It does not take long for reality to sink its teeth in me and I remember- I am trapped here. Not just in this land but in this body. I am quiet now, calm if not comfortable. When I first landed, my grief was not silent. My grief was loud and violent and tore through me like a hurricane. But when the worst of it passed, I felt a little better, a little more in control. I now blink tear-worn eyes and look ahead. The land before me is vast and foreign. Intimidating. The world seems so much smaller when sea or sky is your domain.
My skin crawls and I think I will be sick again.
I look to the sky hopefully- but of course my flock is long gone. They were drawn to the inexplicable North, drawn there without needing to think. As simple and unquestioned as breathing. Is it my desire to be with them that hurts me now? Or is that call the birds feel, the compass in my chest guiding me to the summer home?
An egret rises with porcelain grace, my heart rising with it- and as it turns to the West I lose it to the setting sun. I turn my gaze inward, and the truth is still there, as hard and ugly as it was before I fell asleep:
My beautiful fusion with the world is over.
But these downward trending thoughts are cut short when my equine ears (excellent, compared to a bird's- I give this land-locked body that much) pick up a rustle in the bushes. I turn to face the sound, weak eyes struggling to recognize what lies in the shadows. Instinct tells me to run but I will not. In the complete consumption of my misery, my anger, my loss, I still have not realized the magnitude of the situation I am in. Death is now just a foolish mistake away, and I have forgotten how to be afraid of it.
Maybe I will learn fear again.
Or maybe I will die.
The only sound I make is a low growl, the warning kind a tiger makes. I can almost feel my claws flexing, sinking into the green earth. Is it just a memory or are they there for a moment? Can I smell the blood that approaches?-- I almost let hope drown me. Instead I stamp a heavy hoof, feel the force shiver in the ground underneath me. It is more a reminder for myself than whatever approaches- there is weakness in this body, but there is strength too.
@Cyrene <3 on the road from Solterra to Terrastella
– Calliope – she will remember your heart long after the world ends
*
Calliope is on the hunt and her nose flares as she lifts it into the night wind. Her breath rises like smoke from her, it makes her look like a dragon, like the steel skin she wears cannot possibly hold the fire of her. She's a shadow as she tracks, lithe and slick with sweat, and she blends flawlessly into the darkness. If it were not for that flash of white across her shoulder any eyes would slide over her as nothing more than a strange, fleeting thickening of the night.
The few that see her, the unicorn that moves like a lion, are wise to turn away back to their fires and families. But it is not them she hunts and even if they called out a welcome she would not have paused. The city outskirts hold nothing for her and were if not for that scent on the wind she would not spare a second thought for that looming castle ahead.
On she goes and the sound of her hooves on the cobblestone are hushed and quiet. She stays close to the edges of the street, letting the raucousness of those too far into their sins muffle the whisper of her body through the night breeze. Even her horn fails to gather the starlight, content for once to let only the band around it to flash and glitter.
It's better that way, that the tame horses of this place cannot see the way blood is crusted into the cracks of her horn. Better that they can't see the patch work of scars across her body, left by dragons and sirens and beasts infected with dark, broken magic. There's one, less healed than the others, that was left by the beak of a foolish phoenix that dared challenge Calliope and those she protected.
They are safe for now, the others that she slips by so easily, unaware of the vicious, determined unicorn that has made her way to their haven.
Only when she reaches the castle does she slow. She boldly walks past the door, concerned in a way that what she hunts is so alone, so tucked away in a half empty castle. But the air does have a touch of Gabriel on it so she's not overly surprised that it is so easy for her to move undetected in the halls.
In the courtyard she finally comes to a stop, tucking herself away below a willow tree that's bold enough to thrive between stone walls. It's strange, the way she blends so well into the flowers and willow branches, a lion in a garden of lambs.
And when the night starts to fade, giving way to the sun and a thick humid kind of heat, Calliope is still there-- waiting. Only her tail moves, twitching back and forth, back and forth until all the flowers beneath her are trampled and headless.
Still she waits. The lioness has come to Novus, tracking the boy she knew so very long ago and the girl that smells like a certain gazelle she captured so long long ago.
Calliope wonders if they'll remember her at all, or if like time they too have forgotten who she is.
There's birdsong in the air, so bright and cheerful and utterly sweet, that most would be hard pressed to not smile. To not take a second and merely listen to the colorful little creatures arc, dance, sing and flit back and forth against the picturesque backdrop of dawn's pastel hues. They sing to the ocean and the sky, and they sing back.
But there is one at the cliff's who does not sing. Who doesn't see them, not really. The wind touseled his braided hair, ran it's airy fingers through his beard and caressed along his face. The sea roared and crashed against the steep rocks, again and again in an age old fight. The cliff will stand victorious until it does not, losing itself slowly over time. The salt spray will make his already unruly hair curl this way and that until it's tangled within itself, not that he minded much.
