The cacophony of nighttime things singing their goodbyes wavered in various wavelengths across the expanse of the court, the hushed moment of in-betweens when the sky held both moon and sun. It was the opposite of everything they stood for--the great light in the sky rising instead of falling--but the peace wrapped itself tightly around them anyway and shooed those of nocturnal descent off to the darker places they could rest.
She was not of them, though, and her body moved with the motions of Oriens's sun, separating herself from bedtime spaces to disrupt the veil of tranquility as much as she dared to. Whispers of hooves shuffled through the solo tower amid the smaller network of buildings sleeping quietly behind, a hallway holding their oldest tales and important blips in history along its walls caressing each step she took toward its gaping mouth. It was a place that knew her body well; the weight of her paint settled at the footholds, and it was the sky then that took its chance to kiss her stars in greeting. It was just her--the lone wolf without a coat to hide behind--and the cuff that seemed implanted upon her leg.
She had been as silent as the world around them was, heart beating in corners of their territories instead of there among them. Summer had given way to autumn easily enough, and perhaps it was the falling leaves that ushered her out and told her that she could be absent no longer; Florentine had done more work than any combined for Rannveig, and if she was to be sovereign she had to be better than the crabs hiding in their shells. She was the meld of sky and land with earthy creams and atmospheric blues, and it was time she stood to rise her pack toward greater things than they'd seen so far.
A singular ring of a leader's call--not to be treated with ignorance--spread in the areas Terrastella claimed. The sun peaked over the horizon, the start of a day that she hoped would change everything.
"Warrior of dusks be myself Dov!" the child bleated as he plunged toward the cliffs, sail-like wings and his rudder of a tail the only thing keeping him afloat in the clouds. Upon his person was a great deal of 'armor', or rather a collection of fallen roof tiles from one of the Dusk Court towers strung together with meticulously peeled and preppared strips of waxy cyprus bark. 'Yap!' the bonded had replied telepathically from his place between the colt's wings.
The stone-like armor which seemingly weighed half a tonne was what Damascus had spent the bettwe half of a week since his birthday creating all in the name of his new rank.
The young warrior (in training) was plunging toward the cliffs where lay an unsuspecting dummy made purely of collected branches and a piece of old furniture stolen form within the court itself, all arranged into an equine-shaped arrangement upon the cliffs edge where Damascus planned to ferociously strike it down to a rocky, watery demise. 'Go left-ish!' Dohv screeched, grabbing a fistful of feathers in preparation for a spine-snapping turn. (Damascus of course went right, and Dohv promptly told him to go to the other left.) "Good warriors are we being!" Damascus boomed, this time setting his sights directly upon the horse-shaped target.
As with many things Damascus had planned from beginning to end, it did not go completely to plan.
Driving his winged bodice upon the wind at full speed toward splintering, unforgiving cliffs had never been a good idea ('armour' or not) and despite the jerboa upon his shoulders shouting directions into his brain, there was little finesse in the swaying and swooping bird.
First came a frantic scurry of hooves as they clipped the top of the target, taking merely a chip out of the furniture and leaving Damascus to tumble over and over in the earth beneath. Dohv was sent half a mile into the forest, unlikely to be retrieved until he could hop out into the clearing - Not even saving Dohv was appropriate justification for Damascus to gather up his tail, plunge his wings into his sides and squirm through the tiny claustrophobic spaces forests always had.
With his hand-crated armor laying in pieces upon the ground either side of him, Damascus curled over into a sitting position, turning a hoof toward the shattered pieces with a sigh. "More practise I need..." he murmured with a glance to the dummy.
Posted by: Damascus - 10-06-2017, 09:02 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
DAMASCUS
he was like a storm,
The gangly, gambling stride of the one called Damascus had become refined and precise, his overgrown body and legs having moulded over the months into a final well-rounded nineteen hands. On this day it was the anniversary of his birth, or rather, the day he had chosen it to be. Early autumn was when Damascus has taken his first steps but that date had always been a mystery to him - so he chose one out of all the numbers and days in a month to be his day. The ninth day of fall was when Damascus turned three. "Birthday of mine on today!" Damascus cheered to Dohv as he struck his plate-sized hooves across the cobblestone, eyes seeking the sunrise and skin seeking a golden blessing of the suns first rays. "Warrior dusks of be myself now Dohv!" he would then announce, an immense amount of pride puffing his chest.
He was no longer a youth, unranked and paid no attention to - now he could pursue the career he had sought to begin since he otok his first breath in the continent.
Damascus: Dusk's only sword.
