"Perhaps all a Tsaritsa is is a beautiful cold girl in the snow.... "
Nightfall blanketed the skies as the deep indigo's created the perfect backdrop for the stars to dance across. A visual of raw beauty that the kirin was sure to never grow tired of especially given the ability for her to experience it in close proximity. The cooling air of the warm day caressed beneath the thin skin of tiring wings, rusty of long distance travel in the more recent of times. In the pale moonlight the obsidian tint of the God’s blessed creation shone — marking the end of a wart travelers journey. It is on a downward tilt of an umber head that pale rosette meets the icy chill of the dragon’s eyes; dark lips tilt upward mildly.
It is from a belly full of mirth that Tanith finds herself truly fighting back a fit of laughter as she descends; kohl lined eyes narrowing as she takes in the scenery. They sweep over the lack of activity and the razed ground beneath — withered away by dragon fire, it is a familiar sight. She has, after all, has done the same thing many times over. The singular difference is the mercy shown that the land outside the kingdom burned and the distinct taint of burnt flesh did not linger. It was a smell that clings to the air for days after, warning all of their impending fate should they misstep. That in itself sparks a curiosity borne from an immortally impish nature within her.
i wonder who´s upset him so, she muses out loud, voice low. There is a flick of her slender head, thick tresses cutting through the air, as her attention turns back to the observant guardian perched like a gargoyle on the edge of the world. There is no mistaking a dragon’s ire laying waste to the mortality of the world beneath it but she knows that this is entirely stemmed from Isorath‘s desires — for Gilgamesh is not Asharru who holds a little too much of Tiernar’s essence in her soul. The thought forces a longing look to be cast over her shoulder, in the direction of which she’s come from, knowing that the pale creature of lore is miles away; most likely just as agitated by their broken connection as she. A connection she knows has already informed the pale high prince of her presence.
The magic here is different. It is something tanith acknowledged the minute she crossed the threshold into these foreign lands. The blood in others does not sing to her, she does not feel their flow like the strings of a puppet. It is not the first time a new land has diminished her claim to her birthright and she knows that in due time the song of the blood will return to her borne anew. It has been a secret since the beginning of her days, the loss of it seems lackluster compared to the pang of loss of the kindred spirit of her bonded — the disconnect from her god. the hard muscle of her tounge presses into the soft flesh of her cheek as the thoughts dance from her mind forcing her back to the present (of her new reality) where she sits, in wait, lucky enough to have near infinite patience as she awaits the pale prince of vectaeryn´s arrival.
"looking down at someone wretched, and not yielding. "
Closed. Isolated. Trapped. In all her time in Denocte, Araxes had never felt trapped, felt like a prisoner, and yet here she was, here she did. Her steps were not soft as they usually were, but sharp slams of hoof on flooring as she paced the library, as her tail dragged, as her wings puffed up and fluttered and her eyes narrowed. Anger radiated off of the usually docile woman, her muscles taut with it and her heart tied up in knots.
She was trapped in Denocte, away from half of her family, half of her heart.
It wasn't fair, it wasn't right and the two Courts were becoming childish with one another. Enough so that they were willing to lock away their citizens for supposed safety, or so the regime had claimed. The Champion didn't feel safe, she felt as if she were a prisoner. This was no decree for safety but a mandatory curfew that seemed to have no end in sight. Why were they all so foolish?
The mare whipped around, walking, stomping in her anger. Not only had this caused a rift, but there was uneasiness with the twins again. Cynix and Siavax, almost full grown, and yet being frowned upon for their parentage, for coming from the meeting of Night and Day, for being twilight children.
Pausing her stomping hooves, Araxes felt herself huff, felt the ripple of anger in her gut and the clenching in her jaw. The sting of her eyes as she whipped her body around and flung her ears back, wings tucking but ruffling up with feathers nearly on end in her emotional state.
She would not stay here.
Pausing, she could hear hooves, and she narrowed her slate eyes, wondering if it was one of the regime. Maybe there was a way to talk some sense in to them, if she could.
open for anyone! though @Reichenbach @Aislinn and @Isorath are definitely welcome in this
Posted by: Lavinia - 05-03-2018, 02:21 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
COME DOWN TO THE BLACK SEA SWIMMING WITH ME.
GO DOWN WITH ME, FALL WITH ME.
LET'S MAKE IT WORTH IT.
