It was maybe not the most conventional place to hold a meeting, but Florentine does not seem to care. She stands, as regal as any queen might be knee-deep in a swamp’s still waters. Her tail fans out behind her, stirring algae and leaves that settle upon the surface of the pool. Her petals scatter to join them, and idly they all find a steady flow that weaves them down towards an adjacent pool, connected only by a small overflow of trickling water.
It is warm here, where Florentine waits for her court to gather. It is so warm, her skin begins to gleam with beading sweat and she glitters gold in the green and brown of this land.
The fae-girl and the water she stands in are the most still things here. All around them the swamp lives and thrives in the song of birds and insects. Flowers and lilies always rustle as animals crawl and insects fly in search of pollen. There are secrets hidden within the Swamp, brilliant flowers painted in mysterious colours and eyes, they say, that have begun to watch you from the black.
But, curiously, the queen ignores them all. She ignores the slither of something passing by her ankles, deep in the darkness of the water. She ignores also the creak and groan of vines and tree limbs that sway in an imaginary wind. Instead, Florentine watches the crown of the trees, where their leaves bend over one another and make an umbrella, thick and warm that covers the whole of the swamp. It bathes them in dank dark. A smile begins upon her lips, its meaning known only to her, though the clue is when her eyes descend to the vivid paintings drawn upon the trunks of the trees surrounding her (and her gathering court).
They were Ilati paintings, or so the fable went, and this was once their home, amidst the swamp water. So that is why she has called her court here: to embrace their history and address their future.
It is not long until they come, to the song of lapping, splashing water and rustling leaves. Gilded Florentine turns to address them, as they gather between and within the many pools of Tinea Swamp.
“You are all probably wondering why I brought you here.” The fae-queen begins, smiling, unflustered, and for the first time in a while, happy. “If you believe the fables of our land, then you might also believe that this has always been the source of our healing; a beating heart that allowed the blood of Terrastella to thrive.” Her amethyst eyes dark in the light, but brightened by their amber that catches like flames, glowing and flickering in the dark.
“This is to be a council of the past and the future. Whispers are awakening here, telling tales of things of old. Do any of you know of the Ilati?” And with that her gaze shifts to regard the trees and their fresh paintings. “Do many of you believe that they might return?” Florentine has no answer to this. She seeks no argument here, she merely asks, curious to know who might have also heard the whispers heralding the return of the Ilati…
“But, the Ilati are not the only reason I have gathered us all here. There are many.” And her eyes glitter at that, “I wish to formally inform everyone of the new ranks and also to address the unrest across Novus and discord between certain Courts. I am sure many of you have by now heard of what has transpired between the Night King, Isorath and I.” Her eyes flit to Israfel and her brother, Asterion. They were the only two she had discussed her situation with prior to now. Remorse, sorrow, fury and so many things had stayed her tongue, weighing her feelings heavy, heavy, heavy.
Florentine takes a breath, slow and soft. “I apologise for it taking me so long to hold this council, but I am here now and I will answer any questions you may have pertaining to Dusk and our position with Night and all the other courts. When that is over I wish to discuss the building of a new hospital. One of our own nearly died in an attack by the Night Court’s Crows. It was not a random attack but rather composed by Reichenbach because of what happened between him and I. The fact that Lysander came so close to death made me realize how much stronger and more informed our healing needs to be. I propose a hospital to be built here, amidst the boughs of the trees. If the fables are to be believed true, then this is the source of healing for the whole of Terrastella and I plan to harness that.”
The words trail off to the sounds of the swamp. Flora’s eyes drift over her people, one by one. “So, if any of you have any questions, on the hospital, on the Ilati, on our relationship with Night and any of the other courts, let me hear them now.”
And she waits, at last open, at last fiercely keen for what the future might hold for Terrastella.
((OOC: Okay my loves, so, feel free to have you char ask any questions in relation to the whole Reich/Flora/Isorath saga, Flora feels now is the time to get everything out in the open. Also, this is an opportunity to lay foundations more for the Ilati when they begin to come in (have a read of Dusk’s history and the Ilati lore on the Lore board if you are not sure who the Ilati are). Finally, we will be getting a sub-board which will be the hospital. I have imagined it up in the tops of the trees, like Lothlórien in LOTR. Feel free to pm me with questions or just have your char ask away.
