No I didn't find the fucking relic. I looked all over Novus (like.. really all over), and found squat. Well.. I found that small red gem, and the iridescent gold ball, but since those have obviously not turned out to be the relic, that really counts as nothing. I sigh as I trudge along, not paying attention to much of anything. My head droops, mane shaggy and tangled instead of its normal coarse and flat. Without the relic, I can't barter with the Gods to bring me Damaris. The distraction that was the search for the relic has left me emptier than before, and painfully aware that nothing has really changed. I had met a few other equines that I might be able to call friends, and that was nice.. but nothing can erase the pain and loneliness of Damaris's absence.
I didn't realize I'd closed my eyes until I run face first into the scratchy brush of... a hedge. I stepped back, shaking my horned head to rid myself of the bramble that entangled itself there. Spitting out a leaf or two, I glance up at the huge hedge. I glance from one side to the other, and see that it stretches so far each direction that I can't actually see the end of it. Just to my left from where I'd collided with the greenery, there's an opening in the far expanse. I walk toward it then stop, peering in around to the right. Eyes are wide and nostrils even wider as I try to figure what the hell this all is.... "I'm pretty sure this wasn't here before..." I would have seen it in all my travels, wouldn't I? It appears to be.... a gigantic maze. I step in and feel my gut cramp and twist immediately. What if I never get out? But some part of me didn't care... and so I began wandering a path, not having any idea where I was going or if I'd ever emerge again.
Rumor had it that the relic I'd searched so far and long for was discovered by a Shaman. Perhaps he would be at the other end of this madness? Perhaps I could throttle him and convince him to speak to the Gods on my behalf. "Poor bastard won't know what hit him..." I huff, convinced that I'll have to strong arm this 'shaman' into helping me. I sigh and return to my trudging, in no hurry to reach the end because as I figure it... I won't make it.
The plains ripple out around him, a sea of golden grasses rolling away to the horizon, as far as he can see. Clouds float like puffs of cotton in the distance; a dim gray shape swims against the pale blue of the sky, and it takes the young pegasus some time, walking toward it, to realize that this is the far-off ghost of a mountain.
The Roost had been large, of course, in its way, with its steep cliffs and long, narrow valley, and Willoughby had gazed out often enough from its ramparts. Every pegasus knows what it is to look down from a height—to see the world unfolding below him, vast and wild and promising as the wind under his wings. But Willoughby has lived his life above, beneath, between things. He has never before stood in a place so… open.
It makes him feel small, wading through the tall yellow grass, his wings held loosely at his sides. And he is glad, in that moment, to feel small—to feel his sense of wonder welling up and spilling over, to stare around him and see nothing but possibility.
It is one thing to glimpse the world from far away; it is another thing entirely to find yourself lost in the middle of it.
And so he walks, whistling quietly to himself, his thoughts a dreamy flurry. He does not know where he is; he is not even sure, anymore, how long he has been traveling. For a heartbeat he feels a pang as he thinks of the Roost, of his family, of the flock he’s left behind—
—but the Roost is no place for him, not anymore. And here the sun is shining brightly, warming his back, setting the grays and browns and golds of his wings to glowing.
There’s a rustling up ahead, and Willoughby cocks his pale face to the side, his ears pricking forward. “Hello?” Perhaps he should feel wary, but he is too eager, too swept up by adventure, to bother with caution. Excitement tugs him into a trot, and he nearly prances the last few steps as the stranger emerges from the long grass. “I’m Willoughby! Is this your home?”
The heat was stifling at best and suffocating at worst. The sun beat the expanses of solid rock mercilessly, resonating the heat tenfold. And it was among this heat haze that it took place. The walls of a particularly unimpressive area of stone vibrated with the intensity of electricity, pieces of gravel seemingly ripping apart from one another..
But there was no lighting or thunder storm in sight, no hurricane nor tornado.
Suddenly, a sharp tear did form - warping the pieces of slate - edges buzzing with a static, blinding light. The fissure continued to expand, pulling sharply upwards towards the clifftop. Ripped unceremoniously from their resting places, large stones and boulders plummeted towards the ground, splintering upon impact. The expanse was without shadows and without light, as seemingly endless as it was vast. Somehow, it existed as it didn't; and all at once, it spit out its cargo with vehement contempt.
