Mister Brightside

From every corner of Novus, they came.

Some arrived in singles, some in pairs, others in groups and hordes, but still they ventured forth to examine the god's handiwork. Tempus was not an arrogant creature--but it pleased him to see their curiosity, their openness. To see so many whom previously claimed disbelief to change tune so easily at the bidding of a god.

A century's worth of waiting all wrapped up in a week.

With a creak and a grown, the heavy wooden doors begin to creak inwards. They scrape loudly along the forest floor, creating widening a gap between the trees and revealing a dark and cavernous interior. One by one, lanterns hanging from the tree boughs come roaring to life with a flame, illuminating the clearing within. Ancient-appearing tapestries are draped in rows, depicting long-forgotten emblems and painted stories of the Courts' beginnings. 5 pillars stand as sentries at the back, arranged in a half-circle around a large stone table.

And at the head of a table stands a familiar statue. Tempus has moved his shrine from the peak of Veneror here to this clearing. The eyes and the rings upon the statues' neck are glowing with a light that shines from within. And the rocks that once lay at the statue's base have now risen, floating in a slow and lazy circle around the shrine, imbued with the same white light. He waits for the Regimes to enter, silent and present.

Every so often, you might swear you see an eye blink, or one of the carved forelegs twitch. But as you look more closely, the statue appears as stationary as always.

Back at the entrance the doors come to a stop, inviting the Regimes of Novus in.

Do you dare?

As a reminder, only the Regime and/or their chosen representatives may enter the meeting! Each Court is allowed to send a minimum of 2 and maximum of 3 characters to this meeting.

The meeting has officially begun! You now have one week to post your character entering the meeting. Each member is allowed 1 post in this round, a maximum of 500 words to keep things short and flowing. If you do not post in time, you will be locked out of the meeting.

This round will end on June 7th, 11:59 PM EST, at which point the doors will be closed and a new prompt will be posted.

@Somnus @~~Seraphina~~ @~~Florentine~~ @Reichenbach

RE: Dew in the Valley - Seraphina - 06-01-2018

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

someone will remember us I say
even in another time

Seraphina passes the great wooden doors with practiced poise and eerie composure, both of her advisors at her side. It would be easy to assume that the events of the past week have not shaken the silver queen at all; she seems to react to them with the same cold with which she responds to everything. Her mismatched eyes scan the space in front of her, running the length of rich tapestries and torches that catch on the silver of her collar. They finally come to a rest on the great shrine at the head of a table – another thing that seems to have been moved. (She wonders if the sea glass she brought so long ago still rests at his altar.) She watches the stones bob and float, and she swears she sees the statue twitch, and she wonders if the gods have always possessed their imitations.

She walks by the Solterran tapestries – some figures are familiar, and others are not. (Her eyes linger momentarily on the painted shape of Queen Sol, more snake than woman.) Under different circumstances and in a very different time, she might have spent more time studying them. Now, she is propelled forward by urgency and adrenaline, keeping the same, brisk pace until she reaches the table.

Oh, she knows that she should be terrified, – shocked, at least – but she isn’t. That terrible, terrible numbness still comes creeping in, as it always does when she is met with information that she is not prepared to handle, and she doesn’t fight it. It will be over faster if you’re quiet. Well – she is – she is quiet.

Situated appropriately, she turns to regard the statue.

“Hello,” She murmurs, hesitant, but with a hint of some bizarre familiarity, “Tempus.” Perhaps she is too informal, but she knows no other form of address. When she was a lost, lonely little girl, she’d held whispered conversations with all of the gods – of course, they’d never offered her any response, but she felt engulfed when she did it. (The gods watch over everyone, or so she has always been told. It was a comfort to think that they might have watched over her, too, in a way that no one else would.) Now…now she didn’t know what she thought of them, or him, or much of anything; her gold-rimmed eyes rise to greet the two pairs of the statue in turn, and she holds her stare steady between them, wondering how she should feel.

