It has been a harder season than usual. The desert, always barren, parched and infertile, had become nearly sterile. The elder teryr, who had spent many years in the canyon, had grown restless. He had been outcompeted by younger, fiercer teryr; some of them were his own offspring. The resources of the canyon, spread so thin, would no longer support him. And so he had flown; first to the oasis and then beyond, beneath a star-heavy sky. The desert spread before him like an offering, but it remained barren, and empty of life. If he were not a purely wild thing, the injustice of it, the cruel and visceral fact of his expulsion from his home, would have deeply troubled him. Instead, the old king begins to hunger.
The hunger grows, and grows, and grows. He quenches his thirst at the oasis and feels a desperation that only wild creatures know, on the precipice of an age past their prime. The end, infinite and scathing, stares at him as he looks into the water of the oasis and his own reflection ripples back. His beak is scarred and cracked; one eye is blind; and although he is old, there is still a lusciousness to his feathers, a prominence to the mane of them about his neck that suggestions his nobility. He stares a moment longer before taking flight, restless and uncertain with nowhere to roost.
Beneath him sandwyrms surface screech at his shadow as he passes overhead. Years ago he would have roared back; he would have dove toward them and scratched at their faces, challenging them to a battle of beasts, until he emerged the victor. The cool air in his face reminds him that was a different lifetime; the winter has brought with it the strife of not only age and lack of resources, but reminders of old injuries. His joints creak and tighten; and as he flies his muscles grow fatigued in a way they never have before.
But he is not a creature to go by idly on the wayside. It is against his nature. On the horizon, he sees the lights of the City. The City no greater teryr has attacked in recent memory. The City that his mother had shown him once when had been a hatchling; she had shown him screaming, squawking, brandishing her wings until she drove all her young back. The message had been clear: you do not go there. But he is old now; and there is something that protests within him at the idea of flying further and further from the canyon he had defended and fought for for many years, only to be ousted by his own sons.
The old king tips his left wing and begins a gradual turn toward the stark sandstone walls, made silver in the moonlight. He is at an altitude where he knows he must look like nothing but a bird to the unpracticed eye. He has hunted as this height many times before. Then, the greater teryr tucks his wings and descends in a sharp dive. He knows there is prey in the city, and an enemy that is more suited to battle him than that of a sandwyrm. Do they not worship him, those mortals behind the strange walls, not so unlike his own canyon?
He lands on the parapet of the city, and with two taloned feet knocks the armoured guard from his station. The greater teryr lands there, on that parapet above Solterra’s closed gates, and releases a roar for the ages. It echoes across the sleeping city and into the desert beyond.
For a land of warriors and survivors that worship the lord of the sun, the terrifying sound signifies something beyond the mortal realm. The greater teryr’s appearance suggests Solis’s favour on the sun kingdom, as the great beast takes from the ramparts with another cry and descends into the streets. The old king is not the type of beast that will go off to the desert and die; no, he roars for blood and battle, for recognition and worship. He wants a worthy death.
RULES
This thread is open to ANY member of Day Court. This is open to replies until Jan 20th, at which point it will be CLOSED.
The greater teryr will reply three more times after this post on the 20th, 27th, and 3rd regardless of whether all participants have replied in time. There is no posting order, but if a post is not completed within the time limit the character is considered out of the event. (Extensions can be granted in
The next time the greater teryr replies, characters will be given three options to choose from.
The success of future attacks will be determined by a randomised roll between 1 and 10, with the higher numbers being more effective. Similarly, some choices may result in character injury (1-10) although mortality or being seriously maimed is up to the player's discretion.
All characters who enter will receive 50 signos for participation. Characters that complete all four rounds will be given an additional 100 signos. All characters who participate in the final round receive 1 additional roll between 1-100, where the character that receives the highest number will receive 300 signos. (A reminder that all characters who post 4+ times IC for this event can claim IC Event EXP)
01-13-2020, 04:33 PM - This post was last modified: 01-13-2020, 04:54 PM by Official Day Account
The nature of the desert is that it is always changing.
