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+---- Thread: [AW] paintings like silent poetry (/showthread.php?tid=1585)
paintings like silent poetry - Ipomoea - 01-21-2018
I P O M O E A
i'm feeling my way through the darkness
guided by a beating heart
It was a rare thing, for Ipomoea to seek peace and quiet. Perhaps it was the wild streets of Denocte that had finally driven him to solitude, the dancing gypsies with their flashing coins and high-pitched songs seeming to set the entire marketplace on fire. It had been packed and bustling, equines this way and that way all pushing to get to where they wanted to go. There had been the merchants themselves, calling him closer, closer so that he might gaze upon their wares and walk away with far less cash than what he’d arrived with. And let’s not forget the citizens who recognized him for what he was: the Emissary of Dawn Court, a foreigner, something new and exciting. Voices were raised, everyone talking at once, clamoring to be heard over the other, so that Po was engaged in not just one, but many conversations at once. It was confusing and overwhelming, even for one who usually thrived in the spotlight!
It was no wonder Kasil stayed in the keep so much.
Denocte truly was a wild thing, perhaps even wilder than her Night King. And while Ipomoea was not quite put off from it—he found he didn’t mind solitude quite so much as he once thought.
He wondered distantly if the King would mind that he had ventured into his castle for reprieve; but then again, had he not been instructed to make himself at home? Emissaries were supposed to immerse themselves in the different Courts, to be knowledgeable of every culture and tradition. Surely there was something here in the capitol building that he could learn about—without the hustle and bustle of the market awaiting him outside.
In fact, the room he found himself in now boasted a number of intricate tapestries, each boasting a different scene in a different style. He wandered closer, not yet daring to touch, but pressing his nose up nearly so close to study the fine paint strokes of one particular piece, the seemingly center of the room.
A mix of blacks and blues were sloshed heavily across the painting, creating a texture similar to the folds in a silk garment. White dotted the space unevenly, colors strewn in a heavy band through the middle of the night sky backdrop. It was beautiful, but also cold; the sky felt so impersonal, like a watcher of Denocte who had seen too much, but couldn’t look away. A small voice at the back of Ipomoea’s mind wondered at the people who made such artwork, at what had inspired them and made them so worthy to hang on a wall in the Night King’s home.
With a soft snort, he backed away to take in the whole picture again, thoughts churning silently through his mind, threatening to burst aloud unbidden. But it would not do for the Emissary of another Court to be seen rambling to himself, speaking to the paintings as if hopeful they would answer back. No, it was better to keep his thoughts, his questions, to himself.
For now.
@open to anyone! come look at paintings w Po <3
tagging @reichenbach in case you'd like a new thread with him~
i'm feeling my way through the darkness
guided by a beating heart
It was a rare thing, for Ipomoea to seek peace and quiet. Perhaps it was the wild streets of Denocte that had finally driven him to solitude, the dancing gypsies with their flashing coins and high-pitched songs seeming to set the entire marketplace on fire. It had been packed and bustling, equines this way and that way all pushing to get to where they wanted to go. There had been the merchants themselves, calling him closer, closer so that he might gaze upon their wares and walk away with far less cash than what he’d arrived with. And let’s not forget the citizens who recognized him for what he was: the Emissary of Dawn Court, a foreigner, something new and exciting. Voices were raised, everyone talking at once, clamoring to be heard over the other, so that Po was engaged in not just one, but many conversations at once. It was confusing and overwhelming, even for one who usually thrived in the spotlight!
It was no wonder Kasil stayed in the keep so much.
Denocte truly was a wild thing, perhaps even wilder than her Night King. And while Ipomoea was not quite put off from it—he found he didn’t mind solitude quite so much as he once thought.
He wondered distantly if the King would mind that he had ventured into his castle for reprieve; but then again, had he not been instructed to make himself at home? Emissaries were supposed to immerse themselves in the different Courts, to be knowledgeable of every culture and tradition. Surely there was something here in the capitol building that he could learn about—without the hustle and bustle of the market awaiting him outside.
In fact, the room he found himself in now boasted a number of intricate tapestries, each boasting a different scene in a different style. He wandered closer, not yet daring to touch, but pressing his nose up nearly so close to study the fine paint strokes of one particular piece, the seemingly center of the room.
A mix of blacks and blues were sloshed heavily across the painting, creating a texture similar to the folds in a silk garment. White dotted the space unevenly, colors strewn in a heavy band through the middle of the night sky backdrop. It was beautiful, but also cold; the sky felt so impersonal, like a watcher of Denocte who had seen too much, but couldn’t look away. A small voice at the back of Ipomoea’s mind wondered at the people who made such artwork, at what had inspired them and made them so worthy to hang on a wall in the Night King’s home.
With a soft snort, he backed away to take in the whole picture again, thoughts churning silently through his mind, threatening to burst aloud unbidden. But it would not do for the Emissary of another Court to be seen rambling to himself, speaking to the paintings as if hopeful they would answer back. No, it was better to keep his thoughts, his questions, to himself.
For now.
