willoughby lovelace
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It had been a long time now. Long enough for Willoughby to try to put down roots. Long enough to be rejected by the people, we assume, and long enough for her to realize fate was oft unkind. Meeting with one of the gods of Novus as she tried to step forward and make something of herself... It resulted in failure. Only one or two voted for her. Caligo had been kind, but it wasn't enough to sway Willoughby to join the Night Court.
If anything, she had friends and allies in Dawn and Day.
Perhaps that is where she was meant to go? She didn't know what compelled her to even try for a leadership position. Perhaps it was Galileo's words that resonated with her the most; you are a leader... So she tried to seek him out. The canyon the man said was his stomping grounds was still a far bit away. She took a break at the Oasis before moving on. Feeling downtrodden for the first time in her life, Willoughby kept mostly to herself as she traveled.
Her head lowering, she took a drink. But she was aware of another's approach. Willoughby wondered if they were friendly. Maybe what she needed was to confess her insecurities to a friendly face.
"Speech." | @ anyone | i am assuming in this thread bee doesn't get sov due to the voting direction
This is the land, is it not? The land that all can come to in order to whisper their prayers to the gods, to the deities that have shown themselves to the lands of Novus. To find her, their lady of the night, their patron goddess that breathes the very essence they seek to know more of.
Being a Star Walker has always been something of a saddening venture, always alone. Immortality is a gift and a curse, and they were born with it, freezing their mortal looks only at a certain age, their body still young in look but their soul and mind? Centuries have passed, millennia even. The years had come and gone with nothing but a blink, and their old lands had been washed away with dust and time, nature overtaking what was once hers. Their people no longer existed except in soft rumors and whispers, with Star Walkers being scattered to the winds. Certainly there are descendants as well, aren't there? An existence somewhere of what once was, that carried the knowledge of what Star Walkers were and where they came from.
It's this hope that allows Cicatrix to not feel as alone.
That, and the yearning to learn more about Caligo. To speak with her and pray to her, learn how she has coped with being outcasted by those before. They want to learn from her, not only how she has existed in her loneliness, but the knowledge of Night itself. They long to compare knowledge and learn of the stars and Denocte itself, the lore of Novus if they can gain such a thing.
A deep breath is taken, wings sweeping forth as they flap, effortlessly cupping the air and allowing their large frame to land, ever so delicate for someone so tall. Gilded hooves press into the ground, nearly to the dewclaw, before it relents and bounces back. Stones skitter away, and finally, Cicatrix cups their wings close to their body once settled, as to not disturb the land.
The golden halo of light bounces off of the rocky crevices and jutting stone, but seems to only be absorbed by the statue they look upon. The statue they had seen come to life, merely melting away and becoming something ... more. Something that they now crave and desire. How strange, to have feelings like this for anyone, let alone a deity they cannot ever dream of touching. But to them, it's fine. They can have these feelings and learn from their goddess. To learn would make them happy.
There's a soft ruffling of accented feathers, the gilded edges shimmering in the falling rays of the sun, and their gaze settles on the face of their goddess. If expressions were a thing, they would be in awe. A gentle wonderment that would have graced features that no one will ever know. Instead, it's a warm feeling in their breast, a fluttering along their lungs and their heart as they step closer on delicate legs, taking in soft and steady breaths. As if making the faintest noise will wake Caligo from her slumber in the statue. Or perhaps she was above, looking down on them and watching their conflict as they stared at her statue.
"Caligo . . . I wish we could speak. But perhaps you will hear me like this," they began, slowly settling themselves and relaxing. Their muscles ease and they smile with their tone, more warmth in their being than they've felt in a long time. "I only seek knowledge. How to be a part of Denocte even more. I wish to learn more of Novus, too. This land is rich in lore and stories but I cannot find them, and I cannot find peace in my solitary existence. How do you do it?" Their ears pin back underneath of their cloak, a breath shaking from their throat. "Is there a way to ease this loneliness? I've had it for so long but I want to be a part of something bigger. Something much more than myself. I'm tired, Caligo... so tired of being alone."
