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+---- Thread: [P] they told her she was art (/showthread.php?tid=1354)
they told her she was art - Messalina - 11-24-2017
M E S S A L I N A . //
What had started off as an excursion to the lands of Denocte had turned into a week-long trek over excruciating terrain. Though hard to admit to herself, Messalina may have… miscalculated the distance between Dawn and Night, and she was paying dearly for her mistakes.
By some miracle she had made it this far, past rivers and meadows and mountain ranges, relying solely on her keen intuition and a battered map.
Her journey to the Night Court was driven both by curiosity and necessity. It had been a rocky transition to life in Delumine, fraught with desperation and prickly interactions with the locals. At the end of it, she’d managed to obtain lodgings, a way to make some meager coin, and a bruised ego (still recovering). Thanks to the girl’s prior education, she’d become a sage’s assistant by day and a performer by night. She detested both jobs—the sage was as ancient as the trees, and the tavern she performed at was filled with nothing but intoxicated travelers more intent on bedding her than appreciating the elegance of her dance.
But it was the constant talk amongst them of the wonders of the enigmatic Night Court—their King Crow (whatever that meant), the streets filled with trinkets and music, and most importantly, the talents of the populace—that drew Messalina’s attention. She’d never encountered individuals as talented as she in the arts, and her curiosity was peaked. And if the rumors were true, the citizens paid good coin for splendid performances, something her near-empty coffers would sorely appreciate. It was decided. She would journey to the Night Court, stay for a full moon’s cycle, then return to Delumine jingling with coins and swathed in finery.
A smile parted her pink-satin lips as she fantasized about the luxuries she'd soon be able to purchase. A large chunk—scratch that, all—of her wages went towards restoring herself to her former glory. And while gold baubles weaved through her ivory braids, and a heavy embellished cloak settled gracefully around her shoulders, she was bitterly reminded of how she’d dressed her dolls in fabrics finer than her current ones.
Messalina halted her steps as water lapped around her ivory hooves. A lake as smooth as a mirror emerged in front of her: Vitreus Lake. Perhaps she would arrive in the court at nightfall, if nothing detained her until then. A blood-red ripple drew her eye to the water’s surface, and she exhaled at the reflection of the rose nestled behind her ear.
@Mila
notes: I finally put this up! <3 messa's naivety really shines through in this post o_o
RE: they told her she was art - Mila - 11-24-2017
She was a gold-red blur among the burnished amber of the trees, the fire of the leaves, and the mist dancing along the mirror lake. The sunset reflected against the freckles of her skin, the sky above her gilded in oranges and burnt pinks, night ever slowly beginning to fall. She was a fire made woman, a desert daughter in the heart of a dark kingdom. Although she hailed from a realm of scorched earth and parched mouths, the poison mistress reveled in the cold that cocooned her. For once, she did not balk from the chill settling into her bones, or the kiss of winter brushing every fallen leaf beneath her hooves. She had never seen a world blanketed in white; had never witnessed snow fall like ash onto the frozen earth. So instead of hiding in the warmest reaches of her home behind the castle walls, she ventured. Braving the bite of autumn as the temperature dropped with the descent of the sun. Her little hooves taking her far outside the capital city, until her ankles tasted silver water pooling around her legs.
Smoke filled her nostrils, as if bonfires of cinnamon and spices were smoldering in the trees, drums beating to welcome the coming Night. Such was the way of their Court. Passion, music, revelry. Song and dance and an untamed wildness that burned in the blood of each true Denoctian, every son and daughter of Calligo. Soon, stars would begin to yawn awake, shimmering across an inky sky like shining pearls. For there was one thing that shone above all others in the court of smoke and shadows, despite the suspicion and wonder hidden behind every corner of their realm.
They were misfits from all walks of life, shining beneath the most spectacular nights of any other realm.
Mila herself was a misfit, but not just any that called Reichenbach's Court home. She was a lady Crow; mischievous and brutal and lethal in her quiet. Her blood was permanently poisonous, her lips coated in corrosive death, and each seductive curve of her body spoke of violence hidden in the secrets of her skin. As she stood in the waters of the lake, she pondered such things. How the Crows were her family not bound by blood, but fierce loyalty and circumstance, and how their King of Thieves was their bane. Their saving grace. She wondered to herself how he played the game of thrones; if the other kings and queens were foolish enough to believe the handsome face of a man who dealt in secrets, who's own heart was larger than the kingdom itself combined. If their kingdom knew the full truth of each Crow, each assassin and wishmaker and magician in their ranks, would they still feel the same love for their king as she? Would their kingdom still dance to the beat of drums and pipes until the wee hours of morning, without care or troubles weighing down on their shoulders? Would they still bow to a man who spoke to the shadows and the Crows who lay hidden in the dark?
