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i was lightning before the thunder

It was summer, the sun beating down on the whole of Novus and the Dusk Court with its full body; it held no reserves about those that wandered beneath its harsh light, caring for little else save its spot unchallenged in the sky. There might have been water-logged clouds gathering high and near to threaten the sun's current reign, but Rann wasn't focused enough to tell if there was sign of a storm. It mattered little to her, the one from snow and ice, for though the rain was less than impressive she had no attention left to give to the idea.

Someone, they said, had washed upon shore by the cliffs.

She had been in the midst of a quiet conversation beneath open bay windows with Máni, high in the Dusk Court tower. They laid with one another, soft tones filling their atmosphere as gentle breezes played with their manes. Rann was softly tracing the paint marks across his skin while he told her stories of his long journey; to be back, to be touchable and hear his voice, there was little else she had craved so much. The interruption came when one of the court galloped into the tower's yard and yelled for them, for any near enough to hear. They said, with missing breath and a heart too strong to stand, someone not of their kingdom had been found unconscious along the cliff's beach shore where the ocean sloped onto land. Rann pushed herself away from the comfort of Máni's side to make way down the spiraling stairs and out through the entrance; whether he followed or not, she wasn't paying any mind to.

She pulled up short from her race across the cliffs as Damascus worked on separating the stranger from the tides. She glanced for any standing close enough to her (sights set for Florentine's soft body) and called for Yana; the girl of the swamp had gathered enough by now, surely, to have something in her stronghold to help.

"Thank you, Damascus." The words came as she slipped her wolf's coat off her back and placed it over the drenched form in the sand, her slight telekinesis powers using it to rub off the remaining water. The boy was not moving, but he breathed slow breaths and she could only wait until her Champion of Healing arrived with something to stimulate waking him.

The absolute victory of sol invictus was upon them, a relentless march across the heavens, stealing from the court of dusk their shadows, the night a mere memory, beloved and desired to those unused to the heat. Arion had no quarrels with this fanciful torment, the breeze from the seas, the howling shrieks of her maidenhood a comfortable assault to combat against overheating. He was a stallion of the mountain tribes, and yet, long was his life in the deserts dune, the place of skeletal remains and parched earth. A drop of water worth more to a herd than any fountain of gold. The most precious of crafts, fine gilded regalia, jewels of fine ornaments, carvings and inked lore, all were created with tender care, and traded for the one most precious gift; water. Here, there was no such shortages, a place where the fertile earth blessed be those who walked her ancient halls. The oasis, beautiful in their hostile fragility was nothing to the wealth that dwelled in the swamps, the very air saturated with dampness, cooling his hide where he strode through the waters, his belly, legs and tangled tresses drenched. Whereas others may have found the height of Solis' reign unbearable, he found it a gentle comfort.

His heavy ebony hooves struck against the stone of the citadels halls, a wraith since his coming a near fortnight ago. A fledgling to their odd customs, the easy air a reprieve from the complexities of the Yaghl tribes, Arion had sequestered himself to the dank, damp passageways at the heart of the monolith, led down upon by spiraling stairs. How many secrets dwelt here, deep in shadow? What tales would it hold, of those who came before? It was a curiosity, as well as a retreat, escaping from the rising tenor of voices mixing and flurrying with vibrancy. The halls of the living, the halls of shared words and community. There were times it reminded him of the mountain cities, built deep and wide beneath the great peaks of the east, far from these lands he had come.

Even here, hidden away, shielded by earth and stone, the echoes lingered, a faint rise that would consume his attentions if he offered it a moments attention. The phantom reminds hissed against his skull, the great male tossing his head in irritation, even as he paced towards the hall, his chimera hide cast into a shine from the flames bracketed against the walls. The noise grew the further along he ventured towards the surface. Pausing, his ears rolling forward, sliding along the tattered remenants of his mane, the smith listened to the voices, the rising panic and discord. It would seem something was amiss. To the ascension he began, long, corded limbs making easy work of the wide stairs, until at last he emerged into a wreath of tangled olive. They were numerous, the equine of the Dusk court, murmuring in their gentled worry for strangers and kin alike. That was perhaps the oddest of paradox he had come to accept; this willingness to see good in all things. The willingness to move past grudge and grief. It was an oddly whimsical thing, so used to he was of the prejudice of the tribesmen. Silent, a mere observer in many feats to the Terrastellians, Arion caught the swift orders of the caretakers, a wounded cast from the sea, left to lay bareboned in salt and weeks. He was slow to act, careful, as he turned around, thoughts settling in a careful clarity. Would he even be welcome in crisis of the court, naive as he was to their true creed?

All the same, he wandered, following after the swift shadow of the lady, intent on her purpose. Following after, the venture from the gilded castle in the sky to the desicrate stretch of rock and dead things, Arion seen the gathered masses, an assembly huddled about a single fallen form. "Where did he come from?" a low rumble hummed within his throat, stepping forward, his long tusks lances of white in the dull ashen sand. It was almost tender, pulling the tangled weeds from around his pale neck. 

The ruckus from the beach was a difficult thing to miss. The first thing they might have known of her arrival was the idle fall of petals, descending slowly to land amidst their rather chaotic gathering.
 
The colt, Damascus, with his wings like fire, was booming orders in a voice the cliffs eagerly resonated. Florentine hovered above them a moment longer, her eyes scanning, surveying, before she slowly descended.
 
Flora’s feet find land beside Rannveig, amethyst eyes bright as she looks to the injured horse. Sand crusted his skin from head to toe, seaweed covering him like wet vines. He was groaning in a voice storm-ragged and sand-grated.
 
The twilight girl steps toward him, her bag of meager medicines beside her. She had been a caretaker once, for such a brief, brief time. Her skills were paltry compared to Yana, but until word reached their Champion Healer, Florentine’s own meager skills were clearly all they had to help them.
 
Falling to her knees beside the drowned man she opens her bag, to reveal a flask of water and a select few tinctures. “Don’t try to speak, your throat is too sore from the saltwater and sand. Just focus on breathing for now.”
 
Slowly her gaze creeps over his bruised body and she huffs softly, she had healed a kitten once with magic, but not like this. She had helped Bexley too, but the Day girl’s wounds were minor then. Finnian’s injuries was far beyond her ability… “Our healer is coming, but for now you have to make do with me, I am afraid.” She says deceptively chirpy.  “I have not done this before but I will try my best. I healed a kitten back from the brink of death once, I think that bodes quite well. Maybe.”
 
Bringing the flask to his mouth she poured a little onto lips, murmuring, “Now, drink what you can, only small sips because your throat will be too sore for any more. Use the water to clear the sand from your mouth if you can too.” Returning to her bag, Flora removed a leaf, small, green and fragile. “Chew this too, it will taste bitter, but it will ease your pain until we get you to the castle or Yana’s home.”
 
A smile curled the corners of her lips, her amethyst eyes blazing bright beneath the veil of her forelock. “You are lucky, my friend. Not many survive such a washing machine experience as that storm.”
 
Standing, she moves to her queen, drinking in the crescent moon gleaming atop her forehead. “I have sent for Yana. What I have done should tide him over until she comes. But we need her skills, desperately.” 
 
Then, turning from Rannveig, the twilight girl’s eyes light upon Damascus, the tip of a wing extends to nudge at his shoulder. “He owes you his life Damascus. Who would have known if he would have survived without you finding him?” Her head tips, a small salute, cautiously bright.

@Finnian @Damascus @Rannveig @Arion @Raglan @Máni @Yana

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart