When the snows fall and the white winds blow She comes to lead them to glory
She was from a land of eternal snow and ice. She was born to blizzards and grew in the arms of a court known for its frozen hand.
She was a child of winter, the daughter of wolves.
And she stood in the summer-riddled heart of Solterra.
The words they spoke in the lands of desert reached her in the far corner of the Dusk kingdom, sea waves crashing in time to the lyrics of their voices. Velorca's gaze upon Florentine's skin laced itself against her imagination, and had she any paws they would be sunken into the concrete floor of the tower with claws stuck deep inside. Her own name hung heavy on their lips but that was not all her flowered Emissary had told her after the encounter with the Day King; there was talk of alliance, of the trading of services and goods between the two courts. It was but a moment that she took time to fasten her wolf's coat around her star-painted body and left the confines of her room in the tower.
The sun's rays claimed each space she moved, wading through heat and grass-turned-crag to find the land of Day. In her year before turning to Vespera's alter, she never crossed the borders of Night after seeing those of Dusk--she hadn't visited the lands of sand, nor those of knowledge-seekers. It was past-time for her to witness the other Courts of Novus, but she found it fitting that the first venture to Day be under the intent to find Maxence.
Several moons rose and went between her leaving and then her arrival to the orange-plagued landscape. Through it all she thought only of Florentine's recap of the meeting she'd had, the obvious conclusion leading her back to Rann's side for deliberation on the questions proposed. She hadn't wasted time on one decision: she would face the Lion King herself.
Pulling up as the sole figure outside of the encampment, a bustle of activity laying just behind the walls, she merely sat and watched those of Solis pass. Just as Maxence had not invaded the inner part of her tower, she would not step through the entrance until guided by one of their own. But her presence would be well known (perhaps not her identity) to any who saw, her creams and blues a softness amid their harsh colors.
The wolf had given herself over to the pride, alone, prepared to face each cub that would surround her.
My thoughts are the cold kind, I've got stormclouds brewing behind my eyes
There was no warning. There never is when these things happen. Between one moment and the next the universe upended and turned on its head, breaking every fragile illusion of how it is meant to work. The bright sun darkened for an instant as a flash of black and blue like inverted lightning streaked across the clear sky. A stench of stagnant water, mildew and decay suffused the air, and in the trembling instance between two heartbeats the heavens split open and deposited a torrent of water upon the desert sand. It was as though the bottom of a river had been removed and half its content dumped through space and time, like a friendly force eager to help the citizens of the desert in their efforts to improve their situation. Before the lid of an eye had closed and opened again, the hopeful beginnings of a garden had been watered with more precipitation than it would have seen in ten years time, displacing seeds and young plants and scattering the precious soil so many had struggled to bring from afar.
Well meaning it might be, but it was hard to say whether the water did more good than damage.
Especially as water was not the only thing that came falling from the sky.
Centered within the water, enveloped by it as though it was encasing them, a pale shadow tumbled to the earth. A rag doll without thought or coordination, a horse both slight and slender, smacked hard into the sodden ground, bounced once and then lay limp, unmoving under the glaring sunlight. Water glittered on the porcelain hide, every shade of pink and blue exaggerated in the unforgiving heat, pooled around rumpled feathers and soaked quickly into the thirsty ground. For an instant, it looked as though the figure might be steaming, like ice left out to melt on a spring day... But then the vision faded, and a shocking stillness settled over the scene.
The little mare stirred. A soft groan cut through the stillness, followed by a raspy, painful breath as air was permitted back into her lungs... then her eyes opened, to stare uncomprehendingly up into the desert sun.
and my heart will be blacker than your eyes when I'm through with you
The sunset draped the metallic silver mare in hues of blood red and violent orange, casting odd, jagged shadows along her snaking form as she wove her way through the tangle of spiny underbrush and gnarled date palm, hips just grazing leaves brittle and nearly-dead from heat and dehydration; but it was bearable now, unlike the heat of midafternoon, the heat that left her sides sweat-soaked and heaving. Sand and grime clung to her legs like a second skin, just brushing the length of her stomach and chest, and her limbs heaved with adrenaline and exhilaration; she had been out since dawn. Her tongue felt heavy and dry in her mouth, and her lungs and throat felt impossibly dry – a breath was like being cut with a knife. For some reason or another (the familiarity, she told herself, the familiarity) she found the sensation pleasing, even comforting, a concrete sign that she was managing to get something done, even if it was somewhat irrelevant to her new position. Seraphina told herself that she couldn’t afford to slack, regardless of whether or not her job actually entailed of bashing skulls together. The Day Court’s very essence was intertwined with warfare and violence, and, if she was to be its representative, she’d best entailed what it was meant to value.
