It flows through veins and keeps even the most minuscule
of creatures alive. It binds when spilt and it binds when given, it creates and it destroys. Blood is the reason for everything. It gives life. Yet it is so easy to spill. It is so easy to ruin everything and oh what power does one need to have to decide when to take someones lifeblood away? Not much because one simply needs to be cunning or stronger than the other to take their life away and that was the way of the world. Unfair yet necessary, learn the rules and you will become understanding of Tempus' ways. Blood was life.
Blood can also call. One's blood ran deep in a certain place or another and that was called home, where the blood lines ran. Whether it be intentional or not blood calls blood and it always flows back home. It was Alaric's time to come home. On the scent of burning wood and charred flesh he came, buzzards circling overhead attracted to his deathly scent and he was silent. The sound of the claws and teeth rattling against his neck was the only thing heard, for in the desert nothing survived by making sound.
The heat bore down on his back like a hunter to its prey and it was hungry. Sweat rolled in drops down the mans dark body and he breathed heavily through flared nostrils. The sand was his home, Novus was his, the heat did not bother him. As worn cracked hooves expertly made their way across the golden dunes a deep and unsettling cackle from deep within Alaric's chest vibrated across the sky, unsettling even the buzzards above. Because as he climbed another dune the sand turned to red stone, red like blood, cracked and old. Until the world fell away into nothingness.
Alaric knew this place because the Elatus Canyon was where he jumped. Tested to fly for he would die one way or another if he did not, and on thin young limbs he had plunged down the canyon and made it to the other side. Quickeninghis pace the dark stallion came to stand at the very edge of the canyon, his hooves knocking unfortunate little pebbles down to the abyss. Alaric looked over the dunes with violent eyes and chuckled as a gentle winters breeze tickled the dreads resting on his neck. It was time to come home. Alaric had left in blood and now he would return just the same.
"I am Alaric of Novus, of the Davke" he rumbled "where are my people? Where are the Davke?" Alaric never forgot about his herd, the ruthless horses of the sand who did not hail to the Day Court because they, they were not easily owned. When he left they were powerful and strong, little did he know the Davke had all but been wiped out by the Day courts former leader. A chilling grin graced his lips as another chuckled vibrated in his chest; "im home."
OOC:::Sorry for the crappy first post! TAGS::: @Torstein
Camdis was as recovered as he could hope to be since his... hibernation.
Having regained most of the weight that he had lost with only a few stone of muscle and fat left to recover, the Regent felt that it was finally time to return to the throne room, to attempt a debut where he could actually use his position as Regent for something other than being a well read recluse. It was interesting, his brush with death was something that had only weakened him for a few weeks, his body recovering with a seemingly preternatural swiftness that neither he nor the nurses that had attended him were willing to comment on. For him, it was something that he had yet to accept - that he had been weakened to the point of a mewling babe by that selfsame presence that he had decided was either Calligo or her shade. It wasn't something that he knew how to discuss or begin to understand, but the stallion had an inkling that he was to be a part of some larger scheme, that he was potentially more than just a plaything for the gods.
Maybe he was more of a game piece now; less of a frivolity and more of a necessity. But such musings he must keep to himself.
The soft shushing of his lengthy mane and tail along the stone floors of the throne room served as a quiet welcome, the scent of incense and melted beeswax permeating the grand space with ease. Moving so as to position himself in front of the dais that was reserved for Reichenbach, Camdis only allowed himself a short moment to consider where his dear friend could be - he hadn't seen hide nor hair of him during his stay in the infirmary, and he hadn't heard of any activity from Raglan despite the hastily scribbled note that the lad had left upon their shared desk; Maxence is vanished. Solterra sits without a Sovereign, a fruit ripe for the taking.
Now was as good a time to discuss that as any, Camdis supposed.
@anyone in the Night Court. Cam is gonna chit the chat and see how he can be a more effective resource for the people of Denocte so I'll tag @Reichenbach @Lothaire and @Aislinn and @Rostislav but everyone is welcome!
