she walked in moondust
and stars were sprinkled in her hair
Something blossomed in her chest; the unmistakable rush of joy and wonder flooding her in an invisible, warm glow. She cherished it — craved it — almost as if she was addicted to the drug that was her undeniable wanderlust. Her basic need to travel was ingrained into every cell, her DNA. She could not ignore the call that had her legs moving, her wings aching to catch the summertide winds blowing from the sea.
Only once had she seen the cliffs in all of her migrations from place to place. Her mother tribe had always been on the move; only to stay in one place for maybe a week, perhaps two or more on a rare occasion. She had seen every nook and cranny of Denocte, every hidden crevice and cave, save for a few. Even the neutral lands were not entirely unknown to her. The other court lands, however.. they remained a tempestuous stranger that whispered to her, ever nudging her in their direction. Since the rise of the new kinglings and queenlings, Aislinn had held her breath; hesitant to answer the call in her blood to roam across the borders. But now.. she pushed down her feelings for too long. Having locked her neediness into a box of obsidian adamant, frozen over until she could relish in her own guilty pleasures at the right moment.
There was no perfect time than now. Her bliss a living, tangible thing that burst forth from it's cage in the far reaches of her mind. She had rushed out of the sleeping castle of Night like the storm she was, surrendering to her need to be free.
Wildness coursed through her veins, the sweet victory of retreating from her newfound life in Court like honey on her tongue. The stormsinger had galloped through the rest of the slumbering hours Calligo ruled; until at last, she slowed, her pace faltering as she neared the edge of the world. Rocks tumbled under her hooves, falling over the sudden edge of the crag and into the raging fathoms below. Hot air blew through her nostrils as she panted, catching her breath, the first licks of glimmering sunlight stretching across the open sea as the sun yawned awake. A slick layer of sweat had her coat shining, her starlight-colored mane fluttering in the ocean breeze in a lovely, tangled mess. Aislinn smiled, relishing the moment, azure orbs matching her own happiness as dawn began to break.
This is what she lived for; what she craved. Her soul sang as she stood there on the toe's edge of the cliff, adrenaline flooding her. Finally.. somewhere sweet and new; somewhere she had not ever been before.
”Anything can heal – and everything can change – if it is only given time.”
The words of the weary sage echo repeatedly in his head as Ulric departs the threshold of this new world he has found himself in. It was a saying he had heard many times over, yet it was one that, admittedly, he had never completely understood. Time could not heal disease, could not heal ignorance and it did little to take away the sharp sting of loss. Perhaps it could come to soothe troubled memories and superficial wounds, but in the roan’s experience, time healed nothing – it only replaced memories.
It was to the northeast that he ventured in search of the domain ruled over by Oriens, he who thirsted for wisdom, truth and respect above all else. If he were being honest with himself, Ulric didn’t known which of the four Courts he should approach, or if he should simply move on until he found somewhere else entirely to settle in for the summer. Never one to dabble in religion, Ulric had been infinitely interested in the sage’s tale, but whether it be spun on truth or deceit, he placed little thought into it. The Gods had never smiled down upon him anyway; what would cause them to start now?
And so he continued onward, willing to take the risk and see what this so-called Dawn Court had to offer and, in turn, what he could offer them.
Hickory trees stand tall all around him, casting shade over the deep, verdant green grass that spans as far as the eye can see. In the background of his mind, the soft gurgling of a nearby stream can be heard as he moves deeper into the foreign domain. Unaware of their policies, he is ever cautious as he makes his entrance, gilded eyes scanning his surroundings for signs of others. He looks to the skies, within the trees, towards the river and across the grassy plain, and he waits patiently with his wings tucked closely against his mottled, scarred sides.
