Posted by: Beni - 02-19-2018, 01:15 AM - Forum: Archives
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Hmm... the candles needed to be refreshed again.
The grey stallion leaned forward, inspecting the candles lit upon Solis's altar, and how low the wax had burned. A soft snort nearly extinguished the flame as the stallion stepped back, reaching into the worn but sturdy satchel slung across their flank to extract a spool of plant fiber, unwinding some and breaking it off at a satisfactory length, before repeating the process twice more. With the plant material they wanted held in their telekinetic grasp, they replaced the spool and moved the three strips of plant to the side before leaning in closer to inspect one candle in particular, the lowest burning of the lot.
Hmm... they would want to keep it burning until they were to refresh it, as they would want the wax as soft as possible for placing the new wick.
The other candles were in much better shape, and so long as they got one safely restored, they would have the flame needed to re-light the others when the time came.
They moved to step back, before pausing and setting the plant fiber in their grasp upon the altar, switching the focus of their telekinetic grasp to gently cup some of the melted wax that tried to drip from the candles container, gently picking up the solidified drops and returning them to the metal plate so that minimal wax might be lost. The candles were not theirs, brought to the altar by some traveler, but they tended to them nonetheless. They thought keeping ever burning fires atop Solis's altar was quite appropriate for the god of the day, and they made sure to refresh the candles accordingly, supplying material for the wick from their own supplies and simply reusing the wax that had already been there.
The candles were often somewhat lumpy and misshapen, as they had to make do with making the candles by running their wick through the melted wax to get a good base, and then simply telekinetically packing the rest on, but if it worked, it worked. They were sure their efforts were appreciated nonetheless, and contented themself with the simply knowledge that they kept the fire ever burning, like that of the sun.
Once the escaping wax had been contained, the stallion picked the strips of plant fiber back up once more, stepping back before slowly lowering themself to the ground, reclining on the stone as they looked up at the altar of the god of the day, satchel tapping lightly against the ground as they set about braiding the plant fibers together without even looking at them, crossing them over one another and binding them tightly together as a single piece. This would become the wick of the candle when they refreshed it, and while they worked, they simply allowed themself to look upon the altar of the god, and hum some distant, half-remembered hymn to the master of the day and of the fire and the forge.
OOC: Beni is now open for business <3 This is a little short as I try to work out the kinks in their character, but all are welcome to come join in this worship thread and in fact all are invited! Come say hi to the resident priest!
This wasn't the first time he had wandered from home without his brother or mother, but it is the first time he's wandered so far from home. It isn't as if it's a bad thing, he's two and he has his wits about him, he'd finally grown in to his legs, in to his body. Of course, he'd grow a little taller but at the moment, he was mostly filled out, enough to tower over his mother a good chunk of the time and have to lean down to nuzzle her properly.
His hooves lifted and lowered as he stepped through the fresh spring grasses, feeling the ground give under his weight with a small squishy spring. It was all fresh loam, revived in the world's rebirth after casting off winter. It felt nice to be able to walk through grasses and flowers again, instead of the incessant click clack of hooves on stone. The thought alone gave him a headache, wings twitching before pushing back against his skull and burying in to the mess of his mane.
If he was correct, he should be somewhere in Delumine, the lands of the Dawn Court. It was one of the very few places he hadn't visited or heard much about, though he supposed that was his own doing. He could have asked his mother about it, but instead he had poked his nose in to her maps, read up on some of the Dawn Court culture, and had essentially just left after that. A bit foolish, but he needed new surroundings.
Shifting himself, Cynix lowered his head, his lips parting as he chose to graze on a patch of rather sweet herbs. They tingled and made his mouth water from sweetness, but he was more than happy to simply eat them slowly, only taking small bites at a time as he kept himself on a more alert set of mind. Just in case.
The Rapax cleared all sound from the area, filling the empty air with it's frantic rushing and roaring, only the sound of whitewater surviving as it's foamed and bubbled. Liesel adored the Rapax — found it to be her favourite place within the Delumine territory, save for the coast. While the river might not have had the briny, salty scent she associated with home, it's voracious energy filled her with a sense of power and stoicism. The River had been here for years, ever-changing and eternal, it's strength flowing through Delumine with each passing Sovereign.
