It was written in the stars – the events that would unfold.  For weeks, Azrael had watched the skies with the others, wondering when the solstice would come, praising the heavens with song and offerings.  Caligo’s followers had trained their faces skyward, waiting for the fateful moment when the winter moon would hide in Earth’s shadow.  And as the time grew nearer, the shed-star had separated himself from the others, preferring a more somber and solitary approach to the celestial event.  So, he finds himself in the field, preparing as he beds upon the soft grass, setting up his circle of crystals as he waits.

Snow falls gently to the ground, a hint of the winter which was only now beginning in Denocte.  It goes rather unnoticed by the stoic stallion though, who simply brushes the flakes away from his glow, letting them melt around the warmth of his body.  His breath is sheer against the night, and the world is still and quiet, waiting in anticipation with baited breath.  Even the nocturnal creatures who generally rose to song in the evening were hushed and reverent, and a quiet smile crosses Azrael’s features as the winds begin to shift, his eyes growing wide as they find the silver moon.

The weather grows colder as the first edges of shadow begin to move across the moon, and Azrael lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s holding, witnessing the beauty of the eclipse as if it was his first time to see such a splendor.  Though celestial events were hardly rare in Denocte, each was a gift from the gods, and each brought with it a splendor which was unmatched in his mind.  His ears prick toward the sound of crunching snow, following the noise with curious aqua eyes as he makes out the approaching form of another… but rather than be annoyed at the intrusion, the dappled stallion simply shifts to make room beside him, his voice a husky boon in the night.

It has only just begun.  Plenty of room for company, he supposed, and he offers the stranger a smile before focusing his gaze back on the darkening moon.

“Speaking.”

Once, there was only the Sea. She ate up the horizons, raged as she pleased, and went uncontested by all other powers. Her creatures were deep and dark and fathomless; her religion a song and flash of silver within her depths. As the story went, her sorrow drove her to creation—and from that creation came Storm. But rather than be a companion, Storm challenged Sea to better things; Storm shook the depths and raised the islands; Storm cracked open molten fissures beneath the Sea and seared her. Storm clouded the sky and brought fresh-water rain, and lakes, and chased away the salt.

Storm brought the Oresziah from the Sea; he gave them language to temper their carnal urges, and a land-shape to bind them to higher thought. Those who forsake his gift remained in the Sea, and they were the Khashran, and they were cursed to forever remain shapeless, and bearers of a thousand souls. 

In Old Oresziah, these were the myths stallions and mares still practiced and believed. They were the root of the culture; but in Old Oresziah, they were a way of life, and children danced in storm-water rain and marriages were blessed with it. They prayed with bloodletting and demands, and wore iron charms. Most of her people no longer believed, truly believed, in the Old Ways. Boudika never had—but her father did, as did Orestes, and the old songs and dances and prayers could be called, unbidden, to her lips.

The religious fever of Novus was a different sort. And the dark goddess, Caligo, was spoken of as though she were among them. As far as Boudika knew, she had been, once. But the prayers fit oddly in Boudika’s mouth, and the name, Caligo, fit just as strangely. It was not that Boudika was disbelieving; simply that, in her mind, it made sense to worship the sea or the storm. Those were forces; they raged against mortality; they condemned, cursed, forced change. But the Night? The Day? The Dawn? The Dusk? Those were things, to Boudika, that possessed no force.

The foreigner was out wandering, however, in hopes of forming a better understanding of her new home. Boudika had been told of the eclipse, but she did not understand the significance, and she hoped that through first-hand experience it would become more clear to her. Boudika was walking, eyes cast upward toward the sky, when she heard a voice. It has only just begun. Boudika started, and then realised in her preoccupation she had nearly walked overtop a stranger nestled in the grass with glowing stones. They had moved aside, presumably to make room, and Boudika was struck by the casual kindness. Something in his voice sounded reverent, however, and his smile was brief before he returned his attention to the sky. 

Boudika decided, after only a moment’s contemplation, to settle beside him. “Thank you,” she said, softly. And then watched the sky. And watched the sky. But it was so slow. The dancer shifted rather restlessly and the question rose, unbidden, before she could think better of it. “Why is this so important?” Boudika could not help but ask, realizing only after the fact it may have been rude to ask. 

“Speaking.”

Azrael didn’t mind the questions, just as he didn’t mind the company.  In his quick gaze, he had gathered much about the mare.  She wasn’t from here, didn’t understand their ways.  It was written in the way she carried herself, a bit unsure and a bit ambivalent to the night around her.  There is a hint of annoyance in her voice, but rather than ruffle him, Azrael finds it curious.  These things were seldom a quick flash or bang.  Instead, he knew the solstice would take time – and as the shadow clicks slowly in place, he relishes every moment of it.

For a couple of breaths, he is silent and focused on the sky.  Not taking his eyes off of the sight to regard the stranger, he responds to her question in a matter of fact tone.  Tonight is a full eclipse – such things will only happen once in a lifetime, unless one were to live for a very long time.  It was an unusual sight to behold, and the shed star can appreciate the rarity for what it is.  There are some who fear the blood moon, and others who believe it some sort of dark witchcraft.

