Life within the Night Court was relatively uneventful, so far as the black stallion was used to. Oh, each night was a revelry, the gypsy-born of the Night Court kicking their heels and spiraling to hauntingly beautiful melodies beneath the full moon, but he did not partake of their light hearted festivities. Ah, he could have, it would have given him a hoof into slipping amongst their ranks with ease, the raven blending among the crows, but he found himself queerly without desire or willpower to do so. His flame of desire, the spark that drove him from the earth, to leave his land of rebirth, that spark that drove him to cling to life and ignore the despairing fate he was damned to... it had all but faded away. It lingered like such things of dark and twisted emotion do, a cinder pulsing beside his heart, but it was barely enough to drive his limbs to rise each morning. He moved through the motions of life with disinterest and detached boredom, stringing himself along, feigning distant friendliness to those faces he met and could no longer be bothered to recall. He had come to the festivities with the vague intention of beginning his search, but after a span of simply gazing at the fire and dancing equines, he knew that was not why he had come, for he, the great Pretender, one who had sparked a Great War and who had seamlessly stolen the heart of his enemy's general... could not even be bothered to so much as think of beginning his grand mechanations. So he kept to the edges of the fire's light, watching from the gloom as mares and stallions spun around flickering light, as cinders wafted into the night sky to join their brethren in the stars.
Finally, the black stallion slipped away through the dark of the night, abandoning the populated courtyard of the Keep, moving through halls of rough stone so vastly different than the gilded marble he remembered. He had obtained his purpose, or so he had thought, so why did this hollow sensation persist? Why did his chest constrict as ghost of memories flickered behind his eyes, overlaying the world he saw with one he once had known? He knew of pain, knew that should he lash his horns upon his leg he would bleed and feel agony, but he knew not quite how to cope with this pain that came within, from no physical blow. So he tried to suppress it, but found the emptiness it left behind to be just as wretched.
For the first time, the raven wished he had never awoken from his slumber.
Almost immediately he scorned himself for such thoughts, for he had and always would cling to life with a selfish grip that would not be denied... but the sentiment remained. What was he to do, if not find those who's blood bore the sins of their ancestors and punish them for damning him to this wretched existence? Serve this Night Court as he once had a nameless realm so long ago? He had already tasted the cruel punch of the hand that had fed him, felt it's blow even when he had kept his head bowed and teeth hidden. No... he could not and would not expose himself to such pain again, such betrayal. He would feign it, but never again would he give his utter devotion to another. Aimless he wandered the halls, lost in his thoughts, mindlessly moving if only so his legs would not fold beneath him in surrender, until his hooves once more carried him out into the open air, this time onto the battlements of the Keep. The wind was gentle and soft in his dark locks, the moon's light caressing his healing hide lovingly, but to him it all felt and looked grey and bleak. He stood upon the battlements of the Keep like a wraith in the night, lit only by moonlight and the faintest glow from the torches in the hall, letting the night take and hold him with gentle arms. For all that the world had changed, the moon she remained the same, and he surrendered himself into her arms with an audible sigh.
It was the cut-flower sound of a man waiting to die.
I am the villain of this story What else could i ever be
MUSONART
@Ktulu - and anyone else who'd like to meet Ammon :D Warning, he's kind of being depressed and mopey rip
If there was a place of war, you can bet Black Plague was there. He reveled in the hot-iron scent of blood, the cries of the wounded, the feel of hooves punching into flesh. Even if it was his own flesh, the masochistic monster enjoyed it. He had been involved in war and chaos his whole life, and it only suited him now to be hidden deep in the place of war of this new herd. He had yet to meet its reigning horses to declare his intent, but still he was here, studying, learning, and play-fighting with his shadow. Plague was a mystery to most, and that was the way he would keep it. Once you have been cut this deeply by the only one who has seen your heart, you are not inclined to do it again any time soon.
