a storm-grey sky, at last allowing Raymond access to what he had before studied only from the precarious height of Praestigia cliffs. He picked his way along the treacherously rocky path with a goat's brazen surefootedness, whip-quick and light on his feet, coming to rest with a soupy splash in the newly-exposed foreshore.
Raymond's chest still bore the vague specter of an ache where Asterion had struck him, but the wounds itching most heavily at the red stallion's mind today could not be so easily measured in flesh. Solitude seemed an empty thing now in Ruth's absence, and he struck down the urge to look for her skewbald sleekness darting between the various oddments vomited up by the tides. The thought cast a cloud over his face stormier than the ones overhead.
He breathed deeply of the briny air and glanced back the way he'd come. A dark sheen of sweat like had broken out across the planes of his shoulders from the climb, painting him more like a bronze sculpture of a horse - all rippling muscle and proud, arch-necked poise - than the genuine article.
With a healthy shake of his head he cast his eye out to sea and started walking, contemplating infinity as he left a single set of hoofprints to dissolve slowly in the intertidal sands.
Raymond. and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
Raglan had taken to flying more in his newly found free time. It was strange to the stallion, the concept of time not spent with a particular goal in mind - no learning to scribe for Camdis Lohir, no memorizing lists of herbs and poisons, no missions with his Crow brothers and sisters, no following Reichenbach and watching his kingly butt. So with the aimlessness that he had developed in recent days, and the wanderlust that had driven him from the arms of his home once before, the horned stag soared over the continent that held his beautiful, passionate, angry people. Up so high, with wingtips slicing through cloud matter, Raglan imagined that the invisible borders placed between the kingdoms were nonexistent, that the children of each deity could come and go from one monarchy to the next, interchangeable and peaceful.
Part of him was bitter still, at the abandonment that weighed his every breath, at the closed gates that stood so solidly between him and home... But another part of the Silvertongue felt only guilt - if he had been present, if he had been able to shield Reichenbach’s heart from whatever blow it had sustained, would his world be so fractured still? Would the Raven Gates stand open and would the mountain passes be filled with traders and merchants once more? He didn’t know and would never know what sort of consequences were brought by his absence. Raglan would prefer to believe that his impact was of no consequence, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he could have at least done something to help smooth things over.
Caught in his thoughts as he was, Raglan couldn’t ignore the literal splitting of the earth that was occurring within the shadow of Veneror Peak. Brow creasing in confusion and pale eyes glinting with curiosity, the stallion spiraled lower in great lazy circles, keen gaze noting the ring of trees guarding their great stone table and the court tapestries hanging from thick boughs. The sight of the Kingdom sigils emblazoned upon such fine cloth, coupled with the elegant birds each seen flying toward in the direction of a realm soured Raglan’s curiosity.
The youth couldn’t help but scoff at the majesty of it all, though there was no real effort behind his disdain, “The games Kings and Queens play...”
As his descent came to an end and pale hooves pressed into the freshly turned soil, the orphaned Crow peered closely at the seemingly impenetrable barrier of sentinel trees. Making his way toward the wall, Raglan made sure to keep an eye on the entryway, not wanting to be caught unawares by some haughty missionary from the gods. Slowing to a stop, the winged lad peered up at the hardwood and stuck his tongue out before addressing the giant plant directly, “So, you working part time for the Sovereigns? What do they pay you? Gallons of water?” He wrinkled his nose, “I know you can’t talk, but if you could have one of your friends fall directly onto the Raven Gate in Denocte - you know the Raven Gate, right? That big metal thing that’s keeping me and Little Sinner from going home? Yeah, that one - Anyway, if one of your tree buddies could crush t to smithereens to I can sleep in my own damn bed, I’d really appreciate it.”
@Random Events (yanno if the tree would like to respond)
Tensions have stretched across Novus like wildfire, breaking whatever peace was once held.
In the face of it all, Tempus sees the best and the worst of his children reflected in the faces of their citizens: the pride and violence of Solis. The fearful love and quiet strength of Vespera. The stubborn neutrality of Oriens. The passion and defensiveness of Caliga.
Determined to not allow the Courts to destroy each other and themselves, the God of Time steps in.
