MY QUEENS IS A QUEEN
NOT TALKING BRIGHT LIGHTS AND SHINY THINGS
BUT WE ALWAYS MADE IT WORK
BUILDING CASTLES OUT OF DIRT
Some would say she returns too soon; but then again, who could keep Calligo’s stormsinger from the Steppe from which is was born to love? To burn for? To be ruined upon it’s bleak massacres of spilled blood and torn knuckles and lives lost? No.. no one could keep her away. Not even the memories of the Solterran’s voice could haunt her now. Too long have they been riddled within her dreams, her heartbeats, her steps, like a demon leeching her sanity through the long days that she had spent healing. Waiting. Mustering every ounce of strength as the earth began anew with life in riots of color and the thick of spring flowers.
And now, she returns to the Steppe but with a single purpose. To rid herself of her past pain, and to begin again. Just like the flowers that blossom all around her.
She was a whisper of nightfall as dawn murmured on the horizon in yawning glitters of color. "It’s good to see you again, hero," she croons, utterly unable to hide the curl of her copper-kissed lips. She blinks against the light of new day, gaze landing upon the familiar face that stands opposite of her. Once before, they had met here, and now once again, their fates have been intertwined. Blue blossoms flutter and wisp around her, crystalline in the sunbeams that crest over the trees that line the boundaries of their battlefield. There is a magic that burns in her blood and down into the marrow of her bones. It is not the storm that swirls within her, ever present, but something ethereal and precious in the mere moments the sun has begun to rise.
Aislinn’s neck cracks as her crown tilts; muscles coiling in anticipation under the dark of her skin. The stormsinger eyes her opponent — the Warden of Dawn, the Dawn King’s glaive. The fires of her gaze flares with the crackle of lightning that sizzles down the length of her spine. "You owe me after last time."
Contemplative, he watched the night sky above and let the stars cast their gleam in his eyes. They twinkled welcomingly if shy; like fae creatures unsure of the guest that walked through their lands, sending whispers through a forest of their arrival. Guest as he was, Eidolon could not recognize these stars. In his homeland they were quite different. In shape, in colors, in the intensity of their light, in the way they patterned themselves into stories and figures. In every way he could imagine these were strangers to him. There were more pressing differences than the stars, but he dreaded the thought of everything else. Though, they increasingly began to creep in, despite his unwillingness to consider their deeper meaning. What did it mean to be mortal? Before this night he had not known. Now though, he could feel it like a spider’s web he could not escape from. Eventually, that spider would find him and there was no amount of fighting he could do to stop it. The concept of age was new to him. Time was no longer a passive force, it held his life in a fanged grip and tore away at him ever so slowly. How was it even possible to be so fragile?
As much of a shock as it came to him, Eidolon did not feel what he would describe as an impending sense of meaninglessness or melancholy. He had known that feeling for far too long in his birthplace as the exiled deity. This was more of a thrill: a chance to make the most miniscule of existences something so much grander. Nothing was certain, but he felt this was right for him, even if the loss of his true power was devastating. Not even a drop of his original power was left. Forever would he be separated from the grand darkness that had given him life. At least, the void he was used to. Now he could sense something similar but different. The night was no longer his domain, but surely it was someone’s. He wondered, would his presence in this new place make him an enemy, or was he now just another part of this world? Not knowing made Eidolon uncomfortable but he was used to the unknown.
Beyond his musings, and beyond the mortal worries that would plague his mind, there was the thought of one other being. Jezanna. He had not come to this new world alone. Partially in worry, and partially in an envious need to know she was in fact walking this new earth with him, he sought out the young moon. Her parents had spurned him any chance at happiness, and he wanted to be certain he had taken theirs. Even from the bitterness in his heart though, Eidolon felt a tinge of guilt. One he eviscerated and left in a far away place within his mind. He was not in the wrong… this was justice, and love. All he had done for hope of love, that was what he told himself and soon came to believe in earnest.
Turning his gaze from the sky, he kept a steady pace to. . . anywhere. Where he was exactly he could not say. It was beautiful though, and he knew Jezanna was drawn to beautiful places. The field rolled in hills like an ocean of grass in which the wind pushed them about like waves. So full of life and color; a pastoral wonderland of spring. It was the sort of thing he had never gotten much of a chance to admire before. He could see why Jezanna had loved to visit her world before; he only hoped she could come to love this world just as much. Somewhere under these stars she was there, he knew it; and eventually their intertwined destinies would bring them back together.