Dusted with star matter and borne upon tides of nature, hers is the beauty of wild places.
She had never known loss to be so painful.
At the convent, she had known loss - they all had. It wasn't uncommon for a fellow trainee to perish during a dangerous evaluation, or for an elderly mentor or tutor to pass of natural causes, but for her King? Her comrade and Commandant? His absence was felt like a blade to her heart with every breath and every blink. What was she to do? What would Solis' children do without their beloved Maxence? Who would direct them to their righteous victories? There was not one that could fill the place of the stallion who had fought the Elder Teryr, not one that could hope to yoke the wild and battle hardened peoples of Solterra to their will, to act with single mind and purpose.
There was no one.
And so in her fear and her directionless terror, Eden fled to the only place that she associated with safety - to Leviathan's side.
With so many months spent alongside the behemoth in training and laughter, in labor and adoration, she had become as accustomed to his scent as she was to her own. So it was a simple thing to track him from the smithy that he had adopted as his haunt to the Oasis that she had shared so many memories with those that she had come to consider family. Gasping with the strike of pain that blossomed within her chest as she recalled her and Maxence's moments held beneath the moonlight of the Oasis, the paladin blinked back tears and forced one gilded hoof in front of the other. "Levi?" She called weakly, her voice made tremulous and thin from fear and sorrow, "Leviathan, where are you?"
In the middle distance, she could see a silhouette, though it was not one that she could entirely attribute to her behemoth. No, it wasn't bulky enough, and the mane and tail... they reflected palely in the cool night air, no ebony or charcoal to be seen - but the horns and the height screamed of her gentle giant. Brow furrowing against her confusion, the aurelian maiden moved closer to the half-known stranger, "Sir? Hello? I'm looking for someone, a stallion named Leviathan.. He has a red eye and one clouded over and his coloring is black and white. He is covered in scars. You wouldn't have forgotten him if you had seen him, and could never dismiss him from memory if you had talked to him. He is great and big... he..." She swallowed against a sudden rush of emotion, "He is my dearest companion."
As she came closer, her confusion could only deepen as the scent of Leviathan became stronger, and the notches in the stranger's horns were the same as her comrade's. "Sir?"
He had never been much for worship, never much for gods that weren't of his own making. No, the Silvertongue lad with ruises limning his knuckles, with blood seeping from clenched teeth and eyes darkened with experience had never had the privilege of religion. Faith was something that a soul craved when all other needs had been met, when the belly was full and the mind wasn't full of desperation and doubt in the humanity of the world. Faith was something that was foreign to a street rat with thieving fingers and a quick grin.
He was a Crow and that was all the religion he needed.
Yet, the Veneror Peak and the temple that sat upon it was still a place of wonder for the youth, a point untouched by the filth and stench of moral decay. He could be Raglan, just Raglan, here. He didn't have to be a Page to the Crown, a trainee healer to the Regent, he didn't have to be his successes and he didn't have to live up to the expectations of the persona that he had knitted together from circumstance and necessity. He could leave all of that behind, could shed the skin that he kept in such good condition that even his fellow Crows didn't know that there was something else that lurked there at the Silvertongue's molten core.
Just Raglan.
Truthfully, the lad hadn't had much time to spend with Just Raglan - the boy that he was, but the boy he knew nothing about. That boy got left behind in the alley where he had been tossed after birth, he supposed. What the Silvertongue understood about Just Raglan is that he was leagues more kind and empathetic than the Crow could ever fathom, that he loved and mourned and had nothing of the fierce desperation, none of the blood and grit caking his skin that the winged youth had grown accustomed to. Just Raglan wasn't morally ambiguous, wasn't dangerous, didn't crave fortune and violence in retribution for what had been done to him.
Raglan scoffed at such a notion and murmured into the dark doorway of the temple in which he stood, "Just Raglan has no drive. He'd have gotten us killed long ago."
