And it only hurts when I'm breathing
My heart only breaks when it's beating
Perhaps one might say that it was a miracle she could even find a home. After all, she had been driven from so many in the past year that it would seem as if she was destined to be alone. Aye, she might not recall the fact that she was shunned from at least three different, possible homes, but that nagging feeling still t did not go away. Something about coming into a new place always put her on edge, made her feel like she would be shoved away the second that she did something wrong.
Nox had been happy traveling alone - the way the wind had brushed against her coat, played with the waves in her tresses, it almost comforted her. The sun warmed her back in the crisp air as she dared to move closer and closer to stone and brick which towered over the lands from the southeast. It seemed to be a constant reminder that there was someone to watch over them - to take care of those who had fallen into the hands of Caligo's care. It was probably the best that such a large structure was the reminder. It would allow Nox to continually remind herself that there would always be others here. There would always be others that she would end up worrying about in the long run. That was how she was wired. Someone hurt? How badly? Could she help? If that was the case then she would do whatever she was capable of in order to help them Someone feeling down? She could listen to what ailed them, try and be the shoulder to cry on that they needed.
Still, she had decided to move forward - closer and closer to the stone and brick that built up the Night Court. Aye, she had yet to hear of someone leading these lands - only seeing those who claimed to call this place their home. She was like those, though. She claimed that this land was her home but she had no strong ties to it. She had stumbled in, tried to make it her home, and here she was finally starting to get to the area that was the center of this land. Yet, all she could see was areas to hide - to start to hole away. She needed to reset. To try and deal with all of the new information which was being flooded toward her. Oh, it was crazy just how much she was trying to take in - to understand. This was all so new, and nothing truly seemed safe. Nothing seemed safe especially as the firelight flickered dully around her from the torches near her. Oh, it was eery. It was almost stressful. Something would jump out of every corner, from the shadows. So she tried her hardest in order to find the brightest spot. Twenty steps. Thirty. Forty. THERE! She collapsed up against the stone - feeling the cold from the brick sting against her hide. A reminder that she was alive - that she would have to move at some point. But for now, she would rest. She hadn't allowed her knees to buckle. No, she would rest on her hooves - just keeping most of her weight against the wall with the torchlight flickering above her. Eyes wide, ears at attention, waiting for someone to come closer - for something to jump out of the ever-moving shadows.
Damascus found himself among the moonlit land of denocte more often than not it might seem, and as he traced his ashen snout over the landscape and castle-topped hill, he wondered why he hadn't chosen this land to roost. Perhaps it was the people an their mystery, a kind he could not read. He was boy who needed transparency and clarity; a picture book not a thesis.
His search had brought him here once again, and as his starry eyes combed the trees and grasses for any sign of gold dust or a sparkle of godliness, he felt once more the powerful onset of doubt. Someone more worthy would find it, and there would always be one more worthy and precious than he. There was always one faster and more handsome, always one with greater wings.
Wallowing and bimbling his way forward, Damascus was soon upon the grounds of the Nigh Court and hisgaze fixed upon the impressive facade the age-old building presented to him. He failed to witness the woman leaning against it's stone supports, his star-like irises too greedily watching the windows and tresses.
Though clearly it is without the harshness of winter, the wind in the wee hours of the morning is biting, cold. Frost ices the cropped, wiry grass carpeting the prairie – it crunches softly beneath his heavy tread, wetting the thick fringe of hair about oncoming hooves – and gloomy, moonlit skin shivers ferociously. Nevertheless, he strikes out through the lonely pre-dawn darkness (like he always does) and is soon trotting through the gloriously vast openness, along a beaten rabbit trail that has become fairly familiar.
The eagle looks forward to these sessions, time spent thinking - working through melancholy memories - and otherwise revelling in the gift of peaceful solitude; while menial tasks and duties were been gladly left to rot behind in the basin ( collecting firewood...), training was an inherent habit, and one he couldn’t imagine living without.