Solis crafted his Colosseum from the sandstone walls forming the Elatus Canyon, a playground for the warriors who follow him. Each cut was careful, deliberate, carving a grand building directly from the walls of rock, molding the sand to hold the shape he willed it to. The result was impressive: a beautiful fortress raised higher than the ravine sides themselves, large and imposing and nearly blending in with its natural defenses. Solis smiled when he saw his finished creation, throwing open its doors wide to welcome any who wished to test their mettle inside.
The Colosseum is very large, but rough; age has worn its looks down over time, although its integrity still stands. It is made of solid but aged wood, rough stone, and old heavy chains; pieces of the Colosseum walls have crumbled or worn down so the intricate carvings are near indistinguishable, but the beauty of the natural wonder is unmistakable even after all this time. The center of the Colosseum is open to the sky; most often, fights are held at noon, when the sun is at its highest point in the sky and shines directly down onto the arena. The locals claim it is this way so that Solis might witness the fights; the winners are said to be blessed by the sun god himself.
The arena floor was dug roughly 20 feet down from the surrounding land, so that is is sunk into the ground and well below the auditorium seating. The only pathway that leads into the arena area from outside of the Colosseum is a long tunnel, sloping up the incline from the arena and leading to a heavily gated and guarded door on the outside of the Colosseum that faces into the Elatus Canyon. Without knowing what it is you are looking for, it can be hard to find, hidden amongst the many nooks and crannies of the sandstone ravine.
The gladiator cages lie just outside of the arena and they, too, were dug into the ground so as to be level with the arena floor. They were used to contain ancient fighting slaves and ferocious beasts for them to battle; although several have rusted, all they need is a little TLC to make them fully functional once more.
Amongst these holding cages is a single 'medical room' - a phrase used very loosely amongst Solterrans. It is a room that is kept relatively clean, and has a low-laying stone slab in the center. Basic medical necessities can be found nearby: bone needles and sinew thread for rough stitch jobs; textile gauze; heavy plant-based numbing agents; a few small-blade bone scalpels for rough surgery meant to pry things out of open wounds. The list is minimal, and allows for the 'doctors' to quickly patch up fighters and either send them back into the ring, or send them off elsewhere to be healed outside of the Colosseum. Often, supplies run low, and doctors have to make due with what they can scrap.
There are total of three tiers (not including the lowest arena level). Upon entering the Colosseum, the spectator will find him or herself within an entrance hallway with a high ceiling not meant for seating and having no visibility into the arena. Here, merchants can peddle their wares if so allowed by the Regime - most times, the Regime strictly forbids weaponry from being peddled inside the Colosseum itself, or may even go as far as to not allow weapons in at all. Blacksmiths and forgers can instead peddle their goods outside the walls, and the most common wares found within the first tier itself are food and jewelry merchants. In this hallway, there are no windows to see out into the arena, and many staircases can be found a stone's throw from one another - these lead up onto the first seating floor. If someone wishes to spectate a fight, they must head up these staircases.
The seating arrangements are fairly simple. The tiers are mostly open and devoid of actual seats, but have a short stone wall at the front-most edge to prevent spectators from falling down into the arena. They allow for enough room for spectators to file in and stand to watch the battle below. Staircases leading up to the higher tiers are peppered every 50 meters from one another. The higher the tier, the farther back it sits from the arena's edge - no tiers are stacked directly on top of the other, although each tier has a stone 'base' that sits it 5 meters above the tier below it.
There are two royalty boxes - one on the north, and one on the south. The royalty boxes are on the second tier, and have thick stone walls on all sides of them with heavily padlocked doors. No one sitting on the same tier as the royalty box can see into it if they are sitting beside it. The royalty boxes themselves can host no more than 5 equines max; it is important for the Sovereigns to pick carefully who they wish to represent them in the box. The thick stone walls directly behind the royalty boxes form pathways which lead all the way to the back wall of the colosseum. Said stone walls guard the staircase that leads up to the royalty box from the first floor.
While the Colosseum is rough in construction, it is not devoid of decoration. Plant-fiber and hide-based textiles allow for a personal touch, and can be personalized depending on the regime's tastes.
Training Supplies
In the tunnels below the stands, surrounding the sunken arena, are a series of rooms containing leather and rough stone armor, and a collection of crudely made wooden and bronze weapons. Often they're guarded by one of the Colosseum's d'Ori; they are in charge of the cleaning, monitoring, and checking out of supplies to the fighters and recruits.