The sickness stole away the clarity of will, placing her in that kind of stupor only the ill achieved - the kind that turned everything sordid and murky, timeless and meaningless. This kind of illness should have had her resting within her very own chambers, but here she was instead. She was a stubborn girl. Her eyes drifted in and out of focus, head turned downwards towards her own reflection by the edge of the lake, but unseeing of the shrouded mess she was. What normally clever glinting eyes she possessed were dull and dun, and it was just as well that those that came upon her might consider her unconscious.
It was in that strange, drained thrall to the gentle lapping of the water that a voice cut through, soft in volume and completely imaginary, and her reply to it was a low chuckle, so weak as barely deserving the name of a laugh. "I am hell," she said, with a slow sort of deliberation that meant what she said, and meant nothing at all.
The effort of speaking brought several details through the fog: dry lips, and an ill-abused throat which had seen more tossed up remains of food than words these past few days. The pain drew clearer, and the fact that her head wavered and swayed over the water, hanging dangerously low over it as if tempted to simply sleep beneath its quiet kiss. With a will, she looked up towards the twilight sky, the world wavering for her efforts. It was only a day after the meeting, the very meeting where so many had stood against their King and regime. Even in her fevered haze she had stuck by her Crow King, stuck by her friends.
"Ah....sweet corpse; what a sorry master you have." She said to herself, closing her eyes and lowering her head, painfully reminded of the dull throb behind her eyes. "To deny death so easily for you, and succumb to its gates myself from the folly of pride." How poetic it seemed. "How pathetic."
His mind unfolds as he walks. He thinks of the long road behind him, and the road of... well, questionable length before him. He thinks of Solterra, and the Davke, and Seraphina. And he thinks of other things, too.
(a part of you is snaking concrete and blue haze, endless horizons, metal beasts. a part of you was born not of woman but there, in that tainted world, and you want to forget because you don't understand it, but you cannot escape it. Even now, listen! Clattering keys and the rumble of the beasts on the other side of the glass and- music, always, always rising above it all with grace and clamor)
All he hears with his ears is the soft clop of his hooves on the sandstone floor, which has been ground to sand in the most trafficked places.
There is clarity in the chaos, in the thoughts that meander as much as his legs. It comes in glimpses here and there, short-lived and tantalizing. Eik stops walking suddenly with a frustrated sigh, and situational awareness comes back to him. He looks around at the slums of Solterra, the ugly Northeastern edge. It is the quietest part of the Day court, inhabited mostly by former slaves too afraid to seize their freedom. Like mice they cower in shadowy huts and half-ruined buildings during the day, and scurry around at night. Of course, the black market operates extensively in the area- the maze of ruins is ideal for those who need to appear and disappear quickly.
This place is the dirty scuff on the kingdom's boots, or such is the general consensus. But sometimes, when the wind blows the right way, you can smell the ocean from here, briny air rising above the decrepit shantytown. It is the one redeeming factor for this area of the court, and a strong one at that. Were it all torn down and rebuilt new and clean and fancy, Eik suspects the wealthy would claim this quarter for their own. He raises his nose and searches for the sea through the ash and stale shit- and instead, finds... flowers.
Flowers?
The scent is not the desert poppy, nor the night blooming jasmine the nobles so adored near their bedroom windows... Nor any other desert plant he knows, and in over a year here he has become well acquainted with the smells of the desert. It must be foreign, then. He follows his nose cautiously, stepping quietly through the sandy streets. Northward, northward, then a right turn-
There they lie, delicate even beneath the bone-dry sledgehammer of the summer sun. The blooms are somehow both carelessly and meticulously woven in her mane-- almost as though they aren't woven at all, but growing from her like flowers on a willow tree. How curious he thinks.
(For a moment he is transported to a wet fall afternoon- he can smell the rain as it hits the forest floor)
He tilts his head, curious instead of suspicious- which he should be now, after everything. Suspicious is how he wants to be but cannot bring himself, , cannot change himself to be even though history demands, or at least begs, it of him. He holds his self close and meet's the twilight queens gaze with his own steady, unwavering, expectant one.
"What are you doing here?"
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
-looks at to do list-
-spends all free time writing overly long starter post-
-sigh- oh well, can't wait to write these two together! <3
@Florentine
so why don't we rewrite the stars
maybe the world could be ours tonight
The sun had set, the last vestiges of its warm light clinging to the horizon in one last embrace before it faded from sight. Summer had come and the night was temperate and the breeze gentle as it kissed Eulalie's skin, tugging lightly on the loose strands of her hair. The ivory and sunshine woman glanced at her companion as they made their way through the meadow, the long grasses and bright flowers brushing along their legs. A satisfied sigh escaped her, a contentedness that settled in her curves and gave lightness to her bones.