The clack of hooves against stone made him stop and whip around, facing the entrance. He stood at 18 hands, and with his head raised, appeared every bit a formidable force as any warhorse. His skin was of the darkest black, but shone with the little reflected light that came in. It would be hard for anyone to determine his lineage, but he appeared to be a mix of quarter horse, thoroughbred, and perhaps some Arabic influence. His neck was well-muscled, but arched in a proud way; his ears were fairly dainty, pointed at the tips. His head was strong with blocky cheeks, with no dishing to his nose, a testament that he was built for sucking air while working hard. He also had thick hindquarters that were enough to move a mountain by itself. But it is likely that the thing you will notice first about him are the scars that litter his whole body. He has been a warrior for his entire existence, and it shows. Through all his injuries, however, his legs remain true. They are probably the only part of him that haven’t been severely injured. For this, the monster is thankful.
His black eyes stare into the distance, waiting to see who (or what) is approaching him. His blood sings for a fight, for a challenge. Certainly he is hidden deep and in a place nobody knows; so if someone is approaching him, it is simply to try and kill him. Oh yes, to taste the wine of war again! Plague waits patiently, neck slightly arched, body tense, muscles bulging and tense. Come what may, the man is ready.
when the sky turns gray and everything is screaming i will reach inside just to find my heart is beating
Life in the Night Court was strange, to say the least. All her life, Ktulu had lived in the wilds, surrounded and protected by trees, waterfalls, and mountains. Now that she had walls around her to keep her safe ... well, she just didn't know what to make of it. There had been buildings constructed in the Falls, but nothing had ever reached the magnitude of what the Night Court had claimed. She felt small, wholly insignificant as she strolled through the halls -- her only company being the echo of her hooves on the stone. She wondered what Eytan would think of it all and decided that the bear would likely be fascinated.
It wasn't only the buildings in the Night Court that Ktulu found strange. It was also the individuals that called the place home. The way they danced around the fire in the evenings was something that the Constrictor had never witnessed before. It was as if they hadn't a care in the world. Not a concern that everything the knew and were accustomed to might come crashing down on their heads and bury them beneath a landslide of turmoil and regret, what ifs and should haves. She stood watching them, wondering if Novus was really as peaceful as it seemed or if the inhabitants were just naive.
The dark mare turned away from the dancing mares and stallions. The crackling fire and the joyful shouts and cheers soon grew muffled and were replaced altogether by the echo of her hooves as she moved through the hallway. As of yet, Ktulu had not figured out where every doorway or hallway led, and often found herself wandering until she found her way out once again. This time her wandering brought her to an area she had yet to explore -- no true surprise there -- and though it was quiet her nose told her that she was not alone in the space.
There is the sound of a sigh that confirms what she already knew -- that she was not alone. Her advance halts for a moment and she considered turning and going somewhere else, but ....
Ktulu sighed softly and continued forward. If she were to make Novus and the Night Court her home she would have to meet others. She could not continue to live like she always had -- wandering and isolating herself from everyone. Novus was a chance for a new beginning, she just had to take advantage of it while she could.
In the dim light the torches provided she could make out the figure of a stallion. As she drew closer she could see the way he held himself, as if he were longing for a fight. Had it been several months prior and in the place that had been her home she would have given him the fight he seemed to want. Now though, she didn't want to be bothered with him. So she walked past, sparing him only a glance as she did. Several more steps, several feet farther revealed another stallion. This one seemed to be more subdued than the other. Sad, maybe?
Ktulu came to stand next to him, her crimson eyes peering out at the darkness. The seconds stretched by as she stood in silence, contemplating whether she should speak to the stallion or ignore him. If Eytan were here she knew that he would urge her to speak. Make friends. Her head turned enough for her to study the man with a single eye. "Their dancing is odd." She finally replied, referring to the dancers she'd been watching earlier. Surely he would know what she was referring to.
He breathed his sigh, and caught wind upon his next inhale of the presence of another, one who had been lurking within this place unseen by the raven's distracted eyes. Alarm raised itself in faint tendrils within his heart, a prickling awareness that he was no longer alone, that his vulnerable back was to a hostile energy as tension rolled across the parapets. It would be so easy for the unseen foe to shove Ammon from the walls to crack open on the hard earth below, and that knowledge held a bitter taste on his tongue. It was the ageless paranoia instilled in him virtually from birth, that fear that all he came across bore treachery in some manner or another, and he prepared for the worst within the depths of his razor-sharp mind, the shift of his weight to his side, his ebony ears flicking back to hide behind his dark tresses.
