The name was spoken questioningly from dark lips, accented formally, poised and proper as he always was. There was a shift in the Dawn King’s demeanor as he approached, his expression softening with a roll of a golden shoulder, emerald eyes glittering in the evening light. The meeting had just adjourned, but he had already made up his mind. There would be no need for deliberation with his Regime, not when he knew who he wished to arise to the task of Champion of Wisdom.
She had switched professions recently, proving herself as a capable Sage. He could still recall their first meeting, in the cool early morning inside of Delumine’s citadel. Somnus had been impressed by her sweet candor and devoted passion, as well as her quick wit and charming tongue. A lady of the court, learned and noble, with an insatiable appetite for learning, knowledge, and truth.
There was a flicker of guilt that pooled bitterly within his gut. By all rights, Nimue still held the rank of Champion of Wisdom, but the wise woman was nowhere to be seen. It was as if she had simply disappeared from the world entirely, and while Somnus loathed to replace her in her absence, they could not linger in limbo or make exceptions for those who were not around. Should Nimue return, he could only hope that she would forgive them for their decision. Hopefully nothing ill had happened to her…
’Mind on track, Somnus. There you are.’ Alba’s gentle prodding snapped him from his thoughts, and he glanced to the barn owl who rested upon her customary perch upon his croup. She knew his troubled thoughts and doubts but did not judge him for it. The owl was a blessing, through and through. Turning his head, he focused once more upon the spotted lady in front of him.
“A moment of your time, if you would?” He hoped that she had nowhere pressing to be. This was a discussion that needed to happen, and the sooner, the better. Verdant depths met soft baby-blue, lips twisted in a jovial enough smile. While still holding the air of the Sovereign, his posture was relaxing, slowly shifting from Somnus the Dawn King to simply Somnus the man. This would be a political discussion, of course, but he felt oddly at ease in Messalina’s company. He knew why Ipomoea enjoyed her presence. The dunalino felt the same.
The world bloomed before her, the rainbow of colors dazzling. A warm spring breeze whisked around her, it grappled lightly at her hair and pushed impatient fingers into her skin. An aroma of life floated about her, the sweet pollen of flowers glided about upon the gale. Hills of emerald rolled on as far as she could see, her silver eyes impressed by the immensity of the plain. Above her, large fluffy clouds of ivory wafted slowly across a turquoise sky. On the breeze, beneath the scent of fresh life, one particular scent seeped through, the sea. It was far off, but it was there. Vanora felt The Naga awaken within her mind. The beast inhaled the memory of the salty brine as it prowled around within the darkness. Take me there girl, it’s close. So close. The creature murmured quietly, it was not a request. “No,” she responded, her words echoed around her. It was command enough. You will regret this girl, The Naga warned, a growl evident in its ghastly voice. It then proceeded to lash out against the mental barrier Nora had so painstakingly constructed. Remember who I am child, the monster advised viciously as Nora cried out in pain. A headache soon throbbed within her temples in response to The Naga’s attack.
Slowly, Vanora lowered herself to the soft grass that caressed her limbs. This, this was her prison, her own mind. There was no escape for her, she was trapped within a cell with a creature so dark, the world should fear it. Oh, they do. They will. The Naga responded with a promise, once again it showed its ability to tear at the young girl’s mind. "They will never know you," Vanora whispered, a vow to the world. Never would she allow this creature to be released upon it, no matter what she must do to maintain its captivity.
The sun was pleasant upon her chocolate hide as she curled up in the grass and wished away the pain in her head. The wind continued to tickle her skin gently as she allowed the gracious spring day to comfort her. For a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to live in the silence her words had caused. "Never again will you see the ocean," she finished, so silently, it could've been imagined.
like a kaleidoscope in vibrant hues
i navigate around your tattoos
He’d missed her ear by a literal hair, teeth snapping together as he bit down instead on empty, tasteless air. His jaw clenched, lips forming into a snarl as she dances just out of reach.
“Next time it won’t be an almost,” he promised maliciously, head tossed loftily into the air now. He wasn’t used to his punches missing… perhaps he was rustier than he’d originally thought, time having served to soften his muscles. It was a blow to his ego, and a thought that he pushed away aggressively. ’Out of sight, out of mind.’
Instead, Aion stands there watching the colorful mare, his mind turning slowly. Satisfaction bloomed deep in his gut at the mark he’d left on her face, his hoof print sliced into her cheek. ’Hopefully that will scar.’ The thought gave him a wicked sense of pride, imagining the smiling wolf with a slightly lopsided grin, perhaps a line of scar tissue stretched across her check.