Another step down another road, leading, languid, to another land. It is a path well traveled, the trail oft trod, and the ghostlike girl who graces it today little more than another creature, another stranger on another journey, aimless and arrogant in her sense of self-importance. The court does not still at her entrance, the light does not change; nobody seems particularly perturbed by the granddaughter of the moon, who flutters and floats across frosty stone. Why should we care? the walls that stand sentinel seem to whisper, their ancient stone silent as she passes by, unimpressed and underwhelmed by the strange girl, her youth, her ivory and spun silk mane. We have seen prettier, cleverer, bolder - why should we shudder and still for you? Ancient and indifferent, the court cannot care for every mortal to pass beneath its arches. And thus another set of walls does not welcome her, another cloudy sky does not part to illuminate her.
Savera prefers it this way.
To the walls she is but another child; to the girl it is but another stone. It is not the first path, nor the last, to pass beneath the girl's feet, and though she steps with purposeful ease, her hooves leave little imprint on the indifferent ground. It is her third winter, and her fourth new land - born in one kingdom, raised in another, cast out into a third, the girl is eager to learn as much and leave as little as possible within this, Novus, the transient's latest conquest on her quest to understand the world. The world is not Savera's home - the morning star sees herself as a tourist of sorts, a refugee cast out of her home in the skies, left now to roam until the inevitability of death. She treats it as one may treat a book, studying and following the preordained course, keen to find the clues and meet the characters without altering the course ordained by authors grander than she.
Quiet, curious, the girl carries on, wings pulled tight around her narrow chest, breath blooming in clouds of displaced frost, hazel eyes wide as she peers into the flickering shadows, the sea of strangers that populates this palace yet leaves her feeling utterly alone. She is dulled by the dim light, her coat a cold steel; she is a thief, a shade, a casual observer, comfortable keeping her distance wile watching widely, entranced and afraid by the dancing figures, the baubles and bling. From stall to stall the girl wanders, never stopping long enough for chatter, always just far enough to eavesdrop, to spy. Soon, she knows, if she wishes to stay here she will have to emerge, but for now she is content to watch and wait, settling back into a quiet nook, thoughtful, patient, and unafraid. Will another stranger greet here, another invitation for shelter extended? Will she find herself in another hostel, surrounded by another herd? It is her third winter, and she has learned by now that it is an unpleasant time to spend wandering. Soon there will be another summer, and Savera will find herself on another road-
-but for now she will winter in this lively, dark place, silently soaking in the secrets it offers, waiting for welcome and learning all she can.
A cold season has settled in, bringing frost and snow to much of Novus and turning it into a winter wonderland. Here in the northern reaches of the Elutheria plains, it seems to cover just about everything: the ground is coated by a soft blanket of it, the tree branches bow beneath its weight, the animals have taken to their shelters, warm in their burrows and secret places. The world is white as far as the eye can see. Some may find it dreary, depressive, content to slumber through the winter the way bears would. Others, however, may just find their new world perfect for snowball fights… and snowmen building.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IPOMOEA
so lay me down in golden dandelions
Ipomoea trudged through the snow, leaving hoof prints in his wake. Each step was a game to him, to see how far the snow would go: sometimes, it barely reached his coronet band. Other times, he found himself sinking into a drift up to his shoulders. The snow gave way beneath his weight, eating his speckled frame whole, eliciting a bubbly laugh to escape from his throat. With a rear and a hop he was free, snow clinging to his body so that he appeared more a leopard appaloosa than a snowcap. He snorted, puffs of breath snaking visibly through the air, and leapt into a spirited canter, heels flinging in the air in his wake.
Although he said so about every season, Ipomoea was convinced Winter was by far his true favorite. For one, it was his birth season, marking another year of his life gone by. Blankets and hot drinks were abundant, as well, comfort and open doors seeming to appear everywhere he went (for who would turn down the poor orphan-turned Emissary from their home?)
And, of course, there was snow.
