He rarely left the delectable heat of his desert home, for he was a sun-loving viper, constantly coiled up in the warmest, most comfortable place he could find, soaking his silver spun skin in sunlight. Velorca had been bred to love the sun, to embrace it and adore it, and he did. There was nothing he enjoyed more than the first breath of sunlight upon his delicate eyelids. Yet today... he had grown tired of the constant hustle around him, the warriors that sent him appreciative looks - looks that he often encouraged and enjoyed, just... not today.
Today was different. Today was... it was the anniversary of the day he had been kidnapped, forced into slavery for the old King.
Five years to the day.
He had sneered and snapped at others as he left the vast confounds of Solterra - the same, sly, cunning beast that ensnared soldiers on a daily basis, nothing to show that beneath his razor cut bones there was a ragged, raging wound. That the many, many hands that had touched his satin skin had stained him, poisoned him slowly through the years.
So it was only when he reached the soft serenity of Amare Creek that Velorca released the tension within his knotted muscles and released a long, slow, elegant breath.
As always, he was in pristine condition - his skin like smokey satin, soft to the touch and incredibly smooth, his hair, usually hanging in a silken curtain around his face, was pushed back to reveal the sharp lines of his elegant jaw. His golden eyes, like burnt butter, were full of a cool intelligence that shuddered and snaked around his beautiful brain, his silvery lashes lowered as he watched the brown creek meander by.
He tried not to remember those first few years as he gazed unseeing into the water, visions of beatings and hidden scars flowing as easily as that gentle creek. He looked a vision of unnatural beauty, silent and lost within the confines of his own memories - an unusual and vulnerable state for Snake of Solterra.
Response Deadline: 18th october Tags: @Arluin @kay, @inkbone, AND @Sid
DAMASCUS
HEAVY LIES THE HEAD THAT WEARS THE CROWN
"Being here by now should being of Arluins..." Damascus grunted as he swivelled upon his haunches, tossing his nose in the opposite direction in an annoyed, leg-wobbling fit of pure uncertainty. This was his big day! He was to train with the other warriors!
....And that other warrior was no where to be seen.
All the huffing and dramatic hooting to the wind would not bring Arluin any closer, so it was when Damascus came to assume that the stag had forgotten their engagement that the overgrown child began to amble away through the sea of grass that carpeted the steppe, hooves taking him back in the direction of home. Dohv gave a happy, lucky and relieved sigh - no fighting would be endured, or so he thought.
The glimpse of white among the grey autumnal landscape, standing out as pristine and bloodied among the otherwise lifeless sky. So he hadn't forgotten.
Damascus stopped, legs wide and ready for what could come next; an attack of magic? From a bonded? He'd heard about what birds and snakes could be ordered to do. Though as he waited and watched, the more he wondered if he was invited to make the first move.
"Late be you Arluin!" Damascus cheered across the warflogged earth, tearing his own piece of the turf away with his monolithic offside hoof. It was with this declaration that he begun his march forward, back arching with his wings to gain momentum. With the weight of his tail keeping him from harnessing little more movement than a bowling canter, Damascus certainly was no pillar of agility like his vermillion opponent - an advantage the over-sized brute did have, however, was his brute strength and a pair of boundless wings. To make up for his lack of slinking and slicing across the earth, Damascus would made do with the little amount of surprise he could conjure - a simple beat of his wings, beckoning dirt, grass and other earthly debris into the eyes of his nemesis until he struck left, hopefully under the cover of a blind and fumbling Arluin, to rise and strike.
The tail end of Damascus was unlikely to ever lift far off the ground during a fight given his monolithic tail - his front end, however, was a different fable altogether. With a swipe of his jaws the primal stag aimed a well-aimed, jagged kiss toward the alabaster's whither, aiming every incisor over the crest of the man's back and hoping for damage and blood. The bite was swift but likely nasty should Arluin have taken it's damage, and as Damascus retreated to the left once more, taking care to avoid each one of his enemy's hooves, he hoped to Vespera that he had found purchase in his flesh.
Summary: Damascus complains a bit then spots Arluin, runs up to him and attempts to beat dirt into his eyes, then attmepts to bite him on the whither and runs to the left.
If things had gone even a little differently, this might have been his home.
The thought had dogged him all the way north, worked its way into the back of his mind like a burr in his coat. Raum had been right – he would have belonged in Day, with the sun pressing fingers on his burnished skin, the sparks already behind his eyes. Acton had not been made for shadows, though he could wear them like a second skin.
But Solterra could never have embraced him the way that Reichenbach and the Night Court had. He was not made for following orders, and gods knew the trouble he’d be in with someone like Maxence as sovereign.
And so Acton longed even as he loathed, banked embers just waiting for a touch of breath to ignite.