As the members of the other courts enter the clearing, she looks away in turn, offering a cordial dip of her head to each. Regardless of her personal opinions of them, they stand on sacred ground, and she has no intentions of sullying it. Each time, too, she looks back to the eyes of the statue, as though she expects to find within them the answer to a question that floats just out of her reach.

(The answer isn’t there.)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

tags | <3
notes | sera rn ft. complicated religious feelings

RE: Dew in the Valley - Somnus - 06-01-2018

"Oh, but my tongue is a weapon."

The humble din grew silent as the doors creaked open with a reverberating rumble, their attentions captivated by the moment that they had all been preparing for since receiving orders from their divine messenger.

Somnus’ verdant eyes swept over the crowds that stood in groups separated by their Courts, narrowed in speculation as he regarded the revealed clearing. Upon his spine, Alba’s wings ruffled and her beak clacked in apprehension, but the barn owl was curiously silent. It was as though the weight of the moment had subdued her insatiable spirit. Turning his head, the Dawn King regarded the ivory and sunshine woman at his side. Their shared night was not lost on his mind, nor on his heart. He smiled fleetingly.

“We should go.” The words, simple but meaningful, were directed towards everyone who had traveled from Delumine to Veneror. Reaching out, Somnus pressed a gentle kiss to the smooth line of Eulalie’s cheek. “We’ll be back soon.” Another smile, but then the expression grew far more somber and stern. Golden shoulders rolled as he straightened his posture, very aware that all of the Regime from the other Courts were present. He knew Florentine quite intimately and was vaguely familiar with Seraphina, yet Somnus knew nothing of Denocte’s Reichenbach. It was best that he be utmost prepared to represent Delumine and the Dawn Court.

Turning his head, Somnus motioned towards the gates. “Come, brothers.” With a look towards Ipomoea and Orion, he stepped through the crowds and passed through the gates unhindered. His eyes roamed the other Sovereigns and their chosen dignitaries, giving a respectful nod to those that they passed as they ventured towards the tapestries and depictions of Dawn’s own history, and the Dawn King admired an ancient tapestry depicting Simon the First before settling at their designated positions. With Ipomoea on one side and Orion on the other, the dunalino composed himself, every bit as elegant and poised as a king should be.

’Look.’ Alba’s instruction caused him to follow the feeling within his chest, and he spotted what had captivated her; the glowing statue of Tempus. So, this was the work of the divines. Trepidation mingled with reverence within his breast, but the Dawn King remained that stoic, composed figure and gave a respectful, reverent nod of his head towards the statue. From there, he focused, letting his wings relax only enough to brush against the Regime at his sides.

Together.

It was time.

tag:

RE: Dew in the Valley - Orion - 06-01-2018

ORION

exiled prince

They had been given a week to prepare for the summit, and in that time, the Emissary had delved in to the library, plucking out books of all sorts that dealt with deities. For all his teachings and living in a political life, nothing had really been taught to him about gods. How was one to greet them without seeming like a grovelling mortal, in awe of their divinity? He had buried himself in those books for a few days, and in the end, concluded that they should of course be respected, and in turn, treated as if they were of the utmost prestigious lands.

With the knowledge in mind, he made his way with the rest of Delumine, and he was well aware of Somnus' closeness with a woman at his side that he fleetingly knew as Eulalie. The thought was smothered, and he turned his gaze toward the gates instead, keenly interested as the mighty doors opened and a hush fell over the crowd. It was time, it seemed, and he passed through the wooden threshold with his sovereign and regent, taking slow steps.

All the same, he did keep himself a half step further to the side than the others, a gut reaction to not be touched at this moment, even by the simplest gestures of feathers or wings. Orion kept himself composed, head lifted as he studied the statue before them, the glow and movements of rocks as his milky eyes observed. It was hushed, and he exhaled as his head bowed sightly. Tempus, he had learned.

