These lands all have so much to offer, so much to learn from. Having a title such as Champion of Wisom is daunting, but it is one they want to honor and uphold, for the first friend they had made in these lands. They have not seen Azrael in what feels like too long, not given a chance to ask where the Shed Star had been going. Instead, the Star Walker was left with a new title and responsibility, and gentle gaping wound in their heart.
Then there was Caligo, untamed and wild. A beauty unlike anything they had seen ( oh they must meet her again, ask her so many things if they can! ). Their patron goddess . . . they want to know her stories from her own lips. Want to know how she had come to be so adored despite being so outcasted in the beginning. They want that sense of belonging, but already, they are feeling welcomed in Denocte. Shepherding lost souls all their own, guiding them into the graces of the Night Court and welcoming them just as they had been allowed in with open arms.
Cicatrix's wings gently allow them to glide over a briny sea, until they tilt and find ground under their cloven hooves once more, shimmering sand tossed from the way they land, only to tuck their wings in close and shake their entire body to free it of spare bits of grainy sand that had lodged itself on them. This place is wild and untamed as well, a far cry from the more civilized Denocte Court. But it is a place they find solace in, a serene feeling that settles in their chest as they take in a deep breath of salty air and release it once more.
Perhaps here they will find another new face, and maybe one of another Court! They've heard of them, and want to explore and meet, but they are also far too uncertain of how terms were between the lands. It would do no good to bumble into an affair that would land them in trouble, after all.
Ira comes to the sea rarely; there are so few beasts to hunt along the shores and he rarely ventures into the depths. Ira has never had the disposition of a fisherman, or an affinity toward the sea. Nevertheless, the lulling waves of Terminus soothe him; he looks out wistfully toward the horizon, remembering what it had felt like to live at sea.
Ira does not romanticize the venture; he remembers most clearly the constant fear, and the way his father kept him hidden beneath robes and hoods. “Do not show your face,” he had warned. ”Even here, at sea, you are not safe.”
(He still wakes up, sometimes, drenched in sweat and feeling that sensation of flight, of running for his life. The way the days had bled into one another, endlessly, until at last they docked in Denocte’s safe harbor. His father said, ”Now you must choose a new name,” and he had replied, “Ira.” Not because it was beautiful, or clever, but because at the time he had felt ire and nothing else.
Ira feels much differently gazing out at sea, now. He watches from far-off as an equine silhouette tilts their wings towards shore and glides in just above the tossing waves. Ira begins to trot, to keep pace, and when they land he calls out a greeting.
“Cicatrix, isn’t it?” Ira asks, aloud. “I don’t think we have ever had the opportunity to meet.”
They feel a sense of smallness in front of the sea like this, a rare occurrence given their actual size and height. But it's like looking out over the stars at night, the waves lapping and the light reflecting off of the waters in dazzling shimmers, as if the sea has opened up and held the skies in its grasp. A beautiful thing, really, and this is why they feel such a calmness in staring out over the waters, the soothing balm to their weary and old soul.
So entranced are they, that they do not notice their company at first ( which shows their attention span, really ), not until there's a voice. There's a moment of surprise, head shooting upward with a whipping of their cloak and their legs splaying a little, like a spooked deer more than a spooked equine, causing gilded hooves to dig into the sand and grains to wiggle between the cleft on them. At least they don't sound ashamed, or look any less dignified when they gather themselves again, turning toward their company with more open body language.
"Yes." A simple enough answer, but their voice is warm, and they take in the appearance of their companion. "You must be Ira." A smile is in their voice, the best they can do at the moment, a warmth in their chest. This was one of the others that had stepped forth to head Denocte, another hopeful. "It's nice to properly meet you, outside of circumstances." They dip their head a moment, lifting it back up as a small droplet of shimmering blue slips from between gilded sharp teeth.
The chuckle that leaves them is jovial, and perhaps if they had had a face, they would be smiling right now, a warm sort of expression. "It's hard to forget someone that has a horn as beautiful as yours." It's the first thing they notice, the horn of blues that stands out in contrast compared to his darker body, his bright hooves. Denocte has so many beautiful citizens, Cicatrix realizes. Meeting them is always a pleasant experience.
"I'm sorry for the startle. I wasn't expecting anyone else out here," they speak, their voice gentle over the lapping waves. But oh, they are eager to learn about Ira. To meet him properly, and to perhaps befriend him if possible.
a moment in existence is all we ever are
like shadows cast upon the ground
watching a setting sun
I
didn’t mean to startle you—“ Ira’s voice becomes lost to the sea, the sand, the surf. He cringes at the clear fright he has caused, interrupting their solitude.
Ira does not typically feel small. At sixteen hands, he possesses a slender stature and overall respectable height; athletic and lithe. He does not expect to feel so small besides Cicatrix when the distance between them closes but he does. The uncanniness of the moment makes Ira smile; he feels surprised, and surprise does not often overcome Ira.
Yes. You must be Ira.
They, too, appear taken aback. Ira supposes must be due to his arrival being unexpected. Rather than pressure them with the intensity of his gaze, Ira glances away, toward the ocean.
“I am. It is a pleasure, Cicatrix.” Ira picks his brain of what he knows. “If I am remembering correctly, you are a scholar?”
Ira smiles, glancing again at Cicatrix. He registers, of course, their unique appearance—he has never seen an equine quite like them. He might have felt more unnerved, had he not spent years in the forests of Novus, bearing witness to many strange things. Ira does not expect the compliment they give; he laughs abashedly, almost breathlessly, and mutters out: “O-oh. Thank you.”
After a moment, Ira suggests: “Would you like to continue walking? I did not mean to interrupt.”
Ira then falls in step besides Cicatrix as they begin down the long stretch of sand. “There is nothing to apologize for. I come here often to think. Is that why you were out alone?”