Flared nostrils suck hard, dining on the burning, bitter air; it inspires him, invigorates, and feeds fresh clarity through his mind. As sinew warms beneath the chilled canvas of silver and gold, Noah breaks into a hearty canter, covering the soft, fertile loam with reckless ambition – they had been alone for days, there was no one to disrupt. With the wind rushing around him, thrilling and enticing, buffeting face and stinging slitted eyes, wings can hardly resist the temptation; feathers fan outwards, rippling, whispering wild anticipation, and within seconds they burst downwards, eager for lift.
“Da!”
The weight of the world crashes down upon him like boulders, broken from a cliff.
“Miette, where’s Ma!?” he calls down in a fluster, the note of paternal tenderness visibly strained through his voice. Hooves crash back down prematurely, fiercely to earth, rumbling, fumbling along as brazen weight doubles down upon them; knees buckle, stagger, for the fragile child is suddenly beside him, sidestepping and bounding with all the voracious speed of a lunatic fly. Wistful arms stretch awkwardly upwards and one glistening eye strains down towards her. The eagle has not the excellent manoeuvrability like the dove, and it takes every inch of his strength to avoid a collision – all the while twiggy legs cavort, overjoyed for this taboo adventure.
Beneath his breast, Noah’s heart pounds like the march of a thousand war-bound soldiers. He seeks a quicker path home, cross country, leaving the friendly, meandering trail long behind; guiding his brazen, blissful daughter until the slumped form of sleeping Nora emerges beneath the first breath of dawn. The draining nature of her role was lost to his simple, masculine mind; he had energy enough to work (train), play and bring her flowers – his delicate dove slept often, rested and spent gentle time with the babe.
“Nora…” lips utter softly, gingerly, desperately brash enough to induce a response. “It’s Miette… … well, il a faim!"
Another stunning day surrounds them, stimulating a mutual decision to venture north-east. Since Miette’s birthday, the alien silhouette of boxy, towering mountains has loomed as silent witness in their life; those murky, granite-looking planes are the first thing the light touches in the morning, and likewise, burn red before the sinking sun. In recent days, it has broached many a conversation - Nora seems eager, no doubt spurred by the prospect of caves) - and with the lanky foal now able and willing to travel, the time mulling on the familiar, pleasant plateau has drawn to an end.
The eagle leads them at a pace that his daughter seems comfortable with; whether he walks slowly or briskly, her brand-new legs tire all too quickly and he finds that both hunger and fatigue ravage her motivation easily. Waiting – biding time – is something he is unused to, it unsettles him and while they dally to the rear, he finds occupation scouring different paths for taste of the unfamiliar (which really, is everything).
Soon enough, the inexplicable structure – least of all mountain – stands like a great daunting obstacle in front of them; a miracle, a labyrinth of roofless corridors, like nothing his eyes have ever touched on before. The eagle beholds it warily, shifting with new restlessness as he lingers in its cold, lifeless shade. Certainly, his expectation mere hours before had been anticipating a simple formation of natural origin, and he turns, words trapped behind silent astonishment, to view the reaction of his dove; velvet nose extends in fond gesture, for their quirky, unmarred bond was something that offered much security.
It was as his disbelieving gaze swivelled back away, that the sheen of an ash-white hide snagged his notice. The hue was unusual, lovely - familiar?
Impossible…
A harsh snort erupts from slim nostrils, but he dares the idea into fruition, taking a baited step onto the unforgiving surface of stone. “Noxia?” he calls, voice uncharacteristically tense as the bleak chill of the eerie castle envelopes him. Feathers fasten apprehensively around his barrel and he shifts a stern look by Miette. “Wait,” a firm tone instructs, glancing after to the pretty bi-coloured eyes of his lover. "s'il vous plaît..."
And it only hurts when I'm breathing
My heart only breaks when it's beating
The shadows danced. It was eery, yes, but also strangely comforting. She sighed, trying to get each of her muscles to relax. Yet, they were still so taught - so uncertain of everything which might possibly be around her. And dark creatures, yes, they were the reason why she had so many issues. They could hide so easily in the shadows and then jump out to eat her.
