She follows the sound of the river. From faraway you could mistake it for the wind dancing in the treetops, but she does not. Her thirst magnifies the sound. Mud is caked to her knees and underbelly, and colors brown her white tail. She no longer smells of the rainforest, that scent faded from her weeks ago. That life is miles and miles behind her now, and she only thinks of it when she wakes; just half-aware of where she is, rainforest dreams still filling her senses. Damp, mossy earth and sunlight filtered through tall canopies- dreams she wants to return to, but reality calls. When she shakes the sleep from her head, two rings braided into her mane clink together. The sound grounds her.
She follows the sound of the river. Step by step, slowly first then faster and faster. She has passed through the edge of the Solterran desert and the water calls to her like an old friend. The call invigorates her for more than one reason. Her thirst is first (a rhyme, a smile), and she's long overdue for a bath. But also she thinks this river must be the one that marks Delumine. She moves even faster.
She follows the sound of the river, and then it is before her. She slows to a dance and proceeds until she is knee-deep, laughing in delight as the water laps at her. When she lowers her head to drink, the tips of her braids play in the current of the river. It is calm and peaceful here, but even as her body relaxes a knot of nervous excitement begins to churn in her chest.
So this is home now.
- - - - -
ooc: to @Sara, for either of your babes. sorry this is a weird one O_o
your heart is a wild thing
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes
The stormy skies had all but faded away when the sea had called to her in a dream.
Her battering heart robbed her of the sweet bliss of sleep; instead, she found herself roaming further and further from the castle as insomnia racked her with restlessness. She had tossed and turned until her silk sheets were thick with sweat, a headache pounding against the inside of her skull as exhaustion coated her eyes, but did little to pull her under. When she was shaken from her fitful rest, all she could recall was the sound of crashing waves. As if beckoning to her, the stormsinger melted into the shadows immediately. A gypsy, a nomad, a wanderer. A daughter of Calligo, truly, as she faded into shadows and smoke, flying until she found the cliffs were far below her. She spiraled until she was at the rock's very edge, toeing the fall to the sea below, adrenaline pumping madly in her veins. But no; instead, she stood with orbs of brightest blue against the raging sea.
She recollected a moment such as this before, when she stood on a cliff side similar to the one she perched on now. Another time, another night, another storm. Summer's first breath of screaming thunder and roiling bruised clouds, rain falling in thick sheets as lightning flashed like swords of starlight against an indigo sky. A gathering of stormchildren they were; unafraid of the madness, at home with an angry sea threatening to swallow them whole. Tonight, however, was nearly morning, as instead of a stormy sky, the first light of dawn was beginning to leach color along the horizon. Her breath came in shudders through her nostrils and out of her mouth; slow and deliberate inhales and exhales to calm her bleeding heart. For as the memories of that gathering rushed her, overwhelmed her, the stormsinger could not help but remember how she felt when he had joined her there. A tempest, by the fate's design, the gods mocking her now. She had read all of the signs, but yet even now, her heart and soul were cleaved and broken.. his words from the mountain refusing to leave her be.
With a rough shake of her head, her emotions muddled and confused as she remembered the stranger who had danced with her under the stars as well, Aislinn's exhaustion pulled a lullaby from the far reaches of her memory. She collapsed her legs, her wings relaxed at her sides as she laid down with eyes on the ocean's edge forever extended in front of her. Oh yes, a lullaby..
Lavender's blue, dilly dilly
Lavender's green
Yes. She inhaled a strong gust of salt and brine and sweet oxygen, each blink of her eyes drooping as the gods sprinkled sleepy sand into her orbs. The sugar-sweet paradise of dreaming, of slumber, so very close to her now.
When you are king, dilly dilly
I shall be queen.
Her heart lurched, but her mind sang the lullaby, and without realizing it, her throat hummed the melody. The sea thundered against the unmoving stones far below her, a rhythmic music that thrummed all around her. She was utterly exhausted, heart torn; confusion shaking her awake for too-many long nights. But now, she would dream.. of another place, another life, perhaps.. where gypsy girls could not possibly fall in love with their kings.
