For once Acton made no effort to be seen. He could be surprisingly discreet, when he wanted, though never so well as Raum. He would never be invisible, but he could be less, and that is what he was now: no swagger, no flash of teeth or wild laughter. Just a man who walked thoughtfully alone, a man enjoying the night.
And he was enjoying it. Not only because he would always love the markets, would never grow tired of them, but because he was doing Crow work.
It had been some time since he’d had a mark he’d watched so carefully as this one. Raum’s mention of him had been offhand, but Acton thought the Ghost was letting himself be distracted by fatherhood. He’d seen the stranger wander the streets, watched him vanish and return again days or weeks later.
He had no idea where it was he went, but there was only one place Acton expected revenge from. He had never been one to see assassins in each shadow, but Davke or not, Seraphina had not seemed the sort to let an insult slide.
How boring it would be, if he were wrong.
There were a dozen times tonight he might have intercepted the black but each time he waited. Part of it was the game: would the stranger catch him first? Did he know he was being watched? But there was something else; Acton could see that the stallion was genuinely enjoying himself, his pleasure careful but clear. The markets were splendid; why not let him enjoy them a little longer?
Eventually his impatience caught up with him.
They had wound through many of the stalls by now, past dancers and fire-drinkers and those infernal balladeers. The night was a synesthesia of senses: music and laughter and the leap and snap of flames, scents sweet and bitter and endlessly beguiling, a thousand colors and patterns and textures of fabric, of food, of citizens. Never did Acton let the black slip out of his sight, until finally he settled beside the taller stallion as he stood at a stall of delicate chains and hammered cuffs and smooth round earrings, gold as rich as the night, silver as cold as the stranger’s eyes.
At first Acton kept his own amber-eyed gaze on the wares, but he made sure he bumped a shoulder into one of the blacks’ folded wings.
“Those extras help you move any faster, or are they just for looks?” His voice was low and even, but his eyes, when they lifted to the stranger’s, were fire-bright and far too keen.
Up, up, up the fae girl climbs. The world falls away beside her, clattering down with the chime of tumbling rocks. Most of the mountain slumbers beneath a blanket of cloud, but up here, near Verenor’s highest peak, there is nothing but blue, blue sky.
The flower girl peers beyond the last of the mountain’s rising stone, up beyond the last gold of sunlight. Her gaze keeps climbing until she drowns in a blue that ascends and ascends. Oh to swim in that celestial sea – to drift out upon forever’s tide.
But the clack of feet distract her. They pull the flower girl’s attention away from the limitless skies and down to a shadowy figure ahead. He is silhouetted by sun, a dark shadow sculpted by Calligo and framed by Solis’s light. There was no sign of his god here – nor hers for that matter.
With a smile upon her lips Florentine moves on. Her steps are a dance as she weaves her way up the rugged, mountain path. To spread her wings would be to catch him easily and what a temptation it is! It has been too long since her eyes have fallen upon his ebony skin and heard his laughter in her ears. To accompany him up the mountain is temptation indeed.
See, Florentine knows this boy of shadow, she knows the flare of his wings – one great and one he always holds close, close to his side. His silhouette is one she could draw herself. Florentine knows her boys, the two other parts to their triad. They were missing one today, and she feels Somnus’ absence keenly, but she has also seen the gilded king more recently, unlike Ulric.
Her small feet merely sigh over the stone, balletic and nimble as she moves, closer, closer. His name plays upon her lips, it resonates in her heartbeat. It begs to be called out and alert its master, but she keeps the name tight, tight to her lips.
And she creeps ever closer.
There is hope for her here. The winds begin to blow down the mountain face, away from him and on towards her. It charges into Florentine and Ulric, beating against their chests, pulling at their manes and roaring in their exposed ears.
Ulric looks down, studying his steps and her chance is fleeting. The flower girl lunges forward, light as a cat, her amethyst eyes bright like a predator’s watchful stare. She is leonine now: her lips curled into a wild smile and her body a canvas of mud and pollen. Florentine is elegance and grace as she surprises him. The girl reaches him, silent as a wraith. A wing flares, a feathered tip dropping to suddenly run along his spine as she dances past him, “I thought I recognized that butt.” She turns to him, her smile wicked, he was never one to blush as much as Somnus. Her quips always landed more gently upon his skin. “I know it almost as well as Somnus’ ” A slender hip nudges him as they both ascend the final steps to the peak together. Sunlight drowns them in cool, cool gold.
