Petals tumble into open water and float away to drift through slow, slow waters.
The air had once only been alive with the sounds of chirping insects, with the flutter of birds wings. But now it rings too with the rhythmical clop of feet upon wood.
Slowly the Dusk girl navigates her way over the slender wooden bridge as it weaves its idle way over stagnant water and tall trees. There is nothing here that rushes: not the indolent waters, or the lazy sway of hanging vines, not the languid chirp of unseen insects, nor even the girl who meanders gently past them all.
The air is thick, with moisture, with a damp that sticks to Florentine’s caramel coat. Her skin darkens like glittering beads, her nostrils flare a little harder, then harder still to pull oxygen from this water-rich air.
It is both an age and an hour until the shadows begin to abate, hazy sunlight falling in to light upon leaves and glittering water. All it touches turns to gold, gold, gold. The trees begin to thin and the water makes its slow, slow way out into the open.
This old bridge, of wooden planks and intricate carvings, fans out spreading and spreading beyond where the trees stop and into a vast area of reeds and crystal pools. This swampland open and glorious, stretches out and out to catch the sun as it falls towards the horizon.
An idle boat, seemingly empty, lies still upon the shallow, shallow waters. It makes no noise, no effort to move from its resting place.
Florentine stands upon the platform, her amethyst eyes upon the falling sun. Petals surround her – the flare of a skirt, the pooling of a living veil. She ignores them, for there is only one thing this platform is designed for, secreted away within this dank, dank marshland. It was a secluded meeting place, hidden from prying eyes and above all, it is a glorious place too to watch the twilight light begin to glow.
Damascus had once again been in the swamps, likely spying on Yana for at least the third day in a row. He assumed he was hidden when his face was plastered with mud that Dohv had aided him with slapping onto his face in a tactical move at camouflage, only what Damascus did not understand (and apparently, would always fail to not notice,) was that his immeasurable size prevented him from staying hidden at all.
It was when he was almost fast asleep in the water grasses with the croaking of frogs sending him to sleep that he noticed a slighlty familiar woman tottering about the swamp. She looked sad, or at least that was what the young boy observed. Rising from his place in the bog, the vacuum created by the mud he'd settled would only let him go with a loud SLURP - another element of his size that he didn't seem to notice as he charged toward the familiar doe, covered head to toe in smelly swamp mud.
"Lolenteen!" he spoke with a great deal of excitement, nothing visible through the great clumps of mud except the shining white teeth visible through his smile and the sparkling, starry eyes peeking past the gunk. "Do being you swamps in?" he then questioned as a very muddy Govh scampered up his neck, though once he reached his bonded's poll began to slip down his face as though he was on a mud slide.
He heads south. Soon he's entering a swampland. Not the worst or boggiest he's ever seen, but still unpleasant for those who value firm ground. He picks his way with caution but does not lose a single bit of predatory grace. He's practiced that walk far too often to be thrown off it now. Though he's careful to watch his surroundings, his mind travels back to the night before. Not long ago he'd left the Amare Creek, giving his farewell to the first creature he'd met here in Novus. (And what a strange creature he was, not your usual first meeting.)
It wasn't just a meeting. It was a test of wills, a calling of bluffs (there had been none, as it turned out), a game of poker faces and flinty resolve. And it had ended in the best way possible: seduction. Their hot breath melding as adrenaline pumped through their veins, endorphins leading them toward ecstasy. Words that were taunts, teases, then promises slipped between them. Even through the heat of arousal there was a power struggle. Who ended on top... well, it wasn't clear. In the end he had revealed his true name to Only, abandoning the ruse of "Emrys." It was a name he might use again, but there was something about Only that made him offer a modicum of trust. Maybe it was the sex that did it. He had no doubt that they would cross paths again, and Anonymous found himself looking forward to it.