@open to anyone! come look at paintings w Po <3
tagging @reichenbach in case you'd like a new thread with him~
art by day of shadow
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Messalina - 01-24-2018
MESSALINA
Her time in the Court of Stars and Shadow was drawing to a close, and Messalina felt as if she was bidding farewell to an old friend, one who’d kept watch over her with fond eyes and soft smiles all her life. What was the feeling she’d often heard others speak of? Bittersweetness?
That was it—she clung to the feeling, holding it close to her breast like a small, fluttering bird. Listening to it’s steady heartbeat. And then away it flew, into the night-black sky, leaving her with a memory she would keep safe within the chasms of her mind. Did others do this, with their feelings? Probably not—but Messalina was a filly on wobbling legs in the rich world recently opened to her, and this had been the best way for her to truly discern each emotion as it came.
Though Delumine was her home (even now, the word felt odd within her mouth—a home that was not Algernon), Denocte had sparked a flame within the winter girl’s heart. Day by day, the memories of Mother drifted farther away from her as she walked amongst Caligo’s sons and daughters, immersing herself into their world ruled by euphoria and love and sorrow. She had wandered deep into a court propelled by the emotions of its people, and at first it had been overwhelming, like sunlight shining into the eyes of one who has not seen the sky for a lifetime. Yet slowly, steadily, Messalina learned—and link by link, the chains binding her heart loosened.
She could not leave the court without paying a visit to Denocte’s ivy-strewn castle, and tonight had been the time to do so. Hoofbeats echoed through the dimly-lit hallways of the citadel, as the girl of silk and roses moved gracefully across its marble floors. Creamy braids swished and swayed across her slender neck as she paused and marveled at the intricacy of each chandelier, tapestry, and vase she passed. Never would Denocte’s artisans stop astounding her with their masterful skill. As she wandered through the maze of endless corridors, curtsying politely at the diplomats and inhabitants she encountered, she suddenly found herself in a vast room comprised entirely of paintings.
The richly carpeted chamber was structured in a way that one had to round a corner to continue following the trail of ornate paintings, a feature which enclosed the room in a hushed sort of intimacy. As Messalina ventured inside, hoofbeats muffled by the soft floor, cerulean eyes widened with a start as she discovered that another had already stumbled upon the secluded space. And… she recognized his coat of crimson patches instantly.
"Ipomoea? Is… that you?” The girl’s soft voice almost betrayed her surprise as slim legs carried her closer towards him. It is him, isn’t it? The flurry of excitement that tingled down her spine would’ve normally stopped her in her tracks as she tried to curb it—but Messalina was lost in the revelation that she was meeting the Emissary once again after so long, and in the heart of the Night Court at that. Drawing near him, the scent of spring flowers wafted towards her; it calmed her, and a smile slipped grandly over her satin lips. It was another change about her—her smile had lost its frosty edge.
"We seem to meet always in the strangest of places,” she mused, a light chuckle escaping her as she turned her curious gaze towards the piece he’d been admiring. "I recognize this style—there was one just like it in my previous court, imported from overseas. What are the odds that I would stumble upon its predecessor?”
That was it—she clung to the feeling, holding it close to her breast like a small, fluttering bird. Listening to it’s steady heartbeat. And then away it flew, into the night-black sky, leaving her with a memory she would keep safe within the chasms of her mind. Did others do this, with their feelings? Probably not—but Messalina was a filly on wobbling legs in the rich world recently opened to her, and this had been the best way for her to truly discern each emotion as it came.
Though Delumine was her home (even now, the word felt odd within her mouth—a home that was not Algernon), Denocte had sparked a flame within the winter girl’s heart. Day by day, the memories of Mother drifted farther away from her as she walked amongst Caligo’s sons and daughters, immersing herself into their world ruled by euphoria and love and sorrow. She had wandered deep into a court propelled by the emotions of its people, and at first it had been overwhelming, like sunlight shining into the eyes of one who has not seen the sky for a lifetime. Yet slowly, steadily, Messalina learned—and link by link, the chains binding her heart loosened.
She could not leave the court without paying a visit to Denocte’s ivy-strewn castle, and tonight had been the time to do so. Hoofbeats echoed through the dimly-lit hallways of the citadel, as the girl of silk and roses moved gracefully across its marble floors. Creamy braids swished and swayed across her slender neck as she paused and marveled at the intricacy of each chandelier, tapestry, and vase she passed. Never would Denocte’s artisans stop astounding her with their masterful skill. As she wandered through the maze of endless corridors, curtsying politely at the diplomats and inhabitants she encountered, she suddenly found herself in a vast room comprised entirely of paintings.
The richly carpeted chamber was structured in a way that one had to round a corner to continue following the trail of ornate paintings, a feature which enclosed the room in a hushed sort of intimacy. As Messalina ventured inside, hoofbeats muffled by the soft floor, cerulean eyes widened with a start as she discovered that another had already stumbled upon the secluded space. And… she recognized his coat of crimson patches instantly.
eyes so blue,
I drown.
I drown.
@Ipomoea
-flails- ;u;
-flails- ;u;
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Reichenbach - 01-30-2018
hanged, but did not die,
"I recognize this style—there was one just like it in my previous court, imported from overseas. What are the odds that I would stumble upon its predecessor?”