Hurled from one continent to the other in the blink of an eye, Torstein was spit from the fissure and skidded twenty some-odd feet in the soft but scorching sand, shoulder first. The heat did nothing to ease the massive ache his body felt, from not only the impact but the transport itself.. being in whatever that was felt like having a hundred rusty fish hooks sunk into his skin, their lines pulling them in every which direction.
For a few moments, the Beast sat there, crumpled into the ground. He questioned if he was even breathing, but then remembered how heavily his sides were heaving, how flared his nostrils were and hot the breathe that escaped from them was. His chest was on fire, the muscles wrought with pain - but they did the job. The spines enclosing his heart stayed taught, firmly shielding the delicate organ from impact. Not even a speck of sand was able to penetrate through the jagged expanse of fang-like spines.
Everywhere else was not so lucky. He could smell the aroma of clay and dust in his nostrils, taste the grit of sand in his mouth, jesus he could even feel it between his teeth...
Slowly, he opened his eyes, a groan slipping past his lips. He lifted his head from the earth, eyes swimming for a brief moment. Gaze wandered around the expanse of dry dirt and shrubs that surrounded him - wandered up the canyon walls, drifted across the expanse of desert and shrubland. This was not a land he was familiar with... nor was it even a land that surrounded Stolthet, as he knew them all too.
Bewildered, Torstein slowly regained his footing - and slow it was, as his limbs, aching and oh so sore, strained to lift his massive frame that stood at a horrifying eleven feet tall at the tips of his impressive horns. Painstakingly, he shook the sand from his body and scraped his colossal, weathered hooves in the dust. For a moment, he was quiet as he scoured the landscape.
"Where the fuck am I?" Muttered to no one, in a setting that might as well be the valley of death.
Like a moth to a flame Reichenbach was drawn to the sunlight that bathed the Steppe in gold, his mahogany coat gleaming and slick in the hazy afternoon light. It seemed all of the courts had been drawn into action by Solterra's flurry of activity - the announcement of new Sovereigns echoing throughout all of Novus as if in competition. Of all Denocte's more suited politicians, it had been he, he, that had gained the honour of serving Denocte and the Night Court as it's reigning Sovereign. In all the madness and mess Reichenbach had slipped away for some peace, the blood thrumming hot and thick through his burning veins. He'd never really been made for Court life - not in the traditional sense of the word. He was made for chill nights under shining stars, for embers and flame and wildness, for life and love... and in all that he was, Reichenbach had finally discovered that he could create a Court of Dreams to serve the people he adored. His people.
A pleased sigh slipped from between his relaxed lips, lashes brushing his cheekbones as he opened his eyes and blinked a few times to adjust to the bright, fat sunbeams that haloed him. He had been hoping there might be someone else at the Steppe, another who craved some exercise, some bruising and bloodiness, just to bring himself back to reality. Alas there had been nobody when he arrived, nobody but the birds and a single rabbit that had bounded away as soon as his black knees had been brushed by the edges of too-long grass. Reich glanced at the arena, it's downtrodden earth compact and no doubt holding more history than he could fathom, countless warriors blood had watered that earth, and no doubt even Kings had done warfare here... Kings. Sovereigns. The huff of a disbelieving laugh left his throat as he was once again brought back to his current situation. He rolled his shoulders, wanting a release from the weight that had slowly gathered there.
Though he would never shirk the responsibility to his people, the weight of a whole courts wellbeing weighed like a brick upon him - this was why he had arrived at the Steppe with fire in his eyes and a brightness that was all too difficult to dim. He thrummed with energy, with power and muscle, the need to fight and release, to spit blood and throw punches - and the battleground stood silent and empty, save for those infuriating birds.
@Maxence
Summary: Reich stands about in the sun annoyed that 0 people are there to punch him haha
If Bexley was a little more level-headed she might think twice before entering the maze. As she is, though - tenacious and overconfident at the least - she sets off to find it as soon as word reaches her ears, the light, unconfirmed whisperings of people asking, was that there before? Do you think there’s anything inside? As far as she knows, Tempus’ relic was never found, which means this… event probably has something do with that. And even if it doesn’t, and Bexley is simply, once again, leaping to conclusions, she wants to see it. Huge hedges sprung up over night? An entire forest, birthed so newly that the leaves are still bristling-fresh? The mystery of it all is right up her alley.
