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+---- Thread: [P] Walls Could Talk (/showthread.php?tid=1600)
Walls Could Talk - Isorath - 01-23-2018
I S O R A T H It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it had, that look of consternation which had flashed across Reichenbach's face. Aimed at him. The whole thing should of been easy to simply...let go of, yet, it remained. Annoyingly, maddeningly so. It sank into the marrow of his bones and wrapped it's tendrils around his ribcage. He cannot remove the image of that face, those eyes. Burning as his insides scoffed with indignation, yet on the outside he appeared serene. As the thief shed his disguise and the actor changed clothing, he had slipped from it as if removing one of his many exquisite cloas. He slinked onward with the lithe grace granted to him by long limbs and careful breeding, illuminated by the fires dotted around the landscape, bathed in a glow given by the candles which floated behind his head on their halo throne. Around them Terrastella came to life, rearing toward the sky with glittering eyes and hope in their hearts. Voices raised to the heavens and bodies melded together in the flurry of the night, ember lined shapes painted in promises and desires. "Lysander." He began, peering at the mysterious stallion from underneath a canopy of long, fan-like lashes. "You had questions about Vectaeryn I remember you saying, what is it you would know of us?" Florentine and Reichenbach may as well have been World's away by now, swallowed by the Night and the revelry. They're a world within a world, something shifts inside him and he slows to something else. No longer is he leading, cloven hooves dance across the grasses near silently as the music seeps into his skin and his blood hums with it. His body itches now, memories of another place, another lifetime bleed out one precious drop at a time. They're in the thick of it now, surrounded by dancers and those under the influence, sweetened and softened by the wine and spirits so easily and willingly shared. Others have been emboldened by it, he can spy with lilac eyes, as they chase and chase, racing the wind and their shouts are not the melody of the night. Incense invades the senses, heady and unfiltered, gifted in honor and praise to the gods whose figures dot the landscape here and there, silent, ever watching and yet so alive. Alive in hearts and minds. Even above them, pegasai dance in the wind, through the smoke and the remnants of flame carried on high. Coming into focus as they dare to dance lower and lower, feathered wings wrapped close as they dive and then gone again in a flurry of fallen feathers as they ascend back into the heady smoke and night sky. He pivots to face the other suddenly, as wide white wings reach toward the heavens to catch him. His gold and silver finery jingle in the momentum as starlit hair flows and settles like rivers in far away valleys of moonstone and porcelain. He is Regent after all, and these are his people. He would be remiss to not join them, their hoots and hollers at his arrival do not go unheard as they dance around them, around the Bonfire they're beside, and only serve to drive the fervor forward. "I also remember you wanted to dance?" TAG: @Lysander hopefully this is okay <3 isorath talks |
RE: Walls Could Talk - Lysander - 01-24-2018
LYSANDER
Oh, he has always been drawn to the affairs of mortals because of this – how fiercely they felt, loud enough to rattle the stars. The emotions of the gods he knew (he supposes nothing of the gods of Novus) were always oversized, overwrought, and in the end meaningless because nothing, for them, was permanent.
It is the brevity of life that makes it beautiful. Each betrayal, each sigh of longing and lingering look, each little hurt – all of them felt as deeply as a wound. He wonders, even as he draws regretfully away from the little Anthousai, what he might feel if he stayed. To grow old, to fall in love, to fall then into despair, to rage, to die – ah, what mysteries they were. A shiver wends its way down his dappled skin and he shakes his head, turns his gaze back to the kirin.
His companion only adds to the feeling that the night entire is a reverie. With Isorath ahead of him, gleaming like starfire in alabaster and gold, and the rising, laughing voices of the festival-goers, he can almost imagine he is back home.
Oh, but those nights had always turned twisted come dawn. Lysander expected no madness here, none of the ecstasy that ended so often with blood –
But after meeting that dark-haired king, he wonders. And smiles.
He turns that smile on the kirin at the sound of his name, meeting the violent eyes beneath their snowy lashes. Around them the night is no longer cool; bonfires shed sparks and heat and they are caught up in the warmth of a hundred celebrating bodies. He leans nearer, to hear and be heard over the music, over the madness.
“A dangerous question,” he says with a grin, “for I am an insatiable man, when it comes to learning, and would know anything you’d care to tell me.” He’s close enough that the kirin’s adornments glitter like stars; close enough the scent of the lilies he wears mingles with the smells of woodsmoke, of wine.
Perhaps Lysander is as much a creature of habit as they – he can never resist flowers. It is what drew him to Florentine in the first place.
His attention is caught again by the dancers around and above them and he leans away as Isorath walks on, the question he intends to ask heavy on his tongue. For now he puts it aside; he is too hungry, still, for the party around them.
So he laughs when the kirin whirls, ethereal and kingly, and he does not miss the gazes caught fast by the Dusk regent, they way they call for him. He inclines his head, watches shadows and sparks dance around them, meets again those distractingly lilac eyes. The quirk of his lips is half-hidden by shadow. “Another weakness of mine,” he says, and already he can feel the pull of it in his heartbeat, in the rush of his blood, in the heat of the fires and the jumble of bodies. “I am sorry you lost your earlier partner – I’m no companion in beauty or status.” His green eyes glimmer with laughter, with firelight, with something sharper, darker, more keen.
@Isorath
It is the brevity of life that makes it beautiful. Each betrayal, each sigh of longing and lingering look, each little hurt – all of them felt as deeply as a wound. He wonders, even as he draws regretfully away from the little Anthousai, what he might feel if he stayed. To grow old, to fall in love, to fall then into despair, to rage, to die – ah, what mysteries they were. A shiver wends its way down his dappled skin and he shakes his head, turns his gaze back to the kirin.
His companion only adds to the feeling that the night entire is a reverie. With Isorath ahead of him, gleaming like starfire in alabaster and gold, and the rising, laughing voices of the festival-goers, he can almost imagine he is back home.
Oh, but those nights had always turned twisted come dawn. Lysander expected no madness here, none of the ecstasy that ended so often with blood –
But after meeting that dark-haired king, he wonders. And smiles.
He turns that smile on the kirin at the sound of his name, meeting the violent eyes beneath their snowy lashes. Around them the night is no longer cool; bonfires shed sparks and heat and they are caught up in the warmth of a hundred celebrating bodies. He leans nearer, to hear and be heard over the music, over the madness.
“A dangerous question,” he says with a grin, “for I am an insatiable man, when it comes to learning, and would know anything you’d care to tell me.” He’s close enough that the kirin’s adornments glitter like stars; close enough the scent of the lilies he wears mingles with the smells of woodsmoke, of wine.
Perhaps Lysander is as much a creature of habit as they – he can never resist flowers. It is what drew him to Florentine in the first place.
His attention is caught again by the dancers around and above them and he leans away as Isorath walks on, the question he intends to ask heavy on his tongue. For now he puts it aside; he is too hungry, still, for the party around them.
So he laughs when the kirin whirls, ethereal and kingly, and he does not miss the gazes caught fast by the Dusk regent, they way they call for him. He inclines his head, watches shadows and sparks dance around them, meets again those distractingly lilac eyes. The quirk of his lips is half-hidden by shadow. “Another weakness of mine,” he says, and already he can feel the pull of it in his heartbeat, in the rush of his blood, in the heat of the fires and the jumble of bodies. “I am sorry you lost your earlier partner – I’m no companion in beauty or status.” His green eyes glimmer with laughter, with firelight, with something sharper, darker, more keen.
@Isorath
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down