The earth quakes as it remodels beneath him, a section of land in the shadow of Veneror Peak crumbling and flattening, smoothing out its irregularities, hardening into rock. Pillars rise up from the ground, five tall sentinels whom arrange themselves in a semicircle at the base of the foothills. Saplings sprout from the earth and grow in an instant into fully fledged trees, arranged just so they form a nearly impenetrable barrier, blocking off the circle of rock and pillars. There is only one entrance, wide enough for two equines to fit through; but the circle within is large and spacious, decorated with the emblems of all four courts on heavy tapestries. A raised table of stone rests in the center.
As the ground’s shaking comes to a stop, Tempus enlists 4 different birds. An owl he sends to Delumine; a falcon to Solterra; a goose to Terrastella; a raven to Denocte.
Each bird carries with it a piece of parchment tied to one leg, scribed upon it the time and place of the meeting. But more curiously perhaps than this, is when the birds arrive within their destinations, they will open their beaks in uniform and speak quite clearly a demand in the voice of the god himself:
“You will come.”
Welcome to Novus’ first Summit! Each Court is required to participate, able to send a minimum of 2 and maximum of 3 members to engage directly. This will be a political meeting for the four Courts to come together on neutral grounds and discuss relations.
Tagging the Sovereigns: please decide who you would like to send to Tempus' meeting!
@Somnus @Seraphina @Florentine @reichenbach
Everyone else is allowed to post in this board and explore the area! Please be aware: the meeting area itself is currently sealed, and only the Regime and their chosen representatives will be allowed in! That being said, feel free to post threads wondering what the heck is going on! ;D
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The meeting will start on June 1st. A new thread will be started giving more instructions for the Sovereigns at that time.
It seems a lifetime ago when the Solterran sun first hit his back. That dry, generous heat caused him to feel something like infatuation for the first time in as long as he could remember. Eik was born in a tundra-like climate, as dry and harsh as the desert but with temperatures on the other end of the scale. So he chose Solterra as his home because it seemed the obvious choice for a man who so craved the sun on his skin.
Suffice to say, the honeymoon phase did not last his first summer here.
This second summer does not feel as long as the first, but it is just as brutal. All the desert longs for the end of the season A hushed anticipation swells in the hallways of the court as the shadows begin to grow long. Overhead, the sky battles with itself in violent collisions of red and orange and purple. A warm breeze picks up, and it noticeably grows cooler as the day settles into dusk. The evening provides sweet reprieve from the sweltering hammer of day, and because of it Eik is in a good mood- which is something of a rarity these days. When the emissary can be found in the court, he is most often wandering with a brooding, faraway look in his dark eyes. But this evening there's some kind of spark in him, and as he walks he looks around, even making eye contact with his fellow citizens. Most have no idea who he is- and he likes it this way, privacy suits him. He would never be able to handle the recognition that Seraphina does.
Eik stops when he sees Jaxis, a single ear flicking back then forward again. She looks like trouble.
"Good evening." He says with a simple nod of his head. Against his best judgement, he does not keep walking. "How are you?" The words almost crack in his throat, he cannot remember the last time he attempted small talk.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
@Jaxis whelp been meaning to write this for a while now! blah first posts suck
Wandering from the Day Court was ridiculously easy, and while Jaxis may have paused at some point near the Night Court, she'd thought better of it. Visiting her mother would have been rather nice (something rare and in between for her) but the gates were closed, and a looming threat hung over in the shape of a dragon. The speckled mare might have been a warrior in training, but she was no fool.
So gladly, she had turned herself and found, after a while of wandering, the lands of Terrastella. It wasn't the Court she approached but instead the swamps that bubbled and gurgled in low churning motions, the slog of heavy mud and tepid water. It was still, mostly, and her hooves left behind massive prints, marked in to the ooze of the lands, before her head lifted and she paused.
A network of caves lay in the distance, but it wasn't that, that had caught those eyes of hers. Instead, the purple irises settled on a tall figure (at least, taller than most, but she herself was tall), and she made her way over, slow and steady, walking with a step that eased her. She played this time, putting on a mask of someone not so violently inclined, instead wearing curiosity as she paused, nostrils flaring, ears flicking.
