Usually it starts with a nightmare. Some sordid dream that creeps in on a saccharine song, souring as it hits its peak. This time it came in silence.
Moving to the night order was the best decision I’d made in a while. Though I felt bad leaving dusk, and all its people, that guilt was drowned by the feeling of release. Things here are busy enough that I’m never left just to think. But there are enough healers that I can step away if needed. It’s not like the hospital in the swamp, where herb collection is constant, and there's no one else around. It’s not so… lonely.
I’d been making some salves with the other healers. Some of the stronger ones take some time, and we’d been running low after the winter, but with spring's arrival it’s far easier to source the ingredients necessary. One minutes I was fine - life here is good for me, - the next I felt a wave of dizziness, small, but enough for me to trail off from the conversation I’d been having with the others.
“Are you alright?”
I looked over to Aleris, one of the younger healers, with a soft smile. “Just tired” I could feel Picoro sigh softly onto my neck. He always knew, I'm sure he felt the shift in my balance, though this time he stayed silent. A second wave made itself known though, strong enough that I nearly dropped the pestle I’d been using. “You should go rest” the sloth murmured.
“Actually” I started softly. “Are you alright to finish these without me?” I could see concern flicker in some of my companions eyes, though no one questioned me as I set down the pestle beside its mortar. I turned to leave the chamber, my uneven hoofbeats masked by the grinding of herbs. I was careful walking back to my room, as waves of dizziness slowly came over me. I was taken aback, usually I had a warning of some sort. I did recall a fit of coughing the night before, but I’d not thought much of it. Pollen could do worse.
As I made my way into my room, I pulled down the drape of finely woven silk over the window. I had no candles to blow out. I’d move them all to one of the meeting chambers, with the excuse that they needed the light more than I did. Really I just couldn’t settle with the flames flickering over the walls. They told me they’d find more so I wouldn’t have to sit in the dark. I hope they don’t. I’ve tried to hide how much it unsettles me to stand so near them.
I settled on the bed of moss in the corner. As I laid my head on the stone floor, I was shocked by how cold it felt on my face. I wondered how long I had been feverish that day. If everyone had looked at the glaze in my eyes and ignored it for fear of being impolite. Picoro nestled in beside me, braiding my mane with nimble claws so that it didn’t cling to my skin when the fever undoubtedly grew worse. The headaches would come soon, and the best I could do was try to sleep through it.
Before I could close my eyes though I could hear hooves clacking on the stone in the corridor. The cadence of the steps was familiar, and I could already feel the wash of cold that always clung to his cloak of shadows. I hadn’t seen much of Tenebrae since I had come back to the night order. Whenever I did, It was just around a corner, a fleeting glance. We were both busy I suppose. Something seemed off, though I couldn’t quite place it. I lifted my head, already wincing at the stiffness - It was almost funny how quickly it came on - wondering if he was coming to say hello, or simply passing by.
Antiope i am the righteous, the touched and the holy i am the voodoo that you want to believe
She walks that long bridge to the island, dragging one point of her double-sided axe the whole way; scrape, scrape, scraping its edge along that arching, grotesque ribcage. Over gems and barnacles that stick to and protrude from its surface. The bridge shudders, and rocks, and Antiope digs her hooves in and keeps going. The open mouth of the island is a black cave, an omen, and she descends into it with only the light of her axe to guide her.
If there is a line left in the bone behind her from her burning axe, she doesn't feel sorry for it.
There is a city in the middle of the cave, and in the middle of that a castle, reaching high, high, high toward the ceiling. Antiope presses forward, looking through the door of every shop, none of which has a keeper. She imagines that whatever is inside them requires none. Nobody will be leaving with the items lining the walls and shelves. No one will be leaving.
The woman approaches the shop with the weeping walls and the sound grinds down to her bones. It plucks at her like the spines of a thorny bush. She sets her axe upon the walls until they are screaming alongside the other ones, and drinks in the sound of their anguish. The lioness in her bones lopes languidly through her, as if expecting something wonderful. As if expecting something.
She does not stop for the strange objects, not tempted by their empty promises of beauty and glory. She goes further, goes deeper. Antiope is a wraith in the island’s open belly. She is like its loose soul, wandering, searching for the place it once belonged. So she circles, and circles. And it reminds her of circles she once walked through the sand and the jungle on this same island, once, so long ago.
She circles, and circles, like a predator does its prey, until she stands at the open doors to the castle. Everything inside the castle is calling to her, begging her to come, see, discover something about yourself. Antiope sets her axe to swinging, and swinging, and swinging. Its light is a kaleidoscope display on the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It chases shadows from the corners over and over and over again before inviting them back in.