With a huff, he turns away.
An invisible finger traces the curve of the wound she had inflicted on him, prompting forward another trickle of blood. It wasn’t a particularly deep cut, but still he was missing hair and skin. It was as if a patch had been grazed clean off the top of his croup—he wondered, was it laying there in the dust underhoof somewhere? He smiled grimly at the thought, humoring himself with the idea of finding it and transplanting it back on.
Alas, a battlefield was not a place meant for surgery. And what was another scar to add to his collection? As long as he kept the area clean, it would heal. He would know.
Allowing his telekinesis to fade away, he dared a glance back at his opponent, whom he was surprised to see hadn’t left yet.
“Just let me know if you need help stitching that back up, sweetheart.” ’And maybe I’ll think about helping you.’
@liesel // time to start the real party!!
continuing from this thread!
"quit talking already."
Character #1: @Eik Bonded: no Magic: nope Armor: naw Weapons: never (and would never use one on sera!!)
Character #2: @Seraphina Bonded: No Magic: No Armor: No Weapons: No
In his year in Novus, Eik had let himself become weak, let the desert whittle away at him. He had let his curiosity turn him soft- It had felt so freeing to be naive, to feel a child once more, learning about this new world and the way it worked. He had begun to think that he did not have to fight here, in this place fat with peace. In this place grotesque with vanity, dripping in gold and steel.
How abruptly that had changed.
The Davke attack was something like an awakening. As though all his life before that moment was spent at the edge of a dream. This life, All Those Years, passed with eyes half-closed. He is awake now, and there is a clarity to the world that was lacking just a few weeks ago.
He had let Hope take root in him,
and it had been devoured once more.
This damn wheel keeps turning.
In the weeks that followed the attack, in the countless hours spent moving the dead and sending them to their god (he helped to prepare but never watched the ceremonies; the smell of burning flesh still has the power to unravel him, even after all these years), throughout it all,
the spiraling slowly started again.
[!!! TW !!!]
The healers did not understand how the knife wound on his left shoulder was not healing as fast as the others- he did not tell them, possibly did not even realize, that he kept prodding at it with his newfound telepathy. He kept moving an invisible finger back and forth across the sliced skin, slowly exploring the length and depth of it. He was not so violent as to tear it further, but it never quite closed. It did not help that he never accepted the healing herbs and tonics the medics kept pressing on him. Healing supplies were in short supply, best save them for those on death's doorstep.
[end TW]
But we return from our wandering thoughts to here and now. Eik clears his scattered mind as he enters the arena of sand. He cannot remember (an odd thing for him, to not remember- he wishes he could do it more) whose idea this was. Perhaps it was one of those things that happens without words. It does not matter. He silently awaits his queen's first move, breath calm and collected, attention in razor sharp focus.
His self retreats until there is no joy, no sadness... and then, not even anger.
He becomes a weapon.
Summary: There is some reflection on life over the past two weeks since the davke attack, then Eik enters the Day Court arena (I hope its okay that I'm using that as the setting?) and waits for sera to make her first move. I left it open as to whether she's already there or not. <3 He is mostly healed from his wounds from the Davke attack but slightly favors his left shoulder.
Jasmine and woodsmoke. Girls in cool silks and long glittering necklaces, pierced at the ears, whispering warmly to each other through the incense-choked air. Drumbeats blasting deep in the soil. Candlelight moving hotly through the dark of the night, faint but constant, blazing and then faltering, warming up the previously dim-lit corners of brick buildings, sandstone corners, cobblestones awash with luminescence. There is glitter on the wet streets, silver over everything. Bodies swim in the blackness and reappear yards later wearing jewels, perfume, new cuts. Eyes meet and part again. The black sky is studded with stars and a keening crescent moon, and in the near-darkness, buzzing with violence and giddiness, Bexley Briar goes slinking through the markets of Denocte.
