A flash of blue caught his eye, Ipomoea turning just in time to see the blue-and-black songbird rushing into the sky. His bonded flew with such a reckless abandon that Po could feel his own heart start to speed up within his chest, thump-thump-thumping in time with Odet’s wings. His feathers flexed at his ankles - reaching, grasping, straining to fly the way the songbird could.

But Po was a horse with wings hardly bigger than Odet’s; flight would never be his.

Instead he let himself pause and watch his bonded, a lazy smile crooked on his lips. He could feel Odet’s joy through their connection, the confident and effortless ease by which he flew. Seeing the world from above through his bonded’s eyes, experiencing it through his thoughts and emotions… that could be enough for Po. It had to be.

After a moment, he finally tore his gaze from the sky and returned it to the roughened landscape unfolding before him. Denocte looked so very different now than the last time he had been here: the ground was muddy and torn, scattered trees burnt to a crisp and even more ripped up by their roots. ’It looks like a war zone,’ he couldn’t help but think, ’I wonder what terrors they had to face…’

Delumine, too, had seen their own share of disasters - the smoke still clogged his lungs, the burnt trees and meadows filled his dreams. But he hadn’t been able to imagine Denocte looking like this; over the many miles he’d covered, he’d kept envisioning the wildflower meadows and the mirror-like lake and the jubilant city streets. And what he found in its stead seemed sorely out of place.

“Of course, it may just be the rain,” he mused aloud to himself. It had rained a good part of his journey, all through the Bellum Steppe and Arma Mountains. The whole time he had prayed the winds would shift and bring the storm clouds north to his own capitol, but whether or not the gods had answered he couldn’t know.

Nor could he fault Odet’s enthusiasm. For days the bird had been nestled in his hair, trying to stay as dry as possible and failing… it must feel good indeed to stretch his wings again.

The road continued to widen the closer he got to the Night Court’s capitol, though Po was sure to stay well off to the side where the grass provided better footing than the rutted and hole-pocked street. With every rumble of thunder, he found himself quickening his stride, the better to bring Denocte into view as soon as possible. By the end, he hardly paid any mind to his surroundings, focusing instead on the buildings growing taller and taller. And when the brown-and-white splashed Regent finally stepped up to the gates, his bonded flit down upon his withers once more. Odet strode carefully up his neck to weave a few fresh flowers into his mane (for Po had to abandon his blossom crown after the rains had drenched it).

And so it was with a smile and a newly-woven braid that Ipomoea entered the Night Court capitol.

It took him longer than expected to weave his way through the sprawling city streets - and before he knew it, he was horribly turned around. The Dawn Court Regent stopped at a split in the road, turning his head first one way, then another, debating which route to take. 

Shaking his head, he turned to address the nearest equine. “Excuse me, miss, but could you mayhaps point me towards the castle? I’m afraid I might be lost.”

It's always been the people that made Ipomoea enjoy traveling so much. That, as well as the sites, and the different terrains, and the excitement of not knowing where he was going, and the way he could always find something new and wondrous to marvel at - but especially the people. Their lives and their stories, their hopes and aspirations, their disappointments and their pain. He would never tire of meeting someone new, of puzzling out their similarities and differences. It's why he's more prone to ask a stranger for directions than to consult a map.

There is something about the woman's eyes when she turns to greet him, and the way she seems to look past his flesh and bones to peer down into his very soul. It's a queer feeling, but not altogether unpleasant; there's wisdom in those eyes, a gentleness and a wildness mixed together - and also a sadness. Her's are the kind of eyes that don't just look: they see. They know, and they understand. When he catches her gazing out across the market square, he can't help but think she's looking upon something entirely different, as if he and she were seeing two different versions of the same world.

And Ipomoea can't help but wonder if there's anything those blue eyes miss; could they see past lies and facades to expose the truth underneath? A shiver runs down his spine, and he thinks she could, if she tried. Ipomoea has nothing to hide - dishonesty simply isn't in his nature - but still he feels vulnerable beneath her gaze.

"Of course," she tells him, and "I could take you if you like," but her body sings a different tune than her voice. She beckons to him not with her words, but with her eyes and her steps and her horn, and it seems to Po that that is the song he should be singing along to.

So when she steps forward her finds himself matching her step for step, thus bringing their bodies closer. His smile is one of gratefulness - though he is unsure yet whether he should be thanking her for her help, or perhaps for something more. But he smiles nonetheless, and offers her his should to walk alongside each other.

"Lead the way."

The Court had changed since he’d last been to Denocte;

As they walk, the memories come trickling back in like the water melting from an icicle, each drip signaled a remembrance, the cobblestoned street with all its turns and nooks and wonders impressing the past back upon his mind. ’I bought perfume from a merchant’s stall down that street,’ his mind whispers to him, ’and spices down there.’ He had met a woman out in the prairie surrounding the capitol - or perhaps reunited was a better word for it, for he had met Grainne as a child.

He had walked the courtyard with Reichenbach, was shown the wonders of the moon symbol and carvings by their previous Emissary. He had walked with Messalina to vitreus lake where they had admired the flowers like they had admired the paintings in the castle, had shared secrets like pleasantries (not that Po had many secrets to keep, but he had bared his few all the same.) Ipomoea breathes in deeply the smell of rain and flowers and nostalgia, and when he looks to the sky he swears he can see faces and stories painted in the clouds. The wind changes them at will, every sigh shaping the features into someone new, another reminder of times already past.