"It's always pleasing to hear the work of Ixion has reached farther shores than I."
His voice interrupted the quiet of the room, brought it alive as if the musical baritone had called to all things and set them singing. Reichenbach appeared a moment later, leaning against the doorway with a pleasant, if dry, smile upon his black lips. Shadows coiled about the nape of his neck, in a sort of sleep-state, lazy in their movements as his silver gaze flicked between Ipomoea and the dainty girl he'd yet to see wandering Denocte. After a moment he pushed off of the doorway and entered the room, asking;
"Do you have a favourite?"
His gaze wandered over each tapestry, lingering finally upon the one the pair of Delumine souls had chosen to inspect. Ixion's painting. Reichenbach had never known the man that had painted it, only his story — a story formed not so long before he himself had arrived within Denocte. As a slim-shouldered orphan boy he'd heard the whispers and the regrets, the sorrow that had been the life of Ixion Starchaser. Reichenbach drew closer to the tapestry, enigmatic and vibrant against the painted backdrop. He glanced at Ipomoea, murmuring;
"He killed himself, you know.. Saw too much in the world."
Abruptly, he looked to the delicately boned girl in the room, appraising her with knowing eyes. She was an artwork in herself, with mile-long legs and long lashed eyes — not to mention that flawlessly pale skin. The Night King looked away for a moment, cleansing his eyes of another pale-skinned resident before returning his gaze and cocking his roguish head;
"Hello there"
Then came another charming grin, an act that would follow his words constantly — an eternal smile of his own damnation.
@Ipomoea @Messalina these guys are so cute!!
"It's always pleasing to hear the work of Ixion has reached farther shores than I."
His voice interrupted the quiet of the room, brought it alive as if the musical baritone had called to all things and set them singing. Reichenbach appeared a moment later, leaning against the doorway with a pleasant, if dry, smile upon his black lips. Shadows coiled about the nape of his neck, in a sort of sleep-state, lazy in their movements as his silver gaze flicked between Ipomoea and the dainty girl he'd yet to see wandering Denocte. After a moment he pushed off of the doorway and entered the room, asking;
"Do you have a favourite?"
His gaze wandered over each tapestry, lingering finally upon the one the pair of Delumine souls had chosen to inspect. Ixion's painting. Reichenbach had never known the man that had painted it, only his story — a story formed not so long before he himself had arrived within Denocte. As a slim-shouldered orphan boy he'd heard the whispers and the regrets, the sorrow that had been the life of Ixion Starchaser. Reichenbach drew closer to the tapestry, enigmatic and vibrant against the painted backdrop. He glanced at Ipomoea, murmuring;
"He killed himself, you know.. Saw too much in the world."
Abruptly, he looked to the delicately boned girl in the room, appraising her with knowing eyes. She was an artwork in herself, with mile-long legs and long lashed eyes — not to mention that flawlessly pale skin. The Night King looked away for a moment, cleansing his eyes of another pale-skinned resident before returning his gaze and cocking his roguish head;
"Hello there"
Then came another charming grin, an act that would follow his words constantly — an eternal smile of his own damnation.
while he was being buried,
he arose and asked for a drink.
@Ipomoea @Messalina these guys are so cute!!
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Ipomoea - 02-16-2018
|
I P O M O E A
He was still looking at the painting—as if Ipomoea thought by staring at it long enough and intensely enough, he could convince the oils to tell him their secrets, the story by which they were made and arranged so aesthetically. It was a silly notion, and a naive one: paintings couldn’t talk, nor could their painter once he had passed away and gone. But like a child, Ipomoea still wished—and sometimes, pretended—they could. It was his imagination he could thank for such things, borne in the desert when he’d spent more time indoors, sick and daydreaming, than outside playing with the other foals. It occupied his mind when his body was so often sick, for with it even his studies of Delumine history could not be called dull, so rampant did his mind run. He could spend hours alone in his room still, daydreaming about the life a famous colonel might have led, or imagining a world as a flower saw it, slow and steady, dependent upon the sun and the warmth and the rain. Days often went by unnoticed when he forgot to keep track of them, Ipomoea becoming so immersed in his readings and fantasies that he became oblivious to the passing of the sun. Not that he was alone in his musings; the entirety of Delumine seemed content to do the same, slumbering away in far off worlds within their books and their stories. It was only on trips like these, when he left the walls of his home, that he realized time had not stopped for the rest of Novus. Truly, it seemed the equines of Dawn were the only ones not caught up in some grand love affair or insidious plot. They were of a slower breed than those of the hot deserts of Solterra or the passionate fires of Denocte, flames that had caught hold even of Terrastella. He could taste change in the wind here, far from home; but Ipomoea knew better. The winds would someday turn north. Delumine could not stay out of it all forever. The thickly carpeted floors absorbed the sounds around him, so that the corridor he found himself in was strangely muffled and quiet. He didn’t hear the footsteps of someone approaching; he only heard her voice, speaking so softly and so near to him. His knees locked, head lifting a few inches in surprise as he turned towards the unexpected disturbance. But her appearance flooding his eyes calmed him, the worry washing away