And if one day she comes to you Drink deeply from her words so wise
How many times had she ascended this time-worn path, only to find nothing but cold stone and empty shrines awaiting her? Faithful she returned time and time again, never quite leaving with disappointment in her breast, but rather a weary and gradual relaxation of her hope for change, for resurrection of the past. She expected little else different in this new journey up to the Peak, hooves sounding sharp on the decaying stone, the taste of sage sharp on her tongue from the bushel on her tongue. Wordlessly, not yet sharing her quiet prayers, the silvery mare moved to the incense lighter, setting to embers the herbs held in her lips before she placed it on the dais before the shrines, watching the thick smoke lazily rise like a sooty ribbon before it dissipated into the frigid air. For a long moment she watched the sage smoulder, mulling over the words in her breast.
Would she pray? What would she pray for? She had home, she had herself, there was little use in praying for anything else so trivial. Would she pray for the gods' return? Finally, she simply bent her knees and settled before the altars of the gods, contenting herself with merely breathing in the scent of the sage and drawing her mind back to memory. It was, perhaps, enough that she had come, as she did frequently. Not always should one pray and ask for something of the gods, perhaps this was one of those times where she would simply listen, to relax in the remaining place of the gods and reminisce of times long past.
Though, after a spell, the silver mare rose slowly to her feet, bowing low to each of the shrines from time to dawn then day, to dusk then night and once more to time, whispering their names to the bitter air and smoky incense, offering no prayer yet instead her reverent devotion. Her ritual complete, Grainne turned and began tending to the shrine, sweeping away cobweb and dust, relighting candles and scraping dripped wax from the altars. Gentle and slow were her movements as she cared for the shrines of gods who were ever silent, a patient gradual pace that showed no signs of haste despite the growing hour. Finally, when the setting sun illuminated Vespera's shrine Grainne set aside her task and emptied the ashes of the once burning sage, standing before the shrines for a long moment in stillness and silence.
Many may have forgotten, may believe the gods myths, but she would never forget the radiance of divinity as immortality settled in her veins, the tears she had shed in awe of something greater than herself. Her sooty lips curled in faint amusement as she bowed her head one final time to the altars. Perhaps, then, that was the purpose of her immortality, a living monument and archive. It was not so bad of a fate, in truth.
Long had it been since she had last lain her head in Denocte, long had it been since she gazed upon Calligo's sky within the goddess's own domain. Even on the windswept moor, nestled within the crag of two rolling hills, she felt a haunting ache of familiarity within her breast at the scent of heather and grasses ringing out even against the cold winter night. Drawn by the dancing ribbons in the sky she ascended the nearby rise, ignorant and uncaring of the snow that chilled her hocks or the mist that curled from her breath. Denocte was a world all it's own in comparison to Solterra, fittingly as different as Night and Day, and she found the change soothing to her rankled spirits for the moor brought with it a false sense of peace. It brought her back to a time long forgotten, of tossing her heels with a smoky-eyed man across the prairie, bodies entwining and parting in a wild dance beneath Calligo's eyes, of singing with joy and passion until the hills rang with the echo of her voice.
The world, when she allowed the memory to fade, seemed bleak and ill by comparison even with the brilliant light twisting across the sky like a river. It beckoned her to dance, to sing, to revel in the world but she simply turned her head and began her slow walk down the hill once more. What was a dance, when the only one to witness it was oneself? What was a song, when none could hear it? Why revel, when there was no one to share it with? She had chosen her life of solitude, and was determined to adhere to it even when she had to quell the flare of longing within her breast. She would be patient, Grainne, until the day came when she could shrug off her solitary existence and once more allow the flower of her heart to burst into bloom.
After all, she had all the time in the world to wait.
She had just ducked beneath the horizon when a familiar scent drawn on the cold winter wind drew her to a stop, head turned to the breeze. It tickled a memory, one not yet dusted with age, and she turned to follow that thread of familiarity. It brought to mind a frail body and the powerful scent of the herb she had treated him with, of watching another lead him away to fate unknown. Reaching the crest of the ridge revealed the figure below, meandering through the prairie, though at a distance where she could not tell whether he had seen her or not.
Ipomoea, a child no longer.
Conflict warred within her, a longing to make her way towards him to learn of what he had grown into, and a hesitant fear that he had forgotten her and the stories she shared around a tiny fire. She was rooted to place, a statue frozen into the snowy white landscape, torn by indecision and helpless but to watch as that figure grew smaller and the wind shifted to rush after him as if agreeing with her silent hope to turn around.
