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+---- Thread: [AW] thank you kindly, wolf (/showthread.php?tid=3500)
thank you kindly, wolf - Tuolouse - 04-25-2019
and went home with it
It was a black night, a perfect night; they could not have planned it any better.
Laughter still danced through his mind, the realization that they were here, and no one was any the wiser, settling in and taking hold. The adrenaline was a fierce thing, coursing through his veins and turning his heart sour; it was all he could do to remain composed, to not laugh in the faces of the very guards who had let them through the gates. They had been disguised as gypsies, it was true; but they should have known better. They were paid to know better. And he had fooled them all.
Clouds drifted lazily across the sky, occasionally blotting out the stars and new moon that were scattered across the sky, stealing their light like a blind pulled across a window. It was a quiet night - as if the darkened moon had sucked all the life and energy from the land, as if the people with stars in their eyes were fueled by the stars in the sky, and couldn’t function properly in their absence.
Toulouse planned to steal something else from them before the night was over.
The light from a street lamp was tempting, the flames within its cage dancing and flickering and throwing their orange tint across the cobblestones. It reached hungrily for his flame, promising to turn him golden - but he turned away from it. it was a sharp contrast; the lamps were spaced out widely here, intermittently, so the streets were cast in shadows so deep they seemed to swallow life itself. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound, nothing even seemed to breathe. They were alone.
There were two others somewhere else in the city, he knew; two others with a mission the same as their own. But right now, they mattered little to Toulouse. It was just him, the bay-and-striped boy beside him, and the darkness than enveloped them.
He can’t help but look down a sidestreet they pass, tracing the pathway in his mind. 10 paces then take a left, take the first right you find, then look for the white house. The Scarab he knew, would be waiting for him, the way it always was: tempting, intoxicating, irresistible to lesser men. The image of a red rose comes to mind as the alley way disappears behind them. He’d told his brother to be far away tonight, but Toulouse had never been one for caution. Was he there tonight, dancing with a girl with gemstone eyes?
It didn’t matter. If his twin was in the city, it served to give him an even better alibi.
He stopped, his diamond-shod hoof clinking against stone. His eyes turning silver in the moonlight, he watched as the rest of their company disappeared. And so four become two. The wind was a whisper against his cheek as they disappeared into the dark of Denocte.
There was a smile in his eyes as he turned to Abel. "Shall we?" His voice was low, so low that his companion would have to strain to hear his words. Before them, the road had come to a dead end - they could go right or left, but not forward.
A cloud passed overhead again, and only the brightness of their eyes could be seen shining in the night.
I know the secret pathways of Denocte, Abel's voice whispered through his mind still, a reminder from the meeting in the cave. It had been only four days prior, and yet, it felt like an eternity ago. If we are swift - if we are not stupid - we should not fail.
This time, Toulouse couldn't help the smile splitting across his face.
@abel
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Abel - 04-26-2019
A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
Oh, the turmoil below his skin from the moment they crossed from the bask of the desert into the cold of his homeland.
Outwardly Abel remained impassive as a shadow, watchful and silent, but within he was a maelstrom. He did not pick apart his feelings; there was no time for it, as they joined with a caravan of gypsies coming into the city for the night, the world flickering in torchlight and bonfire smoke. Like incense those scents drew up his soul, out and out, and it was better to feel separate and apart, the way a bird might feel to look at the world below.
It was clear that Toulouse was no stranger to this type of work - that or he took to it as naturally as a fox, eyes bright as a crow’s. Abel did not care for the slant of his smile, or the rake of his gaze over scenes so familiar to the boy - but he is grateful that his job, for now, is only to follow in silence.
He moves down the streets of Denocte as smoothly as rainwater down the drains; he knows his path, knows each shadow and the jut of each building like the shape of his own teeth. And as they draw nearer to their target with each step and turn, his heart aches like a rotten tooth even as it begins to race with something he thinks - he dreads to think - is excitement.
There is no moon, and the clouds are winter-thick and ragged, and so he cannot tell if the golden man is smiling when he speaks. He is glad not to know, glad that there is no way to read his own expression when he breathes “Yes.”