For he knows the repercussions of trespassing, and that is the last thing he wishes to do.
truly: a grumble that dvalinn ought to have kept to herself, but when one is as ornery as her, it can be rather difficult to accomplish. the ache had once more bloomed at her wing, and had settled deeply at the core of it's ability to move. instead, both would rest at her side, tucked away from the temptation to remove herself from the damnable plain and homewards to denocte. more oft than not it would be found bearable, and easily ignored when the time called for it. typically, an outing like this, it would be muted with use of herb and off she'd go back to her hovel among the night court. typically, that is, and not at all like that moment there, she'd found herself in.
herbs, she'd wanted and found and gathered. it was a simple task, that she was obliged and in scholarly pursuit to have gathered. herbs, damnable herbs that caused her to trek. each step was not difficult to take, and her stride was slow and steady as she began to slow march back home. it was her assumption that the pain would abate as time went on, as the hours trickled by; and in lessening the wait, it seemed reasonable to continue on her way to denocte.
an unheard whispering in her ear drew it to swiftly flick, and of course, deepened her frown. "hræsvelgr, i do not take kindly to your tone." an exasperated groan peeled itself from the sage, as frustration burrowed deeper into the nightwitch. how unkind, how rude! of course, for those observing, it would seem as though the little witch was speaking to herself, and by all rights, that was safe to assume. to the tormented and wounded thing, however, it was the little wretch at her neck being far less than charming. if one was to hear what was cajoling in her ear, it would have followed a little something like this:
" lovely thing, you seemed to have left something at home. i believe it's safe to presume you're falling into senility. it really isn't like you to leave yourself stranded so far from the nest. "
to which, the little witch replied, "i ought to have left you at the nest."
" now, who's being unkind. "
and so it went, the little witch and her would-be companion marching off to the horizon. an old wound from her youth burgeoning her yet again. the herbs tucked neatly beneath the maroon cape, and nothing but the supple, simple jingle of the gilded chains adorning her blackened figure. it was rather iresome, despite the joy she took in her appearance. the soft rattle of her movement only offered further annoyance as she would have much rather be in the air, and capable of faster travel. most of all, her great fear laid in being found by some sweet and kind Samaritan, looking to lessen the burden of traveling "alone." oh, that was the last thing she needed: more company.
He descended to the foothold of Denecote like a vision, glittering in splendor at the edge of Caligo's domain. The oracles and heralds of his homeland would be hard pressed to match his beauty now he has a claim to the finery he was so accustomed to once upon a time. A moonlit mirage on star scattered waters, framed with Dusk's last kiss.
Delicate white gold chains wrapped their gentle bodice around his sharp features, dripping with gemstones the colour of Vespera's ethereal visage which swayed with each slight movement or whisper of the breeze. Like them, his eyes sparkled like a many faceted jewel, alive with life and curiosity as they peered at the sharp cliff faces and unsteady looking steps, each line and curve filed away to his personal memories. A particularly strong enough breeze tousled through the tulle and silk cloak wrapped around his scaled frame, the long train rippling across the floor as it fought to remain in place, unwilling to break the serene picture he painted against nature's majesty.
The winged kirin surely looked out of place against such an unforgiving landscape, to any who happened to pass through the gateway to Denocte. The rugged walls of cragged stone threatening to snap a dainty leg or tear the expensive robe shielding him from the mountain chill, but he is unphased. Mountain's have seen his face one too many times, and he has long learned where to place his cloven hooves on unsteady mountain paths. There is a comfort to the whistling wind which caressed the thick braid of his hair which hung over a clothed shoulder and barely scraped the stoney floor. The blooming summer flowers of Terrastella and Denocte had been carefully woven into it, their perfumed scent carried into the unknown each and everytime the wind reached out to touch the petals.
Isorath is not there to be some pretty picture to be captured and committed to memory, no matter how timeless and ethereal he appeared, crowned with a halo and wreathed in Vespera's rich colours. He is there because he is curious, there is something in his mind and his chest which he cannot shake, no matter how hard he tried at morning and at dusk. Something had stuck with him that night in the storm, stood side by side with strangers bare and at the mercy of the elements.
While one part of him had wanted to push past the mountains, since few had already shown a disregard for borders and laws, he had decided against it. Better to start on the right hoof with the Night Court than a sour one, no matter how much he had enjoyed their company, once he had realized he had felt strangely at peace with so many in his presence. That had been neutral territory, this was their land, their home.
It didn't mean he had to stay there like a statue, porcelain hooves easily taking him to the edge of the cliffside road he had landed upon, each step accompanied by the soft chime of gems clinking against one another. It reminded him of Sun's Reach, and the Cliffs he had come to know in Terrastella. Dangerous but magnificent, the deadliest things the Gods and Goddesses created held a certain beauty above all others Isorath found hard to ignore.