The Winter Festival had been uneventful for her — though she'd met with Kasil, the memory brushing a bright smile to her velveteen lips, she had left as she had arrived... alone. Dawn men could be confusing, too many rules and politics ruling their hearts. Kings probably even more so. Still, the summer girl paid little mind to the tentative feelings that had bloomed for Kasil — choosing now to ignore them, and focus on herself.
Hard, dainty hooves tapped upon the jagged granite surrounding the rapids as she leaped from stone to stone, elegant and agile, her lithe body moving with grace and purpose as she trained. Keeping herself in fighting form was important to the wolf, her fathers strong blood pumping eagerly as she pushed herself, leaping further and higher to more precarious outcrops, sometimes even leaping out into the center of the roaring river to stand exultant in it's powerful wake.
As always memories, fuzzy and unclear, surfaced in accompaniment to her exercise — the scent of clean water resurfacing as a koi-filled lagoon, the froth and foam of the rapids becoming white-capped waves... blurred faces swimming in between. She paused, panting, her lithe frame slender and beautiful as the sun began to rise higher within the Delumine sky — turning toward the figure that now approached, golden and gleaming, a bright smile already gripping her delicately boned face.
Well, he supposed having finally made his way down to the shore side without getting stuck was a start, definitely an improvement over his last experience with trying to get down. He had actually addressed the situation with a clear mind this time, and sought out a path, hidden and minimalistic as it was, rather than simply trying to test his climbing skills and scaling down the cliffside under his own power.
He would always praise the heavens that he had found his way down that day, for now it allowed him the chance to visit whenever he liked, if it took a little longer than for those with wings upon their backs.
So he stood now with his hooves in the surf, the sand beneath him and looking out at the ocean, to distant horizons and fanciful wonderings on the lips of his mind.
What would it be like, to sail out into the distance and never look back? To alight on distant shores and distant worlds? To meet folk who did not speak his tongue, to be welcomed into their fold and taught their ways? To see sights one might never have imagined? To drink from foreign cups and feast on delicacies unknown to the folk of Novus?
A part of him wondered what it would be like to set hoof on another world.
He wondered if he would meet other horses, or if he would find himself in the thrall of a different folk altogether.
Would they be equine, or would he find himself within a pack of wolves, skulking in the swamps as they worshiped their fire god and sought vengeance against their kin of the north? Would he find himself in a herd, or would he find himself in a pride of lions, wandering about woodlands draped in endless mist, a people of shadow as they worshiped their goddesses of day and night? Perhaps he would find a pack of minuscule fairy wolves, tiny creatures no higher than his hock at most that were just now realizing that the sheltered paradise they had come from was ever so small compared to the rest of the world's boundless reaches.
He wondered if he would meet himself in these other lands, for surely the soul must not be bound to one world, surely, if one traveled far enough, one would come face to face with their own reflection, having lived a different life in a different body but with eyes so very similar.
If he closed his eyes for a moment, he could almost picture it. Could almost smell the dankness of the wolven swamp as his paws sunk heavily in the muck, could taste the mist of the shadowed wood on his tongue as his whiskers twitched and he felt the soft brush of his pridemates against him, could almost feel the powerful blow of some of the larger of the small fairy creatures as they slapped his back, meaning to congratulate him on a job well done but not realizing just how powerful they were and sending him tripping over his own paws. He could almost hear the proud cries of the man who thought himself a god while he sat shackled in slavery and contemplated how he and the others would escape to the land of the good-hearted. Could almost hear the excited cries of the pups he had been left to look after while the parents went hunting, Auru the only member of the pack who was not a part of the small family, and having been put on baby-sitting duty while the other adults were busy.
"Auru..."
If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear their voices, smell their scents. Could almost hear them calling out his name. Some were happy to see him, others scornful. But each was different, and if he closed his eyes, and let his mind wander far enough into the distance, he could almost see the black panther girl who frightened him from his digging, hear the long forgotten whispers of a civilization that died before it ever lived, taste the flowers he harvested to bring back for treatment. He could feel the warm embrace of friends and family welcoming him home after a long day out, could almost feel the claws of his masters that struck him down.
"Auru..."
He almost thought he could hear their voices now, voices of a distant land calling to him, beckoning him to come forward and see what all there must be on the distant shores, just waiting for him...
"Auru..."
So many voices, they almost seemed to mingle into one with their growing urgency. The face of a red wolf seemed to bleed into view, cyan eyes lighting up the dark. Now it was a half-burned golden one, the clear one so handsome but the burned so ugly. Now it was a lion, a man of pale fur lined with kohl black, bone white antlers curving from his skull. A wolf of green and blue, another with piercing yellow eyes and twisting kudu horns. So many faces, they all seemed to bleed into one as they opened their mouths to speak.
"Auru, wake up."
His eyes snapped open, and he could feel salt encrusting his lips from how long he had been standing with his face to the distant horizon, and he felt everything that had coursed through his mind slipping away like a half-forgotten dream, and already the thoughts and memor-... no, thoughts... dreams... he didn't even know what he was thinking about, only that it had fallen away from him as swiftly as sand fell through one's-...
One's...
The crashing of a wave brought him to look upward before his mind could fade once more, and he stepped back from the water line, eyeing it with trepidation as he felt the unfamiliar fogginess in his mind begin to recede, his tongue sneaking out to swipe over salt-encrusted lips as he began to realize just how much his muscles were hurting and how far the sun had fallen, the end result of standing in one place for so very long.
A breeze sweeps in from the sea, bright with the promise of spring, but Asterion is less like the wind and more like the water. Calm in moments and crashing in others, a mixture of emotions all churning together, riffles on an ordinarily serene surface.
It is bright midmorning and he has only just heard of the events of the festival. His own Midwinter night has been a fairytale thing, paint and fireflies, something out of a storybook; he had fallen into exhausted and contented sleep some time after dawn. Still he smells of birch-smoke and wine as he hurries through the corridors of the keep, the echo of his hooves the only sound. It, too, is slow to wake today.
Worry sings in his heart, a current pushing him along, but it goes far deeper than sorrow for Florentine, for Reichenbach, for his new people. In his head is the memory of another fire, of another promise, of another golden sister. A twin he had sworn to help, would have given anything for.
Do not follow me. I will kill you if you do.
He knows, knows in his coral bones and his salty blood, that Florentine is nothing like Talia. That they share gold and a father and nothing else. And still he trembles as he goes to her chambers. Beneath that, a colder current, a worse worry: that she would be right to push him away. For what could he do? What has he ever done?
Outside the castle a shadow passes, a dragon straight from a childhood story. Inside, he gently swings wide the door to her rooms. She is clean of blood, her hair still damp; it smells terribly sweet, a spring bower after a rainstorm.
Asterion bows his head to his sister, his queen, but his gaze never leaves her, and the thought that he’d been so happy, so blissfully unaware, just hours before is a little deep wound that stings and stings.
He had thought, meeting Reichenbach in these halls just nights before, that he was glad to know nothing of politics. Now he realizes he knows just as little of love.
“Flora,” he says, and in those scant syllables conveys all his sorrow and all his worry and all his fear and anger, too – fear that she’ll rebuke him the way Talia had, anger that anyone would hurt her, would hurt any member of their home. “I am so sorry.” His eyes are dark as the space between galaxies and he wants to press his muzzle to her shoulder, hang his neck over hers, but he hovers a few feet away instead. Afraid to push, afraid to comfort.
This has been the longest Florentine has ever stayed within her Court. Normally a restlessness within her made her limbs itch to run and her soul burst from her chest with a desire to go. it would be the wind that would catch willingly beneath her wings and bear the girl, up, up, up.