Flora looks to him and they are black and gold upon the ceiling of the world.
The winds grasp her mane, tugging lavender petals that fly off the mountain’s edge. She watches them go with a smile that does not fade for she is quite content here, in this moment. “I have missed you Ulric. I haven’t seen you since Dawn’s festival.” The fae girl pauses, her eyes narrowing in mock offence. “You haven’t been avoiding me have you?” A comical pout flares her lips, but it is gone in the blink of his golden eyes.
Those wicked, honeyed lips of hers curl into a smile that laughs and laughs and laughs. The silk of his scarf passes across her wing, “Are you here to worship?” Flora asks of him as her eyes track the rippling silk. “I hope not.” And, quick as a bird, Florentine reaches forward to catch the end of the scarf between her teeth. In a swift pull, the scarf unfurls from his mane, flying free. The wind catches it pushing it against her neck. Swiftly the girl is gone, dancing down the mountainside, his scarf her most prized possession. Only her voice floats back to meet him in song, “I think it may suit me better, y’know, my kind of purple. I hope it was a gift.”
Not once did the flower girl stop to think that it might be a dangerous thing for them to be here, without Somnus.
@Ulric - I am dying with excitement over here. Don't mind me. eeeeeee !!!
Already, Sabine knew she hated the wind. It was a feral beast, one that howled and roared over the hills of Denocte with the force of Gods themselves. If she were to believe her parents reverent fables, that was. At such a tender age it was her prerogative to question everything, and that was not a troublesome quest when the life into which you were born was as capricious as her own. Tales of deities and whispers of great foreign cities had filtered down, down, down into her world until her mind lay full to the brim with turbulence and commotion. Her mother and father had tried to protect their daughter from events that were too winding, and abstruse for such a young child to comprehend, but there was no concealing the truths that surrounded her like cobwebs spun over her dainty head. Her mind ached with the bewilderment of it all; her little heart bruised by the murmurs of her illegitimacy and impurity - corrupted by the sun and a desert mother.
So, as to escape the headiness of it all, Sabine often took to the wild. When Rhoswen was absent, a regular occurrence, the filly would slip forth from the bustle of Denocte's Capitol out into the coming day. At four months old, she was certainly still small, vulnerable, but to her parent's warnings she could never heed. There was too much to see, to hear, to experience. For life was simple out here beneath a diamond sky, beautifully simple. The wind though, now that she couldn't stand! Sparrow-boned limbs scattered across the prairie, bolstering her across the ocean of pale green and closer to the great evergreen treeline up ahead. For the first time in, perhaps, days, Sabine felt herself smile.
@Raum Woo! Bear with me as I get used to playing her ehe.
The lake, she had always loved. For where still water settled, tranquility - indifferent and unburdened - followed. Here, no narrowed eyes could latch along the lines of her sharp, sinful body; only, of course, her own to gaze back up at features filled with a labyrinthic angst that haunted her long and low into Calligo's archaic shadows. The loss of herself, of any sense of self, buried furtively under her skin with the vigour of a parasite long bereft of sustenance, only to find it deep within this red ravaged woman. Many times Rhoswen had felt absent - a ship adrift upon an ocean with no name - but, she had come to accept this feeling with the knowledge that everything passed, and that Solis would guide her home. This time, there was no home to return to. And more troubling, perhaps no God to seek solace from. As a child, Rhoswen had been proud of her contempt and defiance in the face of all religion, but age and pain had brought belief to her doorstep where it was determined to stay. Solis had blessed her dreams, banishing nightmares of a dark, distorted goddess from the recesses of her mind and he had given the girl a purpose that she had promised to follow.
Until Raum.