from his bones and muscles as he relaxed back into his stance. “Yes, it is me,” he greeted, voice equally soft. And just like that, his heavy, somber thoughts from a moment before were gone, and he was lost in the girl with the baby blue eyes and the red rose tucked in her hair. He wasn’t about to question why she was here—that was what Delumine about, wasn’t it? Going out into the world for the sake of learning more, being more? Although truly, the entire Court had seemed to do poorly at that in recent years, the Emissary was no exception—he would only be thankful that fate had put them in this room full of paintings together. His mouth opened to say so, to let her know in too many words that he was happy, quite happy, to meet her in these strangest of places, but it wasn’t his voice that filled the room. One far deeper and far more commanding overshadowed his own, stealing both his words and her attention. A strange emotion—jealousy? no, there was no resentment within him—tipped his lips into a frown, fleeting as it was across his lips. He hid it, tilting his flowered crown in respect to the Night King as he entered. “With a style like his, it would deserve to be shown to the entire world,” he agreed, his voice hushed as if they stood in a library, rather than an art gallery—drastically different from the commanding voice of Reichenbach. Old habits died hard. “There’s so many to choose a favorite from… you seem to have built yourself up quite the collection, your Majesty.” His scarlet eyes followed Reich’s, traveling around the small room as it inspected each framed piece, a full circle made before settling back on Ixion’s. A shiver trickled like ice water down his spine, raising hairs in its wake. With his eyes stubbornly held on the backdrop of stars and galaxies, Ipomoea dared, like he never had before, to question the King. “Or maybe he just hadn’t seen enough?” His mouth shut soon after, clipping the end of his sentence short, but it was done. He couldn’t take the words back, nor would he have wanted to. Subtly, he stole a glance at the gypsy man, but the attention was no longer on him. He breathed an internal sigh of relief. But one ear still tilted in the Night King’s direction, carefully soaking up his interaction with Messalina. He wasn’t sure why he cared so much; he hardly knew the pale-skinned dancer, having met her only a handful of times before. The feeling was foreign to him, he couldn’t place it: so it stayed, big and ugly and intrusive at the front of his mind, as if taunting him. ’There’s just something different about her.’ Drawing himself up, he made himself turn back, ruby red eyes searching for her sky blue ones across the room. Now wasn’t the time to hide behind his hair and flowers; the feelings weighing heavily on his mind (and heart?) told him to be bold. And he resolved to listen to it. @messalina @reichenbach ahh this will be fun <3 also po what u doing man |
neverrmind art
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Messalina - 02-22-2018
MESSALINA
So many words pressed hesitant yet imploring at her tongue—meeting the flower-wreathed Emissary in the court of Night had set Messalina’s mind awhirl in a scattering of jumbled thoughts. She found herself wanting to ask him things she normally uttered only as vapid pleasantries; spoken more so for the sake of appearances, than in any earnest appreciation for their answers. And she might have asked them—she would have asked them—if a voice as deep and sonorous as rippling silk had not drawn Messalina’s startled gaze to its source.
A shadow-clad figure drew itself away from the ornate doorframe and strode silently, resplendently, across the gallery’s plush carpeting. It took the girl a moment to convince herself that it was really him.
The Night King.
But of course. It is only proper to greet the King before departing his kingdom, is it not? she mused, quick to school her features back into placidity as Reichenbach’s rugged frame drew near. Yet as he did so, as the gypsy coins upon his broad chest clinked ever louder, a growing unease dragged its cold, bony fingers across the ridge of Messalina’s spine.
The last king she had bowed to had responded by demanding her head served to him on a silver platter. After Mother’s abominable betrayal, the people’s rage had to be appeased—and with the Enchantress herself having vanished in a plume of silver smoke, all blame had shifted to hang savagely upon her ivory daughter’s slender neck. Barely, just barely, had that guiltless daughter escaped from their bloodthirsty blades.
Appropriately, then, did a lingering apprehension around royalty plague her tenuous heart.
Even when Mother is no longer beside me—I am still a marionette with her strings attached.
It was Ipomoea’s steady presence by her side that lulled her trembling nerves to rest; slowly, softly, a pleasant smile settled across her lips as Messalina inclined into an elegant bow towards Denocte’s dark-eyed Sovereign."Your majesty,” she murmured, ivory eyelashes grazing the tops of her cheeks as she lowered in solemn deference. Silken braids rustled gently across taut shoulders as she rose again, and cerulean eyes flickered momentarily to the painted boy at her side. Wordlessly, Messalina observed the interaction between her Emissary and Denocte’s famed King of Thieves.
From the way they addressed each other, they seemed already acquainted. Quietly, she noted the king’s brief yet hushed interaction with Ipomoea, their faces turned away from hers—political matters, perhaps? A name—Ixion—was the one word she gleaned from the murmurs. Was that the artist’s name? She had never heard of it. No one in Algernon had ever thought it worth their while to tell the cold-eyed dancer of such things, and so Messalina had resorted to gathering scraps of foreign knowledge from ancient scrolls and eavesdropped conversations. Only upon arriving at Delumine’s emerald shores, had she realized just how little she truly knew.