Medic Room
A single room, longer than it is wide to host two rows of beds for recuperating patients. At the back is two doors, leading to two rooms: one holds all of the supplies necessary to treat combat wounds, limited though it may be. Sinew thread, bone needles, gauze, bandages, pain relievers, sterilized water; all of these are in high demand.
The other room is kept as clean as a room in a sandy desert can be, and it holds a single stone slab in its center that functions as an exam table--and sometimes, an operating table.
The d'Oru
When crafting his playground, Solis also created a species entirely unique to the Elatus: a large lemur-esque mammal with golden fur marked with white-rimmed eyes and and white tail. They boast opposable thumbs and a sophisticated intellect; most often they can be seen aiding the medics or carrying around armor and weapons for the warriors--but they also enjoy sunbathing and napping on spectator's backs. It's rumored these creatures are relatives to the lemur-like creatures in Dusk's Hospital--perhaps Vespera shared her creations with her brother?
Judged Battles
You'll notice that this board has two special thread prefixes, in addition to the sitewide prefixes used: Spar and Battle. Both of these prefixes should be used anytime your character comes to the Colosseum to fight. A Spar can encompass practice, friendly fights, unstructured and unjudged battles, and more!
The Battle prefix is used to post official, judged battles! Please follow all guidelines laid out in the Fight Information thread; whether judged battles are posted in the Bellum Steppe or here in the Colosseum, they must follow the same format! This does not apply to Spar threads.
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers real gods require blood
It has been a week since the Davke had come.
A week since everything she had built had gone up in smoke. A week since she had been reminded in the most vicious and ugly manner imaginable exactly who she was and what she stood against.
A week since, again, she had been forced to ask herself why and found no answer.
As always, Seraphina had put out the fires. As always, she had hunted down the stragglers. As always, she had met bloodlust with blood – as always, she’d collected the bodies. She wondered how long the sandstone roads would stink of burning flesh and smoke. She wondered how long it would take to rebuild, if they could ever rebuild at all. She wondered how long the Davke would be kept at bay, if this vengeance was as fickle and foolish and self-righteous as their motivations – if all the blood she had watched her nation shed was enough to fill their stomachs. She did not care if they were done or not; she merely cared for how long she’d have to devise them into graves they’d dig themselves.
She wants to ache. She wants to ache, to rage, to scream - but her lips can only find the same, tired words, and her chest feels like it is caving in to nothing.
And now she meanders up familiar, worn stone paths under a canopy of patched starlight, content enough in the court’s stability to travel outside of it. There is something that she must do.
In her charcoal lips, she clutches a golden emblem melded into the shape of the sun. It was once situated above her throne; the emblem was, supposedly, a relic from the time of Queen Sol, forged by her blacksmith-lover to proclaim her allegiance to Solis. The edges are slightly rough, chipped by the carving knife she’d used to pry it free from the ancient wood that only miraculously survived the flames. Alongside it, a candle, and an accompanying match. As she reaches the peak, the heavens open above her head, pelting the silver with a cold dusting of rain and wind that knocks her hair from its braids and leaves it streaming rivulets down the sides of her neck. Perhaps, she thinks, it is only right that she does this now, the furthest she can ever be from her god’s light. In the darkness and the haze, she finds herself consumed, another monochromatic smudge against a desolate landscape of mottled stone.
As she takes her final steps up to the shrines, she drinks in the sight of them – beautiful and ancient and untouched by time. As she passes each of them, she pauses, offering a small dip of her head in acknowledgement; no prayers, though. She realizes that, during the Davke attack, during the slaughter, no prayer passed her lips – no prayer even came to mind, not even the soft mantra that she’d repeated through all her years of war. Perhaps, even then, she had known. Perhaps, even before she heard the whispers, even before she saw the Davke come, a halo of gold illuminating the swirl of dust set up against the horizon, she had known. Perhaps she had always known. She knows now.
She finds her way to Solis’s shrine last and takes some meager cover underneath it, depositing the candle and the emblem on the cold marble. She lights the match with her mind and lifts the tiny flame to the wick, alighting the candle; it flickers red-orange against her bloodshot eyes and stark features, strangely warm in the cold and the rain. With that done, she casts a long glance at the emblem, and then pushes it forward to the golden hooves of the sun god, polished and glimmering like wildfire against the frail light of the candle. She tries to think of prayers to whisper, but the words won’t come – her throat seems to close up whenever she tries to cede to them, as though even a search for finality is too much of a concession to make. She tells herself that there is no need to speak her mind to the sun god. There is nothing on his sands of which he is unaware.