He ran through it now, kicking up his heels in excitement. There was nothing he could think of that would be heavy enough to weigh down his heart: it was winter! And that meant holidays and fun!
After an appropriate time acting like a yearling, the Dawn Court Emissary came to a skidding stop. Tossing the snow from his bright pink eyes, he inspected the perfect clearing he had found himself in. A smile stretched lopsidedly across his boyish face, and he was off to work. Carefully, he scraped some snow across the ground and began rolling it into a ball that gradually became bigger and bigger. He perched it carefully upon the ground, nudging it with his nose to ensure it wouldn’t move. Satisfied, he turned and began rolling another ball, this one smaller than the first. Using his feeble telekinesis, it took a few tries to lift it high enough to place upon the first ball of snow. Once more, he made a third, smaller
Now, to just find something to decorate it with… Ipomoea lowered his head to inspect the snow, calculating in his mind how deep it may be. One gangly, speckled foreleg pawed tentatively at the ground, beginning to scrape some of it away. A few more strikes and he could see the frozen dirt through the snow: he was sure he would find a few good stones to make eyes out of…
This is an official Novus event thread, with a surprise waiting at the end! Anyone who joins by Monday, December 18th will receive a 150 signos reward and will be “in” on the story to come! Come help Ipomoea build a snowman!
You’re welcome to help Po build his snowman, or begin building a bunch of your own! ;D
Everything hurts. His legs are ready to give out at any moment, and his head is throbbing—he hasn’t slept in days and he’s probably dehydrated from the sheer amount of water he’s lost in tears. Even now they don’t stop streaming down his face; he doesn’t know the last time his cheeks were dry. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. He loves him and he misses him, why isn’t that enough? Why can’t he find him? Where is he? Is he…is he still looking?
That thought hurts the most, that Aion might’ve given up. It forces him to his knees, the perceptible pain a stinging in his eyes and constriction of his throat. The brittle grass crunches under his weight as he falls to his side at the edge of the stream. Eros looks down at his reflection, the vitality and beauty drained from his face; his eyes are red and sunken, the skin on his cheeks raw from the cold and frozen tears. The shriveled and browned arrangement of flowers held in his teeth tremble as he shivers in a gust of winter wind.
He tucks the tattered bouquet in close to his belly, curling himself around it in an attempt to protect the flowers from the elements. It was a wonder they had lasted this long, summer long forgotten. Of course, leaves had broken off and a portion of the petals had blown away in the wind, but he refuses to discard them, ever-optimistic he’ll soon be able to give them to his mate. Eros imagines how he’ll smile, a little embarrassed by the state of his present, but he’ll be happy because he has Aion.
With thoughts of their reunion in his head, his tears begin to slow, and he is finally able to rest.
The glade just outside the city had been transformed from the place people went in search of sustenance to a training ground. Though Artesia was alone now, this place had become her kingdom, her domain. The other warriors answered to she and a select few here to learn, to practice, to hone their blades. Now was not the time for teaching new techniques or how to use the weapons they had acquired, but rather to work on overall teamwork and hone reaction times. A half a second could make the difference between life and death when facing anyone's talons.
Now, however, was night. Now her fellow warriors slept, but Artesia was not the sort to sleep for hours on end. Too paranoid, too on edge. No. These days she would take a short nap every few hours and it was enough to sustain her. Fed herself on meat, building her strength for the battle on the horizon. The young bitch instead occupied herself with looking over the new weapons they had found.
With a sickly screech, the chocolate colored female ran one of her ebony bear claws against the blunt of a crudely made piece of metal. It left a faint scratch in the metal, but otherwise the material seemed unharmed. Good, good. The bear claws were well taken care of by Artesia, so anything that could withstand a slice from them without being mangled would easily stand up to almost anything. Artesia normally didn't take to protecting herself, the scars that graced her body and the loss of her eye a good notion of that. Still..she was no fool, she would be ready. She would be ready. . . Artesia hadn't lived this long to let herself be killed now.
into the sea, you and me
all these years, and no one heard
i love you, let's go
Cold air claws its way into the room, age sinking its teeth deep into the flesh of your shoulder and brain matter. No pain, no discomfort, only the dull, disappointing sensation of knowing you’ve progressed further into the future with barely anything to boast.