Aye, Nox was definitely not meant for this. Her eyes were still getting used to the darkness around her - but she was certain that there was at least one dark figure looming before her. Was his gaze looking upward - at the windows, at the curves and valleys of the brick and stone which lay upon the ground here in order to create the court? It looked to be plausible. But, what were those huge hanging things near him? They didn't seem to have limbs - nor heads. Wait. WAIT. Those were wings. She knew that movement, the ruffle of feathers. Thanks to Helovia she knew exactly what they were to look like (expanded or curled at one's side) when placed precariously upon a horse's shoulders.
Yet, this dark one - cloaked in the colours of the night - was not the one who spoke to her. No, he seemed far too entranced in the structures of Caligo in order to form words. Not only that, the word which was spoken had been her name - and she was certain she had never seen him before in her life. Yet her name had also been joined by the sound of a hoof against stone - so her head turned in this direction and her eyes tried to focus on the figure before her.
Aye, of course, it was another winged one. Of course, they would all be joining her in the darkness of the night court as she tried to get her bearings in place. This was wonderful. She shudders, having focused on the fact that this second creature knew her name as her eyes adjusted to his frame and colouring. "Noah?" she whispers, eyes widening in disbelief. It takes her a second - but as she finally registers his colouring and the apprehensive nature of his wings pressed to his barrel she can tell that it is he who had called her name. "Noah!" She says louder, a tinge of excitement on her voice as she realizes that she is not completely alone in these new lands. Aye, she knew that she had met him before - and that he hadn't been violent with her. She may not have remembered much else, but she definitely did recall him and the calming nature of his being.
Noxia starts to inch forward, then stops - suddenly recalling the existence of the other winged stag and beginning to notice two other frames lurking in the distance near Noah. God. Were they all winged?! She swallowed, panic stinging her throat and face. Great. Were they all going to collapse on her, attack her because she didn't have wings? No. Noah wouldn't do something like that... right?! Right?!
God, Caligo. She was not meant for this... she really wasn't.
@Damascus || @Noah -- Sorry for the wait! I'm assuming from the wording that Nora/Miette are both near Noah, if they aren't let me know and I'll fix that paragraph :D
Repose hadn’t come freely before our delicate addition entered this world, but now --between the usual dose of insomnia and my active role being the provider for our nestling-- true sleep has morphed into a phenomenon. Infrequent…exhausting. However, when the blanket of restoration does eventually drop, it brings a gnarled plague of suppressed recollections to the surface of my subconscious...
-----
Squalls of bleached powder, filth. Like vermin they flog, lashing with their forked tongues and rattling stubs; riding a perpetual current of hot, grainy air that adheres to the back of our cotton throats. Relentless, those sharp torrents pummel into our rangy, hollowed bodies; their soldiers clump in our hair, foreign matter builds inside/out. Mud and salt is a froth upon our coat until we are of similar hue. Mercilessly, the burning harbinger forces his presence; he blisters the tops of our heads/vertebrae as we (the grounded) shuffle into the next crinkling footfall. Skeletal twigs impend from the cracked, tattered earth…their naked tops have been snapped, torn asunder by intense storms. The remainder clings with bleached bones and failing anchors.
“Nora…” gapping, discolored lips plead for help…
-----
Large, reddened irises are flung into action. Lips uncurl defensively, brandishing their foul, harsh noise of grief as my panicked crown jerks abruptly from that bed of bruised reeds. Dazed and bewildered, I flinch – attempting to jerk free of the ghost that reaches to claim me. Insanity settles upon shadowed features…Ears twitch. Threatened fibers become as wood, “it’s Miette,” the cloud of reflection dissolves, his imploring concern twinges the icy corners of my expression. Fear is traded for internal anguish and shame, “N-noah?” Dawning realization prods for recovery, “Miette?” Heavy, trembling vocals reach for our pixie child. Stiff forelegs uncurl at once, their shoulders amass beneath me. Once upright, these frowning brims tilt downward, allowing a cascade of onyx to hide me from the possibility of judgement or retaliation. Clenched molars drown the suffered tightness; they maul and choke those spectral beasts while I tenderly guide our nursling into the widening mouth of one outstretched wing, “restez près de moi…”
-----
Jaws uncouple, amazed – openly captivated by how the alien pillars seem to blossom up from the impassible cradle, boasting their weathered rods of lime and marble. These craggy, cobbled floor/walls aren’t like those that were chiseled by the artistic hand of time, they weren’t hollowed from the belly of dingy granite…these…are something different! Their alignment suggests that someone/something planted them in an effort to mimic that of a natural cavern. Papery shutters pull upon a surprising variety of fresh odors…Anxious arms remain slack at my waist – though when approached with the suggestion of going past the threshold – they mirror his mistrust and resettle, coiling tightly. When the eagle turns…I stretch to full capacity, eager meet those whiskered lips for a taste of reassurance.
