FROM THE GODS WHO SIT IN GRANDEUR grace is somehow violent--
Failure stung like poison on her tongue.
She had been so sure of herself, so certain of her capabilities; she was sure that she could fix the glaring problems that leaked through the cracks in the sandstone walls of her great fortress, so sure that she, with her ruthless capability could fix the problems that lay siege to their nation. And what had she done? She had stagnated in the same way all the rulers before her had, so caught up in the politics and the problems and her own foolish, naïve uncertainty. Seraphina was no great queen, no revolutionary who could pull her people free of the problems that had haunted them for her entire life. She was barely a leader at all.
And she’d had more than enough of that stifling quiet, mired and trapped by her own inadequacy, by challenges that she had never imagined, by discord and disorder and factionalism she hadn’t anticipated. She’d failed her people, and, deep down, she knew that she’d broken the promises that she’d made the day she stepped up. Perhaps that was the worst of it. Perhaps that was what stung the most, what burned her.
She had no more time for indecision. There was far too much to be done; the Day Court scarcely held itself together, and the threat of Night still lingers heavy on her mind. The desert encroached further upon them with each passing day, and, with their resources draining, she needed to come up with solutions, establish alliances, develop trade routes…she needed to speak to the leaders of Dawn and Dusk. She needed to develop gardens, an irrigation system, gather inventors and smiths to make some sort of traps to guard trade routes and paths across the desert, reorganize her patrols, recreate her inner court…the tasks ahead seemed daunting. They were unraveling, and she did not know what she could do to soothe the troubled waters that lay ahead.
She stood at the altar of the Sun God, failure bitter and tough on her tongue.
There was nothing she could do to change the past; the time that had already slipped away was gone forever. “I have failed you.” A simple, quiet admission, stark and cold against the bitter chill of the peak; her breath comes out as while fog, trailing behind her like smoke in the wind. “I have failed you, and I can offer you no excuses for that.” Solis was not a god for excuses, after all – he was a god for blood and sweat and vicious resolve. “Now we press on.” No longer would she languish in indecision, suffer insult and uncertainty; the Queen of Day rose up again, as a phoenix from the ashes, and she did so with new resolve. It seemed that she had forgotten herself – well, she would forget who she was and what she desired no longer.
A simple offering of snakeskin and bone was left at the altar to show she’d ever visited at all, and then she began the long descent back to the deserts she has so long called her home.
@
little worship thread to signal a bit of forward momentum - closed and finished.
Posted by: Kasil - 02-05-2018, 09:24 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (3)
KASIL
His gaze was sharp, staring directly into the dawn’s light as it began to cascade over the court’s walls. It stung, no doubt, to look into the sun so freely -- even if it’s light were subdued but it could not compare to the sting in his heart. A sense of failure draped over him like a cloak, the burden on his shoulders too much to bear. It had been a year of interesting occurrences, the rebirth of the courts, the rise and fall of kings and queens -- tumultuous alliances, festivals and what he assumed were the beginnings of love. He grit his teeth, his grip against the stone walls tightening. Did he really wish to let it all go? Is this not what he was supposed to crave? The power, the recognition of being a king?
A voice, as gentle as the spring breeze, answered in his mind. He recognized it, the unwavering firmness of his grandfather but he could not bear to linger on it. He was weak. He had been trying his very best to uphold the court around him, but he could see how it suffered under his care. He was like a child trying to raise another child, and he could not let his neglectful influence continue on in such a way. The ivy clawed its way against his skin, entangling him to the point of strangulation. It had come for him at last, the insanity that he had feared in the furthest corners of his mind.
His sense was threadbare, but he still had time to make better choices for the people. They would need someone, until he could sort himself out. His mind turned to the young emissary, the first to join his court. Ipomoea. He hated to disappoint the lad, hated to show this sort of incompetence to someone who needed careful guidance. He would not place that burden on his shoulders, he wasn’t quite ready although he made glorious strides in such a short time.
