Walking down the halls into the great room brings back memories of last year. Corr remembers the tables all setup with fall decor and paper and paint at every seat. There was really tasty mead and so many different images being painted. She admired every one of them and still looks upon her own painting to this day. She's glad the energy of The Tower has since worn off, but even still it serves as a stunning art piece in her home.
Tonight, she is here for a different event. Their Queen has organized a Midwinter Festival and Corr couldn't be happier. The Court has been mourning the loss of several of their own for too long. Now as she looks upon the vast crowd, both Dusk and others alike, she no longer sees faces struck with grief. She sees others laughing and getting into the dance of the event. It warms her heart and helps her get past her own dim feelings. The energy radiates through her being and she embraces it.
Hāsta has never been fond of crowds and so she takes perch on top of a lantern sticking out of the wall. The vantage point is enough to keep an eye on her companion but allows her to steer clear of the chaos on the dance floor. Corr doesn't mind since she doesn't deal with separation anxiety like her crow. Quickly she grabs a drink from the serving table and takes a sip. She recognizes it as mead, but a different flavor than the one she had last time. It's still just as delicious and warming as the last one.
As she enters the dance floor, she tilts back her head and joins in the laughter. There were talks of this being a dance to last the night and those who are able to stay for its entirety may be dubbed the "Lord of Misrule". Corr isn't sure if she can manage that, but for now she's enjoying herself and the company of her Court and guests.
It is easy to forget that winter lurks outside when amidst the warm and cheery atmosphere of the festival: strings of twinkling lights shed their glow on the bodies beneath them, casting shadows that follow in their masters’ dancing footsteps. An assortment of treats ranging from spicy to sweet are laid out across several wood tables, calling to those who are too shy or too drunk to dance. It seems as if every corner of the room is either full of artistic arrangements of cedar boughs with glittering red bows or guests trying desperately to make themselves heard over the music. The depth of the bass is almost as dizzying as the wine, but the swarm of bodies on the dance floor don’t seem to mind at all; however, the star speckled hag lurking in the shadows might have something to say about it.
She is leaning her bony shoulder against one of the stone walls, sipping at her goblet of wine while watching the drunken or dancing denizens of her court. Her eyes and ears move like flies, darting from place to place and never settling in one spot for too long. Though she is not particularly social (and her constant fidgeting can attest to that) the hag leaps at any opportunity to spy on people, and this festival has attracted quite the crowd. The witch has spent most of her time in the swamp since her return, gathering supplies and conducting her research, but it was high time she focused her efforts on obtaining information. Yana knows most of all how valuable it can be.
How is anyone supposed to listen in on a conversation with all of this noise?
She tosses her head in frustration, throwing her long white tresses of twig-free hair over her shoulder (it has been months since she has let it down from its messy bun, and even longer since she last bothered to brush the moss and knots from it. It almost broke her heart to do so, for the swamp gave them to her the day of her return). Something inside of her aches and pulls, like a tiny magnet is sitting inside the hole in her chest where her heart should be, begging for her to return to the mossy green waters of Tinea Swamp. She knows this is not her place, yet she stubbornly chooses to remain here, like the ivy that clings to the castle wall next to her. It does not take long before the hag admits to the futility of her mission – it is impossible for her to hear anything over the clink of glasses and thunder of drums – and besides, her cup is empty.
It is a struggle for the clumsy girl to make her way to the cask of red wine, but she somehow manages to do so without causing too much trouble. The witch fills her cup and sips at her drink, ignoring its dry taste and reminding herself that she has had much worse before. Besides, the more she swallows the easier it is to forget she is an imposter here amidst the bustle and noise, the drink and the cheer. Before she knows it her glass is empty, and so is the one after that – the witch has lost count of how many she has had to drink, and suddenly the thought of adding herself to the writhing crowd does not seem so bad.
Her feet seem to carry her there of their own accord, swinging and twirling their dark mistress around until she is at the heart of the swarm. Her hair is a wild mess of white wind, flitting about and obscuring her vision (which the alcohol has kindly offered to blur) as the witch dances. She can hardly find her feet beneath her as the world slows and the music grows louder, and the girl briefly forgets who she is. All that matters now is that she does not stop moving, twisting, turning her body or else her thoughts might catch up to her. She doesn’t want to think about how lonely she really is, or how she aches to know why her mother chose to bear her if only to force her abusive teachings on the daughter she chose to keep.
For this one, brief moment, Yana can simply be.
And then her hip bumps into the dappled girl, halting her drunken pirouette and all thoughts of the past.
Yana finds herself swaying to the music in time with the stranger, her head held high so that their eyes can meet.
Before she has a chance to form an opinion of her, the hag’s gravelly tones are parting her lips, “Pardon me, but I’m not myself. I’m Yana. Can you show me how to dance?”
Black legs start to move before she hears an answer. She matches the rhythm of the other mare’s swaying, her gaze lifting to watch her companion after every few steps. Something about her seems familiar to the witch, though she’s certain they haven’t met before. She draws herself closer, nearly pressing her shoulder into the woman’s dappled one, and leans in to take a deep breath. A familiar scent lingers on her skin, reminding Yana of the algae-coated pools of the swamp. For the first time in months, it is not a cough but a laugh that bubbles up her throat.
“You smell of the swamp! I live there, too. I thought I was the only one.”
"Speaking."
@Corrdelia - I'm so sorry for the wait, and then the super long post. I got carried away <3
She is so distracted by the music and dancing that she doesn't notice the mare getting closer until they bump into each other. She is apologetic and it makes Corr laugh.