Instead, unfocused eyes peered out at the horizon. He's rather like this cliff, he thought with an apathetic tilt of his head, as finally he animated. As if someone finally reached to pull his strings reluctantly. Or that he is very much still alive, when all things considered, he should be bones at the bottom of the sea. But it is not at the insistence of the sea, or the bird song, or the air's sweet and melodic caress. It is at the feel of someone wet and warm, trickling from nostril in a languid stream. It is the taste of it on his lips as it dipped and curved and finally let go. It coated the grass beneath him like rubies carelessly tossed, the occasional one stained the edge of the cliff from white to a muddied crimson.
A reminder that he is very much alive, and he should not spend the day waxing poetic about his own follied existence.
"Hn." The noise is exhaled as a grunt, his hooves carried him away from the point he had been perilously close to. This place is not like the rest of the places he has visited, and he has visited a lot, in this thing he is supposed to call life. There is a sense of serenity here, subtle as it tried to poke at the shroud he wore around himself. Inviting his tensed muscles to relax and enjoy a new beginning. Another new start.
Another drop of blood released it's grip on his chin, and he's reminded that he can't really enjoy himself, and can't bring himself to care either. It will stop eventually, the bleeding. So will the grim thoughts dragging their insidous thoughts across his mind. All he has to do it wander, and wait.
He dreamt of dew-spangled petals and sun-dappled woods, rain dripping off verdant leaves and the sound of cicadas at dusk; he dreamt of hazy summer days and shorelines so vast they might be infinite.
But most of all, he dreamt of drowning.
The pale swell of his belly rose and fell fitfully, reflecting the restlessness of his sleep. His long legs were splayed in every which direction, seemingly without a care in the world—the silver-blonde curls of his tail spilled haphazardly over the stiff summer grass. If Florestan had been awake, he would have felt the itch of so many stiff stalks on his delicate skin, but conscious sensations had no effect on him now. This was his first true slumber in this strange land, and what a deep slumber it was.
His entrance into Novus had been unanticipated and, quite frankly, traumatizing—one moment he had been bathing serenely in a tranquil pond in the middle of a sunlit glade, and the next he was sputtering out water from his lungs on the shore of a strange lake in an entirely alien land. The past few days had found him vacillating between utter panic and depressed acceptance—it wasn't that Florestan had left anyone important behind, but the very thought that even the smallest possibility of seeing his mother again had vanished was enough to envelop his heart in the cold iron hand of dread. He had always held on to the hope that she would come back to find him someday, that maybe she had left because she had some very important unfinished business somewhere far, far away and that she had always intended to come back for him. However, he knew in his heart of hearts that this was just baseless optimism: when she left him, he knew that it had been for good.
And just when he had definitively resigned himself to never seeing his mother again, he smelled her scent on a breeze. It was heart-wrenchingly familiar—jasmine and lilac, with subtle notes of lavender and peony.
No, it had to be part of a dream. Intellectually, he knew that she wouldn't have followed him; no, that she couldn't have. With some fatigue, he rolled gracelessly onto his other side in an attempt to disperse the dream's grip; it hurt even to dream her. Perhaps if he distracted himself enough, he would forget about her, about this thoroughly unsettling situation.
Then, he felt a petal land on the soft pink flesh of his nose.
Florestan's heart beat a hurried rhythm against his sternum—that was certainly not a dream.
COME DOWN TO THE BLACK SEA SWIMMING WITH ME.
GO DOWN WITH ME, FALL WITH ME.
LET'S MAKE IT WORTH IT.
The storm managed to drive its way into the castle, no matter how heavily they barred their doors.
In some places, it whistled through the cracks in the walls and sung eerie songs in the dead of the night. It was not the storm that was so unbearable, but the constant screeching of the wind ripping through their walls was almost enough to drive anyone mad. Almost.
She had taken to wandering the halls under the guise of patrolling. It did not bother the others to see her walking aimlessly with a mass of dancing shadows trailing behind her. What people didn’t know was that she was planting eyes all over the castle. Small eyes that were mostly unseen. They faded out of view when someone looked directly at them, but to turn away they caught the strangest glimpse of their figures in the corners of their eyes.
Some would have sworn that the castle was haunted at this point, and there had been the occasional murmur of ghosts. Usually, when she overheard such rumors, she would smile and continue on her way. Lavinia was not an expert thief for nothing, she had outside allies as well as within the crows.
The eyes were just there to watch, and tell her who came and went.
And in case they spotted problems for the Night King.
Today, wandering the halls, she grows bored and wonders where her twin might be around this time. Her wandering leads her closer to the library where she last saw Reichenbach..and they had their long chat about love and love lost. It had been a strange conversation..but if she helped him then that was all that mattered.