She was brought back to the present with a start, when the Night King’s rumbling, earthen voice plucked her swiftly from her memories.
“Hello there.”
Onyx and cerise gazes—one delicate as spring blossoms, while another as smooth as the night sky—fell upon her at once, and Messalina hesitated for the lightest of seconds as she grasped at what to say."I am honored to meet you, King Reichenbach,” she spoke. Pleasantries had never failed her before. "I am Messalina, from the Dawn Court.”
As an afterthought, she softly added:"Though I did not know much of Ixion, it is only fitting for him to have hailed from the Night Court.”
The words slipped carefully yet eloquently from her mouth. They were formal, conservative; she knew of nothing else.
Yet even in the presence of Denocte’s charming Sovereign, her attention returned always to the crimson painted Emissary. It was becoming almost instinctive, something that just happened. Messalina was not a girl that let things just happen like that, so much out of her conscious control.
Though with Ipomoea, she had stopped fighting it the moment he'd whispered those words to her, the winds of the Veneror rustling the flowers atop his crown: “I can be just Ipomoea, to you.”
Just Ipomoea. If only, if only.
A shadow-clad figure drew itself away from the ornate doorframe and strode silently, resplendently, across the gallery’s plush carpeting. It took the girl a moment to convince herself that it was really him.
The Night King.
But of course. It is only proper to greet the King before departing his kingdom, is it not? she mused, quick to school her features back into placidity as Reichenbach’s rugged frame drew near. Yet as he did so, as the gypsy coins upon his broad chest clinked ever louder, a growing unease dragged its cold, bony fingers across the ridge of Messalina’s spine.
The last king she had bowed to had responded by demanding her head served to him on a silver platter. After Mother’s abominable betrayal, the people’s rage had to be appeased—and with the Enchantress herself having vanished in a plume of silver smoke, all blame had shifted to hang savagely upon her ivory daughter’s slender neck. Barely, just barely, had that guiltless daughter escaped from their bloodthirsty blades.
Appropriately, then, did a lingering apprehension around royalty plague her tenuous heart.
Even when Mother is no longer beside me—I am still a marionette with her strings attached.
It was Ipomoea’s steady presence by her side that lulled her trembling nerves to rest; slowly, softly, a pleasant smile settled across her lips as Messalina inclined into an elegant bow towards Denocte’s dark-eyed Sovereign.
From the way they addressed each other, they seemed already acquainted. Quietly, she noted the king’s brief yet hushed interaction with Ipomoea, their faces turned away from hers—political matters, perhaps? A name—Ixion—was the one word she gleaned from the murmurs. Was that the artist’s name? She had never heard of it. No one in Algernon had ever thought it worth their while to tell the cold-eyed dancer of such things, and so Messalina had resorted to gathering scraps of foreign knowledge from ancient scrolls and eavesdropped conversations. Only upon arriving at Delumine’s emerald shores, had she realized just how little she truly knew.
She was brought back to the present with a start, when the Night King’s rumbling, earthen voice plucked her swiftly from her memories.
“Hello there.”
Onyx and cerise gazes—one delicate as spring blossoms, while another as smooth as the night sky—fell upon her at once, and Messalina hesitated for the lightest of seconds as she grasped at what to say.
As an afterthought, she softly added:
The words slipped carefully yet eloquently from her mouth. They were formal, conservative; she knew of nothing else.
Yet even in the presence of Denocte’s charming Sovereign, her attention returned always to the crimson painted Emissary. It was becoming almost instinctive, something that just happened. Messalina was not a girl that let things just happen like that, so much out of her conscious control.
Though with Ipomoea, she had stopped fighting it the moment he'd whispered those words to her, the winds of the Veneror rustling the flowers atop his crown: “I can be just Ipomoea, to you.”
Just Ipomoea. If only, if only.
eyes so blue,
I drown.
I drown.
@Ipomoea @Reichenbach
love all of them <3
love all of them <3
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Reichenbach - 02-27-2018
hanged, but did not die,
“There’s so many to choose a favorite from… you seem to have built yourself up quite the collection, your Majesty.”
Reich smiled at the comment, pleased that there was someone in the castle that had a respect for the art and artists he had collected — not all of them his, some had hung in the keep for years before he'd even taken his first breath... but Ixion's was his, and a select few others. He'd never intended on hanging them in the gallery but it had seemed a shame to let them hang anywhere but amongst the famed art of his city.
“Or maybe he just hadn’t seen enough?”
He turned his eyes sharply to Ipomoea, then dipped his head, eyes softening as he conceded...
"Perhaps.."
Ipomoea was watching the porcelain girl, better at hiding his emotions than Reichenbach... but only just, for The Night King sensed a nervousness emanating off of the Emissary that had never been there before — and those crimson eyes lingered all too long on the dainty girls reaction.
"The honour is mine, Messalina — Anyone from Delumine is welcome within Denocte."