She bumps hips with other girls her age, pushes brusquely past men and boys. What use is it to waste time on these interactions? Little attention is paid to the crowd around her. The chain around her neck is tight and heavy, a hard flash of gold that singles her out from the crowd. And yet it is partially concealed by the careful artwork of her hair, that mass of white curls fluorescent in the darkness, dragging against the slope of her shoulders, moving against the hard lines of her cheek. There is a violent kind of efficiency in the way she advances through the crowd. Strides extended, weaving through the press of bodies, head ducked down close to her chest, cold eyes glaring up through a forest of lashes, moving back and forth with Herculean effort to find the revenge she’s come here for. And people are watching her, she knows - the smooth lines of her body, the heavy scent of Solterra masked with Denoctian perfume - but, most of all the scar on her face. The line of ripped yellow skin from her eye to the edge of her mouth. Unmistakably disgusting in the depth, the width. The way it begs not to heal. Gore and still-hardening scar tissue, deep and vicious red, turning her lip into a semi-permanent snarl which glows in stark contrast to the previously unmarred beauty of a pretty girl.
Pretty girl pretties on by. And she won’t, anymore.
Dark, hot music floats through the air in so many subtle waves. If it were any other night, this would be enjoyable - the flutes, the incense smoke, the whispers passed from ear to ear, the drinks in frosty glass cups - a refuge, even, from the constant self-destruction of Solterra. But tonight it is merely a means to an end. A boundary to be crossed. A compass, perhaps, one that bangs again and again towards its southernmost point, the densest end of the marketplace, where the crowds are thick, the lights low, the opportunity for revenge absolutely rife. Bexley’s hooves crack on the cobblestone, her lip mats with blood. Her pupils are blown with lust and anger. And Solis spews fire through her chest, her muscles, her bones, as she emerges into the thickest part of the crowd and sees him there, black against the candlelight, his back turned to her as he entertains a crowd of young Decoctians with what can only be some silly card game. The low laughter of his voice is indiscernible over everything else, but still the mere song of it sets Bexley’s teeth to buzzing.
How can he laugh, still? Knowing what he did to her? What it must have felt like to hear the rocks crashing down on every side? Does he not think at all about the dark bruises still silvering her sides, the crush of dust inside her lungs, the scar on her face that has started oozing rich blood, yet again, in protest of how hard she is clenching her jaw? For a moment she is too angry to move. Remains there and says nothing. Does nothing. Admires the strong lines of his body, the fact that he is still here, corporeal, close enough for her to slice open, if she wanted to.
And she does. She really, truly does.
A coin flies through the air in front of him, somehow amazing the half-dozen watchers he’s collected. Her heartbeat slows, thickens, hardens. There is nothing. The world around them is not real. Now ,it is just a failed collection of wavering candles, jewelry flickering in the low light, the soft, near-silent sound of music drowned out by the ethereality of the situation. Bex stands up straight and pushes hair back from her face. The scar on her face is in its fully glory now, blood still dripping slowly from the places it has been re-opened by her anger, so that beyond the smell of stolen perfume, and the sandy scent of Solterra, iron floats from her skin to salt the air. A young boy in Acton’s crowd catches sight of it, and his eyes widen with surprise.
Bexley gives him a cold, dark, beautiful smile.
Wanna see a trick? she asks, eyes glowing with feral self-satisfaction. The bare of her teeth in a mock-grin is nothing less than terrifying. I can make you see ghosts.
A wall of stone rose to the heavens before her as the young woman lifted her silver eyes at its immensity. A sly smile spread across her velvet lips as she tilted her head in observation. What do you think? Nora cast the thought into the abyss that was her mind and from the depths, a low, foreign grumble responded. Strong, but I’ve seen armies that could step on this wall as if it were not there.
A chuckle escaped Nora as the creature inside her head prowled back and forth, like a big angry cat. Are you anxious? Nora asked again, her thought laced with humor. Yes, I am anxious child, we’re in a godforsaken desert, how could I not be? The creature responded angrily. Get used to it, we’ll be here awhile. Nora responded again as she lifted her hooves and began to move down the wall in search of a doorway. And when she came upon it, she felt a hiss shudder through her mind as the Naga responded to what was before them. A courtyard, impressive in size extended before them as Vanora waltzed through the gates, her glowing eyes swivelled about. Vanora could actually see the heat, it sweltered gently before her and she wondered if this was as hot as it grew or if this was a nice day for these people. Her steps were deliberate, her tail flicked behind her, back and forth. She took it all in, her heart swelled as she realized this could be her new life. Don’t be so damn happy Vanora, I will find a way to get us back to the ocean. The Naga rumbled inside her skull, a wicked grin appeared in the darkness. Don’t count on it, Vanora said, it wasn’t a statement, it was a promise.
