[AW] what's left of

[Stavros]

ash and urn and this silent   STAVROS The sun upon his face was unpleasantly warm, when it stole him away from his dreams of that very same, radiant orb which now caused sweat to accumulate along the folds of his body, despite the season, now that it had risen to its fullest potential.   The second thing which Stavros took note of as he roused from unconsciousness to the realm of the waking was that he was laying upon his side, rather than upright, as he usually slept, and that some sort of shrub was gently brushing against his back, seemingly tousled by the wind.  Wondering if he had instead given into the weariness of his ceaseless, pointless travels, and collapsed wherever here was, the stallion does not bother to open his eyes.  Instead, he simply unleashes a long, sorrowful sigh, which disturbs the sand at his muzzle and sends it curling in playful, dusty plumes away from his gold-dipped face; his tail, long with a short, well kept tuft of hair upon its end, casually lifts itself from the ground behind him, and is gently laid over his side.   He cannot recall if he had fainted or not, but he alleged it was likely.  A groan escapes his lips as he forces his indigo eyes open to behold the desert and the shrub beneath which he partially lays, one that becomes worried in tone as he recalls walking through a cypress wood, not a desert at all.  The dream of the sun lingers in his mind as he takes note of his surroundings through blinks and the narrowed frame of his snowy lashes, and with absolute concern writ upon his weary features, the gold dappled stallion quickly rises to his hooves.   The morning sun spills over a sandstone wall that towers overhead, its corners marked by towers, and the sea is a distant, blue line on the horizon in almost every direction in which the dunes of a desert do not obscure it.  Having apparently lain in the structure’s shade until just moments ago, Stavros had been roused by the sun’s vantage having gained enough height to cast the patch of desert in which the stallion finds himself in full, golden glory.  Shaking his head to try and rid himself of the mirage (surely, he would remember seeing such a sight, and certainly he would recall that he’d come upon a desert, no matter how beleaguered he had been before feinting), the somber warrior is all the more confounded and worried when it doesn’t dissipate at all.   Not far from where he lays is what appears to be a gateway; lifting himself from the sand and shaking away what of it he can, the stallion adjusts his white chiton and trots towards the inherent doorway to civilization.  Halting some feet from the threshold, his ears perked upwards and his gaunt body looking odd and narrow beneath the layers of his cloth covering, the unusually dirty man looks about for some sign of a sentry, or anyone, really.  Believing he hears someone arriving, the man clears his throat and pivots his head in the direction of the sound, before calling out:   "Hello?" questions the pale stallion of the unseen hoof beats; prepared to fight if he must, the aged and rather road-wearied warrior was also not sure he presently had it in him. Someone to welcome him would be lovely <3   my recollections are all that is left of you

Image by Simon Breese@Flickr - Code by Me

[Vadim]

Now that he knew of it, Vadim's days as often found him in the dusty, half-abandoned library of the Day Court.  The other half he spends everywhere- roaming as far as the edges of Solterra though not often beyond.  Not right now, which so much to do and so much to learn.  He is starting to find his stride in this place, to feel comfortable.  Less like a stranger, if only because they are all strangers.  Always in the back of his mind are plan brewing of a visit to the Night Court, to dance among the gypsies of Denocte and steal a little of their joy for himself since so often the Day Court is a joyless place.  And yet you would not know it, to look at the young golden stallion, trapped within a fort of old books.  Blue eyes skim the words of the texts quickly, lightly, seeking particular information.  He has been at this since the windows of the library let in enough light to see by.

Finally, it is the restlessness of too much stillness that drives him to abandon his books as fascinating as they are.  He slips from the stone couch where he'd rested while he read, threading his way between stacks and shelves with the grace of a dancer.  His hooves ring out on the stone stairs as he takes them quickly, almost recklessly.  It is as though once he is free of scholarly pursuits his blood thunders, reminding him that he is a thing meant to move and not meant to lie still.  When he reaches the ground floor he burst into a canter with only a quick call of pardon as he pelts past someone in the halls and dodges past another court member just coming in through the doors.  The courtyard is relatively empty in the heat of the day, most either taking their leisure or turning their mind to some task or another.