Teiran has learned more about surviving in the Mors than she, perhaps, ever thought was necessary. She has learned more, perhaps, about surviving than even as a young girl thrown to the wolves. It took a lot to turn her back on the court she has been loyal to her entire life, to smash open those gossamer cracks spiderwebbing all over the surface of her skin and admit that she could not protect them the way she was made to.
There is black tar leaking from those delicate fissures, all of the things inside of her dripping out across the desert with every day that passes. Teiran spends a long time pushing down the feelings of guilt, and regret, that are so unfamiiar to her. She pushes them down and buries them in the golden sand until the wind sweeps them free another day.
But she has gone, because a boy with amethsyt eyes had asked her too; and she has been trapped inside the screams of the pained and the breaths of the dying, and eyes that were blue, and then gold, and then black, following her everywhere. In the Mors, things have been more distant. She can convince herself that it was only the wind, howling over the dunes.
The nature of the desert is that it is always changing, and so too, does Solterra change.
The snake on the throne and his pet add their breaths to the ones suffocating her thoughts and the boy with the Amethyst eyes goes to the court. For awhile, Teiran stays. For awhile, she isn’t sure that she can go back. But it’s hard to ignore the urge of duty, the call of purpose, that almost seems to drift lazily across the Mors like breeze.
She goes. One step at a time, pushing down all of the things inside of her that have been leaking out of her like lifeblood. She goes, because the thing tethering her to the desert is gone, and she has only ever known how to be alone and now she isn’t quite sure what that means anymore. She goes because, through it all, she has always been and will always be one of Solterra’s soldiers.
Teiran isn’t expecting to see the Teryr, perched upon the wall of the court like some terrible divine death. But she also isn’t sure what she expected, because all Solterra knows is suffering and death. She wonders if it is all the court will ever know, no matter who sits on the throne, who walks the streets, who calls it home.
But when the beast launches itself down from the parapet, landing among the streets. Among her streets, the streets of the people she is meant to protect, something in the soldier shifts. It’s like a cog, or a wheel, fitting back into place after being jammed for too long. She draws her twin, serpentine daggers from their sheaths at her sides. The sounds of the wind whistling against their obsidian blades seals all of the cracks in her.
Something drops behind her sage eyes, some curtain, drawing them dark and blank. There is only a tunnel, from her to the Teryr, whose call is still echoing down every empty and dark alley in the court. There is a wild thing in her streets, calling for blood, and she is a predator again on the hunt.
Somewhere lurks the memory of a young girl with scared green eyes and protruding ribs, but she is lost among the thoughts of protect, guard, fight.
“Speaking.”
⚔ | And Tei is officially back! Feel free to include her in your posts c;
eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone
Jahin has always been drawn to the idea of peace. In his years of constant raiding and fighting for the Davke horde, he’s grown weary of war and the never ending casualties war brings with it. He wishes he wasn’t this way--introspective and dabbling with philosophical concepts far beyond his meager level of Davke education--it would be far easier if he was simply content to live his life as he always had: on the fight and tempting death. This line of thinking is what had ultimately earned him exile from his people and Avdotya’s timeless scorn, but fighting has never been enough for him and he would be lying to himself if he continued to pretend otherwise.
Now that he’s left the blood-stained sands of Davke battles behind, he can’t help but feel restless and uncomfortable in this shiny, new Capitol skin he wears. What business does he have, parading about the Capitol as Regent, when he’s participated and lead countless raids on Capitol caravans and spilled his fair share of Capitol soldier blood? His head ought to be lodged on a pike, displayed for the entire city so citizens can launch rotten fruit and vegetables at his remains and curse his name.
Instead, he is free and living a relatively peaceful life. Peaceful, albeit empty. Makeda is gone, bones crumbling to sand in the desert, and he no longer dreams of a domestic life surrounded by their children in a house he built for his family. While Avdotya lives, Jahin is as dead to her as her own sister. He’s not sure the trade was worth forfeiting his relationship with Avdotya. Can anything be worth losing Avdotya’s respect? But self-pity rarely achieves anything worthwhile, so he tries not to dwell too much on the fact that he doesn’t belong anywhere anymore. Instead, he attempts to make the most of what he is here and now, knowing the only way to ease the pain and guilt plaguing in his heart is to ensure that it is all worth it in the end.