@Cynix kind of a blah post but here you go! speech color!
When you can fly you see things others don’t. You laugh when others say they have seen things that you never would, because you know you have seen the most amazing things, things they don’t even see in their dreams. They couldn't even imagine what you have seen. But when you can fly faster than the speed of sound? You see and feel more than ordinary horses. Feeling the way the wind rushes over your coat, and the way that it makes your eyes water. It is the most amazing feeling. Vaella loved the sound of her wings as they slapped the air, or the way her legs would dangle below. She loved knowing that she could go anywhere, and that she could do it faster than anyone she knew. Her wings thumped steadily in the air as she made her way across the mountainous terrain.
With a grin she eyes the land below her. She felt no need to fly as fast as she could today. She had nothing better to do at the moment. Her sharp eyes spot movement, her ears twitch at the slight movement and she wonders briefly if it was a wolf. Not that the young mare was completely worried, she was in the air after all.
She wanted to walk the rest of the way, stretching her long legs would do her good. Vaella slaps her wings to her sides. Her body is pulled by a great force as she enters a steep drop to the ground. She looked like an arrow flying through the air. Just heartbeats before she smashes into the ground, her wings slide open, bringing her to an abrupt stop, just meters from the ground. She grimaces in pain at the pressure that had landed on her wings at the abrupt stop. Her wings were going to hurt tomorrow. Her hooves land gently on the ground. She folds her wings and tucks them against her body. She scans the land around her, her eyes searched for movement, but she found none. With a quick sniff of the air she took one last look at the tall green stems before turning and continuing her trek up the peak.
See the dead on the cover of a magazine
See my smile, it was born from amphetamines
She moved like a shadow down the sand covered streets, silent and prowling like a feline. In the aftermath of the Davke attack many of the sandstone buildings still bore their scars; dark, wild burns that thrashed over their pale exteriors. The citizens who remained… some were empty, hollow things. Others had changed irrevocably, twisted and gnarled and no longer recognizable as the person they were before. Teiran had long since washed herself of the blood of war, but still it lingered, clinging to darkened corners and long alleyways. One could almost hear the screams of the dying faintly on the breeze, but maybe that was just the sound of it whistling through the cracks left behind in their psyche.
These dusty roads were the same unforgiving ones of her childhood, if not more bleak for the recent events. She remembered so little of it, just broken mirror fragments that cut through her in the dark of night. Over the years since Zolin’s murder so much had changed and yet so much remained the same. One thing was certain, and it was that Teiran would stand by the court whatever came to pass. She would help it rebuild, help to do whatever was required of her. So many underestimated her, and yet here she stood with more death on her hands than perhaps half the court could claim. More static in her thoughts, more demons clawing their way free of her skin.
At length she found herself moving through the halls of the court, hooves tapping rhythmically on the floors—a staccato that echoed and echoed its loneliness off the walls and down the empty lengths around her. The sight of the burned library forced Teiran to pause in her excursion. She stood outside its heavy, smoke stained doors, sage green eyes moving over what she could see through them as they hung partially open. Of course she had known that Seraphina had burned it, and a pang flashed through her at the loss of what had been stored within. It was an odd feeling, of missing something that had never really been hers though she had immersed herself more than once among the scrolls and books.
There would be more, one day. History would continue to be kept and tales would be written and one day it would be rebuilt and filled to the brim she was sure. Still, Teiran knew her days of wandering in and finding something to read, to occupy her time, were gone for now. The small woman was about to turn away and start back on her rounds when the sound of approaching steps had her turning her head. A well-known shape drifted toward her as if carried by the heavy summer winds, the sun glinting off the distinct collar at her neck. “Seraphina,” she said—familiarity an undercurrent to her otherwise invariable tone—as her sovereign approached.
I paid the price and own the scars why did we climb to fall so far ?
it's time, she thinks quietly, drawing into herself until she can square her shoulders and paste on that secret smile that has a way of curling around the edges of her mouth, amber eyes half hidden beneath lashes that are longer than life itself. amber gaze glints, shining dangerously from the shadows, and at last she steps outside of the library doors. today she would introduce herself to reichenback, the rightful king of the night court. after having been here all spring, of course Moira had seen him about with others. she'd hastily averted her gaze then and continued past in a flourish of crimson and gold. then, she had not been ready to meet the ruler of the house. too many rules were placed upon her before within the tonnerre compound. 'you must do this, moira.' 'never sit like that!' 'ten lashings if you or Estelle ever repeat such mistakes, girl.' and the glares! if she'd thought those cold, tinny voices had been awful, their eyes had been much worse.
what would this king be like? would he be kind with that smile she saw, crinkling eyes, and laughter ringing about him as though he were a jester made for everyone's entertainment? would his voice be as frosty as the mountains were tall and his commands so lordly and high? or would he be something in between? a safe haven for those lost, a warm hand to guide you through the dark?