"Beautiful." He murmured to himself, soft and full of wonder. Was the rest of Denocte like this? He hoped so, let it be full of wonder and not filled with the distrust he had heard laced in quiet whispers and eavesdropped from stories of the times before.
The brown man gave a not at all muffled shriek as his hooves nearly slipped out from underneath him on the spray-slick rock. His flank pressed harshly into the stone wall, ignoring the salt-encrusted texture as he tried desperately to maintain his balance on the narrow ledge. Some form of moss or lichen had begun to grow, and was soaked with the ocean spray, making it only all the more difficult to walk.
And then he made the mistake of looking down.
Oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods-
He harshly slammed his eyes shut, throwing his head up and pressing it against the rock as he swallowed back the vertigo that threatened to overtake him. That would not be a good thing when the very site that induced the vertigo were the sharp, broken pieces of the cliff far below being endlessly battered by the waves.
It had only been a day, or two, or even three, he honestly wasn't sure, since the time he had had an unexpected encounter with a strange Caretaker. This was exactly why he hated setting hoof anywhere that wasn't at least a little bit familiar. When you were familiar with a place, you knew it well and knew every nook and cranny. When you knew all the things about a place, you knew who lived there too. And when you knew who lived there, you knew their habits and where they liked to be. And when you knew where they liked to be, you knew how to avoid them.
And you never had to worry about an astray encounter.
(Flower-girl didn't count, she was... weird like that.)
But going into a place you weren't so familiar with meant that you didn't know who could be there, and meant that you ran the risk of unwanted encounters.
(For further details, see the file 'Devour' stored in archive 33 subsection 2, clearance level C.)
Hence the Caretaker problem.
And apparently, at some point in the encounter, the young man had gotten turned around. He had forgotten which way the swamp was, and in the endless confusion of the plains he'd turned to trying to find his way back by using the stars as a map. Which he could not quite recall how to do, and so just set off in a direction that seemed promising.
(Really it was just a random direction, there was no sensibility to which way he went.)
And the end result of his poorly made decision was thus, and he found himself stranded in the midst of a vast, rolling, and broken cliffside.
Okay, perhaps his lack of direction wasn't the only fault here. Perhaps there had been some general poor decision making involved in getting him into his current situation.
Really now, he had never been close enough to see the ocean before. And when he saw what looked to be a stretch of coastline far below, he seemed to forget about the dizzying heights, and the worries of falling that pricked at his flesh. He forgot about just how truly treacherous the way down was and the fact that perhaps, just this once, his fears were not quite unfounded.
He had been so enamored with the thought of feeling the waves lapping at his hooves that he just had to go down there and check it out, forgetting in the meantime that he was far from an experienced climber.
But really, who could blame his child-like enthusiasm?
He could, quite a lot.
And as the young man shakily managed to inch his way along the ledge to a far-too distant widening of the rocky outcropping... Well, let's just say that if berating oneself was a sport, he was currently an Olympic gold medalist.
He found his way here, because of her. Because of his best friend, and the way she’d spoken of home. If Pan had his own way, he would have convinced her to stay with him by the sea. Where they could be young again, where they could reminisce on times past. But Florentine was a social flower, one which needed to bloom somewhere. She couldn’t be happy with just him… she had to have others in her life. Pan did too, he supposed. So as he turned away from the sea, he sighed whimsically just once, her words floating in his mind. I miss Neverland. He did too, so much he felt at times his heart would burst. He missed the hushed whisper of water against white sand, the distant mermaid songs… the way things were. But nothing was the same anymore, and nothing would be the same.
Sighing, he took in this new place – another temple. It was different from the dawn temple, shrouded with murky shadows and an ethereal sort of fog. Pushing away his gloomy thoughts from before, Pan began to poke around the edges of the rocky spires, drawing the smell of damp clay into his lungs. It was wholly different from the place he’d chosen to make his home, and yet there was something oddly comforting about it. A strange choice, he thought to himself, for the girl of sunshine and flowers. But he could see the charm of this place too.
