Sneaking? Sneaking? Very nice friend. Oh, yes, my precious. Very nice, very nice.
All right, all right. You startled me is all! What were you doing? Sneaking.
An assassin is a sneak. This assassin, though not as stealthy as a smaller creature, finds himself often in the position of sneaking. And so was his approach as he spotted the yearling, grazing as if nothing in the world could be wrong on this fall morning. Innocent of all wrongdoing, he suspected. Most of his marks usually were. But he is not the judge of innocent or guilty. Neither judge nor jury: He is the executioner. He stood for awhile then, watching the roan graze out in the opening. The client had found him by happenstance, taken a risk on what Anonymous's abilities might be. His guess was correct, and the assassin offered this job pro bono, an example of his good will and a way to increase his name and reputation.
'If someone asks for a recommendation, tell them to ask for Anonymous.' He refused to answer questions about 'how will they find you' and 'how will they know who you are'. Trifling matters. It would work out, it always had.
Unfortunately, the roan yearling was collateral damage in his journey to reputation. It only took a few moments for him to reach the colt, appearing suddenly from the shadows of a rock outcropping. The soft noise of his hooves upon the grass alerted the colt, and the young man turned to face the assassin. Only to have a dagger slicing at his throat, opening the carotid artery to the warm air, gleaming beneath the sun's rays. Quickly the dagger moves to stab the colt in the chest, piercing deep into the flesh. With barely a sound the colt dropped to the ground with a thud, gasping as blood trickled from his nostrils, his lips; spurting from his throat; seeping from his chest.
The assassin stayed until death claimed its prize, then left, wiping his dagger on his cloak before sheathing it again. He wanders now westward, not bothering to contact the client. After all, word of this death will travel quickly. There's no need to muddy up the channels of communication with needless words.
He trades carefully up the winding path underneath him, wary of the rocks that are not so firm in the ground. The setting sun bathes his back in a myriad of colors - red, orange, yellow, purple. A bright fire against his dark coat. Loose gravel spills from either side of his hooves down toward the small beach below. He has few opinions of the sea except that one must be in a certain mood to enjoy the salt upon one's skin, the cleansing burn it offers. But he enjoyed traipsing through the small waves that crashed upon the shore, learning its touch and will. Drowning is not his preferred method of death, but it might be an option when necessary.
But he prefers the main continent, the solid ground beneath him (for clearly he is no sea serpent). So he travels up toward the cliffs, the sparse grasses along the edge grazing against his legs as he reaches the top. His eyes are shadowed, hiding any emotion within. His purpose so loosely defined leaves him open to do good or evil, and it would be a suitable response to fear that vague outcome. His daggers are too clean, his soul with too few blemishes. Anonymous finds himself hungering for a purpose to keep his mind busy, his muscles tense and straining. Goddamn peace.
Posted by: Ammon - 10-01-2017, 11:37 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
Born of graves
And Left below
Long had it been since he had felt such painful soreness within his flesh and limbs(many millennia, if he was to include his slumber), and he found the feel of it rather against his liking. True, he perhaps could and undoubtedly would service as a warrior in times of need, but such violence, in hindsight, was foreign to him, while it was pleasing in sporadic doses, he knew without a doubt that the way of a soldier was no longer his. It was not the pain that confirmed this within his mind, it was not the outcome of the battle, nor whom he fought against. It was the lack of a presence beside him that made what he had once recalled as heart-poundingly terrifying and exhilarating into something.... hollow, just another charade for him to play through. It was the lack of a behemoth beside him, flanks brushing as they fought shoulder-to-shoulder, guarding the other should they falter and keeping what seemed like the world at bay.
Without that camaraderie, without him, battle seemed bleak and routine. In truth, without that stallion the world itself lacked vibrancy... or perhaps he was simply imagining such, though even the ever-burning flame of his vengeance simmered low in his heart, almost wholly spent. The fight upon the Steppe had drained him more than physically, and had awoken his eyes to yet another pain to pile upon his burden; heartbreak. In truth the black stag had never even had the time to mourn before he was slammed away into sleep beneath the earth, and he was resolute to stave off the grief that lurked in the wings like an actor for it's cue. He was afraid of it, of that pain that loomed, it was something wholly new and unfamiliar to him, and given his situation he feared new things with a dread he had never before tasted. It was an endless cycle, one he was doomed to, unless he could find his purpose and lock away the heartbreak and sorrow and forget where he had placed the key.