Abel steps into the lead, turning left into the welcoming shadows.
They are still a few blocks off, the angle of the roof hidden behind another narrow street. It is perilously close to the heart of the city; the sea is only a hint of salt upon his tongue. Abel moves like a rabbit through a warren, slipping through alleys only a hands-breadth wider than his shoulders, pausing in the cover of learning corners when the sound of talk grows too near. A few moments later and they emerge a few buildings down from the storage structure, and the scent of grain and grass is sweet upon the air.
Already the matches and tinder he carries feel like they are burning; maybe it is only the heat of his own blood, warm against the winter air. Now Abel melts against the rough bricks as a group of young horses passes, voices low - but not so low that he doesn’t recognize them. The boy closes his eyes against the thudding of his heartbeat as those he once ran the streets with drifts by, and only opens them once the echo of their footsteps has faded into the night.
There, at the end of the block, the faint flicker of a lantern - a guard in his last minutes of duty. They have timed it well; soon he will depart, leaving their perilous window.
Only now does he look back to his companion, as he scents the air for a smoke thicker, richer than Denocte’s nightly bonfires. Abel leans close, close to the golden man’s ear, and his voice is a rough murmur, like the sand of the desert has caught in his throat.
”We will have our chance in a few minutes - but we could wait until one of the other fires has begun. That should draw all the guards away for some time.”
It is up to you, he does not say, but each decision Abel does not have to make feels like a feather lifted from the weight on his soul.
@Toulouse
x | x
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Tuolouse - 04-26-2019
and went home with it
Yes, Abel tells him, and Toulouse follows the bay man into the heart of the capitol.
He keeps behind him by a pace, his eyes trained on the younger man’s back. He’s quiet, he realized; but he said nothing. Abel had been quiet for most of their few interactions thus far; who was he to say this was out of character?
Still, as the clouds rolled overhead and a brief ray of starlight lit his companion’s back in silver, he couldn’t help but wonder. He knew he was from Denocte, had fled to Solterra hiding beneath Raum’s own skirt. He did not know the specifics, nor the man’s reasons; but here he was, set on helping destroy his childhood home. There were not many willing to go to such extreme’s; few men were as devoted to a cause.
The farther they sneak into the city, the faster his heart beats. He can taste the salt and smoke in the air, the silence so thick and so palpable he could slice it with a knife if he so chose. It’s almost time, his mind whispers, excitement blossoming in his chest. He hadn’t realized how easily his blood would sing at the prospect of violence; perhaps he is becoming more and more like his twin after all, he supposes. A prospect that is not entirely unwelcome.
Abel ducks down an alley hardly wider than himself, and Toulouse has no choice but to follow. Voices make him duck his head and press into the brick walls of the nearest building, becoming so still he could easily be mistaken for a statue - if it were not for his wavy locks that danced in the stray breeze, and the silver of his eyes that flashed in the darkness. From the shadows, he watches Abel’s face carefully. Were you one of them, once upon a time? he wants to ask, but he doesn’t need to; the way his companion grows still and closes his eyes is all the answer he needs. Images of young, barefoot orphans - one s bay with white stripes - run through his mind as the strangers pass.
”Do you miss it?” he asks softly when they are alone once more, but there is no kindness in his words. He doesn’t expect an answer.
”We will have our chance in a few minutes - but we could wait until one of the other fires has begun. That should draw all the guards away for some time.”
Toulouse frowns at the voice in his ear, watching the flame waver in the distance. ”The longer we stay here, the greater chance we have of being caught.” Better to catch them all unaware at once, he thinks as he melds back into the shadows. It was a quiet night, but they were not alone; each of the horses they had passed proved that. ”We’ll take the first chance that comes to us.”
It was not for a lack of patience - Toulouse would gladly wait all night for their chance. But he was not willing to squander that chance when it came; he would not rely on someone else to do their part before he did his. While he had reasonable faith in Targwyn and Rufio, the horned man had learned long ago that he could only trust himself in life.
