his land had so many strange scents. The doe tipped her crown back and inhaled deeply. The familiar sweetness of nature was there but mixed with it she smelt others and their foreignness. Or perhaps she was the only one who smelt odd. The salty sea scent still clung to her coat from her dramatic dip a few days ago. In time, she supposed, she would grow used to the scents of her new home. The introduction to the dawn court had taken her breath away, never before had she seen such a construction. It was truely breathtaking to stand so far above the ground. A small taste, she fancied, of what Pegasus must feel when in flight so far above the world. Somewhere deep down the bond Wynter chuckled. The griffin had already fashioned herself a perch in the living quarters. To the griffin’s mind, she deserved nothing less than an equine. The silver doe had to agree. Arah had awoken with a eagerness to explore the truth depths of the vast library but Wynter had insisted they stretch their wings or legs respectively. So Arah had relented and left the city rather early, heading down and out into the wilderness. The forest was truely alive and absolutely brimming with flowers. They came in so many shades and colours, varieties the doe was unfamiliar with greeted her. It was all so new and terribly exciting.
Ahead she heard rushing water, a clear indication that this part of the land had experienced heavy rainfall recently. Exiting through the trees she came upon the water, she could see across to the other side though the crossing did look somewhat hazardous. Wynter, showing off in a way that was so familiar it was comforting, landed on the other side. ‘Tul- bu.’ Commanded the impatient woman. Sighing Arah eased herself into the stream and began a careful crossing. The amount of water she’d been entering recently was somewhat ridiculous. Though this fresher water might be a good way to wash out her cloak. Perhaps tomorrow she would bring it back and give it a thorough wash. The cold waters splashed over her chest, but she passed over the halfway point and eased onto the other bank, ”Cin are conn- in cín iar anrand." She joked to the bird. The only response she received was an indignant ruffling of feathers and a haughty glance. Laughing Arah shook out her coat, spraying the droplets onto the griffin. Annoyed Wynter spread her wings wide and soared up into the skies. The doe sighed and shook her head, "don’t worry, my friend. Me too." Enough time had passed in Arah’s existence to know that she was no longer young. Now she was a mature woman, experienced and more sure in her ways. How was it possible that sometimes she felt as if centuries had passed and other times she felt as if no time had passed at all? In the end time played games with everyone.
As the morning faded away to almost midday the doe continued her slow trek through the light foliage. Since being reunited with Wynter a calm had filled her. So no longer was filled with the overwhelming urge to do, fight, experience. For now she was far more content with just being. Perhaps in time that would change but for now it was more than enough. Enough of a drive to experience and enjoy her new home to it’s full potential.
Strangers have that look about them, Renwick finds, when he engages in the age hold and timeless art of people watching. The look in and of itself is varied, but the aura remains steadfast as any shield wall, locked tight and inpenetrable.
Only a truly spectacular reposte can ever hope to shatter it, a lance hewn from diamond self-assurance inlaid with gold infused destiny.
Novus calls to them all, the world weary and the unprepared. Doe eyed or dead eyed, sweeping them all up in her raven feathered wings. Measuring their worth with flame eyed scrutiny and impossible wisdom. Deciding whether to uplift or let go. Graceless, forgettable falling into whatever void will open gladly to swallow them between jagged, serrated teeth. He's seen it happen more times than he wished he had, stepping off boats, washing up on sandy shores with nothing but a handful of foreign coins and a cloak to stave off the chill. He feels for them, the same as any who take it upon themselves to dutifully become something of a pillar for those who have long lost their way.
Calligo's wayward children casting a cautious, considerate eye on those who arguably have it worse than them — until they find their way back to the path. Little lanterns in the mist, hooves resolutely plastered to the well worn stone beneath their feet. Seldom to their return to the mist with their generous benefactors, but Renwick can't fault them for that, not really. He judges, as any Denoctian does, all thin lipped smiles and twinkle in their eyes. The Night Courts reputation is a misunderstood, but surprisingly prominent one no matter how far you go. Even to the most obscure points of the map.