Life within the Night Court was relatively uneventful, so far as the black stallion was used to. Oh, each night was a revelry, the gypsy-born of the Night Court kicking their heels and spiraling to hauntingly beautiful melodies beneath the full moon, but he did not partake of their light hearted festivities. Ah, he could have, it would have given him a hoof into slipping amongst their ranks with ease, the raven blending among the crows, but he found himself queerly without desire or willpower to do so. His flame of desire, the spark that drove him from the earth, to leave his land of rebirth, that spark that drove him to cling to life and ignore the despairing fate he was damned to... it had all but faded away. It lingered like such things of dark and twisted emotion do, a cinder pulsing beside his heart, but it was barely enough to drive his limbs to rise each morning. He moved through the motions of life with disinterest and detached boredom, stringing himself along, feigning distant friendliness to those faces he met and could no longer be bothered to recall. He had come to the festivities with the vague intention of beginning his search, but after a span of simply gazing at the fire and dancing equines, he knew that was not why he had come, for he, the great Pretender, one who had sparked a Great War and who had seamlessly stolen the heart of his enemy's general... could not even be bothered to so much as think of beginning his grand mechanations. So he kept to the edges of the fire's light, watching from the gloom as mares and stallions spun around flickering light, as cinders wafted into the night sky to join their brethren in the stars.
Finally, the black stallion slipped away through the dark of the night, abandoning the populated courtyard of the Keep, moving through halls of rough stone so vastly different than the gilded marble he remembered. He had obtained his purpose, or so he had thought, so why did this hollow sensation persist? Why did his chest constrict as ghost of memories flickered behind his eyes, overlaying the world he saw with one he once had known? He knew of pain, knew that should he lash his horns upon his leg he would bleed and feel agony, but he knew not quite how to cope with this pain that came within, from no physical blow. So he tried to suppress it, but found the emptiness it left behind to be just as wretched.
For the first time, the raven wished he had never awoken from his slumber.
Almost immediately he scorned himself for such thoughts, for he had and always would cling to life with a selfish grip that would not be denied... but the sentiment remained. What was he to do, if not find those who's blood bore the sins of their ancestors and punish them for damning him to this wretched existence? Serve this Night Court as he once had a nameless realm so long ago? He had already tasted the cruel punch of the hand that had fed him, felt it's blow even when he had kept his head bowed and teeth hidden. No... he could not and would not expose himself to such pain again, such betrayal. He would feign it, but never again would he give his utter devotion to another. Aimless he wandered the halls, lost in his thoughts, mindlessly moving if only so his legs would not fold beneath him in surrender, until his hooves once more carried him out into the open air, this time onto the battlements of the Keep. The wind was gentle and soft in his dark locks, the moon's light caressing his healing hide lovingly, but to him it all felt and looked grey and bleak. He stood upon the battlements of the Keep like a wraith in the night, lit only by moonlight and the faintest glow from the torches in the hall, letting the night take and hold him with gentle arms. For all that the world had changed, the moon she remained the same, and he surrendered himself into her arms with an audible sigh.
It was the cut-flower sound of a man waiting to die.
I am the villain of this story What else could i ever be
MUSONART
@Ktulu - and anyone else who'd like to meet Ammon :D Warning, he's kind of being depressed and mopey rip
Eyes of starlight captured a dying summer wind plucking at the tips of each wave, seafoam kisses reaching up to lick at what little feathering dressed his hooves and the trim of hair cloaking his coronets. The sand was plush and damp this afternoon due the colder weather and the disappearing of the sun sooner in the day - it was a strange feeling to him now, to feel sand and seaweed to cold underfoot, but it was a welcome one after such a seering sumer.
What brought Damascus to the seaside was a wish for fish - they were the colt's favorite animal and he so loved to watch them swim in the bluer shallows of the Terminus where Night and Dusk bordered into Ruris. It was there that rivers met the sea and the water was it's purest; all manner of sealife roamed the confused and bustling waters of the delta.
With his goliath of a tail Damascus trudged his way from the river bank to the blue sea's shore, looking donw into the crystalline water to view a crab scuttling below the surface in an attempt to hide from his worrisome shadow. "Stops!" Damascus commanded of the crab, stomping his hoof into the sand "Friend of yours be myself" he wished to assure the strange sea creature as it continued to scuttle away to the safety of nearby rock pools.
Dohv had clambered down long ago and was skipping along the beach sand with a number of interesting shells in hand - Shells were of great interest to Damascus, particularly the spirally ones and the ones that made the home for tiny crabs. For a few day Damascus had even managed to keep one in his nest in the dusk court grounds, only to find him missing one morning...