So here she is, poised just outside the entrance of the labyrinth, enticingly close. If she moved a front leg just a little closer she’d be crossing the border. The temptation is incredible, but Bexley forces herself to peer inside first, just in case; all that stares back at her is a wall of brackish green leaves that fade to shadowed black many feet down, the dirt path unmarred by any footsteps, the sunlight not quite reaching as far as Bexley wants it to go. For a moment she hesitates. There is an undeniable magic around her, and Bexley is no traditional witch child. She’s out of her element. But then again, every moment in Novus has made her feel out of her element, and here she is, precocious, unbruised, and as godly as ever.
Thus she steps onto the path. Her bleached hooves are soundless in the soft dirt, that svelte frame winding easily between the brush. The sun begins to fade away behind her as she moves deeper into the maze, forcing herself to take slow steps, to look around as she moves, to not act rashly, for once: this is important, she can feel it. And Bexley does not mess up.
we have calcium in our bones, iron in our veins,
carbon in our souls, and nitrogen in our brains.
93 percent stardust, with souls made of flames,
we are all just stars with people names.
- nikita gill
For a few days, little birdies whispered in the shadows of the lost relic of the time god having been found. She would only admit to herself that she did not search the new lands as determined as others, but that did not mean she wasn't ambitious to find it first. The witchy woman was just a little more.. frugal with her time and how she spent it. She had searched the citadel at the top of the Peak, twice.. sort of, as well as the desert sands of the court of Day. Nothing. The mare was baffled that she came back empty-handed. If only she had access to her gift.. damn the gods.
She snorted, cursing to no one in particular. Thankfully, she was alone. Blissfully, utterly alone; basking in the silence like the joys of sunbathing. The rosy dame cantered, hooves beating the soft spring soil until she was at the base of the mountain in the heart of the land. Rays of sunshine dipped below the horizon, staining the sky a pallet of watery reds and pinks and purples. The little birds murmured that tall hedges had grown seemingly overnight in the southern reaches of the neutral grounds. A maze. And the most sought-out object that had everyone in a fuss was found by no one other than a shaman. Someone mysterious and yet powerful whom lurked in the Caves. So many whispers, that Nimue did not know how to make sense of it all. Until she stopped, suddenly in awe.
A feat in it's own right, the dame shuddered to stop, hooves digging deep into the ground for leverage. High above her, much higher than her, steep brambles reached towards the darkening sky. Thorny hedges, thick and green, and a path opening up several meters ahead of her. Oh. So the little birdies spoke the truth. A magical maze, a relic once found. A shaman shrouded in mist and secrecy. She blinked once. Twice. And with a determined snort, she trotted forward through the skinny path. Let the games begin.
She stands in the midst of the water. On all sides the cool waters stretch as flat and sleek as glass. Ripples radiate from her, water whispers that grow larger and larger as they race towards the still banks. With gentle chatter and bubbles the water breathes against the shoreline; stones, sand and grasses all submerged beneath the cool lapping waters.
Flora looks to the surface of the lake, her eyes studiously taking in its every colour and movement. But is it not truly the water she watches, but the sky above. For the sky is painted upon the surface as though it is a window to the top of another world. It is another world that beckons her to fall forwards and tumble, tumble down, down to the rocky mountains below.
The Night Court sky that is a curious blend of night and day, a purple haze that refuses to leave the sunlit sky. Stars blink and never sleep. They glow brighter than any in the Dusk court and leaves the Dusk girl with with a promise of the night to come.
Florentine holds her breath, willing her heart to stop, if only to put pause to the ripples that run with each beat of her chest. The more she holds, the more her body stirs, oh to be so alive that motion can never truly be stopped!
Her lips curl as lavender flower drifts idly by, a flower that seems to float in the perfectly reflected sky. The waters spread her mane and tail, parting each strand as best they can. But even the waters cannot un-work the wild snarls each flower makes as they grow from her honeyed hair.