Then comes the tell-tale sounds of the hooves of another, and with that malicious intent rife in the air the raven tossed his head, crown of antlers glinting wickedly in the moonlight as he looked over his shoulder, his expression impossible to determine when his dark features were lit only by the weak, puttering light of a distant torch. White eyes, white like that of a corpse, rolled to find a stallion as dark as himself standing with aggression in the corner of the battlements, lust for fight clear in every line of the dark equine's body, but Ammon merely regarded him with disinterest. He knew how to fight the hornless, the behemoths, those who thought victory was assured simply because they were larger. They always underestimated the smaller raven, and it always lead to their doom. So his eyes turned from the other stallion to the one whom he had heard approach, and this one caught his attention far more tightly than the bravado-filled stud.
She too was draped in night's colors, but she had been kissed by the moon, by blood and by the rich gold Ammon shared, and when she strode past the tense stallion with hardly more than a dismissive look... well, the black stag was amused, though his features remained carefully blank in the flickering torchlight. He watched as she approached him, and his baroque mass shifted to give her room, elegant head inclining in silent greeting before he swung his gaze once more out to the land beyond. Although he had taken his eyes from the mare and the other stallion, he had not dropped his guard for even a span of a second. If this was an ambush, a trap laid by these two night-clad equines... they would not find the raven easy prey, even if he was rusty and derelict of the magic that had made him a terror whispered by the nobility only in the hush-quiet of the night. He allowed the silence to stretch on unbroken, his posture at ease though his senses quivered at attention.
'Their dancing is odd.'
It was a statement quietly spoken, and Ammon allowed a snort of amusement to escape him, a genuine emotion. "Aye, they doth move with abandon, like faen creatures from yore." He himself never truly found any enjoyment in a dance. Oh, there was pleasure, satisfaction in finding a perfect partner to move in sync with, to leave each other breathless in silent challenges to move faster, closer, wilder... but it had always been feigned on his end. His eye rolled to regard his companion, the quiet once more stretching on before it was his turn to shatter the silence. "I take it thou art not a dancer, then?"
Plague had not been in the night court long enough to see the dancing; the rhythmic movements and abandon that came with knowing you were safe; that you were worshipping your gods in your own way. He had never been one of those horses, no matter where he had lived – had never felt that pure joy of becoming something you are not, no matter how short a time. No. He had been born, bred, and trained a warrior. Everyone to him was an adversary. He had even tried to attack Dare; the mare that quickly became his beloved. She had been the only one who had been able to tame him; to guide him and unleash him in the right direction. When he believed in something, he was unstoppable. But never had he felt that unadulterated joy of dancing. Perhaps if his life had been different, he would not be as aggressive and misguided as he is; but he has not a single regret in his life. Except losing Dare. But he dared not think about it now, lest the anger and frustration boil over and he attack the horned mare that appeared out of the darkness.
He had anticipated a fight; aggression to match his own. But the mare ignored him, and it vexed him. Worse, the wretched mare walked past him to speak with another. One he had missed in his desire to study the battlements; to know all the secrets of war this strange structure held. He saw her enter the room, and move to another, and without hesitation, (though he was wary), followed. His nearly black eyes fell upon another male and he could not help the wave of testosterone that flowed through him. He was competition. Plague had no true interest in this mare, but he knew that any other male was a threat to him. He arched his neck, but made no move to attack. He knew (and fought several times) smaller males who had advantage of speed and agility. Plague was not slow, mind you, but when you have less body to move, you are naturally faster. He eyed the horns the other male had, and if you looked closely you might see the emotion of jealousy in his eyes; but it was fleeting. He couldn’t show emotions with strangers.