The sound of voices breaks him from his reverie. Well, it was only voice, but he doubted that it was speaking to itself. He found his way to the cover of some swamp brush and trees, letting his cloak drape over him to darken his already dark hide. The sun has begun to set, aiding in his hiding. He approaches the voice, and sees a pair standing upon a platform above the murky, muddled water. One is a lady, soft to view with petals decorating her creme body, her wings. The other is a male, another pegasus. Perhaps he is handsome, but Anonymous wouldn't know, given that mud was splattered all over him. An effort at camouflage, perhaps? Or else quite an unfortunate young man. He speaks strangely to the mare, his grammar and accent strange to the assassin's ear. He spies a little creature - unidentifiable from his distance - crawling over the male's neck to disappear down his face. How strange....
Again his meandering stroll led his hooves to the swamp. To be fair, it was one of the more interesting vistas in this sprawling kingdom, with more to look at than the vast plains and less treacherous footing than the cliffs, and free from the confinement of the Citadel walls. It was not the first time he had come here, but this time Finnian tried to pay a bit more attention to where he was going, so that he wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of getting himself lost, like last time. Finding landmarks in a place filled with trees and no permanent trails was not the easiest thing however, and the young unicorn sloshed through shallow water and clambered across tangled roots with a growing weight of unease in his guts, all while doing his utmost to pretend he knew exactly where he was going.
The relief he felt upon finding the wooden walkway was palpable, but did not exactly aid him in his delusions. He had definitely not been here before, which meant that he had strayed somewhere, veered off course and gotten himself in another potentially sticky situation. He could hear people up ahead, someone speaking in the gathering darkness, but though he heaved himself up onto the laid down path and started off towards it, Finnian soon stopped, hesitating with the balance teetering between going forward or turning around.
What if he stumbled into something he wasn't welcome to witness? For all that these people had been welcoming so far, he was still a stranger, still an outsider who knew nothing of the factions, tensions and tendencies of this Court, nor was he aware of what alliances, if any, they nurtured with more distant lands. It was, quite literally, a sticky situation to be in, and for such a peaceable, un-meddlesome person he had acquired a real habit of getting dragged into other people's problems.
And yet. People would mean company, company meant that someone would know the way out of the swamp, and if he just didn't mention being lost he might be able to get back without losing too much face... though how being dragged off like a foal eavesdropping on adult conversations would be less humiliating, he still hadn't figured out.
Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Putting on the most casual smile he could manage the raven-haired stallion set off towards the speaker, strolling so languidly down the path that he almost laughed aloud at himself. When the path turned to reveal a pair of horses up ahead, he made a point of stepping a bit harder on the boarding, so that the two would have time to break off anything and stop before he got close enough to overhear. Lovers tryst, secret training or treasonous whispering, it didn't matter; Finnian wanted no part in it, and as long as he didn't hear anything untoward he wouldn't have to get involved.
"Good evening" he said, sounding far more amiable and friendly than he felt. "I did not thing to find people out here at this hour... am I disturbing something?"
Please say no, please say no.
Squinting against the setting sun, he found that the silhouettes belonged to familiar figures. His smile warmed a bit as he recognized two of the people that had saved him on the beach; the big youth was unmistakable even when he was caked in mud (that would make for an interesting conversation, Finnian was sure), and there weren't enough beautiful ladies walking about with flowers in their hair for him to mistake the healer for someone else.
"I believe I know ye both? Unless my memory fails me utterly, I believe I owe ye both life and thanks."
He did not notice the figure lurking in the bushes, too focused on the people he could see to search the shadows for onlookers. A naive notion, a mistake his tutors would have scolded him for; but there you are, it only goes to show how slowly some learn.
The air slides around her, thick and sticky, clinging to her body and making her legs feel heavier and less inclined to want to move. Delicate dark nostrils flared, drinking in the humidity and the scents that went along with the bog – damp earth, strange plants and heat. Insects buzzed, a drone that was ever present, interrupted only by the occasional call of an unseen bird. Steamy mist rolled through as it tried to evade the golden light that tried to shake it from the reeds and vines.
