Hungry. That is the first thing that comes to mind on his early morning stroll. The canyons had not offered much sustenance, and so he had left late last night to explore the surrounding areas. It just so happened that he had walked further than he had realised, and had ended up in the lush green expanse of meadows that laid out before him. There had been clear borders he had crossed, he was sure of it, but he was quite the drifter these days and would happily make polite conversation (and leave, if required) for those who sought him out.
The grass called to him with its vibrant colours, and he eagerly bent his head to graze, sampling the sparkling lawn beneath him. Never had he enjoyed such tasty blades, and the morning dew made it all the more sweet. The brown of his pelt was a perfect pair to the viridian that stroked his stomach, and his antlers peered out from the depths when his head was bent low. It was a pleasant sight, the man enjoying his morning, peacefully alone.
When he was finished, he casually lazed about for a while, allowing his body to digest the meal. Rising higher into the sky, the sun graced her warmth and presence across the lands he now walked. When he stood up again, he shook his pelt out, refreshed and ready for the walk "home".
Staring at the field, Galileo had the eager urge to run. Not from anything, nor to anything, but there was something childlike inside him, spinning and dancing around enthusiastically and innocently. The stallion was old, and it had been a long time since he had found any desire to stretch his legs. But here he was, and he pawed at the ground as he turned to face the direction he willed to run in.
With a delighted whinny, he was off -- a flash of chocolate against a powder blue sky. Down the hill he scarpered, adding in a buck as he went. Skidding to a halt on a flat piece of land, he hopped from one hoof to the other, feeling the burning desire of adrenaline flood into his blood.
Breathing heavily, he happily tossed his mane around, unfazed by his surroundings, and any who approached.
The heat is unlike any which I have experienced in my long years within the temple walls. Though I have walked deserts and volcanoes in spirit and mind, my body has never felt the torrents. This day, however, I am wholly myself (or nearly so) and the sun beats down on my blackened pelt like an arrogant master to a disobedient slave. Sweat gathers on my brow and rubs my coarse hair against my neck. The sweltering heat does not help the newly healed flesh, perfectly hidden from view, unless I toss my head back or turn in such a way as to display the scar. It’s an ugly thing, crawling desperately out from a single point where my vein bulges. Even in the heat, I am thankful for my thick mane to disguise the mark. It is a harsh reminder to not forget myself in these lands.
I am mindful of my footing, having heard of the terrible tragedies that befall those who do not watch themselves near the Rapax. I have been roaming the lands of Delumine for nearly a year now and my encounters with others have been relatively few and far between, all considered. I still do not feel as if this land is my home, and I harbor a deep ache in my chest for that which is familiar to me. I know that it cannot be. No one who traverses the space between is ever seen to set foot in Ameyal again. Besides, I do not think I would ever be welcome there again. I have been gone far too long, and they would not believe me if I told them I had managed to travel far and away and return. They would think I had forsaken my vows and I would be treated as a thief of knowledge and a traitor in their eyes. I had no home to return to now, and I had almost made my peace with that. I sighed deeply, my gaze following the swift current of the river below me. Still, it did not prevent me from feeling that dull tug for something more. A home that was familiar, with sights and smells and music to dull the homesickness that had nestled in my breast.
I close my orbs, breathing deeply in an attempt to ground myself. The only good it did me was to amplify the distinct feeling of loneliness. Those I had met so far had made their home within these lands since birth or long past. None had been displaced as I had, and there was little kinship to be found in that vein. They were kind (or not) and while each encounter had taught me much about the peoples that lived here, they did not soothe my soul in the way that I had hoped. Perhaps that is why I was here now, wandering dangerously close to the edge of the water.
I shook my head, the bells twined around my antlers fluttering and giggling. What was I thinking? I could not allow myself to get lost in grief. Death lays at the end of that sorrowful road. It did me no good to dwell on such morbid things. I forcefully pushed a lungful of air through my nares, imagining the dark forces at work in my heart being blown away on a grateful breeze. I stepped a bit farther from the river, keeping a safe distance from the edge that still tempted a part of my heart.