The candle flickers out with a gust of mountain wind, leaving little more than a trail of smoke as ghostly silver as the mare’s coat and a faint recollection of cinnamon.
So why had she come, if not to seek some light in the darkness, if not to ask for aid as she struggles to rebuild what remains of the kingdom of day? She looks up into the hard, unfeeling eyes of the statue and wonders if she is beginning to resemble it – no, she thinks, as she catches the vicious, proud twitch of his brows and the curl of his lips and remembers that there is nothing, nothing, nothing that would spark her features to rage. Her apathy is alien and wrong, but she can’t seem to untangle herself from it, and, in the wake of the slaughter, she is unwilling to try; if nothing else, it will serve her well in the days to come.
She is not chosen by those eyes.
Sovereigns were supposed to be chosen by their patron gods, were they not? That is what she has always been told – that was what Zolin claimed whenever his orders were rejected, though she cannot believe that he was chosen by Solis, either. Perhaps she’s every bit as much a sham as her predecessor. Maxence was chosen; he’d slain a teryr, after all. (The same teryr, she thinks, that would have left her dead without his interference – if she ever needed a sign that this crown was not her own, it was that.) Avdotya was fire and rage and ambition, and just as culpable in the creature’s death as Maxence; was it really, then, a shock that the sun god’s favor would go to her, a woman that could take power and vengeance by her own volition, rather than the silver, who’d only ever come into possession of it by chance? She is the Queen of the Day Court, now, but she’d never been the Queen of the Sun. She wants to be angry, or jealous; she wants to be bitter. She wishes she could ask if all of those years of prayer, of screaming, of begging weren’t enough – she wants to say that she tried. She knows that none of those things matter to the sun god. She understands. Nor does she blame the slaughter on him; that belonged to nothing but her own incompetence, her own foolishness. Nevertheless, she knows who he aided that day.
She has spent all her years worshipping a god who demands fire, and all she has ever had to offer is smoke.
Seraphina is not interested in begging for scraps of favor; she is not interested in begging for anything at all. She is done with begging, done with searching for answers, done with searching for some compensation for a past that is nothing but smoke and ashes – if she cannot be volatile and furious as flame (and, when she probes at the space inside of her, darker and darker and deeper and deeper by the day, she knows that she will never have fire), she will be as enduring and creeping as winter ice. She knows what she is; she’ll sooner break than bend.
She takes a deep breath, then exhales white. Her eyes remain on the statue. “The Day Court remains your domain. Its people still look to you for light, beyond the smoke.” One last thing lingers on her tongue, mingled with the taste of blood that she cannot seem to wash out. Seraphina does not hesitate. She is done with hesitation. She is done with being a belonging; she is done with the gods-damned collar around her neck. She will see her people restored – she will see her predecessors’ mistakes fixed – regardless of what it may cost her.
She whispers her final words in quiet defiance – the steady, certain voice of one who’d been crushed beneath the weight of one too many sets of hooves. “But I am no longer yours.”
The new world around him was ethereal. Some moments, Dracarys wondered if it was real at all. The Gods were ones to play tricks, he’d learned young; was this his eternal damnation? With a weary eye peering through the dawn shadows, the stallion heaved a sigh and rolled the worry from his mind with a roll and stretch of the muscles in his body. It had been midnight when he’d stumbled in from the sand, tired and stricken from the heat and intense travel. In his state of dehydration, Dracarys took great pleasure in the blue, blue waters, and how the moon danced across its surface. For the first time in many days did the dragon lay his body down and take in a healthy dose of sleep, but even with the excitement of new day ahead, he did not want to stumble out of bed.
The babble of water trickling against stone was pleasuring to his ears as he slinked from his little thicket in the wood, a quaint smile prickling velvet kissers as they grazed across blades of grass. The taste sent chills down his spine, stomach settling rather quickly. With a new morning, and fluid to stop the dizziness, Dracarys was ready. It had been quite a few days since he’d last sought out another being — the last had been mere passing eyes and small talk. He wanted to know about this place and, Day Court had appealed to him as he watched behind the dunes. Yes, he had looked on for some time, now ready to commit to finding purpose. Dracarys stretched himself into the open-light of the day, eyes scanning over the waterfall. A crackling sounded not far off from him, and he raised his brows and ears toward the sound.