Recalling the various stories about the moon, he has to chuckle some… for though there were many a belief, he knew that humanity could never truly define such a phenomenon.  It is said that the sun and moon fight during an eclipse, drawing the People to resolve the conflict.  Others warn that it is a sign that great transformation is upon us.  Shifting his stare finally from the moon, he finds her eyes and catches them with his, deadpan as he gives her his own warning.

It’s curious timing, is it not, that the blood moon rises when the queen is stolen away.  There are whispers that war is on the horizon, that blood will be spilled in Denocte, in Novus.  His gaze trails back toward the eclipse, a sigh escaping his lips as he ruminates with the red mare in the moonlight.  Perhaps Caligo knows more than she lets on – perhaps it was foretold in the stars before, and we simply did not see the signs.  There had to be an explanation, he mused, for all that had come to pass.  Still, he and the other star sheds had tried to scry in the darkness, to find a sign of redemption or a hint at what would come… but their visions were empty and the stars were not spilling their secrets.

For now.

“Speaking.”

First, Boudika believed his appearance was unassuming, a dark stallion beneath a dark sky—and then her eyes better focused, and she could discern the nearly shimmering blue-silver of his back, marked with brilliant roaning of iridescent hues. First, she was reminded of a fish’s scales, and then, somehow, of the ocean. Something about that, however, did not seem adequate for a stallion gazing so rapturously at the sky.

Tonight is a full eclipse, and the mare’s response was only a noncommittal hm. Incredulously, however, the dancer felt anxious. Boudika wondered if this eclipse affected her home land, far away, beyond even the sea. Would the priests be gazing up at the sky to discern the meaning of a dark moon, a moon that only held relation to the sea? If the Khashran remained wild, would they emerge to wage some last battle on the sands of their ancestral homes, or if their bodies were already Bound with iron, would they simply look skyward in hopes of being set free? No. They would search the oceans with their eyes; her priests would sleep soundly; and perhaps none of that was real at all, anymore, but only a strange dream or memory. It seemed to grow farther and farther away every day, so that Boudika could not even imagine an eclipse there.

Did she genuinely wish to forget the taste of salt-water on her tongue? Boudika listened to him, this stallion with the severity of one of the devout. She felt like an outsider, although it was not due to his generosity—it was due to her own understanding of her place in the Court, and how it seemed almost silly to her, that the sun and the moon might fight during an eclipse. He had caught her eyes in a deadpan, and Boudika’s expression did not shift. She listened simply, quietly, until he was finished. ”Or perhaps we take signs to be more than they are, and forget the actions of the every-day.” Her voice was quiet. War did not happen because of a blood-moon.

It happened, she knew, because of hate. And the rumours she heard, the whispers of these sovereigns, these kings and queens of Novus, that was all Boudika could conclude; hate, hate, hate, as bitter as blood and salt, or the whip of the sea-breeze. Could it be foretold? Could the stars whisper the secrets of the future? Boudika, again, found that dubious—as the past was clearly written, if only someone cared to look, and somewhere in the past was the answer for the actions of the today.

They were our songs before they were yours, Copperhead Orestes’ voice, unbidden and bright, in her mind. Something about Azrael’s solemnity reminded her of the Prince of a Thousand Tides. Where, Boudika wondered, did the strings tangle—where did the hitch begin? ”What do you believe?” she asked, the skin around her eyes drawn tight as they narrowed. She could not help but be critical.

After all, the darkness of night did not sing like the sea.

“Speaking.”

What did he believe?  There were so many answers to that question, and so many layers.  He believed as all the shed-stars did, in the powers of the stars.  The People say that Caligo was once the night sky, and that the stars were birthed from her.  We believe that the stars can see our future and our past and they hold our very fates in their light.  

The shed-stars were an extreme sort of tribe, worshiping the sky with a fervor unmatched by many in Novus.   It was much more likely that in her journeys through Denocte, Boudika would find many less pious and even unreligious among their ranks.  The beauty of such a place was in their freedom to choose, and to tolerate and coexist with one another.

Of course, she probably wasn’t asking about his religion.  Instead, he is certain she speaks of the eclipse itself.  Without taking his eyes from the now almost fully-red moon, he continues.  I cannot know what the fates have in store for us now.  For the balance has shifted.  War will come, and with it, destruction and suffering.  His voice is quiet and pensive, helpless to stop what has already been proclaimed.

They will ask us to fight, he looks toward her at last, turquoise eyes roaming unabashedly over her frame, as if to size her up.  The center cannot hold for long without our queen… and all of us will be called upon for some role in the fight ahead.  Though he could not know where he could add value, Azrael knew that inevitably he would be included in this call to arms.  As a priest and a magician, he had little to give to such a cause… but he would stand beside the People – bleed with them, and mourn with them.

