every time we get this close it's always pulling us apart
Whispers spread faster than fire, rumors of truth are gleaned in empty halls where a meeting should have been but is not. All too quickly it happens, the maze begins to melt as the stars scream in the sky. The Queen is gone, she's been stolen. Even the air of Denocte rings in defiance, carrying fast to the newly anointed Emissary's ears all that has happened. A maid saw a man dressed in silver and a young boy helping to haul the unicorn coated in blood and blossoming flowers into the night, into the arms of the Arma Mountains where she might be spirited away.
All that talk of a world to be, of the glass spire that whispers brightness where all is falling and drowning and crashing in a world of damnation and ruination, it turns to sparkling diamond dust in the midst of Isra being stolen away. Within sparks the fire of a phoenix, ignites about her more brightly than the candles she demands to be lit in every window of the castle, from the ashes of her soul a new heart is born - a cracking and mending and never-ending lighting bursting forth until the Pegasus nearly shines with her righteous rage and fury.
In the night the woman strides through the halls of the palace where so many had lain while their queen was slipping away, warnings are set up in watch towers so freshly rebuilt from their previous disaster. Her steps are the tolling of funeral bells, loud and heavy and demanding those who hear come, come and listen.
The Tonnerre woman would tell you she did not ask to be queen this time; once, when Caligo was in want for a champion and Denocte needed healing, once she'd raised her hand for the throne. Now... When her dearest friend who is family but not blood is taken, all she feels is ice running through her veins, so cold it burns. Ice from before the world was born, before the sun ever knew how to blink and radiate and shine, from something colder and far more dangerous than any living fire ever could be.
She reaches the antechamber, sweeps through it like a storm, leaves the kitchen-staff she's come to adore gaping. Like that the woman is through the foyer and on the front steps of the castle as the court awakens before dawn ever lays eyes upon the lot. The phoenix can recall a night like this, a night when Isra was crowned and called forth her court. That day, music came from the chains about her ankles as sweetly as the words came from her lips; it was a siren's song that had called them all to the steps of the great castle that held strong through many a night worse than this.
Now, as the bells ring over all of their realms, one warning after another, it is not so sweet an awakening that her Court will be given. "Brothers, sisters, friends and loved ones. Come, come fast to the arms of the castle. Tonight," she cries out with sorrow on her tongue and defiance in those honeyed eyes, "a great wrong has been committed ! I call you forth to aid all of Denocte !"
Moira Tonnerre is not one for grand speeches to address a crowd, but she knows it is not yet time to tell them Isra is gone, not until all are gathered. Then, only once her court is here at last can she weave starlight into their souls and give them tonics for courage and brightness for their hearts. Only then may she tell them their queen is stolen, and war-games will come at last where she wished them never to be.
All NC members, Moira calls you forth now so we can start our manhunt search for our queen and bring her home safely! The maze is collapsing and Acton's body is the only thing to lie among the rubble as it falls, whispers are about that a silver man was seen spiriting away our beloved Isra under unknown conditions, and you may or may not have heard of this. Let us come together now to right these wrongs and keep the tenuous peace from shattering.
02-24-2019, 12:35 PM - This post was last modified: 02-24-2019, 06:23 PM by Moira
It would be too much to ask for Metaphor to be left in the peace of his lover’s arms, hidden away in their home built for two. Their reunion, however sweet, would be shortlived. Though Metaphor hadn’t been here long, he’d already seen a darkness to Novus. Almost as quickly as he’d arrived, the peace of this place had been shattered. As he’d found his way back to the Night Court, the place which was destined to be his home, the red stallion had stumbled across a scene too gruesome to recount. Two members of the Dawn Court were dead, struck down by some sort of demon.