“I'm not sure you could have chosen a more perfect night if the gods themselves had composed it,” she said, dark eyes passing over Somnus as she wore a smile. When Eulalie had first made the offer to accompany the sovereign on more walks outside the court, she had of course hoped he would take her up on it. She had been delighted when he actually had reached out to her, more than pleased to have this time to, perhaps, get to know him further.
She paused, stopping to look up at the stars wrapped in the dark, infinite sky. They flickered and glittered and Eulalie could not help but wonder how many looked up at these same stars at this moment. “What do you know about them?” Her question hovered, her curiosity a burning, hungry thing. Her parents had seen little use in educating their second daughter beyond what they felt necessary for her to wait on her sister and not disappoint them among the other nobles. She knew so few details and facts, so little of books and stories. All she knew was reality, and life, and the truth. The golden woman thought she might like to get lost in a tale sometime.
— you will ache as I ache—
tenderly, tragically, beautifully.
The baths are blessedly peaceful, save for the quiet conversation which eminated from the kirin's currently occupying it as if they owned the place. It reminded Isorath of an echo of his life back in Vectaeryn, of the days spent beside spa's and pools much grander than this, in good company where the laughter is oh so very light.
But this is decidedly not Vectaeryn, and the times are not sweetness and light, and they would have to make do.
Steam curled and wisped from the surface of the large bath, as the mild scents of Eucalyptus and Lavender permeated the air pleasantly. Isorath languidly shifted, his head pressed against a towel wrapped pillow as his hair splayed in lazy curls around him as he peered at his other two companions.
Stress washed off him as water did upon the shore, slowly reclaiming bits of himself that had been lost. In the company of his nearest and dearest, he allowed the walls to come down, just for the moment. Here he is just Isorath, not Emissary to the Night Court, not the paramour to he Night King.
Today it is just them. Enjoying themselves like they used to, deliberately and pointedly ignoring the world of woe that awaited them outside.
"Enjoying yourselves?" He hummed pleasantly, a forelimb pulled to rest against his chest as he moved to better look at them from his chaise. "I have missed this."
NOTE; set a day or so after the closing of the Gates. SPA DAY. TAGS: @Jude @Vaella
"this here is your speech colour!
My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.
He sees simmering embers… Jude stares at them and he can only place the blame on one figure. A long sigh passes from his lips and he presses onwards up the familiar mountain path.. It feels as though it were only a day ago that he had met with Isorath.. And then his anger had gotten the better of him. He had said things he never thought possible of him. Cruelty has never been in his nature, but frustration seized him and he lashed back. He refuses to be ignored. He refuses to risk his own life.. But he knows his own words had likely been a tad unnecessary when he had made his departure, yet still.. He cannot forget the callous dismissal of his concern. Jude clenches his jaw and remembers how they all stood against him, dismissing him for blind trust.
The ash and fire remnants of Aether’s inferno is only a sure sign of why he spoke out. Terrastella had something beautiful, but its beauty was poisoned by the head that wore the crown. Jude stumbles over rocks and the tears swell to his eyes of embarrassment and exhaustion. He’s kept sleep to a minimum and his coat has become layered with soot, dirt, and mud. His normally immaculate hair entangled with branches and leaves from rustling through underbrush. He gives out a weak whimper right before he stumbles. The weight crashes down on his knees and he gives out a weak yelp. For a moment he contemplates merely laying in the soot and drown himself in self pity as tears fall down his cheeks.
“I was an idiot,” Jude whines and doesn’t fight back the drops that wipe away the dirt from his face. He lifts himself to his feet and stumbles along, fighting the ache in his right leg. “I was an idiot for ever thinking that place was worth it.." There is no sound but his weak cries and the gentle noises of his and Mitten’s footsteps. The gates are sealed and with that his
connection to home and family. For once the tears fall harder and he can’t contain his tired sobs and much like he had been when he first arrived in Novus, he merely let himself hit the ground and cried, ignoring the voices of guards as they look on at the small, crying form.