As the seconds tick by like hours, he sinks into the darkness, letting it envelope him like a robe. Without thinking, he touches the cool metal of the ring secured upon one of his horns, as if reassuring himself it was still there. He had hidden the rest of his attire and artifacts in Solterra; but this one was too invaluable to leave behind. He wonders if he’ll have to use it tonight; he wouldn’t know until it came time.
”Get ready.”
The flame is coming closer, bobbing along down the street in front of the guard. He’s whistling a tune unknown to him; its peals are soft and sad, melancholic in their harmony. The song gets louder and louder, hoofbeats echoing down the street. Toulouse tenses, still against the wall - the light of the flame slips into the alley, highlighting his tail for a moment.
But then the guard continues, unaware of their presence. His back grows smaller with each step, the flame soon disappearing around a corner.
”Now.”
Toulouse pushes off from the wall, stepping into the street. He moves quickly alongside the buildings, steps light and quiet. When he lifts the tinderbox to strike a match, orange light washing across his face, he nods to Abel.
And then he tosses the first match into a sack of grain, watching hungrily as the flames roar to life.
@abel
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Abel - 04-28-2019
A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
Do you miss it?
He does not miss the question, not when it’s the only sound as they wait like rats between high brick walls, a little canyon in the heart of Denocte. And as one of Abel’s ears follow the last voices from the group, he shakes his head.
The bay does not miss being an orphan, does not miss the new grief of both parents dead that had felt like a fishing-knife laying him open. A wound always sharp-edged and raw that everyone else bore too, making them each to weary to heal. His companionship with the other wharf- and street-children had been borne of circumstance and necessity, less loyal than a flock of pigeons - much less crows.
But Denocte? Oh, he misses his city. Misses the way the bonfires lifted smoke like an offering to blur the stars, and the sting of it when you crept too close on a winter’s night. He misses the constant noise and color of the night markets, where on a hundred sleepless nights he’d walked, solitary but not alone, the clamor of it lulling him better than the ocean could. He misses knowing exactly where he is by the position of the mountains, or the sea. He aches to come home.
And here he is, with a match in his hand.
His head is low as he listens to the golden man respond, but his dark eyes flick up to silver ones when he nods in agreement. Much as waiting appealed to the dark and withered remnants of Abel’s heart, his companion is right, and he is glad he is no fool. As much as Toulouse wonders why Abel would turn against his own home, the barred bay wonders why a man with no ties to his city would bring such woe upon it -
but some men, he has learned, just like madness. And it is a pointless game, to guess why a man would dip his hands in sin. There were so many possible reasons.
Abel doesn’t need the horned man to tell him to ready; he is already tensing, listening to that lullably wind nearer. It is an old song, timeless in Denocte, sung to children by fishwives and kings alike. He could sing along, if he wanted, longing words about the moon, about the waves that turn to mountains on the open sea, about the bonfires lit to bring a sailor home.
His lips remain pressed shut; he runs his tongue across his teeth, counting footsteps, counting seconds.
Now, he says, and like a shadow Abel follows. He chooses a different point to strike his match; he does not let himself think, he barely breathes as it strikes and sulfur fills his nose. (If he thought he would think of the distant glow in the mountains as they’d burned, the smoke and ash that had clouded the sun for days afterward, the search for survivors, the bones of his mother. Had she suffered, had she screamed, had the smell of smoke and burning filled the air? Yes, yes, yes - he is sure of it - and now here he is with a match in hand - but it’s only grain, it’s only an empty building, it’s nothing at all)
Almost too late, he uses the match to light a liquor-doused rag, and when he throws that into all those rows of winter-dry sacks the fire eats it eagerly. There are flames reflecting in Abel’s eyes when he steps back.
@Toulouse
x | x
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Tuolouse - 04-28-2019
and went home with it
His face was awash in flames, their light turning his body a brilliant gold shining in the night like a beacon. He could feel the heat, the fervor of the fire; it spread like a disease through the sacks if grains and grasses and vegetables.