But now, in the last weeks, Florentine has been grounded by weights that bore her so low. They kept her limbs heavy, her soul heavier still and her mind, well, it never left its memories of the Night Festival and the jealousies of a Night King that left Lysander beaten and bleeding and so, so sick.
She moves along the vaulted hallways of the cloister. Intricate stonework glowed marigold with the light of the morning sun. Florentine steps between the dozen rays of sunlight until she reaches Israfel’s door. Was it too early? So easy it was to lose track of time now. The flower girl feels the warmth of her dagger, it has roused and now calls to cut her way out of worlds – out of Novus - but how can she when her limbs are so heavy? Her soul is sinking like a rock into the deep sea.
“Israfel.” Flora says softly an amethyst petal blowing beneath the door, pushed by an invisible wind. “It is Florentine. I would like to speak with you.”
And then the girl waits, her eyes drifting to the wild-flower garden, framed by the cloisters. Birds, keen and vibrant, flutter between flowers, chasing bugs and flying insects. It is a miniature world and for a moment she longs to just be small again, so unaffected by this bigger world of hers.
You know, this whole disappearing thing is becoming way more common than it ought to be. Let's count on our single toes how many times I've just vanished. Lots of fucking hooves. At least all ma feet. I think. Ok I haven't kept track but it's been too many. And this is just the latest. Where have I been this last whoknowshowlong? Good question. I'm not actually sure so DON'T ASK ME. It's just a bunch of random snapshots all hung up on little clothespins, little fairy lights in between them like your favorite college collage.
I sit my ass down in the courtyard of the Night Court, cobblestone under my heavy ass. In a dramatic, Oscar-worthy slow motion shot I slump to the ground and belch like I just drank a can of pure carbon dioxide. My eyes stay open but are all glazed over (not that you can tell because let's be honest they're all white). I'm aware that there is some sort of "room" for me in this castle. But I'm not really used to rooms. And honestly, before I went on this sabbatical (ok you can ask a little bit) I barely walked through the place. I didn't even see my living quarters.
Perhaps having not seen them keeps me from entering. Or perhaps I'm too drunk, too tired, and maybe a little bit of a cold. Funnily enough, booze doesn't make that go away. Fuck. Damaris is nowhere around, and I probably deserve that. She came with me on said sabbatical, but that doesn't mean she had any fun. Or that I treated her well. Or that she'll forgive me. I dunno maybe I'm being dramatic. Or not dramatic enough. Am I rumbling? Rambling.... Fuck.
Where's Reich? Camdis? Aislinn? .. Weir?
A pathetic groan slips out as I recall part of the reason that I left Novus to go binge-drinking in the first place.
Asterion hadn’t set out with the intent to wander into a marsh; he’d been drifting, aimless as usual, and found himself following the small signs of spring scattered through Terrastella. A frail blue bloom of flowers so delicate he dare not breath on them, the slender curl of a fern, the warbling of songbirds returning to their warm-weather haunts.
For all his travels, he’s never been in a place long enough to appreciate the give of seasons; today it captivates him. On and on he follows his feet until the ground grows springy and the streams fade away and trees surround him, bare save for green buds small as a new promise. He doesn’t know the names of the birds, here, but they still keep him company as he goes on, each step squelching, heedless of the mud that flecks his sides.
If it were a few weeks later – if the limbs had leaved, hung the walls of the swamp with green – he would never have seen the hut. But it catches his eye, pale straw-thatched roof and wooden sides listing, terribly crooked. “Oh,” he says, and picks his way carefully forward, until he’s contemplating a weathered gray front door, half-hanging off its hinges.
It looks uninhabited, like nothing but the wind has come inside for years and years, but what does he know about buildings? He hadn’t known such structures existed until a season ago.
As surprised he is by his find, he’s even more surprised when movement catches his eye, and he half-turns to find he is not alone. “Oh!” he says again, and might blush if he were able. Asterion glances between them and the strange hut, set on low poles to stay above the water-line, and ducks his dark chin. “Is this…house…yours?”
for @Aibreann but anyone is welcome to join in! finding a hut for an EXP point :)
— you will ache as I ache—
tenderly, tragically, beautifully.