Thick, thick snow silences the whispers of the forest. The soft press of Florentine’s feet, through the blanket of virginal snow, are the only noises the flower girl hears. Even birds are quiet here, the glittering white of a winter’s dawn closing their beaks with its beauty.
The dusk girl has never been here before and maybe that is why she moves as slowly as a reverent prayer. Her eyes drink in the forest roof with its cathedral trunks and white, arching eaves. Only her breath moves, spiraling like a ghostly wisp. Even the wisp is reluctant to go and hangs, gauzy and mysterious in the white, white air.
Each step Flora takes into this land of lovers, fills her with equal awe and dread. Oh she is so pleased to at last be here and let her eyes drink in the beauty of the gods, but her skin chafes. There is a reason Florentine has avoided the Creek, until now. There is a fear of love and the vicious game it plays.
Along the creek’s frozen banks she weaves, following it like a vein deep, deep into the heart of this idyllic woodland. Snow falls in a sheet before her, tumbling like a veil from an overladen branch. It sighs in relief and warning. But Florentine does not heed its caution. Instead, from beneath her own veil of gold and amethyst flowers, she peers out between the sentinel trees and their uniform of white and hazy, dawn gold.
There. There within the trees a gold figure moves and it is both a dreadful and wonderful sight. Florentine’s tongue at once knows the figure’s name and it is a lament and prayer; a blessing and a fearsome curse. The name greets the air as all of those things.
“Bexley.”
@Bexley - The reunion has begun, and I actually cannot wait!
Mikhael's wiry frame seemed more withered than usual after his departure from the Islands. He wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd left - almost a full season, if he had to guess. Autumn had nearly been at an end when he'd taken his leave, winter following quickly on its heels. Now he stood on the shore of a faraway beach, gazing emptily into a foreign horizon.
It had been so long since he'd seen the coast. The smell of salt and sand scoured Mikhael's nostrils, the familiar sound of rolling waves against the shore roaring inside his ears. He could practically feel the tumble of the sea through his hooves, the familiar rumble echoing through his bones. It reminded him of a home he had left behind, a deep yearning flooding his soul and making his heart ache. How he missed his friends and family. But there was no going back - after all, what was the point, if there was nothing there waiting for him?
Briefly, his mind wandered to Evren. A warm and familiar affection replaced the cold nostalgia in his chest as he pictured her face, the warmth of her eyes and the gentle curve of her smile. She was everything he was not, and it had been the polarity of their souls that drew them together and repelled them apart. If there had been a reason to stay, she would have been it.
But she hadn't.
Mikhael felt his throat tighten at the thought, a quivering sigh escaping his lips, disappearing into a delicate cloud. The winter air bit at the sensitive flesh of his face and nose, a shiver creeping along his spine. He knew he shouldn't be thinking of the past. There was no point, nothing to gain from it. Still, he couldn't help but miss it - her. She had been the first to welcome him after he left home, the first to show him that the world wasn't always the harsh and cruel place he had grown up believing it to be. She had given him the companionship he had never been able to receive from his family and brothers - biological or otherwise.
Breathing in the briny aroma, Mikhael turned away from the horizon, away from the din in his mind, setting an unhurried pace down the shore.
To put it bluntly, Israfel was scared. With the transition of autumn into winter, the Court life within Terrastella had slowed to a stagnant lull, and she found herself fretting. Oh, she was no fool. Despite the years spent dead, she knew what fate awaited a stagnant land; uprising, overthrowing, danger. Florentine had been a dutiful Sovereign, tending to their needs, going above and beyond the call of duty that had been thrust onto her shoulders like a weighted mantle. She had taken to her position with dignity and grace, and while her presence was reassuring, it was the monotony of it all that began to fill her heart with trepidation.
Where were the other soldiers, sworn into service to defend their lands? Where was Diarmuid? The rose-grey knight had been missing for some time, since the ending of their friendly brawl, really, and she worried for his welfare. Since her return from Solterra, a mission assigned by Florentine herself, things had simply been slow. It worried her.
While Solterra had been a welcome reprieve from winter’s harsh chill, Terrastella was her home. It was here, these lands, this Court, whom she had sworn her fealty. The daughter of a God, she had bowed before her Queen, submitting herself to their golden Sovereign’s whim, ready to defend with her body, her life. Pride filled her veins. Her cause was noble, defending those who could not defend themselves, but what, truly, was she defending? A stagnant Court? Was there purpose here, for her? Was this her destiny? Patrolling the lands alone, without a shield-sibling at her side?