Flora will also introduce the new ranks in this thread too! <3 ))
Could've built a garden from all the flowers that you gave me
· · ·
Jude was not brilliant. He didn’t burn as brightly as the other kirins that had wandered from Vectaeryn. He wasn’t embolden and quick witted like Vaella. He wasn’t beautiful and terrible like Isorath. Jude had always been an oddity in comparison to his scaled peers. Rejecting an egg had been the first sign he wasn’t as conforming. He had contented himself to the company of himself and his art. Surrounded by flora in the blooming light of his estate, flourishing life all around him. But he had been held in an unshakable sorrow.. But he was different than that. He wasn’t brilliant, but he refused to be a coward. Isorath had whispered warnings of Terrastella but he wasn’t so easily convinced. After months of wandering he had found himself and he had a new sense of confidence in his own actions.
Even though his kin remained in night, he never believed himself destined for darkness. Dusk had left him uneasy his first visit through, but he knew that was more of the ceaseless waves of anxiety. Times he still was cradled in a womb of terror, his mind coddling him with intrusive thoughts and his chest closing in on itself.. Today though he was determined. For days he had ruminated on his conversation with Isorath, thought over and over on their exchange. Love was a poison and he saw how it was murdering the stability of courts. It was blinding monarchs and leading to reckless, foolish actions that left a taste that mimicked that of stale wine on his tongue.
He walked with Mittens to the swamp and found Florentine easily amongst the foliage. Mittens stretched out languidly, disinterested in the conflict and busied herself with an appropriate amount of sun bathing. Jude didn’t mingle amongst any other faces, didn’t invite conversation. These people were strangers and the ones who he had loved aren’t among their numbers anymore but still.. There was no lingering distress as there had been at the previous meeting. Jude stared on and listened to Florentine, letting the words sink in but he couldn’t help but feel a comment boil on the edge of his tongue. He smacked his lips and felt that similar sense tingling through his limbs. It began in his belly and spread, shuttering up his spine, through sinew and bone. His chest starts to cave in but he takes a hearty breath, counts back from ten and does it over and over until he can feel himself settle enough.
He waits until Florentine finishes and he turns his eyes to the mare. “Why are you agitating war with a court with superior numbers?” He demands, “Your heart is endangering the lives of your citizens. It is good you are finally turning your attentions away from love games for the sake of our court, but it never should’ve been the first priority.” He can feel his limbs tremble and he nearly collapses. What has he done? But it doesn’t stop. “Reich’s actions were abhorrent and that alone is evidence on how foolish it is to let your personal feelings dictate your actions in the game of politics.” He says and ears pin back against his head, “My ties to Vectaeryn and Isorath may display a bias in my words but I come from someone who cares. Terrastella has something beautiful, but you are awakening a fire. I know what the kirins of my homeland are like. We are a proud people.” He says, “What will you do when a dragon appears at the doorstep and burns down your beloved hospital? Why would you waste your time waging a dangerous war with a court that has numbers vastly superior to our own!? Your first actions should be addressing the weakening numbers of Dusk and bolstering unity within your people. Strengthen internally to face a threat.” He takes a breath and wonders if he might finally stop but it continues. “For instance, you drove an asset straight into the arms of your enemy by dictating your choices by your heart. You will only continue to do so if you don’t cease with the actions of a love scorned woman.. I do not wish to be scorched by dragon fire because my queen provoked a beast in the name of heartache. Love does not belong in politics,” He says almost coldly, “the heart and the head must remain separate if you wish to create a united people. Do what you will with my words, but I speak only as someone who sees potential in Terrastella.” He then lets himself come down, choking on the bile from his own tenacity. Is this how it feels to speak up?
It is a humid early summer day, sweat slick as seaspray on his skin as he stands beside Florentine in the dull green water of the swamp. Asterion has not looked forward to this meeting, and even now his stomach is twisting with unease, though his features are serene. His sense of duty keeps him steady, his love of his sister and his court keeps him brave, but his heart wishes he were elsewhere.
Little changes as he listens to his queen speak, grateful for the lightness in her tone, so long absent. Talk of the Ilati feels to him like talk of legends, and though it is all interesting enough he is bracing for what he knows will come next.
When it does he cannot keep his eyes from straying to Lysander, who stood impassively amid the vines. Asterion knows little enough of the man, only that he came from the Rift, only that he seems familiar in a way the bay can’t reach, like an itch he can’t find.
But all thoughts of the other man cease when Jude begins to speak. The Regent’s gaze moves to the kirin, and he falls to stillness as the stallion continues. Each word tightens his jaw, each use of the word war making his heart thunder in surprise and outrage, and he cannot even spare an apologetic look at Florentine before responding.
“I can only guess where you’ve heard these rumors of war,” he says, and inside him lives a whirlpool, churning, hungry. His gaze, dark as the space between stars, dark as the seabed at night, does not waver from Jude. “Just as I can only guess how you speak with such certainty of events you were absent for.” Oh, but he can guess, and that is clear in his eyes, too; in his memory he sees them again, the day Florentine was crowned, the two kirins so striking in the sunlight. How fickle a thing he is finding trust to be.
