the huntsman drew off the wolf's skin and went home with it
S
moke clings to him like a second skin, its touch warm and lingering. The golden ring upon his horn is bright and shiny, as if it too, is laughing into the night.
But oh, his eyes laugh the loudest.
They’re greener than the sea that the city sits beside, especially on this moonless, godless night. Tonight he is the only god that matters, a god of fire and smoke and deceit. He was as bright as Solis, as clever as Oriens, and he had the same darkness as Caligo. Untouchable, or so his mind had convinced him.
The roar of the flames and the shouts of horses fell away behind him, but he could still feel the heat flushing his cheeks. Let them try and stop it, his thoughts were wild, wicked things that flew through his mind at the speed of light. None of them are fireproof. He doesn’t know yet who would fall victims to the flames, if anyone did - nor does he care. His role in the destruction is done. The citizens of Denocte could do what they wanted with the aftermath.
He had not stopped to look back for Abel. They had arrived too quickly, faster than he had thought they would, and the first mare had run at him without hesitation. He supposed he should consider himself lucky; it had not been him, after all. But he would thank his skill for that, and the golden charm that had turned him into a ghost. Perhaps it was for the best; Toulouse had seen the conflict in Abel’s eyes. The boy could lie with his mouth, but not with his body. Denocte was still his home,
He had released the enchantment not far from the fires; Raum may have preferred him to wait until he was safely out of the city, but the silver king wasn’t here tonight to tell him so. Toulouse was alone, and he fully intended to revel in knowing so.
Ducking through an alley, Toulouse weaves through the darkness and reappears back on the main streets. A single street lamp casts its pale yellow glow upon his back, bringing life and color back to his frame.
For a moment he’s still, basking in the lamplight. Behind him the city is in chaos, flames more beautiful than any sand dune in Solterra dancing the night away. He’s tempted, dangerously so, to go back and watch - to even help, just so he can be there to witness his work. The wind plays with his hair, tugging him back the way he’d come, convincing him to return…
But he shakes his head. His diamond-shod hooves sing sweetly against the cobblestones with every meandering step he takes. There was time yet before he had to leave for the lake, where all those who made it out clean would meet up. He knew at least one man who wouldn’t be there, and one who would, but he would have to wait and see who else joined him at the silver water’s shore.
He had time to wander until then.
And wander he would, while smoke choked the cloudy sky behind him, not a star in sight to witness the smile hiding upon his lips.
Anzhelo | "speaks" | notes: something short to get us started!
you shouldn't have to pay for your love
with your bones and your flesh
He had not expected to be back in Denocte so soon, except for the fact that shortly after he had arrived in Solterra, Raum and his entourage had left -- for Denocte, the whispers on the streets had informed him, although it seemed no one knew exactly where the Ghost was going. Perhaps to visit the phoenix-girl who led in Isra’s wake (and his heart had clenched with worry for the pegasus who had trusted him with this task) or perhaps simply to slip amongst the stalls of the Night market and plot some sort of sabotage?
(Oh, how he wished that were not the case, and yet--)
When he returns, Denocte is on fire.
He slips between alleys with his hooves ringing on the cobblestones, flashing golden beneath the moonlight, and everywhere he goes he sees panic and hears the cries of the people -- except for a figure that catches his attention down a desolate alley, meandering as though the Court has not gone up in flames --
And his instinct tells him that the golden man is up to no good, perhaps even related to the fires.
“Sir!” He cries, and as he bounds closer he catches the scent of Solterran sand and sun-warmed steel beneath the scent of smoke, and can only hope that the same scent clings to his own skin enough to play the role he has chosen. “By Solis, it is not safe here! We need to leave -- the fires are spreading!”
the huntsman drew off the wolf's skin and went home with it
S
ir!
His voice echoes through the empty market square, and Toulouse pauses mid-stride. His skin is crawling, his heart is roaring, and he can feel his blood burning him from the inside out. For just a moment time stands still; he’s a viper still, and the temptation is there to slither away into the night, to shed his skin and emerge as something new, something unrecognizable.
But the world - Denocte included - is his tonight. A smile cuts across his face, sharp and wicked. Toulouse is both the snake and the snake charmer, and he could dance or strike in the blink of an eye.
Which would it be for this stranger?
An idle performance or the sweet sting of his fangs as he struck, true and fast, for his throat?
He turns to the pale, antlered stallion, smile vanishing by the time he meets his gaze. Toulouse lets feigned surprise make its way into his eyes, his voice, his mind - fires? What fires? It’s as easy as putting on a mask, a mask that transforms the wearer into the face it wears. His heart is still racing, flying without wings around and around and around the confined cage of his chest. He wishes the shorter man could hear it, and how it screams for more fire, more blood, more death. Death to the Court his brother is so enchanted with, destruction for all they held dear. Toulouse would burn the whole city to the ground if it meant returning his twin home to where he belonged, home to him.
But it’s not his heart that speaks when he opens his mouth, for that would give him away. It’s someone else entirely, someone not-quite Toulouse that gasps in shock and casts frantic eyes around the streets.
(It was not lost on him that it was "By Solis!" the other man swore, and not Caligo.)
"The fires," he chokes on the word, and he lets the desperation that roils in his veins echo in his voice. "We were there, we saw the flames, saw a building crash with people still inside—" Smoke still clings to his skin, and he forces a long, hacking cough from his throat to interject his words.
"Have you seen him?" His breath is light and shallow, the image of Abel still seared into his mind, with flames dancing all around. Caught, abandoned. Toulouse fixes his gaze - the eyes of a mad man, frenzied and filled with panic - onto the stranger. The whites of his eyes are showing, so wide with fear are they."Have you seen my friend?"
His "friend", who was trapped in the flames, surrounded by soldiers. His "friend" who set fire to his home, who stole the food from his friends and family by command of a mad king, a silver monster.