It was beyond anything he could have ever imagined himself, meeting a god. If he were not humble, it would have humbled him just to be in the presence of the father of gods. As it were, he gave his bow in greeting, and lifted his head, wondering if Tempus knew who they all were. After all, a deity would know a lot, wouldn't they?

oooh yesss

RE: Dew in the Valley - Ipomoea - 06-01-2018

IPOMOEA

she said lay me down in golden dandelions

-- ❀ --

he gates finally opened, and Ipomoea would be a liar to say he wasn’t intimidated.

There wasn’t enough time.  Funny that he would think so, when he was about to meet the god of time.

Carefully, gently, he pulled a sleeping Odet from the nest he’d made in his mane, cradling the songbird close to his breast. He hesitated only a moment, stroking the bright blue and black feathers, before passing his Bonded to Messalina. “Take care of him for me?” Whatever waited the Regime inside the clearing, he wanted to know his Stellar’s Jay would be safe and waiting outside. Po wasn't planning on taking any chances today.

Squaring his shoulders, he offered Messa a small, shy smile before he was being hurried away behind Somnus. His wings fluttered at his ankles, as if unsure what to do with themselves: they reached out to brush the canons of passing horses, flaring their feathers and bringing a lightness to his step. Ipomoea had to fight to place each foreleg on the ground, lest his wings cause them to stay indefinitely hovering above ground. It gave him a distraction, settling the butterflies in his stomach as he focused instead on walking through the crowds, past the gates... into the clearing.

He nearly stopped when he saw the statue of the god, light pouring from the eyes of both carved heads. "Tempus..." His voice was unfamiliar to him, sounding small and high pitched, and Ipomoea couldn’t help but feel like a small, tottering foal once more.

With a nod in respect to the god, he followed quickly behind his Sovereign and Emissary, taking his place at the table on Somnus’ right. From there, he took his time studying the rest of the Sovereigns and their representatives--many of whom he knew, some of whom were still unfamiliar faces. Excitement thrummed in his chest, but he choked it down; there would be time later for introductions, he was sure.

A flash of movement drew his eye, and he stared intently at the statue of Tempus. 'Did he just blink? Did that hoof just move? Am I going crazy?' The statue remained as immobile as ever, save the floating stones about its head.

His wings folded up tight against his legs, to hide their trembling.

@messalina for the reference, @erryone present c: | "speaks" | notes: <3

rallidae

RE: Dew in the Valley - Florentine - 06-01-2018

i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls

That voice rings in her mind. It was eternal, speaking out from all ages. Time had no limits for a voice like that and it struck something deep within the time-traveller girl.

Florentine could move between worlds. She had seen gods rise and die. She had seen gods praised on high for less power than some of Novus’ inhabitant’s possessed… So it is, with intrigue, with the whispers of Time licking at her heels, that Florentine steps up to the gates beside her brethren.

From the corner of her eye, she catches the glimpse of silver, the flash of a horn pointed up toward the sky. And in the other eye she sees a spark of crimson. She is proud, of how many of her court have come to stand sentinel beyond the doors of the god’s chosen temple.

The crown of her head dips, to her brother and then her friend. The flower girl drinks them in, from the stars that run in their veins to the moon that ascends in their souls. They were the twilight guard, here to bear witness to a transcendent god.

Through the creaking doors they step, with eyes that watch. Cyrene is wine beside her, pouring seamlessly across the floor and to her other side, her brother is the quiet constant of stars.

Florentine says nothing to them, she need not. Tempus had spoken for them all. They are gathered here and they are not alone. Across from them Seraphina stands, her regime beside her. Florentine’s lips tip into a smile, small, quiet, near hidden. Then there is gold and a trio she knows, a trio she adores. Amethyst eyes drink in the whole of Somnus, of the seriousness in which they find each other; it is not like any of their meetings before. The young queen’s breath is a soft sigh, her gaze long beneath the thick of her fringe.

Lavender petals are brave, even here, and they fall from Florentine and drift curiously, reverently across the floor. The fae-queen watches as they reach for Dusk’s tapestries and then press forward, as if in homage, to the statue that glows.

A forelimb twitches and Flora’s skin feels the phantom touch of it. She holds the searing gaze of those glowing eyes, she lets them light a shine a lamp deep into the very heart of her. Then she turns, her skull dropping just a moment, curious and quiet.