He heard the interaction between the two, about dancers. Plague could mentally see them; but had no idea why they did what they did. He studied the mare closely in the flickering light; an attempt to keep his mind from the stallion who was a threat. She reminded him of someone. His memories flipped through a mental photobook of everyone he knew, and finally settled on her. Oblivion. A rush of familiarity and longing filled him now, replacing the need to fight with the urge to touch her. He couldn’t say they had been close; but he remembered her. In the momentary stillness, he whispered a breathy word. ”Oblivion?” He hesitantly reached his muzzle forward toward her before pulling it back. He knew the magic changed others; gave them abilities and strange colorations. Perhaps they had given her the white and horn that she now bore. But her scent was different. This was not the same mare he knew all those years ago.
Moments later, the horned male spoke, destroying the momentary reverie where Plague was home and all was right with the world. His speech was odd, but not unpleasant. Plague had imagined he would be loud, boisterous, and laying claim to the mare immediately. This was a strange world, indeed. He made no move, nor did he offer to speak, simply trying to understand what dancers they spoke of, as he had not seen them in his determination to find war. Now he listened, dark eyes moving between Not-Oblivion and the horned demon.
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
Apollo had declined to partake in the nightly celebrations. He was still recovering, his muscles lazy and sore with fatigue from his lingering illness. It wasn't near as strong, near as debilitating or worrisome as it had been when he and Ktulu had first arrived to Novus, but it did leave him peculiarly lethargic and weak. In time, he knew, he would recover and be right as rain... But for now, Apollo parted ways from the dancing gypsies and jovial bards, instead seeking out the familiar form of the Constrictor, desperately yearning for her company.
Ktulu had been a constant since their arrival to Denocte and the Night Court. They had both lost so much in such a short amount of time... Their home, their families, their friends, their magics, their companions. It was all gone. There was no way of knowing if either of them would ever find their bond-mates again, and in turn, they only had each other.
Even though he did his best to be positive, even though he did his best to fight the darkness that plagued Ktulu's heart, he could not help but be taken under by the sway of cruel melancholy. Loss was no stranger, but it didn't mean that he had to like it, nor grow accustomed to it. So, seeking the understanding shelter that only Ktulu could provide, he left the crackle of flames and the dancers in his wake, entering the Keep to search for what kept him going.
Ktulu was not alone when he found her, having followed the intimate, warm, familiar scent of sandalwood amidst the otherwise foreign smells. The two stallions in the Constrictor's company were strangers, individuals that Apollo did not know, but... There, standing among them, was the one he had been searching for.
"... Ktu?" A soft beckoned tinged with gentle concern. Was she alright? Was she missing Eytan? The distance between them seemed vast, paces upon mortar floor interrupted by both black stallions, seeming like a void far too great for one as meek as Apollo to pass in order to reach the Constrictor's side. They were both broad and impressive, these twin midnight studs, their features rugged and handsome, and immediately the Merciful stallion was intimidated by their stature and prowess... But then there was Ktulu, his dark mistress, standing amidst them, undaunted. Brave. So brave... It only served as a clear reminder that she bowed for no one, man or woman.
Amidst strangers or daemons, friends or foes, she would always stand tall. He was relieved to see that even here in the Night Court Keep, it had not changed.
Offering her a smile despite the distance separating them, the overo's honey-brown eyes glanced to the other two stallions. One sleek, black, and powerful. The other midnight stud dripping in gold and horned. "I, uh... Hello. Sorry. I just... I was looking for her."
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
when the sky turns gray and everything is screaming i will reach inside just to find my heart is beating
The tension was palpable and wholly uncomfortable, though it was not something that Ktulu was unsued to. During her time in Helovia as both Chieftess and General others had often tiptoed around her, which had only served to increase the tension. But now, as the stallion she stood next to spoke in his odd manner, her crimson gaze slid toward the other stallion, who was inching closer. He was the main source of tension, she thought. He held himself like he was looking for a fight. A few weeks ago she would have given him exactly that, if only to put him in his place and make herself known as being dominant Now, however, she didn't care. Let him look for a fight, he'd have to find it elsewhere.
"Oblivion?"
The other stallion had finally spoke, but it was only to mistake her for someone else. One ear fell back, but she made no other move to reciprocate his tentative greeting. "No." She replied evenly. "The only Oblivion I've heard of is long dead." He had been a like a ghost story that parents told their children to keep them from sneaking away during the night. Stay here or the DemonKing will eat you up. Don't go into those woods, Oblivion is there. Whether or not they were thinking of the same oblivion was another story entirely.