He patrols in his spare time with his spear secured to his back. Pacing the Capitol walls and manning the watchtower makes him feel useful; a feeling he has sorely missed. When he hears the blood-curdling scream of a Teyr, he can hardly believe it. He freezes in his tracks, his own blood pounding almost joyfully in his ears as he frantically scans the sky for a glimpse of the winged creature. Why would a Teryr be hunting so far outside of its normal range, and so near civilization to boot? He doesn’t have time to dwell on the abnormality of the situation, catching sight of the beast perched on the gate parapet screaming its rage and promising death.
Fortunately, Jahin is near one of the alarm bells that is situated in one of the flanking towers near the entrance. “Ring the bell!” he shouts over the Teryr cries at the stationed guard. The guard leaps to attention, ringing the massive bell with all her might. The bell’s warning rings out clear across the city. It’s too late to gather an organized attack; he can only hope the bell provides enough warning for unarmed citizens to take cover before the Teryr carries out its promise of destruction.
Readying his spear, Jahin bounds to the top of the overlooking watchtower, adrenaline sending a thrill unlike any other through his veins. How I have missed this...
The Teryr has already initiated the fight and is making a low, soaring dive through the streets. Something below the rampart walls catches the light of the sun, flashing in his eyes like a desperate signal mirror. Wincing, he struggles to identify the source amid the throng of scrabbling bodies below. Two silver daggers and a collar flash in the sun. Teiran? What is she doing back? Another shriek from the Teryr and he loses sight of her in the mass of hysterical citizens. He focuses on the Teryr as it swoops through the streets, steadying his pounding heart with focused, deliberate breaths. He's not in a good enough position to make a throw yet, so he waits, holding his spear ready in case the Teryr should made another pass close enough to do some damage. If there is one thing Jahin can do in this world without a shadow of a doubt, it is throwing his spear true and strait.
J A H I N look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
OOC: Jahin didn't actually throw his spear, I edited it to make that clearer. Sorry for any confusion!
01-18-2020, 06:31 PM
Played by
Zireael [PM] Posts: 18 — Threads: 4 Signos: 345
Salt. Sand. Dried Grain. It swirled in his mind like a so mellowing tune, while the noises of a waking city picked up the higher notes to start the upward spiral of a winter burdened city. It wasn't his favorite time of day to slip through the town, but he had to admit to some twisted sense of humor at watching the stumbling drunk nobles and prodigal sons come from the lower dregs of the town. They tried to be quite, to slip through the shadows unrecognized, but their tense, uncomfortable faces told the tales just as well. Here in a quite back alley he could see them drag themselves along the street against the outside walls, hoping to hide from the busier city center.
Poor blind bastards. Their idiocy was a nice morning elixir. Then, like spiking his orange juice with vodka, came those from the lower quarter travelling up who bore a rather different air. Those one or two nobles, dripping in their wealth or wearing simpily hundreds like it was a sack of grain, did not shrink at the light of the sun beginning to burn out the morning. They cared nothing for the wandering eyes, they welcomed them- no dared them. That was who Locke took note of, who he watched with curious eyes. In his new city, where he had slipped through for several weeks before taking a break to become a corporal figure on a south jaunt, he wanted to know those people. The ones who took the shame of the lower as well as the gold of the upper. The ones who ruled the whole city. Those he was find-
A roar, bestial, primal, and vibrating the muscle holding in his heart. That was not a mate catching one of the wanders returning from the lower. Locke picks himself up from the side of his alley watch with a growing suspicion. It could be normal. He'd only been in the city a month, it could be a seasonal mating call of some natural creature. Normal- The teryr lands with all the grace of a hurricane on the city walls, crashing stone, wood, and life to the street below. Right. He doubted that was normal.
