The autumn was growing thinner, down and down to the cold bones beneath. Acton could feel winter coming like an itch under his skin. In the moments he was honest with himself (rare though they were), he felt leaner, too – leaner, harder, worn bare. Maybe it was worry that didn’t know how to properly manifest; maybe it was an anxiety that hummed throughout him like a wasp nest. Whatever it was, he chose wandering as an outlet.
It was a long way he wandered, today. It hadn’t been full dawn when he’d left Denocte, the last of the fires still trailing smoke from the night’s festivities, and now the night was coming on again. The wind leaned into him and he leaned back, an orange and black figure against the increasingly stark background of Novus. Only a few colors still clung to the trees, and the clouds promised rain – or maybe it was snow.
Either way he wanted none of it. Acton was a summertime creature, all heat and flash, and the cold made him both prickly and restless. Overhead a few crows fought the wind, tipping their ragged feathers and fighting the current. Today was a rare day the stallion was glad he didn’t have wings.
When he found the creek, he found it was the only thing that could compete with the rats’ gnawing of his own thoughts, and so he followed it into the trees. It was instantly warmer among their trunks, their black limbs pressing against the darkening sky, and the forest was quiet save for a few scolding jays.
He pressed on alone, each step a thick crunch, and it took him a while to feel the weight of eyes on him. Even after he did, it took him a while longer before he paused, turning his head, the vapor of his breath visible in the growing dark.
“You’re a ways from home,” he said at last, and his fire-bright eyes were pleased.
Through the thinning canopy the first flakes of snow began to fall, bright against the brittle leaves, bright against his coat.
All welcome! I’d love it if was someone he knows from another court, whether friend or rival or lover, but anyone’s free to drop by. Message me if you have any relationship thoughts. :)
we are a different kind, we can do anything
we could be heroes, me and you, we could be
Befitting of the court and goddess she so loyally served, the stormsinger prowled the shadows of the City of Starlight as night began to fall. Her hooves clicked against the smooth stone as she walked, her breathing even, as her eyes flashed brightest blue in the darkness. A wraith, a contender, a protector. The air that washed across her skin was blissfully cool, but the demeanor she bore was of a dragon that could burn cities to ash. She was honed thunderstorms, her emotions in check, as her anger and violence was chained into an invisible armor around her heart. Beside her walked the source of her rage; a man gilded in onyx and topaz, a man that had entered her king's kingdom from a foreign land. A criminal, despite the petty theft. No crime, however small, would be brushed to the side.. not while she was her court's Champion. Not for as long as she strode to deal justice in any manner that formed.
Her orbs simmered like blue flames, a muscle twitching in her upper lip as her gaze landed on the entrance to the Keep. The Castle of Night was not illuminated in moonlight and stardust; for tonight, indigo clouds covered the sky, the crescent moon hiding behind a blanket of shadow and the stars twinkling far, far out of sight. The Keep itself was a daunting place, intimidating even in day, but now.. without the silver light glowing at it's edges, it was a stark place that awoke a chained part of her soul. Torches flickered along the alleyways, their orange glows reflecting off of the stone walls and on her ebony skin, creating sharp angles and pools of obsidian as she melted from shadow to shadow with ease. Her companion, her prisoner, for lack of a better term, at her side and slightly ahead of her. So she could keep her gaze pinned on him, her wings slightly unfurled to create a wall of muscle and feathers should he decide to run.
Not that she guessed he would make the same mistake a second time.. but Aislinn was not taking any chances.
Solitary guards allowed them entrance as they entered the bottom level of the castle. She whispered slight instructions, leading them to the heart of the Keep, to where her king would stand and decide the man's fate. Her heart thundered and her blood roared, singing and proud and defiant, as they drew closer to their destination. Ahead of them, two large oak doors groaned as they entered the great hall, her chin rising as she stepped through them. Her eyes landing on the dais and the Shadow Throne, and the man she knew was somewhere in the slithering dark.
An amused grin played at her lips as she stopped, bowing deeply with a slender leg outstretched, wings splayed at her sides. "The criminal, as requested, Your Grace," she said by way of greeting, as she lifted herself with orbs of blue on the shadows clinging between torches of firelight.