Toulouse watched as Abel lit a liquor-doused rag and followed suit, tossing matches into the growing fire as quick as he could strike them. And as the flames grew taller, once there was no turning back, he tossed his entire matchbox onto the blaze.
He knew now was the time to retreat - the fire was growing larger by the second, its heat singing the fine hairs of his face. He’d be reeking of smoke and ash by now, his own souvenir to take home from tonight’s events. But still he lingered - what was one more minute to admire his handiwork? The guard had disappeared, the streets were empty, Denocte was slumbering in unaware -
Fire!
Was that a shout he’d heard, or his mind playing tricks on him?
Toulouse pins his ears, casting a furtive glance over each shoulder. The streets were still clear - but for how much longer? ”Time to go.”
Kicking the nearest crate into the fire, the golden man twisted around ready to flee into the night. The golden ring he wore was glowing in the firelight, the gold warm and smooth against his horn. It required all his will to not reach up and twist it around - not yet, his thoughts were a hiss through his mind. There’s still time. There has to be.
He wasn’t sure how long he was willing to wait to find out - but he was ready to use it in an instant.
”Someone is coming-“
@abel @Official Night Account”
Anyone is welcome to pop in at this point! c:
tl;dr; a few characters have snuck into Night court and set fire to three food stores! This is occurring somewhere in the east of the capitol, near the markets and citadel!
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Boudika - 04-30-2019
boudika
there can be no covenants between men and lions
wolves and lambs can never be of one mind
but hate each other through and through
there can be no covenants between men and lions
wolves and lambs can never be of one mind
but hate each other through and through
The drums were beating in her mind like a heart.
Everything under the sun had a language of its own, no matter how indiscernible, no matter the shape the words took. Some languages did not require words at all. Some languages were fierce, violent action. There was the language of love, poetic and sometimes syrupy-sweet, sad and cold like the stars, quiet and mysterious. There was the language of hate, like cracking coals or simmering, impatient water on the cusp of the boil. There was sadness, the language of a bird singing, unanswered, and loneliness, the way that call echoed over and over into the nothing.
Boudika understood one of these languages better than any other.
That was the language of tragedy.
A younger Boudika, a less wisened, would have said the language of war. But she knew, years past her naivety, the the two were the same language. They were inseparable synonyms, meaning one and the same. War was tragedy. And tragedy was war. But she had not entirely escaped her youthful ignorance; her naivety continued, even now, in her hopeful belief that she would never have to speak that language here in Denocte. Why else be a dancer? Why else spend her nights painted gold and silver upon a stage, faceless and obscure?
But the drums were beating. The drums were beating and she had a general’s blood. The drums were beating, and she was powerless to their call.
Denocte was burning.
The dancer had been near the docks, staring into the sea, sleepless and wondering, still wondering, at the words, I can Make you. Wondering: Could she speak the language of the sea—and then, a sound, almost indiscernible from the lap of waves, growing, growing, intense, and Boudika knew in her bones there had been a disaster, shouting, and a cackling of flames like laughter. The dancer did not hesitate to launch herself off of the dock, into the waves, and just as quickly climb back to shore—she was thoroughly wet, dripping with it, and then she ran toward the light above the city.
You can never be caught unawares, Boudika. The Khashran will eat your heart out. They will hamstring you in your sleep, or attack you when you are at peace.They are the most relentless, tenacious enemy you can imagine—and so, you must be those things and more. You must be merciless. Her father’s voice found her, and suddenly, a snapshot of images: her dress uniform during graduation as she marched to a ceremonial parade cadence, her promotion ceremony, entangled with a Khashran—his teeth drawing blood, and then: one of her best friend’s funerals, the hot summer sun baking the mist from the sea, ranks of sea-grey horses facing her, charging, charging, charging, the drums, beating, beating, beating—
Her hooves became the drums, and so did her heart. There was shouting somewhere in the distance, an alarm raised, but Boudika’s mind became tenacious in its singular focus. They cannot have gotten far. Other concerns did not appeal to her: she did not stop to consider that this was no longer her obligation, she was a dancer, a mere dancer, she ought to have paused to still the flames, to calm the children, but tragedy had struck.