Not for the first time, she wondered. She wondered her path, her course. She wondered if things would be different, had she found herself in a Court other than this one…
No. No.
The Sun Daughter gave a mighty, harsh shake of her head, fierce vermilion eyes staring forward into nothing. She stood upon the balustrade of the Terrastellan Citadel, keeping watch upon their border, staring out amidst the churning waves as snow slowly drifted down from the heavens. It was cold, the land wrapped in winter’s frigid embrace, but the sun was shining, holding the worst of the biting temperatures at bay. It was just after noon, the sun having passed the zenith in the sky, and it was to the bright sphere in the sky to which she turned her vision. The night she had spent atop Veneror was not lost on her; the Gods had not answered her pleas, and she felt no more soothed as to her purpose than she did before making the treacherous trip. Maybe it had been pointless, maybe it wasn’t. Time, she supposed, would only tell.
Still. It would do her well to end the thoughts of uncertainty, of self-doubt and ridicule. They would get her nowhere, and she still had a home to defend. Sucking in a deep breath, Israfel watched, transfixed, as her exhale turned to mist and danced into the sky, only to disappear. If only she could find the answers that she so desperately sought. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so lost, so forsaken.
the frigid water sloshes underneath heavy hooves, flecking the thick hair of his ankles. his pace is slow, ambling - ignoring the biting cold of the water below. it is an easy thing to push past, and as his feet numb further with each stride, it's almost easy to forget the ice. it'd be an easy enough thing to stray back onto dry land and try his luck there but howl does no such thing - instead he sticks to his path in the shallow water. the afternoon is still and quiet, the biting cold lessened a bit by the lack of breeze. the air instead remains calm, fluffing up his tail only every few minutes rather than every few steps. he ignores this, too, along with the painfully bright reflection of the snow. any fish that dwell here are surely hurting from the half-iced lake, but they are not any of his concern. howl's concern is only to walk, to roam, to - to - to -
do.
and, god, it's been so often since he was able to do anything.
idleness fits him awkwardly, a sweater a few sizes too small, and it weighs heavily upon maimed shoulders. and this, this pacing - it does little to settle the frenzied thrumming of his heart. it does little to burn off the manic, excess energy that dwells inside him, hovers just above his skin like static electricity. he feels it hum in the air around him, louder than birdsong and the crickets. that, at least, is somewhat reassuring - that, at least, feels almost right. he doesn't know what else to do, right now or with himself, and so he simply continues - plodding through the water and pushing on past the cold. he'll shiver and shake eventually, but surely it won't stop him until his mind finally quiets.
snow stretches across the plains, thick as a blanket and surely just as comfortable. despite everything it remains a clear, solid shade of white - flecked only with dirt here and there, disrupted only by tracks. most seemed to be equine - trailing this way and that, stale scents lingering in their wake. howl pays little attention to these (stale scents are old, easy to ignore, not dangerous), and instead soliders forward. these lands - as far as he knew - belonged to no court, no living soul. it was a neutral land, free from claims and ownership - just the same as him. it is... a strange concept, to feel kinship to a patch of ground, and so howl snorts, shoving those thoughts away.
instead, he continues on - right up until he stops.
ahead, across the plains, stand a herd of - things. horses? no. they are too broad, too square - their builds are different, alien in a way he's never seen. there's a good distance between howl and the buffalo and he stills where he stands, as if frozen by the winter air. they pay him no mind, for they're used to the sight of a lone stallion, yet howl stays where he is. lowers his head just a bit, squares his shoulders as muscles tense, maimed gaze never once straying from them.
he does not know what they are. he does not care - but he certainly doesn't trust them, either.
’Thy life is a riddle, to bear rapture and sorrow
To listen, to suffer, to entrust unto tomorrow
In one fleeting moment, from the Land doth life flow
Yet in one fleeting moment, for anew it doth grow
In the same fleeting moment
Thou must live
die
and know’
“I don’t understand.”
Lost. She was lost, drowning, forgotten. Out of place. Nonexistent. Living on time that wasn’t truly hers. Had they made a mistake? Did she truly belong? Would the Reaper come searching for her renegade soul?
“Please…”
She wanted to understand. She wanted to know. She needed to know. Why? Why had her life been stolen away? What had she done? Was this a lesson? Some greater experiment beyond mortal knowledge or comprehension? Her very element, her life-blood, the fire in her soul, had turned against her, igniting and swallowing her whole, leaving nothing behind but ash. Was that why she could no longer call upon the magic of her birthright? Had it forsaken her, in the end? Had her father forsaken her? There was so much she just didn’t understand, but voraciously, she needed to.