Then his mind turned to his regent, the obvious choice. Somnus would take care of the court. He could handle the realm with an efficacy that Kasil was lacking. He had called him here this morning, delivering a sense of urgency to his page that he could tell the boy had been terrified of him. That pained him, but he had to hurry and settle these things before he lost himself.
Liesel was the final thought of his mind, but she was perhaps the most poignant. He had known better than to feel something for her, and yet he could not stop the insistent gnashing of his heart. He wouldn’t have it in him to say goodbye to her. He was too much of a coward, it seemed. The memory of her scent wrapped around him like a warm blanket, trying it’s best to battle away the chill of the spring air but even that was not enough. The king shook his head, yanking away the golden diadem set into his hair, letting it fall to the ground with a clatter. He needed to speak to Somnus, and soon.
CYRENE
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
The wax-sealed envelope had arrived in the night like a heaven-sent harbinger. Its origins remained a mystery—it had simply been there when Cyrene woke, where it had not been before. How the discerning-eared nymph had failed to be roused by its placing, was a troubling thought she would entertain later—the imposing letter begged to be opened. Gingerly, she pried open the imperial seal like it was a yapping dog waiting to snap off her fingers for dinner.
Caretaker Cyrene Ioannou —
Your presence has been requested by Her Majesty Florentine for Dusk this evening, within the glass awning of the Royal Gardens.
Brisk, direct. Cyrene traced the curving calligraphy over and over again, in hopes of gleaning something more from within its stark letters. Yet the smooth black ink dared not bleed even a hair’s breadth from its inception upon the creamy parchment, and staunchly revealed nothing more. A tremor of nerves snaked through the girl’s slender frame as she folded the summons back into its gilded wrappings, the solemn seal restored to its duty of guarding flowering secrets from prying eyes.
Surely she had not caused so much trouble, as to attract the attention of the Sovereign herself? Many moons had waxed and waned since her breathless arrival to the shores of Terrastella. Unsurprisingly, though, Cyrene had not stayed confined to the lavender skies of Dusk. Upon swift hooves, she had graced each court she journeyed to with starling eyes and ebullient smiles. Every one—save for the scorching sands of Solterra.
Eyes of burning, carnal aurum bloomed like butter yellow magnolias in her mind. She wiped them away quickly; yet gold lingered still in the autumn girl’s fevered palms. I wonder... how he is. Despite the airs she put off like perfume, her time in the other kingdoms was not spent in foolish cajolery—no, secrets and rambling gossip had slipped, purring, into her soft lap. Studiously, Cyrene had pieced together the scraps until a picture of the strained (and that was putting it too lightly) affairs formed hazy and blemished. Simply put, Solterra was not a place for sun-blessed reunions. Would it ever be?
Still, she had not bothered too much over such stifling politics—instead, she had settled happily as a caretaker among the ranks of Terrastella’s revered healers. Which brought Cyrene back to her current predicament—what had the Queen seen in a common healer like herself? I shall not hope for the best, she sighed. Cursed she would always be to flub potions and singe feathers. Mamá is probably creasing her brow at me as I speak.
Puzzled as she was, the spritely nymph waved her worries away. Florentine was hailed as the Golden Queen—just, kind, merciful. The pride of Terrastella. And as her citizen, Cyrene delighted to at last meet her amethyst crowned ruler. So when the sun dragged itself lazily across the flaming horizon, the bright-eyed caretaker set off on swift hooves towards the ivory citadel. Before Dusk had settled cozily into her lavender throne, Cyrene's featherlight steps echoed along the winding path that ushered her through the keep's kaleidoscope gardens. The flowering scents filled her lungs, and draped her pelt in swathes of pastel finery. "Florentine rules over a kingdom of beauty," she murmured, as soft as silken petals.
@Florentine
ack this took me some time to put up ^^; but I'm so excited ♡
It’s well after midnight, now, and the snow has stopped falling. Tracks criss-cross the soft shroud it makes, but the setting moon still sets the untouched places to a diamond shine.
