THE LAKE IS A SIGHT TO BEHOLD. INLAID, WITH OPULENT GOLD AND WOOD, AND SENSUOUS DECORUM. IT GLISTENS, LIKE YELLOW PEARLS; THE MOON, SHINING, ACROSS THE BLACK VELVET SKY, REFLECTING AGAINST THE BODY OF WATER. A RADIANT AUTHORITY OF LIGHT, THAT DRIPS ITS MILKY FLUIDITY, ALONG THE HORIZON'S INK-STAINED SURFACE. HOW IT DRIPS, AND DRIPS, OF ETHEREAL MOONBEAMS. WILD, FERAL RAYS, FLASHING BRIGHT IVORY AGAINST THE SCARLET CURVATURE OF EURYALE'S PHYSIQUE.
THE WEBBED PORCELAIN, THREADS ALONG HER BODY, GLISTENING WITH ARACHNID THREAT (DESIRE). HER SANGUINE IMAGE, REFLECTS ALONG THE EDGE OF THE LAKE. SHIMMER-KISSED, RADIANT; CURVING, IN ALL THEIR DEVIL'S ALLURE. MOONLIGHT, POURS ALONG THE ANGLES OF HER FRAME. UNTIL EVERY INCH OF HER DRIPS OF SHADOWS , OF BLOOD AND MIDNIGHT ETERNAL. THE MOON WAS HER LOVER. HER CONFIDANT. HER COMPANION ALONG THOSE WILD HUNTS IN THE FOREST. EURYALE SO LOVES THE MOON, WHOSE SILENT BEAUTY COMPELS. EVEN AS SHE MOVES PAST THE VENDORS, SHE FEELS THE MOON KISS HER NECK, AND IT IS A COMFORTING FEELING.
THE WALLS OF WATER, WERE PLUNGED BEFORE THE STEPS INTO THE GREAT LAKE'S DIVIDE. EURYALE WATCHES THE MOONLIGHT FRACTURE, AND ADVANCE, DRIPPING LIKE CHANDELIERS INTO THE MOUTH OF THE LAKE'S ENTRY, BEFORE TURNING TO ONE OF THE SILVER TENTS. THERE WAS A MARE AMONG THEM, IMMACULATELY DRESSED, OFFERING HENNA SESSIONS.
"ON MY LEFT SHOULDER-BLADE, PLEASE."
EURYALE STATES, FLICKING HER RUBY GAZE UPWARD AND FIXATING INTENSELY UPON THE MARE. EURYALE PLACES A COIN UPON THE COUNTER-TOP AND PUSHES IT FORWARD, DELICATELY.
Far from the festival grounds, the boy wanders. He walks in the darkness of the Night Court, but there is no fear in his step. Instead, Pan is off on another adventure, following where his journey takes him, a jaunty dance in his step. The boy is entranced by the idea of this festival, of adventure awaiting him at every turn… and he wants it all. Oh, the beautiful whimsy of it – Pan is drunk from the overwhelming drowning of his senses of the pleasures of the party. But the crisp night air is sobering as he makes his way to the lake, drawn down the path of gilded wood toward the water once more.
The vendors call to him, and he wants it all – the henna, the necklace, and the shell. He passes through their tents, eyeing their wares and bartering bits of his treasures from deep within his satchel for their wares. In the tent with the tattoo lady, he stops to watch a beautiful pink mare, pushing her coin brazenly across to the artist with a daring sort of grin. The boy offers his own smile to her in return, creeping closer as curiosity sparks and he settles to watch the artist at work.
What are you going to get? He asks, wondering what design he should ask for next. As the painter settles with his ink and brush, the boy presses closer, seemingly unaware (or uncaring) of the decorum of personal space. He is not pushy though – certainly an affable and unimposing type… so she would know him as he was, simply a curious child with no ulterior motive.
I’m Pan, by the way… and I have a mark too! He turned, showing her the compass which seemed an iridescent shade of cerulean blue. Long ago, he’d acquired the mark from the water god Selke, though this too had faded from his memory. Instead of remembering where it had come from, he simply accepts that he was born with the mark… or that it had come to him in some other way. In this strange place, with his magic long abandoned, the mark is dormant against his skin. It does not spin, it does not glow – it simply exists as a testament to the lost boy of Ravos, now found – but still somehow lost to time.
The fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress
Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground
the heady rush, throbs at her temple. the rich elixir of deep red wine, brings out a hot, warm blush to fluster across her beautiful cheek. to pulse like a wicked, wicked heartbeat, against the swell of her ivory breastbone. she is not one for convivial festivities; for wandering the streets full of ecstatic, mirthful civilians laughing and singing in jocund spirits; yet the wine coursing through her veins - the wine, dripping along her throat, all brings out a sigh of bold ecstacy. all rings out, with a thrilling sort of warmth. that softens her dissonant mood, and smothers her feral wildness for the evening. beneath the curtain flow of moonlight, the delicate lines of her shoulderblade curves with sleek promise; her neck, arching, gracefully to gaze at the rich, mohagany ink being smothered across the carmine of her complexion.
with astute curiosity, she watches the artist at work. following with vulpine eyes, every singular gesture. studying the intricacies and painterly detail; the careful gentleness with which the painter, moves. draws. touches. the delicate brush-strokes, that line the immaculate ivory of her skin; and the cool, lingering sensation of wet paint dappling, smoothly, over the sharp, slender angle of bone and sinew. she feels the thick, smothering paste and brush, cooing, like moist rose petals sighing over the tenderness of her flesh. running down, in wet rivers of exquisite ice. before cooling with the wild softness of spring rain. the tent remains open before the hour. flapping lightly before the midnight breeze. when a youthful boy enters with a dazzling, dreamer's smile and a playful candour in his step. the pale ivory of his complexion; the jade glossiness of his smooth, oceanic scales; the deep green of his sea-foam eyes. every dream-inch of him, all catching in the soft, auroral glow of wild, wild candlelight.
"An immaculate rose."
euryale answers with a soft, guttural purr. she turns to face him; her soft, lilac hair brushes the edge of her web-white collarbone. the dusky, silver sensuality of her skin, lent by the bold kiss of the moon. her lips, curves upward in their feral crimson. when the rose is finished, euryale steps away from the artist. incense burns in the air. thick. heady. pulsating. her voice curling like blue smoke against the pale of the boy's skin, and the deep, deep shadows seething silently between them. she whispers, and her whisper is a dark, bold thing. her whisper, unfurls like the wings of a dark angel; wild, and tender. she looks upon the inking on his side - a compass - and smiles.
"a nice compass. what will you get?"
Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters
A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright
Pan watches the artist at work, his eyes following each line of the brush as it dips in the earthen paint and then returns to the rosy canvas of Euryale. There is noise thrumming outside of the tent, but it goes unnoticed as all focus turns toward the painter. Before his eyes, the boy sees a rose bloom, and his smile widens at the sight of it. Oh, to be such an artist, to be able to replicate the beauty in the world on canvas… but Pan could no more draw a straight line than he could paint a rose. All the more respect he had for the traveling entertainer and her troupe.
He preens when she mentions his compass, and as he turns, the light catches it just so and it seems to sparkle – if only for a moment. And now, it was Pan’s turn. Her question lingers in his mind – what would he get… but then, inspiration strikes. He shimmies a shoulder forward, sending his faded leather satchel swinging down low against his chest. Rummaging through it, he pulls out a piece of tattered kelp, unwrapping it ever so carefully to reveal Orien’s shell. It was a thing of beauty, all pale pink and twisting peaks. Gingerly, he motions to it as the painter settles down to work, the first spiraled edges coming to life against his neck.
I found it he explains, on the beach. No further explanation is given for the strange and ethereal looking item – and though it once surged with an old and strange sort of magic, now, it simply seems to sparkle in the light. It was the boy’s prized possession.
The ink was cold against his skin, and Pan shivers for a moment as he watches the artist work, holding still for what seemed like forever. And done! He grins at the painter, sliding a rusted coin across the table as he carefully folds the shell back away, turning back toward his new friend with an eager light in his eyes. The festival brought out the joy in Pan, much like other fanciful things in the world – but it was the liveliness of his company as he’d traversed the various locales which truly pleased him. Did you see the sea witch? His voice is a hushed whisper as he peeks around Euryale toward the shambled tent with the wide toothed sorceress. You don’t think… he gulped, his child eyes wide with wonder you don’t think she really stitches with magic, do you? But then, Pan had seen stranger things in his life… if only he could remember.
worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins & you can sharpen your knife
a sultry sphere upon denocte's blackened sky; with heat, with genteel adoration, the jewel moon adorns our wolven minx in the ashen filigree of her celestial gown. euryale calantha is a venus flame, burning hotly. she wants worlds. she wants religions. she wants to consume creation. a serpent in the garden of eden, she is lucifer's song. ever hungry; intoxicating. starved for luxury as she is for carnal violence.
smouldering in her ruinous wickedness, her viperine physique, slithers with unholy blood coursing her veins. her body of crimson, and ivory, purrs against the silk breath of darkness. hellfire curves, glowing beneath the intimate warmth of candlelight. she moves with a restlessness in her stride. one elegantly-carved brow rises a fraction at the preening of the boy, as he withdraws some kelp and reveals oriens' shell. euryale smirks a little. he was a lively creature wasn't he? where were his parents?
she watches the boy with the lazy intrigue of a housecat. how the crooning curve of her lips, smoothes into arctic resolve. razing-red irises, stitching ever silently upon the young, pale-skinned lad; how the candlelight emanates around his lithe frame, casting him in aureate light. she should feel curious. doesn't. he is too young to warrant anything other than an icy waning interest and a hooded softly-gleaming gaze.
euryale is half-tempted to turn away. to leave the boy child. to abandon him in the shadows. already she seeks the outline of the woods. porcelain visage gazing across the lake. cast to the far-off wilderness. she wants to run beneath the heavy musk of pines; bay like wolves in the moonlight. this boy is too gentle. too tame. there is a softness in him that makes her want to recoil. like a wolf might recoil from the touch of a human hand.
"o witches are full of magic. especially sea witches."
euryale flashes him a devilish wink, her voice playfully enticing. the throbbing heat of wine pulsates throughout her veins. ebbing warmly. ebbing softly. beneath her flesh a restlessness stirs. a beastly yawn, smothered of passion and hunger. she steps out of the tent with invitation. crimson bodice flashing beneath moonlight. lilac curls twisting in the night breeze.
"would you like to walk around the lake?"
the only heaven i'll be sent to
is when i'm alone with you
Candlelight falls over them as the moon rises higher into the night sky. All around them is the liveliness of the festival, people shouting as they offer their wares, musicians playing their tunes. As they step through the tent flap, the sound assaults his ears, and Pan loves it. His grin is wide even as Euryale expresses her knowledge on witches. Pan had never really seen a sea witch. He’d encountered pirates, and mermaids… but witches were another type of lore entirely. The boy was intrigued. As he falls into step beside the pink mare, his gaze flickers back to the toothy sorceress, and his eyes are wide with curiosity.
He nods at her suggestion that they should walk, choosing the side closer to the water. Though his memories were still hazy, there were pieces which were coming back to him now… and one of those pieces blinked before his eyes as they walked. I came from the sea. It is an interesting choice of phrase, allowing Euryale to interpret if in fact the waves had washed himself ashore or if he’d simply lived near the ocean. Either could be the case, he supposed… for little is known of Pan’s origins. In many ways, he’d simply appeared in Neverland one day.
It soothes me… being close to the water. There was just something about the way moonlight shone from the still lake surface, warm and inviting against the cool blue water. The further they move from the festival grounds, the more that the night court fauna comes to life. Crickets chirp, fireflies blink, and deep in the distance there is a lone wolf howling to the solstice moon. There is a peacefulness to their company, and the boy is quiet for a rare moment, listening to the wash of water against the river rock.
Where are you from? he asks rather suddenly, his seafoam green eyes turning toward her with a curiosity and warmth. I don’t have a home… is yours nice?
worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins & you can sharpen your knife
euryale has the hunger of a banshee, wrapped in sultry, viperine curves. she could consume worlds, for all the hunger that lives in her svelte, snake-like body. she is both serpent and rose. she loves the taste of souls; the taste of sin; a ravenous succubus, that lives for violence and passion. euryale's velvet mouth curls upward into a sweet, vulpine smile; thick, onyx lashes sweeping smooth crescents upon her pale, porcelain cheekbone. euryale appears to be amused by the young boy, as her blood-red gaze drinks in the smooth ivory of his delicate, boyish form; catching both stray candlelight, and moonglow, dancing within light and shadows, upon the ash-white skin of his slender bodice. she thinks his jade-green scales glitters like diamond-dust, and beneath certain lighting, they look like jagged edges of opal and moonstone.
by the childish, doe-eyed look of his gaze, she can see the gentle dreamer in his eyes. in his soul. he appears too sweet and innocent and naive, compared to the red hot seas, the violent crimson songs, of her. his naive demeanour, laced in tender disposition, hung between them both, like an invitation and innocent offering. he is the honeyed balm, to the venom and arson that is our bedevilled, lilac-haired minx. euryale has never been good with children, and though the urge to pull away and drift into the oceans of wilderness were strong. there is an inkling of a maternal caress, that echoes like a widows' song within the muscles of her black, black heart.