What do you believe?  He turned the question back to the leonine mare, all attention focused on her as he waits beneath the darkening sky.  Only his turquoise glow seems to pierce the shadows which covered the moon, creating an eerie sense of otherworldly pallor to the scene.  The wind begins to pick up, driving a chill to the air, and spurring a flurry of snow to fall upon them.  Shifting it from his shoulders, he waits for her response, while the world around them turns more to winter by the minute.

“Speaking.”

Boudika thought their feigned intimacy strange—the brazen questions, the courtly politeness. The Night Court continuously surprised her with its compassion and, like a double-sided coin or a two-headed snake, with the intriguing darkness. It was true that Azrael was the first she had met who spoke of Caligo and the stars so openly, but it aggravated the strangeness rather than subdued it. Were they all so devout? Her island was ruled by the Old Ways; and there were believers but, likewise, disbelievers, particularly among her generation. The division was clear and ominous as nonbelievers made old practices crueler, without the eyes of the gods to keep them in check.

And she wondered, was Caligo a cruel god? Were the stars? Looking at them, their indifference spoke volumes. So far. So cold. What futures could be written in that stellar dust when she, on the earth, was alive with a beating, vibrant heart? Was that not in and of itself in defiance of the fates? But Boudika listened quietly, nearly enchanted by Azrael’s calm speech and certain uncertainty. For the balance has shifted, he said. War will come and, wish it, destruction and suffering. They will ask us to fight.

The thought churned within her, unwelcome. Boudika had sworn away such things coming to this land, and the comment sparked something incendiary within her. Something that had been an untended coal now flickered into an ember, a slow and tenacious burn, dark, deep, nursed somewhere close to her heart. She would not fight for strange gods on strange lands, no matter how kind the Night folk. Thus Boudika did not meet his gaze—merely clenched her jaw and stared so hard at the moon that when she blinked it remained, ghastly and white-turning-dark, on her inner eyelids.

What do you believe? His intensity, quiet and as smouldering as her rage, directed back at her. Her ear flicked toward him, her expression simultaneously pensive, conflicted, and hard. For some reason her father’s words rose, unbidden, to the forefront of her mind.

The General, her father, had been amiable that night—perhaps due to drink, perhaps due to the startling number of military victories Boudika’s recent class had wrought. He was standing quietly, pensively, in their large sitting room, the dark firelight hitting his two-toned flesh and turning it metallic. He was Boudika’s opposite—black where she was copper, copper where she was black, with silver stripes on each haunch and spiralling horns, much larger than her own. He was polarising in this atmosphere, making a large room seem small—and as she joked with him, jovially, playing the part of dutiful son… and clutching the memory close to heart, to breast, hoping it remain pleasant… he became somber.

“What is a tiger hunter,” her father asked. “When there are no more tigers left to hunt?”

Boudika had been taken aback. She had no quick, clever retort—her cunning cadet lips had become leaden with such philosophy. To hunt was her purpose, and his silver eyes glittered crimson, amber, black, with the fire. Despite her lack of commentary, she knew the answer.

“Oh, Boudika,” and she tensed at her feminine name on the General’s lips. But somehow he was made smaller by using it; he was just her father, with heavy, tired eyes. A General’s eyes, close to retirement, with health that declined daily and nightmares that kept him up into the early morning, nightmares of shape-changers, of drowning, of being ripped apart. “We love them and we hate them, because they are us, reflected.”

Boudika turned her face toward him, her eyes bright and flaming against the chill, the snow, the stars. ”I believe the only gods are the wild ones." The ones that could condemn and elevate in the same breath; the ones like the sea, the storm, the earth. "And I believe there are tigers, tiger hunters, and deer.” A shrug, too lesson the too-intense way she spoke. But it did not have that effect; it did not lighten it. Something about the gesture, sharp and abrasive, turned the words even more steely. ”And the tiger hunters will hunt the tigers until there are no more, and prey upon the beautiful, innocent deer for food and cloth…. And there will one day be no more tigers, and no more deer, and the hunters will realise it is only themselves they have to blame. They will realise that they destroyed the very thing they loved, and feared, and hated. The thing they needed, for existence. What is a tiger hunter, without a tiger to hunt? And your goddess will know darkness then.”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, too dry, too dry. The words relayed too much; about herself, her beliefs, her past. Her scars were silver slivers against the darkness of her skin. ”This Raum believes himself a tiger hunter, if the rumours are true. But a forest can only burn so much until it is soot and ash, and the dumb luck of it is that we can do nothing against a force like that but hope we’re among the lucky ones.”

A friend had written her once, while she was in prison, and told her that Oresziah had nothing left to believe in. The water horses were captured or killed. Peace, at last, was upon them—but the soldiers went home and beat their wives, and the scholars began to study a culture dead with Orestes bound, and the massive, mulling army had no more purpose. They built ships, and Boudika could only wonder, now, whether those ships had been for the hunters to find more tigers in a sea they deemed cursed. Everyone’s day came, and perhaps she only had the poor fortune of entering another life, on another coast, with another misfortune. Perhaps you are cursed, she thought, and laughed to lighten her words. ”But worrying about all that would drive you to madness.” she says, eyes redirected to the moon. ”It is beautiful, I suppose.”

“Speaking.”