He goes out before dawn, when the air still feels cool enough against his cheek to be a faint memory of winter. Even so, Morozko would be a fool to mistake this place, this season, for anything other than what it is; there is no frost to texture the green grass beneath his feet, no halo of ice crystals around the setting moon. Instead there are crickets and nightingales, singing themselves to sleep as the stars fade away.
But he has the pre-dawn stillness of the court to himself, and that is enough for the unicorn. With the capitol a dark spire behind him, a shadow against shadows, he begins to run - great, reaching strides to stretch the stillness from his muscles. As a guard in Heimsterra, he had worked out with his regiment every morning; even taking a few weeks off had changed him, softening his muscles, filling out the winter-lean places of his body. It felt good, then, to run. Even as his lungs protested, as his breath came in long pulls and a sheen of sweat built on his lilac-dappled coat.
Eventually he’d have to find himself a sparring partner, lest he lose all semblance of his battle-skill. For now, his only observers were the deer his pounding hoofbeats disturbed and an owl that swooped low overhead, curious on silent wings.
By the time he returns to the citadel, the sky is awash in pink and coral and he is satisfactorily exhausted. The other benefit to exercise he’d always enjoyed was the way it served to quiet his mind, too, and for the moment his duties here were forgotten - all he wants is to bathe, to eat, perhaps to nap.
A pale figure stands before the dark mouth of the doorway, and for a moment those wishes are pushed aside.
The stallion isn’t one Morozko had seen at the court meeting; his presence would have been unmissable. He’s a grand figure, tall and white as a ghost, crowned with antlers and gilded with golden scales. The unicorn eyes him for a long moment, caught between admiration and suspicion, not at all self-conscious about his own sweat-slick body. Finally he offers the stranger a careless smile. “Thought all Dusk citizens were late sleepers,” is all he says by way of greeting.
i s o r a t h
a king in his own right,
a king without a kingdom.
Isorath had always been an early riser, and often the final ghost in the hallways that retired to his chambers. Sleep was a fickle thing, and he was partial to the moments of the day where he was the singular figure in silent hallways or the lone silhouette of silver and gold against the pastel colours of the sky. There was something oddly comforting in these moments, like he stepped between time itself. Into a place that was only him and that which he wished to be.
In times before, he had risen to train. Eyes ablaze and mind eager, he had been raised a warrior much as he'd been raised a prince. There was no time to let his body go soft and fat with laziness and contentment, and even when he'd left his home in search of greater glories. He'd found himself bodyguard to an Empress and trained twice as hard, but his heart had been on fire then with love and the desire to see her and their kingdom safe. Now, he rose because sleep was fitful and unpleasant, urged awake to find peace in the lingering tendrils of nights tender morning kiss to the light. The bird calls and the dim glow of the fireflies soothed his troubled mind to a place where his breath came easier and his ears abandoned their sanctuary within the depths of his silver mane. It had been a long time since he had trained so passionately, and while he had endeavored to maintain the tone he had built, he had lost much of the thickness he once required. He was now lithe instead of muscular bulk, built with curves and sharp angles.
Perhaps it would do him good, if not for his body, then his mind — to have someone to test himself against, to remind him of those old roots that still dug in deep beneath his skin. Push him past the threshold until sweat soaked his skin and his hair fell from it's ornate pieces, until his breath became labored and his mind sharpened into a fine point made to weild himself like a weapon. He had been that once, and some part of him longed to be like that again. His words had grown sharp in their stead, his weapon aimed to wilt those that tried to get a rise out of him. New found vanity which bid him to hold himself above such things that might damage his shimmering coat and shatter the antlers which crowned him, but wouldn't it be something to taste it again.
He had risen and slowly, sluggish with sleep pulled himself from the mess of blankets and the comfort of his leather wings. Most would of found it a chore, but he had with ease that could only be accomplished from too many nights and early mornings, left the confine of his quarters and silently moved through the quiet halls toward the entrance. Mind focused on pulling the long tresses of his mane into something more tameable than the shock of silver curls which almost caressed the stone floor, held in place by the ornate clips fashioned in the shape of dragons.
Slitted pupils spotted the unicorn out of the corner of his eye, and his attention is pulled away from sorting through his hair at the greeting. Part of him feels exposed like this, half-disheveled and not fit to be greeting anyone and he inwardly sighs. There's no time for gripes or a wish to retreat and reappear when he is immaculate as Vespera's visage captured in the artists careful brush stroke or carving hand. So he grins and bears it, his mane is left half done, not exactly done but not entirely loose. On further inspection, the stranger with the careless smile is just as disheveled as he is, the sweat on his dappled coat is still slick enough that he can see it in the pink light of the morning. Many rose early in the morning for many reasons, some out of routine and others like him, no one truly looks their best in the early hours, no matter how much they wished it. It's enough to sooth the sore spot for now about his own appearance. "It's hard to sleep late underneath all this hair." He responded with a barely audible laugh, a wry smile playing upon his pale features.