This afternoon, the buckskin wound his way through the corridors, sunshine into shadow and out again. It made the act feel furtive even though he wasn’t trying to hide; Raum had told him visitors could come this far – though Rostislav’s seizing might have changed things. Acton wasn’t worried (though that was a poor measurement of anything, as he never was). All he wanted, today, was to look around.
Just a crow’s inborn curiosity, nothing more.
At first his mind glided past the sound of hoofbeats, marking them as nothing more than the echo of his own. This canyon was full of strange sounds; the wind moaned low and mean, or wailed high and soft, and slow-circling birds called down insults or greetings, and occasionally some stone came loose and clattered down a sheer rock face. This last always made Acton’s blood quicken and muscles tense, though he knew well enough of such chain reactions to know any damage would be done well before he could react.
But when he paused to draw in a breath – two – and the footsteps continued, he could feel his hair rise like a finger was being traced down his spine. He felt like he always did moments before a performance began, a twin mixture of eagerness and apprehension, sweet and strange as one of Mila’s potions.
The buckskin put on his best smile as the ringing footfalls neared, and a shadow fell around the corner ahead.
Bexley leaves the Night Court when the sky is at its deepest black, a fitting time for her to be leaving the court of dreams - as tens of bodies slumber around her, too deeply entranced to notice the delicate clicking of her hooves across cobblestone, the white-hot flash of her curls in the darkness. All hips and golden skin, she weaves her way toward the base of the Arma Mountains and away from the warmth and the jazz and the flickering candlelight of Denocte, and though she’s spent a beautiful day here - talking to Reichenbach and Raglan, reveling in the strange woodsmoke-mystery of their markets and bonfires, and glowing semi-silver under the moonlight - she moves with a quick step and a sense of quiet urgency toward Solterra, drained by the lack of sunlight, over-eager to return home. In the gauzy blackness she is naught but a flame, a flash of gild that crosses Denocte almost like a fish underwater, in so many swift, staticky movements.
Through bone-white lips she hums a childhood tune, something sweet and simple that floats through the black air without pause. Each step is carelessly placed, yet somehow she traverses the roads with nary a trip. Perhaps the blessing of Calligo - perhaps merely the practice she’s gathered from years of dancing and acrobatics, blessed with a center of gravity perfectly set.
Battle Type: BATTLE Prize: XP and bragging rights Contact Made: Yap
Character #1:Iliad Bonded: - Magic: - Armor: - Weapons: -
Character #2:Maxence Bonded: - Magic: - Armor: - Weapons: a Bullwhip
M A X E N C E
UNEASY LIES THE HEAD THAT WEARS THE CROWN
There was no word for the kind of desolation that Maxence had flown from, or rather the contrast that was presented to him from so far above in the cloud cover. To his back were sandy peaks and a barren sea while ahead lay a quenched ocean of grass and mountain silt - eternal fields blessed by fallen glacial waters from Veneror and the Armas. If luck came naturally to the desert dwellers Maxence might seek to conquer the Bellum Steppe and it's endless greenery for Solterra.
But not today, and not tomorrow. Today he sought sport.
His reasons for flying so high and so far were certainly not to observe the seemingly vacant lands of the country but rather to utilise the battleground's sole function; a place for one and all to bicker and parry.
This was the very reason Maxence had landed upon the bloodied turf with urgency, brilliance and a stifled grunt. His ears remained slacked backward in the direction of his neck as he straightened his frame, stepping up with his back hooves to meet his close-coupled and well muscled composure, immediately beginning a scouring of the area for a potential opponent through eyes of a different kind of ocean.
The stranger he spotted was quite unlike any he had ever seen before, glittered and gold, though a fighter was a fighter regardless of appearance. If the creature was simply ambling across the steppe he truly ought not to be - all knew that this was a place for battles, sport and spar and was not an area one could simply stroll through unapprehended. Perhaps if this was the case, Maxence ought to teach the gilded twerp a lesson.
"You wade through the Bellum Steppe, boy!" Maxence bellowed, a stomp of his right hoof resonating across the whispering grasses. "None should enter the Steppe unless they're looking for a bruise."
It was with this warning that the commander once again spread his wings and launched off of the muscles deep within his hind quarters, springing into a lunging canter powered solely by the immense strength of his hind legs. Having closed in on the opponent it was with another leap that the wind caught upon his feathers, lifting each radius until he literally soared in the stag's direction, sharp hooves pointed toward the center of his spine, destined for impact.
Summary: Maxence sees Iliad and hoots at him, them runs towards him and leaps, using his wings to lift him he soars and then tried to land with his front hooves on Iliads back.
