[AW] From Emerald Downs

[Diarmuid]

The air is still and quite.  No breeze rustles the leaves or offers reprieve from the wet, sweltering heat.    Even the canopy of branches weeping moss cannot stave off the heat of the sun as it beats down from a clear, cloudless sky.  The smells in this wetlands creep into the nostrils, heavy and sticky.  The smells of verdant growth, of age and rot, of stagnant water and the things that dwell in it.  

It is, on a whole, like other swamps he's been in.  It is not a place he ever wishes to fight in.  The mud and muck sucks at his hooves with every step even though he strives to find the dry tussocks of grass and roots.  There is no hurry though.  He takes his time, carefully choosing his steps.  His is alone.  It wouldn't do to step into quicksand or catch a hoof in a hidden hole.  The weather is warmer now than he is used to- it should already be fall in his mind, heralded by cool showers that bring relief from summer's heat and wash things clean before the earth settled down for winter's rest.  

The stallion stumbles as the seemingly stable ground beneath one hoof gives way, proving to be nothing more than a thick mat of greenery floating on the surface of still water.  He splashes through quickly.  He doesn't trust what lurks under that surface, black as a night with no stars.  His copper pendant swings on it's cord, thumping against his chest in an ever present reminder of it's presence.  The ruby winks in the murky light, dark as heart's blood or bright as firelight.  The swamp seems to bend light in queer ways.

Sweat darkens the rose-grey of his hide to pewter and mats his mane against his neck.  His tail is heavy with the muck of the swamp, the ends of it tangled with mud and leaves and slapping wetly against his legs whenever he tries to flick it out of the way.  Mud splashes his legs nearly to where they meet his body, obscuring some of the fern-like scars on his right hind.  No such camouflage masks the marks on his face though, nor the milk-white of his blind eye and the stub of his missing ear.

He's not sure exactly when the creek he was following turned into a bog-land but he wishes now he had tried another way.  He reaches a small place of firm ground and stops to asses for a moment.  Better to stop and get his bearings than walk in circles.  Not that he has a destination.  No, he only wishes to get free of the swamp and into more welcome pastures at some point where travel is swifter, easier, and cleaner. 

[ @Israfel but anyone who wants can come help him out of the swamp!]

[Israfel]

Israfel

Looking back, Israfel wasn't certain as to what, exactly, compelled her to go to the swamp. Swamps weren't really her thing, not in Helovia, and sure as hell not in Novus. She loathed the stench of rot and decay, the muggy humidity that hung thick and stale in the air, and the way that everything felt dirty and rotten. It was hot, miserably so, and that was saying something for a child who carried the blood of a Sun God in her veins. No, it was mostly just because she hated swamps with a fucking passion and she wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

And yet... She remained.

Maybe it was the drive of duty. Maybe it was sheer idiocy. Whatever it was had the Sun Daughter wading through shit-brown muck up to her knees, gilded wings arched up and held into the air to avoid dragging any feathers through the questionable liquid, tail dragging through the 'water' in a way that would have made her cry in her life from before. It was nasty. It was disgusting. Unsavory, really, and she was certain that she would be reeking of bog and peat soil for days, but, well... She was a warrior, and a warrior had to patrol the lands and make sure that nothing nefarious was happening in their own land. Thus, here she was. In a swamp. A stinking, rotting, humid, nasty swamp.

"Fucking nasty," the pale maiden groused softly, ears pinned flat amidst gilded-ivory hair, rose-petal lips turned downwards in genuine distaste. Why patrol a swamp? It wasn't like anyone would ever willingly come here for fun or mischief... Right? Well. If the inhabitants of Novus were anything like the ones back in Helovia, they just might.

Pulling herself onto a boggy shore that somewhat passed for dry land, Israfel gave herself a good shake. She had half the mind to just take to the skies and get out of there before she could become much more of a mess, but before she could, the sounds of rapid, desperate splashing caught her attention. Pale ears flicked forward, fiery vermilion eyes narrowing as she peered through dreary trees and low-hanging mosses, to see a rose-grey form thrashing desperately through the muck to reach a spot of high ground.

From afar Israfel watched the stranger, wondering momentarily if she should even approach. Then, because she had already decided to wade through a swamp that day, what harm would befriending another unfortunately swamp dweller do? Gritting her teeth against the hatred of what she was about to do, the Daughter of the Sun resumed her pace through the bog, doing her best to traverse upon the high ground or the dry parts she could find. Needless to say, they were few and far between.

Approaching the stallion, the warrior's crisp orange eyes regarded him, taking in his color, his build, the warped, spreading scars that clung to his frame, marring skin and muscle alike. Drawing closer, she forced a smile, even though it probably looked far more like a grimace than anything else. He had the build of a warrior, all strength and grace hidden beneath poised and coiled muscle, and Israfel wasn't foolish enough to sneak up on him... Not that she could, given the sucking sound that came with every step that parted from sodden, damp earth.

"Here I thought I was the only crazy one, walking through swamps. And on such a miserably hot day, too... Are you lost?" His scent didn't smell familiar, nor did it remind her of the others who called Terrastella home. Then again, Israfel couldn't really smell much other than the stench of the moist land around them.

x - x

@Diarmuid

[Diarmuid]

His own abrupt splashing hides her coming for a few heartbeats but as he regains his stability and his composure he hears the distinct steps of someone else slogging through the bog.  It is a little hard to pinpoint the direction in a place like this where sound seems to echo strangely in the air.  Yet as he turns he sees her, brilliantly pale in the dim light.  And for a moment he wonders if she is a fae spirit.  Is she benevolent or mischief come to try and lead him astray?  The occasional shaft of sunlight glints from the gilded markings that delicately brush the ivory coat and lend her a sort of other-worldliness.  For a moment he is still and wary- he bears no iron anymore, to ward off such creatures.  He keeps his right shoulder turned slightly towards her.  It serves two purposes, both keeping her firmly away from his blind side and saving the sight of the worst scars.  He has not worn them long enough to carry them like badges of honor or decorations of battle.  Even now after long days of travel he can feel the fain ache in his chest and hind leg where the muscles are not quite conditioned as well as the rest of him.