Vanora pulled herself from her thoughts and set up her mental wall to keep the Naga silent for a while before she stopped in the center of the courtyard. Her own thoughts bounced around as her curiosity grew with each glance at her surroundings. “Hello?” Nora’s words were honest and laced with question as they echoed around her, the silence seemingly endless.
The ocean tide had rolled into the desert and Solterra had no idea what they’d let into their borders. God, Nora hoped they’d never have to find out.
"Vanora speaks out loud" The Naga speaks to Vanora Vanora speaks to The Naga
Cyrene she spun herself a crown of gold,
thrones of bones and citadels.
—
The night sky was a dazzling miasma of diamond stars and velvet clouds. How quickly the heavens forgot. How cruel for the sky to be beautiful, when the earth weeps scarlet with the blood of a thousand.
Cyrene turned away from the light of the moon as she drew her black cloak tighter over her autumn curls. She couldn't risk being recognized tonight, not when she was attempting an act akin to treason.
Silently, she crept through the ransacked streets of Solterra like a shadow. Every inch of her body was as tense as a tightly drawn bow, her senses as sharp as knives despite the fatigue that clung to her bones like dew. She paused for a moment to stare into a pool of glassy liquid. Blood or water, she couldn’t tell — though the latter seemed far more likely. Her reflection stared back at her with hollow eyes, and mutely Cyrene studied her bedraggled self like an artist might study his paintings.
Amber eyes that had once danced with the flames of joviality were now sunken and dull with exhaustion. Patches of dried and flaking blood covered her skin like snow, and the planes of her face were too sharp to be considered elfin and delicate anymore. A fallen angel. Her wings are now as bent and broken as her heart, she thought, bitterly poetic as she stepped over the puddle without a second glance back.
Her loyalty to Dusk, her abidance of the newly-forged alliance, had cut into the Emissary’s flesh like iron shackles. It bound her limbs tighter and tighter, a constrictor that whispered to her which lives she should see as worthless, and which lives deserved to rot in the sand like animals left for slaughter.
She couldn't agree with it. No — before she was Florentine’s emissary, before she was even Cyrene, she was a healer of Pelion. It was in her blood, ingrained into her very bones. And Cyrene Ioannou would rather be labeled a traitor than turn her back on a life that could’ve been saved. This had been the only way, operating under the cover of night. Sneaking from the infirmary's tents like a thief to tend to the ones she had been ordered to ignore, to leave for dead, in the light of day.
The sudden sound of hoofbeats rang through the arid air like thunder, and Cyrene dived with uncanny speed towards the shadow of a crumbling pillar. Her heart thudded in her chest as she dared not breathe until the Solterran guards' footfalls melted into the night. That was too close.
Before she could stand, however, a low groaning drew her wary gaze towards a crumpled figure hidden amongst the rubble. A Davke soldier. The hilt of a sword stuck out from his side, buried so deeply in him she wasn’t sure how he was still alive.
“Perhaps the Davke have magic of their own,” she muttered, as she made her way carefully towards him. It had been like this the whole night — a Davke with a mortal wound, lying in the shadows as they waited for death to claim them at last. They were too weak to startle, too disoriented to attack, when she'd appear before them and yank them back to the land of the living. "Try to keep still — this will hurt a bit."
She was so focused on extracting the blade from the man’s flesh as carefully as she could, that she didn’t hear him approach at all. Not when she wrapped the last of her bandages gingerly around the soldier's bloody chest. Not when she moved him, panting from the effort, from sharp rock to soft sands. Not when she lifted herself to her hooves, nearly toppling back down again from a sudden wave of nausea.
Not until she steadied herself and turned.
"Who—" Her hood fell from her eyes as she stumbled back in shock, only to be met with golden eyes as bright as the sun. Those eyes. A hundred days and nights, they had lingered always at the edges of her memory; she had never forgotten him, not even for a second.
“Velorca?” Her voice was barely a whisper, her expression unreadable. Something was wrong. Why was he here? And— “You’re hurt.”
@Velorca | "speaks" | notes: if it tagged you again, i'm sorry! O: wanted to change the table c'x
The night was still, the chirps of crickets and the croaks of bullfrogs long gone quiet. The wind did not stir the leaves on the trees; the sun did not yet dare to break Caliga’s hold on the dark. Solis himself was loathe to disturb this surreal period.