Asterion remembers when he came to Isorath’s rooms to ask for his tutelage; how nervous he was, how imposing and grand the kirin seemed. Oh, he is a fool; he will not so easily admire such men again. Guilt, too, churns inside him – that he had not been there with his queen at the festival, that he had instead been discovering what lay in his own heart. Loyalty and love. It is both that brace his tongue to speak now, however ill-thought or foolish his words.
“Florentine’s actions that night and following were in the interest of the court. You will not put others’ sins on her head.” Here his own ears twist back and he stops, pulls in a breath through his teeth. It does nothing to soothe him; it is only wind on the whitecaps of his anger and incredulity. “You speak of the pride of a people who would act treasonously and then burn the court they wronged, and in the same breath tell your queen not to let her heart rule her head?” He wants to laugh, now, but manages to close his teeth on it.
When he speaks again, after a pause where even the buzz of insects seems to have fallen still, it is in a voice far more level than he feels. “If anyone has been wronged, if anyone has been provoked, it is not the Night Court.” There is a smile then, slight as a shadow and without humor. “Luckily Dusk is more interested in places of healing than in naming enemies.”
He supposes, as he stands hock-deep in mud and feels his already-curly hair curling further, that he should be more invested in the direction of the court. He has already given his blood for them, after all; how many could say the same? And yet it is only his care for Florentine and his ravenous curiosity that keep him in a swamp full of near-strangers (he has not had much time to meet them, caught as he was between a coma and convalescing).
The little wine-red, gold-flecked pegasus he knows – he has been told that she is perhaps as responsible for his life as Florentine, and for that he is deeply grateful. And there is Auru, lion-maned and still cautious, and Asterion, who Lysander has an inkling he knows from another world. He is in no hurry to remind the boy; he looked as though he had enough thoughts to war with for the moment.
But Lysander’s interest grows as Florentine begins speaking, and his keen green eyes follow the flowers that drop from her hair and slip away in the stream. He does not disguise his intrigue with talk of the Ilati, nor his amusement when matters turn to that night. Perhaps it had been foolish of him, to speak so casually knowingly to the kirin and his king, but Lysander had never had much use for remorse. It wasn’t the sort of thing gods felt, and though his heart is clearly mortal (a pity, else this mess could be avoided), his head is slower to catch up.
But he feels his eyebrows drawing higher as the little kirin speaks – higher still when Asterion answers with more heat than Lysander had thought he possessed. Still waters, indeed.
Were it any other conversation – had not the memory of copious amounts of blood, black eyes, splintered antlers and an embedded bit of metal not been so recent – he would have kept his tongue. But he has found himself entwined in this, however unintentionally (he wonders just how deeply his path is wound with Florentine’s), and when the young bay falls silent at last Lysander looks sidelong at the kirin.
“That’s an interesting take on events,” he says dryly, and his lip curls in something that is not quite a smile. “I, personally, do not think it was the queen’s heart or her actions that saw me beaten by Reichenbach and three of his court, just as I doubt it was loyalty or love of Terrastella that Isorath had in mind at any stage of his relationship with the Night King. Though it certainly seems to have worked out tremendously for him.” He shrugs a shoulder, then turns toward Florentine. Absently, he twitches the skin of his flank that bears a scar from two knives, one silver and one subtle; healing is an itchy process.
“I would learn of the Ilati. I’ve discovered I have…quite an interest in the healing arts.” He wonders, as he watches her, if she regrets not leaving this world. He knows she can at any moment, such is the power in her blood and the magic in the dagger she wears – and it seems to him both brave and foolish to stand here instead, and try her best to lead a people who only blamed her.
He thinks, idly, that he might love her a little more for it.
04-19-2018, 08:01 PM
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Sparrow [PM] Posts: 137 — Threads: 30 Signos: 1,020
Israfel had not lingered long in Denocte. In the end, there hadn’t been a reason to.
Her home was Terrastella, and no amount of bitter grievances, true or imagined, would take that from her. Despite their rocky intimacy, Florentine was her Queen, and Israfel was her most humble servant. Her chosen Warden. There was power in such a thing. Duty and loyalty drew the Sun Daughter to the swamps that she so passionately hated. Once, ‘friendship’ may have been counted among the two, but Israfel could not help but feel as though she had struck a wound so vast, so irreparable, that she could no longer call the golden fae a friend. She prayed that not to be true.