The hallways lead her like dogs hunting a fox, and she follows faithfully, unwavering. Something in her is building, like anticipation. A pressure, a waiting. Her axe is still swinging when she enters the throne room and her eyes like cut sapphires see the thing sitting there. Only it is not a who but a what, sitting there. Antiope moves closer, her weapon now motionless at her side.
Upon the throne rests a bowl made of skin (whose, she cannot possibly know), filled with what appears to be red dye. Beside it lies a paintbrush made of bone and hair.
The last time Antiope had applied her dyes had been before going to the temple which was bathed in the blood red light of a setting sun. Later, it had been bathed red by other things. Since arriving in Novus, slowly the red markings upon her body had faded. Faded to a bruising, and then to nothing at all, as she had tried to let go of the killer she had been made. Perhaps that had been her mistake.
The striped woman stares for a long time at the bowl, and the brush, and the red liquid inside. The lioness inside her waits, and waits, and waits. It is as though the entire castle, the entire city, is waiting. She can feel its anticipation bearing down upon her like a hot breath.
Perhaps she is not a fallen star at all, but a dying one, preparing to explode.
Antiope lifts the brush made of bone and hair and dips it into the dye. Applying it is like welcoming an old friend. Five dots beneath each eye, a stripe on each hoof. A sweet, sharp, metallic smell wafts up from the brush to her nose, and that is when Antiope realizes it is not dye in the bowl but blood.
The night air is cold, enough so that when hard breaths of air hit your lungs, that the wind comes in sharp. You can't remember when the shivering set in, probably back when you flew in off the water, watching it below, quickly replaced by a new kind of sea. Sand stretches as far as you can imagine. It fades into an almost non-existent horizon line, littered with stars.
One more thing for you to appreciate. Had the skies been vacant, shrouded by clouds, or illuminated by an excess of moonlight, you wouldn't have tried to make it this far. No, not over the water.
Determination pulls your facial muscles tight, frustration lingering as you acknowledge that eventually, you will have to give into humanity's curse. Sore wings, and hunger work to make the best of you. A strong mentality may take you far, and try as you may to believe that you are beyond the physical control of your body, everyone knows who wins in the end. Frustration blooms into a mood full of resentment, and while you're not sure why it's there, anxiety. You swallow it down dry, an effort to fend off the emptiness of your stomach.
Hunger manages to get the better of you. You are nothing more than human, a harsh reality that which you can't escape when disturbed sand comes forth to greet you at the thrashing of your wings. The sensation of stable ground is a gift. No more pushing, no more running, no longer is escape necessary when you're sure you've ran far enough to erase any sins. You should find comfort in it as the sound of running water drowns out the vacant air. You know that relief should be what overwhelms you as the frigrid water burns against your thin skin, a harsh reminder that you're alive, against the odds.
Yet, what is the point of living when there is nothing to live for? Are you doomed to barren, pointless living now that you've been stripped from the luxuries of home? Do they even know your name? It doesn't bother you much that the thought brings a smile to your face. You are whatever you choose to be now, whoever, if you so dare. Who is there left to remember your face, to be able to cast their gaze upon you in this dark, vacant oasis, and claim that they know who you are?
Relief coaxes away the strain within your shoulders as you flex and rotate your wings, listening to the faint rustle of feathers as you do so. One good, long stretch, finding yourself letting out a sigh. No more, or at least for now. No more what, stress? Running? You decide upon running, because now begins the art of transformation.
@any! / speaks / oh boy, very rusty for sure. this is my first writing post in two years, and my first ever with abbat! please expect major improvements in my next reply, i just need to toss him out into the world to get things started. bring anyone and everyone to welcome us back, please <3
context: abbat is wading in the oasis after flying in for the first time, at nighttime.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
When she had first read about them, curled up in the ferns outside the library, the mountains had seemed like pillars of stone, ice, and nothing else. They had not looked like bones but like earth shaped by eons that she will someday know the taste of. When she had first read about them, the mountains had seemed no more imposing than ink, and poems, and frail leather binding.
But here, in the belly of valleys and ribcage of snow-coated pines, the mountains seem not like pages but like monsters. Each step she takes is through the insides of the earth where they have clawed their way outside like a parasite. And had it not been for the ever-hungry weight of Isolt at her hip, she might have lingered in an eye-cave and asked the mountains what they wanted grown out of their horror and decay.
Instead she does not linger or pause in the eye-cave between rib cages of pines. Instead she slices through the moonlight with her horn and says, by way of their language, with every step, let us feed you sister.
Let us feed you.
Over and again, for miles.
Let us feed you.