And what did a warrior do, besides act? What language did she speak, besides tragedy?
Due to her location at the docks, she was nearest the food store in the eastern part of Denocte, and it was the store that she sped toward with all the practice and resilience of a mare who ran every day to escape her demons. By the time she had arrived, the flames were leaping, dancing, and she continued to drip water onto the paving stones. Already, the fire had developed a life of its own—a crack from within, and a rush of heat, carried the sound to her:
Someone is coming—
And Boudika was certainly coming. Already, the firelight had turned her devilish, satanic, with her spiralling horns and copper head made almost-black with water. The burn had not made her slow her momentum; contrarily, she sped up, barrelling through the doorway into the hellfire, where the heat buffeted her face, and she only had seconds to react to the scene at hand.
She thought she saw two stallions, but with the rapidity of her movements, it was impossible to tell. The heat would soon become unbearable, even slick with water—and so she barrelled toward the nearest, a bay barred with white which reminded her, incomprehensibly in the moment, of light through prison bars. She did not make a battle cry, simply ducked her shoulder and aimed to make contact clear with his chest.
Something tangled within her, deep and dark, dangerous and forgotten—a piece that she had shielded and suppressed since arriving at Denocte, because, finally,
she was alive again, and the only thing on her mind was murder.
therefore, there will be no covenants between us
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Abel - 04-30-2019
A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
His mind goes curiously blank as the first flames spark. It is as though all the thoughts and anxiety that had dogged his heels for days were simply pressed flat by an immense hand. For a few seconds there is blankness behind his dark eyes, the only movement the reflection of the flames.
And then something pops, air exploding out as the fire ate it up, and Abel startles and jerks his head away at the shower of sparks, and a moth-like of slip of ash blows out into the winter street to wither. Then Abel knows it is too late to go back, as the primordial voice in his mind screams fire.
The palomino’s voice stirs him from these thoughts, steadies him from shuffling and striking his feet on the cobblestones. Abel looks to him, and if he had considered the man golden before now he something born of Midas, glowing like molten rings in the light of the fire eating up and up the Night Court’s grain. The sharp curl and jut of his horns make him look almost demonic, the smoke curling thick as his hair. Abel opens his mouth to answer and chokes on the taste of ash.
That is when the striking of hooves against stone becomes a drumbeat too near to ignore. The boy glances white-eyed down the alleyway, and when he looks back his companion is gone. In the flickering heat, he can’t make out whether he sees a silhouetted set of horns or a gleam of gold, but when he narrows his gaze against the sting of smoke he sees nothing. Nothing but sacks and sacks of dried grain, and wooden beams, and growing fire. The noise of it is immense, beyond what he would have imagined; the building is groaning, the flames snap like trees. He thinks of the tidal wave, of so many buildings crushed at once. This is nothing in comparison, but -
but he has caused it.
Abel has lingered too long. With a wild snort he lunges after the palomino, but he doesn’t get beyond that first stride. A figure barrels into him, driving all the air from his lungs and sending him stumbling down. For a moment he can’t breathe, and he stares dazedly at the fire and the rising smoke, wondering if he will die here.
But then one of his gasping breaths pulls in something other than smoke and Abel turns his head toward his attacker, his eyes already red-rimmed and glazed from the smoke, and finds a bald-faced demon whose eyes glinted crimson (he wonders if it is only the flame). It is not hard, in this moment, to feel like the orphan he was - the orphan he still is, son of destruction and flame.
“Please,” he barely manages it, his voice hoarse with smoke and having the air knocked from his lungs. His chest and shoulder burn with pain. “They’re getting away-” and Abel begins to scramble to his feet, coughing on smoke and the taste of his lie.
@Toulouse
x | x
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Tuolouse - 04-30-2019
and went home with it
For a moment, time stood still. The flames stopped their roaring and their dancing, the wind held its breath, and all the world fell silent as Toulouse slowly turned to look at his companion. The light from the fires is casting deep shadows over his face, obscuring his features in darkness. But the palomino can see the whites of his eyes; whether it’s out of fear, surprise, or something else he isn’t quite sure.
