[AW] It is in vain

[Polunin]

‘Do not go into those woods,’ They say.
“You can never be sure of your way.”
The snow’s so thick
And the ice so slick.
With your life you will surely pay.


-------



The swan boy arrives upon the crest of autumn with winter nipping at his tail. The Winter Court had called him back, a brief and tantalizing whisper that Polunin could not resist. Yet the Court of ice and snow would never hold the thrall it once had for the ebony creature of swan wings and wild heart.
 
His black eyes are beads as they blink into the black of the night. He is shadow here, Calligo painting him in elegant lines that sprawl and crawl their way across the stone walls of the keep.
 
His feet are a hiss that never parts his lips, a phantom of his warning cry. He seeks solitude but he will not be granted this. Not here, not now. The Court is awash in revelry, the song of the night too much for its inhabitants to resist. The night shivers with merriment, the skies and its stars dancing to the songs far, far below.
 
The swan skirts the party, clinging to the walls of the keep where the only dances are the shadows that break and ripple between fiery torches. There is a sound in the dark, a scuff of feet that rush too close, too fast beside him. Like a serpent loosed his neck uncoils, teeth snapping the hot air where his compatriot was scant moments before. His tongue still bears their taste and it makes his lip curl.
 
“Watch your step.” It is a warning hiss from red, red lips. Polunin is the warning snap and hiss of a swan so riled, so agitated. This merriment is not for him, yet here he is amidst the throng and his skin itches, his nape arches, his teeth clack.
 
His neck curls back, a serpent set to strike once again.

-- Anyone is welcome. 

[Tarquin]

He doesn't count himself as among them, the night court. Not really, not where it matters, not where it counts. They could claim him as a number of the masses if they wished to do so, but Quinn had ceased to fall under a group of deity followers long ago. So far, that's what he had noticed here. He doesn't belong, but within these lands he returns to rest. It is what it is, and he might as well figure out the lay of the land while he is here, one of the group of those roaming the night court. He assumes he would be welcome here, where the merriment of the others started and ended -- though that wouldn't much matter if he was or not, in the long run, of course -- Quinn would do what he wished. He usually did. He doesn't know how he feels about the keep as he follows the lines and turns of it's walls, mapping it within his mind for later reasonings or simply to avoid it in the future. The urge to run kicks in at the sight of a particularly long stretch of wall, and Quinn gives in to that urge. It's invigorating to feel the rush of air sliding over and past his body, through his mane and tail. It's fresh with Autumn chill and the hint of vegetational decay, and Quinn loses himself to the feeling, the tingling along his spine, through his nerves. He cuts the next corner quick, nearly running headlong into someone else tucked near the shadows of the keep's wall. He diverts enough to brush on by, but the tone and clack of teeth has him pivoting around with ears tucked back, sharp carnivore type teeth bared, slightly parted with the snaking of his own head towards the male there. Very black swan in appearance, this one that looks like he'll strike at any moment. "Or what? You'll bite me? Because honey, I'll like it, and then I'll bite back." Oil-slick words sent towards the swan male, giving every warning on the options of the situation and how it might unfold. Quinn was hoping that the stallion would bite, because he wanted to taste the blood and possibly steal a feather from those black wings. I'M READY TO BLEED TO MAKE AMENDS *tarquin

image credits: yokamycelium

@Polunin