When his attention is pulled elsewhere, my questioning unease and growling anticipation is pleading to follow. Optics rotate, seeking the path his eyes blaze – dual hued ears notch forward, capturing the verbal feedback. Noxia? Her name hangs in the air for but a moment before a feminine response echoes into view. Irises narrow, fixed past him. Mini me edges forward, a grim, suspicious line marring her face.
Some time before the sun rises when the nights (all of them), are thick and cold, the eagle lifts like a ghost from their company and disappears alone into the snug swaddle of darkness. On this night however, the little swallow alive is ready!
Silence hangs like impenetrable fog in the chilly, black air. There is not a single sound to be heard - though she listens all the same, keenly, wonderingly - and somewhere beneath the cage of rigid ribs pressed against her cheek, the familiar, friendly life-pulse of the dove ticks away. Pale blue eyes peer curiously from beneath their warm quilt of feather and down, impatient and eager, studying the sunken silhouette of the stallion who slumbers (always) across the way. Her skin trembles with wild excitement, her heart flutters in frenzied anticipation - and then it happens, he moves; Da slips from the invisible perimeter of their nest and his luminous silvery tail gleams in the wishy-washy moonlight, before melting into oblivion beyond.
With lips pressed tightly against the simmer of a giggle, the filly pushes her soft, velveteen nose beneath warm breast; so long has she been waiting tonight - fatigue gnawing away at motivation - that the plan of stealth and silence has been altogether lost.
Clumsily, hastily, she slithers from the cover of that wing and it falls from her bony hip with a muffled thud upon the prairie-grass. The swallow is too distracted to notice, her icy, eager eyes are trained upon that last point where he’d vanished; groggy limbs stumble into motion and as she collects speed the invigorating whistle of wind fills her ears.
At first she is lost, galloping along an empty, endless, ebon plane and the heart which thrashes the beat of anticipation within her, sinks below a hungry tide of disappointment. Puny face tilts a little to the left and the hiss of gushing gale lulls - a self-taught technique - allowing her access to the whispering world all around. The sound of the eagle’s gait, the distinct thunder of his massive hooves, thrums vividly ahead - it fills her with delight (for any other time, it would suggest the conclusion of any time spent apart). He is near! young thoughts beam, and though she grows ever weary, adrenaline fuels a fleet-footed sprint.
She finds him ascending and leaps alongside with bold, brazen effort, casting odd-matched feathers aside, just like he. Together they will snatch away stars! Yet the sound of his voice carries down, and heroic bulk falls prematurely back to earth; the child fails to hear, barely sees him, for she is bounding, flapping and bucking, in a desperate bid for lift.
All to soon the adventure is over, and as the shadows recede to the liberating contrast of dawn, the swallow’s frail form collapses to sleep, safe again beneath the blanketing wing of Ma.
When next she stirs from the slumber-realm of wonderful impossibly, Miette is allowed time only to drink her fill, before Da begins to lead them away. With bright, prancing steps she travels a short while glued to the familiar flank of the dove. They walk for a long time (hours and hours), pausing frequently to rest and feed, while the foal revels restlessly in that potent thrill of adventure.
Always at the forefront of her interest (and more or less the topic of all conversation between adults), the stark, square outline of an impressive pinnacle looms ever closer. Their pace slows when at last they were near, and the dense, strange shade that it throws, provokes a surge of shivering through her downy, painted coat. Before tufty, spongey grass morphs into stiff, unforgiving cobble, the eagle pauses and Mettle notices him stiffen visibly; he turns a second later, and the rigid uncertainty underlying the word, “wait…” demands her obedience.
Feeding on the nervous, tense energy in the air, the swallow presses close against the comforting warmth of Ma.