Feathers on his back stood, as his heart flutters in his chest. His soft morning melody of the city began spinning wildly into sounds of screams, cracking stone, battle cries, and scents of blood and death. It wasn't his usual scene. Locke was not a hero. Not a warrior. He was a shadow slipping thief. Knight in shining armor was never even in the realm of possibilities. Nor did he want it to be. Several Solterrans, with authority of rank radiating off of their movements and commands, rush to the creature. The caution in the youth's eyes turns hard. Cold and calculating. He should go. He had no weapon, no armor, and little skill. Every brilliant brain cell in his head told him this wasn't his place, his time, or his fight.
Oh but all those reasons began to boil and simmer in his head, stewing into an elixir of adrenaline, daring, and cunning. It was a dare. When the teryr roared, it was a siren. He wasn't a warrior no, but he was a weapon on his own. A weapon made even more deadly by the williful ignorance of it gave towards common sense. Locke moves forward, mind speeding up to time with the battle. Glint metal- a spear readies under a warrior strengthened touch. The smirk flashes for only a second before he moves.
A piece of rubble, small and near useless is picked up by the youth and hurled with full force at the raging desert king. "City tours are closed, birdy!" Cried the lanky thief as he let his gold body flash into the sun (circling wide the beast, away from the spear brandishing warrior), hoping to steal the collosial's attention from the death tipped weapon that aimed its way. Hoping to turn its head, to lay bare its defenses. Then the boy looked, really looked. Good god. It was massive...Breath catches in the boy's throat for a moment. It was a magnificent creature, bristling in death and demanding reverence for its age, size, and the marks of experience it bore along its body. Shit- Locke didn't even have the breath to speak it as he grabbed another stone. It would be a shame... (The mutual respect rising like the dust in the battle.) Yet it had begun, and ever nerve in his body pushed him to end it, thrumming with the pulsating beats of a mortal body not ready to fall. Bells begin to ring. To scream. Locke let the second rock fly, but did not send any more insults with it..
OOC:: Apologies for the low quality here. Typed this up on the phone!
Recap:: Locke steps into the scene from an alley and throws a stone to try and get the teryr's attention away from Jahin. He begins to circle, and throws another.
Edited to reflect @Jahin 's clarification. Apologies!
01-19-2020, 11:03 AM - This post was last modified: 01-19-2020, 02:28 PM by Locke
There were few days that Torstein cared enough to wander far out of his usual haunts. Life had become a near-meaningless, dull wave: Raum was dead (a positive that the draft counted his blessings for), he had stepped down from Warden, and his family was long, long gone - haunting him like shadows of past. So he spent his days drinking... As he laid out in a corner of a local town pub, the bartender was there to feed the addiction. After all, this good soul was only swayed by the signos coin that was passed with each drink.
There was an ache that had formed behind his eyes this morning — a never-ending, pulsing throb that distracted him from all logical thought. It started at the top of his sinuses as a prickle of a sensation, and then blossomed into a painful flower that dug its thorns into the muscles of his brow and frontal lobe. So in sensible decision, he attempted to kill it the only way he knew how to (sans physical violence): by attempting to drown it.
It was at the last swig of his cup that he heard it: a bellow so loud, dripping with the putrid ichor of old gods. Tor suddenly goes silent and still, as if a great realization has struck him. Large head swung back towards the door as he attempted to focus his blurry eyesight while his head swam in the alcohol.. He was thrown back to the first months he had arrived in Novus, of the Teryr that attacked the canyon. The same Teryr that carried off their then-Sovereign.
But there was no uneasy lump in his throat, no cold feet. Just a spreading warmth that sobered him up in a frighteningly quick amount of time as he shakily clamored to his feet. The whole world swayed when he stood up and his head spun.
"Too much..." he groaned, throat dry, as his teke (nearly as drunk as he was) grasped blindly for the Broadseax that had been haphazardly tossed to the table beside him. With a firm grasp on his weapon, the titan shoved past those who fled out of the pub for a safer bunker.