Cress watched it go, streaming over the still waters, off to hide in shadowy corners until it could once again prevail. There was a bridge in front of her, wooden and old, and she paused, almost as if uncertain, almost as if she mistrusted a structure that had been standing in this wet, heavy air.
But then, our little blue jay didn’t think thoughts like that, and without further ado she ambled up it, shifting her wings against her backside. The wood groaned and creaked, but held up, and she carried onwards into the mist.
It wasn’t long before she heard the muffled sounds of voices and caught the scent of various others up ahead. Excitedly, she walked a little faster and as the path broadened out, she found them, bathed in the twilit golds.
The fist was golden and slender, with wings and flowers, and the next dark, his wings rimmed in a glow like embers. The third, who she was currently behind, was the buff color of sand with darker hair and equally dark horn. I won’t even begin to mention the forth, a stallion hiding himself, because there wasn’t even the slightest snowball chance in hell that Cress would notice him until he wanted to be noticed.
The horned stallion had just finished saying “…owe ye both my life and thanks.” and Cress leaned around him to eye the other too with round, fiery-orange eyes.
“So you’re heros?!” She squeezed her way past the larger stallion, the feathers on her head lifting. “That’s amazing! What did you do, how did you save him? Were you in trouble?” She rounded back on the buckskin, voice as earnest and innocent as a child, despite being older than the others here (minus our shadowed friend, of course).
The delightful variant of her name ricocheted through the murky swamp. Startled birds peered from their night perches to watch the camouflaged boy as he boldly approached. Behind him, his tail a long and dirty train, trailed mud along the wooden boards of the pathway.
Drawn from the sunset, Florentine’s eyes trickled across the wet mud that lined the youngster’s face. Mirthful lips tipped into a smile as she beheld the tall, tall boy. “Did you fall, Damascus?” She asks quite amiably as she surveys his dirtied composure. Florentine herself was familiar with appearing in such a state too - it was a sign of a day well spent if you asked her. “Or have you merely been bonding with the swamp?”
Her eyes flit to where the boards begin to thump with approach of another. Peering beyond Damascus’ imposing, and decidedly muddy, body, Flora’s eyes behold the newcomer. “Finnian!” Relief oozes from the girl’s body, joy radiating as her eyes skip over every inch of him. “It is good to see you looking so well!” She shakes her head, petals tumbling and the honeyed threads of her fringe tangling. “No thanks are needed. I am just pleased you chose to stay with us and to see you thriving!”
The skies continued to fade in golds and reds, until a girl of twilight blue arrived. Her skin was a dash of mid-day blue upon the darkening scene. Bright orange eyes set themselves keenly upon Florentine and a blush rises to colour her cheeks. “Hardly a hero!” The flower girl chirps, her amethyst eyes flitting to behold Finnian. “All I did was keep a man comfortable whilst he recuperated.” The girl’s gaze flitted to the lanky boy beside her. “Damascus, however,” a light nudge pressed upon his shoulder, “got Finnian the help he needed. If Damascus had not found him Finnian’s story might be very different.”
Slowly her gaze drifts from Cress, to rise up as the sun descended towards the horizon. “I do have some exciting news for you all though… We shall be having a festival with the Night Court.” Florentine’s eyes drift between their gathered crew, oblivious to the assassin lurking in the darkness with his black, black eyes.
Crossing his starlit gaze from the woman of honeyed words and flower petals to the surrounding swamps, Damascus creased his eyes tightly when his sharpened senses allerted him to the presence of another. He could not pinpoint exactly where or in which direction, though the totality of movement upon the atmosphere gathered from all senses took him to the conclusion that they were being watched.
All thoughts of suspicion soon left him when the talkative drowner approached, and as if plucked from the sea floor and given lungs once again, Finnian looked little worse for ware. Truly he was a picture of health, though Damascus never really observed such things and would assume the feeling that he and Lolenteen were not alone had come from this approaching male, and not a secretive other.