"ARE YE HAPPY?"
WE ARE MIGHTY.
"ARE YE HAPPY?"
NO: ART THOU?
Y
ou took away the only thing I had.
The world ripples around her, not exactly real; a long, red body of light.
The only thing I had.
He stares out at her from a shrine of darkness. Bexley can't help thinking that this must not have been what he looked like in life. His hair is dark and wild, cut terribly shaggy; his eyes are little stones in his face, cold and dark. He is certainly skinnier now than he was then. Her heart squeezes, tightens, at the fact that now it is a struggle to picture him correctly: no matter how strong her focus is, he shifts and creases like a mirage. Every time Bexley blinks, he has changed a bit, the markings on his coat having shifted, or his mouth having moved into an expression she just doesn't recognize.
The only thing she had left, and the fact that that thing was merely the smoothness of her face, sounds like a bad joke now. I was very young then, Bexley thinks. I could not have imagined there was so much left to lose.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
At one point he had accused her of having an impostor, because she had sent him a letter with the word sorry in it.
Now Bexley knows he was right.
I knew it was fake, ‘cause it had the word sorry in it, is what he had said exactly. That was true enough, but there were other clues. Things Bexley should have been wary of seeing in herself because, even then, being kind felt like a terrible lie. He always knew her better than was comfortable. (Is there anything you won't fake?)
Whatever version of her it was that could form her mouth around an apology; whatever version of her it was that stood at the summit, in the cool, bright wind, laughing because it would be her first time seeing the gods in person, and what else was there to do with all that anxiety; whatever version of her it was that loved, really, wholly, desperately loved—
That was the impostor.
The real Bexley is a bitter little girl, and she is climbing toward the top of a mountain, leaving Solterra so far behind.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The desert is one long flame below her, a patch of pure gold in a sea of ocean and forest and field. Despite herself, Bexley can't help glancing at it over shoulder as she winds up the mountain's narrow path; the capitol is but a little spark inside the endless dunes, and she wonders vaguely what it is that everyone is doing in the city. Gearing up for the new king's coronation, probably.
Strange: this is the first one she will not be a part of. She was a champion at Maxence's coronation and a regent at Seraphina's; she had awoken from that long, supernatural sleep in time to witness Orestes' too, though that had been from the very edges of the crowd, watching with a glower made of blue flame. Four years and it has come to this.
(Solis' breath had been star-hot against her cheek. Even with her eyes closed, Bexley could not see anything but the pure white light of his skin and his flowing hair, a light so bright it bled into her brain. At that point, she knew. It was a rock in her stomach. It was not the worst shame, but it was close. When he had said Adonai's name, proud and regal, the worst part of it all had been that her eyes were still closed, and underneath the words he spoke, she had heard the thing he said to her so long ago: Such big words for someone with so little power. His voice had been a sneer. Let us see how you do without your magic.)
Looking back, Bexley thinks: that should have been the last straw. He has never shown himself to be a god worth worshipping.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Up here the air is thin and cold. When Bexley breathes, she feels the sharpness of it prickling at her nose, her throat, all the way down to her chest. Summer feels like some long-gone memory; at this height, and in the sweet blue darkness of the night, all she can think about is the stars above and the wind that ruffles her long white hair.
Caligo's statue stares at her; and for the first time, Bexley looks back at it with more than distrust in her eyes.
willoughby lovelace
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Life had returned to relative normality lately. Willoughby had gathered a few friends, people she found herself growing close to. Especially one handsome stallion she kept running into. Perhaps that was the reason for her chipper mood - if she ever needed a reason for it!
Walking happily along the plains, Willoughby sought company. The odd times she did, it ended in soft disaster. Sometimes they were quite rude - but she didn't give in. She wouldn't stoop to their level. She kept her politeness, her kindness... So when someone new crossed her path, she was all for giving them a chance to prove her wrong. They could be nice for all she knew.