“Help me understand! Please!”
The plea fell on deaf ears, her voice hoarse, torn asunder and wrought with forlorn emotions echoing through the ancient cathedral. She quivered, a trembling deity of ivory and gold, but whether it was from the weight of her grief or the freezing temperatures remained to be seen. Israfel stood like a creature of stone, as though nothing more than a part of the very cathedral she stood inside, unmoving save the subtle quiver of her flesh. Her throat was thick with emotions, with grief, with heartache and yearning for the impossible, forlorn vermilion eyes filled with unshed tears. Her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, as though she couldn’t get enough air to fill her lungs, the weight of her emotions cloying and dragging her into an impregnable pit.
Upon her first reserved steps into this place, this hidden gem atop the mighty Veneror, Israfel had been in awe. The ancient craftsmanship of the cathedral was certain befitting of the Gods themselves, stealing the need to speak, and for some time she had simply appreciated the beauty of the place. It was cold, the air still frigid and thin and the wind outside howling angrily, but the snows had stopped midway through her travels. The sun was setting, casting the skies a brilliant tapestry of colors, but her gaze was drawn inwards, fiery orange eyes taking in the nooks, the crannies, and the hidden beauty of this sacred place.
Gilded, cloven hooves drew the Sun Daughter further into the heart of the sacred mountain, her steps reverberating off of mortar walls. Inevitably, her pace slow, reverent, she arrived at the heart of the temple. Offerings of old were placed variously throughout the room, trinkets, foods, flowers left in honor of their Gods. Standing still in the heart of it all, Israfel had finally allowed her own walls to crumble, the words pouring from pink lips unbidden, leaving her heart and soul bare for all to see.
“Papa…” But what of Helovia? What had happened to her home? What of her mother and father? Of her relatives? Of her friends? What had happened?!
Since arriving in Novus, Israfel had been lost. She had found a home within the Dusk Court, within Terrastella. They had welcomed her among their ranks with open hearts and minds, allowing her the title of soldier, to live, to serve for their cause. She had met others; Isorath, Florentine, Diarmuid, those who she might soon consider friends. Allies. Yet it seemed that no matter where she went, no matter who she asked, no one could give her the answers that she so desperately sought. No one knew of Helovia, nor what might have happened to it.
Tears spilled over somber vermilion eyes, salty rivulets staining pale cheeks. Rose-kissed lips parted upon a silent, suffering gasp, flanks shuddering. Israfel’s eyes slid closed, lowering her head, shoulders sagging in defeat.
She had tried so hard to remain strong. She tried, but it was just so hard. Most days she challenged the world, taunting death to come and steal her away again. She didn’t want to die again, not really, but she wondered that if this time, if she saw the Reaper coming, then she could demand justification as to why. Most days she was comfortable to simply be, but there were days like today when the darkness was just too much, when she simply wasn’t strong enough to hold up those protective walls.
Answers. That was all that she wanted, yet they remained so impossibly far from her grasp.
“Why can you not just tell me? I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.” The Gods of Novus were silent, and Israfel, blasphemous thought though it may be, wondered if they were even real. The Gods of Helovia had been distant, yes, but she, born of their flesh and blood, was proof of their existence. She had stood among Gods and Goddesses, of demi-Gods. She had felt their touch, their love, their loathing. She knew their magic, their flaws, the sounds of their voices.
“Please, if you can hear me… Please, help me. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where I am supposed to go. I’ve tried. I just… I just need some guidance. Please.” The Daughter of the Sun didn’t even know just who she was begging. Her father? Her Gods of Helovia? The Gods of Novus? Anyone, really, who could give her some semblance of peace.
The echoing of her own voice bounced back at her before giving way to silence, but Israfel finally found herself out of words. The grief was simply too much, and along with answers, she yearned for comfort, to not feel so alone. It ached terribly, like a tear within her very heart, and slowly, the shield-maiden allowed her knees to buckle, lowering herself as elegantly to the floor as she could manage. Wings unfurled, silken feathers wrapping protectively around herself, legs drawn close to her body for warmth. The tears remained, but Israfel was done seeking answers. For now, at least. She was tired. So very tired.
Upon the cold ground did the Sun Daughter lay, allowing her gaze to once more roam the arching ceilings and walls, letting her grief-addled mind to drift. It was evening and nightfall would soon be upon the world, and Israfel did not want to be caught out in such frigid temperature. Should the Gods not mind, perhaps she could remain for the evening. Maybe, should they have mercy upon her, she could find some sort of salvation during her extended stay.