What was strange further was that she hadn't been aware of this creek's location. It seemed to magically open itself up to her when the time was right. How wonderful if that was truly what happened here. To realize the land of Novus had a mind of it's own... fascinating and beautiful all at once. The maiden wandered the creek bed without a care, without even realizing this was a private space.
Reserved for lovers.
She didn't see any. Perhaps if she did, she would realize. Maybe she'd blush and run off. Maybe she'd coo "how sweet" and leave as quietly as possible. But no, Novus seemed to lack a distinctive thing lately; romance. New life. Anything good in it. Of course there was good in Novus but... for a hopeless romantic like Willoughby she felt the world needed more love.
True love, love that could withstand time. Love that could weather any storm. She wanted that sort of thing one day. Unaware of the creek's intentions, she moved slowly through the foliage. Her wings kept close to her sides in case she wanted them to tangle. Ahead of her, she spotted movement... but who was it? "Hello?" she calls softly.
The night was dark and cold, uncharacteristically so for summer. It was quiet, almost haunting, with only the wind to shiver through trees, whispering of change to come. He had suspected as much, for the shed-star had long gazed upon the night sky, listening to the songs of the stars, wondering what they meant. They sang a warning lately, of great change to come. What that change would look like, Azrael could not have imagined… but he knew that the stars would never lie. They had gazed upon this world for too long, had seen all which had come to pass, and all that the future would bring. Still, there was a heavy and ominous edge to their mention of change, one which gave him pause. But even the dreamwalker himself could not imagine the events which would unfold, on this fateful summer night.
Something’s coming… Noctua’s voice mirrored the warning in the stars, urgent as she flew to Azrael and settled onto the perch of his shoulder. He paused, turning to the owl and grooming her gently with his teeth, careful to settle her with a soothing hush before beginning his journey from the mountains. Down, down, down the astrologer walked, far from the heavens where he spent many nights gazing upon Caligo’s realm. Even the sky seemed to sense a disruption in the peace of their court, thick clouds forming and shadowing the stars, blotting out the light until only the soft glow of Azrael lit the familiar path he descended toward the court.
The clouds are met with lightning, bright as it streaked across the night, echoed by thunder which followed. He does not know the source to be Tempest and his daughter, and yet there is a strange sense of familiarity prickling electrically down his spine. As he wonders about the sensation, Azrael instinctively knows that something terrible has happened… he knows that there is magic afoul, and that the stars are weeping with sadness for Denocte. But he cannot know why. His pace hurries, eager to know, even as he finds himself drawn into a throng of others who gathered beneath the roiling night sky.
They murmured with wondering, and Azrael found himself looking around for those who were familiar. He finds Cicatrix, nodding to the stargazer with only a hint of worry in his azure gaze. But he cannot find their queen, nor her daughter, a curious thing.
Murmurs turn to awe, the crowds parting to let Caligo through. Immediately, he recognizes the goddess – for the two had met before, walking together within a dream. In this world, she is even more than in his dreamland. She is sheer magic, dark as night with stardust still clinging to every inch of her, painting her an ethereal and powerful being. For a moment, he thinks her gaze might have fallen on his with an almost imperceptible nod, but the moment is fleeting as she begins to speak to those who have gathered.
Denoctians – Morrigan is no more… She has been killed, and I cannot tell you how or why
Her words roar through Azrael, ripping a piece of his heart which takes his breath away. The whispering from those around him grows louder, as his herd mates wonder at the circumstances. Azrael himself felt numb, his mind racing back to only days ago, when he had stood beside Morrighan on the beach. Then, they had been surrounded by laughter and song, with bonfires licking at the night sky and waves crashing in the moonlight. How quickly the world could shift and change…
Azrael takes a steadying breath, closing his eyes and finding Morrighan there – picturing her in his mind, alive and vibrant as she had been days before, with the best of intentions in leading them forward. She had placed confidence in his ability to lead, encouraged him to find his place within this court and to serve how he could… but he didn’t know how he could go on with the court so changed – so wrought with pain and grief.
There is a numbness in him as he turns from Caligo and the stars he has loved for so long, unsure of what his place was in the world now, unknown of where he could go. And the only thing he could think, is that Azrael should go home – to Elena and her love, the only place which felt right.
He steps to Cicatrix, whispering for the would-be sovereign to hear. “I am sorry… I don’t think I should be here anymore. You should take the champion role in my stead, I cannot see how I can – not when my heart is somewhere else.”