Darkness permeated the swamp. Sparse sunlight touched stagnant water and peat moss from the thick canopy of treetops and robust vines. Swamp water, stale and sour to the smell, clung to the insides of her nostrils, reminding her yet again why she hated this place so. It was disgusting. The foul waters clung to her legs, dragging the pale gold and ivory of her tail out behind her, fanning out as she advanced amidst the darkness and sweating bodies.
Despite her hatred for this place, she walked with a confidant sashay, ignoring the shit-brown muck that clung to her. Let the others condemn her confidence. Upon the Sun Daughter’s shoulders, large as Israfel was tall, Solaris stared through narrowed violet eyes. The Phoenix’s body, ample and strong, burned a hot red as flames emitted from silken feathers, burning any who dared venture too close. The flames did not harm Solaris’ determined charge, however, and instead illuminated a path chosen together.
Israfel arrived to the meeting but secluded herself away from the others, standing atop the high ground to survey the meeting as a silent sentinel. Her eyes, a fierce vermilion, lingered and caught Florentine’s lavender gaze fleetingly. The Sun Daughter’s hard expression softened, fondness leaking into her gaze as though to say, I’m sorry. After this, she would seek out her Queen in solitary. Israfel was a proud creature, but not too proud to allow her misgivings to ruin something good. From there, the Warden of Terrastella grew quiet and allowed the others of the Court to speak. Florentine began. She spoke of the Ilati and Israfel felt nothing. She knew nothing of Terrastella’s heritage and so was not moved as others might be, but it was a part of this soil, this water, this land, and she would defend it all the same… Even if it did stink like a corpse.
Florentine spoke and the Sun Daughter listened, silent as the Phoenix upon her spine. Solaris’ gaze dragged over the inhabitants, familiarizing herself with those surrounding them. Then, it was Jude, spouting words that Israfel could relate to. Had she not, just recently, confronted Florentine with her very own misgivings? She could sympathize the Kirin’s opinions, yet it seemed not all of their Court shared such empathy.
“He is entitled his thoughts,” Israfel challenged, her low voice touched with knowing danger and command, even though Asterion was now her superior. She didn’t care. Let him think less of her. Israfel was all unstable embers ready to ignite within a moment. Upon her shoulders, long, sharp talons digging into the pale mounds of her flesh, Solaris was a heavy weight. Familiar. Calming. The Sun Daughter may not have her magics anymore, but her Phoenix certainly did, and the flames burned bright around them in the darkness of the swamp. “Do not condemn him for speaking his mind. Florentine heard me out when I addressed my grievances, similar to Jude’s own. The least you can do is respect his words. You speak of ‘healing’… Then let us learn to heal by listening.”
Odd words, coming from a warrior, but she had not always been one. From there, Israfel turned her head and regarded her fae-Queen as Solaris shifted her weight upon her charge’s spine, wings ruffling and flames dancing.
’Speak your thoughts. They will listen.’ The mythic bird’s voice rang soothingly in her mind, and the Warden did as instructed.
“We must do what’s best for Terrastella. A member of our own was nearly taken from us, but he said ’fuck it’ to the Gods and he’s still here. I know absolutely nothing about healing or medicines, nor do I know a thing about these ‘Ilati’ you speak of. My skills are of better use on the battlefield, and so that’s where they’ll stay. But if you all believe that reawakening the roots of this land will strengthen our Court, then I will do my best to rally our forces.” The Warden’s gaze tore away from Florentine and instead focused on Lysander. “Glad to see you up and about. Dying is hardly much of a vacation.” Should they demand retribution for the Crow King’s actions against Lysander? Did Lysander desire justice? It wasn’t Israfel’s call to make, yet it didn’t change the fact that they were weak. The warriors of Terrastella were a dismal few, and their activity even more so. The Sun Daughter wondered if Florentine would mind if she and Solaris instilled a little ‘tough love’ upon them. Later, she would ask.
“We all have a difference in thought. Respect that. So long as we can all push aside our damned pride and focus on what really matters, that’s all I care about.”
Gone was the eloquence previously laced within her words. Fuck it, right? Israfel wasn’t a Queen. Once, she had been Godly, but now, she was nothing more than a warrior trying to defend her home.
“Florentine. Solaris and I are yours to command.”
She hoped that Florentine could unravel her unspoken words.
CYRENE
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
The swamp, Cyrene shuddered, as she lifted a tentative hoof towards the dark, murky waters. I think I have met my match in Florentine. Perhaps it was simply an aversion shared by all things with feathers (a thought now completely shattered, as she sighed in Florentine’s direction) but to the wine-red pegasus, water was something that brought the fearless fae to her knees.