It isn't her attempt at a smile that puts him slightly at ease but the words that fall from her mouth.  They aren't the pretty words and riddles he would expect from the fae.  He thinks, perhaps, she is an earthly creature.  He wonders why someone gifted would wings would choose to slog through the swamp though.  What he wouldn't give for such a quick way to get free.  His voice is low, a little hesitant but not out of fear.  Creatures of earth, even those blessed with wings, are threats he knows how to respond to.  "I don't know if I'm lost, but I don't know where I am."

His nostrils flare, drawing in breath to try and discern her scent.  One does not quite open so well, scar tissue distorting the symmetry of even this part of his face.  The scars are well healed, faded to silver even though it has not left him quite the same.  The rich scents of the swamp seem to drown out everything else, fogging the air as easily as smoke might fog the eyes.  

"I followed the creek back that way-" he turns his muzzle back over his shoulder then hesitates, dark eye uncertain as he studies the swamp he has traversed through.  "I think.  If you could show me the way out I would be glad to breathe clean air again."  He steps down towards her, his expression briefly flicking towards displeasure as his hooves sink into the water and muck, driven by the weight of his body.

@Israfel

[Israfel]

Israfel

It was clear that the stallion hadn't intended to encounter anyone by the strange, cautious look that he cast her way upon realizing that he was no longer alone amidst the silent, eerie bog. Taking him by surprise wasn't something that Israfel had hoped for. As a matter of fact, she had hoped for the exact opposite, not wanting to startle one who looked like so capable a warrior. Still, the sound of his own sloshing amidst the muck must have covered the sounds of her own approach, but he reacted far from poorly. It was commendable, really.

He stood stiff and at attention, eyeing her warily. His posture erect, guarded almost, but Israfel wasn't one to pry. His business was his own, and whatever mysteries that he held were not hers to know. So, instead, she listened as he spoke, his words coated with hesitance, with caution, as though he does not know quite what to make of her.

It's fine. Israfel understands. She was, in some ways, of the same mind as he. Dying and coming back to life tended to have that effect on someone. But on the off chance that he did need assistance, well... The Sun Daughter didn't want to just leave him to his own devices. Dirty gilded hooves pause a good distance from the rose grey stud so as not to crowd him, a pale ear flicking in his direction, vermilion eyes keen and captivated in their meeting, rose petal lips upturned in that same forced smile that was steadily becoming more sincere the longer she listened to him speak.

If only they could have encountered one another in a more pleasant place...

"Gladly," she said on a breathy chuckle, allowing him to approach, wings fluttering upon her spine in anticipation to finally be free of this place, "It isn't hard. So long as we trek south back the way that I have come, we'll return to the Court." Turning on her heel, the pale maiden cast the decrepit water a disdainful look before once more venturing into the mess, less than impressed by the way it stained her hide. A bath would very much be needed after this...

Fiery orange eyes rolled back, glancing to the rose grey stallion to ensure that he was following. She smiled and spoke in introduction. "I'm Israfel. Call me Isra. Warrior of the Dusk Court. Do you live here in Terrastella?"

It was still hard to think; she, a warrior. What would her mother think? Or her father? But the woman she was know was nothing like the foolish girl of her youth, the one who squandered life for greed. Now, well... Israfel was still trying to find her niche, and maybe so was this gentlemanly stallion that she had happened across. Maybe, in Terrastella, they would find their niche together.

x - x

@Diarmuid

[Diarmuid]

Her smile warms, relaxes, and he finds himself relaxing a little in response.  Though he is not un-wary, he will take welcome where he finds it.  Solitude did not suit him well, not for long at least.  He is aimless, not only in travel but in life.  Diarmuid has chosen to ignore the worrisome drifting feeling that haunts him when he lets his mind dwell too long on thoughts of the future.  She turns and he falls into step, matching her stride so his head is roughly level with her shoulder, allowing her to lead.  He keeps some distance between them.  Some of that distance comes from caution, yes, but some of it also comes from training.  If danger should threaten it gives them both room to maneuver without risk of getting tangled with each other.  He is more than grateful to have a guide out of this place that makes the hair along his spine prickle.  Or it would, if it wasn't slicked with sweat from the muggy heat.

"No, I am newly come to the area."  He answers her question first, considering the information that her introduction has given him.  Her mention of her court perks his ears with interest.  "I am Diarmuid- of no where at the moment."  There's a hesitation before he admits that, a pang of regret and grief.  Of homesickness.  

"I am glad to meet you.  I was not looking forward to finding my way out the hard way."  He does not pick his way through the bog, merely walks with a careful eye for indications of danger.  He watches his steps more than he watches her.  His good ear stays swiveled towards her though- there is little she can do here to threaten him that he won't here.  So long as she waits until they are out of the swamp, he doesn't care if she intends to threaten him.  He doubts that's her goal though- his gut says that so long as he doesn't threaten she won't.  

The rose-grey is comfortable in silence.  Though he has questions he keeps them in his own mind, rolling them over and over as though each word were worth it's weight in gold.  He is ignorant of the area he is in.  Now he has a name, and perhaps the local leadership, but little else.  Terrastella.  It is a beautiful name for a land.  He's not sure he'd call this swamp beautiful, though it has it's own eerie presence.  Maybe in winter, if the muck freezes hard and the trees are trimmed with snow.  That would perhaps be pretty in it's own may.  

@Israfel