The blood of many Solterrans ran hot; it was how they were, but none ran like Leviathan's. His ran in a way that was comparable to magma, a slow burn in no rush to go anywhere, rolling and burning everything in its path without any urgency. The giant ran hot, he always did, and it was no surprise. Though his head was level, and still was as he marched his way through the canyon, his front hooves flaking dried blood from the runt that had been killed, crimson slivers breaking away from the feathering and fluttering in the hot wind.
He stalked this canyon with a purpose in mind, aware of everything around him, ears twitching left and right, swiveling as he stalked his way toward the very nest of the Teryrs themselves. There were no sounds to betray the large bastard that had come in to the Court, but if he was lucky, the young would be here, huddling about. Morbid as it was, they would likely be picking at bones and flesh, and he would bring those bones to burn in a proper funeral.
Warriors deserved proper funerals, after all, and Maxence had been a warrior.
The titanic champion paused himself, lingering under the cave that lurked before him, and he plucked up rocks with what telekinesis he had, hefting them up before flinging them with as much force as he could. "COME ON OUT, YOU FEATHERY BASTARD!" He hoped the loud noises would draw attention, and would force the babes out of the nest. The large monster in the Court wasn't here; the stench wasn't and neither was the heavy beatings of wings.
What he did hear were the calls of the babies, and it was exactly what he had hoped for.
With a wicked grin, the goliath worked his way up to the cave entrance, stepping and scattering small stones as he did, feeling the sweltering heat of the sun on his back, scars and muscles pulling tight as he grit his teeth. Killing the young would be easy; bringing back what was left of the warrior though... well. He would figure it out somehow.
@Killian @Eden @Seraphina || there we go, I know you all wanted in! YAY MORE PLOTS
There is discord in the Dusk Court, while faces promoted a hopeful future, there is unsurity in their eyes they cannot hide from the winged Kirin. He had seen it too many times before to be immune, or too naive to miss it. The shock of Rannevig's abdication is a fresh wound in their hearts, and he is unsurprised. It is hard and bitter pill to swallow, but such is the way of life. It is cruel, and it is unfair. It raked it's claws on stability, thrust those unprepared into the eye of the storm without armor or wings to lift them to safety. It exalted those who never wished to be hero.
Isorath had left the Grand Hall, a picture of porcelain and gold which floated across the floor as if walking on air. A perfect picture of grace and ethereal wonder. He had said he would provide tea, and so he would. Lord knows that the newly crowned Sovereign would need it. She had said so herself. Once he had been in a similar position to her, thrust into the spotlight of Sovereignty, forced to thrust out his wings to catch himself before he hit the ground. Would she catch herself? Or would she be doomed to spiral until her pale frame met the cold hard ground?
For her sake, Isorath hoped her wings would spread to catch her magnificently. For now, he is focused on one simple thing. Strong tea and a place where they can breath easy. One of the Citadel's Balconies overlooking the cliff's is his chosen spot, fussing with the servants who flittered back and forth to bring a myriad of soft pillows and luxious blankets for them to rest upon. Their words leisurely and light hearted, despite the shake in their voice. Eventually, everything is set. The pristine silverware is seated on the dark wood of the table, along with a small selection of fruits and sweets he had collected from Denocte. The ornate box to the left of them, carved with dragons in various states of flight, housed his spirits of choice.
The air is crisp, but warm despite the sea breeze and it carried the smell of perfume and incense which clung delicately to his frame, and burned from the holder perched on the stone railings. He'd already began to tend to the tea when he'd sent a messenger to request Florentine's presence, the emphasis placed on that the tea would be strong like she'd asked. Smoke wafted from the engraved spout in elegant plumes, until it could no longer cling to tangibility, and evaporated into nothingness.