"Hello!" she calls to the mare paces away. Slowing to a respectful halt, she smiles at the other woman. They even looked to be around the same age. Good! Not since Jane had Willoughby seen someone around her age.
when our prime has come and gone / and our youth is all but melted / we can listen to this song / so we don't have to accept it
W
hat do you say — to the ones who ask, to the ones you love, and lastly, to the unblinking self — when you are chosen by a god?
I suppose I should start drafting my answer.
I am Adonai, of House Ieshan: first-born, first-blessing, god-favored. Ask me to tell you how a god speaks and I will say, “Like a reckoning.” Ask me to tell you what a god says and I will whisper, “What you wish most to hear.”
I do not remember the color of Solis’s eyes because I did not look at them when he had summoned me to the base of the dias. Had he whispered my name into my ear? (And you, Adonai. Come here. Sibilant s’s. Gliding i’s.) Had his mouth been sun-hot by my cheek? In moments as fragile as these, you see, you cannot possibly remember everything. You cannot possibly be so greedy. Do you want to remember how it felt, or do you want to remember what you wish you’d felt?
And because we are mortal, we will always choose the second.
* * *
I think—at the very least, I had expected pain. Perhaps it is because I have been drunk on pain for so long that I cannot imagine a world without it. (“How does one know to worship perfect happiness, if one does not first learn misery?” our priests had asked me, when I had been young enough to mistake it for a riddle. “How will one know misery,” I had recited, my eyes bright with silver cleverness, “if one has never felt happy?”) To receive something you were born wanting, born dreaming, as painlessly as a season turns—how strange it is.
* * *
There is a desert below me and a white-moon smile above me, the night like a black ermine stole. I am stumbling on the swallowing sands because, for the first time in a long time, I am drunk not on pain but on life. ‘I am happy,’ I tell myself, the words melding together with ‘because I am chosen.’ I am happy because I am chosen. Because enough of Solterra had chanted my name to the mink-sleek clouds — my name, alone. Cleaved of its Ieshan, cleaved of its nobility. Cleaved of its Firsts and its Gods and its Blessings.
Me, alone.
* * *
I go home first, of course.
* * *
“Where is Pilate?”
The gardener pricks his ears to the house, his eyes perfect spheres on my wings. I had flown here. I think they had forgotten what that looked like. He hesitates, before answering, “Prince Pilate is in the house, Prince Adonai. I will send someone—” But there is no need. “I will find him myself.” A smile forms, now, porcelain between the lips.
I catch glimpses of my reflection in our mirrors as they drift by, pale windows blinking out from storied tapestry. I note with detached interest: my eyes are still of a blue like drowning, yet, with the shadows gone, they are less like the bottom of the river and more like raw lapis in a mine; my hair waves to mid-neck, pale gold, wind tossed; grains of sand rain down as I pass. Shed skin.
Am I better like this? Who can say.
The dragging edge of his spotless white robe lounges in the doorway of his room. I reach it in three swift strides. “Pilate.” The knot of his robe rests on his scaled shoulder, beckoning me to pull him around. I pull—something to touch that is not him. (That would be asking too much of me.) His snakes greet me first, snakes so much like our mother’s they terrify me—he is so much her son he terrifies me. As my breath slows down to even lengths, I wonder: has Pilate ever needed the reassurance of a god’s blessing, when he was born loved by one?
Hours ago I had stood on a sandstone dias. Hours later I stand before a brother made flesh from sand. A shaft of bright light spears in from an open window, painting the dark parts of him gold. He had loved me once.
“You are the first. Can you believe it? Even after—”Even after everything.“You were the first I wanted to tell.”
And I had loved him back.
« r » | @Pilate | adonai's first threads are reserved for pilate exclusively
How long has it been since he has found himself in Solterra? Since his hooves have graced the sands of a land he's called home?
Leviathan feels the grains slide under him, the shift of his colossal weight as he steps into the Court at last. His gaze scans for an old run down shack on the outskirts, sand scattered across tiles and hanging cobwebs blowing in the hot breeze. The old blacksmith's shed has seen better days ( it's been too long since he's squeezed into its doors ). So now he does it again, horn catching webs and tearing the delicate strands down as he wiggles into the structure, sweeping a large feathered leg forward to brush dust and sand away.