This was Time reaching out for the girl who will not be contained by it. Her dagger thrums with life, keen and wild, as magic seems to thrum in every corner.

The time-traveller girl has come, to see what this god of Time might want with her, with all of his creation.

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world

RE: Dew in the Valley - Asterion - 06-01-2018

It is a strange atmosphere that carries them up to the base of the mountain.

Almost it reminds him of a festival – so much activity, so many faces lit with curiosity. But then he remembers Calliope’s warning, and how she and Raymond had run ahead. As they near the meeting-place, the smell of magic, sharp and metallic, builds like a coming storm. It sweeps him back to memories of Ravos, when he’d possessed such power in his veins, when he walked alongside the gods.

Nervousness traces his veins electric, but he is unafraid when they reach the circle of trees and stones. His gaze passes over his friends, his court, and the last it pauses on is a unicorn who had never feared the gods. At last he follows his golden sister between the wooden doors.

Wonder takes him then, as takes in the clearing lit by lantern light, revealing tapestries with stories strange and familiar. The air is still, fragrant with rich earth and green boughs. Asterion’s gaze is pulled again and again to the statue at the head of the table, its glow brighter, stranger, than any lantern.

He keeps near to Florentine and Cyrene, but a true smile catches him when he spots Eik, and he is quick to nod at both Seraphina and Somnus.

And then the Night Court enters.

When he looks at them, his dark-eyed gaze slipping from face to familiar face, he expects to feel the familiar echo of hurt and anger. Instead there is only sadness, only pity – here are his once-heroes, and when he blinks he imagines the distant flare of fire, the hollow sound of goodbye. At last he realizes what he ought to have known from the beginning: they are all only men, just as he is.

It all seems so foolish, in the face of a mystery as great as the gods. And it is almost with relief that he turns to the statue, now, and feels a familiar tremble of anticipation.

Asterion wonders if Tempus will be anything at all like the gods he has known before.

if you'll be my star*

RE: Dew in the Valley - Bexley - 06-01-2018

gothic vine growing fire in the lobby
lighten up buttercup get a hobby

What lives in Bexley’s heart is not fear.

It is an end of some sort. An animal, living and growing and scratching, teeth and claws, at the inside of her ribs. What lives in her heart is wild, lovely, terrifying anticipation, and as much as Bexley fears whatever is on the other side of those slowly opening doors, some part of her still lusts for the excitement it’s bound to bring. Still yearns for the lurch in her stomach. The iron smell of fear.

Seraphina steps through the doorway, and Bexley follows.

Brief light flickers overhead, sifting through the obfuscating darkness; a warm wind blows from deep within the cavern. Trees dance quietly overhead, their leaves a shuddering maelstrom against the blue-blackness of the sky, and bend to press in on the regime as they pass through, the flora whispering secrets in bright-cool breezes. There is something like magic in the air, though the Solterran is loathe to give it such a common name.

Something divine, then.

Bexley’s eyes are moons in the black. For such a special occasion, those clouds of white hair have been bound back in thin braids; her necklace shines loud-gold in the dim light; the scent of sandalwood ripples, thick enough to touch, from her skin. She prowls nearly shoulder-to-shoulder between Eik and Seraphina. Her steps are near-soundless in the dirt, and they match the rest of the regime’s exactly. Their strides are even and exact, their gazes an inner-storm calm. There is nothing but cool confidence on the faces of Solterra.

Gold, silver, and white, the three of them. How strange and lovely.

In the corner of her eye, familiarity flashes: Florentine, Reichenbach, Ipomoea. Her heart stirs, and she quiets it. They are not here for each other, but for the will of Tempus, for the summoning of the gods. They would all do well to remember that. Bex is razor-focused as she steps up to the central table, and she does not even flinch, not really, when the statue blinks at her: nothing seems strange in this magic moment, not the light that flickers off its necklaces, not the rocks floating at its base, or the warmth coming off of it in waves.