The morning was still new when the mare set out on her trek. The sun had just begun to make its journey above the horizon, painting the forest in sepia tinted oranges and yellows. The coloring fit the scene. Autumn was clutching the land now with its soft hues and browning branches. Leaves fell about the mare as she slithered between the tree trunks of the forest. No matter how they tried they would not camouflage her here though. She was a beast best suited to the cold. She was decorated in shades of varying colors of pink, blues, and purple, a star trapped in an equine form.
The gentle sound of water caught her attention and the mare changed her trajectory. Her steps were long and gentle. She was normally a quiet mover, stealthy and clean, but today leaves crunched beneath her. She wasn't sure if it was due to the way that autumn brought death to leaves or that she just didn't care. It didn't matter though, she was quiet enough not to bring too much attention to herself.
Soon the mare broke from the trees to a small clearing. There a wide creek lazily twisted along the ground. Dew hung close to the grass and fog twisted between the mare's limbs. Her breath was misted in the cool morning air. Limbs carried the female into the water which poured around her, just barely touching her belly. The fish there were unfazed by her presence. Perhaps they had never met an equine like herself. She gazed about watching them swim around her long limbs, she wouldn't harm them she merely just wanted to watch.
The sun burned overhead, seething and gold within the belly of the wide blue sky. The coming fall did little to temper the sweltering heat, but most around here didn’t seem to mind. Those who lived within Solterra found comfort beneath the heat. This land wasn’t for the weak or weary, or the gentle at heart. And that’s the way it should always be.
“Hm.”
The Coyote Prince stood firm within the sand, seafoam eyes peering through his permanent mask upon the carcasses. Buzzards had not yet fallen upon the dead fighters, and a warm desert breeze ruffled fur and feathers alike. Within the sand lay a coyote, deep gashes dug within it’s pelt, the mortal wound inflicted across its extended neck. The profound bleeding had long since dried beneath the beating light of day. One eye had been gouged out, and its teeth still carried the blood of the golden eagle that lay entwined with the canid. Some feathers danced away, having been pulled from the bird during its death throes, and one wing remained twisted in a brutal unnatural angle. The bird’s neck was broken as well, still captured between the jaws of the dog. It was romantic to Killian, like a pair of lovers, bound to one another as the reaper claimed them both at once. But which of the pair had won? Sure, the coyote had managed to capture the raptor and break its neck, but the bird’s great talons in its last attempts to break free had made it bleed out into the sand, so even in death it had been victorious.
The golden boy mulled the sight over, wondering what a glorious fight it must have been. Though the life of a warrior would never suit him, is still managed to intrigue him. Certainly many proud soldiers would desire to die upon the battlefield to a deserving adversary, yet Killian could never imagine ruining his body in such a grotesque and macabre way.
Perhaps what was important wasn’t who won, for in the end, it was the desert’s sands that would consume the pair. The the heat would quicken the decomposition process, the vultures would pick the carcasses clean, the sun would bleach the bones to a pristine ivory white, and finally the wind would bury their bodies, cover them in golden sands, and no one would ever know how beautiful they had been as their lives were stolen by the other.
Pensive, he tipped his head, continuing to stare at the pair. The sound of another approaching finally pulled his attention away, and as he lifted his crowned head, he cast a charming smile. “Lo, stranger, I have a question to propose.” Gesturing with his head for the stranger to come closer, again he looked down. “Do you think it’s possible to determine the victor? Or do you think in the end, perhaps it is the desert who always wins, or is the fight skewed as the reaper always swings his scythe and collects what is his in the end?”
"The pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of the leaves was almost hushed. All about them it was still and shadowy and sweet.”
-- -- --
*Common Civility
i. All members of the court are to be treated equally with respect.
ii. Any are welcome in the borders of Terrastella, to live or to visit.
iii. Vespera, the Goddess of Dusk, must be worshiped above all others to live in the Dusk Court. Any other worshiper will be considered a guest.
iv. Only the Sovereign, Regent, and Emissary (the Regime) may make decisions concerning the Court's well being, including all members whether native or foreign, and other courts.
v. Members of the court, regardless of rank, are expected to first approach the Regime with any discrepancies they may have.
vi. A criminal or treasonous act is punishable by the Sovereign and appropriate measures are to be decided by the Court.