So the raven's eyes turned to Denocte, to the Night Court, to seek out his purpose therein. He had not heard much more of the Court than the barest snippets, for the reclusive location of the court proved to be a good deterrent against gossip. That in of itself called to the weary rook, the possibility of a secluded location to base his search in was a tantalizing morsel that had, invariably, decided his course of action when he teetered between Day and Night. He ignored the throbbing, pulsing ache of his semi-healed wounds, pushing himself into the easy gaited lope his breed had been created for, traveling onwards through the day, into the lands of Denocte, to the home of the Night Court.
His arrival was met with silence and twilight, the black stag's ebon coat blending fluidly with the growing dark, the gold of his rack dimmed by the dying hues of the sun. Only his white eyes flashed as he passed, their stark color still bold enough to be noticed in the growing night. Like a wraith he ghosted across the terrain, the soft roll of hooves and the single alarm call of a nightjar awoken too early by his presence the only signs of his passing. On he continued in that rolling lope, deeper into the Court lands, until the sun had set fully beyond the horizon, and only the dying moon graced the sky with it's weak light.
Only when he reached a clearing where the scent of heather and summer wildflowers filled the air did the raven pause, refined head swinging to look behind him, those haunting eyes almost seeming to glow in the weak moonlight. "I had expected thee to halt mine passage some time past." He called, baritone ringing with a stony flatness, broken only by the faint trails of amusement like wafting smoke. "Come out, thou hath been uncovered and known for some time." He was weary, he was sore, and he was out of practice, but he was not so great in any and all of those things to miss the signs of pursuit, no matter how cleverly hidden.
SKELVOI
@Reichenbach - Hope you don't mind how i started this ;;
It would be unfair to say it was a hellhole, I gotta admit. So I suppose "finally out of that hellhole!" would not be an accurate statement. Still, as I come down into the foothills of the Arma Mountains, I can't help but feel a certain wrath coursing through my veins, burning me up from the inside out. Stolen. Maxence STOLE me. All for what - to keep me holed up in the Day Court? But why! There's no purpose, no method to the madness, except to stir up trouble. For a stealth instead of a simple visit is definitely an act of aggression. Not showing up to the fight against Reichenbach? Shameful. My silver eyes burn with rage, lit further by the bright sun above. They had no choice but to release me.
And even that makes me angry! 'Vexed', perhaps. Of course Reich did the right thing by challenging for me, fighting for his warden. But to be unable to defend myself? I feel impotent, weak. A snarl rips through my lips, and I feel at any moment like I might rip a small creature's throat out. Barring that, perhaps I'll just implode. Usually the voice of reason and wisdom, Damaris feels no better. I can feel the barely restrained rage rippling from her, blending with my own between us. They will pay. She speaks as much to herself as to me. She doesn't know the Solterrans, and the betrayal she feels doesn't run quite as deep. But the fact that they made off with both of us, and she was unable to protect me.... I have no doubt that it will be a long, long time before forgiveness will be given, if ever.
We descend farther into the heart of Denocte, our bodies moving with fierce tension. The birds fly away, the rodents scurry, the deer leap. No one wants to stay anywhere near our path, holding safety above curiosity. Wise of them, very wise. It would be a poor decision for anyone to cross us now.
May the flowers remind us why the rain was necessary
Oh, little sparrow, you just can't seem to keep those little hooves planted on the ground.
It wasn't that long ago that Mother had ushered you into Helovia. It was that beautiful promised land, a haven of flowers and warmth and a promising future, that had set you both on that pigrimage. She had told you stories of its sanctuary, of its sweeping valleys and arching hills, of the endless blue of the sky, of its countless stars. She told you how it would be home. At the time you never knew how it would welcome you with loss, how it would snuff out Mother's light in a single breathless moment. But it couldn't dull the bright amber gold of your eyes, how you saw beauty in all that which the light of day touched, found comfort in the pallid light of the moon. But from your loss, new love flourished as the Constrictor took you in. You found yourself loving Ktulu as any child would love a mother, and your need for her protection fostered something that many never find again after the loss of a parent. And though she may have seemed cold, impatient, rough around her own broken edges, you knew that she must have grown fond of you as well.