His was a quiet arrival, a soul of grey and silvery-white flashing into being in the fading light of day, the path he had walked one of starlight and foreign magic. At last he had come to the end of that path, and stood upon the bluffs of a new land, a foreign world, the portal-path he had paid for sealing behind him with a gentle hiss. The salt in the air fills his lungs, the wind teases his pale hair, and his proud visage stands tall against the sudden drop of the cliffs behind him.
So this was Novus, a land of stories yet told and a place his relations had not yet made a mark upon. He felt very much a pioneer, very much felt as if finally, finally he had stepped wholly and resolutely onto the path that would see his dream fulfilled. The wind smelled of destiny, calling to him in such dulcet tones that he yearned to explode into action, to toss up his heels and streak along the razor's edge of the cliff, a rapier of white and wild laughter to be snatched away by the wind and sea. He reigned in such childish temptations, of course, but allowed himself a brilliant grin. Finally... his hooves danced across the grass as he strolled along the cliffside, robust neck arched before he flung his head up and let loose a wild laugh. It was far from the cavorting he had wanted, but it eased that buildup of energetic excitement within him. Yet still he boiled with anticipation, a breathless sensation, one that yet another liberating laugh of triumph to the air could not dispel. He knew not where he would go, what he would do, what even the inhabitants of this land were like.
None of that mattered to the white knight as he surrendered to his desires and tossed his heels, bolting along the edge of the cliffs as if the hounds of hell were on him. None of it mattered in the face of a dream he could all but taste on the air(never you mind that all he could really taste was salt). He heard not the rush of waves in his ears, only the ominous words of a gypsy oracle proclaiming his destiny one of greatness and legend. Perhaps she had tricked the young stallion, those many days past, gave him falsehood for his payment, but to Arluin it was prophecy, and now that he raced along the shores of Novus, he felt as if that destiny lay like a visible mantle upon his shoulders. His hooves thundered on the grass, his mane whipped in the wind, his laughter vanished from his lips by the wake of his passing. He did not stop until the greying world passed fully into twilight; then he stood a ribbon of pale, tarnished silver, the ruby of his horn brilliant in the grey world of dusk, and he stood overlooking the sea in triumph, proud and eager.
The anticipation grew with every step he took, saturating his veins so that they burned and ran as though it were fire instead of blood filling them. His energy continued to grow upon itself until he nearly pranced along the winding path, neck craned to try and capture even a glimpse of the Night Court, shrouded in the valley as it was. It would be smarter—and safer—were he to watch his footing, to pay closer attention to the loose rocks and gravel upon which he could very easily slip. But such thoughts were far from his mind.
Denocte. Even the name sounded exotic, reminding him of Reichenbach’s subtle accent, the ’oh’ rolling off his tongue with such a lovely lilt.
Not even the political business he brought with him—a scroll bound with Kasil’s unbroken seal waxing the ends together—could distract him from the mystery unfurling before him, fog dissipating in the warming sun.
He was not alone, either, which had helped distract him somewhat. Even if Nimue was not quite impressed with his own humor and antics as he was, still, having company on his journey was warmly embraced.
It was not until they reached the end of the trail, and Po took his first step upon the dewey grass at the mountain’s base, that he paused. Even Ipomoea, young and untrained though he was, knew one could not simply seek out the King of Night unannounced. No, he would wait for an escort—meanwhile giving himself time to take in the beauty of Denocte. Purple flowers upon long spines tickled at his knees, prompting him to bend closer in inspection, their fragrance drowning his senses in an instant. If he were lucky, he might get the opportunity to pick one or two of the fine specimens before he took his leave.
"What do you think these are called?" he inquired of his companion, slowly wandering farther away with his head firmly lowered to the earth, wading into the sea of purple petals. It may seem childish and unprofessional to most, sure--but until they were greeted by a Night Court citizen, he would stop and smell the flowers.
@nimue @reichenbach @any night courtians!
!!!.
unaware of where i'm going
or if i'm going anywhere at all
but i know i'll take the leap if it is worth the fall
She’s heard of Kasil, sort of - in the same way she’s heard hushed whispers of Rannveig, and of Reichenbach even after they met - and none of those whispers have deterred her from attempting to visit, although anyone else might have traipsed into the Dawn Court with perhaps a little more preparation. Really, Bex hadn’t planned to do this today. She’d barely even planned to do it all. It was the kind of subtle, subdued interest that rattled in her head but never talked at all loudly, and for the months she’d spent on the western border of Solterra, her curiosity about the prospect of visiting the flower-pickers was easily pushed down, disbanded, ignored. She could’ve gone months more without visiting had Solterra not begun to feel so small. But it had, and Bexley’s adventure had let her to her current position as she slinks down the Rapax, the scent of lavender and oak wafting from over the water, and with the sudden realization that she was only and hour or so from the gauze and mystery of Delumine, Bexley had confidently paddled her way through the water and headed east to the Dawn Court.