"Fininan" Damascus spoke to the man, dissecting his name as he spoke it, and looking down to his chest where one of Lolenteen's petals had fallen and stuck to the mud. Distracted, Damascus missed the arrival of another to their gathering as he blew forcefully onto the petal like a child trying to blow out birthday candles; an almighty effort to remove the peachy leaf from his camoflauge. When his starry eyes raised once more, the muddied petal floating to the ground, Damascus was met with a chirp and song from a stranger who asked a thousand questions about himself; a hero?
"Yes" the puzzled boy concluded, silver eyes looking sternly ahead toward the woman interrogating him, though he did see it as a vital chance to show off. "Saving of Fininan did I" he confirmed, though guilt began to flush his cheeks - no matter how much Florentine told him how much of a hero he was, he didn't necessarily believe it; not enough to tell people like he just had.
The mention of a party distracted the colt entirely though and soon his muddied gaze was affixed on the emissary, wishing for nothing but details. Dancing? He loved to dance!
"Dancering!" Damascus cheered, spilling droplets of mud everywhere as he lifted his lofty body high in a juvenile hop of excitement. By the time he landed he had already began to slowly rock his hips from side to side to an imaginary beat, and soon came a low (and slightly spooky) hum from within his chest. It likely looked slightly primal - tribal even - though still he loved nothing more.
Perhaps he thought there would only be the two horses to watch? Instead another joins, and this is one he actually knows. Finnian, the stallion he had stumbled upon out in the meadow, joined the flowery girl and mud-covered stallion. Anonymous watches with shadowed eyes as the buckskin approaches other two, smiling as he did. Owing a life? That bit of knowledge makes him curious - the tall youth seems unlikely to be a lifesaver of any sort, especially of someone like Finnian who seems like he can take care of himself without difficulty.
A soft, sky-colored mate soon appears, rushing forward to join the clamor for the hero, the lifesaver. Their jubilation and rejoicing is practically overwhelming. "Oh it wasn't me it was him!" Followed by.. "Oh his path might have been so different!" What is this great attraction to those who save lives? What makes them heroes? After all, don't you call a warrior a hero when he defeats his enemy in battle? Do they not think of the cost of taking a life, of doing what must be done?
But who is he to argue? Once he might have been like them, a hero in battle, defending the innocent. Now he kills for the have's, in their never-ending quest to remain the masters over the have-not's. Except, of course, when the assassin takes a pro bono case. After all, he is no heartless beast. Indeed, that powerful organ still beats hard inside his chest - it just happens to be mostly poisoned.
None of them notice him. No one sees his judgmental stare, the lobes constantly swiveling as they take in his surroundings. Always aware, alert. They may sense his presence - a stranger in the darkness, a menacing figure that darkens their bright day. But how could they see him? He is a master of hiding, and in the darkness of the trees he has the advantage. He tells himself to stay put, to remain unseen but watchful, observant.
The whispering voice inside insists that he appear, make himself known. Whatever motives that voice has, it offers a reason that is incentive enough to obey. How else will you get clients, if they are not aware of your existence? And you must learn to blend among them, not just in the shadows. Become the familiar face they will never see coming. Though he feels clients could seek him out without a neon sign leading the way, he cannot argue with the rest of the reasoning. Remain a stranger too long and they will pay even more attention when he does appear.
With a barely concealed sigh, he leaves the shelter of the swamp trees and exposes himself to the gathering. The mud-covered youth breaks into a dance at the announcement of a festival. The assassin strides forward in obvious confidence, then dips his head in greeting, a debonair smile replacing his normally stoic expression. "A festival! I am sure the dancing will be to die for." His voice does not falter at his own joke. "Pardon my interruption, I was wandering by and heard the joy in your voices." He glances at all of them in turn and introduces himself, eyes gleaming. "I am Emrys. I'm afraid I have only had the pleasure of meeting Finnian, here." He dips his head again in the buckskin's direction.