It was time to meet new people, but first she had to wake up and get to it. The filly opened one button eye and then shut it again, groaning softly. The sunlight was too bright. She snorted and stretched out her legs, twitching them like she were trying to trot in place, even though she were lying down in the grass. With a heavy sigh, she opened her eyes again and sat up, blinking wearily against the brightness that decided it needed to try and blind her. A moment or two passed, and she threw herself up onto her feet, shaking the dew and dirt from her silvered coat. Why did mornings have to come so early? She yawned and then stumbled forward, deciding what direction to go, and how to go about finding someone new to talk to. Instead, she found a small rabbit and stopped, blinking at it. She thought it looked like the most adorable thing in the world, and then thought about Pandora. Pandora was a little stuffed fox that Maaemo had given her…but Pandora was alive. It was the strangest thing. The magic here had taken her away, however, and Coraline hadn’t seen her companion since they entered the strange magic in the rift. Pandora would likely bound closer to the bunny, scaring the daylights out of it, and creating a game of chase. Perhaps that could be a fun game, but Coraline decided to slowly walk toward the rabbit, her silver head low, trying to be as small as possible to not frighten the young thing. But instead of the rabbit letting the filly close, it sprinted away. Coraline’s head raised up, as she gave a surprised “hey!” and then chased after it, head lowered again. The rabbit zigged and zagged, and Coraline struggled hard to follow it without getting lost or stepping into a hole. The filly ran until the rabbit disappeared in a hole and she couldn’t follow it any longer. So she stood watch outside the rabbit hole. Certainly it would come out sooner or later, and then they could be friends. The filly almost didn’t hear the approach of another, she was so focused on waiting for the rabbit. Her ears tilted back to hear who was approaching, and when she decided it was a horse, she returned her attention to the rabbit. She had decided that this was her home, and nobody would try to hurt her here. Right? ”Speech”
It was the kind of storm that was only born at the death of summer; the sky was an ominous band to the west, lightning flickering low and mean, the air too humid for this late in the season. There was no question that a cool front would sweep in behind it, coaxing the leaves to color and drop, breathing frost on the plains.
Acton didn’t mind autumn, but he intended to give this last behemoth storm the audience it deserved.
He was not different than much of the Night Court in his love for storms. But the buckskin found more muse in them than most. In each hungry fork of lightning and each groaning rumble of thunder he found inspiration. To be able to hold others in thrall the way a storm did, or to cause such a dramatic scene – ah! He loved each mighty crash, especially the ones that shook the world to its bones. Acton could feel the reverberations of those moments echoed in his heart.
This one he watched from a parapet walk, careless of the consequences of watching a storm roll in from one of the highest places for miles. If he was struck by lightning and lived, he’d consider it a blessing – if he died, well, he deserved worse than to go in such glorious fashion.
For the moment, all was quiet. No rain had reached the castle yet; the air was still and thick, clinging to his skin like damp rags. His raven-dark hair curled in the humidity as he stood, a perfect counterpart to the momentary stillness. Acton was a livewire, blood humming, every nerve alive, alive, alive, eyes wild and going white-rimmed. His heart leapt with each distant flicker of lightning, each promise of the storm.
He was only utterly himself in moments like this.
So absorbed was he in the coming tempest that he did not notice the moment when he was no longer alone.
@Lavinia and anyone else who wants to come say hi to the magician crow.
His black coat shone in the sunlight – an image of masculine virility and health. He was large and well built; head held high, muscled neck slightly arched, taut muscles moving easily beneath his scarred skin. If you looked closely, you could read the story of each fight he fought, each win and loss, each true injury, and each superficial one. You could tell so much about him – his lust for power and dominance, his willingness to fight for what he believed in, his status as a warrior. He strides boldly, like he owns the place, and if you look into his dark eyes, you will see he has no fear of man or beast. He would rather spit in your eye than bow down. Now if you earn his respect, he will follow you into the very bowels of hell and destroy Satan’s pseudo-throne if he thinks it will gain his herd something. For all his faults and attitude, Plague is nothing if he is not loyal. He is very secretive with his past. He makes no effort to hide the lust in his eyes – lust for mares, to have them bear his demon-children, lust for war, lust for carnage. He makes no attempt to hide the fact that he is mildly arrogant; rude, crude, sexist. He hides so few things; but his past is one of them. But if you promise to keep a secret, I will tell you a little about this man with no fear in his eyes. Black Plague was born to a whore of a father. The Black was notorious for wooing the women and having them bear his children, each one bearing his name. There were few women who refused The Black. His mother told him that she was one who resisted him (truth be told, she hadn’t likely resisted as much as regretted). So when he was born, she gave him the name of his father and raised him the best she could; but the little devil was more like his father than she imagined. He was with his mother long enough to grow and feed until he could be weaned. He had been loved enough, certainly, but he wanted to be just like his father, hearing whisperings from other foals and adults alike. So he set off to find him – The Black. And find him he did. The Black wasn’t hard to find. One had only to follow broken hearts and fallen tears to find the Romeo himself. Plague decided he would learn from his sire, and so he did. He learned how mares were playthings; a vessel to bear children and nothing more. He learned how to fight, to win, to destroy his opponent, no matter who they were or what the stakes were. He tried to use his new knowledge against the lead of his herd – a warrior mare named Dare. She was the only one who ever truly held his stone heart. He gave himself to her, following her into battle, fighting in her name, stealing others for her prisons. He was hers in every sense of the word. And when the world crumbled and she was gone, he had nothing left. Plague vowed to never love again, and to this day, he has not broken that vow. The details of the world’s collapse have grown fuzzy over the years, and he remembers only having many lives and many deaths. The only memory he clings to from the past (from any of his pasts) is Dare. So here he is again, ready to live, to die in this place. He will find a mare to bear his children, he will fight until he can no longer lift his broken body off the ground, and he will live on through the tales of horror that will be told about him. He has big dreams for his future, and if you are lucky enough, you will not be sucked into his cyclone of destruction. And so, Black Plague stands, muscled neck arched enough to accentuate his well muscled shoulders, his strong rear, straight legs, and overall physique. He knows he is gorgeous, powerful, and soon, there would be at least one lady drawn to him like a moth to the flame. He waits for that moment with a satisfied smile ghosting his lips as his alert eyes scan the tree line, the nearby pond, and the morning sky. ”Speech”
There is a wicked sort of pleasure he takes in coming to Veneror Peak for something profane.