*Rank Expectancies
i. The Regime are never to make any court-wide decision without first consulting their entire court.
ii. The Counsel has freedom to make decisions and activities pertaining to their ranks (populace), subject to Regime approval.
iii. The Caretakers are never to turn down a member in need of treatment, whether native or foreign.
iv. Members of one populace are welcome to partake in activities of another, subject to their rank's tasks' completion and acceptance of the populace's leader (the Champion).
v. It is more favorable for a member to stay within one populace, but changing ranks is allowed with the original and the new rank Champions' approval.
*Foreigner Guidelines
i. Any in need of a place of rest or treatment is welcome to seek the Regime, Champions, or a Caretaker for assistance.
ii. Dusk Court borders are open as a home to weary travelers passing through, and are allowed to stay as long as the Laws are adhered to.
iii. Visitors with important information (anyone of a Regime or Champion rank, including those of the Populace) must first seek a Dusk Court Regime or Champion else they will be turned away.
-- -- --
"It was that wonderful moment when, for lack of a visible horizon, the not yet darkened world seems infinitely greater—a moment when anything can happen, anything be believed in.”
Autumn was in full swing and change was in the air.
The breeze that filtered through the air was crisp with the oncoming dregs of winter. Israfel had no idea how to prepare herself. It had been a very long time since she had even had to worry about the winter season, being dead and all... And even before her death, she had been graced with the Godly magic of her father to keep her warm through the cold. Now, it was just her in mortal flesh, the flaming magic of her heritage stripped from her blood and leaving her floundering in its wake. Luckily, however, she was not without shelter or protection. The Citadel of Court would keep her warm through the winter, but until then, Israfel knew that she had a duty to uphold.
As a warrior of Terrastella, she knew that she always needed to be prepared for whatever might come, no matter the season. With the sudden fluctuation in power, from Rannveig to Florentine, Israfel felt herself deeply unsettled. What would this mean? What changes were to be had? While never exchanging a word with Rannveig, it had been a constant fact that it was she that lead the Dusk Court. Now? Well. It was all new. Life was full of change, and Israfel was trying to accustom herself to the inevitable. Nothing stayed the same. That was just how life was.
So, it was that change that spurred her out here, upon the narrow, dangerous cliff sides and rocky crags of the Praistigia Cliffs. The desire to succeed and improve were the reasons that she threw herself from the ledge of the cliffs with such voracious force, gilded wings outstretched, feathers poised upwards as the mighty appendages propelled her forward and into the rich blue sky.
The sun hung overhead, bright despite the fall chill. Israfel's fiery eyes were narrowed against the rushing wind, pale ears flat against gilded tresses, allowing her body to give in to the instincts of flight, to push herself harder, chest heaving, sweaty rivulets collecting with every aerial maneuver.
It could have been minutes or hours that she spent within the air, diving in graceful arcs towards the churning sea and deadly rocks below, wings furled close against her sides in a dangerous free-fall, only for gilded feathered appendages to unfurl at the last moment, billowing and collecting air mid-fall to halt her descent. Stronger. She had to get stronger.
By the time that her hooves touched the grassy earth once again, her sides were slick with sweat, steam raising from her aching body. It felt good. She felt free. Slowly, Israfel's vermilion eyes drifted upwards to the sun, staring as long as she could as the light burned into her eyes. She missed her family so much... "Would you be proud of me?" She asked the sun, her voice winded and weak despite the power she could feel rippling through bone and muscle, "Oh, Papa... Why do you not speak to me anymore?"
Something had happened in Helovia. Whatever it might be, Israfel just might never know.