Who wishes to stay with the thieves and beggars but thieves and beggars? Scholarly minds turn their sights to delumine, while the gentle hearts turn to terrastella & of course those whose hearts are aflame disappear like mirages in the golden deserts. Lost to brighter more appealing pursuits of more gallant courts, missing the point & music Renwick so loves about his raven winged home.
"Are you lost?" He queries, mild toned & humourous. Privy to some private joke not a soul in the vicinity would ever know, down to the upturned corner of a dawn dusted lip. Young Ren would of been more enthusiastic, more pep-in-step attitude. Sort you'd find quickstepping with bards on cobblestone corners between guard duty. He's still there, of course, it's the music of him. Now it simmers instead of boils.
Matured into something greater. One has to enjoy the music first before finding the beat, before you dance like it's the first & last time, roses in your hair.
From his perch, nestled snuggly on a cragged rock moss covered and damp from nightfall rain, he admires her with molten pools of solar gold. Once upon a time, they were silver, silver and bright. Brighter than the moon & all of her court of stars. Now all that's left is a grand homage to Solis' golden splendour, and Renwick cannot recall memories where they were anything but. The lack of pupils is new, and disconcerting, if he listens to his fellow knights. Their disappearance makes him hard to read, they said between mouthfuls of mead, makes him a smiling unreadable wolf.
I'm gentle as a lamb, he'd laughed, while fighting the pit in his stomach. Not a rock, but a chunk of solid, Zolin gold.
He must be a wolf, outside looking in, to this quaint little scene. A pale doe with a griffin at her back, alone in the woods with nothing but the hide on her back and her wits at her hoof tips. But he hopes he paints a somewhat kinder picture, the kind which reveals he is a knight of some sort, down to the particularly noble lilt in his voice, betraying less than humble beginnings. "Ruris is the home of the lovers, the thieves and the scoundrels. Or those who have yet to find a home." He explains after a beat, pauses to pass her griffin another wondering glance. Rocs had been the preferred choice of companions to his brotherhood, until their weyrs had withered and the wars had taken the last of their birds. A griffin is no roc, but it inspires all the same, with it's face upon heraldry and armor alike. "So I must ask which one are you this evening, among the grass and river waters?"
§
Remember that you are a wolf. And you cannot be caged.
I’m so out of practice! Hopefully this one was better.
A
voice that curved either wickedly or inquisitively around her ivory coat brought her roughly out of her quiet moment. Suddenly the atmosphere had a weight. Dangerous, toying and all too tempting. Why did they all seem to want to play little games with her? Own narrowed perspective or a comment on the lovers, swindlers, poets and authorities she had engaged with during her time?”I suppose." She responds softly to his query, her own tone like warm honeyed milk. Golden orbs surveying the patterned speaker, curious, not yet quite careful.
A softness, she would have liked to have confused with tenderness in the past, smoothed out the rugged handsome features. Like a wolf he watched her perched atop the vantage point. This was still anyone’s game, quick wit could yet negotiate her into a better vantage. Though she does feel at the mercy of his expense, at the moment she was his private joke. Glinting like the precious metal in the sunlight, not unlike her own, she was captured in his gaze. Though where he was pooling, burning molten she was reflective of, perhaps, a more genuine gold. ”As most of us are." An under current to her words, a coy little smile tugging at the curve of her delicately painted lips. Was one ever telling the truth if they believed themselves to be anything but lost? There were no clues as to what the universe had planned for the individual.
Wynter stared, icily, the freezing grip of her gaze hyper focused. A soft thrill from her feathered throat had her bonded moving closer. A movement reminiscent of a protective nature, though there was no concern fuel the thought. Instead the beast settled by her mistress, calm though certainly alert. Beneath her mistress’ tangled locks she ruffled her feathers, shaking out droplets that caught the light of sun. Good natured but short tempered she kept watch.