"No." Ktulu replied in response, her tone almost solemn. She supposed that battle itself could be considered a dance. There was skill and technique required to avoid injury and, at the same time, deliver blows to your enemy. The Night Court's dancers moved with careless abandon. For anyone to fight with the same principle in mind would only lead to injury and defeat. Moves had to be calculated and precise, split second decisions had to be made to avoid injury and help ensure victory. You couldn't realize you had screwed up and laugh it off then join in again like a dancer could. So no, she was not a dancer. She could never be a dancer. And she never wanted to be one. "Do you?"
Apollo's arrival was a blessing in disguise. The tension she had felt standing with the two unknow stallions began to melt away as she looked at the painted man. "Apollo." She said his name, her voice low. He looked ... troubled? Worried? Intimidated? Her tail flicked against her hocks as she tried to decide what the expression on his face meant, but in the end it was his voice that made up her mind. He sounded unsure of himself, so she settled on intimidated, though she didn't know what for. She spared Ammon and Plague each a glance before moving off to join Apollo. "You found me." Came her reply as she moved closer. "Something wrong?"
There was too much in this air, too much tension and spine-caressing stress that had rapidly filled the space, and the black stag's ears flattened down to his skull in an earnest sign of an irritation growing into anger. He clung to that burgeoning sensation in his breast as his head turned to face the other black that approached, and when the nameless wretch arched his neck in clear aggression, the quiet Ammon simply tilted his head, a subtle and passive warning as the moonlight gleamed on his sharp antlers, a weapon he bore and used well, one this battle-hungry stallion lacked. A question came from the other man, a name to the mare, and her reply almost made Ammon snort, and with that he once more turned his attention away from the behemoth, to one much smaller, and vastly more docile.
This one caught his attention, ears flicking forward as his hollow eyes silently regarded the new arrival, interest piqued at the subtle nuance of the black mare giving the new man name. Apollo, he was then, and clearly there was history. Amusement flickered through him as she moved from his side to the other's, and he inclined his head in a gesture of greeting, though his expression bore nothing but silence. "Thou hath no need for forgiveness, Apollo be it?" He turned his eyes to the mare, Ktu, and inclined his head to her as well. "If thine friend hath need of thee, then allow me to wish thee a good night and farewell."\
The dual-horned stallion was clearly warning him that he could be gored, and to be honest, Plague was slightly excited by the thought. Not that he enjoyed the thought of having his flesh shredded, but he always enjoyed a good fight. He would have to remember this one for later. A spar could do his aggression some good – work out some built-up testosterone and frustrations. Oh how he missed his Dare. She would soothe him, calm him. And when the time was right, would rile him up again and point him in a direction he could destroy. What a sad little tool was he; but it worked well for them.
Not Oblivion.
The large male almost seemed to deflate (almost!) but couldn’t tear his eyes from the female. No. She might not remember who she was, but she was certainly Oblivion. Boogeyman or not. He listened as she spoke (she wasn’t as aggressive as his Oblivion…was she sick?) And before he could ask further questions, another approached. His body was painted, and he, too bore a horn. Was there something in the water that he was missing? Everyone else had horns and wings and strange…other things. He would have to find out what it was that gave them all such glorious war-tools. He decided he needed one, too.
The smaller peaceful stallion spoke again, seemingly out of place amongst the two larger males and the female. He wanted to fight him; to beat him down. This was his female…the last remnant of his past that he could find anywhere in this world. His children were likely dead. If not, they were long gone, and he would never see them again. But he held his place. There was no need to fight an opponent who was unwilling. There were plenty of willing others he could find. And in this momentary lapse of a ‘need’ to fight, Plague followed suit of the dual-horned boy. ”I do wish to speak with both of you at a later time, about this place and other things. Perhaps we can meet when you aren’t…otherwise occupied.” His dark eyes flick to the smaller painted male before glancing at both the horned stallion and the female. ”Until then… good night.”
And with that, Plague exits the area, hooves echoing against the stone floor, reverberating around the stone walls, fading as he left.