"Why are you playing with skin?" She couldn't help that bit, and her mask faltered slightly, revealing more curious emotions than one.. normally would have, when facing someone that was playing with the hides of animals.
In the gentle morning light, Eik is drawn to Calliope completely against his will-- given he even has one anymore(- or am I just floating from place to place, drinking up thoughts and dreams, and floating away, a hapless leaf in the wind). He is not sure, sometimes. So much has been lost over the years- parts of himself included.
But Calliope... where he is empty, she is overflowing. She reminds him of what he once was, but so much more. And as he approaches he feels a sense of nostalgia for a sensation long crumbled to ashes-- that, and something akin to oil-slick fear. If she is the war, he is what comes after. He is the burned and bloodied battlefield, the people and places that are broken and discarded and eventually forgotten to the passing of time. He has seen firsthand the way history, too, is a weapon, twisted and painted pretty to hide the filth of all our yesterdays. And he knows (without really knowing, you see?) all those lies don't just sit there in antiquity, they spread and rot and as the past is tainted the future becomes poisoned, too.
(and we still clap our hands as the curtain falls, believing ourselves the audience and not the actors even as we feel the heat of the stage lights drawing sweat from our brow, even as we hear ourselves clapping before us, and-- the great wheel keeps turning, no matter which color we paint it)
Here is the truth he learned in all that blood and fire, the truth we try so desperately to protect our children and ourselves from: there is no honor in war. There is no glory in death, nor killing. There is only ruin. But Eik never learned how to be anything but a soldier, and if there is no war to fight... well, then he'll wage one against himself. He can see no end to the cycle, even though he is desperate for it. What else can a ghost do but haunt and be haunted?
But as we were saying: Eik is drawn to Calliope completely against his will. The funny thing is that he doesn't need to go out of his way, she's standing between himself and the festival he feels obligated to attend. He would not call it an act of divine intervention, nor fate, nor anything to do with rhyme or reason. These things just happen, sometimes, for better or worse. He crests the hill she stands on and stops beside her. Before them is the festival, and from here the sound of the stage reaches him- a soft, sad melody resonates from some unrecognized instrument, large and almost like a bow but with many strings. It suits the sleepy morning, lulling to sleep the party goers who had stayed up late enough to see the dawn.
Eik turns his attention to the stranger to his left, maybe a length away. He can sense without looking at her that Calliope is awake. "There's a storm coming." He murmurs quietly, almost to himself, keeping his eyes to the darkening horizon but his awareness, sharp and precise, on the mare beside him.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
@Calliope I'm sorry this is such a long starter post -_- I imagined this taking place before the storm hits in this thread <3
The heat of the summer sun might have left other creatures sweating, dehydrated, melting into the sand. But for him, the rays warmed his pale pelt, and he basked in the sun’s glory. His eyes nearly matched its brilliance, except that they held a molten warmth that enchanted in a way the distant star could not. The sand beneath his feet softened under him, but did not fully give way to his weight as he sauntered through the desert. It was another strange land for him to discover. Although he had seen a desert before, it had been quite a long time. The dry heat enveloped him and seeped into his lungs.
Silas had no real idea where he was, but it didn’t matter. It had been a long time since leaving Argos and the rest of the herd behind. They were no longer the ones to define where he belonged. He ran his tongue over sharpened teeth and smirked. No one would ever tell him his destiny ever again, though he was sure they would try. Deeper into the desert he went, wondering when the locals would discover him, what they would say.
The Dawn festival was like nothing that Indra had seen before. All around her, the trees were strung with garlands of flowers and flickering yellow lights, and music drifted from a dozen different sources, now soft and lulling, now bright and swift and heady. The air smelled of fresh grass, and honey, and summertime.
And all of the people looked so... happy.
The unicorn eased her way among the crowds, her silver shape melting effortlessly into the patchwork of moonlight and lamplight and shadows that pooled among the trees. It was hard not to tense each time a passing stranger brushed against her shoulder—hard to shed the wariness learned in a world made of sharp edges and survival, not starshine and song.