And as she began to drift away, she was completely, hopelessly unaware of who and what awaited her.
@Florentine ♡ OMG ARE YOU READY? cuz I'm not ready xD "Aislinn speech."
The trek from the blood-soaked Steppe had been long and sweltering, but it did not compare to the ache of her bleeding heart thrumming in her chest. She had made the mistake once before for not receiving treatment after sparring; a shudder rippling down her spine as she remembered crashing into the earth, her wings barely saved from the fall. Her heart bled as longing flooded her, her memories haunting her with her king's phantom kiss — a feather-soft promise as his lips brushed the wound on her wing — before ripping her feelings into shreds. She was not as strong as everyone believed her to be, it would seem. No longer a warrior-gypsy of the ancient Rahilah, no longer the tribe's chosen Maiden, or the king's Champion of Battle. Aislinn was a ragdoll with missing limbs; her heart torn and held loosely together with makeshift strings.
Her heartache a tangible beast she sought out to tame, Aislinn had found herself asking for trouble on the Steppe; her call answered by another soldier searching for bruises and torn knuckles. Now, hours later she stumbled into the Court's hospital wing in the wee moments before daybreak. She was not the kind to ask for help often, but she did know the true value of healers; for her tribe was home to many, gifted warriors and caretakers and musicians alike.
Wincing, she limped through the shadows, night still clinging at the corners and edges of the large room. The scrape running the length down her spine between her wings was slowly trickling warm blood down her belly, dripping on the floor as she walked. Her shoulder screamed with each step, most definitely bruised, but it was not just the physical wounds that had the stormsinger asking for help. Her heart thundered in her chest, choking her lungs out of air. She was positive it must be bleeding and broken.. for there was no other explanation for the ache that tightened her throat and robbed her of oxygen.
Aislinn collapsed on one of the rectangular beds, her legs giving out underneath her as she fell. A groan escaped her lips, crying out softly into the lightening darkness, praying one of the healers had heard her.
She was lost. She was always lost. Was this how Pan felt when he went exploring in a new place? No, probably not. He was confident, self-assured, and brave. Everything she was not. The filly wrinkled her nose and growled in frustration. She had set off toward home from the place-where-gods-should-be, and apparently took a wrong turn or three. She looked up to the sky through her button eyes, noting that things were becoming more gray-blue. Great. The sun was rising. Now she would be able to see where she was, and maybe find her way home again, before something bad happened. Bad things always happened to her. But still she kept walking. There was a compulsion she couldn’t explain, a need to keep moving, as if the past was right behind her, and it would catch up to her if she stopped for too long. So the silver girl kept moving, the fading moonlight and rising sunlight making the silver of her fur glitter like diamonds, marking her place, providing for no hiding, even if she wanted to. But she didn’t notice it. She didn’t spend time looking at herself. She had always been called an abomination, a blemish on “their” perfect herd. Her silver fur matched theirs; but her black points – mane, tail, muzzle, legs – they did not. They were marred. Imperfect. Ugly. That was why they hated her so; why they sent her away when she was barely weaned. She just wasn’t good enough. Not for anyone. Until she met Iago. He had been adopted then as her unbiological daddy. He tried to teach her things, to protect her and watch her grow. But then the magic changed, and he forgot about her. How could you forget about someone you once saw as your child? Was she really that bad? But Mew hadn’t forgotten about her. He had loved her. His dying words were just that – to tell Coraline I love her – and she wasn’t there to hear them. Not from his lips. But then, if she had been there…he wouldn’t have had dying words. He would be alive and well, and they would be together in this strange land. Her and Mew and Pan and Flora. They could all be together. But they all went their separate ways. Mew was dead. Pan and Flora in other herds. It left the silver girl on her own, with many more questions than answers. Deep in thought with details fuzzy due to her button eyes, the child didn’t see the much larger animal until she crashed into his side. She stopped and backed up, eyes widening in a mixture of terror and sorrow. Seemed she was always crashing into someone these days. Stumbling over her hooves and her words, the filly desperately looked for an escape route, for certainly this male was going to eat her now. This was what the compulsion was – it was fate’s way of sending her to her doom. Finally. ”I…I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” Her tiny voice wavered as she tried to channel Pan and be brave, but failing. ”I don’t think I taste very good…” It was all she could think of to avoid being eaten by this monstrous creature. Maybe the thought of a bad taste would deter him. A tiny bubble of hope welled up in her breast. Maybe she would live another day. ”Speech”
Battle Type: BATTLE Prize: Rostislav / they get to beat each others asses
Character #1:Reichenbach Bonded: n/a Magic: n/a Armor: n/a Weapons: n/a
Character #2:Maxence Bonded: n/a Magic: n/a Armor: n/a Weapons: Bullwhip
Let's play a game of russian roulette.