There is wine like a sweet slow hum in his veins, an old friend keeping him warm. For Lysander it had been a fine night, a reminder of times too long ago to count. Only Florentine kept worrying at his mind like a bramble in his coat. The antlered stallion had searched for her, after splitting off from the kirin, but there had been no trace of the golden Anthousai. Even the breeze had no trace of hyacinths; it was overwhelmed by woodsmoke, by spiced wine, by jasmine.
And so he walks alone, content to wander and observe as the last of the fires burn down and the noise of the revelry fades. Over and over his mind turns to her, to the way her face had fallen at the sight of her gypsy-king, the hurt writ plain in the lines of her mouth, her lashes, her amethyst eyes. Oh, he had warned her, long ago, that love could be a troublesome, painful thing; what he did not expect was for her hurt to wound him, too.
Even so, deeper and deeper yet beneath the slumbering soil of his strange old heart, there is a god’s jealousy and god’s curiosity, green and vital as sap from a weeping tree.
If he were to remain mortal, what else might he grow to feel?
He has wandered far from the festival, now; the cold has crept in again, enough to make him shiver. It is dark, the fires distant. The stallion pauses, breathes a stream of silver into the winter air, stands poised between the forest ahead and the castle behind. Lysander isn’t sure where he’s going, but he isn’t afraid.
He has never been afraid in his life.
@Reichenbach @Raum @Lavinia and any crows I missed
The desert was a harsh place, true. But the most resilient could find the beauty in the sandy wasteland that could not be found anywhere else. When the sun set the crimson, gold, and orange hues that were painted in bleeding streaks across the sky reflected onto the mountains of disintegrated rocks leaving them with a ghastly appearance that struck awe into the occasional wanderer. Each little grain of sand held some sort of unusual hue, whether it be from the sun or approaching twilight. Even so, all good things must go and as soon as the sun vanished the myriad of inspiring colors left with it. Today however, a sandstorm was raging through the area.
It was especially hard for the scarred bitch to see as she squinted, she needed to find shelter. The only place she could think of however was the old oasis. That was where she was heading to now, it was slow going but she was finally gaining some distance and could make out the rocky overhangs. A quick smile appeared on her face as she quickened her pace.
Reaching the inner workings of the stone, she shook her pelt out of any sand that had clung to her coat. Her one good eye took a quick glance around the little cave that she found, wondering very briefly if she was alone or not.
She is a storm made woman under a sky of falling snow. Winter's frost kisses her world in one last show of strength, before spring cusps the horizon in bloom. Ice curls into the ivory of her mane, and snowflakes fleck her burning flesh — melting into droplets of stars that burst as soon as they touch her warmth. Her feathers dance in the chill that cradles her close; the great expanse of her wings tucked close to her sides. She inhales — breathing in glass and fury. And then she exhales, loosing free the chaos that ripples in lightning underneath the cage of her skin. Over and over again.
In a flurry of crystal that swirls around the ebony of her frame, she walks with purpose. Her steps are near silent on the white blanket at her feet; a wraith borne of shadow and smoke in a land made colorless by the cold. Twilight hides behind a curtain of blizzard grey, but still, she feels the shimmer of stars that begin to wake from slumber. The Night daughter is embraced close by the darkness that grows in the long hours; the shadows reach out to her in the little light. She is a phantom penumbra, with a collapsing nebula hiding in the curve of her ribs where her heart should be.
Too long had she denied the song of war cries and blood kissing her knuckles. Too long since her muscles have tasted the sweet agony of bruises, and the bliss of ripping enemies of their titles. Too long had she pushed down the warrior that she had grown to be. Too long had her training, her desires, her instincts been imprisoned into walls of moonstone and adamant; bound tightly in chains crafted of starlight and gold. Too long, too long, too long.
But no more.
Calligo's dark fingers wrap around her gypsy warrior, her guardian, her Court's sworn protector. The shadows dance in what little light shines through the break of grey clouds that mar their skies. Whispers of snow whistle in her ears, twinkling the coins wrapped around her throat — the only sounds save for the thunder of her heart. The stars above murmur to her through the snow that builds at her ankles and twists along the silk of her coat. Her goddess holds her, as if to say: Make them pay, my dear.