The last rays of light are fading on the horizon when she clambers to the bank of the Oasis, head dipped to take hearty gulps of cool water – perhaps it isn’t really cool, but anything to quench her thirst is suitable. Telekinesis eagerly unwinds her hair from its braids; it clumps against her skin, sticky and heavy with sweat, and she strides out into the depths of the pool to wash it clean. She splashes clear blue sky, tainted silver and black with the arrival of night against her skin and relishes in the sensation, muddying the water about her slender form. When she finally feels clean again, she retreats towards the shallows, but finds her way to one of more secluded sections of the Oasis, sheltered by the rocks that led up to the waterfall and low-hanging palms. She plucks a few dates that dangle dangerously close to the water’s surface in her teeth on her way into the small, sheltered enclave and deposits them neatly on the bank for later; for now, she droops down into the water, allowing it to ebb and flow gently against her sides as her legs buckle beneath her.
There’s something missing in him, some was-there-but-now-isn’t, but so far Asterion hasn’t noticed.
There are other things on his mind: the ache in his muscles, the fuzziness in his head like his brain became a beehive somewhere between Ravos and here. Perhaps the rift had done it, the magic made him mad - but he doesn’t feel mad. Just sleepy and strange and lonely.
He’d like more than anything to sleep, but there’s a summer storm coming. It’s building on the horizon, an ominous green, and the air where he stands is still and humid as a held breath. There are no birds singing, but there is a droning of drowsy summer insects, and a blackbird darts across the still grass and vanishes into a distant treeline. He ought to find shelter, too.
There seems to be few enough options, and he finds himself jealous for the bird’s ability to fly - nevertheless he follows it, loping with a nervous whicker toward the trees. Scant enough cover it was - only a narrow band of oaks, their leaves beginning to shiver in the stirring wind. But it was better than waiting it out in a bare field. In Ravos, the storms could be fearsome, feral things, biting wind and lashing rain and thunder like a moan. He hopes this one is only a summer thunderstorm, all noise and no teeth, but still the boy shivers with nerves and his dark eyes are wary.
Even so there is a part of him that wonders in awe at the way the rain, when it comes, sweeps across the plain and the grasses all bend before the wind like waves. The canopy he stands beneath is thick enough that at first he only hears the rain on the leaves, a sound like silver between the rumbles of thunder. Eventually raindrops do reach him, but after the sticky heat of the afternoon they feel good against his skin.
There should be a stirring there, a recognition in his blood of the water that once was his, but there is nothing.
He is just beginning to realize it when there comes another distraction - the sound of movement through the brush, barely heard above the storm - and he turns to find a mare there, heavy with the scent of flowers, honey-golden and very, very wet. Asterion can’t help the little grin that makes its way across his lips, the way his brow lifts as he takes the sight of her in. “Not quite quick enough?”
The Mors, she had learned, were quietest at night.
When it became too dark to read and too confining to wander the ramparts and winding hallways of the Day Court, Seraphina had slipped away from the looming towers of crumbling sandstone and returned to the desert from whence she came like some ghostly, fluttering apparition, a specter of pale silver dancing across the dunes with the grace and single-mindedness of a snake prowling after a rabbit; each step was careful and deliberate, so as not to send her cascading down a ridge in a cloud of gold that would catch and flurry in the starlight, her crown raised to keep her eyes on the seemingly-endless sea of starlight that ran from horizon to horizon. There was comfort in solitude, free of her bonds and duties, and comfort in the simplicity of motions that she had repeated one time, a hundred times before, paths worn from years of patrols, years of guarding, years of mechanical repetition. With choices came the frightening clutch of indecision, a churning emotion that she was oh-so sure that she was beyond, but with orders came guidance, came comfort, came security. (You can never be wrong if it’s never you.)