I'll load the gun, you place the bets.
He burned.
Underneath that mahogany skin roiled a world of fury, his very guts twisted with wrath, unending and unstoppable.
This would not stand.
They had chained him, beat him, poisoned him. Each insult would be repaid tenfold, then ten times over again. Solterra would realise their mistake in promoting a warmongering madman for a King.
Disgust curled Reichenbach's black lip, argent eyes ablaze with a wrath that had rarely been seen within the King Crow's normally jovial gaze. He had never controlled his emotions well, rather allowed them to roam wherever they pleased, as violently as they pleased. It was both a weakness and a strength, for his anger lent him strength, purpose, and an endless ferocity - all things that would inspire him to beat the living shit out of the Solterran Sovereign - yet his anger made him foolish, his vision tainted by blood.
Maxence would not be leaving in one piece today, that much could be foretold.
The energy writhing off of The Night King's muscular body was tangible, shadows lengthening and stretching around him as if to embrace that volcanic fury, swirling around their King like cats winding around legs, coy and insidious. The wildness of the Denoctian King bloomed underneath the darkening sky, the scent of woodsmoke and jasmine filling the cool air as he circled the Steppe, a kiss of sweetness against the violence that was to come.
The darkening sky flushed a deep mulberry purple, so different from the soft violet of Florentine's long lashed eyes that Reich studied it for a moment, trembling with anger - and for the first time that evening: fear. If Rostislav, big, hearty Rostislav, could be taken, then what chance would Florentine stand? His blood boiled at the thought of anyone laying a hand upon her smooth skin, knowing full well that anyone who did would lose more than just their hand.
Of all the Kings, all the Sovereigns, all the men in Novus, Maxence had chosen to steal from the one who valued his friendships, his loves and all of his people above anything else.
Had he thought there would be no consequences? Had he thought Denocte so void of a military that they wouldn't respond? There were many formidable warriors residing in Solterra - but Denocte soldiers were not ruled by a Commander, they were ruled by a friend and protector, and that made them all the more dangerous. Knife throwers, fire-dancers, assassins, experts in poison... there were just as many horrifying skills in the depths of Denocte as there were wonderful ones.
The sky darkened further, melting Reichenbach into the shadows, only his bright argent gaze glowing through the gloom. Night settled around him like a cloak, stars crowning that roguish head as his gaze turned lupine. The sound of beating wings marred the silent air, setting his insides coiling with an mix of pleasure and anticipation. Already he could taste blood on his lips, already he could feel retribution turning her cool eyes skyward.
because her skin smells as though it is pure moonlight"
The serene waft of coconut and vanilla subtly filled the hallway a moment before she arrived, silver hair hissing around her razor boned face. The sound of quills and parchment, a now familiar sound, filled the quiet air, scholars and sages working furiously to further their knowledge, or to aid in bestowing knowledge upon others. Like a fresh breath of sea air Liesel breezed into The Dawn Court, completely at odds with the silent education murmured in rosy rooms, vibrant and alive, a smile upon her supple lips. She had been a warrior at the Court for mere months before the new Sovereign had been chosen - a handsome, understated man with a heart like pure honey.