Unable to judge his emotions, Arah kept her own expressions painted softly. It was an odd match, to the doe, not quite competitive but not exactly comfortable. A spider? Another doe dressed with fangs? A wolf? He was certainly dressed the part, strength draped on a leaner frame of agility. Though he smelt...richly. Different to the other scents in the meadows. It was inviting, dancing and mixing with her sweeter earthy smell. What role would she occupy, perhaps one that featured wisdom. An owl. Flighty. Far too often she’d fit the mould of the doe, bright eyed and caught in the crossfire. Hunted. Prized. Not seen as an actual soul but something that could be won.
The embrace of his gaze was not threatening. Even his summery tones suggested a warmer nature beneath the rugged exterior. Once dressed in nobility she now was the bare threads of herself. No longer dressed in finery, jewels or crowns she wad only draped in her shawl of intelligence. The outfit for the wolf, however, was not one of a predator. His softer vocals drew her in enough to escape wariness, but still not her carefulness. Old habits. For a moment she pondered his words, wondering if she had indeed found a home. The Dawn Court had been most welcoming, she had hoped it would become a home for her. Wynter pressed against her as her spoke in his sweetened tones again.
Was the wolf after her nature? Or what role in games she preferred to play?
”Well." Allowing some music into her tones she cast playful look in his direction before turning her nose away. Smoother than silk, slower than a lazy leaf fluttering to the ground she wove her way around a large oak tree. Like a shadow she can melted behind it, then as a vixen she gradually remerged. ”Lovers always have a gift for words." With a tiny coy smile she came to a stop beside the tree. Glancing at him and adopting a serious tone and expression she quickly added, ”I am no poet." Starting on her slow circle of the tree again, she spoke to him again from behind it, ”I suppose I could be a thief." For many years she had served the wicked darkness of her former home. Traded for freedoms and safeties at the expense of others. ”I have stolen secrets and trinkets before." Emerging from the tree she titled her head quizzically, though now she no longer fit beneath the label. A gentle warning of caution down the bond.‘Darth-. Tir-.’ Rounding the tree again she spoke calmly to him from behind. ”A scoundrel? A rouge?" It was odd, the urge to deny him outright was eager. Was she? ”Mayhaps." Shaking the thought from her head as she moved different this time. Instead of emerging from behind the tree she took the a path that allowed her to move unseen. Should he not move, the silver doe would emerge behind him, equal ground. If he was paying enough attention he may note the flashes of her ivory coat through the trees. Nibble and silent footsteps carried her over the terrain. Always sure footed and agile.
Emerging from the trees in her new vantage, she now attempted to turn the game on him. ”What about you wolf?" She breathed softly. Powerful wing beats landed the griffin beside her mistress. A gentle breeze played with she scent. It was warm on her skin, glistening her silken coat in the rays of the sun. He was most unexpected. Not a brute, in fact she rather suspected a mind behind the deep eyes. Part of her enjoyed the game of the challenge, poking and toying was each other. Testing the limits and wit of the opponent. They danced to the quiet music of the stream. The doe knew however, that without care she would be dancing to the beat of the wolf’s music. ”What is in your nature?" While her tone was still light, there was an element of boldness to her words.
The more Renwick observes, the more the doe beneath the impenetrable gaze of his golden eyes begins to take shape. There are always the pale ones in the tales of romance, the colour of moon milk, dusted in rose blush. Visions in silk, in ivory, in gold. Dancing between marble pillars to an impossible tune, long lashed and otherworldly by design. Most would tune out the critical elements of their mind, summarily enraptured by the opening scene, impossibilities made manifest — sunblind to the barest glint of steel beneath sheer fabric. Smiling malice the same way the woman's visage displayed serene content.
Too many have had their throats slit in their beds by pretty things, soft spoken with a vixens wit. In both the stories he loves to tell by firelight, and all across Novus. There are women who are fiercer than dragons, all while looking like swans and field mice. He doesn't need to touch upon those who flash their colours like a storm warning, vicious and victorious, a maelstrom of venomous colour and hearts of diamond ice.