Her mane tumbled behind her in a plume of snow-white, free of the braids that normally kept it captive; faint, cool wind wound its way through her coat, a pleasant transition from the hellish heat of the day. Behind her, a trail of sand, caught like dust in the rays of light that found their ways through the ornate windows of the court – but, rather, illuminated with soft silver and a bit less airy. She didn’t stop until the Court was far behind her, not even a smudge on the horizon, didn’t stop until a navigator of lesser skill might have lost her way. (But Seraphina knew the stars – for a creature of the day, she always knew the night sky.) She came to a halt on top of a ridge, cool gaze transfixed on the rise and fall of the desaturated, depthless dunes that jagged the horizon like a great line of teeth, but seeing nothing.
@Velorca <3
YOU'RE GONE BUT YOU'RE ON MY MIND I'm lost but I don't know why--
Midday sent Seraphina fluttering to the Oasis for shelter; in the midst of summer, the heat was so thick and dry that she felt as though her skin could melt off and her tongue went numb and rasping between her teeth. It was still not particularly cool amongst the lush greenery that surrounded the glistening turquoise of the Oasis, but the heat was at the very least bearable, and the sweet promise of water was enough to keep her moving forward, weaving between the trunks bent heavy with fruit in a stream of glistening, sweaty silver, like polished mercury. The rigidness that had marked her strides since the teryr hunt, much as she tried to hide it, had largely dissipated in the weeks that followed, and the scars that writhed along her sides were just that – scars, growing fainter by the day. Every day she felt better, more like herself, but no less at home in her skin and no more content with her new title. Failure seemed to constantly be grasping at her, nipping at her throat like a dog hungry for her flesh and blood, and she worried to breathe. She feared it in a way that she didn’t fear anything and had never feared anything before; in the past, it didn’t hold any weight at all. Now…now it held too much.
The waves parted before her gleaming silver hooves, droplets clinging to her fur and mingling with salty sweat; as she strode out into the water, cool depths brushing against the curve of her stomach, she dipped her head to drink deeply of the turquoise sky, swallowing the reflections of cloud and sun in one smooth gulp and leaving little more than a cascade of ripples in their wake. When she had drunk her fill and her stomach hung clunking and waterlogged between her legs, she returned to the bank, comfortably nauseas – too much too quickly, but she was so thirsty in this heat. She returned to the flickering shadows of the date palms, closing her eyes and leaning up against the rough, plated bark. Still dripping with cold water, the heat was quite relaxing, like stepping into a hot bath, and she had to admit that the sensation was more soothing than she would have liked. Seraphina needed to work, to meet with more of her court and more of the other courts and learn, but the socialization frightened her more than anything. (She had never been known for her tact or social graces.)
She stared up at the rows of dates that hung in thick clumps above her head, swallowing down a sigh. She would have to seek out the most powerful members of the other courts and get to know them, and, even more than that, get to know more of her own court – if she had expected this change in regime to mean a return to her routine, she was sadly quite wrong. Nonetheless, she wanted this more than anything she could remember wanting in her life, and she was determined to do her best work, if only because she was supposed to.
…Five minutes. In five minutes, she’d return to the court and the archives. For now, she would appreciate the day.
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
She lies on the outer rim of the ramparts. Healed by the queen of Terrastella since the last herd meeting, her position is one more of comfort than the need to baby an injury. Not everything is perfect of course. She has a scar from the gash she'd obtained, mostly healed but imperfect on her glossy obsidian hide. Her fracture has set and is healing, but not one hundred percent, and the leg as a whole is still stiff. The sun setting in the west casts her in its bright orange and red light, the shadows of her body buried behind her back against the stone wall. Her legs are tucked under her as she remains propped up, but her injured right leg remains out.
She stares out toward the sunset, watching the sun slowly descend toward the horizon. Her mind lazily wanders through a menagerie of thoughts. The healing. The gathering of soil to start growing things in the rain-forsaken desert biome. Becoming the Champion of Wisdom. There's a lot to think about, to plan, but constructive thoughts aren't connecting. The inked mare, self-proclaimed prophetess of Solis, desires to build a shrine to their God. That will take some time and effort. Gathering information will be part of her job as well, knowledge for their realm. The question is.. what should she learn? Plants, customs, religion..? At least she has a head start on the religion aspect.
A sigh slips past her velvet lips. She needs to talk to Maxence, or perhaps his regent or emissary, and learn what his specific goals are regarding her. What does he want from her? Then perhaps she will have a better idea of what sagely wisdom she should pursue. As it is, she only has eyes for Solis. As always.
Posted by: Only - 09-11-2017, 11:28 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (9)
He didn't expect a warm welcome anywhere - first of all - one had to have a good reputation to be well-received. Only felt as though he was only capable of upsetting everyone he interacted with in one way or another. Today (he hoped) would be different than most days. Today (he prayed) would bring him more success than failure at meeting - and communicating - with strangers who may or may not benefit off of the things he wished to bring. Under the tumbling wave of golden hair he carried poorly woven baskets full of things he had found along the way. Somethings useful, others not so much, but he would learn that Solterra was in need of seeds and medicines for their people who chose to stay in the desert and to their luck - he happened to have an abundant surplus of such things.
Only, unlike Stephan, desired a life without conflict. Despite Stephan's ever-constant toxic agendas, today Only would try to prove that he could be worth something better - that he could be a part of something bigger. Traveling everywhere and staying nowhere had given him a wide panoramic of Novus - and while others considered him to nothing more than a shift in the wind, they suspected him. What they suspected him of - no one could really say, all they could say is that he made them feel uneasy. Uneasy or not, he hoped to find a stranger that might be less wary of him - he longed for a conversation that didn't center around how new and strange he was to Novus. They were all new and strange at some point, weren't they?
Somewhere along the way - it had become apparent that there was a desert in the middle of all of this variant land that he had travelled and inside of all that sand and rock was a band of horses that regarded that land as the Day Court, Solterra. Fitting, Only decided without much else thought about the Solterrans aside from what might benefit them with his arrival.
His own wares might be of some use to them if they hadn't found it already for themselves, if they had not or were simply in need of it - perhaps he could adjust his good karma by sharing what he had in his baskets. He'd have to keep his distance, of course, because in his travels he had learned that the boundaries between Delumine and Solterra existed here in the Mors desert, between the forest and the sand.
And so, with higher hopes than last time, the stranger awaited someone, anyone.
.only si vis pacem para bellum
There shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
For many are called but few are chosen.
YOU WANNA TAKE A DRINK OF THAT PROMISED LAND gotta wipe the dirt off of your hands--
Stars coated the night sky in a thinly-woven blanket of glistening silver, a tangle of pale light that seemed to flicker in and out of existence imperceptibly – when she was younger, Seraphina would spend hours navigating by starlight, head drooping as she stumbled in-between Viceroy’s hooves. Now, little more than a rudimentary glance up told her exactly where she stood in the vast, smoldering deserts of Solterra, and she had long since stopped thinking about how lovely they were. She was fairly sure that she had looked up at them with wonder a very long time ago, but she didn’t really remember what it felt like, short flashes of images that seemed to her to have happened in third person. Seraphina reminded herself that it didn’t matter, and it never had.
She stood on the high ridges of one of the canyons, eyes cast out on the horizon and searching for something beyond the light of distant stars. Although she was no longer a warrior or a guard, – diplomacy still left an odd taste in her mouth, with her perpetual, if generally tactical, bluntness – it soothed her to wander the borders. The wounds from the Teryr fight that had so terribly marred her glistening silver coat had largely healed in the days – weeks – she had spent confined in the library like a bird in a cage, pouring over documents and history and culture. (The pages were so fine, the scrolls soft and delicate as Spring’s first blushing bloom; she almost feared to touch them, with skin rough from the sand and eyes cast over with jade.) Her hips no longer pricked and ached when she walked, and, for that, she was grateful. Seraphina could return to running.
Tonight, however, she had something of a mission – more specifically, to meet the Dusk Court Emissary, a lovely little pale golden girl by the name of Florentine. Considering their respective occupations, she supposed that it would be in her best interests to attempt to get to know the girl, (girl, she said, as though they were not about the same age) though, in all honesty, she hadn’t the foggiest inclination of how. Florentine was gauzy, graceful, ethereal – all kind smiles and delicate words, soft as the flowers strung in her hair. And if Florentine was the sort of girl that radiated love, breathed it and lived it with her entire being, then Seraphina was a girl with no love at all. There was no room for love or gentleness in a child that had grown old and wise in the confines of battle, no room for sweetness or affection in a gaze sharp and cold as polished steel. In some, small way, Seraphina found herself envious of Florentine and her love, how easily she seemed to adapt to her new role in spite of her status as a foreigner, how deeply and effortlessly loved she seemed to be by those around her.
She reminded herself that it didn’t matter, and continued her silent vigil, still and quiet as a statue save for the near-imperceptible flutter of her hair in the soft desert wind.