Behind them, in that empty place left behind by their shadows, flowers follow. Dahlias bloom in the charred remnants of festering trees. Poppies grow (as bright as her father’s) in the half-moons where their hooves had left wounds in the earth. Roses, white as the bone-color on them both, bloom in each tree, each root, each weed that her sister had rotten. Danaë imagines her garden as new-skin laid over the mountain corpse, a pair of wings by which the bones and the eyes might take flight like hawks and feast, and feast, and feast upon the mortals.
When she lingers at the base of the towering hemlock grove, she thinks that she does not have to imagine for very long afterall. And when she takes the first leaf between her teeth, and looks to Isolt, she does not think but know.
Posted by: Ipomoea - 11-11-2020, 09:54 PM - Forum: [C] Island Archives
- No Replies
T
here are promises waiting on this island like seeds waiting to root and blossom.
Ipomoea can taste them caught there between his teeth like flecks of rust, flashing bright as blood in his smile. Each time he speaks they are bleeding from his mouth, working their way down his jaw like rubies wanting to embed themselves into his bone. And they are sharp, so sharp — even the ones growing their roots into his tendons, the ones pressing petals and leaves against his skin, even those are broken up by the sharp shard points of their thorns that do not settle the churning of his blood.
He wishes it would. He wishes he could forgive the pain for the joy of watching something grow. He wishes he could reform the monster rooting along his bones into something gentler, something that looks more like a boy who had once wishes for nothing more than to grow a garden.
But he is sharp now. He has been made sharp — or was he born sharp, like a knife in a sheath that has only just now learned the taste of blood along its blade and begged for more? Was it the evil things, and the fires, and the hunger that has burrowed down into his soul like disease takes to roots, or was he always a bad seed?
Every time he closes his eyes he can see the golden sapling in the forest, the leaves that are dying over and over and over again while new ones take their place. When did he begin to find his salvation in growing life from the death he caused?
He knows it is not the same thing as saving. But still he tells himself it is, it is, it is, because it is the only way he knows how.
Around him the shops are spiraling tighter and tighter together like a noose tightening as he walks. He has stopped wondering where he was going, or where the hangman’s halter was leading him, or when he’d reach the edge of the gallows. He only follows it as it leads him in ever-tightening circles, and he tries to not listen to the whispers of the island. He tries to not look into the rooms, tries to not see the false-wonders tempting him like a anglerfish leading its victims to their deaths. He is trying —
he is failing —
he is walking into the room that is pillars of ash and salt and driftwood waiting to spark. And he is lifting his head when he smells the sea, and hears the waves crashing against his knees (he can feel it, the brine soaking into his skin — but when he looks down there is nothing there, only a smooth plane of water like a mirror that his hooves barely break.)
The ground rocks beneath him like the floor of a ship when he steps across it. But the only ripples come from his hooves as he walks across the surface of a smooth ocean, and lays his cheek against a rock crowned in driftwood.
And again he tastes its promises between his teeth.
Posted by: Ipomoea - 11-11-2020, 08:55 PM - Forum: [C] Island Archives
- No Replies
ipomoea
—
« she said my spirit doesn't move like it did before »
F
or a long while, Ipomoea only stands beneath the arches of that bleached-bone bridge and stares out at that other world.
As others hurry along on their descent into hell their footsteps, to him, sound like a melody he once danced to. In each of their gazes he can see the reflection of it, of a world they once lived in that knew nothing about magic torn inside-out or what the skeletons of dead stars looked like. When they only knew how to wish, and wish, and wish, and never worried that speaking those wishes aloud destined them to die.
He looks down on them now and is counting their wishes like tears hanging frozen on their eyelashes. And deep in his chest he is carving out a hollow space in his bones for his own, where his heart trembles and remembers the agony of his flowers growing from ribcages.
And he starts to wonder at the way he feels like he’s dying in his own skin.
Behind him the desert is still calling him home in that language that goes beyond sunlight and shadow and soul. And beyond that he can feel the roots of the forest reaching for him, their age-old yearnings wrapping tighter and tighter around his heart like a tether afraid of letting him go. Each day the tear in his soul widens. Each day he is breaking a little more.
Each day he feels more like two halves drifting apart, while his blood turns to grains of sand and soil that are leaking out bit by bit.
But ahead of him —
ahead of him the island waits. And that, too, calls to him, that too reaches out like one more noose around his throat drawing him in another direction. That, too, is one more piece of him shattering itself like a wave against a rocky shore.
He can feel the spring growth and the rot on his tongue when he looks down into the city. His wings curl against his fetlocks, reach out to feel the curls of bone beneath him while feathers whisper eulogies to the monster it once belonged to. He imagines that he can hear its roaring in his ribcage, where all the parts of him are clashing. He imagines that the bones are all that will be left when the war of it is finished.
