The persistence and the allure of night finally, slowly, caves to the sun.
Another sunrise.
(remember when you thought you'd never see one again? Remember when you didn't want to?)
The scarred traveler, sun on his face, stops for a moment to feel the pulse of the dark heart of his world, and the preoccupations that circle it,
fluttering like insect wings.
He smiles, thinking that he is on a fool's errand, and how well the title fool suits him. And then he turns his face to the mountain pass before him and he begins the climb. The rock here is different stuff than the sandstone of Elatus Canyon, and the path more treacherous than Veneror Peak, but he puts his head down and confidently winds his way up the mountain, step by step.
It is nearly noon when he reaches the top, scarred flanks darkened with sweat. The air is thin and cool and he inhales deeply, paying attention to the way his chest feels as it fills and then empties. The dried sweat, sand, sage smells of Solterra cling to him after the past few days of travel, and he knows soon it will be loamy soil and pine. There are a number of deer trails that split away from the main path here- he takes one leading to the south and follows it through some woody shrubs to a flat clearing. The trail splits again here into bunny trails, and he suspects there are mountain caves further along the ridge. But what commands his attention is the stunning view of Denocte, sprawling and wild and vast.
Eik's heart aches and sings at the same time. The promise of new land, unexplored by himself, thrills him- but with every new sight is the reminder that he will never again see the things he lost. This time, though, he is not just wandering a new path. This time he is looking for something. Someone. His reasons are many, but none are particularly compelling other than cut and dry curiosity.
"Where could you be," He murmurs to the wind, old friend, as he looks across the hopelessly large landscape before him. The plan is to make his way to the night court, pick through whatever rumors and stories he can get, and hopefully track down the ancient one from there. He isn't terribly concerned about finding her, for seeing a new realm is worthwhile in and of itself.
Eik has the faintest idea of it, but he will never really grasp the intricacies of the unseen world. He knows there is no such thing as luck or fortune, but fate? How could you not wonder, after days like today?
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
@Grainne meh so I wasn't sure how he'd find her so he's just taking a break on the mount, thinking about his lame game plan... sorry its a bit cliche x_x
And if one day she comes to you Drink deeply from her words so wise
It was funny how fate went about answering requests. Sometimes pleas are left unheard, spoken into the unforgiving air to be forgotten and abandoned and the supplicant left to deal with the cards given to them. Yet when fate listened, when it harkened a request, more oft than not it was rather queer in it's enacting, as if an abstract force had such a thing as a sense of humor.
The peaks of the Arma Mountains provided the solitude Grainne desired, but they lacked enough sufficient resources to sustain herself on, and thus she was relegated to merely visiting their peaks when she desired deep, deep solitude. That was what she craved after her visit to the silent pinnacle of the gods and the inquisitive infidel therein, after reuniting with a child long lost and newly found. It was a chance to breathe, to recollect herself in the aftermath of so much interaction after so long left bereft of even the smallest socialization (though it was also by her own will, mind). So when the shadows lengthened, vanished, then shortened, she left her refuge on high and began a slow descent back down to the wild moors of Denocte. She could smell the wind in the pine when she left the barren mountain peak, could smell the ripe ferns and lichens of the mountainside floor, the musky odour of a cat's territorial marking. All of it collided into a rich and loamy scent that further settled her nerves, a gentle stroke down her spine that she was home, and no matter her wandering nor her allegiance that it would always remain home.
So when the sharp, crisp and sunbaked scent of a decidedly not Denocte stallion jarred the air, it almost immediately set her temper at edge. The witch debated simply skirting the scent, taking one of the riskier paths to avoid the stallion as he was on the gentlest, smoothest path... but she would not risk injury, not this high up in the air. So she pressed on, weaving gently through the rough and jagged pines until she saw him... but he did not see her, not yet. His attention was turned to Denocte below, a beautiful and sprawling sight under the noon sun, but an even better one in the gentle kiss of twilight. She watched him take in the view for a long moment, her temper cooling, until her gaze took further stock of him. Those scars... they were either the scars of one abused or one who fought vicious and violent, and considering his musculature.... she could very easily guess which he was. Of course he was Solterran, they were a foolish lot that fought when so much more could be earned if they but learned to accept aid and open trade rather than seclude themselves and declare none were strong as they who braved the desert heat and terrors.
"You should be more cautious, Solterran, relations with your kind and Denocte are strained, and this terrain is treacherous indeed." She finally called to him, making her way down the wind-tossed path towards the pale stallion, her lilac eyes hooded and her thoughts veiled as she watched him. Her threat was empty, of course, she herself was rarely one to resort to violence (although such underhanded tactics were quite her favorite), but she was curious to play with this warrior, test his mettle and see whether he was redeemable or simply another desert-borne fool with a head too hard and wits too small.
@Eik - i am so sorry this took so long, your post was great <3
01-31-2018, 07:45 PM
Played by
Rae [PM] Posts: 301 — Threads: 41 Signos: 15
He is caught off guard by the sudden company of another-- from the smooth-surfaced pond of his thoughts there is a ripple, and then a wave.
She is an unusual thing, he wouldn't quite have the words to describe her if asked. Dangerous might be the first word that comes to mind, and not just in the way pretty women are. It is her dark violet eyes; their depth reminds him of the night sky and the sea of sand and other unimaginably large things, endless things.
One ear half-lowered in uncertainty, he stares at her while she speaks.
My kind-
His thoughts snag there, like a tangled ball of yarn that only tightens more as he tries to pick it apart. my kind is ash, scattered dark and chalky across the permafrost. All that's left is a smell and a color. He takes a shaky breath and shoves his feelings back down inside of him.
(left to their own devices, they'd break him. He'd shatter, with nobody even to sweep him up and throw him away. Watch your step, you don't want pieces of the Sad Man stuck in your foot)
It takes him perhaps a little too long to reply; his thoughts are always slow to return from the land of winter and the family that rests there. Solterra, that's right... that's what she means by your kind. Each day it takes less and less effort to think of himself as one of them- he wonders if some day he will wake and being Solterran will feel as natural as his scars now do.
"You're right." He admits, "I... the view is disarming." He looks once more across Denocte, wild and sprawling before them, and as the wind tugs at his forelock he thinks how easy it is to be disarmed. Of course, he does not care enough about the tensions between night and day to be wary of trespassing in Denocte. Their struggle must be quite ancient, for he can almost feel it in the land itself, a tense feeling like a stain that cannot be washed clean. Perhaps if it would just rain more, they could wash away the mistakes and misfortunes of their forefathers.
(How sweet it would be to stay here for a while, and listen to what the wind has to say, and ponder the dreams of stones turned soft with moss. Can you see storms moving over the ocean from here, or do afternoon clouds roll in and envelop the mountains in mist?)
Anyway, he is still a stranger to Novus- isn't that what this little quest is about, anyway?- and there is much he doesn't understand about this place. When he returns his gaze to the masked mare, it is a little more focused, as if before he was only half-here. He might seem more serious, and certainly more intense. You can see the calm, patient determination in the set of his jaw- this is a man who would wait a lifetime without complaint to see his goal completed, if that is what it would take.
And if you look a little deeper you can see bone-deep sadness, too.
"I grew up believing purple eyes were a gift of the gods." It was the mark of Athenis, goddess of magic and secret, sacred things. But when the fires came, brown and blue and purple burned alike. "What is your name?" He asks, usually not bothered by such trivialities but finding himself helplessly intrigued by the dangerous woman before him.