It is not that he doesn’t appreciate Calligo; he loves her for everything she is, just as he loves Reichenbach and the Night Court for taking him in, for making him belong. But she will always be a foreign god. It was not she who had freed him from his cell as a colt; it was not she who had led him here.
It was him. Him alone.
He would worship with the others, but Acton said no prayers at night. Not to any gods, at least.
But he could still appreciate the gravity of the place, the sense of something weighty, even as the air thinned and the slopes grew unsteady with scree and he cursed himself for not being in the shape he ought to be. Crow life had made him lazy over the last year; it was easy to get complacent, when you didn’t have to be so careful.
Maybe it was a good thing he had to be very careful, today.
But there was no disguising his irreverent grin, his raven-dark hair that fell thick and wild along his neck, the flash of his eyes from behind the black mask he was born wearing. Luckily the peak was, for the moment, abandoned; high noon, it seemed, was not a preferred time to submit to the gods. Acton settled near a grove of aspens to wait, listening to the wind rattle the leaves, dry as bones this late in summer.
He could not say how much time had passed before he heard another coming slowly up the trail. The buckskin straightened, shaking leaves form his mane, poised, kinetic, ready to perform whatever role was needed.
None was. It was a quicksilver figure that came up the trail, a ghost on a spirit-peak, and Acton’s grin turned sly as he stepped from the slender trunks.
“Your piousness has always been a source of inspiration, brother,” he said – too loudly, too carelessly, even if only the trees were listening.
Hopefully the gods ignored him as much as he did them.
He doesn't like to venture too far from the river, because he regarded it as a lifeline, a link to what life was before he ended up here. Most might not understand why Averin would cling to a life lacking freedom when he could so easily have just that in this new place -- simply by going -- but that life was all he really knew, and there was no purpose to being out here on his own. Alone. It was much too quiet, because Averin had lived among the youths of the caravan, taking care of them, looking after them. He did know enough to understand it hadn't been good work -- not the quality, of course, as he did not shirk on it -- but the fact that the caravan took the youths from their homes to brainwash and reprogram. There just hadn't been anything Averin could do about it, because he had been one of them, and the enforcers had the power to wipe memories and used it regularly.
Getting past that had probably been more of a curse than a blessing where Averin was concerned. Because he knew what was happening, knew what had happened to him, and he did not have it within him to do anything about it. He wasn't built for a fight, and shied away from most any confrontations as it was. He'd probably have made a terrible caretaker of the youths if they hadn't been brainwashed into compliancy, as much as he wished that wasn't the case or extent of his care taking skills. Yet if any of them had stood up to Averin, he probably would have been a doormat, because he wasn't all that strong willed. He liked to be helpful and he was all too friendly, but Averin wasn't exactly what anyone would call a 'strong' personality. That just wasn't what he had turned out to be, though there was always the possibility that the enforcers of the caravan had molded and directed him to be so.
Averin continued to wander along, trying to shake the thoughts of the past that still felt like some looming rain cloud over him. He didn't want to think about all the ways in which he had failed back then, because there was the chance he could be better here, in this new place. The place he honestly had no idea how he had ended up in. There had been no sudden stop, no sudden drop; he had merely blinked in the darkness of the place before this, and it was just as shadowy here when he had arrived. He would have thought nothing of it, if the stallion he had been walking with wasn't suddenly just as gone from his side. Averin had been a nervous wreck since that day -- days ago? Weeks? -- and even now he was jittery in the unnerving quiet of the field. He should go back to the river soon, though he had probably walked the ground worn along each side of it; up and down and across. This change of scenery might be good for him.
I'M WIDE AWAKE AND I CAN SEE THE PERFECT SKY IS TORN