They're their own stories in motion, told by them and them alone, his wordsmithing would be a disservice to them. Let them be witnessed, instead.
Lovers always have a gift for words.
"And I have a lot of those to spare." He intones, ever sly between her wondering words, down to the fan of cream lashes winking one bright orb of gold out of existence for a spell. For now he's content to allow her her presence, let her wander around him, drink her fill. What does she see? What doesn't she? With a mind once turned towards tricks and thievery, there's cause to believe that she can read some better than divining bones. Strong characters vs the weaker ones, too timid a mark to ever bite back.
Then he stands to reason, even if the timid ever found the fangs to bare, then the griffin tucked snuggly between those silk strands of hers would put her razor sharp beak to use. The claws to push the point home, homework written in flesh and bone, the kind that you remind in the precise divots and dips of silver pink scars.
Renwick plays along, because that's in his nature too. Little rituals and ancient hymnals. Lifeblood of his youth, revisiting a dance he can do in his sleep. Simpler times, where concerns were insignifcant but to those untrained eyes seemed cataclysmic.
What is in your nature.
At that, Renwick's head finally inclines. Rings in his ears chiming sweetly as they flick back in honest amusement, placing her back within his immediate vision. Even if they don't change, not really. Those molten pools keep burning, indistinguishable from the sun itself. Stare too long and you're liable to become blind to them. Willingly or not.
He's the wolf who steals the moon, her silvery essence staining his jaw, his throat & the undersides of him. He's the man who tried to fight the sun, who has felt his molten spear pierce deep into the marrow of him. Leaving behind a chip, which then grew roots and thorns. Turn him to his left, and another facet is revealed. Again and again. A lord commander, a knight, and the brother of the King of Thieves. Noble bastard boy. So many natures at once, and somehow none of them at any given time.
He is and he isn't.
"Many things." He eventually supplies, fixes his gaze upon her as he turns to face her again. A practised manoeuvre, slowed down and reverb. What you'd take for a swordmaster administering a teasing flourish between movements, the slow step and turn as blades dance. On even footing, Renwick still has the height advantage. Silver doe of moon mist, her antlered crown entangled with a well worn lantern. He towers over her, but doesn't press. He stays warm, amiable and somehow fond of this little exchange.
The knight has always enjoyed the details, those smaller things. Like her silver pelt dancing between the trees. She's no poet then, but she's not quite a thief and a scoundrel. No, he reckons that she's someone who is lost in the worst way. Someone who has left parts of herself behind. Her nature intangible, fretting between past lives to cobble together something that will hold the wound closed until it can be filled again. "But you may call me a knight if you wish." A dark shoulder rolls. "Or a half-bastard boy if you're inclined to cruelties, night's noble blood mixed with a thieves roaming gambit."
§
Remember that you are a wolf. And you cannot be caged.
f one truely had words to spare, she pondered on why he was said so little. Trifling throughs sped through her inquisitive mind. As he offered only a tidbit here and there. It left her feeling out of balance, seeking more but unsure of how to draw him out. Though, as admitted, she was hardly a golden conversationalist. The deepness to his strange eyes lured her in, held her there. Pinned under the molten pools of rich metallic gold.
In truth, the silver doe had long learned she was not one for violence. This role she played now was brief, a vixen caught in trouble. A pale women draped in innocence so decadently, she ought to be invited into your bed or allowed to slip away. Most wanted to adapt the role of the white knight, permitting her virtue remain whole. Although, these days, the doe was in actuality far from innocent of virtuous. They did not need to know this. This one however seemed gentler, almost cautious to not spook her. Was he playing the longer game to catch his prey unawares?