He shuddered, remembering the look of their swollen bodies, left to rot in the sun. However much Metaphor had seen death, he was never truly prepared for it. The sight of decaying creatures still brought a twist to his stomach, made him want to turn away. And yet the healer knew that when terror wrapped itself around a place, he had a duty to step up. They both would, he remembered… for Katniss had mentioned that the queen Isra had called to her to lead their warriors. She would excel at such things. Thinking of it, Metaphor had to smile softly with pride… for though he wished she wouldn’t put herself in harm’s way, he knew all the same that it was something she needed to do. Honor was a mantle Katniss wore without question, and Metaphor would do the same in this new world.
The land seemed to shudder with anticipation, as Moira’s call reached the distant fringes of the Night Court, rousing the lovers to action. “Come, love…” he whispered to @Katniss, stroking her cheek as she slept peacefully beside him. “Something is happening…” Perhaps they had heard of the killings in the north. Moore and Casper. He remembered the names, vowing never to forget the strangers who were so brutally murdered in their own homeland. Wasting little time, Metaphor made his way toward the center of the court, finding the temple which rose as a towering shadow in the dusky night.
He is the first to heed her call, not so much from eagerness but from urgency. They would not know him, so he maintains a submissive sort of posture as he approaches the ruby Emissary. Nodding once to her, his voice is low and quiet as he offers a quiet question (and perhaps, news they would be surprised to hear amid the disappearance of their queen). “Is this about the murders… In Delumine?” Surely, such things would affect Denocte also… but little does Metaphor know that tonight’s travesty happened within their own walls.
He dreamed of her – of the mermaid with stardust in her hair and a dragon at her feet. Isra had haunted Pan ever since he left this place on the moonlit night, and he wanted desperately to see her again. Oh, what stories he would tell her… of a golden pool, a perfectly sculpted shell, old friends rediscovered. It was all so fanciful, and if anyone could appreciate the irony in how his life had changed since their last meeting, Isra would. She had been the first to encourage him to hold onto the dreams… and slowly, the dreams were becoming memories. Slowly, his past was returning to him, and the future had never seemed brighter.
There is a skip to his step, excitement dancing in his belly as his green eyes take in the temple in the distance. Blissfully ignorant of the crimes that had taken place in this world, he begins to poke around, whispering for the mermaid and her dragon. Fable… are you here? Only the wind responded to the boy, toying cruelly with his mane and whispering as it caressed him. Strange, for Isra had told him that all he had to do was call on her dragon and he would appear… they would both appear. Something had to be wrong.
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, the boy stepped into the temple, his hooves clattering on the cold stone. Torches light his path with a muted glow, and he gulps as he follows them down the quiet corridors, abandoned by all on the night when Moira called to them. In other circumstances, he might have investigated the nooks and crannies of this place, committing it to memory and finding the best hiding places. But tonight, worry creases the boy’s brow as he pressed on, following the candlelight as a beacon.
As he grows toward the place where Moira called to them, Pan begins to hear low whispers, though he cannot make out the words. His steps are hurried now as he pushes through the final curtains into a grand hall, abandoned except for the brilliantly hued Pegasus and the familiar red stallion who had comforted him only days before in the forest. Gulping, the boy steps forward, hesitating for a moment as he takes in their worried expressions. He clears his throat, asking in a broken and innocent tone, Have either of you seen the mermaid and her dragon? I’m afraid something is very wrong…
And so, as it always has been and always would, civilization pitches Michael back into the embrace of chaos.
He does not find it comforting. Rather the opposite.
Michael does not sleep much, anymore, so when the first bell clangs in every cavity of his body, a tremulous sound that sets his teeth on edge, he is already half awake. He doesn't know from whence he comes, just that he does. His steps are urgent and hesitant. He's holding a breath that he doesn't realize he's holding - it burns hot in his throat.
When you peel away the many layers of fog, the dreamer is and always has been moved to help others. It is a trait buried deep, but one that he holds fast to all the same. So it is, when Michael strides first through the doors and follows the sound of Moira's voice, the wave of citizens that have come to heed her call, that the golden horse does not shy from whatever he may find when he arrives. He is breathing again but just barely.