A calm overcame him, shoulders settling. Let them come.
When the first breath of winter through the flowers is icing
And you look to the north and a pale moon is rising
The rain drifted gently through the boughs of the trees, covering the forest in a light shimmer, coating the leaves in droplets that winked whenever the light touched them. It was faint, a soft mist that blurred the edges of your vision like a dream, and as the day waned it lessened to a fuzzy haze. It turned the forest a dreamy grey color, but Vaella didn't mind. Her old home had lived in a place where storms sometimes had stretched for days on end, where there was a boundless amount of sky went on forever. When it rained there it was cold and harsh, and the skies split open with lightning and rolled with thunder. It was different here. More peaceful. And she was finding she preferred it.
Her tan hooves made only gentle thumps along the soft earthen ground, and she tilted her sloped muzzle to regard the tree tops that filtered the weak sunlight that drifted in. In her long travels to these lands she had seen all kinds of new and interesting sights, and it excited her to the core. All the sight that she hadn't yet seen, all the information she was yet to learn about these new places, it made her skin tingle and her heart race. With a smile she trotted on, the scales along her neck arching along her back as she weaved through the trees.
As the haze lifted it left beads of water glistening along her cream colored hide. It wasn't long before she came across a gently flowing stream; it was clear, the fish beneath its surface flicking here and there like tiny silver arrows. Vaella was about to dip her head to take a drink when, out of all things, a flower caught her eye. It arched out of a bush, its flower a bright, fiery red, dappled in the center with bright oranges and yellows. It wasn't anything like the flora she had seen on the fields of her homeland, and a small smile tilted up the corner of her mouth. It was the first of one of the many discoveries she would find in this new land, she was sure.
The evening was growing late, but there was much to discuss. The red sun bathed the courtyard in a dim glow, catching the three figures that stood in radiant light. The sun would soon set, but they had plenty of daylight remaining for such an important event. It had been a busy day, but it was not yet over. Not yet. Perhaps after this, he would settle down with Alba over a mug of spiced cider and unwind. Perhaps Po or Ulric would be willing to join him.
Standing with Po on his right and Ulric on his left, his Regent and Warden respectively, the newly crowned Dawn King allowed word to spread among the numbers of their Court, rippling like waves of the ocean until they reached every pair of awaiting ears. Alba sat upon her customary roost upon his croup, silent save for the occasional clack of a beak. Somnus inhaled slowly, keeping his mind clear and clean, not allowing the stresses or uncertainties to rise. He was safe. They were safe. With Ulric and Po, everything would be alright. They could rely on one another. Somnus could rely on them, trust them, and he would. Breaking all stipulations of decorum, Somnus turned his head to the right, then left, dark lips seeking out the shoulders of his companions to press against. For a few selfish moments he took from their strength, their dedication, their faith, and let out a deep, measured breath.
’Come,’ he had instructed, sending the pages out with a warm smile and an unusual bout of confidence, ’There is news. Meet in the front courtyard.’
The members of their Court arrived, slowly, but inevitably. The amount was an abysmal few and it caused the dunalino’s lips to curl downwards in a concerned frown. Where had they all gone? Familiar faces were now simply gone, as if they had never existed. Perhaps they were simply busy and unable to attend? That reason would have to suffice. Somnus loathed to think of any other reason as to why they would not all come.
Inhaling slowly, Somnus waited in respectful silence as they all situated themselves, waiting for the reason of their summons. The confused murmur danced around, the atmosphere one of uncertainty. Surely they would all notice the absence of Kasil. Deciding to have mercy and not keep them waiting, the dunalino spoke, the polish of his accent carrying easily through the evening air. “Thank you all for coming,” he began, casting a look around, meeting all of the curious eyes and thoughtful expressions, “It has been far too long since we have come together as a Court.”
Somnus honestly couldn’t recall participating in a Court meeting during his life here in Delumine. He resisted the urge to frown. Those days were behind them. If they were to succeed as a Court, they needed to be.