But sometimes promises are empty, and though Mother knew not what she was delivering you to, Helovia had already been claimed. Darkness had breached the light, and had consumed all that had been granted. A terrible force had struck down the gods, ripped open a great portal, and again another promise was given to you as you were pushed through.
”I’ll see you on the other side.”
And with that you fell away, the air sucked out of your lungs, your wings flapping feebly, your companion clinging to the softness of your mane. And with that, the world ended.
--------
Unf!
For a moment, she just lays there. She is a mound of tangled wings, lanky legs, and ruffled mane. Small feathers, light as a breath of fresh air, slowly float to the ground, ripped from her as she had tumbled through the void. Her sides betray her broken form, their gentle and steady rise and fall giving proof that she's still alive.
She may not know much, but one thing she can be sure of, is that being alive is much better than being dead.
Awareness slowly seeps back into her mind as she comes to. An ear flicks and pivots, and nostrils flare as they sip in the fresh air. The atmosphere seems empty, light, so light, compared to the scene she had just exited. Death, fear, the acrid stench of smoke and dark magic. For minutes after, the stench clings to her nose as her lungs try to replace it with clean air. It's amazing, really, how loud silence can be when it follows such cataclysmic sound.
Slowly her eyes open, and she tries to blink away the bright flashes of teal light that had blinded her golden gaze just moments ago. She notices the pale sunlight, notes that it may be late day, and takes a moment to let the warmth of the dying afternoon warm her weary muscles. The grass beneath her is cool, and though she wishes to lay for just a little longer, something inside her persuades her to move, to stand, to collect her bearings, to notice how so much isn't right.
She groans as she lifts herself up onto shaky legs. Each wing is extended, shaken, and she counts to be sure they're all there. She reaches slowly towards a wing joint to learn a few misplaced feathers, and notices a deep scratch into her fur.
Grim.
An intense twist of nausea swells in her gut, and she nearly wretches. The genet's mind, who's incessant grumpy chatter has filled her mind since the moment they bonded, is lost to her. His absence from her soul is nearly painful, and tears spring to her eyes. "Gr-Gremlin?" She whispers his full name into the open air, hoping he may emerge from any shadow or crawl out from any hole. "Grim, please don't be gone." But she shouldn't cry. No, Tootaloo wouldn't want that. Ktulu.”Shit,” she coughs through her teeth, the sound choked by her constricting throat. The curse, which she learned from the older mare, is a clear indicator that she is realizing what is happening. Which is obviously way too much to all happen in one day. First, like so many people died, and now the two closest to her (three if you include Eytan, the bear companion to Ktulu, who she had come to love as well) have simply vanished. Had the portal thrown them somewhere different entirely? Was she alone again?
No. She needs to put her big filly pants on and start moving in the right direction. The last time she had a breakdown was when Mother had died, and Ktulu had called her stupid for refusing to stand and live, since all she wanted in that moment was to fade away like her mother had. So today she would brush off the dust, move forward, and survive. She refuses to be a victim, refuses to become dinner to any predators that may call this place home.
So, on lanky legs, she begins to march forward. Then she stops. Turning around, again she proceeds forward with proud purpose, before stopping again. Scowling, she claps her wings against her sides, and looks around.
It's hard to move towards the future, when you have no idea where the future lives.
It’s the edge of autumn, and the bison know it. They graze the waving brown grasses of the plain with a singleminded determination, and beyond the brown humps of their backs rises a peak so tall it wears evening clouds down to its shoulders, lilac and rose in the deepening dark.
It is beautiful in the way that everything Asterion has seen here is beautiful - and despite that beauty (or perhaps because of it) he laments. It feels too safe. There is nothing of the feral magic of Ravos, the unpredictable danger that might give birth to a maze or a monster. There is nothing of the chaotic warring of the gods, producing firestorms and howling fails and carnivorous plants like ravenous, unruly children.