Honestly? He didn't remember how he made it out the courtyard. But here he was, now almost completely sober (still a little dizzy) as he stared down the street at a massive, old Teryr. There were quite a few who had already showed up before him - he recognized @Teiran instantly and the Solterran Regent @Jahin he had seen in passing but never actually met.. But the titan of a soldier actually ended up right beside @Locke, and he gave the young stallion a weary glance. Locke looked like he had seen god and wasn't about to live to tell the tale.
"Uh..." he paused, "... You okay, kid?"
Tor blinked a couple times for good measure as he tried to clear his mind. Was that a rock he just picked up? he idly thought to himself, then shook it off as a delusion. He was certainly just delusional, right? It barely passed for a rock when he glanced at it - might as well have been a pebble! No one would be that stup—
DINK, right at the Teryr. "Oh." What? ... WAIT, WHAT?
Then his eyes went wide; he realized the young stallion didn't have any weapons on him, but was still advancing on the creature anyway. "Kid, what the fuck are you doing?!" he growled.
Just like last time, this was going to be a shitshow. Déjà vu, anyone?
It was a rare enough occurrence—rain in a desert—that Aghavni had forfeited further sleep for the far less pleasant, yet necessary, task of relocating a pot of milk-white poppies from her cluttered desk to her cluttered windowsill and hurtling into two empty vases in the process.
Vines had shot out from the earth-filled drawer beneath her bed to wrap around her ankles before she could fall. (She suspected her magic proved itself useful in these ways, much like a cat leaving dead squirrels in its owners bed, in the hopes that she would eventually grow fond of it. Unfortunate for both parties. She had always found dogs more endearing.)
Sighing, she had willed the vines back to their drawer before gazing down at the vases. It was how Kite, her father's choice errand boy, found her: groggily shoving vases into her wardrobe. She had not yet discovered the limits of its acquiescence and hoped, not without merit, she never would.
“Sol,” came Kite's low, stately grumble. Her father’s choice messengers never bothered to knock. She returned the favor duly, whenever she was able.
“...Yes?”
“Your father has a message for you.” Which wasn’t uncommon—what was uncommon was the ungodly hour he had chosen to have her hear it. The sun had not yet graced the horizon, and as a gaunt, moon-white form loomed spectrally by her door, she heaved the groaning wardrobe shut and greeted the messenger with a frown.
“Father has the patience of a saint,” she remarked, as she nudged a piece of wood through the handles. “He couldn't wait a few hours more?”
“Normally I would have something clever to say to that,” said Kite drily. The soft clanging of glass on metal meant he had just pushed his glasses back up his nose. Something he did incessantly whenever he bore unpleasant news.
“But the urgency of the matter prevents me.” She looked up, puzzled, as he entered the room, trailing sapphire cape catching on the doorframe. The twist of his mouth was uncharacteristically grave for his youth; no doubt learned from her father.
“A teryr has been spotted in the city.”
She would've thought she had misheard—a teryr? One had not been spotted in Solterra since her mother's time, and there was talk amongst the king's advisors that they had all but died out—if not for the solemn way he held her gaze.
“What?” Aghavni cried, springing to her hooves and descending gleefully upon the startled messenger, her weariness sloughed off like snowmelt. “And you choose now to tell me?”
“You were rather preoccupied, if you recall,” said Kite tartly, glowering as he yanked his cape out of her grasp. “And if you'll only exercise some of the saintly patience your father shows—” he ducked the swinging arc of Aghavni's tail as she turned swiftly towards the window, “—as that was only half of the message.”
She was deprived of the chance to ignore him when the muffled thump of something heavy landing on her bed drew her attention away from the skies. The rain had morphed into a dreary drizzle, masking the world beneath; if the teryr was so much as torching the streets below, she wouldn't have seen a flame through the unnatural fog.
“Here. And I quote Lord Senna's words: wield it with care.”
Her father's scimitar rested grandly upon her rumpled bedsheets. Save for the widening of her eyes, she found herself incapable of a proper reaction, having spent it all on the teryr. In all her years as her father's only child, he had never once let her touch his sword.