If Pan had come on a brighter day, he might have been taken with the green fields and the sea cliffs, but his journey had taken longer than expected, and night was beginning to fall in this place. Looking around, he whispered to the impending night. ”Flora? Are you here?” Remembering the goddess of this place, he hurried to add, ”Vespera… it’s me, Pan. I don’t mean any harm. I’m just visiting… from the Dawn Court. Kasil sends his regards.” Hopefully it was okay to address Florentine’s goddess. After all, Pan knew now that there were four gods at Novus. And he knew better than to be disrespectful to any of them, even if he was supposed to follow Oriens above all others.
His mind began to wander as he waited, dwelling on the suggestion that he should consider being a warrior. It wasn’t his path… he knew that. But maybe Flora could teach him more about healing. After all, he liked the idea of helping people. Maybe in time, he could learn to be good at it.
The oasis offers her little solace, but at this point Bexley will take what she can get. With delicate movement she slips into the water, one limb at a time, and freezes against the chill of the pond before she can relax into it - the gash on her shoulder stings with a sharp, insistent pain, but it’s gone before Bexley even lets go of the breath she’s been holding. That dumb-fuck Teryr, throwing her around like a rag doll. The right side of her body is sore to the touch and, where it can be seen through that insistent golden skin, a gauzy, gory blackish-purple. She thinks of herself as a sunset in its last swatches. A peach gone too ripe. Bexley would appreciate the aesthetic if it didn’t hurt so damn much.
Summer is in full swing, meaning that in conjunction with her hunt injuries, Bexley is sweating, sleeping, cursing the days away. She loves the heat and the sunlight, but only to a point - that point has been reached. Those usually perfect curls have gone frizzy in the heat, indigo eyes glassy with a dog-days morbidity. After days of throwing herself directly into Solis’ reach, her skin is too fragile now for anything but lazing in the shade or deep in water, which is why she finds herself in the Oasis yet again, comforted by the chill on her sore muscles, the tranquility of this corner of Solterra, the whispering of date palms and a hot breeze the only noises, no company to disturb her.
Of course it doesn’t last long, and when Bexley realizes who’s interrupted to her, she grits her teeth in order to hold back a long groan, eyes fluttering shut as she attempts to keep her expression calm. Avdotya, she manages with a surprising amount of civility, if not any affection to match it. Long time, no see. One azure eye cracks open to focus on the shape coming toward her. That dark swash of lashes flutter, almost uncertainly, but she leaves it to the warrior to make the next move.
Never in her entire life had Aislinn known stillness. Since birth, she was on the move -- a traveler, at home with a tribe of inspiring gypsy women. Warrior-hearted wanderers they were -- are. She had left them, even though she was one of their pillars, the Rahilah Maiden. It wasn't uncommon for one of their own to leave and find their own way; what was an outlier, however, was she was one of their leaders. The tribe had remained a constant, strong being in itself for centuries, all because of the Three Faces. But now.. she had all but abandoned them. An overwhelming desire to discover her own path ate away at her until she walked away.
Several months had passed since she left them. A crater in her heart ached every day because of it; but she knew it was not time to go back. The stormsinger dwelled on these thoughts as she stood on the edge of the tree line. Rolling hills opened out in front of her for miles; a sea of earth and greenery under the late evening sun. She had travelled here before; many, many times, camping along the edge of the forest. Not more than a meter away from her lay a softly smoldering ash pit.. the only remnants of the tribe from the night before. She had missed them on purpose; having seen the smoke plumes from the court's castle around this time yesterday.
But she did not go to them. No, the winged fae decided to hang back and simply watch, content — and although longing — with the knowledge that her mother tribe was so very near. Aislinn was not immune to the harshness of longing and nostalgia; instead, she found herself wandering to help cope with being detached from something that was a massive part of who she was.
Learning the ways of Court life had been different, but not necessarily in a negative way. She was still a soldier, a protector — just as she had been in her tribe. However, she discovered that the court denizens tended to be stationary, unmoving. Something corded in her bones so strongly that the mare often found herself drifting, whether she meant to or not. Aislinn was an untamed, wild thing; a wandering soul at her very core.