Of course, only a fool would long for such things on a late summer’s eve like this. But Asterion does not feel like a fool. The boy feels alive, blood humming with discovery, just days after his meeting with Florentine. To learn of his half-sister, to hear of his father - it makes him feel drunk on fate.
Surely that is why he approaches the first lone stranger he sees. He moves too boldly across the plain, the prairie grass golden against his dark hide, the colors of evening reflected on his hips and shoulders. The other stallion is darker yet, a shadow against the sky, and that is all that Asterion can tell of him until it’s too close to change his mind.
Not that he would, anyhow. He’d never learned to look for danger; Calliope had never had the opportunity to teach him. And even a few days in Novus - heavy, heady summer - has made him lazy. As blackbirds wheel and chatter above the bison and settle again, as the sunset slides down the mountain, Asterion offers the stranger a soft smile, tucking his chin briefly to his chest. “Well met,” he says, before realizing he has nothing else to say, to ask. Typically this would embarrass him, but for all Asterion knows (at least he hopes it, dreams it) he and this stallion are linked by destiny, too, and so he only laughs. The sound is soft and silver as mist, and disperses as quickly. “Do you think they envy us?” he asks then, and gestures toward the bison.
Maybe it’s a foolish question, but tonight he’s hard-pressed to care.
He couldn't remember when he had met up with the Caravan. Between here-and-there-and-everywhere-else, Only could barely remember what he filled his belly with or where he slept at night (if he ate or slept at all, that is - the Rift was strange) - those days had been long and hard and inexplicably bizarre. Days and days and days of being alone in the dark with no promise of a sunrise or sunset (no moonrise or moonset - no stars either) had made him desperate for company whenever he found it.
The caravan had been a fluke, something seen from the opposite side of a wormhole. It appeared to Only who had been trapped in the Rift like a door so similar to the many he opened in the beginning when there had been others to help him get through them. He thought it had been a mirror at first, the face looking back at him had been as dark as sin - as dark as his own face - and so when he reached out to touch it he hadn't expected it's nose to be warm as it breathed a sooty greetings traveler.
Oh.
Because he was growing accustomed to bizarre happenstances more and more every day in the Rift, stepping through the door and finding himself surrounded by lush trees and sprawling countrysides did not seem strange. He realized after that there had been many horses passing through - a whole band of them and, like anywhere else, they had come from all walks of life. His wary mind searched each and every one of them and contemplated whether they were any danger or not. When the same black face introduced himself as a 'merchant' of sorts - his knew he was not in any trouble.
"And what is it you sell?"
Bodies. He was as forward about it as he could ever be and Only's interest piqued as he looked all of them over. See something you like? He asked. Someone? He amended as his eyes followed Only's.
Only became curiouser-and-curiouser as his eyes drifted over towards the back of the group where - amongst many plain backs and drab coat colours - was a pale white, winged boy that piqued his interest. They made eyes and it was an instant sell. Only wanted a companion if he was to be lost in the Rift forever (surely this was all another trick? certainly none of this was even real?)
Just roll with it. I like birds... Stephan's suggestion made Only's head tilt as if he listened to the opinions of someone outside of his head, not inside.
"That one." His narrow snake-like face pointed in the direction of Averin and instantly the enforcer laughed (scoffed) - "You cannot afford him."
Stephan laughed hysterically at that - Only merely chuckled out loud as he looked back towards the way he came and the door was still open. "Through there, you'll have more than you will ever need. I've got gold, lots of it, gemstones, armor, weapons..."
The merchant looked skeptical but Only insisted, he needed the white horse like he needed a good night's rest - perhaps having the company would help provide such a thing. The Rift was awfully lonely. "I will go with you. I will show you the way out."
Money talks and Only was telling the truth. One glance inside and the enforcers could see that his offer was serious. Quickly the purchase had been made and Averin taken off of their hands. The Rift, however, sought to keep the man lonely. The moment he walked the pegasus into the darkness with him - it tore them apart the moment Only tried to introduce himself to the young steed.
Meet me by the river.