But all fairytales have their monsters, and all monsters have their teeth. Indra couldn’t shake the feeling that behind its pretty smile, this place was readying to bite.
She neared a clearing where a piper trilled a high, sweet tune, encircled by dancers painted with dark whorls of color, their manes streaming with ribbons and tinkling bells. Pausing beneath the outstretched arm of an oak, the unicorn watched them, lipping absently at the single white strip of silk that tied her own braid. It would be easy, almost too easy, to slip in among them, anonymous and wild; it would be easy to close her eyes, and lift her face to the night sky, and let the music make her into someone else.
Easy, and ridiculous. Indra shook herself briskly, her braid loosening into a scarlet spill across her shoulders, as cold practicality chased away any lingering scraps of whimsy. She was glad, in her way, that across time and across worlds there was still a place like this, a night like this, for people to celebrate and to be at peace. It just didn't belong to her.
When another shape came to pause beside her in the dark, she allowed herself to turn from the revelry and toward the stranger, her head tilting slightly with detached interest. "Enjoying the festivities?" she asked, her voice low, her golden eyes glinting in the moonlight.
take my hand. feel my heart. tell me what's wrong with it.
H
e closes his eyes as a storm of magnolia petals swirls in a crescendo across his skin. They drift and settle like fragrant snowfall along his spine, and he stares at them for a moment too long, his silver eyes darkening a shade too much, before they tremble and fall from him like raindrops.
His steps are painstakingly precise as he winds through the maze of fallen petals, not one disturbed from its summer slumber.
The festival is a maelstrom of tumbling flowers and sparkling wine, and Caine is utterly, utterly out of place amongst the revelry. Not that he hasn’t tried — obsidian locks cascade down his neck like black silk, his mane and forelock freed from the braids that normally weave across his crown in knots and swirls. For him, it is a drastic change.
But he is a boy made corporeal from shadows, and the shadows do not let him forget. For — how did Agenor put it? The brighter the light, the deeper the dark; and Caine’s trailing hair bleeds like freshly spilled ink across the glade.
The stink of smoke still surrounds him like a bad perfume, and he is half tempted to pluck a flower crown from a passing festival-goer just to drive off the smell. The moment Isorath had left the podium after the Regime's ill-received declaration (furious — Caine had not needed the blood bond to tell him so), the Harbinger had been one of the first to depart the kingdom in a rush of black feathers.
Nothing would keep him willingly behind a wall. He had been locked, isolated, caged, for his entire, bleak existence — and now that he had finally tasted freedom (however conditional it was) Caine would sooner burn at the stake for his sins than loose it so soon. And instead of turning towards the sands of Solterra, he had headed for the forests of Delumine after deciding that he’d had enough of unrest for a bloody century. Until the Denoctian Regime realized the extent of their foolishness, he would carry out his Garde tasks elsewhere — he doubted the Prince would miss his company, anyhow.
A daisy drifts languidly towards where he stands, far away from the crowds. Silver eyes lift to determine where it had come from, and widen when they settle on caramel curls and rose-tinted skin as she passes. A girl — a child. For a moment, Caine does not breathe. His telekinesis plucks the flower from the air and holds it there, fluttering like a captive butterfly.
A girl. A child. It is too late for him to stem the memory that is summoned.
It was the only time he wept for a life he had taken, tears mixed with blood dripping from his cheeks as her small body slipped to the ground like a mangled doll. Vacant blue eyes, rimmed with tears that never had the chance to fall, stared up at him from the ground. It was the first time he had wanted to turn the blade he held with a trembling limb, and plunge it into his broken, broken heart. Barely out of childhood himself, Caine had not been fully conditioned, fully corrupted — it was the reason why he could never bring himself near a child, even now. A part of him had died when he had killed her.
The little girl’s eyes, when she turns to stare at her daisy and then at him, are the same shade of winter blue as the girl he had stabbed in the heart, so many years ago.
“I believe,” he says at last, his tongue turned to lead, “that this belongs to you.” The flower hovers between them, frozen in space, frozen in time. He remains as motionless as a marble statue, and his smile does not touch his eyes.
But it never has, and it never will.
@Sabine | "speaks" | notes: excuse the rust, but super excited for this thread! <3