Brash as always, she crosses the cobblestone streets with nary an explanation given to the Dusk citizens who watch her warily, too absorbed in the novelty of the situation to care about their lecherous gazes. The world has exploded in green now, hundreds of trees and bushes blessed to blooming by the dampness of the air around them. Cool breezes whisper past the branches and brick-mortar walls. Bexley could almost shiver, having become used to the stifling heat of the desert, but she doesn’t. What message would that send? Instead she focuses on her ascent to the Dawn Court’s main tower, pale hooves clicking against the wet stone of the street. Azure eyes narrowed against the watery gray light and white-blonde hair bouncing in its many curls against her skin, Bexley is unusually quiet as she traipses up the paved slope, but the necklace at her throat, and the hot scent of sand and mint that swirls from her skin, still sets her apart as distinctly non-Delumine.
Not that she’s ever cared about that kind of thing.
This place is his latest haunt, and he has spent much time exploring it and thinking about how it came to be. He does not understand walls, rules, and social subtleties. He cannot read and doesn't even realize that he has the power to move things with his mind. But he knows the earth. When he looks at the canyons he sees the ancient river that carved its path over hundreds of years. He sees how much water once flowed through here, and the time it took to cut through stone. But he does not know where the water went, why it is now just a trickle through parched, ancient land.
It is unlikely he will answer all of the questions he has, even if he spends the rest of his life in pursuit of the answers. It seems that for every question he answers, another three spring up, like the heads of a hydra.
But here he is, persistently chopping away at the monster.
He is somewhat surprised to see another standing before the canyons he's come to think of as his own,
(King of sand and stone-- is that-- is that pride that begins to swell your chest? You thought you were better than that, but you get tangled in your thoughts. Die ego die!- but only sometimes)
but as he approaches he instantly feels at ease with the other stallion. He has the sense that the man doesn't pretend to be something he's not. Eik could be wrong, of course. It doesn't really matter anyway.
"The best view is from above. Join me?" Before the answer is spoken he surges forward and begins to ascend. It looks imposing, but is not so bad once you start. He has been to the top a few times and knows a route that he believes to be fairly safe, so long as you are sure footed and move with confidence. He begins working his way diagonally as the rock becomes too steep to climb straight up.
The scarred grey is about a third of the way up before he looks back to the younger stallion. He offers a rare, encouraging smile as his sides swell with his deep breath. Fall is upon them and he is a man in motion. He is in high spirits today.
Only trust the story.
- E I K
sorry this is all over the place... I hope @Vadim isn't afraid of heights!
He spends the majority of his time outside the keep, where a man can see for miles in all directions and count the stars at night and shit wherever he pleases. It is a simple lifestyle, and he prefers it to getting tangled in the complexities of war and politics. But the day court has its mysteries, and he is a sucker for an unanswered question. At night there is one room in particular that often stays lit into early in the morning. He cannot say why but it beckons to him, draws him like a moth to the flame. Perhaps it is the thought that he is not the only ghost in these sun-drenched lands.
It is on this night (the full moon, that gleaming temptress, mischievously keeping him from sleep) that he winds through the hallways of the day court, seeking the room that stays lit when all others surrender to the night. It does not take long for him to find a door cracked open, spilling candlelight into the hallway. He pushes it open to reveal a round room with shelves curved around the walls, full of papers. At the middle of the room is a table that hosts an unrolled scroll. On it are rows and rows of black symbols, lines and curves like nothing he's seen before, except for maybe in the strange shapes the dunes make in the Mors Desert.
As enthralling as the paper is, his attention is sharply drawn away to the woman who stands at the other side of the table. Emisary. He knows who she is, but she is a stranger to him. Funny how that happens, our presence preceding our essence. She looks different in the glow of the candlelight, or maybe it is sleep deprivation distorting his vision.
"It seems to me you are everywhere." The stone walls bounce his low voice to and fro, making his words sound like waves. He hesitates, body poised to leave even as his face is turned to the woman of stone. A moment seems to stretch to a hundred-- the awareness of being pulled in two directions seems to slow time.
Suddenly it occurs to him that he had made up his mind the instant he saw her. Why lie to himself, he does not want to leave and come back another time. He does not want to let another ghost slip away. At this moment he would like to pinch himself, pull his mind back to his body. He is the sort of person who defines a difference between deliberation and hesitation, and values one but not the other.
"May we share words." Eik takes a step forward, entering the warm glow of the library. "Ser a pheen a." He says her name slowly, pulling it straight from his memory to his lips. He tilts his head-- it is his way of indicating that he has just asked a question.