The message, without Kite having to utter it, was clear: this was her chance. Her chance to claim the most coveted honor for a Hajakha, for any Solterran, from time immemorial.
It was time to slay a teryr.
—
She was not the first to arrive, though she hadn't expected to claim that particular honour. What vexed her was that she was not even the second, nor the third to arrive—it seemed half of Solterra had piled into the narrow streets to gape and swing hastily polished swords and axes and bows. No Solterran warrior worth their pride would be caught trying to flee.
Kite had accompanied her, despite her protests. She had persuaded him to draw back once she found the teryr, and his pale, towering form (he was a hand taller than her father) melted into the crowd rather naturally in the midst of ensuing chaos. The scimitar hung, sheathed, at her hip; she would not invoke it until the last moment.
First, she had to find the old beast.
Kite had told her all he'd known about it as they'd pushed through the crowds. Supposedly it was ancient, a king in its own right, larger than any of his species anyone (living) had ever seen. She'd taken his descriptions with a grim smile; the size of the thing mattered little. All that mattered was that the teryr's heart was in the right place, nestled beneath its feathered chest, and remained pierce-able by a well-aimed blade.
Aghavni ducked as a stone whistled through the air, just shy of her ear. Scowling, she threw her gaze over her shoulder in search of the assailant—only to catch the dull glint of a spear, the Regent's own, as his dark form blew past her. So he was here too; was Orestes?
Wiping sand from her eyes, she followed swiftly after Jahin; she trusted a man like him, Davke born and raised, would only ever run towards a teryr and never away. And she was right.
Emerging from the blizzard of sand, first a wing, then claws, and finally: beady inkdrop eyes, as large as dinner plates. Gritting her teeth, she took shelter behind a pillar as the teryr screeched and dove from his perch on the parapet. Slowly she drew out her father's scimitar, and traced over the foreign inscription.
The crow does not roost with the phoenix.
She smiled wanly, and stepped back onto the sand. “Jahin! On your left.” As she crouched to the sand, she thought: The crow is roosting with a teryr.
Wrath. She can feel it coil beneath her flesh like a foreign substance. It aches for destruction, for blood, for war. Her lips hunger for the absent taste of iron. It has been so long since she has felt this burning inside her. It rumbles in response to the terrible roar that echoes over Solterra. Effy pauses her movements, her curiosity piqued by the terrible sound. A grin appears on her face. Slow. Slowly it burns across her facade. In moments she tears across the sand and stone of the city. It is well worn from the blizzards of snow, and the baking sun. Abrasions are torn into each stone. They are unloved. Effy feels her lungs burn like her smile. Each expansion draws new breath, new fire into her lungs. Her muscles are alive. Each muscle springs to action at her command. Soon they will ache from the wounds of battle she so loves.
When the volatile soldier arrives, she is not the first. Others as eager for the hunt as she have spilled into the street. There is only one she recognizes from the time Ipomoea made an appearance. When he confronted Raum. The man with a maw on his chest, caging his beating heart. Effy does not have any feelings for any of these equines. Her eyes lock on the creature. It is something she has never seen before. Whispers from frightened Solterrans tell her they flee from a Teryr. The man with the caged heart asks a stranger what the fuck he is doing throwing a rock. He has no weapons. Effy does not have weapons; she is a weapon. "What? Afraid he'll get scratched? Maybe he'll learn." She hissed to Torstein as she ran past him. Effy felt the thrill of the hunt course through her bodice as she threw herself into the fray. A blast of sand and another terrible screech come from the Teryr.
Effy pauses momentarily, casting her face away from the brunt of the storm. She goes for the soft, vulnerable locations of the belly. What she thinks is vulnerable. Effy has never fought a Teryr before, but she is not afraid. Her wrath bubbles over, and she unleashes it. Vicious. Her ears vaguely register the shouts and cries around her. They do not call for her. They are not her brethren. Nobody knows her. None of them are to care about her wellbeing. All that matters is the death of this terrible monster. She dances, an adept warrior beneath the Teryr. Her enamels snap at his flesh. She is moving. Ever moving beneath the king of the sands.