So it had been since he had met with Kasil — a fine man, who shared his vision for the future. Only that future was crumbling now, politics and affairs of the heart proving to be a volatile and messy mix... and the blame lay solely on The Night Court and it's Sovereign. Still, the bond between Dawn and Night was strong, proven by the visitors before him. Would they wander so willingly into Solterra? He wondered, his argent eyes keen against their satin skins.
"Though I did not know much of Ixion, it is only fitting for him to have hailed from the Night Court.”
Another pleased smile flitted across his smoky lips at the words, so polite and eloquent — Messalina and Isorath would have had a field day together.
"I'm glad you think so, though..."
Reichenbach paused a moment, striding past them for a moment before arriving before a painting half-hidden by shadow, he frowned, using the telekinesis gifted by Tempus to slide the painting into the light. It depicted the Dawn Court gilded by the rising sun, colours of rose and gold swirling like oil and water over the pale stone.
".. he was also an avid painter of the Dawn."
@Ipomoea @Messalina <3
Reich smiled at the comment, pleased that there was someone in the castle that had a respect for the art and artists he had collected — not all of them his, some had hung in the keep for years before he'd even taken his first breath... but Ixion's was his, and a select few others. He'd never intended on hanging them in the gallery but it had seemed a shame to let them hang anywhere but amongst the famed art of his city.
“Or maybe he just hadn’t seen enough?”
He turned his eyes sharply to Ipomoea, then dipped his head, eyes softening as he conceded...
"Perhaps.."
Ipomoea was watching the porcelain girl, better at hiding his emotions than Reichenbach... but only just, for The Night King sensed a nervousness emanating off of the Emissary that had never been there before — and those crimson eyes lingered all too long on the dainty girls reaction.
"The honour is mine, Messalina — Anyone from Delumine is welcome within Denocte."
So it had been since he had met with Kasil — a fine man, who shared his vision for the future. Only that future was crumbling now, politics and affairs of the heart proving to be a volatile and messy mix... and the blame lay solely on The Night Court and it's Sovereign. Still, the bond between Dawn and Night was strong, proven by the visitors before him. Would they wander so willingly into Solterra? He wondered, his argent eyes keen against their satin skins.
"Though I did not know much of Ixion, it is only fitting for him to have hailed from the Night Court.”
Another pleased smile flitted across his smoky lips at the words, so polite and eloquent — Messalina and Isorath would have had a field day together.
"I'm glad you think so, though..."
Reichenbach paused a moment, striding past them for a moment before arriving before a painting half-hidden by shadow, he frowned, using the telekinesis gifted by Tempus to slide the painting into the light. It depicted the Dawn Court gilded by the rising sun, colours of rose and gold swirling like oil and water over the pale stone.
".. he was also an avid painter of the Dawn."
while he was being buried,
he arose and asked for a drink.
@Ipomoea @Messalina <3
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Ipomoea - 03-20-2018
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I P O M O E A He couldn’t help himself; his attention was continuously drawn to Messalina like a moth to a flame, near-blatantly ignoring the Night King. It wasn’t intentional—he would never dream of showing such disrespect to a king, especially when it was his job to represent his nation! But his mind had turned into a fickle, wayward thing: in the presence of Messalina, nothing else seemed nearly so interesting. His mind and heart were united, very much without his consent. When Messalina speaks, he’s enraptured: collecting her words like flowers, cradling them near and dear. She wasn’t even addressing him, but such minor details no longer seemed to matter to the young Emissary. So long as she was speaking, what she was saying was important to him, despite how careful and guarded she had become since their intimate encounter had turned into a party of three. And Po couldn’t help but wonder: had she wanted to be alone with him, too? His heart soared at the thought, fluttering like a wild thing caged within his chest. It was like counting the petals of a flower (for Po wouldn’t dare to demolish a flower in such a brutal way), whispering to himself upon each one: “she loves me… she loves me not…” becoming inexplicably happy when the last one declared their love indeed. His attention was snapped back at the mention of Delumine, backtracking quickly in his mind. That had been important, hadn’t it? News that he could carry back to his Sovereign, the promise that he and his fellow citizens would always be welcome within the secluded borders of Denocte. Ipomoea was too young and naive to question the King again—he couldn’t imagine a time when tensions would rise and alliances would change. To him, the present was the future: despite how wrong he might be. He followed carefully behind Reichenbach, his head bobbing amicably with each step as he grazed past Messalina, their shoulders touching for just a moment. His mind was still fluttering in the clouds, his heart soaring alongside it. And so when Reich pulled the painting into the light, its style distinctly familiar, it took a moment for the similarities to click. “—it’s beautiful,” he stammered, pressing closer now to appreciate it up close. He couldn’t help the sense of pride he felt—of course the painter would have found inspiration in the rising sun, framed by the Court that had been crafted to accentuate it. Ipomoea was as biased as could be when it came to a debate over which time of day was most beautiful. “How many more of these do you have?” If Reichenbach let him, the appaloosa was apt to spend the rest of his visit here in the gallery, admiring the many works of Ixion that he was coming to adore. @messalina @reichenbach I am SO sorry for how late this is!! i’m back now promise <3 ”here am i!“ |
neverrmind art
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Messalina - 04-06-2018
MESSALINA
It was odd — she couldn’t explain why, wouldn’t even have noticed if she was the same as she’d been just a month ago. But she’d changed since then. Utterly, and completely. The lightness that filled Messalina’s heart, the soft glow of happiness that fluttered within her like a jewel-winged hummingbird, was spreading like warm cider to the tips of her hooves.