The flight from Terrastella to Denocte had been quiet, save for the thunderous roar of Aether's wings upon the breeze. A clap of thunder with each powerful stroke, protective as each downward thrust shielded the white Kirin from the World, save for those who dared to look up. He flew beneath the Goliath's chest, a dainty white star in a maelstrom of black and blue, his mind ablaze and their bond singing while a wall of impenetrable ice donned his outside.
He had never thought he'd be traveling again, he'd been content within the Court of Twilight. At least until the inevitable call happened, that deep, soul aching longing for his homeland that he would never be able to ignore. The equines there had become a piece of him, in their own way, as time had marched ever forward. Faces and names provoked a touch of a smile to curl the corners of his mouth. Until he came to the startling realization somewhere in the midst of the mountains, those that he'd come to call friends had drifted. Far away until it was all he could do but reminisce over what once was. Terrastella had been home, until the faces shifted and faded away. Those that he could still call friends in the Court and out, would be witness to the mess that had been allowed to run rife.
His personal life painted everywhere for everyone to see, with he and the stallion he had come to adore, painted as a villain.
'Stop thinking about such trivial dealings, they made their bed, and dragged a Court down with it.' Aether grunted, head lowered a fraction to better see the Kirin shielded beneath him. While he took great pleasure in delving deep into Isorath's thoughts and machinations, this. This was something he couldn't abide by. 'She is foolish to send you away, and they will know of it, in time. You know this.'
'I know it, it does not mean I have to like it.' He countered with a hauty snort, head cocked to the side. Had he expected too much, perhaps? That emotions could be kept from the well being of an entire nation? Had he overestimated?
'We have a new home now, your time would be better spent serving them instead of those that could cast you out.' Aether concluded, effectively shutting off the Kirin's thoughts with a single push between their bond. Focus on Denocte. Yes. He would do just that, he had risen from his own ashes once, better and stronger than before. He could do so again.
The mountain pass soon faded, the rocky mountains slimming to narrow outcrops and eventually the jagged road which lead to the Night Court's abode. Similarly his heart rose and fell in a deafening crescendo. This was it. The start of something new, start of something that no longer had to be secret, be forced to be an idle fancy on a cold night and slow days. The friends he had made here would become his family, and in turn Reich and he could start again. Start as something free. Open as a birds wings and as fierce as the Dragon he commanded.
He had hoped for a somewhat quiet landing, but Aether seized the moment. A proud creature through and through, with little love for demure acts or the quiet approach, a bellow rumbled from the Dragon's jagged maw followed by a breath of frostfire, illuminating the night with it's ethereal hues and sparked the clouds overhead to darken and weep snow. No doubt the inhabitants of the castle would be shaken to their cores, and from their beds as the Herald made his descent. Down and down like a falling star while Aether circled the castle in leisured beats, his breathing heightened to a grumbled roar of thunder on the wind, lower until he too gripped the walls and settled in one heavy thud of his weight. One cloven hoof followed another as his cloaked form landed, dwarfed in the plushness of it, and the bags carefully scrapped to his life frame. Silvery hair fanned and fell in lush waves to swallow his neck and shoulders, trailed across the ground behind him in rivers of moondust.
His wings pressed close to his covered sides as he slipped toward the familiar gates, lilac eyes hidden beneath a fan of white. Would Reich come to meet him and Aether? Would it be someone else?
TAG: @Reichenbach & also anyone in the night court!
"this here is your speech colour!
She goes to him, the castle trembling with her resounding footsteps. The halls cry out, an echo for the roar of her heart. It thunders, like a drum, like a storm held too close, too tight. She is fit to burst, this ragged queen, with blood upon her lips and blood upon her chest.
But the blood is found not just there. It is also smeared upon her limbs and her sides. It tangles in her hair and paints its way across her cheek.
This presence of blood is menacing and beautiful upon her skin. It turns a flower girl from something innocent into something malevolently wild. She is a savage queen, made of tangles and snarls and ragged breath.