@Only @lavinia @reichenbach @morrígan (should you wish) + @kasil (for your SA) <3 trial for the events of this thread! "Aislinn speech."
There's a haunted quiet to his expression as he gazes out at the expanse of mountain region and what it might signify. Enclosure. A shudder slithers down his skin, and he peers out into the darkness behind him. He's being hunted, but that part thrills him. The idea is dark and delicious; this game that they play. The absence of feline forms doesn't get to pry that pleasure from them, and it hasn't. Quinn was very aware that he doesn't have long left until he's found, because he could feel the nearness of the hunter, and the looming mountain range that would prevent speed being on his side. The air would be thin as he climbed as well, and there was no magic to protect him from that anymore. All the magic and abilities had been leeched away, and it left him feeling all too brittle. He hated that part of it, but he would survive. He always seemed to take what he got and endured it. His only salvation was the hunter that would arrive at any moment.
Quinn heard the distant hoofbeats on the more rocky and dirt packed terrain, ears folding back not due to aggression or stress, but for the fact that it felt that this hunt had been cut abnormally short. A span of only a few days, and here they were. Quinn also knew that this was the borders of some herd territory; he could smell it. Smell the mingled scents of bodies that roamed here and there. Days without running into herdlands, and that had ended adruptly, the same way that this hunt was ending. He doesn't look back at the sound of approach, simply staring ahead at the mountains, contemplating, waiting it out. And there had been other things that had clouded his mind while he had run along, leading the chase away from the lands before here. Names. More specifically, the leaden weight of a question regarding one name that Quinn had been dancing around for awhile now. It had come to the point where the question had festered for far too long.
The seconds ticked by -- tick, tick -- and he counted the steps behind him. He was caught. A coy, inviting smile curled at his lips as he turns to lock eyes with his hunter. "Vhetiveer—," The Irish lilt twisted elegantly over the name before he reminded himself of his question at the tip of his tongue; his inquiry, "Choke." Bluntly, but lovingly all the same. There's hesitancy in his expression, and he proceeds carefully, "We've never talked about it, if you'd like me to use that name— or not." He reached his nose out to where Vhetiveer was; imploring with the gesture. Quinn's stumbling over what to say next, because he isn't sure if it's a touchy subject or not. They had both stayed away from it so far, but it had been grating at the edges of his mind because he wanted to know. Vhetiveer had been the name given when they had met, and so regardless of the fact that he had known of the other name -- Choke -- he hadn't spoken it aloud yet. Until now.
He is smaller than he was upon arrival in Novus. Some combination of lack of food and lack of training. It is odd to feel small, when you were never really aware of feeling large. It makes you wonder what else you aren't aware of. Malnourishment, though it is a bit drastic to call it that (call it weight loss, but don't start a sentence with it), suits him, oddly enough. He was never a man of decadence, indulgence-- his joy was in the smallest, some would say strangest, things. Beams of sunlight filtered through the redwood forest, the first crack of the lake in spring, getting carried away in the rush of a new thought... or the smell of a certain woman's skin.
So he does not mind the way his skin sort of hangs on his bones like an afterthought-- for that is what it is. Scarred and simple and the shell of something deeper, stranger.
(How you love the word Stranger. And how we are all strangers here, in this always illuminated place, even when we aren't. You live for it-- you have no choice)
The desert grows on him, by circumstance if not true fondness. The change of the seasons helps- he is not suited for the heat, and likely never will be. He has explored much of the Mors and the nearby canyons, but there is always more to see. The landscape changes day by day, either physically in the shifting of the sand dunes, or visually in the way the light plays on the canyon walls.
Today it is the oasis he seeks- a calm, private place. He is only half-surprised to find that he is not alone. For all the privacy this place provides, the residents of Solterra flock to it as all living things do. He tilts his head, uncertain if his presence is unwelcome. "Hello." He says to the woman, remembering the way she danced upon being titled some position (what was it Seraphina called it? vocation?). He does not trust her beauty, it is the oldest trap in all of history. "May I?" He asks, taking a step forward, not realizing that he hadn't specified anything at all. Forgetting that the tilt of a head is not a sentence, and gestures are not words.