As she waded reluctantly through the Tinea’s ominous depths, crimson wings stayed tightly folded against Cyrene’s side as she tried in vain to keep calm at every slither of god knows what against her submerged legs. Helplessly, she glanced towards the queen’s effervescent form, a shining saint amidst the algae-strewn muck. By her side stood Asterion, looking every bit as noble as a Regent should. And then there was her. With a soft sigh, Cyrene offered a weak greeting to them both as she settled, with great effort, next to Asterion’s soothing presence.
As her eyes scanned across the gathering crowd, they widened in surprise as the glinting antlers of Lysander rose like ivory branches above the stale waters. The last time she had seen him, the man’s shining coat was painted red with his own blood. For him to be on his feet again cheered her greatly, and the emissary aimed a bright smile towards his head of onyx curls.
And then the meeting began. In pensive silence, Cyrene listened dutifully to Florentine’s speech. In truth, she understood little about the tragic affairs of that terrible night, and even less of what her queen had endured.
Very much, she concluded, from the heavy glances Florentine exchanged with Asterion.
With hearty effort, then, did she stay her tongue when the citizens began voicing their unrest. The first to speak, a fine-boned kirin she knew as Jude, poured his dissent like a sizzling ember into the fray. She could feel Asterion’s anger swell like a tide as he replied swiftly, the flare of his eyes a storm she’d never witnessed. Then came Lysander’s biting remark, and Israfel’s fire. Tempers were igniting, and Cyrene was at a loss at how to quell it.
But how could she call herself emissary if she could not even soothe the pains of her own court, much less a foreign one? She could no longer be but a passive observer when Florentine lived under the weight of a kingdom.
“If I may,” she began, with a soft glance towards the pink-scaled kirin. “I think, Jude, that you’ve been misled about Dusk’s future actions. To ease your worry, the regime is not foolish nor rash enough to wage war with Denocte.” Amber eyes lowered as her expression darkened, her thoughts turning to the lifeless, gaping eyes that had burned themselves one by one into her memories. They haunted her still in nightmares.
“As her emissary, I have full faith in saying that Florentine would never put herself before her people. I do not believe that her actions, whatever she decides, will endanger the Court more than Reichenbach's have already. And precisely because of that, Terrastella cannot be known as the Court that will do nothing but lick her wounds when attacked.”
“If we let Reichenbach and his Court think that he can get away with his crimes without so much as a whisper from Dusk… then we will have failed all of you.”
Lion's eyes as bright as a flame flickered from face to face as she shifted to address them all. It was a mighty effort, to keep her voice steady and soft when anger could so easily consume her. But the lion girl was learning, and Israfel’s words tempered the flames: “Do not condemn him for speaking his mind… You speak of ‘healing’… Then let us learn to heal by listening.” Wise girl.
“Dusk is a court of healing. My homeland was also such a place. We kept to ourselves, and were unbothered for many peaceful years — yet neighboring kingdoms saw us as weak, capable of miraculous feats of healing... and never retaliation. We were destroyed twice over, once by battle and once by a plague spread from those same kingdoms. I would never," pain laced her chest as her words echoed quietly across the waters, "wish for Dusk to make those same mistakes."
sorry this is messy and long ahh but cy reveals some of her history here!
i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls
There was a dark magic in Tinea Swamp.
In one glance it was dark and dank and dirty. Branches stretch with their great limbs of gnarled and twisted shadow. They are clawed fingers reaching across the tangled canopy above their heads. There is a mist that hangs like silver breath and presses in close. It threatens to smother and, from all eyes, hide the darkest secrets of the swamp.
But look again, shed the evil from your lashes, and it is a beautiful, intricate masterpiece. Golds brush with greens as they ripple across quiet waters. The air trembles with the hum of insects and wilderness. And in the darkness of the waters, beasts of myriad colours stir. Their scales are rainbows, even below, where light will never reach them. They twine about Florentine’s limbs, like dangerous words, lies so easily told and set to trip the unaware.
The Dusk Queen drinks in the sight of her people. They are mysterious here, art caught in the painting of the swamp. They are shadow and flame, violence and pain. The swamp curls about their party, gathering them all into one. The was a time of unity, not discord.
Florentine watches Jude, the amethyst of her gaze darkening the pink of him. Her gaze is a bruise, dark and hurtful and so full of hot, hot blood. The queen welcomes his words, she had encouraged them all to speak and oh they do! Angers flare like sparks and the swamp leans forward those shadows – dark and dank – and swallows them all.