"Oh, no worries, dear!" she replies with a toothy grin. Yana then asks if Corr can show her how to dance, although she is already starting to sway her legs in a way. The crow witch laughs again. "Seems like you've got a good thing going, just keep running with it! Feel the music in your bones!"
As if on cue, the beat of the music starts to get faster. The women are shoulder to shoulder and Corr takes another sip of her mead. She can feel the emotions and auras getting duller and she's appreciative of the alcohol. Her feet move quicker and she's almost bouncing more than dancing.
Yana brings up the swamp and Corr is delighted. It's not often that she meets someone else who lives there with how reclusive it tends to be. "Ah a fellow swamp-goer. It's a lovely place isn't it? I've got my own house set up in there away from all the hustle and bustle of the Court. Maybe you've seen it? It's dark wood and tall with stained glass windows. There are windchimes out front." As she describes her home, she can almost hear the sound of the chimes and smell the tea leaves from her cabinet. What a life she's made for herself, now far from Astreas, and she's grateful for every minute of it.
"I live there with my companion, Hāsta. She's a crow- hiding somewhere I bet. She doesn't like crowds," she adds, quickly scanning the room for the bird. She notices her perched up on top of a lantern watching over everyone. Just where she figured she'd be. "Where in the swamp do you live?" Corr is curious now if perhaps she's stumbled upon Yana's home too.
She senses rather than hears the change in tempo, her body matching the beat in a flurry of spins as if her heart is somehow linked to the music like it is also linked to the obelisk. It isn't true, of course; the typically shy girl is merely being spurred on by the alcohol that seeps in her veins. Yana even returns a smile to her fellow witch, though she's confused by her dancing instructions.
How does one feel music in their bones? Apparently, not even wine can relieve the hag of her pragmatism.
The dappled woman starts to describe her house and all thoughts of bones and dancing are forgotten (though her legs continue to swing her starred bodice from side to side, adding a curtsy or a spin here and there). They are replaced by an aching feeling that the mare does not recognize. It cannot be loneliness, for she is well acquainted with its tender touch. It's a similar emotion, though, perhaps more akin to... homesickness? Yes, that's it. Yana hasn’t recognized the need for a home ever since she burnt her last one to the ground. Perhaps it is time to settle down again, and she likes the swamp well enough.
Yes, she thinks. It’s practically my home anyway. May as well make it official.
The vision of a dark cottage with smoke billowing from its stone chimney, its interior lined with books, scrolls, herbs and a variety of bottled tinctures, poultices and poisons fills her head. It’s reminiscent of the home where she grew up, but this time there won’t be any haggard old wretches to ruin her vision. Perhaps if she learns to decipher the obelisk’s runes she can protect her little shop from unwanted guests.
At that thought she eyes the winged maid, wondering what she will be like as a neighbor. Her voice seems… youthful and boisterous, much different from the low and gravelly tones that fall from Yana’s mouth. It’s hard for her to examine the dancing, twisting girl – especially in her current state of intoxication – but from what the hag can gather she is a pleasant enough individual.
What if she’s hiding something? Or wants to steal your secrets? You didn’t make it this far by trusting everyone you met.
The witch narrows her eyes in suspicion. Perhaps she ought to know more about her before deciding.
“I’ve heard that crows are smart, but your Hasta is truly exceptional. Normally I stay away from crowds, too.”
She tosses her head up to look for the bird, but the world is spinning too fast for the girl to find her. The hag decides she’ll have to meet her when she’s regained some composure.
“You know, I haven’t come across your house yet. I tend to keep to myself. Do… Do you want to show me some time? I have no home, yet. I lived in the swamp a few years past, I left, and now I’m back again. It always seems to call me back.” Oddly enough, Yana is more comfortable talking about the relic than trying to make an acquaintance. “Have you ever seen a tall black stone there? It’s in the middle of a large green pond. I found it the first time I entered the swamp, and we’ve claimed one another ever since.
Her tone is casual so as not to draw attention to the fact that she is personifying a relic. It’s the first time she has referred to her bond to it aloud, and it sounds strange to her now despite knowing the truth.
The longer they dance, the more mead she sips and the more she can feel it warming her body and making her thoughts fuzzy. She smiles as Yana compliments her companion, although her expression may come off as more goofy than she means it to.
"She's a smart cookie, indeed! A little shit, really, but she's been with me through thick and thin," Corr says proudly, looking up at where the bird is perched again. After a few seconds, she realizes she's been staring at the wrong lantern and looks to the next one, then the next one, before finally finding the crow again. At least she got there eventually.
The witch comes back to the conversation as Yana mentions her interest in seeing her home. She is delighted, but then sad at the thought of someone not having a home of their own. "You're always welcome! The swamp is like that I think. It's always whispering things," she says, with more inflection on the word 'always'. It comes across as if Corr hears voices when she's outside, but it's not entirely untrue. The swamp is a magical place with its own unique sights and sounds (and smells). It has its own charm that doesn't really make sense until one has spent enough time among it all.
Then Yana asks if Corr has seen a specific relic. As she describes it, she unfortunately doesn't remember ever coming across the stone. "I can't say I have, but I'd love to see it! Maybe that's where the voices are coming from if you've claimed each other?" As she says it, it's almost like a lightbulb has gone off in her head. It could be the source of everything this whole time. "Tell me more about it." She is like a little kid being told a story at bedtime, only she's merely at the beginning stages of being drunk.