It was a feral scream from bleeding lips, wide, rolling, two-toned eyes narrowed as she thrashed in the sand, flailing, kicking up gritty, unsavory granules of fucking sand with every rough bout of movement. Frosted ebony tresses, wild and unruly, clung to the mare's sweat-soaked skin in uncomfortable clumps, but she didn't care. She didn't care, because she was still clearly very much alive. This was not how it was supposed to be when she had stepped through the portal to Fuck Off Land into only Kaos' tits knew where. Maybe, a little piece of the she-devil had wanted to die. Maybe a little more than a little piece of her had wanted it, yearning for freedom from her demons and her shitty hand at life... But here she was, alive and whole, in a land that she did not recognize. In a fucking desert. A desert! What cruel ironic bullshit mockery was this? Couldn't the portal have just deposited her onto the peak of an icy mountain instead?
Son of a bitch.
"No! You fucking son of a bitch! You cock-sucking bastard! Send me back or just fucking kill me!" It was a challenge. A dare. Rhiannon had seen Kaos effortlessly slay far too many lives with simply a thought to know that he simply couldn't kill her. Why?! Yeah, she had gone through the magical doorway like a good little mortal, wondering what the hell could be worth it on the other side that survival even fucking mattered, but here she was. Alive. Breathing. In a fucking desert. No one else was with her. No one else had been shit out of a magical portal into a fucking desert. Just her. Fucking great.
The brindled mare grew still at last, sides heaving from her fit of intense rage, icy-silver and molten-gold eyes regarding her surroundings for the first time since waking up in this new place. The sun was set premature in the sky, the dawn having barely broken the horizon, and already it was uncomfortably warm, especially for one who had spent their life in frozen mountaintops and snowwy valleys. For miles stretched dunes and hills of bronze sand. Sand. Rhiannon hated sand. Well, she hated almost everything, but sand was definitely near the top of her 'can piss off and never return' list.
Where did she go? Where the hell was she? This didn't look like 'Kaos Home for Creepy, Displaced, Homicidal Children', so what the fuck was she supposed to do? Give her an icy wasteland devoid of life and Rhiannon knew how to survive. She knew, intimately, how to endure the cold. Here, with her thick winter coat from Helovia in preparation for the Basin's brutal winter, the warmth already uncomfortably clung to her, making her sweat in rivulets. Fuck. Fuck.
"... Fuck." The word, however, lacked any of the previous venom that previously laced the brindled devil's words. It was soft, pitiful almost, and allowing just a touch of that innocent fear that was long forgotten. With a glance around in every direction and none the wiser as to where to go, Rhiannon stared defiantly at the sliver of sun peeking out over the horizon, the skies twisted into shades of deep blue and purple, and began her trek. For now, she would follow the sun and continue towards the east. Hopefully it wouldn't let her the fuck down.
Hooves clatter upon the stone floor of the temple, echoing upon walls the youth has finally reached. Relieved there is no more climbing to do (goodness she hates climbing, but she certainly isn’t a good enough flier to fight flying against the altitude and thinning air) she stretches her legs, working the soreness free, and claps her wings against her sides. Night is fast approaching, the dying rays of daylight quickly receding from the walls of the sanctuary. Akeli has heard this was a place of the gods, and has desperately wanted to visit and see it for herself. As she shuffles her wings, a small bundle falls. Quickly, she lifts the tightly wound bundle of herbs and flowers up, and tucks it again into her feathers.
She moves reverently down the hall. Her echoed steps reverberate softly against the surrounding stone, and her eyes wander, ears turning, unsure what awaits her here. Her breathing is calm, heart beating easy, mind open wind. Though she is young, and though her mind is always alight with ideas and her mouth is always moving with conversation, in this place she is reverent. A calm aura has surrounded her, and for the first time she is meditative. The feeling is warming, and somehow, she finally feels at home.