He tells himself he's ready; and if he knew that it was Isra in trouble, he would have doubled down on this statement. She is, quite literally, the only familiar face in this whole place.
He tells himself that, no matter what, he is tied to Denocte.
He tells himself that he should listen next time, when there is a pit in his stomach and he feels the roaring of something bad on the horizon. There is always something bad on the horizon.
Michael doesn't look like his many misgivings. He slows to a stop in the growing crowd, a firm frown tucked into the corner of his mouth. The thick sheet of his mane falls in ringlets over his face. He says nothing because he has nothing to say.
And, so, as he always had and always would, over and over until time eats him alive, Michael stands at attention. Anything for home.
Katniss had admittedly been preoccupied lately. When she had not performed well in the maze, she had gone in search of something - something that she did not quite understand the meaning of. Later, she learned that it was a quest for her bonded that had taken her away from Denocte. And then, she had traveled north, traveling to the plains where she came across Metaphor - the stallion that meant so much to her. After their reunion, she had gone into battle, to spar in order to show her queen that she was worthy of being called a Night Court soldier. Perhaps it would lead her to a promotion - at least that’s what Isra made it seem like.
But as she lay in her small hut just outside the palace walls, she takes comfort in knowing that Metaphor and Finnick are close to her. They seem to make everything feel better and more homey. But as she lay dwelling on all the good things that had happened in her life recently, she hears the sound of the tolling funeral bells. Alarmed, she works at getting herself into a standing position, careful of the injured leg from battle. She hears the soft calling from Metaphor and she offers him a light nuzzle in thanks. She was not aware that anyone had died, so why are the bells tolling?
She asks Finnick to come along, the bird soring just above her as she and Metaphor move towards the castle. Her pace is slow, her leg hurting far more than it did so soon after the battle. No doubt the soreness was finally kicking in.
As she finally settles alongside Metaphor, he asks if the gathering is about the murders in Delumine. For once, Katniss fears that this is not the case. Why would Isra be worried about murders in another court. Speaking of Isra…where was her queen? She looks up at Moira, a mare she has yet to meet. She has only heard of her by name and by reputation. “I mean no offence…” Her voice trails off as she tries to find the right way to voice her concern and her question. “But why are you calling a gathering at this time of night instead of Isra?” She did not mean for her question to come off poorly, but she knew no other way to ask. Isra should have been the one to call this meeting. Eyes looked to the others gathered, to metaphor, to Pan, and to another she did not know.
Ianthe is not pleased to be here. Despite it all – despite the gift of her life, despite the gift of a stranger’s care, despite a god’s mercurial favor, and the chance to fly again – Ianthe feels disgust and disgruntlement crawl across her skin like a deer fly just waiting to take its bite of flesh. It has not been hours since she had arrived in this so-called kingdom’s center, her wing tightly bundled against her side and the unfamiliar words of a stranger in her ears, it has not been hours and already these… these people are calling on her.
Heretics and heathens, she has seen some examples of their art, seen idols of a god she has only heard described. And how dare they – how dare they – make these paltry offerings of a gods worth? How dare they presume to know their shape? How dare they call the god of doorways and dualities Tempus? How dare they boil Janus down to a mere speck of his parts – as if time is the only thing he lords over? And yet – and yet…
Janus seems to consent to the maltreatment, and Ianthe is hardly strong enough to fight a god’s battles.
Ianthe now knows that it was He who stalled her fall enough to allow her life, He who was moved by pity enough to give her a chance to fly in some (too distant) future. Ianthe also knows that she was saved for a reason – is not so foolish to presume pity enough – and to know that perhaps the reason is this.
So, here she is, answering the call of this leader despite herself. (She knows better than to discount the words of leaders, of elders, of those stronger than her – and grounded as she is, she is so very weak.) This woman is not hers, just as Ianthe is not theirs, but Ianthe has been saved by a god, placed here by a god, and she is not so bitter as to laugh in His face (to court death) and turn away when she is summoned.