“There are multiple events that need to be brought to light, so I’ll begin. Kasil has stepped down as Sovereign.” A cursory glance around those assembled around him let him know that the former King had presumably already departed from Delumine. Kasil was nowhere to be seen. A pity. He allowed for a moment of silence to spread, to give them all some time to process the sudden, unexpected change before going on, his voice strong with conviction. “In the wake of his abdication, Kasil asked me to rule in his stead. I agreed. I know that this is quite sudden and unexpected, but I promise that I will do all I can to see that our Court thrives under my care. I have already approached Ipomoea to ascend as our Regent. He has accepted.” Somnus paused once more and smiled towards his newly named Regent, emerald eyes glittering in affection and warmth.
“That brings me to our next change. We need to fill our ranks. For far too long the Dawn Court has remained idle, our ranks barren. With good Po’s ascension, the rank of Emissary is now open, as are the stations of each of our Champions. Speak now, if you express interest in either the position of Emissary or any of our Champions.”
With that, Somnus grew quiet, allowing for his words to sink in and for Ipomoea or Ulric to say words of their own. There was much to discuss, and he hoped that everyone present would offer their own thoughts or opinions on the matter. It was the only way they could pull themselves from the stagnant pool of complacency that had Delumine enthralled for so long.
-- As stated before, this meeting is not mandatory. However, if you are interested in Emissary or Champion ranks, you will need to post to express this to the Regime/Ulric!
— you will ache as I ache—
tenderly, tragically, beautifully.
Spring buds and birdsong greeted Isorath the moment he stepped from the slowly warming stone stairs. All around, life ghosted and skirted around the lingering frost like the stream through the forest, coaxing life to flourish in vibrant splashes and dazzling hues beneath banners of sunlight. Thin pale streaks which fought against the clouds painted across the sky in smokey palettes of grey and white, with the sort of desperation and determination one would expect from the sun.
The Rotunda had been outfitted for the Kirin and his intended company earlier on, rich velvet banners embroidered with Denocte's proud colors floated alongside sheer drapes of snow white. Providing an extra touch of luxury and privacy to it's occupants. It radiated warmth and home to the Sage, with it's plush pillows and blankets within, the incense burners who permeated the air with their perfumed smoke. Inviting those who gazed upon it closer, to slip past the veil and curl themselves within the richness, warm, content and never wishing to leave.
'it's almost as if you never left Sunsyia, with all your silks and finery. And the tea.' Aether's voice mused across his mind, the dragon himself coiled lazily ontop of one of the ancient high walls. Frost crept out from beneath his great bulk, spindly tendrils against the pitch black hue of his form. Never too far from Isorath's side, Aether kept one white eye on his companion at all times, protective and intrigued all in the same breath. Aether also made a rather grand statement of making sure no one bothered or caused trouble, a dragon was a rather handy silent threat. 'there's nothing wrong with enjoying yourself, and finery. With friends no less.' Isorath retorted, punctuated by a lazy flick of his ear. He was more focused on setting up the ornate tea set he was so fond of, and making sure there was room for the food that would arrive shortly. Until then, there was the selection of sweets he'd picked up from the night markets, similar to the ones he'd had a penchant for at home.
Once done, he resigned himself to the comfort of the ink colored blanket he had elected to claim for himself, upon the equally dark cushion. The smell of incense curled in his nostrils, with the undertone of tea leaves and his own perfume. He'd sent word to Aislinn to see him in the Garden, if she was feeling up to it. He had worried and fussed internally when word had reached him of her wounds. Few had managed to earn such a fond spot in his heart, such a strange and fickle thing that it was, wounded and jealousy guarding the tenderness it had left.
TAG: @Aislinn NOTES: <3
"this here is your speech colour!
The feeling of grass beneath his gilded hooves was something of a conundrum, still, to the seahewn boy. It was softer than the sand he had forever known, and unlike such endless swathes of gold and white, this earth yielded to the weight of his frame - even now the curious sensation brought a softness to his impish, angular features; a flash of bonewhite teeth to glint in the morning sun. You see, it was a daybreak to revere; for it was the first time Ossian had dared to step out from beneath the protection of Poseidon's gaze since returning to the shore. Perhaps it was the gentle chime of the shells interwoven like lockets and lost promises between the strands of his starshine tendrils. If nothing else, they reminded him of Ama - and that, surely, was enough to stir courage into his heart. Such a foreign abstraction it was to take up the banner of a courageous man, when in truth he was but a gossamer child with a head full of salt and sea. What more could be said than that? Brave or not, there was no curbing his insatiable thirst for this new world he had found himself floundering within - and his inquisitiveness had finally outweighed the fear.