"Isorath talks."
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
The more Morozko observes of the stranger as the faint morning light paints in detail, the more curious he becomes. If the stallion would have claimed to be from the Summer Court, he would have believed him; what a sight he might make, poised for battle beneath the blazing sun. But the soldier had never seen his like before, and he knew most of the great families of that court.
Well, there were other places than Veteris to come from. He wonders which this fellow calls home.
Though he knows it for the joking answer it is, a smile creases one of his cheeks at the response, and his gaze moves to the cascade of mane in question. “I can imagine.” The unicorn is suddenly glad of his own roached mane, though he knows that soon it’ll begin to grow out into something shaggy and undignified. He’ll have to find somebody to help him trim it, lest he end up with the same woes as the pale stallion. Of course, it would take him a hundred years to grow a mane so fine and long, and he’d have no idea what to do with it.
The idea of a bath and a meal still beckons, but Morozko’s body is still cooling from the exertion, and he is content, for the moment, to wonder why the stranger was up as early as he. He steps aside, just enough to stop blocking the doorway, and cocks a hind hoof as his eyes travel again from the rosy morning light pooling around the other’s golden hooves up to his face, crowed by those magnificent antlers.
“Are you a citizen here?” he asks, his languid voice belying his interest. “I missed you at that meeting. Would’ve noticed all that hair.” He doesn’t wear a smile, this time, but it’s still present in the gleam of his eyes.
i s o r a t h
a king in his own right,
a king without a kingdom.
Once upon a time he might have entertained the halls Summer and the Sun, his roots were twined intricately with the blazing orb in the sky, and he was no stranger to an existence within a place that punished those with weak conviction and determination. It was a mutual thought, shared between the two as they observed one another. Isorath wagered that the stallion opposite him would look at home in Winter's embrace, her frost enhancing the winter-grey of his coat and bringing out the silver ore of his eyes.
No Isorath did not belong to the Summer Court, it's large families foreign to him just as he was foreign to them. His homeland was steeped in mysticism, strangers with wanderlust would often make port in the coastal cities whose backdrop was the arid deserts which stretched for miles. It was those tales which spread outward into the known world he wagered, tales of grand cites whose sea air mingled with the rich perfumes merchants peddled as dragons circled overhead.
He wondered if this stallion had ever heard of such a place, and what place the unicorn called home, if he was not of these lands.
For all the troubles such a mane caused him, such as mild suffocation in the early hours after a particular roll of his body wrapped the unnaturally long strands around his face, he couldn't bring himself to cut it. He certainly envied those who had shorter hair some days, when it was unruly and refused to remain in it's braids and ornate styles. How easy his morning routine would become if his hair was less than half it's length, and no need of maintainence at all if he sheared it to the roach Morozko had. "It's not always like this." He offered in good humor, a faint smile now on his own pale lips. "Most days it cooperates."
Large wings dropped from their snug embrace against his scaled sides, talon fingers extending to spread out on the stone floor beneath their hooves as he shifted himself, not wanting to block the doorway also, if another happened to sail by the pair. The gilded claws glinted in the rosy hue of the morning, softly haloed whenever they flexed. The Unicorn's inquiring gaze doesn't bother him much, he's long grown accustomed to strangers glancing his way as he passed, either in awe or curiosity of his unusual visage.
Soon the inevitable question came, and the winged kirin turned his lavender gaze back to his new companion's face in a contemplative look. "I am," he began with a dip of his head, and then a short laugh, "I suppose that is true, I would hope it would be in a more acceptable style at the meeting though." He straightened his lithe frame after that, one that echoed of a life made to hold himself to lofty standards and proper etiquette, the trappings of a fine courtier. "I'm Isorath, the new Sage of the Dusk Court. I'm afraid I arrived after the meeting, so I'm still learning faces and names as I find them." He admitted the last part with a breath, it was always mildly frustrating, having to relearn faces and names whenever he moved on.
"Isorath talks."
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
“Well,” he says, as a sharper sort of smile works its way onto his dark lips, “neat or not, I’m sure the females find it charming.” It hadn’t been his intent, to conjure thoughts of Inkheart with the statement; but she rises unbidden to his mind, anyway, and he wonders what she might think of such a man as this, all gilded and golden with his bedroom hair and his mighty crown. The thought makes him surprisingly prickly. Morozko has never considered himself a plain man - never really considered himself from an outsider’s point of view at all - but surely, compared to this draconic figure, he was as drab as a snow-covered field.
On the heels of that thought, the stranger stretches his wings, leathery and clawed and just as impressive as the rest of him. Morozko’s smile tightens, and he finds himself itching for another workout or a sparring match, as exhausted as he is from the one he’d just finished.
The sun was risen enough now to turn the world more golden than rose, and to feel warm on the unicorn’s dappled back. There was already the promise of a hot summer day, a prospect he had not yet come to appreciate. His body still longed for the kind of cold that made his breath silver — but summer was just another thing he was going to have to get used to.