Azrael doesn’t wait to hear their answer, turning from the kingdom with a black shroud of grief upon his heart, as he flees to his lover on the coast, longing for her embrace and it alone.
Posted by: Mephisto - 01-07-2021, 02:30 PM - Forum: The Dusk Court
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The magic called to her blood – it roiled within her, pushing her to the brink of madness once more – but it also called her to give into its call. It called her to the wilds once more, to the heavens and beyond – to what lie past Terrestella’s borders… past Novus even. It called her home, to the place where the magic had been born. To the rift, which roiled and churned in somewhere far beyond the confines of this place with its structure and society.
The decision had not been made lightly, for Marisol had placed her trust in Mephisto – a trust which the warg knew would not be given again. But Dusk deserved more… they deserved a Warden who would love and protect them fully, who would not be pulled in too many directions and torn on deciding what to do. So she finds her way back up the familiar castle steps, through the familiar halls, into the throne room. And where Mephisto had worried, she found a strange sense of peace washing over her, confirming that the decision she made was the right one.
"Queen Marisol… I’m sorry…" She bows to the mare, a twinge of regret on her face, as she sighs and draws a steadying breath. "I cannot serve as your warden any longer, but it is my greatest honor that you have thought highly enough of me to serve Terrestella so. I find that change is calling me, far from this place… and it would not be fair for the land if I would stay but long for something else. It should be given to someone whose heart is here, and not torn between civility and magic."
She offers the Halcyon a sad sort of smile, bowing once, before turning to leave the queen and her kingdom… forever? At least for now.
"Thank you." she whispers… and then Mephisto leaves Terrestella, not looking behind to see what consequence would follow.
I don't care what they're going to say, let the storm rage on the cold never bothered me anyway
The sweltering heat was difficult on a good day, and downright unbearable on a bad one. Today, bad didn’t even begin to describe it. The dual-natured mare had searched high and low for somewhere to take shelter from the rays. And while her original plan had been to move towards the sea – the Ice Carver Serpent had another idea. The moment her bonded had heard the sound of water, there had been no stopping of her, Yukime was across the land as quickly as her forelimbs and serpentine, fluked tail would allow, shoving off of the embankment and into the creek running through the lands. Not to be cracked ice, but I cannot bear this hear any longer, Treaded. I need to rehydrate, my scales are shriveled and dry. The carver explained from where she had settled at the bottom of the creek bed, eyes closed, and only the tips of the ice shards at her collar and crown penetrating the surface of the water. Bel couldn’t blame her dearest companion, of course. She, herself, could feel the effects of the heat. Her muzzle was itchy from the effect of scales drying out, and her pelt felt dry and crusty from where even her water vapors were evaporating faster than she could hydrate. She did not like this heat.
Yukime lounged, clearly comfortable, beneath the subtle movements of the creak, and with a soft sigh, the mare herself moved towards the water, lowering herself into the gentle flow and sighing as the water wrapped around her, soothing the sun-scorched hide. She was certain this terrible weather would simply cook her alive! Between the searing heat, and the blubber designed to help trap the body heat in her body, well Below Zero was not a mare who was fond of these dreadfully hot days. Small silver fish darted around her, a few being snapped up as a snack into the small serpent's muzzle, drawing a small smile from the alien mare as she blinked her larger set of eyes slowly. "Careful, Yukime. Those little guppies aren't much of a mouthful, but you'll spoil dinner later. I was thinking we could hunt for Tuna tonight, if you'd like?" The serpent's head perked, two sets of eyes meeting Bel's dual sets with wide eyed excitement.
Bel lowered her muzzle and neck into the water, a thin layer of skin closing of her nose as her gills flared open beneath the water, the vapors wafting across the water like mist as the aquatic-equine relaxed. It might not be salt-water, but the creek was a relief, "Alright, alright," The treader spoke again, her voice carrying more melodically through the water to her bonded, the water changing her voice to something between whale song and dolphin chirping, the vowels drawn out, the words softer and more musical, "Once we are properly hydrated, and not as scaly and dry as a starfish left ashore when the tide rolls out - we'll head towards the sea for dinner." The treader promised her serpent bonded with a playful laugh, her muzzle split into a slightly fang-toothed smile before she closed her eyes again, to enjoy the water's rehydrating properties, the heat no longer . . . quite so unbearable.