A smile, small and wistful, brightens his features.

It’s comfortable, walking beside the bay mare. Even without talking, they lapse into an easy silence broken only by the sound of their hoofbeats and the noisy court life around them. Usually so talkative and animated, Ipomoea is content to be an observer.

”What brings you here?” Her shoulder bumps against his, and one cerise shines at her from the side.

He takes a second to savor his response, letting the words run like lazy water through his mind before he speaks them. At first, only the sound of his hooves ringing against the gem-encrusted streets answers her question.

“It’s been a long time since I last visited Denocte.” ’Before the gates closed,’ he might have said, but he doesn’t. ’Before the gods, before the fires started or the thunderbirds came,’ he thinks, but this too he keeps unspoken. “I thought it was past time I came back.” He makes it sound like he’s coming home - for Denocte had a way of making a wanderlust orphan feel welcomed.

“Besides, I wanted to meet the new queen everyone has been talking about.” He didn’t know - couldn’t know. Isra’s name was one he had not heard until recently, and her face was still one unfamiliar.

Or so he thought. Life always had been full of surprises, ones he was determined to welcome in his stride.






hearts are breaking
wars are raging on
you’ve got me nervous
i’m right at the end of my rope
hey, man, we can’t all be like you

i wish we were all rose-colored too
my rose-colored boy




@isra ! better late than never!
”here am i!“

”Does it seem the same?” Such an innocent question - but oh, how it makes the rose-colored boy’s heart ache. He can’t stop the memories that flood his mind, the nostalgia that makes him dizzy, the wave of emotion that rises suddenly in his soul. His throat feels so tight - for a moment he doesn’t dare speak, for he can hardly breathe.

He wishes he could lead her into his memories, to show her how different everything feels despite how familiar everything looks.

“It is, and it also is not.”

He did not notice how quiet his voice had become; the world has shrunk to encompass just him and the dark-haired girl walking beside him, and they are observing another world that tumbles along without them. If he speaks too loudly, if he moves too quickly, he risks interrupting it all.

Even his footsteps seem light and too-quiet, like he’s not really there, but only a ghost, trapped in the memory of this place.

“Some say she’s a storyteller,” he tells her, his voice soft. “Others say she’s only a story herself. And still others say she creates the stories she tells, creating wonderful things from nothing.” He’s a step behind her, allowing her to take the first step up to those gilded doors.

And as she does, he watches her; his violently-bright eyes nearly hidden beneath long lashes. And it’s as if for the first time on their walk, he’s really seeing her, and seeing who she is. From her dark, spiraling horn rising proudly from her brow to the dusting of scales hiding along the curve of her belly.

His words are slow, almost hesitant. But with each one, it gets a little easier, and he grows a little more confident. The secret is becoming more clear in his mind - and he realizes that he’s answering his own question.

“I’ve heard tales that she’s a mermaid.” He looks pointedly to the scales, a glance that lingers just a moment too long before he looks away. “Or that she used to be, and is no more.”

He takes his first step, then another, and another; soon, he’s standing beside her again, and they’re in front of the palace but they don’t enter, not yet.

Already he knows that this is not where they part; they will pass through the doors together, and inside it will be the same as the last time he was here, but also not.



“They say that she looks like you.” He whispers. “And that her name is Isra.”

And even the name sounds right as it rolls off his tongue; like it was meant for her, and meant for Denocte.

He smiles a small, shy smile, and nods to the door.

"Shall we, Your Grace?"






hearts are breaking
wars are raging on
you’ve got me nervous
i’m right at the end of my rope
hey, man, we can’t all be like you

i wish we were all rose-colored too
my rose-colored boy




@isra ! going to end this here
i am so sorry for how long this thread has taken, the next will be much faster
”here am i!“

He doesn’t see the way nervousness clings to her like a second skin, how her smile seems less and less sure of herself. He’s too caught up in unraveling the riddle, and the way his heart races and skips in his chest.

There’s something about Denocte that brings out a new sense of excitement within him, wholly different from the easy comfort he finds back in Delumine.

Clever, she calls him, and his smile is shy but proud. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” he replies in earnest, and together they walk to the great doors. ”A lot to discuss indeed.” Already his mind is painting a picture from memory of what it was like the last time he walked these halls, when a Crow was a King and the gypsy smoke was thick with spice. But this Isra is not Reichenbach, and there’s a mystery to be had behind those doors. He wonders if it’s like the rest of Denocte: some things still the same, other things not-quite what they were.

There was only one way to find out.

The doors part with a groan, and darkness greets them, but he’s unafraid. It’s the Court of Dreams, after all, and it’s only ever greeted him with welcome arms before. Willingly, he steps into the night behind her.






hearts are breaking
wars are raging on
you’ve got me nervous
i’m right at the end of my rope
hey, man, we can’t all be like you

i wish we were all rose-colored too
my rose-colored boy




@isra ! annnd this thread is officially closed 7 years later
”here am i!“