Still, she keeps herself as separate as she can manage, shuffles along the outskirts of the forming crowd, keeps her tongue behind her teeth and her displeasure from her face. Still, she stands beside the heretics and waits.
02-25-2019, 04:39 PM
Played by
Sparrow [PM] Posts: 18 — Threads: 3 Signos: 20
Can I beat within your heart? Can I bleed within your love?
Runa would never forget the first time she and Umbra stepped foot within the Night Court proper, arriving after travel from the Arma Mountains. She would never forget the sights, the sounds, the smells. Or the colors! Glorious and bright, flamboyant and stunning, the young maid was struck with such affinity and fondness for a place she had just met. Curious creatures wearing masks partaking in a masquerade pranced around merrily in pretty silks and shiny trinkets, and Runaveig’s wide golden eyes followed them about in childlike wonder.
How beautiful they all looked, dancing about with their chosen partners. It was a sight she wanted to remember for the rest of her life, to capture it within ink or paint and imprint it forever upon a canvas.
There were stalls aplenty stocked with beautiful wares; exotic silks, alluring floral perfumes, tasty sweet treats, shiny jewelry, and a plethora of other eccentric items that tickled the woman’s fancy. For the fun of it, she had Umbra try on a pink and lavender flower crown, and then giggled at the pygmy dragon’s displeasure. There were figures dancing, bards singing, and exuberant merriment all around. She felt both drastically out of place and at home at the very same time, waltzing with quick, nimble steps among the throngs of civilians eagerly participating in whatever festival she had found herself late to.
Never before had she felt more grateful for the decorative floral mantles she wore and the silk shawl draped dramatically over her supple shoulders. It helped her feel as though she somewhat fit in, prancing about through the crowds with a jovial eagerness. The welcoming, festive atmosphere did not last, however, and seemed to come crashing down around their very ears.
A shout, high with feminine desperation, pierced through the throng of celebration. A few individuals broke away from their chosen activities to weave their way through the streets of Denocte towards the voice. Runa hesitated for only a moment, uncertain if they should investigate, and then glanced upwards at Umbra.
“Should we go, too?” The question was laced with worry. The black pygmy dragon gave a low grunt, swirling about in the air before coming to rest upon the colored unicorn’s back.
’Let’s. Something seems to have happened. Don’t worry; I’ll keep you safe.’ Umbra’s counsel was always a soothing boon, and Runa did not doubt him. He had been with her since her birth, and never once had he let her down. Giving the dragon a short nod, Runaveig turned about to follow the others who were summoned by the call, weaving her way through the crowds with elegant steps befitting a dancer.
She knew when they arrived. Various individuals had conglomerated into one area, all looking towards a striking woman of fire red and burning gold. She was the one who had summoned them. There was something about her that commanded respect, and as others in the area began to speak, Runaveig was content to stand near the back of the group and listen, pretty ears pointed forward at attention. Upon her back, Umbra remained, the silent, stoic sentinel that he always was.
Like dewdrops on daisies fresh in the morning, Moira watches as the court rises from their beds they've likely just sunk into or saunter from the falling maze and rooms of splendor. One by one, trickling in, ants marching in a row, those of Denocte assemble and stand strong before her. Questions flare in their eyes, each curios and clouded with confusion as they look up to her. Sorrow pools in the pit of the Pegasus' stomach, flickers out oily tendrils into her heart, her limps, but she does not let her chin be drawn down, does not let her lips waver or eyes look away. For each curious look, each word slicing the fading darkness more quickly, insistently than the last.
Patience is something the phoenix was required to know before she ever knew how to raise a wing, raise a brow, raise a scalpel and cut into supple flesh to sniff out the rot. Now, it settles on her shoulders as a cloak, warm and comforting, to keep out the chills and terror that surely would stalk her down every hall in any other setting.