His smooth, dark skin and inky hair had reminded her of someone, a face just past the reach of her memory with the most intelligent, cold eyes. King Kasil did not have cold eyes. His eyes were warm and focused, sometimes concerned, always honest. Liesel smiled at the thought, trying her best to shove the darkness from the corners of her lupine eyes. She was a warrior for the Dawn Court - a position she took with a beaming pride, dancing her lethal dance in the sparring rings, her clear chime of a laugh echoing in the empty barracks. Dawn needed more soldiers to protect it, that much she knew.
Her skin gleamed in the morning light, supple and soft, catching the sun as she passed, the warmth clinging desperately to the tips of her silver hair. Liesel reached her Sovereigns door, paused a moment, then called with a voice like sunshine;
Feeling crept back into her like spring after an especially long winter – the numbing, throbbing pain draped lavishly across her shoulders like some great cape receded to little but the familiar lash of desert heat and movement as her tangle of wounds, like a thicket of jagged pink thorns, healed. Consider, however, that was not the only feeling that came creeping up upon Seraphina in the aftermath of the teryr hunt. The heavy weight of responsibility and all of the strange, foreign, sealed-up emotions that came with it, a mess of anxieties and fears, loomed at the floodgates of her carefully-regulated barricades. This did nothing to ease her stiff posture or cold expression, of course; Seraphina appeared blissfully distinct from the world around her, capable of examining the world without consideration for fickle little things like attachment or morality, subject to change quick as the wind. Her interest was in efficiency, or so she contested. As unfortunate as these newfound insecurities were, she was determined to persevere without allowing them to hinder her judgement, to remain impartial and alien.
(And then there was the socializing.)
Dawn’s rosy fingertips were just beginning to brush across the edge of the golden horizon when she made her way out of the library and onto the battlements, an apparition cast in hazy silver glow beneath the dappled starlight which managed to escape the windows. When she moved free of the confinement of Keep walls, she stood practically illuminated in the pale light, the stark white of her mane aflame in the midst of nondescript darkness and sandstone. She hoped that Maxence had received her note – she’d scarcely been able to find heads or tails of him for days, and she needed to speak to him. Most pressingly, there was the issue of Rostislav in the dungeons, and what Maxence hoped to do with him. (She felt a prick of irritation considering it, but swallowed it down. Why hadn’t he consulted with her?) Then there was the matter of the Temple of Solis, which she’d agreed to bring to Maxence’s attention when next she spoke with him…and a small part of her simply wanted to speak with him. He was their leader, their sovereign, their king, and she knew so little of him. She had a feeling that they all knew little of him – or his motivations, however pure he claimed them to be – and it was that ambiguity that fed serpents like Velorca. Best to parse him for herself, then, figure out what sort of man he was, rather than what sort of man he claimed to be.
Seraphina remained at her vigil in silence, eyes cast out to greet the rising sun.