The sea was calling to her; the line where the sky and the ocean touched singing to her like a lullaby. She craved to answer the call of the sea — burned for it — but alas, she was a mermaid that was cursed ashore, for she was never given the gift of learning how to swim. Her only escape a sunken ship that lay at the bottom of a sea she did not know, the bones of her crew surely trapped in its burned and broken hull. She, the lady captain to her lord, who had been damned to breathe instead of dying beneath the waves with them.
She cursed every breath of oxygen that touched her lips, her lungs. The Blue princess nearly cursed her patron goddess, Calypso — but it was not the sea's burden to bear. Instead, Thaleia found herself traversing the stone stairway to the stars, having heard the whisperings of a temple at this new land's highest, reachable peak. This continent unknown to her, not found on an maps, had her realizing that somehow, someway, she had voyaged to far across the ocean blue. Her own Court now lost to her, as she discovered herself in a kingdom ruled by a lupine-esque queen.
Her hooves clicked softly against the rocky earth, the air deliciously thin and cool in her lungs as she traveled higher still. Stars glimmered against the expanse of inky sky and violet, shining pearls that welcomed the ocean daughter to their temple. Silver eyes took in every dancing shadow, every smooth-faced stone pillar that held the high ceiling of this sacred ground. She noted the offerings that glittered in the moonlight filtering in from the cave mouth; the coins of silver and gold, the locks of bound hair, and various other trinkets left as a gift to the gods that rule this foreign land.
With a tender heart, she stepped forward, looking closely at each pale statue, her mind whirling at the stories of each of the four gods that called this world their kingdom. One pile was topped full of coins and even a worn page from a book; the next piled high with golden coins and a vial of red sand; and another with silver trinkets and charms that depicted the moon and stars. But it was not these that had her faltering, but the third.. where pink salt and herbs were laid at the foot of the pillar. She quirked her crown to the side, curiosity and wonder overwhelming ever nerve, every vein, as her blood ran thick with so many emotions that suddenly, her heart began to race.
As she stared down at the offerings below her, the night breeze flirted with the salt-white of her mane. The stars above her shimmering in silent answers to the ocean-daughter atop the mountain peak. "Who are you? What is this place?" she wondered, her voice a whispered wind across a sea. Calypso save her, for she was lost; her grief drowning her in the cold autumn air. Her body a blue-grey shadow in the center of the citadel, the night her only witness to her pleas.
for anyone <3
this thread was inspired by this song! "Thaleia speech."
Shards of colored light glared down from the stained-glass window on the far side of the throne room, leaving the dull sandstone cast in broken fragments of color. It was there that Seraphina stood, engulfed in suffocating silence, with her eyes cast up to examine the curling iron frames that encircled the glass. She traced the golden silhouette of Solis with her gaze, luminous even among the vivid colors of the window; she felt as though she should be praying, but no words came to mind, no devout whisperings to ease her thoughts. Strange as it felt, it had been months since Seraphina had found herself facing death – not since Viceroy. She couldn’t say that it was chilling, considering how many times she had seen death before, but it was sudden, a frank reminder of just how quickly life could be stolen away in the harsh deserts of Solterra. The desert claimed whatever it desired, and its people were left to pick up what remained. If nothing else, it grew survivalists.
She stepped closer to the window, letting the soft light wash over her. She had brushed blood and sand free of her coat from the fight with the teryr earlier in the day, though the narrow gashes that the runt had managed to leave in her sides still stung like fire in her veins, a constant reminder of events she would prefer to forget, even if only for a moment. (When she closed her eyes she was blinded by sunlight, only interrupted by the dark, disappearing form of the teryr.) Seraphina told herself that there wasn’t time to focus on the fight, only the results, where they would go from here.
The wind hummed through the ancient corridors, a ghostly, dry whisper at the back of her mind. Her thoughts returned to more immediate – and concrete – matters. The Day Court had only just begun to recover from the gashes left by Zolin; they couldn’t go without a sovereign for so long again, even with a dedicated group of champions and two-thirds of the regime remaining. Seraphina suspected that Avdotya would step up after Maxence, but she hadn’t immediately announced her claim; it might have been a matter of timing, but somehow Seraphina had the impression that she wasn’t interested in the position. Capable and efficient as she was as Reagent, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Avdotya didn’t enjoy it. She shook those thoughts off, however. Speculation was meaningless until she had a chance to speak with the serpent herself.