What river? And could Averin even hear him anymore? Only wouldn't know - the next thing to happen was him kissing Delumine's lush green soil as he crash landed in Novus. It had been such a jarring experience he almost forgot that it had ever happened - when he finally did remember (days later? weeks?) it had only been a dream. But now, he wasn't so sure that-that was what it was either. It was odd, Averin seemed more and more like a fever dream that he had concocted as a way to cope with the suffocating loneliness of being trapped in the Rift - it was just odd to him to continue thinking about it - even now.
His usual trek always started by the Amare Creek, he would never willingly walk into the capitol of Delumine unless he was dragged by force - he would always try to avoid Ulric who could only trust him as far as he could throw him. His dreams of the Rift had him curious as to what river he had meant when he told his servant to meet him there. A day down the winding waterway lead him back to the Dawn Court from Ruris and he was not so eager to continue forward until something moved far up ahead. A horse. He keened his eyes on the creature more closely, mind racing as it tried to remember the details of that strange and near-fateful night. The wings were what intrigued him enough to continue forward. Delumine was just three feet away, a home of which he did not care to be a part of for it had scrutinized him in such a way that he knew he was not welcome before he was told that.
The black horse carefully picked his way through the rocks towards the stranger, his mind racing faster-faster-faster on the event that lead to his extreme unction out of the Rift - the face he was seeing now was more clearer than it had been even in his dreams. The sleek man stood still in the water as it pooled around his golden feet, through the wild blizzard of blonde hair he gazed upon Averin with interest and curiousity, his stomach lurching with nervousness upon meeting such a creature. He had found Iliad by the water - but much to his dismay he was not who Only had been expecting. But this guy,
"Are you waiting for someone?" He heard himself ask before he could ready himself to say it. His own ears perked forward, head lifting to toss the golden locks out of his face to get an even better look at Averin.
@Averin
.only si vis pacem para bellum
There shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
For many are called but few are chosen.
Morning had come again. He had spent some time away from the herd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the flighty Nimue. Their last meeting hadn’t gone well, and he had taken some time to reflect on her answer. It was possible that she was simply a private person. Or perhaps she’d had children of her own, but something bad had happened. Or perhaps she was unable. There were many reasons why she would react with such anger after he asked if she had children. It was not meant to upset her – it was only meant to be friendly conversation. Boy, had he failed. But the steadfast boy refused to take it personally. He was calm and easy-going as ever as he returned home from a several-day-long stroll through the other territories. No need to get his tail in a knot. Now his dark blue eyes sought her out, wishing to speak with her again. Certainly she wouldn’t hold a grudge forever. Perhaps she would even explain why she was angry, though he wouldn’t bring it up. Not after her first blow-up. He was many things, but stupid was not one of them. And so, he returned home, happy to have the smells that were becoming familiar. He raised his head and called out softly, a beckoning call. He wished for company; anyone who might be needing a companion, but especially the flighty mare with the unique mannerisms. He waited and moved slowly, examining new plants and taking a drink at a small puddle. He watched several grasshoppers flutter away from him as he moved, a smile on his face at their antics. How silly to jump everywhere you want to go, instead of just walking! But perhaps that’s just the way the world went. Everyone had to have their own “thing” that made them special. His was his coat. It had always set him apart. It used to reflect the sky at any given moment. As he moved, it would change. But now…now it was frozen as it was seen on the night of his birth. He didn’t mind it, not truly, but it was a nuisance to not know his directions and where he was. He used to be able to look at his coat and know where he was. Now he had to rely on the actual sky, and hope it wasn’t cloudy. But perhaps this was something meant to make him a better navigator. There was a purpose for it, even if he didn’t know what the purpose was. One day, he decided, he would figure it out. But for now, Astarael was happy to relish in the early morning sunrays, watching the sun rise above the trees, the mountains, the grasses. It was beautiful, watching the sky change colors, and hearing the birds announce the new day.