There were mutterings on the breeze of a herd meeting. She knew she had missed it, but how? Had the magic claimed her for so long? She began to fret, worries and fears building in her already troubled mind. You see, when you look at the silver girl, she appears to be a very mature three-year old, full of the long mane and tail, curves, and lines of any girl her age. But when you understand more about her, you will realize she is still mentally a yearling. No, she is not touched in the head; but her story is a long one. Perhaps you will find interest in it, dear Kasil, to understand your charge. She was born silver with black markings – black legs, mane and tail, muzzle, and worst of all…button eyes. The herd she came from were made of pure silver – not a single blemish upon their flesh for generations, and for her mother to birth such an abomination…it was a horrendous act. The only thing that saved the newborn’s life was the immense love the mare had for the rogue stallion that sired her. The filly was kept away from the herd, afraid that her “blemishes” would pass on to them, and they all would be marked as imperfect. She was fed at irregular intervals, often crying with hunger and loneliness. Her mother never gave her a kind word or bedtime story. Instead, the filly was told of all the evils in the world that would love to eat a lost child. So she grew up fearing the world and all its inhabitants. As a weanling, the child moved on (not by her choice, of course) and found a home where she met several friends. She found a stallion she deemed to be her father – Iago – a stallion of stars and kindliness. And Pan, Flora, Only, and Bartholomew. Mew was her best friend. They spent every waking moment together, exploring, chasing, playing tag and seek. He was smaller than she, but every bit her knight in shining armor. He went off to fight a dragon she desperately wanted to save, but neither knew what the other was doing. He came back with an injury to his shoulder, and she found out it was from the dragon. He feared she would hate him, but instead, she tried to fix him, to heal the wound, proud that he had at least tried to do what he felt was right – trying to slay the dragon so it could never come to kill her. And then it happened. The magical coma claimed her. She was tucked away somewhere that nobody could find her, and she couldn’t find them. After she woke, she found her homeland had been destroyed; burned down by the one who was their leader – the one sworn to protect them all. She found a new herd, and that was when she received the news. Mew had died. He returned to the burning herd to find her, desperate to save her, even though he hadn’t seen her in some time. He had died with his last words demanding that the listener pass on his love for his Coraline. She had never told him that she was in love with him. That one day, when they were grown, they would have foals that would be perfect, no matter what they looked like – no matter if they were silver, or black, or had wings or fangs. She had never been able to tell him, and with the destruction of their home…she never would. While she was in the coma, her mind was not aging like her body was. She was not able to have conversations and grow mentally. So she stayed a yearling even though she woke as a two-year old. And it happened again. She was three, but still mentally a yearling. She was learning in leaps and bounds, but she still has troubles and worries to work through. But now, she is here. She is trying hard to be a good citizen, a good friend, and to make sure no bad happens to anyone else ever again. So with hearing that she missed a meeting made her nervous. Would he be mad? Would he throw her out? Would he hate her because she had the black blemishes that her mother so hated? Would he throw her away because she had button eyes? The filly fretted as she called out softly, asking for him to come, or to give her a place she could go to meet him. It was past time they had this meeting, and she was sorry to have missed it. ”Speech”
@Kasil my apologies on missing the big obvious thread for the herd meeting. Been busy and not online as much as I want to be. :/ Astarael too. He's around. :)
The day was new, the sun had risen and so had she; the Dusk girl lost in the throes of their ways had a heart that pushed and pulled like the cliff tides against its rocky walls. Little had changed there in the home of Vespera and her followers' lives, all save one child who belonged not just to her anymore. The child, but a babe in the confines of a fate that seemed to throw her in a direction all its own, became a torn thing between two forces that could never best the other; they in their grandeur and influence over those of their own kind had taken her heart and broken it into pieces, and the daughter of Dusk and winter wolves was unsure if she could ever mend what had been damaged.
With wayward thoughts about the one she trusted most and had grown quite close to, the painted proclaimed-queen brushed against the arms of the tower walls as she waded about them. Stairs and hallways and doors were passed by for something more finite; she knew where she wanted to go, where she would find the girl that often claimed her dreams in the midst of night, and it was there her star-studded marks would soon be visible had the door been left ajar. It was not the nook of books that she would end, but the single room of the flowered girl.
She approached the entrance, whether opened or closed, with trepidation masked by false-confidence. "Florentine." The solitary name rung against the stone surrounding her and hung like a nail driven into a wall. All sense of softness had left the curves of her voice, and that strong-strung accent was the pull of a tooth.
Outside in the summer heat, a storm brewed as it waited for the chance to let its lightning strike them both.
I was hangin' next to you by a thread from so high We were heaven and the moon In the center of my eye