She dips her head at the figure, lashes lowered, gaze calm, but says nothing. For a brief half-second, she presses her shoulder to Seraphina’s, an unexpected moment of human weakness desiring contact, offering support - then she catches herself and moves away an inch or so, regaining the space that lies between them.

No greeting passes her lips. Let the gods come to her.

RE: Dew in the Valley - Reichenbach - 06-01-2018

i'd rather be spitting blood,

They arrived last.

The trio of stars and smoke entered the room with an easy grace, the shadows sliding over Reichenbach's skin in an intimate caress. Unlike some of the other souls that had been summoned, he had been a devoted believer in his Goddess, and seeing Tempus' shrine standing so solidly before them sent a warm flush through him. An easy smile hovered over his black lips as his gaze flicked over the strange collection before them —

Then settled curiously upon the statue at the head of the table. He wasted no time approaching the glowing stone, argent gaze keen upon the rough surface as if he could figure out what made it work. A summoning from Tempus himself... His gaze slid to Florentine and lingered, then Seraphina, and finally Somnus. All four Sovereigns in the same space. He could not help but to feel an amused grin pulling at the corners of his mouth — it seemed so absurd. The closing of the Gates had done nothing to dull the addictive vibrancy that emanated from him, and he flashed a sideways smile at Bexley as he stepped fluidly past to rejoin Aislinn and Isorath.

Again, his gaze swept the room as the candlelight shone on his midnight curls. His voice cut through the silence, an amused, musical baritone;

"Quite the party."

space

RE: Dew in the Valley - Aislinn - 06-02-2018

DAUGHTER OF STORMS.

You will come.

And oh, how they arrived.

When the earth had split and been made anew by only divine hands did the brave wander too close. Shadows slithered beneath the canopy where warm bodies crept into the cavern, vanishing into the terrifying dark. The doors had been opened, then.

From above — far, far above — she watches, solitary and wrapped in summer’s feverish kiss. And only when her king steps forward, curled in Calligo’s grasp, did the stormsinger dive towards the earth. Her hooves prance along the sweetgrass and stone, stilling. She is the calm before a storm, the sky’s collective hush as the heaven’s hold their breath for fury. Yet, beside her.. together, they were the stars and night eternal.

Blue orbs flicker with knowing, with thunderous rain on a sea as she beholds them both. Her king, the sovereign of shadows and smoke, and her emissary, the Flamekeeper of porcelain and gold. Calligo’s own, in flesh and blood.

Her gaze speaks without words. Shall we?

The cave mouth yawned for her, for them, as she is swallowed in the dark. Firelight dances across her skin where her goddess’ fingers hold her, holds them all. Reichenbach and Isorath are a familiar warmth near her as they enter, and it is as if the silence quakes. Faces both foreign and familiar find them, but she does not falter. She does not bow. Although her wing aches at the memory of the desert queen, her thoughts flash pink blossoms in spring when she notices the dawn sovereign, and.. and..

Aislinn exhales hurricane’s cold.

The severed ties of her heart are gone. There is only an emptiness, a galaxy’s black hole where twilight had once been painted across her soul. She only moves to rejoin her family around the table. Not a word nor flicker of somethings on her stone cold face.

She looks at them once. Brother and sister. Her friend and once-prince.

And then the look is gone; instead, her stare falls upon the glowing statue of their summoning. The god of gods. The father of her own patron goddess. Tempus. For a moment, she could swear the smooth sweeps of stone and eye and hoof moved — a blink, a shudder, a shift — and then nothing. She even finds that she should be afraid. Intimidated, even.

Maybe she is a fool then that she is not.

Quite the party.

Reichenbach’s baritone pulls at her, snapping her focus back. His words are the flint that ignite the flames of her own disaster. She is an untamed fire, a kindled temper on a brink. ”It’s only getting started,” she muses, a whisper-wicked smile curling the edge of her lips.

Let it begin.

REGENT OF THE NIGHT COURT

bam bam super rusty
”Aislinn speech.”

space