The waters stir in earnest, new ripples racing towards her from a new direction. This tranquil moment, this blissful silence, is shattered and idly Flora wonders if this is the beginning of a new party at the Night Court. Reichenbach had, after all, cemented her belief that this was a court of revelers.
The waters breaks into a song of steps, each splash heralding an approaching footfall. A solitary ear twists to catch the newcomers approach, but her amethyst eyes are drinking in the circling mountains as though parched of such beauty.
“What name could ever suit a place of such beauty?” The flower girl asks softly. There is no hiding the ardor in her voice, nor the breathlessness that comes of such awe.
Purple petals bob upon the water as they float towards Lothaire. It is not often that Florentine is so serious, so thoughtful. But who could not when faced with a beauty such as this? A world not yet ravaged by eternity.
The scaled boy climbed the mountain, higher and higher into the heavens. In another world, he had been gifted with flight. With a bit of pixie dust and a happy thought, he’d been able to soar against the stardust, past the stars and into the great beyond. There was a certain freedom to flying, one that he had only been able to mirror by swimming in the deepest seas. But, there was a certain relaxation to his climb as well, and he marched steadily onward – up, up, and up.
He knew that usually, where the was a mountain, there was a wonder to behold from the top. If he climbed to the top, he knew he’d see from the meadows to the sea. This new land held many wonders, and the explorer in him had to know what secrets it held, so he pressed on even as his side began to ache from the walking. Gasping when the air grew thin, he stopped and rested for a bit, digging a browning piece of apple from his satchel and eating it slowly (for he had yet to find a place to restock his stash in this new world… and every bite needed to be savored). Only once he’d napped for a bit in the bright sunlight did he find his way to the summit.
Pan wasn’t wrong about the view. To the north, he found a great plain that stretched toward the sea. To the east, a rocky canyon that fed to a mountain range. In the south, his gaze rested on the swamp where he’d found the celestial mare, and to the west, his river home. As he watched the world around him, Pan was lost to all but the quiet click of a breaking twig, and he turns toward the sound to see a brilliant gold and black mare making her way to the peak.
”Hello…. I’m Pan.” He smiled at the mare. ”What is this place?”
Posted by: Bexley - 07-02-2017, 02:27 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
"
If there was anywhere Bexley could cry, it would be here.
She's been thinking about that a lot. If Bexley ever felt the need to cry, which of course she doesn't - where would she go? The Day Court has no place for such theatrics, and her peers seeing her as anything less than bulletproof would be a misstep that she can't make up this early in the game. Now that sovereigns have been put in place, her options are limited. There's no longer free rein to wander. Bexley has responsibilities, a community, even, and she's running out of places to explore, at least ones that are socially acceptable. So that leaves this. A tiny golden mare at the bottom of a stairway to the gods.
Bexley stares up at it, numb. It's well past sunset and bitingly cold, so that her lungs almost feel frosted when she takes a shuddering breath in, but the sky is clear, and the stars freckled all across it are shining their hot white, incredibly lush, so that there's no difficulty in seeing the very top of the peak where it curls up and spirals to a hard, snowy point. Rain from a short-lived shower is still lining Bexley's shoulders, pulling her many curls to the ground. Really, this whole thing wasn't very well-planned. She should go back home, think about what she's going to say, organize herself a little more. Leave at a reasonable time. But she knows she won't. What is worship if not fevered? What is this place for if not for half-made plans, for being unprepared in order to better receive whatever the gods will give her? What is her dedication to Solis if not irresistible?
With that she begins to trudge upward. There is no uncertainty in the heavy steps she takes, winding through the softly weather staircase leading up the side of the mountain. A headwind fights her, which she stubbornly ignores. For the first time Bexley is entirely empty. She can feel the insistent brag of her self-assured heart, and the pump of blood under that delicate rose-gold skin, and every flicker of her eyelashes as she blinks, the chill and the wind turning her mind blank except where it follows the movement of her body, step left, and right, and right. The chain around her neck seems tighter than usual. Colder, maybe. She can feel every link, the tiny, interlocking fragments, so intricately and exhaustively made, pressing against her throat. It feels like Laszlo.