Nothing moved; nothing made a sound. It was as if the whole of Terrastella were holding their collective breaths. Waiting for something not yet seen, not yet known, but believing wholeheartedly in what was to take place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It will be this odd silence that awakens Israfel. Drawn from a dreamless sleep by the feeling that something is amiss, or perhaps something is simply missing from the world. It’s to quite, too seemingly close to death—for a brief span of time all of the life and vigor has been sucked out like marrow from a bone, leaving the southwestern corner of Novus an empty shell of itself, color replaced with endless tones of black and gray beneath the moonless sky.
Israfel may feel a tug on her heart: invisible but powerful, beckoning to her. If she heeds it, the unseen line will draw her out of the comfort of her bed, trading the warmth of her blankets for the cool of the open air. It pulls her from her chambers and down a silent hallway, hoofbeats echoing loudly down the empty stone corridor. The farther she walks, the stronger the tug becomes—until at last she stops before a single south-facing window, thrown open already to the outside. The stars shimmer in the sky, blinking silently from afar as the waves crash and roil mutely.
It is here Israfel shall wait with all the other midnight creatures of her Court, quiet and patient, listening to the silence whisper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It appears first as a speck, a flash of bright light on the distant horizon. But slowly, steadily, it expands: a burning heat radiates from its molten core, accelerating quickly over the sea. Wings can be made out from the indistinct shape, formed of the purest of golds.
It crests the waves, glides over the rolling dunes of the beach, and heads for the Court.
It had been a long journey, but at last the phoenix crosses the final leg. Her quest is nearly finished, her excitement growing and materializing as bright light tracing along the edges of her silk-like body.
Nor does she does not slow until the last second—bursting through the open window in a magnificent shower of feathers and light, illuminating the hallway from the inside out.
”I have been looking for you.”
Her words burn inside of Israfel’s mind as she turns proudly to face her, beaming with dignity and joy. She has reached her bonded at last, her chosen one.
Like cotton being pulled from the ears of the world, a crescendo of crashing waves and chirping crickets fills the silence from before, color rushing back in to fill the world once more.
And all is right again.
When @Israfel is awakened by the odd silence, she will feel called to join the seemingly unspoken waiting that the rest of Terrastella is locked in. It is here that she will watch the phoenix ascend upon her in a brilliant show of light and feathers. There is nothing conspicuous about the meeting; Solaris wants to be seen and welcomed in every way as the magnificent creature she is.
Israfel has met her bonded.
Thread requirements: 1 reply, 500 words. Please tag the RE account in your reply.
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may begin including Solaris in your IC posts.
An unexpected presence, lingering at the edge of the forest. Unfamiliar, looming and ominous— there was something off about the aura, about the look he gave to the earth beneath his hooves. Dirt, compact and stemming with spring life, weeds and blooming flowers reaching for his cream hooves as if begging for his attention. Mercilessly, silently, he crushes the life beneath him, flattens the flora into the earth and spits at it, as if offended by it.
"Áldott fiam, menj el, ahogy tetszik. Nézd meg a világot a szemeddel, fedezze fel, mi fekszik e falakon túl. Visszatérés, ha elégedett az eredményekkel." That is what his father had said to him, Fiú Király, the silver tongued ruler of his homeland. He idolized his father and everything the man did, the twisted manipulation of the hearts and loyalties of his subjects and allies - a man of true power. The son has looked to him for everything, has dreamed of taking a seat beside him, of taking his throne and ruling righteously over his homeland. As a child he dreamed of dragons, of hellfire and the silver spit of his beloved sire. He dreamed of sweetened blood, of wicked trances and wielding power the way his father did, silent but terrifying. (the sugar sweet, honey thick drop of bleeding red, resting on his tongue and letting him fade into the unconscious). To harness that power, he could only dream.
He passes the trampled flowers, past the trees growing their green leaves and the chirping birds that sing of a joyous spring. He shrugs the cold winter off his shoulders, the iron grip of cold ice over his heart the only thing to remain— he was a son of the winter, born in the winter months, comfortable in the dead silence of darkened days and frigid nights. To be here, with spring in full swing and the days growing longer, he feels something akin to annoyance bubbling beneath the surface. He expects that activity will bloom in tandem with the season, anticipating to be approached, to be noticed or questioned. Strangers are never able to slip seamlessly into societies, into cultures and countries; they were alien, visitors from distant fantasies, from dreamlands and spoken word. They carried with them stories and history incomprehensible to some, experiences and existences that were beyond the borders they were in.