A slow flood of pale aureate light spilled over Vitreus to hail the deluge of dawn, hues of amber and violet turned to watercolour upon the lake and as the burnished beauty of Solis drowned out the dark, Rhoswen released a sigh into the air: exhaling all the spent oxygen she had harboured in small, bruised lungs. Every hallowed morning she had come, casting a nameless glance at her daughter as she slept, before slipping out into the final hours of Caligo's reign to watch such a beautiful demise. To hail the day. It was a ritual Rhoswen had performed for every night spent in Denocte as an adolescent, until the very moment she had left, and never again had the Solterran believed she would find herself a citizen of this forsaken land again. Now she was back, the ritual had started once more. Swallows soared overhead, exalting the sun God with high-pitched hymns over and over again as they circled Vitreus' painted surface, the reflection emblazoned with Solis' house colour of gold. Rhoswen did not know what the future would bring; she did not know if her faux pas would be forgiven nor whether her guilt would ever abide, but she did know this:
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
There had been no heartbreak or unease when they had left Denocte. It had, quite honestly, been surprisingly simple and done without fanfare.
Maybe it was because they had never truly belonged there anyway. Apollo recalled the evening of their arrival, the frantic desperation and heartbroken joy as two survivors reunited after witnessing countless death and destruction, and how Reichenbach had found them. The meeting had led to nowhere, and if he were being honest, Apollo had not been impressed by Denocte’s King. From there, he and Ktulu had mingled among the Night Court masses, but try as they might, they simply couldn’t fit in. Funny how they were the outcasts in a court full of misfits. It just wasn’t ’home’. Home was a beautiful mare the color of ebony and ivory with breathtaking crimson eyes, a rugged brown grizzly, and an eyeless black cat.
Home was not a place. It had never been a place. It had just taken him twelve years to figure that out.
“This place reminds me of Helovia,” Apollo murmured softly, his deep voice carrying easily over the sound of buzzing insects and chirping birds, “Of the Deep Forest. Remember?” He had no doubts that she did. After all, the Deep Forest was where they had me all those years ago. It was kind of hard to forget.
From Denocte they had traveled north, picking random paths and taking them without a care in the world. They were two wanderers, two souls searching for their missing companions. Apollo would scour the earth until he found Zola, and he knew that Ktulu would do the same for Eytan. They had arrived in a beautiful forest, lush and green and providing ample shade from the hot summer sun that shone from above. Immediately the Merciful was smitten with the place. He’d always held a fondness for trees and vegetation… The trees were large and ancient, and he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of knowledge they held within their trunks, within their grand branches and beautiful leaves.
A breeze on the wind tousled his hair, the scent fresh and earthy. The air was hot and dry, but the forest provided reprieve from the afternoon heat. The grass was green and lush beneath their wandering hooves, not yet dried from summer’s heat, and honey-brown eyes wandered from admiring the scenery to taking in Ktulu’s frame by his side. They were never apart. It filled his old heart with joy, knowing that they would be together for the rest of their days. Gods willing, even beyond that.
After years of back and forth, years of turmoil and doubts and random events that tore them away from one another, here they were. Together. Two lovers, old and wise, keen and beautiful, shaped by a world built of kindness and grief. They had lost everything, but the Gods, merciful and mighty as they could be, had granted them this second chance. Apollo would not waste it.
He smiled.
The stallion stretched out through the small distance between them, reaching out to brush his muzzle against the flesh of Ktulu’s neck just because he knew he could. He could never get enough of her; the sound of her voice, the scent of her, the roll of her eyes, the small smiles reserved only for him, the cunning smirks, the knowing, heated glances she would send his way… Ktulu was his everything. How had he lived without her before this?
Pulling away with a gentle lip at her flesh, Apollo directed his gaze back to the forest around them. He breathed in deep, letting the fresh air rest in his lungs.
“I like it here. We should stay for a while. What do you think?”
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
For most of that day Lyra had wandered. No true direction guiding her steps as she made aimless gains along the terrain away from Denocte. It was by chance that she had found the meadows within Delumine, a place she knew an old friend lived. The sight of so many spring flowers across the grassland brought a warm smile to her lips. And with a sigh she discarded any of her worries, and the shadows of a past life to embrace the open field, maybe with luck she'd run into her old friend.
The horizon and its wide expanse provided the young mare with a renewed, refreshed tremor of excitement. It warmed inside of her, spreading to her limbs with a restless air. A laugh ignited the young woman- rearing back in a playful gesture. Inclining her head in a poised, gallant pose – sending the tips of her nose towards the sky – beseeching the Gods, the Creators with a bold proposal: a race.