The first to come forth, a man of chocolate and pale silk whom she's only seen in passing. He steps forward then, a woman who can only be his lover at his side, and asks about the murders in Delumine; the Dawn court where Moira has not yet had a chance to see. It lies so far to the northeast that she is unsure how long it would take to travel through the mountains, the caves, and over a river. A caravan would be on the road for weeks, but perhaps her wings (should she ever learn to use them) could take her faster should she ever need to check. "No," the Tonnerre woman breathes, eyes darkening, dimming and lighting all at once when the news of more carnage spreads. "Something much closer to home, to our bleeding heart." Soft are the words she returns, dipping her head in thanks for their coming forth. Golden gaze looks over @Metaphor and @Katniss who chimes in next.
The warrioress' voice is strong but questions the order of things. It is something Moira expects, nods sympathetically to let her know she's heard.
More come forward, the young @Pan asking of Isra - a mermaid and her dragon. Fable... What happened to Fable? For but a moment the phoenix woman forgets to breathe, forgets there is a crowd gathering as she thinks of where the dragon could have gone. Ah, but she'd seen him with Eik - spoke with them. And slowly she begins to function, gears turning, cogs in the clockwork oiled once more to smoothly glide alongside one another in a seamless dance that keeps her ticking, keeps her eyes flitting over every body gathering.
There, a golden man stands half here, half gone. Dreams, she thinks, still hold him. Or perhaps it is the night terrors that will plague her for many months from now. Still, @Michael stands, ready to listen just as the rest of the court, And just behind him, another Pegasus settles. A permanent scowl on @Ianthe 's fair face, one Moira hopes she can help to right soon. Perhaps they could talk of the sky and how to fly and other things that birds sing songs of, things that the woman born with fire in her veins and wings to fly knows nothing of - may never fully grasp until she tumbles, spiraling down, down, down only to breathe in the flow of the wind, the currents, only to fly at last. Now, here, the time is not one for them to chirp about the sky and reflect on the voice of the wind. Not when @Runaveig at last enters. Oh, Moira knows she's seen the entertainer at various functions, her darling Umbra close to her side. It is a warmth that pulls her forward a step then, toward the crowd.
You have their attention, now keep it. A deep breath, a second ticks by as she assesses them. Then, on an exhale the mare bows to her people, showing the only thanks she knows not how to say. "Denocte," the Emissary says at last, a fullness ringing now. Not that of a healer, of a woman, of a friend - that of a politician, an advisor, a woman with a purpose. "Our beloved Queen, our story-teller who takes away nightmares and paints dreams where shadows prey on vulnerable minds, our Empress... Isra has been taken, stolen from within the maze, stolen from us. In a desperate attempt to save her, to keep her among us, one of our own gave everything, gave his life, and it was not enough." Now a tear falls, errant curls blown by a cold wind that only reeks of death and loss. Her smoky voice is full, that husky lullaby now teeming with rage and nightmares to be unleashed upon the world.
"This night, Acton has died and Isra has been taken by Raum. His face has littered our court for his crimes, but he has chosen the wrong beast to prod. We are a Court of Dreams and Dreamers." Down one step she goes, then another, and another. Moira stands before them, among them.
Slowly she moves throughout the crowd, coming by Metaphor and Katniss who stood ready at the center. "He does not know the dragons he's awakened, the fire of our hearts and the courage of our soul, he does not know that all of Tempus' guidance cannot save him now. Others will look to us, to our court without our Queen. They will not see us cower, they will not see Denocte fall! When they look to our court," pausing beside Pan, she smiles gently and kisses his cheek before weaving further out. Like a river, she swirls through them, amongst them, her feral grin growing with her fury that is so rarely unleashed. "They will see our starlight that will swallow the sun. Here, you've all come for answers to questions, questions that ring as the tolling of our bells. Let us start, my brothers and sisters, to mend the holes."