Lying on my back
Watching stars collide
@Isorath ?
anyone else is welcome, but complete strangers please ask first
Summer blazes through Terrastella, and it does not leave anything untouched. Flowers bend in the heat; white light refracts itself off glass and silver; warmth shimmers like quicksilver over the fields and cliffs, and the world is calm. The sun is gentle overhead. Birds chirp and fall silent, swooping through the balmy air. Even as the grasses fall away to cobblestone and brick, a sense of peace blankets the Dusk Court. As she wanders through the gates Bexley hears the mutters of the commonwealth complaining of the heat, their good-natured gripes, and smiles quietly to herself in pleasant disbelief. To her the weather is almost-cool, the breeze that comes with it an unexpected luxury, and she hums something happy and tranquil as she moves toward the center of the Court.
There is a moment, casual and momentous, in which she feels at peace with her anonymity. It comes in the easy step of her hooves over cobblestone, the breeze that washes over her like water. The chain heavy around her neck. The weak sun overhead, her own brain and body. All of it comes into clarity, then ebbs away again, unendingly peaceful. It is a feeling which has not come to her for quite a while, and it’s absolutely relieving.
It lasts for only a moment.
Some Terrastellan youth whips past her with his friends, and as much as he’s careful to wait until their paths have diverged, it’s impossible for Bexley not to hear the tail end of his phrase: “Gods, look at that scar.“ Her heart plummets inside her chest. By the time she registers it the boy is long gone, disappeared around a corner, but the sting of it still puts Bexley out of breath. Her lungs constrict, pulsing involuntarily. She stumbles on an upturned cobblestone. Look at that scar. As if given a life of its own, she feels new pain pulse along the rift that splits her face in two.
Look at that scar -
She pulls her head down to her chest. Shifts the lace of white hair to cover her face. Pushes forward against a nauseating wave of unease. Now Terrastella’s court flashes by in a blur of stone and glass, blurred by the speed at which Bexley forces herself to walk, the sting of tears which collect involuntarily in her already glassy gaze. Focus. Focus. Buildings rise and fall away on each side, and none of it matters, not really.
She’s not here for much. A moment with Florentine, a conversation that doesn’t cripple. From the beginning her options were limited. Vaguely, she thought about visiting Rhoswen, or even Reich, but those ideas were discarded as quickly as the came, and really - who else is there? The days of Bexley’s involuntary popularity have long left her, and as sickening as it is to admit, she is here to search for, quite possibly, the only friend she has left. Friend. There are so many things wrong with this situation, and she names them off in her head one by one: My only friend. The people I live with are not my friends. Florentine is - just a friend.
Perhaps, at last, her sins have caught up to her, and this is to be her punishment. A world devoid of friendly faces. The salt of pain inside her bones.
Suddenly, the door of the citadel looms overhead. Bexley’s heart catches in her throat - bang bang bang. To the guard that stands still against the gray walls, head bowed to his chest, she asks almost nervously, Is Florentine here?
A beat passes, one that sets all Bexley’s nerves to sparks, practically turns her brain inside out. Is she taking visitors?
@Florentine <3
Posted by: Isorath - 05-01-2018, 12:03 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
I S O R A T H
my kingdom burns under your touch
The sun crested low upon the horizon when the summons are sent, servants disappearing into the halls like smoke over stone. Isorath has spent much of the day locked within the stone tower, preparing, deliberating. He is here with a purpose, and the Kirin is thorough when his mind is set to a task.
Slowly, diligently, he transformed the room into a work of art. Plush throws and rugs have been tenderly laid out upon the swept stones, banners of silk and velvet have been reverently strung upon the ceiling and bunched to the center — circling a gilded canopy of lanterns of varying different sizes, some emit light, while others emit smoke scented heavily with perfume. Sweet, inviting, relaxing. Pillows embroidered with dancers under constellations litter each and every inviting throw, dragons dancing above fires, gypsies exalting in the freedom of the night. Each is stitched with care and skill that would take an equine a life time to master.
It is extravagant decadence. All for them, masterfully crafted and executed. It is smoky, inviting and it awaits as though it is a lover's embrace, ready to welcome a soul home. It is black and gold, a mouth watering display of lavish indulgence, and Isorath wanted nothing more than to indulge already.
In the center, beneath the canopy of hanging lights and pouring smoke is a table. Carved in the likeness of Novus herself, etched with names and locations, grooves to mark water and bumps to announce forests. Upon it rests a selection of tea, the dragon shaped tea pot spouts steam of it's own as it boiled upon a carefully stoked burner. Platters of sweets are dotted here and there on golden trays, pastries from the kitchens and bakers who line the market.