Releasing herself, she dropped down with every intention of bursting forward. Muscles contracted behind her, lunging her forward moments before her fore hooves grasped the earth. She was off; the girl who’d been told to stay close to Denocte was alone and unbound by the fear of ill intent.
Israfel had never been to Denocte before. There had never been a reason for her to be.
Now? Well.
Here she was. She had a reason. She was searching for a particular face. Two faces, if one were to get technical.
The shield-maiden carried herself as any proud warrior should as she wove her way through the market stalls of Denocte; erect and upright, head held high and proud, gaze forward and unrelenting. Any curious set of eyes that she met, she held, never faltering, never blinking. There would be no lowered glances, no shy fiddling, and no awkward shuffling of hooves. This may not be her home, but she was not defenseless, not a coward, and she had not come to cause strife anyway.
Let them try to stop her.
She was done standing still, letting the world pass her by. She was tired of the whispers within her own Court, the secrets kept hidden away. Although the title of Warden was hers to have and hold, Israfel did not know what it meant, what they wanted from her, not when she was so out of the loop with her Regime. How could she serve them if she did not know their plans? Their motivations? Their drive? Rumor had it that Cyrene was now their Emissary, and Asterion, their Regent. There was no way for her to know for sure. No one had told her a damn thing. Everything she knew, which wasn’t much, she had learned from eavesdropping on hurried, whispered conversations in the hallways.
Nothing made sense. The feeling of stagnancy and tension had chased her from her own home, urging her to get lost with the rebels and gypsies that inhabited Denocte. Now? Here she was, but she was not alone. After that night, when the world had stood still and devoid of color, of life, she would never be alone again.
’… Just don’t do anything foolish.’ Solaris’ reminder caused her to smirk, pink lips turned upwards almost sardonically. There was a dark blemish marring the back of Israfel’s mind, a plague against her peace. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. She was just so frustrated; at herself and at her Court. That mar, that bitter little speck in her mind, itched for trouble. It yearned for something that she could take her frustration out on, yet she held firm against it. Frustrated and angry, yes, but she was not a monster hell bent on revenge.
Solaris was perched upon Israfel’s withers, her long feathers tucked close, violet eyes calculating and judgmental as the large Phoenix stared out among the crowds, holding the gaze of everyone they passed. What a sight they surely made as they stalked through the streets. Israfel, tall and lithe and proud in her ivories and golds, the ferocity of her vermilion gaze unrelenting and powerful. Beautiful and breathtaking, but unpredictable and dangerous, wild, charismatic, and unattainable. Solaris, a beautiful bird of prey, gilded and proud, long feathers swaying in the evening breeze and sharp talons digging into Israfel’s flesh just above her wing joints. With just a though the Phoenix could ignite and set fire to this whole place, if she wanted. She didn’t. They were an impressive pair, an exotic pair, a Phoenix and a demi-goddess from another world, but unlike the exotic and expensive goods here, they were not for sale.
“I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m here for him.” For Isorath. For Aether. Whichever she found first. One would lead her to the other, that was simply how this all worked out. Still, perhaps she was going about this all wrong. While fun and mysterious and charming in their own way, with pretty trinkets, expensive perfumes, and exotic goods, these bustling streets and market stalls were not where Israfel would find Isorath. The area was too dense for Aether’s incredible size. That didn’t stop the Warden’s vermilion eyes from watching for him as she continued on her way, ignoring those who tried to get her attention with false smiles or fancy trinkets, and instead focused on navigating the crowds until she found a far quieter corner of the market, less populated and more open. Her scent carried along the breeze, woodsmoke from her bloodline and ocean salt from the cliffs of Terrastella, mingling with the incense and perfumes.
Once there, sheltered in the shadows of Night’s unfamiliar embrace, she settled back to watch. Maybe he would be out and about. Maybe they would cross paths. Maybe they wouldn’t. At the very least, Israfel hoped that she could gain some kind of inkling as to where he was. Until then, she would stand there with Solaris perched upon her shoulders, ignore those who tried to sway her into conversation, and wait.