Astarael
to the stars who listened, and the dreams that are answered
@Nimue - if you don't want to play, no worries. ;D
Quiet concern was written all over Averins expression, and there was a nervous shuffling of his hooves as he stared out at the expanse of land that he did not know. He shivered at the creeping sensation at his spine -- or maybe that was nothing more than the simple breeze? -- and told himself that he needed to move. To do something, anything. He felt lost out here like this; alone and uncertain. Where was Only? Out there somewhere, tending to whatever it was that Only tended to. Averin wouldn't really know. It was too soon to have any grasp on what his new master did with his time. Averin wasn't really sure that he needed to know any of those details, but he was not used to being alone in this way. Every little movement that he spotted out of the corner of his eye made him jittery. He didn't know anyone here, and had no clue what he actual purpose was when he was here by himself and waiting for Only to return.
His feathers ruffled, though his wings were pressed tight to his sides. Averin was pretending that they were some kind of armor against his sensitive skin; holding everything in. All that insecurity and the underlining fear that buzzed along his veins. Averin did not wish to be twitchy in the way he currently was, but there could be anything lurking out there, and he was not used to being alone and without a group hovering around. He had forgotten what privacy felt like, or he simply hadn't really known it to begin with. This left him with the crawling urge to go find somewhere to hide himself away. An ear flicked, curved to the side at the sound of something out there. He took one careful step, then another forward. A songbird burst from the underbrush; Averin pulled back with a startled squeal before huffing at himself for the childish vocals. His ears flattened in embaressment and he peered around fretfully. Had anyone seen that?
Averin hoped not, but what could he even do if someone had? Stumble along on legs that would be oh so graceful with more confidence? Averin was aware that he had a pretty walk when he wasn't full of nerves or shying away, but lately he was too uncertain of his fate to be any sort of confident. He was still the warm sunshiny creature that he had been known as in the caravan when there was someone around to see that brightness, but when alone, Averin let his insecurities eat away at him. Knaw at him from the inside like a dog with a bone. He shifted his body aside, pointed his nose towards the river and ambled in that direction, glancing this way and that as he proceeded. Thirst tore at his throat, and the rushing water not far from here begged for him to approach and take as he needed. How could he ignore a need that strong? Averin kept going, feeling the squish under his hooves as the ground gave way to softness at the water's edge. He leaned to the water with a happy sigh.
I'M WIDE AWAKE AND I CAN SEE THE PERFECT SKY IS TORN
The air is still and quite. No breeze rustles the leaves or offers reprieve from the wet, sweltering heat. Even the canopy of branches weeping moss cannot stave off the heat of the sun as it beats down from a clear, cloudless sky. The smells in this wetlands creep into the nostrils, heavy and sticky. The smells of verdant growth, of age and rot, of stagnant water and the things that dwell in it.
It is, on a whole, like other swamps he's been in. It is not a place he ever wishes to fight in. The mud and muck sucks at his hooves with every step even though he strives to find the dry tussocks of grass and roots. There is no hurry though. He takes his time, carefully choosing his steps. His is alone. It wouldn't do to step into quicksand or catch a hoof in a hidden hole. The weather is warmer now than he is used to- it should already be fall in his mind, heralded by cool showers that bring relief from summer's heat and wash things clean before the earth settled down for winter's rest.
The stallion stumbles as the seemingly stable ground beneath one hoof gives way, proving to be nothing more than a thick mat of greenery floating on the surface of still water. He splashes through quickly. He doesn't trust what lurks under that surface, black as a night with no stars. His copper pendant swings on it's cord, thumping against his chest in an ever present reminder of it's presence. The ruby winks in the murky light, dark as heart's blood or bright as firelight. The swamp seems to bend light in queer ways.
Sweat darkens the rose-grey of his hide to pewter and mats his mane against his neck. His tail is heavy with the muck of the swamp, the ends of it tangled with mud and leaves and slapping wetly against his legs whenever he tries to flick it out of the way. Mud splashes his legs nearly to where they meet his body, obscuring some of the fern-like scars on his right hind. No such camouflage masks the marks on his face though, nor the milk-white of his blind eye and the stub of his missing ear.
He's not sure exactly when the creek he was following turned into a bog-land but he wishes now he had tried another way. He reaches a small place of firm ground and stops to asses for a moment. Better to stop and get his bearings than walk in circles. Not that he has a destination. No, he only wishes to get free of the swamp and into more welcome pastures at some point where travel is swifter, easier, and cleaner.
[ @Israfel but anyone who wants can come help him out of the swamp!]