Like meeting strangers who hailed from worlds far different than his own.
“Isorath,” he repeats, and thinks the name suits the stallion well. It was both strong and lithe, fierce and soft. Morozko gives the slightest dip of his muzzle in acknowledgement, and does not miss the unspoken question in the rest of the creature’s words. “I am Morozko, a commoner in the Dusk Court, and not much less newly arrived than yourself. I imagine I’m not much more ahead on names than you, either.”
He considers asking Isorath what drew him to Dusk, when surely those wings could have carried him anywhere in the world - but that might bring the same question on himself, and it was not one he was prepared to answer. Instead, he flicks his tail nonchalantly and says, “Where were you headed, if you don’t mind the question?”
i s o r a t h
a king in his own right,
a king without a kingdom.
The statement lapsed the winged Kirin into a long stretch of silence, lavender eyes peering at him curiously from under a canopy of snow white lashes. Isorath isn't sure what about the statement struck him, but paired with the sharp smile which played on the Unicorn's lips, it was hard not to mull the words over with suspicion. Jealousy perhaps? While he had never shied away from the unique beauty of his own looks, evident in the way he preened and pruned his hair and how his scales shined like polished gold, it still struck him when such comments reached his ears.
A large portion of his forelock fell loose from the sharp curve of his antler, raining the shimmering strands over his face, only then did the silence break, an airy laugh escaped his pale lips. Lighter than air and silken in it's tunes, his head tipped to the side as a wry grin replaced the straight line his lips had been but moments before. "I'm sure they do," he agreed initially, clinking his talons thoughtfully on the floor, "but it is not the mares I aim to impress with my looks." He admitted, once upon a time perhaps, but that felt like it had been a lifetime ago.
It would be a fine day, with promise of a cool breeze on the air to take the edge of the suns magnificence. A perfect day for flying, and spending the hours lost to the cliffs and the lush fields. Back home, Sun's Reach would be alive and making the most of such fine weather, equine and dragons alike bustling overhead and through the street. If the thought caused a momentarily pinch of pain in his chest, he didn't let it show.
"Two strangers in a strange land." The kirin mused idly, a soft breath exhaled from his nostrils. If he had known the single horned unicorn had been reluctant in sharing his history, the next question would of been spared from his lips. "Where do you come from, Morozko? Another Court of this land, or another land entirely?" Already, Novus had proved to be as varied in it's inhabitants as it was it's land, each and every one he had met so far had been different than the last, no two the same. What was Morozko's story? Was he tied as the roots of trees to this place, or had he come here like a leaf on the wind?
The conversation turned back to him, and his own morning rituals. "I wake early to either run or to fly, if the weather permits." He responded with a small roll of his shoulders, the scales there glittering as the light shifted across their smooth face. Once his training was rigorous, hours upon hours under the blistering sun or battling the harsh winds. "I used to train for hours, but I've gotten a bit...lax." Isorath paused for a moment to glance at the other stallion. "Would you like to join? Though it looks like you've just gotten back from your own morning run."
"Isorath talks."
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
Morozko had not yet identified the jealousy for what it was, and if confronted with it he might have been caught between alarm and irritation, directed at himself. He was not generally given to such things, particularly over mares - he’d never had trouble in that department, though he’d also never grown a particular attachment to one.
But that is not the way the conversation goes.
Isorath’s airy laugh breaks the stilted silence and the unicorn’s black-tipped ears flick, unsure how he feels about the reaction - and then the kirin speaks and Morozko is surprised into blinking. Oh. Oh.“Ah,” is all he manages to say, and his expression slides again (rather less covertly than he might hope) over the stallion, processing this new information.
He can think of nothing more that seems appropriate say, and he is glad when the conversation moves on - though the question has his expression smoothing, once more impassive. “I come from Veteris, the old world. Specifically the Winter Court, where her grace Rannvieg was born.” That information was both harmless and readily apparent, and his tone was offhanded as he shared it, though his gaze watched Isorath curiously.
The gaze turns appreciative as the stallion speaks of his own training regimen, and Morozko nods. “You’ll find the weather agreeable, this morning.” At Isorath’s invitation, the unicorn’s smile returns, and he considers him for a moment before giving a rueful shake of his head. “Not this time - I did just get back, and I’m not in the shape I’m used to, either. But I would like to take you up on it, and soon.” Already he was measuring them up against one another in his head, and wondering which would outmatch the other.
The idea that he might have his ass handed to him was enough motivation to fuel his training for weeks to come.
“Have a good session,” he says, and glances once more at those amethyst eyes before stepping past him, into the still-quiet darkness of the building. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Isorath.” Somewhat to his surprise, he finds that he means it.
@Isorath figured it was a good place to wrap it - spar soon? I’d also be happy for another thread of theirs down the line :) I like your boy.