Summer had finally dawned upon this new world and yet, Vanora wondered if Solterra ever experienced winter. The air was sweltering, it pushed at her lungs. It was dry, so dry, she could feel no moisture in the air and still, a smile spread across her dark lips. This was exactly what she needed, she needed to be here. Here, the ocean’s aroma was far off, it was hardly there. This was the torture she would endure to keep The Naga silent and powerless. This, this was the only way to keep the world safe from the beast that stalked within her mind.
At the thought, she felt the creature that prowled about within the darkness, on the other side of her mental shield. It was a cat in a cage, it paced, restless, hungry. Vanora had grown accustomed to the anxious energy within her skull. There was no escape for her but that shield she’d built, that had helped. However, The Naga had made it very clear that nothing could keep it quiet and Vanora knew better then to underestimate it. This was why she was here. In Novus, The Naga’s powers had been stripped to nothing more then scraps on a bone. Being in the desert had left the monster practically hopeless. Vanora relished in the feeling.
She was pulled from her thoughts as the bay woman realized that Solterra was more than she imagined. She’d left the court to explore and what lay before her now left her pleasantly surprised. A paradise, beautiful and lush. Life bloomed around her, plants flowered and birds sang. Ahead, a large pool of turquoise water called her name. Aching limbs suddenly screamed at her as she neared the oasis. The girl lowered her nose to the pristine water and allowed herself to enjoy the freshness. The water travelled down her parched throat as she drank greedily.
Nora lifted her striped face, silver eyes scanned the area for any signs of another equine. With no one in sight, she’d allow herself to savor in this gift from the desert. Slowly, the woman’s legs carried her forward as the water climbed up her legs. The Naga almost sighed at the sensation. It is not the ocean, but it is better then sand, the creature murmured quietly. “For once, I have to agree with you,” Vanora replied, her voice echoed across the rippling water. And for a moment, girl and monster enjoyed the crisp water that slid over Nora’s shoulders and back.
Hadn't this been what he had striven for? Fought for? Had fled the dark city of the old to come to the new, wrapped in nothing but a cloak that had torn away?
This place was large... peaceful. Better yet, no one knew who he was as he walked the streets calmly, pink eyes drifting from left to right slowly, to and fro, back and forth. He admired those that walked without a care in the world to their step, to the smiles that tugged on lips as they greeted one another. Their lives were likely something boring, but something he envied so. Lives that had not experienced tragedy or a fate that had twisted them inside out.
Jericho heaved out a soft sigh, and his crowned head seemed to finally relax, the horns glimmering at the tips whenever he stepped out of the shadow of a building and in to the light that spilled over the lands. This day was warm, humid. Summer time, and here he was, outside and enjoying freedom for it. Enjoying a life that could now be his.
Though he wasn't sure if he actually wanted that.
Without his former life, he felt bereft, lost. He felt as if he were aimlessly wandering with no purpose to send him forward. When he had lost his purpose -- his enslavement -- he had gained... nothing, it felt, save for freedom. What was freedom if there was nothing to have? If there was no purpose?
Those were the thoughts that plagued him as he walked among the people, earning stares that he winked at out of habit, his very step something that seemed seductive.
Healed at last. Araxes could shake away the phantoms of her past, but not the marks left on her from it. Silvery scars under a speckled hide, sometimes nightmares that plagued her if she didn't have the proper tincture made for herself before going to bed. It was... difficult, to say the least, but it was getting easier as time went one. Slowly. Day by day.
Now however, she brought herself through the court, hooves gently clipping on the hard flooring as she rounded herself toward the library, hoping to spy a familiar face.
Isorath had become a rather good friend, and to have him as part of the Night Court was a delight to the spotted woman.
"There you are," came her voice, a smile on her lips as she spied the familiar ivory and gold of the kirin that had become close to her, and closer even to her Sovereign. "You're always so easy to find, nosing at these books. Haven't you already read that one?" She laughed just a little, but calmed the next moment, slate eyes warm and her smile even more so.
She stood before the other.. different. A soft rounding, a seeming glow about her. "I'm hoping to convince you to impart some of your teas to me, Isorath. I've come to realize I can't exactly concoct something myself when I'm not feeling too well to do so. I need something for the sickness this little one has begun bringing to me."
Maybe not a soft rounding, but plenty. Unlike her size with the twins, it was obvious that this would be a single birth, though the foal was still going to be large, due to the father.