The flower girl does not blink and she does not stir. She watches each of them, she gives them their moment and all the while her soul begins to wonder. It has been made sharp; it will pierce worlds with a pin-prick, it will tear them with a slice sharp enough to split even the atoms of the air they breathed.
Florentine’s soul is straying, though she remains in body ever gold and bright and full of flowers. There is a tangle of beauty here and the swamp descends upon her, it draws her in like it eats the words of those who have turned up for this important council.
Does she become the darkness, or does it become her?
Maybe both, for her eyes linger on none of them long. She listens as she gazes out towards the Night Court and, in the darkest parts of her, wishes them hell. She lingers on the spaces between her compatriots, the bonds made ragged by lies and truth and betrayal. But they are here, here as they are still bound together by loyalty and love for their compatriots.
She thinks that might be enough to save them.
When Florentine does look at them, her gaze cuts itself on the jagged point of a shattered tine, it slips from a golden feather, drowns in leonine-gold eyes, tangles in hair as black as the corners of the sea and lastly rests upon flushing pink.
Jude is a kirin flushed with blossoms. He stands sentinel, even when the winds of his own discomfort come to rattle him so. Florentine might stand to watch his blossoms fall like bride to the sodden earth at her feet. But she asked for this, she asked for them all.
This girl will seize peace like her wings the air.
She is grateful to them all. Each one for voicing their troubles, their desires. They needed to move forward now, each to be heard and their reasons known. They would each meet upon common ground and from there negotiate Dusk's winding, unlevel paths together.
“My Regime are right, Jude. Cyrene's words hold such truth.” Florentine says at last, with a stranger’s voice and a gaze as hard as flint. It softens, for a moment as she looks to Cyrene, grateful. “Whoever your informant is, they cannot be trusted. There has never been any talk or action toward war with Night. I am not the warmonger you and your informant believe me to be.” She pauses, thoughtful, considering – Were her words so taken apart and analysed? "I have seen the dreadful spoils of war and died in its wrath." Her eyes closed, and she is that child again, dying in the snow, with lungs so full of red, red blood. "I will not bring that on my kingdom if there is any way to avoid it."
The Dusk girl turns a lilac gaze back to Jude, and it is the shadow of impending darkness. Her shrug is a ripple of dark disinterest. “That is not to say I have not considered it, desired it even.” Such an admission sets the swamp to silence. Crickets still beneath the weight of such words, heavy with a malice that, from her, should only ever be petal light. Vengeance and retribution were demanding masters, the weight of them heavy as they drove her on and on and on.
“Dusk will not merely lick her wounds but neither will we incite war.” Her fierce gaze is not just for Jude, but it sinks into every one of them gathered. Florentine wonders of this anger within her, of a fury born of injustice. It is an anger she once only thought existed within her mother and the arresting gold of Karou’s tiger’s gaze.
This anger undoes her. It unspools all that Florentine is and melts her into liquid gold. But she is forged again, reshaped in the fire of her discontent. These sins she has been dealt have changed the Dusk girl so.
“We all want peace amongst us. It is what I have called us here for. Yet I have also been asked to clarify what has happened, and it has only been made clear that this needs to happen. So I will say this, just once.” She takes a breath, expanding lungs that are wound too tight.
“I did not cast Isorath from this court. I removed him from his position as Regent because he put his heart before his court. He met his Queen’s lover in private, many times. He did not deign to inform me of his feelings for Reichenbach throughout any of this. Instead, I was left to find out when I discovered them flirting together at our Winter Festival. It does not strike me as the actions of a man who loves his court above everything, including his own desires, for in doing so he compromised his Sovereign and his Court. So then, when I removed him as Regent, his pride saw him leave for Denocte where he is now a part of their Regime. Lysander is right, what has he to be vengeful about? He has the love of the king he desired and he has another position of power. Isorath has done well for himself, what benefit would it do him to bring his dragon down on us, a smaller and weaker court? The only wrong he has been dealt so far is to be removed as Regent. To attack us would only serve to stoke his pride, but maybe you are right, Jude, the Vectaeryn are a proud race." There is no anger, no fire in her words. Flora is, in this moment, almost nonchalant.
The queen stops, pausing, considering her heart and the way it does not clench, the way she is, at last, dispassionate. Was it that easy to fall out of love? If so, how deep was the love she had once shared with the Night King?
“Reichenbach has wronged us. He has hypnotized me in his jealousy and attacked Lysander with his Crows. I will not let that pass so easily. I will not let him make a mockery of us in this way. I will not let us concern ourselves only with healing and fall victim to men like Reichenbach.” Her lips reach for Cyrene, a kiss of solidarity, for the people she lost. “We owe it to each other to be stronger.”