"Bel" Yukime
Open to any, preferably someone Bel hasn't met yet Notes:: When you're partially aquatic and can't quite make it to the ocean before the heat becomes unbearable.
The striking alien creature gazed over the surface of the water as she swam, loving the feeling of the water over her aquatic body. It was a rare moment of peace as she worked through learning how to be the best medic that she could be. She owed that much to the mare that had saved her. Snorting softly, she dove deep into the water and swam with eel like motions back toward the shore. She smiled at the fish that swam around her and the peaceful life around her under the water.
Reaching the shallows, Pol paced up and out of the cool water. The warmth of summer beat on her, warming the beads of water that were resting on her back. Shaking her frame, she sent the water droplets flying away. Her scarred half tail shuddered slightly as the temperature changes danced over the hyper sensitive nerves and she turned to frown at the damaged limb.
"Damn sharks..." Polar North mumbled as she glared at the damage. That was part of the reason that she preferred lakes to swim in. No sharks... It gave her a feeling of security that she desperately needed. The thoughts of sharks made her mind drifted toward the past and she wondered if she should meet with her sister to actually discuss it. Later... Once she had had time to figure out how she felt about the whole thing. It was still a painful thing to think of the sister that had abandoned her. No matter what Bel had said... it still felt like abandoned.
Shaking her head to force her brain to change paths, Pol began wandering the shores around the lake to look for plants that were useful for medics.
Posted by: Arah - 01-06-2021, 11:29 PM - Forum: Archives
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Arah
Change is inevitable. A lesson the doe had been taught from an remarkably young age. As a child, as a youngster, as a mother and as a lover. In a way the lesson had practically been beaten into her, though whether it was the universe or choices of others she could not say. Instead one danced on the threads of the spiderweb and hoped to not be consumed. By now she had danced out of the dangerous grip many times, though a few close calls, she was incredibly familiar with the song. The change to her living circumstances was welcome.
Now, however, in the clutch of the black night, the candle in Tilney’s lantern almost melted to a stub, she wished she was more familiar with her now changed circumstance. Winding through the maze of similar looking trees. Ahead her trusted guide, Wynter, paused and studied the side tress. Lithely coming to a stop, the doe breathed deep. As her lungs expanded she breathed in calm, exhaled her worry. Somewhere was the entrance to the court, she just needed to figure out where the forest began to thin. From there she would be able to run her way back to the brick structure. A summery breeze kissed her warm skin. A comforting scent mixed with the smells, though she could not place it. Earthy, a hint of musk and pine. It danced around her, tantalising, the memory of where she’d knew the scent from. Knowing if she were to reach it would treat even further. Instead she allowed it to fill her until the scent passed. It faded slowly, as did the warmth blossoming in her chest.
The present was less inviting and returning to it was somewhat unpleasant. Like a thief in the night, any sense of direction had been firmly snatched from her. It stole away comfort and even lessened the warmth of the summer night. Languishing with uncertainty the doe turned to the griffin. "Gwil-." Soft musical tones filled the now still night air. Sweeping her wings and taking to her territory the doe remained alone. In the dwindling light she turned her gentle gaze to the waning crescent. Shimmering and shifting around the glow of the moon, the clouds moved along with the ripples of change. A moment of change. Peace fluttering on the breeze of a summer night. A change of direction. Alone in the streets of her new home.
A ripple down her back, a twitch of her ear. The odd sound of another’s movement but not Wynter’s. Alone but not lonesome the vixen resumed her aimless wondering. Careful steps through the dark forest awaiting the return of her bonded. Once Wynter found the way she would settle for the night. Alone with only the ghosts of the past to warm her through the night. Her mind often restored to those ghosts. The danced around in her mind filling her with longing…sometimes with warmth…but they always filled the empty places. Luminescent threads that tugged at anything buried deep beneath the surface. Opening the secrets that long ago where buried.
But who prays for Satan?
Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the
Common humanity to pray for the
One sinner who needed it most?
”Umbra…!”