Words: 438 | Notes: oof garbage post | Tags: Everyone here <3
... Spit them out when I'm satisfied
01-25-2020, 01:20 PM
Played by
Darkrise [PM] Posts: 13 — Threads: 2 Signos: 115
As the moon hung lazily in the sky, painting the City and the desert beyond in silver hues, Helios watched from the outer wall, content to simply stare. He was not on duty, he did not need to be there. But sleep eluded the soldier as it always did, so full of nightmares and ghosts of his past that he’d rather brave exhaustion than those. This early in the morning, before the sun had even begun to crest the horizon, Solis’ people slept, cradled by the cool of the winter night. It was peaceful, even if peace was never Helios’ friend.
Yet the peace did not last long. The steed faced away from the great gates but when a roar shook the very stone beneath his hooves, tearing into the silence and carving apart the night, the sun-marked stallion whirled around in disbelief. It was not terror that filtered through his veins (the training he’d received as a child had a way of trivialising such a feeling) but instead surprise. A Teryr stood atop the front gate, proud and glorious. It was surely a sign from Solis? That after all the years, all the bloodshed there was finally to be something good? But in that very moment it foretold only pain as the creature took to the air once more, circling over Solterra’s streets. Instinct kicked in, as it always did, and the warrior careened down the nearest flight of stairs just as the warning bell sounded.
It was perhaps a blessing that the attack occurred at such early hours of the morning, when most were tucked safely away in bed. Getting through the streets was far easier without crowds running in terror. Yet the alarm awoke many and already panic was beginning to show on the faces of those awake.
Close to the gates now he recognises Teiran- for the collar around her neck as much as her face. A collar that also circles his own throat, a cold yet oddly comforting weight that reminds him who and what he is. He spies Jahin too, spear at the ready as he faces down the creature. But the soft plunk of stone against skin steals the stag’s attention and he spots the young Locke tossing rubble at the beast. For a moment he is a child himself, lanky and untested, wielding nothing but courage, reckless courage. And then another roar draws him back the present, haunted by the cool press of metal as his throat. A snarl paints his lips, vicious and wild as any desert predator. With an audible flurry of feathers his wings pop into existence, flung open as he pulls into a rear and strikes the air with flailing hooves. There is little room to spread them wide, to roll his shoulders and enjoy the sensation of freeing the hidden appendages. Instead he thrusts them down to launch himself the short distance to a low roof top where at least he can throw them open fully, flapping them testily before taking to the air. Hoping the Teryr is too concerned with those on the ground to notice him, Helios gains height until he is above the predatory bird, though still a little away from it. Like Jahin he readies his own spear, but rather than risk losing it in avian flesh or among the legs and hooves of panicked crowds, the warrior prepares to dive and strike.
Mentions @Locke , @Teiran and @Jahin
basically just takes to the sky to fly higher than the Teryr, is about 30 metres away but aims his spear so that he can dive and strike at the top of the beast
Toro was passing the midday in the shade of the guards' quarters; while not his home, his presence there sat somewhere between "doing his job" and "staying out of the sun." He wasn't about to go running out on patrol - that's what soldiers were for - but he had to be present in case something happened.
Today, he was glad of it.
The bells started tolling before the messenger made it. The Champion was already bolting at the door, shoving through the clamor of confused off duty and drowsy night-shifters trying to make sense of the commotion. "A teryr in in the city!" The messenger exclaimed. "A tery-"
"Yeah, got it, where?" He took off as soon as the information was relayed; this wasn't something you could wait on. "Come on, Hajduk." The elemental lion was already at his side, and needed no further encouragement.
Toro heard it before he saw it.
"Oh, fuck." The thing was huge and..."Grizzled old motherfucker, aren't you?" Several Solterrans had already gathered, members of the court and civilians alike. The former Warden was there too - Toro hadn't seen him in a while but he was good to have on their side.