"i have always loved the sea for her immense beauty. being close to water is soothing, indeed."
her voice is ghostly, wraith-like and alluring; feminine syllables drifting like a tender coo around him. tendrils of soft bluefire, wraps around her lithe frame; breathing against her waistline and descending bare skin, with all the scales of a sinful serpent. when she breathes, she breathes prayers and songs; her tone of voice, a caressive ritual of dark, bold eclipsing hunger.
"I'm not of this world."
euryale does not enjoy revealing much of herself; the lilac-haired banshee is secretive and quiet, even as her elegant form shashays into a long, graceful stride towards the lake. lilac curls, bouncing in the wake of her dance. she can hear the smooth pulse of water brushing the rocks. the lake smells of crisp ice, fish and wet black earth.
"don't you have parents?
why is it you don't have a home?"
the only heaven i'll be sent to
is when i'm alone with you
I am not of this world. It is a sentiment that leaves an eerie sort of mystical aire about Euryale, and Pan nods in understanding. He wants to know more, certainly… but there is something in her tone that keeps him from questioning her. Perhaps she was some fallen goddess – he liked to think of her that way, tossing a sidelong glance at the way the moonlight met her rose hued coat. He could certainly see it without having to imagine too hard, because there is something otherworldly about his companion, indeed. And so the boy simply continues to walk along the wooden deck that rimmed the lake, content to be in her company.
I suppose I had a mother once, and a father too… everyone would… but I don’t remember. He stops his walking, a puzzled look crossing his face as if the boy was trying so hard to capture a fleeting memory. There is a quiet sort of smile on his lips, the one which occurs whenever he thinks of happy things. I’d think she would be lovely, all cream colored with the sea in her hair. She smells like honeysuckle, and sings like an angel. Of course, it would be impossible for the boy to know, but he liked to think of her in such ways. In his dreams, he thought he’d met his mother.
Perhaps my father was a pirate he added. But I wouldn’t know… it’s just been me for a long time. Well, me… and Oliver. As if illustrating his point, the otter which had been until now napping in his satchel quivered and stretched, peeking his curious eyes out from within the well-loved bag to stare at the mare with a quiet chirrup. It is strange that the creature had been unnoticed to this point, but Oliver always had been a lazy sort of otter… and he napped after his overindulgence on rich festival foods (just as Pan would later).
This is my home now, the boy decided with a resolute tone, as if trying to convince himself. Not by the lake, exactly… but Novus. I have a cave, but not a court. Odd, but not overly unusual anymore, as more and more vagabonds made their way to the wilds. You should come - find me there, and I'll show you! he offers easily, watching her with friendly and innocent eyes, not wanting their new friendship to end with the sunrise. I have to go... but I hope you'll come. And with that, the boy is lost once more.
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
tonight she feels no sin nor hunger. tonight she only feels beauty and grace. euryale calantha listens to the young boy's words and nods quietly when he finishes his sentence. at the proposal of him allowing her visitation to his cave-home, a soft innocent laugh touches her viperine lips. a husky breath of graceful female allure. "sometimes, i prefer the pines, as opposed to caves. and moonlight instead of sunlight," a soft breeze weaves through the huntress' pale lushly-heavy curls, delicately ruffling euryale's too-long hair against the dancing moonlight.
the lakeshore ripples beneath silver-eerie starlight. the night teems with the song of crickets. "i can't remember having any parents either," is the last of euryale's words before pan disappears with a playful goodbye. perhaps it is better this way. perhaps it is better that she remembers nearly nothing, for the darkness that consumes euryale is infinite, and each day that ticks on, threatens to devour more and more pieces of her subconscious memories. for a moment euryale watches him leave. for a moment euryale waits by the shore of the lake, before she too, disappears into the darkness of the night. a lithe flash of crimson against the twinkling blackness of starlight.
@Pan thank you for such a lovely thread, sorry this was short
If I look hard enough into the settin' sun
My love will laugh with me before the mornin' comes