Looking at herself, at the rippled reflection of beauty in the water, she let her mind wander to such things. She found that she did not care about the opinions of sheep, no matter if their kingdom discovered the horrors hiding in the dark or not. Her king would forever hold her allegiance; for he had plucked her and her twin from the cracked and bleeding life of Before and breathed them into something new. This kingdom was her home, her only home, and the Crows were her familia. She did not care, not an ounce, about the unspeakable things each one of them had done. For she was one of them.. and she would not soon forget the bliss of chaos and bloodshed of those who had ever laid a finger on her or dared raise an ugly head against her king.
Amusement curled her lips into a wicked smile, just as her ears flickered to catch a voice lilting through the music in the trees. Their court was just beginning it's nightly dance, and now a voice like soft water broke through the thoughts crowding her mind. She had not realized she had company, as her gaze blinked upwards to take in a strange woman who, like she, stood in the shallows of the lake.
If only you were with me, Annette. If only Mother hadn’t left me to suffer on my own, from riches to rags overnight.
She could not help herself as a laugh rippled from her throat. Poor, pretty thing, she thought, as her delicate crown quirked sideways to examine the girl standing not more than a few yards from her. Her emerald orbs glimmered with mischief and curiosity, but also as bright as one of her bottled poisons, and as sharp as one of her sister's bejeweled daggers. Through the glittering mist surrounding the lake, Mila noted the woman's ivory and rose frame. How fragile she appeared, like a porcelain doll adorned with flowers and ballet slippers, never to be touched or played with for it would surely break. A lovely foreign beauty, who strayed too far off the garden path it seemed.
Her own mane was brushed up into a thick swirling bun behind her curved ears, adorned with a jeweled gold pin. A stray flaxen strand fell before her eyes, and she shook it away, her smile broadening into more of a smirk as furrowed a brow at the stranger. Not only was this poor girl probably lost, or air-headed, or both, she did not know.. but she had just stumbled onto a wicked pretty thing, who would most definitely, likely.. do more harm than good.
"Excuse me," Mila chirped, not deigning to hide the curiosity plastered on her pretty face, "were you just talking to herself? Are you lost?"
@messalina HOLY MILA MUSE. I'm so sorry this is so long D: please excuse Mila.. she doesn't have many manners xD
RE: they told her she was art - Messalina - 11-26-2017
M E S S A L I N A . //
If there was one thing about the strange lands of Novus that unnerved her, it would be the fact that the citizens cared not for rank or circumstance when addressing each other. She had observed it in the easy banter between sages and champions, warriors and healers. And though she had never seen him, she’d deduced from the amiable way they spoke of him that the sovereign Kasil himself mingled freely among his citizens, treating them like equals.
There was the word again, foreign in her mouth. Equality. The girl wasn’t daft; she knew of equality, had read about the distant lands where ranks were abolished and everyone lived in peace and harmony, each with the same rights of the other. It was quite a joke to her—if there ever existed a place where vicious hearts did not seek to trample weaker ones in a bid for power, then may lightning strike her then and there. It wasn’t like Algernon had been ruled by a tyrant; in her encounters with him, the King had been agreeable and just. But the class system that existed was absolute. Maids obeyed their mistresses without question, and noblewomen flaunted their status and superiority to all ranked lower than they. Mother had held a position of considerable power, and so Messalina was expressly forbidden from interacting with the lower class. They would sully her reputation, and Mother would have her by the neck.
So spare her some mercy if she still cannot fathom the behavior exhibited by the citizens of Novus, let alone reciprocate.
It was then that a silken voice, echoing from someplace disturbingly close to where she stood, roused her from her thoughts. She made an effort not to startle, loathing the thought of being caught off guard. Had the intruder heard her pleas?
"Excuse me, were you just talking to yourself? Are you lost?" came a purring female voice, perfectly on cue. How impudent. Messalina swiveled her head sharply towards the source, golden pins chiming as her curls flared out in a halo of white, then settled back against her slender neck. Frosted blue irises narrowed a fraction in suspicion as they met sparkling emerald ones, the latter’s less-than-innocent intentions clear as day.
It seemed she had company, and whoever it was had made quite the impression. As she faced the stranger, Messalina took note of the slender woman’s almost predatory stance, a twisted sort of amusement rolling off her in waves. The girl resolved to end the confrontation as quickly as it had arrived, for she had no wish of inviting trouble this close to her destination.
In a way, it was relieving to shed her mask in front of this bold girl, her flame-red pelt and golden hair as glorious as a setting sun. To Messalina’s winter frost, she was summer’s flame: vibrant, dazzling, volatile. Messalina vowed to tread carefully around her; too close, and she would surely burn.
@Mila
notes: the air is fizzling ;A; trust me messa isn't much better -.-