Shame is a monster within her, it twists her stomach tight and howls in her veins. Florentine is electric here, turning the water to static that sizzles with the anger born of her shame. “In everything I have done, removing Isorath from Denocte, seeking council with Seraphina for an alliance, I have thought only of Terrastella. These are the things I have done and why. The past is the past, I will not change it now.” Her eyes drift to Lysander and the sight of him stirs memories of blood, ragged flesh and broken bones.
There is a moment where she drinks them all in, in a silence as heavy as stone. “We will have our pound of flesh.” Her eyes settle upon Lysander’s and do not sway. They are the broken parties here, but the wounds of Reichenbach’s actions spread to all of Terrastella too.
“I do not know what form retribution will take. It will not be war, Jude. But know this: dragons do not scare me. A dragon should not scare any of us, for we can rebuild from ash.” And her eyes settle upon the Israfel’s phoenix.
“Our numbers are small, but we are determined. I have done what I have done, for right or wrong, and now I look to the future. If anyone has any further discontent, now is your time to air it, for after this, I wish for us all to look towards the future of Dusk. We can all stand together, proud and strong or remain weak, split apart by hurt, animosity and misunderstanding. Taking hold of our future, I have appointed Asterion as our Regent, Cyrene as our Emissary and Israfel as our Warden. There are many more places to be filled and I long to fill them. It is time the gloaming lasted. It is time dusk is not lost in the blink of an eye to night. We will make the twilight last, together.”
@Asterion, @Cyrene, @Israfel, @Jude, @Lysander - what a novel! sheesh. So, my friends, I hope Dusk can move forwards from here. Any questions, hit me up :) <3
Could've built a garden from all the flowers that you gave me
· · ·
Jude had never had an ounce of venom in his bones. He has always been made up of tear drops and rose buds. The kirin was made for dancing in gardens, unlike the proud kin that filled the isle beyond the smokey sea. Vectaeryn had concealed itself and perhaps he was beginning to understand when the responses unfurled. His nerves shift and contort into something heated, something burning. He might have put dragonfire to shame as the blaze unfurled. Hot tears sting his eyes and the trembling distorts itself. With their responses he feels nothing but frustration. Did anything he said actually pass through their ears!? Or he is merely speaking to a group of walls?
“Just because you act in the interest of the court doesn’t make them wise actions,” Jude says, his voice laced with tension as he tries to reign in his anger. “And perhaps you should consider my words considering I have a source other than the one in front of us.” His eyes turn to Lysander when he responds and he merely looks unimpressed. He meets those unsmiling eyes with a curled lip, his canines peering out. “And yet you must be deaf because I didn’t dismiss the sins of the Night King.” He finds it more and more difficult to cap the inferno that becomes voracious in its hunger. All his life he has been impassive, tolerant.. He has taken the fists and bruises the world callously threw at him but this time… Not this time. He will not bow and he will not be ignored. There is a break in the onslaught of criticism, a pale stranger who’s name he doesn’t know. Then another parts open his lips and he can’t help but feel all the more unimpressed as she speaks of war, carnage and the price of passivity.
“I never spoke of what Dusk will do!” Jude snaps, the fire finally coiling around his mind and he lets himself be consumed by it. “I spoke of the threat of war, because the monarch foolishly acted out against a nation with superior numbers that has a goddamn dragon on its side! As an emissary you should have an understanding of the complexities of inter-court dynamics but you are clearly are lacking in that department.” The insults are sudden and when they roll off his tongue it’s already too late. “Failure is not solely defined by silence. She has potentially failed to protect her people by risking the wrath of a nation with superior numbers and strength.”
He then hears the monarch speak and he cannot help but remember what Isorath had said, everything he spoke. Florentine’s ferocity is met with fire, met with a wrath that has slumbered for too long and he looks horribly unimpressed. “You clearly do not understand Isorath and his character.” He spits in response to her anger. “He is not always motivated by benefit. You wounded his pride, you insulted him by stripping his rank because he met with your lover. That alone is evident that you are ruled by your heart.” Just as Florentine remains in her own resolve, Jude remains in the roar of his anger and he doesn’t wilt. His soft edges are sharpened and he will wield his tongue like a razor blade. “There doesn’t always needs to be benefit for Isorath to act, but of course, why should I possibly offer my caution on someone who considers me a friend when my warnings fall on deaf ears.”