She waited for Avdotya to arrive, her eyes never leaving the sun god.
He had arrived in a new land, a new world and for once, his feet touched the ground. The soft earth beneath his hooves was a new and pleasant feeling, the scent of dirt wafted around him. A chill in the air hovered over the stallion as he extended his massive wings slowly and allowed them to stretch and relax. He often used them as appendages, often reaching for objects as he brushed them through the grass.
A breeze tickled his creamy hide and a smile spread over his soft pink lips. Even here, the wind was his friend, his brother. A soft whisper escaped his maw, the words unknowable, the language almost otherworldly. Everything about the words were kind, gentle and calm. But, no one around him could know of the words he heard in response. Maybe it wasn’t the wind, it perhaps was all in his head, but either way, he maintained a relationship with the wind.
Zaius’s turquoise eyes moved slowly over the sea of grass before him and the slight loll of the lazy hills. It was peaceful here and so, thoughts raced through his mind, some overwhelmed him and he became uncomfortable in the silence. Suddenly, a beautiful sound escaped the impressive stallion, he hummed softly to himself. However, his “song” was meant for his invisible companion as well as a tranquil breeze moved over the meadow. Birds chirped as Zaius settled down in the soft grass, his immense wings folded carefully to his sides. Who lives here? The thought came as Zaius glanced about him, truly curious of this new land and who resided here. It was all so new to him, the vast meadows, forests and rivers. During his flight he had even seen a castle and perhaps this could be a kingdom, which meant there could be a king. The man shuddered at the word. Of all the things he ran from, all the things that haunted him, that was by far the heaviest weight upon his shoulders. The burden and guilt ate a hole in his heart with each passing hour and yet, he would never return to what he had known. He couldn't, it just wasn't possible. After all, he was one of the fallen.
lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
The bittersweet taste of fall apples lingered as he walked away from the bobbing station, a draping of orange leaves and autumn flowers laid across his withers as his reward for partaking in the event. Ipomoea’s body was thrumming with energy, weaving his way through the crowds with an ever-present smile upon his dark lips, ears bobbing in time with the music playing through the streets. The transformation on the Dawn Court reminded him of his time traveling with the merchants, people who knew how to live in the moment, who danced and sang without abandon at nearly all times of the day. It was inherently familiar to him, ingrained into his upbringing (untraditional as it had been), and he found it easy to let go, to forget about anything else and simply be present.
All of the politics slowly faded from his mind, and he was just Ipomoea; not the Emissary of Dawn.
As he walked, making a mental note to revisit the face painting station when the lines lessened, the music began to change. Until now it had been smooth and subtle tones, reminding him of the noise water made while cascading in a fountain. Now it’s tempo had increased, almost maddening so: the heavy beats reverberated in his bones, tingling in his skin, and soon a woman’s husky voice was singing along from somewhere in the crowd to the notes.
’She came to me in rows of white
In the corner of my room
A specter of the night
Silhouetted by the moon...’
Ipomoea wasn’t thinking anymore. His limbs were moving of their own accord, passing first to the left, then two paces to the right, head bobbing in time with the beat, with his heart.
’Colors burst as I close my eyes… ooh-ooh’
He was aware of the others moving around him, dancing in time with him, a single beat seeming to unite them all. It was mindless in the best sort of ways.
As the song began to fade, the woman's voice moving farther and farther away, Po's eyes finally opened, smiling at those nearest to him. "Who knew Denocte's musicians were quite so talented," he spoke to no one in particular, still bobbing and weaving in his own made up rhythms.
![[Image: bcrZhpWH_o.png]](https://images2.imgbox.com/a0/28/bcrZhpWH_o.png)