And that was him, Káin, áldott fiam; a presence brought into these borders for a reason he cannot place, but knowing that here there was something for him. He treads through the forest, weaving through the tall and oddly familiar pines, crooked face a ghastly sight in the dark of dusk, catching flares of golden light between the branches of trees. He haunts this forest, ghosting through the unfamiliar realm, mapping out the location with keen observance. He waits in this stillness and silence, letting idle minutes pass him by.
-- i'm super rusty forgive me C': and basically the big long hungarian sentence is his father telling him to go see the world for himself, but come back when he's satisfied with what he's seen
try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good wind up on your own floor, choking on blood
It’s quiet in the caves.
Seraphina can’t remember the last time she was down here – sometime in her youth, she knows. The soldiers would sneak through them to get past enemy lines. They aren’t safe, and, as she descends deeper and deeper into the musty darkness, she knows that they aren’t really familiar anymore, either. That doesn’t keep her from walking, however, loosing sleek strands of her snow-white hair and tying them around stalagmites to keep her way. A lantern dangles in the air at her side, rosy, cinnamon-scented flame sending odd shadows dancing along the cavern walls. There are torches lining the walls, long unlit; now that the caverns have become the hunting ground of thieves and outcasts, most of the passages remain dark and unwelcoming. She pushes forward, hair tumbling down her neck; she had not bothered to braid it.
She isn’t entirely sure what possessed her to descend into the ominous, labyrinthian darkness of the Abigo Caves. She knows well how dangerous they are, and, though she possesses reasonable trust in her own navigational skills, she knows that her kingdom is in no position to have the life of its sovereign at risk, particularly for a foolish venture. However, as she stared out at the Mors earlier that morning, steeling herself to travel to Veneror again, – for ceremony, not faith – she realized that she couldn’t bring herself to cross Novus under the weight of a sky she no longer wanted to see, her every move watched by the oppressive eyes of gods in which she had lost her belief. And so, she had returned to these familiar, spiraling pathways; with each step she takes, Seraphina sinks further and further away from the world above, as though she’s sinking beneath the ink-black water in the maze, some unseen monster prowling at her heels. It’s quiet, save for the gentle rhythm of her own breath and the clap of her hooves against the stones. Quiet, like the Mors at night, far away from the bustle of the capitol city. If you ran far enough into the desert, she’d learned, you could eventually reach expanses of sand where nothing could be seen from horizon to horizon but rising dunes, like waves, and endlessly blue sky. Once, they had been something of a comfort, a lapse from the relentless tension that inevitably came with navigating the capitol city. Now, whenever she stepped into the desert, she could think of nothing but the Davke watching, waiting like serpents in the sand. She knows that it was never safe, but, for a time, it had felt that way.
The path spills out into a large cavern enclosed around an underground lake, likely fed by a river she cannot see but thinks that she can hear. To her surprise, the cavern is open to the sky; at some point in her travels, she must have risen up towards the surface again. Starlight is spangled across the dark, mirror-like surface of the lake; it is as though all of the constellations have been plucked from the sky and flung across the water, as though there is no difference between the space above and the space below. She steps out into the starlight tentatively, lantern flickering at her side. It’s strangely beautiful and entirely unexpected, she has to admit – she had never seen water in the caves before, though she has occasionally heard tales of lakes large enough to be called seas and rivers far more magnificent and untainted than anything that could be found above the surface. As she paces tentatively down the stony, slick bank of the lake, she snuffs the flame of her lantern; she came prepared with plenty of matches, and the candle has more than enough wax left to burn, but she has no need for it under the cover of starlight. The water laps at her hooves, and she bends to drink, scattering the stars in waves of glittering ripples; it’s pleasantly cool and fresh against her lips. She draws back, then, and edges back towards the cavern walls, peering off into the bluish darkness in search of the next path. The silence is no longer a comfort under the open sky, but, although it would have been her solution in the past, she can’t find it in her to sing. Whenever she tries to remember the words, she finds herself thinking of what to do all over again; glassy eyes and bloody bodies are never out of her mind for long. She wants so desperately for her next move to be as clear as the mirror-like surface of the lake, but she knows that she can no longer look to the sky for guidance.
She paces forward along the water’s edge with little more than a rudimentary glance up.
![[Image: outgoing_by_arahvir_dbiz59a_by_odelae-dc2ea0d.png]](https://orig00.deviantart.net/a929/f/2018/037/2/d/outgoing_by_arahvir_dbiz59a_by_odelae-dc2ea0d.png)