Ossian drifted across the open plain, casting his ocherous gaze to the horizon. It was with great trepidation he had come to stand here upon high, with the wind casting spells upon his bleached-white hair; tossing it skyward into the blue. His life had suddenly become an open book, a sprawling expanse of literature yet unwritten and the possibilities were electrifyingly limitless. What would Ama have thought of it all? Of this land, of this system they named a court? The coal-skinned boy sighed, glancing over his shoulder for one final glimpse of the ocean before moving on once more, his eyes glimmering anew.
All is still as the girl meanders slowly through the forest. How long had it been since she was last here? She asks the leaves and the bee that bumbles past. From all she knows the answer is: too long, too long.
The Dusk queen has been called many things: a nymph, a fae, a sprite… but never has she felt much like any of them. Today, however, walking through the cathedral of trees, with flowers twined within her hair, mud and grasses pressed against her long, limbs, gilded Florentine was as if drawn from any of those myths.
Twilight clings to her skin and glitters in her amethyst eyes. Beautiful, but bruised, the girl’s gaze lingers upon the dawn light, filtering through the trees. Delumine has barely begun to stir, though the crown of the sun just crests the horizon. All is still and silent, so silent.
Florentine reaches the border of the trees, where the river glistens and runs, capturing sunlight like jewels across its surface. Here, the sigh of leaves is replaced by the lazy bubble of chattering waters.
Spring has warmed the flowing waters and, as Florentine watches them pass, she thinks of new beginnings. The coming of spring had made her a year older, and Reichenbach, her heart tougher in kind. Delumine’s dawn whispered to her of a new life, and a future mapping itself out before her. But she knows its paths are varied and rough, their destinations unknown. Her feet were already sore and her body littered with bruises from walking them. But the girl was headed somewhere new.
And so, with a sigh, she steps into the water. It rises up, up, up her body and swallows the flower girl down, down, down. She moves out, deeper and deeper into the river, until her feet leave the bed and then she sinks down until the waters swallows her whole. Only flowers and petals remain, to slowly spin and dance along the surface.
In the muffled silence of the river Florentine is cleansed. The trials of her third year of life wash away. The girl who leaves the river then, is not the same who went in. Oh this girl of water and life is clean, at last, and bears a heart whose wounds that have lost their sting.
Petals and water droplets rain down from her slim torso, washing away downstream. So consumed, is Florentine, by her thoughts of renewal and cleansing, that she misses the nest beside the water’s edge. It is full of eggs and crowned with doting parent. But all are now soaked with river water that pours from her golden skin.
The idyll of the morning – of the Dusk girl’s thoughts are shattered by an affronted, wailing quack. Tiny wings beat fiercely in the air as the soaked duck leaps from her nest. With a squawking battle cry it launches itself at its assailant.
A stubby beak snaps at Flora’s slender ankles and its wings beat, beat, beat at her limbs. They become a tangle, the flower girl and her attacker. They are feathers and gold and startled cries.
“Oh, hey! Wait! Excuse me –“ Flora chimes and blusters as she skitters and scrambles up the bank and away. Yet the persistent bird pursues her with a furious bravery that Florentine might admire, were it not directed at her.
She edges away but the bird takes chase. Its beak closes again and again upon her tail, pulling flowers and golden hair from their resting places. “Ouch! How rude! I am sorry-” The flower girl exclaims, her face a painted picture of bewilderment. But, her protests are in vain. She is scrambling and the duckis chasing.
Even as Florentine takes to the sky, the bird relentlessly follows. Its small wings beat with admirable determination as it tried to keep pace with its fleeing quarry.
After the attack, Flora might be embarrassed by the blissful wash of relief she feels at suddenly spotting a familiar flash of gold further along the river’s banks... But for now, she basks in the presence of her saviour. Wide, wide amethyst eyes, remain glued upon her friend as she swoops down to him, her duck-assailant in hot pursuit.
The girl lands, and, still soaked, still with her mane clinging to her slender neck, she steps nimbly and swiftly behind Somnus’ larger body. From around her new shield she peers at the the duck. It has landed a few feet from them, watching the girl and Delumine’s king with a decidedly disapproving glare. Eventually, disgruntled, it turns and retreats, flying elegantly and silently back to its nest.
A sigh of relief pours like wine from her lips. “Somnus.” Flora chimes, “You didn’t tell me your ducks were quite so… fierce.
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