She found herself here, having strayed far from the castle once more. Maybe her knowledge of her tribe's whereabouts brought her here subconsciously. But she was not certain. Icy blue orbs scanned the rolling prairie, the earth awash in the warm colors of a slowly-descending sun. A soft, albeit sorrowful, smile played at her velvet lips as she stood there. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the dying scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke, simply at ease with herself as thoughts of her new life filled her.
OOC: Not my best post (I'm sorry for the rambling), but anyone is welcome <3 Aislinn is looking for a distraction from her feelings atm c:
Posted by: Yana - 08-12-2017, 11:02 PM - Forum: Archives
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YANA the CHAMPION OF HEALING
& SELF-PROCLAIMED SWAMPWITCH
The hag emerges from her swamp with the same intense focus of a lioness leaving her den in search of prey. Fetid water drips from her black belly as she stands there, the sun drying her starry hide in a matter of minutes. The huntress' stare rakes across the field bleached gold by the sun's rays. So far, the only creatures that have risen to appreciate the good weather are the witch and a spattering of rabbits. Her black crown swivels as she follows their lithe forms darting amongst the whispering stalks of wheat, but she dismisses all thoughts of them with a guttural hack. The rabbits grow plump with no contest this morning. What happened to those that hunt them? Despite the promise of a bountiful feast there is no sign of any coyote or wolf. Though their absence is likely due to their mastery of the hunt, the witch cannot ignore the dread that has formed like a lump in her throat.
Life must be balanced by death. Memories of her mother's lessons force the lump down her esophagus to slam painfully against her lungs; stormy eyes reveal their whites while she struggles to catch her breath. But you are not here to work the scale, mother. When under the tutelage of her dam and aunt she seldom agrees with either hag, but now that she is without them it is easier for her to relent to their wishes. An ugly laugh slips past her lips at the admission. Amazing what a lack of violence will do. Dark eyes have to roll at that. Though she won't say it aloud, the young witch has already decided to take up that responsibility, and she begins by forging a path through the golden grass.
Ears flicker back from time to time like vigilant soldiers watching the rearguard, and the hag is careful not to miss any game trails as she surveys the land. An occasional breeze relieves the black-skinned wretch from the heat, but the clatter of dried stalks of wheat soon makes her anxious of its cool touch. Though the chances of creeping up on the mare are slim -- if any -- one will do best to approach her when the chattering grass muffles her hearing.
@Auru AAAAYYYY I DIDN'T FORGET YOU! Be warned, Yana is hunting for trouble in this thread. ;)
Posted by: Pan - 08-12-2017, 04:01 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (2)
The boy called Pan trudged back up the mountain, his heart heavy with guilt and seeking atonement. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Some gods were ripe with mercy, and loved their followers like children. Others ruled with fire and brimstone, caring very little for the going ons of mortals and showing as little compassion as a child ripping the wings off of a house fly. Pan was hoping for the previous, of course, when it came to Oriens. He hoped that the god would understand the error of his ways. After all, no one had told Pan he was to follow Oriens as a member of the dawn court, until now. How would he know, if not for Kasil and Florentine telling him so?
Inkheart had made a passionate argument for why he should follow Solis, and he’d followed as blindly as a sheep. Swallowing the guilt once more as he neared the top of the hill, the boy faced toward the east – toward the place where the sun would rise. Oriens was the god of the Dawn, so he could only assume that he lived on the eastern side of the mountain. ”Oriens? It’s me… Pan.” His question was met only with the whisper of the wind. It caressed him, calming him and soothing him as he drew a steadying breath. Stepping closer toward the east, he fought to make his allegiance known.
”Last time when I was here, I prayed to Solis. I didn’t know… I didn’t know that you were our god. But now I do, and I want to let you know that I will follow you above the others… Promise.” His plea was given with a gentleness and the innocence of a child, and wide eyed, he waited to see if the god of Dawn would flay him here on the mountain. After all, it was likely that this is what he deserved for following false idols. Perhaps then, this is why Solis never showed when he asked.
![[Image: 500_by_memuii-dbfxt60.png]](http://orig02.deviantart.net/75f6/f/2017/192/d/5/500_by_memuii-dbfxt60.png)