Realising that she did not have the same natural skill for lies and secrets as others assisted her shift to scholar. Books and knowledge were better suited to her mind and disposition. While her mentors could train her and teach her all their skills, she would always lack that natural edge. Some tricks she kept, like watching the eyes. They were always the most telling, even if one did not realise it. Lies from the left. Truths from the right. Secrets and knowledge spilled out from the pools consistently. Though his eyes gave away little, toying with her. Painted over with molten gold she relied on other indications from the painted wolf. An involuntary twitch, lie. A softening of his features, warmth. Looking down, embarrassed. She ran through the checklist in her mind. Though warriors were harder novels to read, trained in strength and god-like decorum. Both draped, somewhat lazily, from his impressive frame. The doe did enjoy the puzzle of others. They were almost more interesting than the riddle of books and ancient knowledge.
Beholden to her nature, she would allow the game to play out naturally. Her features softened at the thought, all harshness leaking away as if it had never been there. There were no silver daggers concealed beneath her pale warmth. No ice in her veins anymore, though she appeared cold to many. Merely caution and a personality that enjoyed the mystery of others saw her adapting the false vixen persona. It was always fun for a time but would always eventually fall away as others found the tenderness beneath the surface. The fleshly underside of a top heavy animal.
For a moment she thinks him enraptured. A pawn. But she herself is playing, perhaps, a little too hard. That always made it easier to see through her facade. Her approach is softened, not to startle, sticking with her original intention of equal grounding. The reaction is minimal. Keeping her in his vision she allows her own amusement to flash across her features. Corners turning up in a genuine expression of humour.
Under the goddess’ gaze, she is emboldened. Ivory and silver. But in the heat of the sun her metals become soft, the silver painting her flesh tempers and the gold pooling in her eyes grows weary. So she must instead conceal herself, beneath the vixen. The teasing, playful creature, too pure for corruption. But the truth is always there. If one looks hard enough they will see the doe. The innocence that had once coated her in entirely may still be found clinging to the odd thread of her demeanour. In a way the vixen is a protector, hiding the doe and all her pains away.
Mother, daughter, scholar, loyal, brave, intelligent, cautious, cold, calculating and more. She can not fit under a single label anymore. No one can. If he wished to describe her, it was hoped he be inventive in his language. Certainly flattering too.
He is indeed many things. The possiblitiles flood her head but she ignores them. Focused on the presented evidence of this encounter rather than what she might like to judge him to be. Remaining in his gaze she shivers under the weight, under the pressure of her performance. Wynter stays close but is placated in her observer role. So far the interaction suggested that he was far more familiar with this game than she was pretending to be. Her own past, even now, laughed at her attempts to reclaim the purer (perhaps even playful) parts of herself. Any attempt to let go, cease her worries, merely resulted in cases being presented as to why she should continue her anxieties. It was a vicious, trauma lead,circle. So she preformed the dance to protect herself from further pain. Yet how can she recover if she doe not begin to reclaim those softer parts of herself?
A test then. She presents a crack at his warm words. A glimpse of her truth.Enabling her body to be enveloped in his wide shadow, his strong and masculine frame almost completely encompasses her. Allows the surprise at her amusement of their exchange to brighten her expression. It was an unexpected reaction to him, yet she was enjoying him all the same. Now warmth fills her vocals, from musical vixen toying with him to a more genuine silver woman. Their ivories gleaming in the sweet summer sun. ”As I am neither inclined to cruelty or knighting strangers," pausing for breath she lifted her gaze. Titlting her head the mask slipped as she fell into the depths of his molten pools. The sun burned through to her soul and as gold clashed with gold she was reminded of a heat that had once burned within her spirit. The enjoyment others could draw out within her. Blinking she broke the connection in herself and an concealing sniff was drawn own. I would wish to call you by your name." The doe finished her thought, somewhat abruptly. Though she did not allow the mask to return, she did turn her gaze away, allowing the weight of his gaze to rest on the back of her neck.
Not immediately presenting her own credentials she relinquished the direction of their interaction to him. She had not asked for his name. Only presented a desire to him. How he reacted would inform her next move. A curtin call or a new character.
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