The stormsinger does not hesitate as her hooves step into the boundaries of her battlefield. For hurricanes do not ask permission to wreck havoc on seas and cities laid too close to shore. Tornadoes do not ask to rage against an unsuspecting earth. Lightning does not ask to strike the land in swords of fiery stars. And thunder does not ask before it roars like an angry lion in the home of violet skies.
She does not ask as she steps further into the heart of the Steppe.
Aislinn was a storm made woman, after all.
@Torstein let's do a thing! I'm ready to do a thing. And may the odds be ever in your favor. Thread inspired by this song.
"Aislinn speech."
Travelling was, perhaps, the best remedy to soothe a broken heart. Lost, and entrenched in the unknown. Without worth or purpose, the open terra harbored a unique sense of abandon and recklessness. Opportunities flourished in some unseen, attainable horizon. Possibilities took root with each stroke of the wing, or rhythmic step forward. The boy – setting a pace for the ends of the earth – had become indifferent of falling off its edge or becoming consumed by its infinite possibilities. Unawares of the internal wounds, and how they had suffered without his intervention. There was nothing more to ruminate over. The winds would carry him forwards, and the slight hand of the sun – weak and starved – in these winter months, offered the physical reassurances of his existence.
When he touched down upon the Day court, within its outer regions, he was at once wary of the crowds and the people. The buildings, being both alien and marvelous, provided enough warning to the boy of its power and dominion in the land. Begrudgingly there was a caste he had yet to familiarize himself with, and a people he had to study and acclimate to. Not that he had any intention to amalgamate himself with them. There was no apparent reason for doing so, no straightforward desire to abide by loyalty fool-heartedly.
With his satchel strapped beside him, and wings tucked in just the right way - Saoirse traversed forwards into the sea of strangers. Passing through an entrance, he allowed himself to be taken away by the flow of people. Gaining an eye for their lifestyle behind the merchants, or the bartering and banter of their deals. There seemed to be some individuals lurking on their lonesome, their intentions unknown – and their purpose unclear in a casual climate. For such a grand structure, it was not remarkably decorated. Rough, and resolute in its design, gave the impression of practicality over aesthetics. He could respect that… having had very little experience in such things. But enough savvy out in the wild to realize its worth.
One thing remained on his mind. Propelling him further within its open halls, under the scrutiny of stationed guards or meandering locals. He gave them sideways glances instead - finding it difficult to find his voice, or enter their personal spaces.
He found himself instead, stopping beside a hanging tapestry. The figure of ‘Solis’ carved into the leather in intricate, bold lines and likewise colour. He was unprepared for the memories overwhelming his mind then. Transported elsewhere. His body remained still and vigilant, as his mind disembarked without protest. Buried far underneath the layers of flesh and sinew, and lost within that mysterious web of neurons sparking off in some forgotten corner of his brain.
Saoirse merely reflected a studious pupil taking note of the fabric. Without any remarkable affect, other than the intensity of his gaze and the ease for which his breathe rose and released.
Dapples of thin sunlight undulated around the auburn woman, for despite her betrayal Solis loved her still; his adamant heart would not let her slide from its grasp so easily, not after waiting so long for her faith. Rhoswen danced through the light (a lover of ballet and all things ornate) allowing the faint shards of gold to perambulate their way across her softly swollen flanks. Glancing down at her sanguine skin, Rhos could not curb the sigh which fell so sullenly from lips of salmon, and she listened as the sound echoed out across the prairie. The concept of being pregnant had taken her, often violently, through many swathes of emotion; throwing her overboard into depths of which she greatly feared, but it had been easier to ignore before the physical signs had begun to show. Now there was no denying it, no pretending. Her skin cooled, chest hitching. A joyous thing it should have been: to bring life into this world, but the truth was that Rhoswen felt no joy, she felt in fact nothing but dismay. Raum could not keep up his lie forever, and increasingly she felt the weight of Solterra's eyes upon the back of her head, as though they saw her truth; their truth.
What would happen then?