no matter, she thinks, whispering it under her breath where she believes none will hear, today this is happening. head held high and eyes on the end of the corridor, the listens to the door close softly behind her, a sighing the only sign that it was a place she could not enter until she'd completed this task she alone assigned to herself.
candlelit corridors greet her, sconces set high upon the walls so that all would be brought to light in the midnight hours when the citizens all waltzed and played. she longs for the book left open upon the wooden table in the back corner of the library she'd claimed for herself, ancient pages still whispering their secrets to the rest of the darkness left behind. all the while, voices down hallways ring around her, her own feet sound like thunder in her ears, but nothing but serenity rests upon her dark visage. rounding a corner, and then another, moira makes her way to the entryway, hoping to find reichenback quick enough so she may scurry back into her little corner of the castle once more.
"hello?" she calls softly, amber eyes roaming about only to find few heads turning toward her. they were busy with their lives, as she should be. "reichenbach?" echoes at last, a more stubborn and mulish tone at last coming forward as brows drew down to settle heavily over her face.
in this house of broken hearts we made our love out of stacks of cards
The hawk returned that same night, fatigued but still sharp-eyed. Tied to it's leg is a new scroll — when unrolled the scent of woodsmoke and jasmine unfurls, and a single coal curl lays upon two sincere words:
I paid the price and own the scars why did we climb to fall so far ? An enigma upon the grounds, she seems to almost float with an air of dignity and solitude about her. There is no entourage to keep her company, no shadows following close to make sure that no harm comes to the Phoenix Woman, only the soft clattering of stone underfoot as each hoof falls on the pathway below. So few walk here, such resounding quietude was a reprieve from the whisper of feet outside corridor doors and the ever-constant babbling of who knows which people for the evening. Only the wind talks to her now, a welcoming caress against her ear, kissing her cheek and toying with her overly long tail until only tangles would remain to be sorted when night fell once more. Not yet, though, is it coming to claim the world as it did when all days came to their conclusion. Instead, the afternoon sun beats down upon her, setting fire to the already burning woman, painting her as a lighthouse in a storm, a flame given life, a torch gliding forward with nothing more than simple exploration on her mind.
No thoughts of Estelle haunt her today. Fresh from bed, put together so nicely that her aunts and uncles would have cried to see her so becoming and blossoming into a woman, and ready to take on the adventure and garner new knowledge, she is unruffled and at ease. For the first day in months she does not carry upon her shoulders a tension and sorrow that Atlas would have fallen under. There are few shadows beneath swirling amber eyes to draw away from the otherwise pretty visage that shows much more light and laughter than anything else.
Serenity.
The feeling pervades her senses, spreads throughout the area until she is forced to draw in a deep breath and let it out with a small smile at last coming to light. And it is as though the angels themselves are singing, that one simple act changing everything about the girl completely. Wings flutter upon her shoulders, all too heavy and strange even now that she is grown, having gone unused for the entirety of her life, but so lovely and flashy all the same. Chest rises and falls slowly, there is nothing to hinder her climb into the unknown along craggy peaks that are packed full of small shrubs and resilient flowers that line the edges of rocks and sprout through cracks to wave and say hello. Some distant part of her is reminded all too much of her family as she comes to a lower edge of a cliff. Not at the top, but perhaps here would be a resting spot.
There is a beauty in the harshness she longs to paint, to draw, to sketch. Even outlines are flung from her heart in the small amount of debris underfoot as she quickly lines the distant peaks. Their harsh angles and echoing silence was the most wonderful thing she's seen yet in all of Novus; it was very much like the Tonnerres with their savage barbs and icy demeanor to all but those they chose to keep. For a moment she remembers home and what it was like to sit beside a fire every night with her tea and books. Florence and Gael pulling at her hair while she studied long into the night, Eluoan beaming at her progression that had moved so quickly and all the promise she'd shown, and at last their matriarch. The glimmer that had been in her eye as Moira chose to follow Estelle into the unknown beyond their compound.
Outside of those walls was the first time she saw birds up close. There were doves in the menagerie, but that was not a place Moira was yet allowed entry into. More often than not, there were hounds for hunting trips and the occasional playmate when the boys were little, and then there were cats for the girls. Personally, she'd always enjoyed the little snow white kitten with blue eyes that had taken up residence in the Doctor's home around the time that Moira had. Often it would curl against her when it was younger, and soon it learned to bat at the twins when they'd come to bother her.
Such memories were as heart wrenching as they were welcomed, a welcome reminder that one day she would find a home - her home - again. Until then, she pauses to just watch as the clouds roll into hues of rose and tangerine, purple paints the horizon as the afternoon light fades to evening's wondrous glow and the sun begins to rest at last.
in this house of broken hearts we made our love out of stacks of cards