It's been far too long.
The old champion leans his head down, brushing his nose against an ancient grinding wheel before drawing up, releasing a soft sigh. Whoever rules over Solterra now ... he'll have to talk to them. Perhaps make an arrangement to have this place back and remake the armor and weapons he had been so passionate about. But that depends on who rules; he's seen so many hierarchies rise and fall in his lifetime, so this would be yet another to add into his memory.
Snorting, Leviathan draws away from the forge, squeezing himself back out an old wooden doorframe and shaking himself from head to hoof, sending up dust and sand, as well as a few cobwebs here and there. This is still home, no matter how much it has changed, and he wonders .... oh, he wonders if Torstein is still here. So he can dig at him a little and tease the other with a smirk on his lips.
For now, he settles on stepping away from the shack and exploring the Court once more, hooves thundering on the tiles with every step he takes.
His body trembles and aches, but the immortality flushes through his veins, making him feel like he's only five years old again. The heat of battle has always been something he's coveted, the adrenaline rush surging through his veins and a thundering in his chest. He's missed this. The way post battle his muscles ache and skin burns from wounds that dance over his scarred flesh.
A heavy breath is taken, and Leviathan lifts his head high, casting a glare with an icy eye ( the only one, the other is scarred and milky ) toward his opponent. It is done. Their spar is complete, and they leave, just as he turns and leaves. The rush of chemical high sings in his veins, keeps his wounds from feeling too much, wakes him from the stupor of his usual life. Generally, he's a grumpy thing, but not today. Today, he smirks as he steps away from where he had fought, casting a massive shadow with heavy steps as he eventually finds water.
Large ears swivel before Leviathan finally ducks his head, pausing a moment to look at a reflection that's changed so much over the years. Only recently has he been granted this new form to keep, the rugged looks of a ground dweller he was always meant to be. Tilting his head, he looks at the chipping of his horn and then the reflection of his bad eye, the scar over the right side jagged and ever present. It will never see again, as he's only finally lost the blurry shapes and dull colors, nothing but black on that side now. But he doesn't need both eyes to see, not if he still has one good one.
A twist of his ears is given, feeling them flatten a moment as he dips down to drink instead, mulling over thoughts. With luck, this battle may leave some scars, the trophies of his life that he carries with him everywhere. No matter what shape he takes, his scars always come with it.
For now, it's quiet, and the adrenaline is slowing down in his body, ebbing away and leaving behind a pleasant ache and the ever present urge to seek out what he had come here for. Solterra. Soon, he will be among the sands of his home once more.
The soft thud of feet against the grass along with the gentle howl of the wind were the sounds that accompanied her as she continued her travels. Each thump of her heart sounded more shattered than the next. Despite the beautiful and vibrant look of her surroundings, to Aska-- the world felt as dulled as her own emotions. While it had not been years she had been traveling, the few weeks she had been were definitely not the easiest ones in her life. While summer usually brought joy, happiness and fulfillment to many, the sheer cold of her heart that numbed her entire body stopped her from truly feeling that happiness - feeling in general.
Aska was not used to court life, but the years with her parents’ tribe and later her own had at least somewhat prepared her. It would not be too difficult to get used to this place, with its multitude of surroundings, economies, groups of people. It was a welcome change from the loneliness she still felt - even if only temporary. She needed a place to heal her broken heart, to try and feel once more and put away the guilt she was still feeling aside. Neither Valor nor Daga would have wanted her to stay as broken as she was now, it was the main reason why she had left her tribe behind in the first place - they would want her to heal. To keep moving, no matter how hard it would be.