To others, an evening spent admiring paintings with Dawn’s Emissary and Night’s Sovereign (a rather peculiar trio, in retrospect) would have been but a trifling affair. Pleasant, yes, but quickly forgotten in a rush of fancy galas and champagne spun dinners. Yet to the ivory-haired dancer, it was a novel situation entirely. The fact that her presence was welcomed, not as a silk-swathed performer or sweet-cheeked escort, but as simply herself, was a wonder all its own.
“Denocte is truly magnificent, Your Grace. So much so, that I was rather reluctant to leave,” she admitted with an airy chuckle. Through a fan of white lashes, she glanced wryly towards Po’s hovering presence. “That is, until I happened to come across Ipomoea — what are the chances? Dawn draws me back again. Back home.” The end of her finely woven sentence drifted out so softly, Messalina doubted either of them had heard. But it didn’t make it any less true. Home — Delumine was home.
She sensed the Emissary’s inquisitive gaze linger upon her like a fluttering butterfly. When Reichenbach strode away to fetch another painting from a gilded corner, the King’s sudden absence made the room seem so much smaller than she remembered. And Po, so much closer than she remembered. Suddenly, Messalina could see nothing but garnet eyes and painted skin.
".. he was also an avid painter of the Dawn."
Thank heavens the lights were dim indeed, for the Emissary’s featherlight touch as he brushed past her to examine the painting elicited the rosiest of flushes to blossom like watercolor across Messalina’s fair skin.
Hastily, cerulean eyes blinked once, twice, as she forced a heated breath from her lips. How unbecoming! And in the presence of the Night King, no less. Silently agonizing, the slender dancer nonetheless treaded hesitantly across the plush carpeting to where the showing now continued. I... I will talk to him later. I am far too worked up for it now.
She dared not look towards Ipomoea again — not yet, her heart had not steadied just yet — and so she stayed closer this time to the King’s side, gazing intently at the swirls and strokes of Delumine’s glittering, gilded sunrise he held aloft with a tender smile.
“The strokes and colors, the masterful chiascuro — not one of Algernon’s best artists could ever replicate Ixion's work fully.
“Yet… there is always a certain sense of — melancholy, in his work, I think. To evoke such profound emotion, I wonder what an artist has to suffer,” she murmured, looking fleetingly towards Reichenbach’s eyes of dancing argent before lowering her gaze again to the swirling oils.
To others, an evening spent admiring paintings with Dawn’s Emissary and Night’s Sovereign (a rather peculiar trio, in retrospect) would have been but a trifling affair. Pleasant, yes, but quickly forgotten in a rush of fancy galas and champagne spun dinners. Yet to the ivory-haired dancer, it was a novel situation entirely. The fact that her presence was welcomed, not as a silk-swathed performer or sweet-cheeked escort, but as simply herself, was a wonder all its own.
She sensed the Emissary’s inquisitive gaze linger upon her like a fluttering butterfly. When Reichenbach strode away to fetch another painting from a gilded corner, the King’s sudden absence made the room seem so much smaller than she remembered. And Po, so much closer than she remembered. Suddenly, Messalina could see nothing but garnet eyes and painted skin.
".. he was also an avid painter of the Dawn."
Thank heavens the lights were dim indeed, for the Emissary’s featherlight touch as he brushed past her to examine the painting elicited the rosiest of flushes to blossom like watercolor across Messalina’s fair skin.
Hastily, cerulean eyes blinked once, twice, as she forced a heated breath from her lips. How unbecoming! And in the presence of the Night King, no less. Silently agonizing, the slender dancer nonetheless treaded hesitantly across the plush carpeting to where the showing now continued. I... I will talk to him later. I am far too worked up for it now.
She dared not look towards Ipomoea again — not yet, her heart had not steadied just yet — and so she stayed closer this time to the King’s side, gazing intently at the swirls and strokes of Delumine’s glittering, gilded sunrise he held aloft with a tender smile.
“Yet… there is always a certain sense of — melancholy, in his work, I think. To evoke such profound emotion, I wonder what an artist has to suffer,”
eyes so blue,
I drown.
I drown.
@Ipomoea @Reichenbach
this thread is such a nice change of pace!
this thread is such a nice change of pace!
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Reichenbach - 04-18-2018
hanged, but did not die,
Reichenbach smiled amiably as Po slipped past him to inspect the painting, his argent eyes flicking between the two young Delumine souls in curious amusement. There was an undercurrent of tension in the room — and it did not come from him.
“How many more of these do you have?”
"Of Ixion's? Only three. The others..."
The Night King's eyes turned thoughtful,
"This Keep has many hidden treasures within it's walls, even I don't truly know the extent of them."