It didn't look like the teryr had caused much damage yet, but seeing its fearsome dive got his heart racing. There were places he could hide behind and aim carefully, but with his bright white coat and brazen nature, it would do little. His Champion arms and weapons were still being smithed, somehow; it didn't help that he'd not even thought to ask for such a thing. Toro's new status had been a shock, and he didn't really know what ought to come with it.
Fighting teryrs, apparently.
"More soldiers are on their way!" He offered to those who would listen. The amount of unarmed civilians was not comforting.
In the moonlight, sheathed in silver like a blade, Ariel rests on the open balcony of the Sovereign’s quarters. The golden prince of sun, fire, blood—everything a Sun Lion is and would ever be—flicks his tail with the indolence of an old god. Perhaps he is an old god, reincarnated in a mortal form. His eyes, like so much pooled sunlight, gaze out over the dark desert expectantly. The poise, the dignity, with which Ariel rests—all of it suggests a meeting, perhaps at half past zero-hundred, perhaps half-past the intangible hairsbreadth between stars. Orestes sleeps. Solterra sleeps. And the lion lays awake, a king of another realm, patient and knowing and feeling the desert tremble with all the expectation of a birth, or a death.
It is of no surprise, to Ariel, when the teryr’s silhouette crests the citadel’s distant wall. It is of no surprise, in the way it is of no surprise to a deer when the leopard strikes. It has been waiting it’s whole life for the moment which, although not guaranteed, seems a little too much like destiny.
And then, there is a piercing shriek.
And then, the bells are ringing,
ringing,
ringing,
in his sleep.
Orestes rises ghostlike and strange, half awake, stumbling.
Ariel speaks from the darkness—
Ariel becomes glowing rage, bright as a star, and the words come to Orestes later
later,
too late,
trickling as if through water.
“There is a Teryr attacking the city, Sun Prince.”
He is following the Sun Lion down the stairs—had he said a teryr?—
through a haunted throne room, made for tyrants and boy-kings, the banners of Solterra dusky and dark—
and into the sandstone streets, where Solterra is already rising, is already arming.
There is a moment when Orestes realises he is unarmed and alone. The chaos whirls around him, as if he is the center. Soldiers run passed him, swords drawn and spears at the ready. He stands with his pulled-gold mane, his eyes like chaos themselves, wondering if this is what it had felt when in another life he had become a dragon and stormed the gates of a city armed with the gold he wears now in his skin.
There is a courtier in the barracks near the Citadel, handing weapons to the soldiers that stream passed. Orestes is there with Ariel at his flank. “Please, give me one—several, actually.” What feels frantic in his heart emerges as calm, confident words. The fear and confusion he had felt are becoming slowly, slowly, elation. The courtier does as asked and Orestes takes him in his telepathic hand awkwardly—seven of them, at least. They are heavy, but the weight is a reminder that they are for unarmed citizens.
The teryr screams again. In the darkness and lantern light, it is easy to get lost in the streets. Follow me. It is Ariel’s voice, and the lion streams through the equines easily—Orestes follows at a gallop, until they are near the gates.
His heart both warms—and drops—to see his people already engaged. There is El Toro, who he runs up besides. There is Jahin, who appears to have run the bell. There is Locke, stooping to throw a rock, and the grizzled legend of Torstein, who Orestes has never met. Aghavni is next, beautiful and fierce and Efphion, already charging into the fray. Helios has taken to the sky above the teryr and that’s where Orestes’s eyes eventually settle, waiting.
It is Ariel who steps forward, not flesh but light light light. His paws leave singes on the sandstone below, and threaten to turn it to glass. He is streaming golden light like the sun, and Orestes steps back from the wafting, furious heat. “What are you waiting for?” Ariel asks, in the voice of the desert. And as if to answer the teryr, the Sun Lion draws back and roars at the Sovereign’s side, an echoing and resonant sound that fills the courtyard. The teryr turns to look, and screams back.
Orestes throws all but one spear down. The message is clear. Arm yourselves.