So he stands there, watching and listening and breaking every second.
And he stands there until a man that smells like smoke and spice crosses before him, and Ipomoea can’t help but breathe it in and feel the rift widen. He can’t help but step forward and drive yet another wedge like a stake into his heart. “Are you going in?” The bone-bridge echoes beneath his hooves, and there is a moment that he wonders at the way his flowers rarely seem to grow here. As if the island knows who he is beneath it all, beneath the fury in his lungs and the petals pressed against his ribcage. As if it is stripping him away piece by piece and laying them out in front of him, only to whisper, choose. But only one.
Ipomoea has never been able to choose only one.
“If you are, would you mind if I joined you?” Because he can feel those pieces of himself being whittled into knives, and he can hear the island calling out like a rabid thing (or is he the rabid thing, whose days are numbered, who feels the insanity creeping in?) And he is so very afraid of what he might do if he wanders into the belly of the beast alone.
It's strange to wander into a land and never feel eyes on them, they think. A place where judgements aren't spoken aloud, where barbed whispers don't chase them down. Cicatrix has long learned that the words of the ones that wish to hurt them were nothing, but that didn't mean they didn't haunt them wherever they went. They were well aware of how they looked, a face with no skin, a drip of blue glimmering liquid. It isn't as if the sight of them is something . . . normal. They're well aware of how different they are, how they can easily cause unease . . . yet something still compelled them to come to this festival.
There's a sweep of feathers and thin skin, their wings catching air as they land delicately on golden hooves, feeling weight press down and taking in a breath as they do. The astronomer carefully tucks their wings to their sides, hiding the maps that stretched over the expanse of blues and blacks. So far, so good. A few glances were cast their way, but that's something that comes with being well . . . them. Carefully, they arrange the cloak that much closer to themselves, the golden rings on the top of it pressing against the onyx pitch of their skull, and they turn their head away slowly, taking in the sounds and sighs of the place. It's bright here, warm, a sort of sensation that could be related to home, if they had ever bothered to talk about it.
With a soft jingle of chains, they lower their head a little, attempting to make themselves seem that much smaller. If there was someone to talk to, they could seek them out. For now though, Cicatrix makes a beeline toward a fire, if only to admire the warmth and the way the flames dance and move. Something is calming about it, enough so that their legs fold and carefully they lay down, light enough on their legs that it wouldn't bother them to do so.
warm breeze passes through as Morrighan walks up to the open window of the castle. With it she can smell fresh earth and flower blooms. Summer is nearly here, she can feel it, but there is something more.
She can see it in the shadow of the new moon and imagines how it would shine down if it were full. There has been something pulling at her for some time, but she hadn't figured it out until recently. She remembers back to her conversation with Po and then thinks about Maeve. There is more purpose to this life. There is more she can be doing and giving to her Court. Maybe she's always felt this, but the thoughts have been stirring in her mind more recently. She wants to prove to her Court that she can be more than just one who wields fire. She wants to prove it to Maeve too and show her how hard work pays off. She wants to prove something to herself too, but she isn't sure how to put it into words.
Morrighan has heard the witches talk about the new moon being a time for new beginnings and setting goals and intentions. This seemed as good of a time as any to call Antiope to a meeting and bring her intentions to light. She's sure many before her have challenged for this rank and fought until their opponent's knees went weak, but that's not what she wishes to do tonight. It didn't feel appropriate to do to a friend, so she hopes that this will still not sever their trust and friendship. She just feels ready to take this next step and hopefully Antiope will understand.
When she hears the footsteps echo off the castle walls, she doesn't take her eyes off the sky yet. The world is so much darker and almost emptier without the moon, but maybe that's why it's such a time for being alone and self-reflecting. She takes a deep breath again, catching the hint of a distant bonfire. A reminder of what still lives within her if she's not careful.
"Thank you for meeting me here," she says, shifting to face Antiope and wincing from her leg wound that still hasn't quite healed. She supposes it serves as a different reminder of where her impulsiveness can lead her. "Well I'll just get right to it since I know our time is valuable. I feel that I've done well serving the Court for some time. I started as Warden and made my way up as Regent and, while I know I've made some mistakes, I feel that I've learned from them and I'm ready to be something more. I'm ready to show Maeve too that I can be something more. I'm ready to have more of a purpose in this Court."
Morr finds herself looking out at the sky again, for once wishing she could see the figure of Caligo as if to give her affirmation. "I'm ready to be Denocte's Sovereign." It almost doesn't feel real.
"I am willing to fight to prove my worth if necessary," she adds, dipping her head. Morr wants to still acknowledge this as tradition in case that's how Antiope wishes to proceed. Either way, she waits for the woman's response with bated breath.
✦
you can't touch a woman who can wear pain like the grandest of diamonds around her neck
Meira lets the exhaustion sink into her bones. It is a slow creeping, all-consuming thing. It is insidious in the way it saps one of all emotion and energy. It leaves nothing behind, it is so unlike fire. Meira sinks like her bones, down into the soft dirt beside the stone paths winding into the depths of Terrastella. The paths are swarming with others who cast her the odd glance, their faces are marred with confusion by her makeshift resting place. Her lids are weary, and struggle to stay open. The nights are always so long. Each night she dies a thousand times when she dreams. She dreams of an abyss that is not like anything in this world. It is an abyss with teeth, and a ravenous hunger. The promise of sleep whispers to her, even as the bodies swarm beside her. She has slept in the sea before, and that is all they are. An indiscernable blob of bodies that mean nothing to her. She drifts into the darkness. Plunges into the icy grasp as it pulls her down. This world has a gravity all its own, a gravity and a voice so loud it thunders. The thunder spills from her lips, and startles the small crowd moving beside her.
Blue chasms shoot open, wide with alarm. She glances around wildly until she realizes where she is. Meira stares at the faces peering at her, concern is etched into their features. She does not speak, she can only stare. Her head falls against the cool stone wall she is nestled beside. That is the thing about exhaustion, it doesn't let go until it is ready to. Meira wants to sleep until it washes away her memories of the life she had in Denocte. Until it erases her past, and she is born anew. Meira momentarily perks up at the thought that she will one day join the Roannes again. The earth-bound sea stirs as the hum of voices grows to a dull roar. The bodies are moving again, though some are lingering to study her. She wonders what they would think if they could see what she really was. When she was a child. She wonders if they could still find themselves concerned with someone and something who frightened so many. Meira shifts herself upright a bit, so that she is not leaning entirely against the stone wall near the entrance into the tulip strewn fields of Terrastella. One of the bodies is still lingering, lingering though all the others have only given pause and moved on. "Can I help you?" She murmurs to the equine hanging nearby. The sleep is not yet gone from her eyes, nor is the exhaustion gone from her bones.
It will be a wonder if she can partake in the festivities at all. She wants to sleep, to really and truly sleep.
The strange island who changes its appearance each season sprawls before her. Meira has not yet left the beach, for it has been too long since she let the sea know just how she loved it. The way the water rushes to greet her earth-bound limbs, and the way it feels upon her skin. It is as important to her as the air she breathes. So she sinks, sinks into the sea beside the strange island that is full of magic. Beneath the waves, nothing else matters. The sounds of the world above become so soft, so quiet. They creep from a dull roar to a quiet hum. Azure chasms slide open beneath the waves, and a smile crawls across her face. The water here is still cold, it too is shedding the memories of winter at the edges of the sea. Down, down, down she plunges into the blue expanse. Then, as if to remind her that she no longer belongs to the sea, it gently pushes her away. The currents pull her toward the island, closer and closer until she is standing upon the sands once more. Meira casts her gaze behind her with a quiet smile upon her face. The sea thanks her for the visit, but lets her know when it is time to go.
If it were up to her, she would go home and never leave. She would leave the world of the mages and land-bound equines far behind. They could take the sea from her, but not out of her. Meira murmurs her love for the fathomless depths before she turns to venture into the heart of the island. Her frame drips with each step she takes, and the chill of the air is quick to descend upon her flesh. She is more whole, each time she steps foot on land again when she has made a visit home. The gentle reminders from the tides are always bittersweet. The sea is an excellent lover, but it does not love only her. It loves in ways that are intangible. Much like the stars in the sky. The sea is her sun. Meira moves further and further into the island, back to where she first encountered the throne with the stranger just days ago. When she arrives, she stops and stares. Meira is unable to decide if she should approach it, or investigate the surrounding area.
So she stares. Waits and stares for the ghosts to come out. It will not be the first time that ghosts have chosen to gnaw on her bones. It is always when she is a little more whole, and each time they take a little more from her. They are like him. Raking their fangs along her vulnerable hide. A hide that has just had fresh salt poured across it. As she turns, she spots movement near her. The movement is just slightly to her left, and her ocean chasms search for the movement. The earth-bound sea remains quiet, but obviously aware of her surroundings. She exists in a state somewhere between social and withdrawn.
@Tenebrae
I am so awful at starters ;__; I hope this is okay obsi <3