“There should be a reasonable amount of caution when you deal with an enemy that has numbers and resources vastly superior to your own.” Jude spits, “and a dragon is a good reason for caution.” He heaves a breath and finally the fire meets his tongue and it pours out in nothing but pure venom. “I’ve gazed upon competent leaders, but right now, I am not looking on at one. I will not waste my breath and my aid where it is not desired nor welcome.. Just as you gaze to the future, I will gaze to my own and it is not amongst people who ignore my concerns.” He lets the acid pour from his tongue and his eyes seek to meet Florentine’s. He then turns in a flurry of blush and rage. Tears stain the ground but they are not for fear or sorrow, but the fact he seethes, a rose of hatred and it is a terrible sight.
He then storms for the mountains, to return to the arms of his kin.. To find solace in the smoke and starlight that has wooed his own kind. If they will not hear him, he will go to those who will. Jude plunges himself into darkness and he does not once look back or listen to what might be said, for he will not offer his own ears when they could not offer theirs.
Calliope is not late to the meeting but she is late to be seen. As they come she is there in the darkness, circling, circling, circling the perimeter of the meeting spot. She is a lioness in the swamp. All the monsters, black magic beasts and things that want to swallow the queen whole as she lingers so carelessly in the waters keep far away from the warning of her horn as she dips it low before their venom dripping teeth.
Florentine, she thinks, is too like her father to know the difference between bravery and foolish hope that all things have a vein of goodness buried in them.
Their words drift in and out as she both expands and shortens her patrol. They are all parts of a story but she knows enough, enough to know that some are fools and others far kinder than they need to. Calliope smiles, as they spit their wrath and reasons and the scales of her morals tip and sway until they are so unbalanced that the need for payment makes her eyes flash like meteors. Her horn feels like an inferno betwixt her eyes, too long has it had no purpose, no monster with a name she might say over and over again until they are dead.
It's not until the pale, horned stallion speaks that she departs her shadows, and moves light as a predator to cross his departing pass. There's a smile on her face, bright with teeth and her horn glares like a promise in the gloaming light of the swamp. “For betrayal I will always take a life, a heart for a heartbreak.” Her voice rings not like a bell but a war drum and she moves close enough that he might feel the heat and rage and promise of hers. In another world her vengeance was paid in dragon bones and blood.
As the light shifts a scar between two of her ribs is highlighted and made grotesque in the tapestry of her skin.
Calliope doesn't touch him, but she's close enough that perhaps she could tip her horn at just the right angle, with the right pressure, and split him wide open if he doesn't run from the brutal unicorn and her prophecies.
“Be happy it's not blood and death she calls for, I would not be so forgiving for a trespass of trust.” She is not of the blood of Gabriel and Novus should be pleased there is no crown here she would wear. This is not a world made for unicorns and their cold, harsh justice. The words ring out behind her like the echo of thunder over a canyon and she moves on to the rest of the court, the horse at her back nothing more than a memory that she will not forget.
Calliope forgets nothing and her promises are her bond. Until she is dead and nothing more than dust they will hold.
The unicorn (once a lion, a slayer of gods, a sword for freedom from tyranny, a monster when necessary) has little else to say when she joins the others. Even the swamp monsters stray far from the fire of her bones for they rattle with needs that clamor out against the pulse of her blood. Her eyes meet them all individually, and the way her eyes almost seem to reflect off the blackness of her horn seems to suggest one thing as she stands there, still and waiting--
Retribution has a form and it is Calliope.
04-30-2018, 09:52 PM
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Odeen [PM] Posts: 175 — Threads: 29 Signos: 1,315
As the old biblical saying - which he neither knows nor has reason to know, but I digress - goes, there is a time to speak and a time to be silent. In situations such as these, the latter times often far outweighed the former.
Now was no different.
Raymond strode into the meeting's orbit as though he belonged there and so made no waves with his presence. Camouflage born of confidence, once could say. He had no intention of adding his voice to the existing clamor, or having an opinion at all: opinions were for activists. Calliope could have an opinion - and she did, delivering it with the knife-edged conviction that might stay the courage of any dragon - and the pink fellow that raised his voice and bolted from the grounds could have an opinion, and of course everyone in attendance would leave from the circle having taken something different from the amassed words at its center, but Raymond was interested only in perspective.
Raymond didn't fear dragons, but neither was he prepared to die upon some foreign countryman's sword in the name of defending Dusk or its honor. He tried that once and the foul taste had yet to fully leave his tongue.
But if the kingdoms were at each other's throats and his Calliope seemingly committed to her admirable zealotry, then the swordsman would need to be prepared for every eventuality. He needed to know more than names and understand more than the danger a dragon may or may not pose. He didn't particularly care who was right, as long as he and the few things he cared about were left when the dust cleared.
So he stood silent amongst the crowd, nigh invisible despite his bright copper coat, and listened.
And learned.
Raymond. and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