The golden ring on his horn is laughing.
The world starts again, but in slow motion. He watches with a mixture of horror and grim delight as a red figure, dark horns spiraling away from a bone-white face, emerged from the smoke and shadows. She ran at Abel, but it was slow, so slow; he could count the time it took for each hoof to strike the ground, and he opened his mouth to warn the bay, to tell him to move, to catch his attention -
- But then time rights itself, and slams back into place.
The chestnut collides with the bay, and in the blink of an eye, Toulouse disappears. A twist of that laughing ring is all it takes to render his frame invisible, turning the wolf into a ghost.
It’s a strange thing, watching a scene play in front of you like a movie. He’s not apart of their collision, not really; if he were to reach out and shake Abel’s shoulder he would feel it clear as day, but the horned man can’t convince himself to do so. He only waits, and watches as his companion tumbles to the ground, dust and smoke enveloping his frame.
”Please.”
His voice is a whisper in the dark, choking on the thick night air. Toulouse inches closer, testing fate.
”They’re getting away-“
His green eyes widen, then narrow. Carefully avoiding the chestnut mare, he steps close, oh so close, until he can whisper in the turncloak’s ear:
“I’ll be sure to send Raum your regards.”
He doesn’t know if she hears him - he doesn’t care, to her he’s a ghost, a figment of her imagination (or so he imagines.) But he watches Abel’s face, waiting for the recognition, the confirmation that he was heard.
And then as the sound of hoofbeats ring out against the cobblestone streets, and more horses appear in the distance, he slips away into the night.
And he doesn’t look back.
@abel @boudika
toulouse is out!
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Morrighan - 04-30-2019
For once, the sight of fire did not bring her a sense of joy. Instead, it was a mix of horror and anger. It grew and grew, swallowing up the market in flames and smoke. And so, she ran.
She left faint burn marks in her wake from her hooves- a small symbol of her returning magic. At times, there were small sparks with each stamp of her hooves as they made contact with the stone ground. The whites of Morrighan's eyes were visible as she galloped through, her destination set on what had caught on fire and figuring out what the hell was happening. While memories of the war usually flashed through her mind, they were front and center now. All her battle preparations played in her head and she was ready to fight until blood spattered on the ground.
Morrighan's rage would prove to be in good reason as the scene played out before her. The fires grew and the visibility level was extremely low among all the smoke. What she had come to understand was Denocte's food stores were up in flames. It couldn't have been on accident either. She could just make out one equine slamming into another, bringing him into the ground - perhaps the one responsible?
Facing the fire, she could feel the heat all over her body even at the distance she was at. She gazed into the flames, trying to will it into submission like she used to. If it would just cooperate and listen to her, she could turn it around and use it as a weapon for battle. However, it seemed to have other plans and instead sparked and cracked around her. Embers sprayed towards her with some hitting her face and leaving her faintly burned. "Piece of shit," she grumbled to herself, ears pinned back in frustration. Some fire magic this is. Apparently, her magic was still nowhere near what it used to be. This was pointless.
Turning away from the fire, she went over to the two she had seen moments ago. Her eyes squinted from the pain of all the smoke surrounding them. She recognized the attacker as Boudika, but she did not know the bay stallion that lay before them. Whoever he was, Boudika was pissed. She didn't feel sorry for this stranger since he was now facing two pissed off mares.
"Who the hell do you think you are, asshole?" she spat at him, holding up one of her hooves close to his body. At the least, her magic was working in some way and he would likely feel the heat radiating from the hoof. Morrighan had half a mind to kick the crap out of him now and make him explain what was going on here faster. She eyed Boudika, wondering what the plan was, if there was any. It didn't appear that there was anyone else within the chaos of the market, or at least not yet. If this guy was responsible in some way, he needed to be punished.
If no one else was going to, she wasn't afraid to act and she wouldn't wait very long either.
@Boudika @Abel @Israfel @
RE: thank you kindly, wolf - Israfel - 04-30-2019