The indignant cry pierced through the afternoon air, loud enough to be heard over the crashing waves of the ocean lapping against the beach. The two were the only figures to be seen upon the sandy shoreline for yards; a petite, dusk colored lady with her black iridescent Pygmy dragon, staring forlornly at the pile of seashells that had tumbled out of the bottom of a now-broken grass basket.
The iridescent black dragon gave a shrug of his slender shoulders, brows furrowed as he stared down at their predicament. ’Twasn’t me.’
Runaveig sighed. The two had been out upon the beach since dawn with their basket in hand, collecting a varying amount of different types of seashells to possibly sell at the Market or weave into pretty jewelry to pass out during her performance later on that night. Of course, Runa knew that it had been an accident… Umbra wouldn’t purposefully rip a hole in the bottom of the basket with his sharp talons, but it still put them in quite the conundrum.
“How are we going to get these home now?” The dusk-colored lady asked her rhetorical question without actually expecting an answer. The basket was useless and she lacked the means to mend it, at least here on the beach, and they hadn’t brought a spare.
Umbra hopped up onto her shoulders and reached out to hold up the silk shawl wrapped around the Welara’s shoulders, grinning a broad, sharp-toothed smile. ’This?’
Golden eyes rolled and the Entertainer shook her head adamantly. “No!” A pause, then a moment of hesitation as she glanced sadly down at the pile of spilled seashells. “I mean, well…”
The shawl had been a gift. From who? Runa couldn’t remember, but that didn’t mean that she lacked understanding of how important the gift was… Yet it would be a terrible shame to leave their bounty here on the beach after spending all morning digging and unearthing these precious little treasures. Her expression pinched and lips starting to tremble at their miniscule misfortune, Runaveig let out a soft breath and relented.
“... Okay, okay, but only to carry them back home. Then they’re going into a new basket.”
in your dreams, you are jealous of tragedies; and the truth is, we all want our own tragedy, because life is pale without it. we want the teeth, the screaming, the survival that comes with it
Together, Bondike and I stand on a beach. We are alone, and the last light tips over the horizon. The sea does not sing; does not lull; does not make sound. On the far peripheral billow the silk sails of dream-ships, woven from a thousand incomprehensible colors. Bondike speaks to me, but those words, too, seem incomprehensible:
“You have no right,” he says.
“No right to what?”
“No right to—to take him from me, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone.” Bondike says, and I do not know who he means; staring through this veil of dreams, I begin to believe I know.
“He had to leave,” I answer, softly. I mean to comfort him.
Even in the dream it tastes like a lie.
“You can’t stand it,” he says. “You can’t stand that I was almost happy. That I almost—almost, somehow—moved past you.”
And Bondike turns and walks down the beach—not toward the billowing sails of the docks, Denocte’s docks, but toward the untamed stretch of shore beyond. He walks, and walks, and walks and I watch until he dissolves into the sea.
- - - -
I know she left. I feel, with certainty, her absence. I know she left, and I know, too, she left because of me. The battle with Amaroq on the beach has remained with me.
You are only a ghost to her, he had told me. But he had not fulfilled his other promise. I had not become a corpse to him and this, still, feels me with a cool pleasure. I should not consider the sentiment such, the way it settles in my veins.
But I do.
Because, no matter which way I regard my own sentiments, they emerge as pleasure. I took pleasure in his death.
And yet, I still feel a ghost. More now than ever, as I roam the streets of Denocte not as one who belongs, but as one who drifts. I do not feel myself; and perhaps it is because, by every alleyway and through every tavern window, I believe I glimpse Boudika. I believe I see her, painted gold, with ribbons in her hair. A warrior turned dancer. A woman, hidden. A lie, a lie, a lie.
The night has become dark by the time I reach the Court’s docks. The sound, even now, sends apprehension tingling down my spine. The squelching of water and wood; the rut of boats against the docks; the rise and fall of the surf. Somewhere, far off, I hear a creature surface from the depths and then return in one abrupt splash.
I think I am alone, but as I walk to the very end I see a silhouette and, I ask, “Have you seen a woman with a white face and curled horns? She is red, and black, and stripped at the haunches.”
Almost as an afterthought, I add: “She had been the Champion of Community here, once.”