The forest here is so dense, every nook and cranny between tree trunks overflowing with brush, damp smelling moss, and climbing vines. That anyone was able to carve out a path through this detritus of organic matter is miraculous, and that the road seems to be fairly well maintained is even more so. Talk about infrastructure!
Naturally, the mare’s first impulse is to abandon the hard-won track and wade into the thicket, seeking out brightly colored petals and bitter smelling roots hiding among the more common species of shrub and fern. She wonders if she might find any of the useful ginger root or if any of the hulking trunks might yield her personal favorite, cinnamon.
The thought of its warm and pungent flavor spurs her on, though the possibility of discovering – well, anything, really – would likely have been enough to send her scrambling in by itself, given a moment of consideration. Everything seems to be going fine at first, the rose grey lifting her hooves up high and only placing them down again on plants she knows to be innocuous, slowly – very slowly - but surely making her way into the forest at a roughly perpendicular angle from the path. Head swiveling, she scans all around herself, noting a strong presence of bluebells, their downturned, trumpet shaped flowers adding a sprinkle of sapphire and indigo to the wood. She can also see some small white blooms of the bloodroot flower, largely toxic, but useful for making dyes. It’s not until she spots a patch of blackberry bushes and her stomach clenches and rumbles in response that everything starts to go to shit.
Stepping carefully onto a clump of emerald green moss, she attempts to position herself close enough to the berries to start greedily plucking them from their thorny stems without her coat and long mane becoming entangled in the process, but just as she shifts her weight forward the moss beneath her hooves gives way, her front legs sinking into the ground and leaving her trapped in an unwilling puppy pose. ”Well, shit." She growls, immediately furious with herself for getting into this predicament. ”What the fuuu-"
_______________
”speak”
@Bucephalus
Let's assume this is after she meets Somnus and learns about the Courts, thus why she's headed toward Dawn.
Posted by: Israfel - 12-21-2017, 09:33 PM - Forum: Vitae Oasis
- No Replies
Israfel
Israfel was not one for the cold. In this life or her last one, she detested the winter season, loathing the invasive chill that infiltrated her joints and bones. And this time around, she didn’t even have her blood-born magic to keep her warm. While she wouldn’t trade her home in Terrastella for the world, there was a certain charm about Solterra, the lingering warmth aside. It pulled at her heartstrings, the hot deserts and the fierce sun reminding her of her father’s fiery love and familiarity. The people were hardy, but loyal. Fierce and sarcastic, abrasive at the best of times, those that Israfel had met during her mission would not be forgotten. Eventually she would return to Terrastella and the Dusk Court, but she had been given a duty to assist Solterra by her Queen, and she was not one to do anything by halves.
Even though it had been half a season since their arrival, she remained behind, even after Evangeline had returned to their western homeland. Israfel helped with protecting the Day Court and rebuilding the locations molested by the teryr attack, seeking out Isorath at least once a day to check in with her shield-brother and ensure his welfare during their stay. So far everyone of Solterra had been accommodating to the two of them, but the longer that she stayed here, among the denizens of sand and sun, she felt her heart finding a place here and her mind wondering, not for the first time, what her life would be like had she happened upon the desert before the cliffs.
Seeking a reprieve from her morning patrol, gilded wings carried the Daughter of the Sun to the oasis. It was high noon by the time she landed, wings stretching out in a cascade of gold and ivory, soaking in the rays of the sun overhead and welcoming its familiar touch. There was a slight chill upon the breeze, toying with the maiden’s ivory and golden hair, but it was nothing untoward or unpleasant. It was soothing and relaxing, a calming balm to the physical and mental stresses of assistance, and she was grateful for some time alone and away.
Fiery vermilion eyes regarded the oasis, admiring the glistening pools of water, the beautiful variants of plants, and the overall picturesque tranquility of it all. She came here sometimes, after a long day of work, to unwind and find peace. Sometimes others would be lingering nearby, but never would she disturb them. So far, there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the area. Golden hooves drew the Sun Daughter towards the crystal clear pool, and with a profound elegance, Israfel lowered her head to drink. The cool water soothed her parched tongue, returning vibrancy to her core, and only after she was sated did she lift her head, pearls of water droplets falling from rose-kissed lips.
Allowing her wings to settle back against her sides, nestled out of the way, Israfel stood at the water’s edge, staring down into her own reflection. Lazily she cocked a rear hoof, tail swishing slowly beneath the afternoon sun, and vermilion eyes slid shut to simply feel the world around her.