Golden eyes carefully took in her current surroundings, momentarily pausing to observe the bison’s peacefully grazing along the steppe that reached as far as she could look – the only thing visible that stood out being the giant mountain. She had been informed that ‘Veneror Peak’ was a place of worship – which made her think about her own faith. While she did believe in Gods – the Gods she had believed in were ones of Nature, Fertility even Protection. Yet after the event her faith was slowly disappearing. The Gods had taken away the two most important people around her, taken her heart – her soul. But maybe.. maybe she would go up to them soon. For what? Well, that she did not know just yet, for now it was simply calling for her in the back of her head, waiting to be addressed.
The blue shawl she was wearing did little for the heat that was sure to come during summer, yet she could not bring herself to take it off. The material was light – but heavy enough for her to feel it around her. This simple piece of fabric – a gift of her late husband – was the only thing holding her together for now while she wandered around aimlessly, without much thought.
Thinking was one of the things she had enough of – she was tired of getting stuck inside of her own head, so she had decided to simply block it out. Those who knew her would be able to see the empty shell she had become, but Aska knew she needed not to worry about this here. Nobody knew her, knew of what she did, who she was – she was fine with that. The nagging of company was there, but she knew it would take a long time for her to open up to others. Instead she tried to stay busy with cataloging the plant life, not specifically looking for things, yet making note of plants and herbs she might eventually be able to use for healing, as this had always been one of her strengths. It did have the added bonus of distracting her from herself – she supposed
These lands all have so much to offer, so much to learn from. Having a title such as Champion of Wisom is daunting, but it is one they want to honor and uphold, for the first friend they had made in these lands. They have not seen Azrael in what feels like too long, not given a chance to ask where the Shed Star had been going. Instead, the Star Walker was left with a new title and responsibility, and gentle gaping wound in their heart.
Then there was Caligo, untamed and wild. A beauty unlike anything they had seen ( oh they must meet her again, ask her so many things if they can! ). Their patron goddess . . . they want to know her stories from her own lips. Want to know how she had come to be so adored despite being so outcasted in the beginning. They want that sense of belonging, but already, they are feeling welcomed in Denocte. Shepherding lost souls all their own, guiding them into the graces of the Night Court and welcoming them just as they had been allowed in with open arms.
Cicatrix's wings gently allow them to glide over a briny sea, until they tilt and find ground under their cloven hooves once more, shimmering sand tossed from the way they land, only to tuck their wings in close and shake their entire body to free it of spare bits of grainy sand that had lodged itself on them. This place is wild and untamed as well, a far cry from the more civilized Denocte Court. But it is a place they find solace in, a serene feeling that settles in their chest as they take in a deep breath of salty air and release it once more.
Perhaps here they will find another new face, and maybe one of another Court! They've heard of them, and want to explore and meet, but they are also far too uncertain of how terms were between the lands. It would do no good to bumble into an affair that would land them in trouble, after all.
Though she is Solterran through and through, she sticks out in the desert like a sore thumb. She walks on the sand with legs seemingly to long for her body, nearly floating over the earth. The shape of muscles catching the sunlight, red gleaming nearly gold under it's beam. Still though, her presence in the desert is wrong, foreign. She is a creature of the sea, and those who know the Roanne, know that they would rather stick to the waves then prowl then lands.
But though they are Roanne first, they are still dutifully bound to the earth by Solis himself, sworn still to serve Day court, as would anyone else. And as a sister, Saoirse is bound by duty to represent the Roanne throughout Solterra. So she continues to stalk through the desert towards the court, despite her obvious disdain. Sweat beads down from her coat, dripping from under the warm sealskin that rests over her back. Despite the heat, she will not take it off, wouldn't be caught dead without it.
She makes frequent trips to the capitol, if only to stay in the loop of Solterran news, the macha does too, and generally she is able to pry more out of the courts residents than the harsh Nemain standing at its entrance now. She enters with confidence, thankful for the cool darkness of the courts tunnels. She wanders it's corridors with no true purpose, simply listening around each corner for snippets of conversation that might bring news to her ears.
She catches bits and pieces, and slowly connects the red strings together. It seemed the new sovereign had finally taken root in Solterra. Adonai, a well suspected player.