Even now, her heart sings songs of blood and death, sings of burning and drowning and rending flesh from bone. Such violence brews as she circles around Ianthe and Runaveig at last. Her voice ringing like a gong, echoing off the freshly cobbled street within the city just beginning to heal. "We will find our queen and that dog who fled with his tail tucked between his legs will be brought to justice. This is not our ending, it is only the beginning of a new chapter that I cannot write without you. Who will stand with me, who will fight for Denocte and all that we stand for, who will dream a better dream until it is a reality?" She ends behind them all, facing the steps, facing her people, with her crown held high and wings upraised just as the sun crests over the mountains, just as it peeks over her own head, illuminates the Pegasus until she is nothing but a silhouette of flames and fury before those she will die to protect and defend with every last moonlit breath that whispers from her chest.
When the answer does not come to her question, Katniss can see the way Moira looks to her. It is a look that tells her that there is an answer to her question, but one that cannot be answered just yet. Katniss knows that look all too well, she’s used it several times before when she lead her own kingdom. There is a sinking pit in her stomach and she instinctively knows that she will not like the answer that she will eventually be given. Thankfully, Metaphor is still at her side and she leans into him. Her eyes meet his and she tries to silently tell him that something very bad has happened in Denocte and he had to have trust in her that she would make things right. It was her job, after all, to protect all of Denocte, even from the evils and dangers that she doesn’t yet know about.
Something catches her attention and it draws her gaze to the sky. She can see that Finnick has joined the gathering, flying high above and watching from curious eyes. Katniss smiles at him, thankful that his strength is returning and he is able to fly farther with each passing day. He settles on a nearby perch, the large harpy eagle content to silently watch over his bonded.
Katniss is very quiet as Moira begins to tell her story of how Isra was taken from the maze and one of their own has died. There is shock and self-hatred that plagues her face now. Katniss had been at the maze. If she had picked the right path…if she had been wiser, perhaps she could have been there when her queen had been taken. Perhaps she could have done something to save Isra and save Acton. Perhaps she could have killed Raum when she had the chance.
Katniss doesn’t know what to say. She watches as Moira begins to descend the steps and come to dwell amongst them. She watches so patiently as she comes to stand near to herself and Metaphor. She listens to the speech, knowing that her heart was swelling with anger and with determination. There had been very few things in life that had gotten her blood boiling to the point it was now.
And finally, Katniss turns to follow the movement of Moira, finally listening as she begins to share her plan to correct the wrongs Raum has done against Denocte. Katniss looks to Metaphor. “I have to join her, to fight for our home.” She knows that Metaphor has never liked her going into battle. Still her leg hurts her from her spar with Asterion, but she does not let it hold her back. Slowly, she weaves through the crowd of those gathered until she breaks past them to come front and center. “I will fight for Denocte. I will help find our queen.”And hurt Raum in the process. That stallion would be lucky to still have balls when she’s through with him.
The crowd grows, pouring like moonlight into the chamber. Michael has to fight the urge to back away and stroll off to some distant peak where he is alone and where he does not feel the walls closing in on him like icy hands with bony fingers, squeezing his bones until they're dust. Michael feels slightly dizzy. Michael holds his breath without knowing it. Things do not get better from here.
Moira is too somber, and Michael doesn't need to know her to see this. The firm frown on his face deepens, coupled with furrowing brows that aren't visible under that messy forelock. Still he frowns.
Everyone is asking, where is Isra? And Michael echoes this, privately and to himself. Probably, he would have felt more comfortable searching the crowd and finding more than just Pan that he recognized. But the queen is not here, even after the worried mumbling has died down, even as Moira inhales to speak.
He realizes almost exactly as Moira says it. There is death and fear here. There is death and fear everywhere, right now. And their queen--his queen--is taken away in the dead of night. Michael stares at Moira, fixed and focused on his breathing. He has not had to contemplate chaos in... what, decades, probably? He has not gone to war since... well, since.
His gaze is steady. His expression lifts into a grim but determined one. So, of course, Michael will fight for his queen. Michael would never do anything but. He takes a step forward, dips his head, and says to the phoenix and her worried crowd, "I will, gladly."