Large statues stand resolute within the main room, and she pauses, looking at each towering figure with an inquisitive golden stare. Slowly she lowers her head, allowing the chain around her neck to slip free, and her mind reaches out to complete the job, laying the thurible and chain neatly upon a small stone jutting out from the wall. She places a small bundle within the white-gold casing, gingerly nudging it until it rests cleanly within the bowl. Methodically she strikes her antler upon the stone above the burner, and small sparks shower down upon the herbs. One spark lands, smolders, and the bundle slowly begins to burn. She then closes the lid, and as the smoke curls in soft grey tendrils from the openings, she smiles at her work. Stepping away, she stands again before the statues, and as the soft scent of lavender and rose incense begin to fill the room, she feels calm, sedated, and closer to gods than she has ever felt before.
The girl tips her head to her side, staring at the statues, and one catches her eye. Moving forward, she stands unknowingly before Caligo, looking up at the towering goddess, eyes transfixed upon the stony gaze of the ethereal woman, and remains frozen, so consumed with that which stands before her that she wouldn't even notice if she were no longer alone.
"I'm sorry I don't know much about any of you, yet," the girl whispers, "I'm new here. I simply come to reflect. Please, if you may, guide me during my journey here. I'm still finding my way. I'll do my best, to learn more about all of you, and more about myself." With that, she falls silent, though remains captivated and quite for a long moment, wondering what hands these gods played here. She wondered what role she played in their ultimate plan.
The wind blew cold around the starlit mare, bringing in the fall season with a crisp bite. The midday sun soothed the chill with its warm light, and though she wanted to shake any warmth and contentment from her midnight form, still she basked despite her brooding. She dug a cloven hoof into the earth, the dying grass crushed beneath an onyx heel. Much had happened, despite nothing really happening at all after her abrupt unceremonious arrival. Still, the acute changes and harsh reality of separation weighed heavy upon her shoulders and her heart, so the woman had regressed back to the only state she knew to provide comfort.
So, Ki'irha donned her warrior facade and made her way to the Steppe, where she heard battle-ready opponents lingered in hopes of competitive conflict. She knew the adrenaline would swell in her heart, plugging the holes that had sprung leaks, and fill the cavities where heartache had worn her thin. That's how she had always dealt with her feelings. That's why she had been a decorated warrior, adorned with high ranking titles and respect back where she hailed from. She belonged to those mountains. They were her sanctuary, and those who slept beneath Time's watchful eye could sleep soundly knowing their home was being protected by devoted sentinels and wolves cloaked in unicorn skin. She would work for that here, too. She would fight and train and learn. Even if she failed today, even if another reigned victorious, she knew that unleashing her contained force today would be enough to at least begin the process.
She tipped her sculpted face skyward, silver eyes closing, and her nostrils flared. She drank in the scent of the dying leaves, the decaying world, and for a moment, wondered of Helovia, wondered if autumn even existed there anymore...
She snorted, tossing her head, and as her eyes snapped open she let loose a whistle. The sound carried easily across the open landscape, with no flora around to mute the sound. It was a call, harsh and sharp, to any who may be listening. Should one come to answer it, they would find themselves a fierce opponent, standing resolute upon an open battlefield, with nothing to contain her. So with the wind upon her back and violence in her heart she waited, knowing her call would not go unanswered, and she prayed that perhaps today would be the day that she could begin to heal.
Summary: Ki'irha finds herself on the Bellum Steppe, midday, with pleasant seasonal weather (chilly air, with some warmth provided by the sun). She whistles, calling out in hopes an opponent will arrive. Otherwise, she just stands and waits.
The night was waning and yet the Harvest Festival was still thriving. The early hours had not depleted its numbers, and neither had they served to pull the Dusk girl from the revelry.
She has danced until her feet were sore and then she had danced some more. It is only with her heart thrilling in her chest, with Reichenbach taken away to meet with others and her brother off somewhere with Aislinn, that Florentine is quite so suddenly alone.
Her amethyst eyes gleam as she watches a musician play. Their music is a Denoctian tune, one the flower girl has come to know for her many, many trips into the Night Court.
The music begs her to dance and where her feet can no more, so the golden girl simply sways like flax within a summer breeze. All at once Florentine becomes aware that she is not the only golden creature here. Oh how her eyes had become so sensitive to such a colour. Her gaze snaps to golden curls and honeyed skin. She knows the scent of that sun-kissed coat, she knows the softness of those curls, she knows the venomous words that can part that creature’s pink lips.