At that Bexley’s tears - a hypothetical until this point - really do well up, lining those butterfly lashes, the salt spilling onto her cheeks only to dry as she continues to walk against the wind. Her chest goes hot, her vision blurs. The sky begins to fall away but leaves its stars above. Shreds of pure black envelope her. She hasn’t thought about him in a long time, hasn’t seen him in what feels like a century. Never will again. She’s gotten used to the necklace, for her own benefit; whenever she becomes aware of it the cut reopens, her wounds reform, her heart shelling its chainmail, and everything becomes harder, brighter, more painful. His body becomes its own figure in the back of her head. Like a chant that’s made to stick with you. Except it’s somewhat less pretty than a song, the memory of his blood, of those fantastic, familial Briar-blue eyes set into a skull half bleached, half covered in gore. She was sick over it for days.
Was? Okay. Still is. She’s almost to the peak of the mountain, which is a startling realization. The air is so thin it almost hurts to breathe, and while Bexley’s already stopped crying, she can feel the damp tracks that are being frozen onto her cheeks. Chunks of carved stone are starting to spiral from the ground around her, warping into huge columns, sliced by vines, by flowers, by dead leaves plastered to their sides. The stars are shining a hard white that almost hurts Bexley’s eyes. With a last reserve of energy she hauls herself over two steps at once and emerges onto the clearing that marks the end of this journey.
For a moment, she stands perfectly still and inhales it: the clear sky, the wind smelling of saltwater, the towering stone on every side, the presence of magic, godliness, whatever name you can put to it, but that /thing./ And then she exhales. And it breaks. And Bexley is reminded of her incalculable anger, the many favors she isn’t afraid to ask for, and of why she’s really here. Something so nebulous she’s not sure how to describe it, but so intense that there’s no use fighting it. Bexley’s intuition is a creature of its own - something fanged. She is not going to waste her energy thrashing against its grip. Instead she drops to one knee and bends forward until she can feel the press of hard, cold stone against her forehead; oceans of hair slough forward to cover her face, and her muscles are going to ache if she holds this too long, but she breathes, brittle, and ignores it, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, as if her body is going to explode if she holds this in any longer.
“I don’t know what you want from me.” You fucker.“Solis. But I’m here because I know you asked me to be. Trust me when I tell you I’ve been operating in your image - causing trouble, having fun. But I know that’s not everything. I know I’m supposed to be something else, something infamous. In your honor. Whatever I can give you is yours, whatever you want. But give me something. A piece of advice. A sign that I’m headed in the right direction.” It hurts to say out loud, to admit that she’s unsure of herself.
But who’s going to hear it?
ooc: this is a worship thread, feel free to hop in but fair warning bex is not gonna be very happy <33
"Had a weird dream again?" Cassia interrupted, her voice rather more nurturing than the speed with which she had dissected her son's preoccupied expression and completed his own thought for him. That particular trait was an artifact of her soldiering days, and did not make her easy to rely on when he was upset.
Martin nodded. Where perhaps an elaboration would have been warranted, the branded colt lingered in sheepish silence with his chin tucked lightly against the gemstone in his chest. How could he ever hope to explain such a thing, when dreams that felt as vivid and real as his own memories collapsed into dust within moments of waking? How could he justify their importance at all?
Short answer: he couldn't. So he stopped trying, and as time went on he learned to face his dreams in silence.
~
Martin stood at the shoreline with the saltwater up to his fetlocks, letting the wind and waves wash over him. This was not the first sea he had encountered in his travels, but he felt a strangely satisfying finality in looking out on the unbroken horizon and knowing that, in this direction at least, he could go no further.
It comforted him, too, to be reminded of his own insignificance. Whatever splendor existed in the universe, it yet had space left over for simple folk such as he.
Martin closed his eyes and lifted his head toward the warm sun, breathing deeply of the briny air. There may not have been answers down here along the Terminus Sea, but the gilded unicorn found for himself a moment's peace among the soft cries of seabirds and the rhythmic splashing of the waves.
![[Image: s03P8Yq.png]](http://i.imgur.com/s03P8Yq.png)