You’ve failed, ran and hid yourself from your previous sins, acting as if the world you once knew will never find you again and that the plushness of this life will save your sinner’s soul.
The bed is soft as it moves beneath your weight, shifting uneasily as Helovia becomes too often a thought. It curses you, ridicules your entire life, and yet no part of you has the might to hex it away.
The part of you that might’ve is gone; that part is gone because you, and I hope you know that, even though you already do.
The thought of him hurts as you stifle the knot, choking your airways and throwing a heavy stone into the frail portions of your ribcage. It would’ve broken him to have known you’ll cry over him, brokenhearted and lonely, - there’s a dead king in your home again, is he your fault too? - scared of things that have no involvement with you. What would they say if they knew?
A whine believed to be tucked in deep finds a way free and unsettles you, your bed no longer a safe place that you’ve stubbornly grown to accept when the -
That sensation of weight in your chest is so much more heavier now, the air in your lungs sharp and brittle as your lower lip curls in, the familiar sensation of grinding teeth against weak skin at the idea of that. You’ll never go back, but they don’t need to know that. They just don’t need to know who you are.
The stone on your hooves is rough; you’ve noticed they crack more these days, uncomfortable and annoying, not used to the pressure they’re now forced to bare, and even though you make a mess of yourself while trying to escape, something still makes you hope to the Sun God, not Solis, that no one is going to care when you disappear.
OOC: excuse me and this as well, I need some definite IC development here to make sia's nest egg work some more so here's some of it.
A viscous mist dwelled silently over the high alpine pass, it's intangible density obscuring the wayfarer's view. The only sound to be heard for miles was the uniform click and clack of a man's footfall along the narrow trail, drifting through the darkening gloom as though nothing else existed in the world - just he and the ancient mountain. As a child he had peered up at a range most similar to the Arma, finding his thoughts rising as high as the snow-tipped peaks; awestruck, perturbed. From the low lying land of his hamlet that small, patchwork boy had traced the jagged silhouette, his mind a snowstorm of imagination and longing.The magic of such tall everlong kingdoms had always captured his curiosity, and even now Lothaire could not deny the ethereal beauty of this towering, stone-walled world. The keepers of Denocte were as stoic as ever. This was not the first time he had elected to cross back into the borders of this Night-ridden land, but never before had he allowed himself to be so brazenly visible. The shrouding mist ran her cool fingers along his rugged wings and oaken spine; pulling him forward, deeper. There would be whispers soon enough, small voices burning like oil in the dark - barely there, cloaked and cryptic but present, regardless. The Crows would recognise his old musky scent, and word of his return would travel like electricity back toward the castle - Reichenbach would be waiting. Lothaire's mind turned slowly at the thought; unaffected, cold-blooded, indurate as ever.
The path wound narrower and were it not for the winged serpent's learned knowledge of this perilous route he may well have met an untimely death by now; the 100 foot drop to his left sang quietly - the unfathomable call of the void. After hours of carefully traversing this treacherous terrain the flinty passage opened up onto a wider pass carved out from the mountainside, as though Caligo herself had gouged out the rock and earth with her somber hands. The tall spectral man paused, his muscles protesting and aching at his nightlong journey. Space-black eyes were cast north, then, watching silently as through the mist a pale tentative sunset stretched its rosy lilac kiss across Denocte, and he wondered - wondered if he brought the world to a standstill and existed in this beautiful untouched moment forever, he might feel happiness' embrace.
![[Image: lothaire_pixel2_by_outofthefurnace-dbhn4ra.png]](https://orig00.deviantart.net/e7c1/f/2017/206/0/5/lothaire_pixel2_by_outofthefurnace-dbhn4ra.png){kind=tracking}