It is both pleasure and fear that tangle themselves within her heart, her stomach. It is both that make her blood run faster and her heart beat harder. Oh, she should leave and she turns, she moves, but it is not to go…
Each step brings Flora closer to the Solterran girl, memories of crystal water dripping like their tears once did. Florentine’s body quietens the closer she gets to Bexley Briar, her soul aching to run, run, run.
“Bexley.” Florentine breathes and she wonders when it became a lament. Was it a mirror of her heart, her soul? Time had passed but it did not ease the ache for where her heart remembered this sunshine girl.
Bexley.
That is all the flower girl can say for now, for what could truly fill that ache she feels in her heart? Yes, Florentine was in love Reichenbach, but Bexley was still a girl so dear, a phantom her heart could not help but love.
Autumn had came once more, her second birthday without her parents had arrived and past. Sure the first one that she had to bare without them had been not that much after their violent passing, but she had been much more numb than. Now, oh now her head was clear and her heart had an unbearable ache for their warmth. Why did the world have to be so dark, so cruel? Oh dear sweet Sun, if she knew just how cruel the world really was, she probably wouldn’t go on living. Being in the dark about the truth behind it all was probably for the best. They say the truth sets you free, but it might set one free, but it can shatter others. Still the girl, naive to the very truth that had been around her all along one day hoped to find those who killed her parents. If they were even equine that is. For all she knew they could have been killed by some type of beast. Although there had been no sign that they were killed for food. Not that the girl would have known what that looked like or anything.
She was lucky though she had her dear friend had been off playing at the time. She could have been there with her mother and father. She could have met their same fate. Or so she had been told over and over again. Why everyone was so quick to remind her of such a fact whenever she voices how she wished she could have been there to help them that summer evening she was unsure, but she no longer asks about the reason anymore. She was just a babe, she sees that now.
Taking a deep breath a sigh slowly left her lips. Pink eyes closed as tears rolled down her cheeks. Sunkissed had came out to the Prairie to help clear her head. Standing on top of one of the many rolling hills she looked up at the clear blue sky. The sun was starting to waiver and would soon set for the day. Still she made no move to head back home. Instead she just stood there feeling the warmth of the sun. It was nice as she felt cold. So very cold and alone. The sweet smell of cherry blossom strong in the air as the wind blew. It was middled today, even so it was strong enough to blow one of the blossoms out of her mane and across the landscape. It didn’t go too far just a few feet before getting stuck in the grass. Still she paid it no mind. She just stood there in the silence listening to the wind, and lost in her thoughts of what if.
Words: 460
Tags: Open to all, Night Court most of all.
He walks through the passages of the canyon, shaded from the bright afternoon sun by the curves and twists of the rock. The cooling fall weather makes the sun's heat more bearable, even more so down here in the crevices of stone. Every now and then the light catches his dark form, the cloak wrapped loosely around his chest. Mixed eyes scan the sky above, bright blue and clear, to watch for oncoming friend or foe. His arrival may have been silent, but there are always eyes and ears to notice the small changes in the world.
Which includes his journey into the southern part of Solterra. There's no particular reason for him to be here. But there's no reason for him not to be here either. Though he lives in Terrastella, he holds no particular allegiance to any of the territories. None except for his own Gwynedd, and even that is tenuous. Despite the couple of months that he's been in Novus, he has not yet explored the land of the Sun. Weaving through the canyons is his first step the exploration - learn the landscape, and stay relatively hidden in the process.
A buzzard cries overhead, and his dual colored gaze finds it in the sky above. It glides down into the canyon, a second following closely in its wake. The assassin huffs. Carrion. He continues forward lazily, searching out the carcass to find what sort of carcass it is. Soon he spies the ugly fowl upon the corpse of a small fawn; some gazelle appearing to have taken a fatal misstep and fallen to its death. He stops and stares at it for a moment, ignoring the angry glances he receives from the carrion birds.
He moves on, leaving the dead behind. Unless he's the one doing the killing, he has no interest in those that have passed on.