Florentine is a Viking queen; a nymph turned amazon.
Magic, telepathic and fierce, bursts ahead of her and throws itself against doors. It blows open the throne room doors and they fall away before her. In the lavish gold of this room she sights him, more decadent still. He has come, dutiful, when she called for him so suddenly.
Like dust, like a sandstorm that swells and surges against the wall of the throne room, Florentine enters. There is no corner of the room that is not aware of her, there is no part that has not fallen to stillness. The gilded gold holds its breath and Florentine’s presence sucks it in like a wraith.
But there is nothing wraith-like about this girl. She glitters more brightly that the jewels atop the boy’s crown and it is not with the wealth he adorns himself – for Florentine is not concerned with trinkets and jewels. No, Flora is adorned with life. She is lit by the fires of vitality, by the wind that picks up sand and throws it hard and coarse against glass and gold and marble.
She turns to him, her petals the mildest part of her, the tangles of her hair are bound with blood. Savage queen. Rising queen. The dusk night weeps for her in this moment , for she is more a savage queen with iron in her blood and violence in her bones than a creature forged from starlight and sunlight.
Unkempt, the flower girl surveys him as her storm subsides. Fear, fury, regret have all turned her soft leaves to sharp thorns and her sweet fragrance to a lethal poison. The girl has never known anger like this: a creature so wild not even her skin can contain it.
But she steels her heart, her soul, her everything. “Forgive my delay. I was tending to the sick.” She says without regret to warrant her words. She is not sorry, she would make Isorath wait an eternity whilst she healed Lysander.
It is his blood she wears. His blood seized by Night and spilt by jealousy.
Flora takes a breath, her lungs so full of ivy; oh wild, voracious, ivy! She binds herself in it, for what other choice have Reichenbach and Isorath left her with?
“I have not been so covered in blood since I died.” The flower girl begins, factually. Her voice is a splinter to press beneath the skin.; she hopes it will bother him and settle too deep he will need to dig to pull it out.
The blade at her throat, suddenly roused, glows warm, warm, warm. Come away, it sings to her. Time beckons her. Reichenbach had chained her once, kept her here through love and desire. But Time works now, it changes things, so many things. Is Isorath ready?
“It was the overreaching greed of a man that killed me.” She pauses, thoughtfully and she can, even now, still see her body, broken far beyond what even youth could heal. “All of my court stood together to fight him. It bound us tighter. Loyalty brought us together.” The dusk night calls to her, with its myriad stars awakening to peer down upon this court of theirs.
“I had wanted that for the Dusk Court. I still want it for us, but I was not made to be a queen, Isorath, you know this.” And she smiles, small and soft, vulnerable despite the tornado of sand within her. It is abrading her from the inside, it picks up the pieces of her heart that Reichenbach tore apart and throws them. But they swirl and swirl and swirl refusing to fall. She keeps her heart light, for when it falls it will bring down the sky with its weight.
“You also know that I asked if you wished to leave Terrastella for Denocte… I was a fool then, Isorath, for I did not ask if your loyalty lay with me. When you asked so much after Reichenbach and myself…”She laughs, self deprecatingly, “I did not think to wonder why. The Dusk Court may be your home, but I have seen no evidence that your loyalty lies with me as its queen. Not when you have been secretly meeting with my lover. Nor when both you have the audacity to do so at my festival. I might have been young and naïve. But only a fool makes such errors twice.” Her eyes hold his, where once her eyes might have been the amethyst of delicate petals, now, now they are hard like minerals, forged from the earth. They glint like the blade of a knife.
“You are no longer my Regent, Isorath, for no Regent makes a fool of their queen like you have.” Her chin lifts, “You are still a member of this court, but I would think long and hard about if you wish to stay here. I no longer tolerate the greed of men who spill blood in their jealousy.”
And it is no matter that her heart still aches for such a man as Reichenbach, for its agony is from that pledge and where it is etched deep, deep into the pieces of her soul.
She breathes and wonders when she might wash Lysander’s blood from her skin. “I shall give you a moment. You may say whatever you wish.”