Again, his gaze flitted between his two companions, settling on Messalina in pleased appreciation as she doted on Ixion's work. Melancholy — perhaps. Ixion's story was one too similar to his own for comfort, a life lived too fully and with too much feeling. To think that his life had ended so tragically was less than reassuring. Life is short yet the road is long.
Reichenbach eyed the painting a moment longer before excusing himself;
"Unfortunately duty calls,"
His keen gaze took in the two young Deluminian's, a knowing smile playing about his black lips. Making to leave, he paused in the doorway, shadows rippling as he turned to address Ipomoea casually;
"Oh, Po? The wildflowers around Vitreus Lake are blooming beautifully this year, perhaps you might like to show lovely Messalina before she departs.."
Those argent eyes turned to the dainty girl for a moment longer before Reichenbach dipped his head in farewell, rumbling;
"A pleasure to meet you Messalina — May our paths cross again soon."
With that, The Night King slipped out the door, leaving his shadows to slink out behind him — and Ipomoea to ask that pretty girl on a date.
@Ipomoea @Messalina Reich leaving the lovebirds to it <3 <3
“How many more of these do you have?”
"Of Ixion's? Only three. The others..."
The Night King's eyes turned thoughtful,
"This Keep has many hidden treasures within it's walls, even I don't truly know the extent of them."
Again, his gaze flitted between his two companions, settling on Messalina in pleased appreciation as she doted on Ixion's work. Melancholy — perhaps. Ixion's story was one too similar to his own for comfort, a life lived too fully and with too much feeling. To think that his life had ended so tragically was less than reassuring. Life is short yet the road is long.
Reichenbach eyed the painting a moment longer before excusing himself;
"Unfortunately duty calls,"
His keen gaze took in the two young Deluminian's, a knowing smile playing about his black lips. Making to leave, he paused in the doorway, shadows rippling as he turned to address Ipomoea casually;
"Oh, Po? The wildflowers around Vitreus Lake are blooming beautifully this year, perhaps you might like to show lovely Messalina before she departs.."
Those argent eyes turned to the dainty girl for a moment longer before Reichenbach dipped his head in farewell, rumbling;
"A pleasure to meet you Messalina — May our paths cross again soon."
With that, The Night King slipped out the door, leaving his shadows to slink out behind him — and Ipomoea to ask that pretty girl on a date.
while he was being buried,
he arose and asked for a drink.
@Ipomoea @Messalina Reich leaving the lovebirds to it <3 <3
RE: paintings like silent poetry - Ipomoea - 07-01-2018
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I P O M O E A Her voice is so lovely.’ The thought slipped through his mind like water, unbidden and reckless. Embarrassment burned hot at his cheeks for a millisecond, before he ducked his head and stared at the painting to hide it. It was true; Po doubted he would ever grow tired of listening to Messalina’s voice, of hearing the gentle thrum of emotions that slipped through despite her carefully trimmed exterior. Almost jealously, he let himself believe that he was the only one in the world who could hear it, that to anyone else she was a reserved and proper lady who never said a word out of place. That only Po could hear the airy chuckles and breathless whispers of delight, who could see the gentle shine in her eyes when she looked at something beautiful. It was naive and foolish, but a nice thought all the same. He hung on her every word, an ear remaining tilted in her direction as he admired the work with seemingly new eyes. She called it melancholic—and with a second look, he could agree. Something about the painting of the stars looked sad, distant and detached. He wondered if the artist had felt the same number of miles that separated each star, also separating himself from civilization. If perhaps his only joy had been the paintings he’d so meticulously crafted, his love of art replacing his love for humanity. ”Duty calls.” Once again, the young Emissary was pulled from his thoughts. “I passed the lake on my way in,” he mused thoughtfully, remembering how he had walked through the plains beside Nimue and Reichenbach, the lake glowing like the moon, a million colors decorating its banks. “I would love to get a closer look.” And with that, the Night King was gone, disappearing in the same flurry of smoke and shadows as he had appeared. Messalina and Ipomoea were only, two children of the rising sun in a room of stars and moonlight. A sheepish smile stretched across his lips, silence stretching between them, pulled taught with unspoken words. “I’ll only be in Denocte for another day or so...” his words trailed off into silence again. One heartbeat, then another, and another. He drew in a slow breath, his eyes flickering up to meet her’s. “Would you like to walk with me to Vitreus? I have the rest of this evening free.” He took a tentative step towards the same doorway from which Reichenbach had exited. His voice grew softer still. “I would like to spend it with you, I think. If you would, too.” He knew he was supposed to be here to learn about Denoctian culture, to build bridges between the northwest and the southeast—but his eyes and his heart were so full of hope that she would say yes. He loved the Night Court, with its perfumes and spices and love of life. But even here, standing beside Messalina, he realized he loved the Dawn more. Another small smile, with his heart worn proudly on his sleeve and every emotion, every thought shining brightly through his eyes. Another series of steps and he was leaving the room of art behind, along with Ixion and his paintings, hoping that the freckled dancer would go with him. @messalina figured we could (finally) end this here?! c’x po is out, on his way to the lake! ”here am i!“ |
neverrmind art