At last, upon jaded hooves and aching limbs, the sight of Denocte's Capitol breached her ashen gaze. A familiar sight to behold; one that stirred something sincere in her heart. It had been many, many moons since her last visit to the Night Court - and more still since her last meeting with Reich. Perhaps it was foolhardy to be confiding in the sovereign of her Court's primary antagonist but he was her brother after all, who could deny her that? Tiredly, she wove through the stalls and streets (of which all she knew like the back of her hand) until finally, slipping into the shadows of midday, Rhoswen reached the royal wing of the keep. You'd better bloody be here, Reich.
@reichenbach here is a first-trimester rhos for u <3
of course i feel too much
i'm a universe of exploding stars
A winter goddess holds their sky in twilight hands, but it is the stormsinger's mistress that takes hold and showers their skies in darkness. Snow glitters in the shadows, stark and swirling in frost that seeps into her skin and down into the marrow of her bones. Night descends upon Veteris — the City of Starlight, and the kingdom of dreams. But unlike the reverie of their court that kindles at nightfall, she is uncommonly bound within the castle's walls. Her wild, nomadic heart is constricted within the cold stones that tower around her and keep her from the stars. But still she stays.. for she has been gone for far too long.
She is duty-bound by her loyalty and passion for her Court, but it is her heart that bleeds at her return. Her time away was needed, very much so.. but now, she is conflicted. The starry expanse of her soul is a battlefield — where her goddess clothes her in shadows and smoke, the demon of her guilt claws in answer. Each hoofbeat upon the stone floor is heavier than the last as she walks. For although she is alone, with only the echoes of her thundering heart drumming with the click of her hooves, Aislinn is a storm bursting under the seams of her skin. The darkness holds her close, intimately, but in the shadows looming in the halls, lightning crackles under the surface of her silence.
She is a lethal quiet — a hurricane of power and emotions that war in her soul.
In the deep heart of the castle, she shivers against the cold. Except the chill in her is chased away, not by the burning of her skin and the roil of uncertainty in her gut.. but from the stardust that finds her. The wishes made on falling stars cling to the ebony of her skin in a blanket of silver, and suddenly — as if Calligo had known all along — a comfort washes over her in flames made of meteors and galaxies and shadows. The relief is akin to the magic that had found her in her absence, and that fact alone was why she had found herself home once more. For although she had fled then, more a coward than she could ever swallow, her goddess never left her. And now, she would never abandon Her again. So she wanders and wanders still.. with only a trail of glittering stars in her wake and her emotions a wavering sea.
And pray tell the darkness that burns like a newborn sun; unbeknownst to the woman of stardust and thunder and storm.
@rhoswen this isn't a great starter, I'm so sorry lovely ;_; her emotions are all over the place. "Aislinn speech."
Every step the savage woman took seemed to emanate power; they were strong, they had purpose. Each one brought her closer to the taste of revenge she so wildly desired upon her tongue, and somewhere out past the reaches of the Mors, it awaited her. She smiled at the thought, imagining its sweetness as the Davke stormed back from destruction and reclaimed their place as a force to be feared. How pleased would Solis be to see his true children returned to him after having been so brutally ripped away from existence… and now more than ever did Avdotya seek to appease him.
Ah, yes, she’d already made her assumptions about the peculiar encounter she had in the desert, and the Sun God was the only sensical answer. Those waters left more than a dampness to her hide when she slipped from their smooth caress; like the dust it had so easily washed away, that crystalline pool shed Avdotya’s bones of the wear time had strewn within them. She felt rejuvenated, and now she would bask in the glory of her god-given immortality.
By the time the viper reached Vitae, her hide was nearly dry, but that did not stop her from sunning herself alongside a palm that towered over the oasis. She lay with her legs tucked neatly and her head held high, those fiery eyes now lidded with utter bliss while the warm wind played at her messy hair. Her plans were coming together smoothly and not a soul within Day knew what was to come, even Solis himself awarded her his approval- what more could she want?
![[Image: rhosheader.jpg]](https://image.ibb.co/ikNXOm/rhosheader.jpg)