Isorath himself is also part of the master piece, this artwork he has worked so tirelessly to weave. Wrapped in luxurious robes of silk velvet layered upon each other, they pool and trail behind him like a river of midnight pulled from Calligo's hide herself. Black emblezoned with gold, speckled with gilded stars and denoctian patterns around the hem and scattered across his back. A motto is carefully sewn into the back of the train, where the cloak began it's descent toward the ground.
Oderint Dum Metuant Let them hate, so long as they fear
The motto of his family, worn proudly.
His hair is left down for a change, it falls and falls and falls, in touseled curls until it sighs against the plushness beneath ivory hooves. Peers out from the outrageous train of silk velvet that followed his step. Spun starlight and the moon's pearly tears, it caught in the dull light and shimmered serenely.
He looked every inch the paramour of the King of Stars and Smoke, and the Kirin cannot help the preen which snaked along his spine and fed his vanity.
Ah, but this is not to feed his already overflowing vanity. It is a night to celebrate, a night to come together and toast their success, lay the foundations for a future that will see them be glorious. To escape from prying eyes that would see them stumble and fall. Let them see instead this, let them see how the Night exalted instead of worried of matters a mountain away. So he settled, upon his self-made throne of pillows and expensive throws to wait for his beloved, and his best friend.
TAG: @Reichenbach @Aislinn over extravagant tea party and meeting is a go NOTES:
"sunshine dasies butter mellow!"
Dawn crests upon the horizon as the eagle descended upon the smoke smudged Capitol of the Sun, her shadow gracefully meandered over the sandstone buildings and cobbled streets. She is no small creature, she is proud, her mottled plumage of alabaster and caramel mark her different. Unique. She is not of this land, to be sure. She carries a purpose to the beat of her wings, the way her sharp features fixated upon the Sun Palace as she neared.
A golden eagle touched by the light of the moon and her stars.
Higher and higher she climbed, searching until she can see the recipient of her carefully tied message. The gift tenderly strapped to her back. She had carried them reverently, dutifully, and it would be a blow to see her care wasted in the last moment. She is tired, yes, but she will not be foolish and dive toward the window of the balcony she alighted upon now, like a fledging who had found her wings.
Too big for a window ledge, she sat stiffly, patiently. Her shrill cry is pleasant before she offered her leg, tied by silver strings upon it is the first of her precious cargo. The caligraphy upon the envelope is exquisite, clearly the writer has agonized over the smallest detail, right down to the emerald wax seal, and the eagle seal embossed upon it.
Seraphina, the ink whispered upon the envelope, and then smaller, for the eyes of the intended reader only; she whose silver hair is brighter than the sun.
Once the letter is removed from her leg, the Eagle shifted and then turned. Proud, to show the flowers carefully tied to her back. As fresh as the morning they were collected, with nary a damage upon petal nor stalk. Starlit roses glitter and glimmer in the morning light, holding within their center Sunfire Liles and Ocean Breath Orchids. The color of seraphina's eyes carefully wrapped within the moon's tender hold.
Her gifts delivered, the Eagle gave an affectionate, knowing trill and fluttered off to the side. She would rest, and then return to Direstone when able.
"Seraphina,
I hope this letter finds you well, Kalani has not failed me before, and I doubt she will now. I had hoped to send you a letter detailing my departure from Denocte to visit you, and my excitement at seeing you again. But I'm afraid I cannot, not for now at least, there are matters that require my attention, and even if part of me wishes to lay them aside to come and see you in your desert home...
I cannot, the Raven Gates are closed to me and mine, for now. The guards will not allow me passage. There is tension in the air, even the men and women at Direstone can feel it, and I'm preparing for the journey to the Capitol as I pen this to you.
I hope you are well, and the state of Solterra has not worsened since the Night we met within the Caves, I hope the crown you wear has not become a harder burden to bear. That your troubles at least, have abated somewhat, though I know better than to truly hope for peace in these times.
It's funny, is it not? How fate weaves and works. I have thought of much since our first meeting, but I'm awful at putting them to pen and parchment now, usually my thoughts run away from me. Alavin always said that it was the damnedest thing, how I could write and write and write. Now at the idea of penning you a letter, I'm stuck bumbling like a foal in the dark trying to find words to say. Not very Commanderly, is it?
Enjoy the flowers, I wasn't sure if you would like them, they were supposed to be given to you at the border by myself but....
I will come, one way or another to see your Kingdom of Sun and Sand. I promise.