His aim is for the gate and the broad desert beyond, his playground in this harsh place.  For all the dangers it holds, he would not trade the golden seas of sand for any other place- except perhaps for the mirrored salt flats of his home.  He almost doesn't see the stranger as he bolts out the gate, digging in his hooves at the last moment and slewing his body around as he passes him as though curiosity hangs on an invisible bit, forcing him around.  Eyes bright as the sky alight on the dusty and travel-wearied warrior, warring curiosity and concern.

"Welcome, stranger!"  He is fair certain at this point that he knows most of the faces of the Day Court- he has seen them in passing, at meetings and at work in the garden.  This man seems new.  More, he -smells- new.  It is the scent that has taken the longest for Vadim to learn, the subtle clues that the Courts leave upon their members when they travel.  "I am Vadim- what brings you to the Day Court?"

He is not winded from his brief sprint, nor has sweat yet darkened the golden brilliance of his slick pelt.  

@Stavros

[Stavros]

ash and urn and this silent STAVROS He barely had time to see the stranger appearing through the doorway than the person was nearly passed him. Feeling rushed as he stammers his hello, the former warrior is glad when the golden coated fellow pauses to take note of Stavros’ presence. That gladness does not truly make its way to his face, however, which remains on the verge of frowning, his richly dark eyes lacking the enthusiasm that is present in the young man’s expression. Lean and lithe, the young man is still shorter than Stavros, despite the way his body seems to be stretched out for height, and there is something delicate to the way his bones are put together that reminds the old fighter of the mystics who guarded the sacred caverns back home. That he was unclothed was also not all that peculiar; those who wore chitons or robes had earned them though service to Luca’s people or armies, and most of its populace was bare backed in the sun drenched streets of Stavros’ home-realm. The resemblance to any sort of being that the man knows from his life before now ends there, however; while Vadim might have found the somber attitudes of his herd mates droll, Stavros would likely find them to be very like the stern but noble mare and studs he’d grown up with in the warrior’s sect of Luca. His frown grows all the deeper when the cheerful boy’s question meets the stallion’s ears. The Day Court is not a place in Luca which he knows or has ever heard of, even though he’d spent hours studying the surrounding communities and cultures, and their buildings. Despite the obviousness of fact that there was a city before him, and that it certainly seemed old enough to have been included in the dozens of tomes on the subject, Stavros did not recognize the architecture, either. Aside from that, he was in a desert, which was not a place he should be. Trying to remember where exactly the closest desert was to the rocky, high altitude sun-lands of Luca, he recalls, in horror, that it was some hundreds of miles away, and several weeks by hoof. While he certainly had turned his back to Luca and its never-ending wars for taking his beloved Perrin from him, he had only been gone several days. It did not account for his loss of memories of making it from the forests on the outskirts of the great city to the far deserts. In fact, the more he thought about it, it seemed all the more clear that he was unrealistically far away from Luca, and the more disgruntled the man became. "There is no Day Court or desert in Luca," replies Stavros, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, and his head lifting to a proud height. His voice is calm but stern, with a firmness to the consonants, and gentle length to each vowel. Inside his chest, his broken heart beats harder and faster, the sudden worry that he was in danger growing with each passing moment. Though he was relatively sure, already, that he was no longer in Luca at all, he still could not help but cling to the notion that he had simply become lost in his mourning and had lost track of time in the process, or that he had been absconded with by unwarranted kidnappers of some sort, and escaped. "What kingdom is this? I did not believe I have traveled long enough to have reached the great sand seas of the south." my recollections are all that is left of you

Image by Simon Breese@Flickr - Code by Me
@Vadim

[Vadim]

Eyes like pieces of summer sky flick over the road-weary unicorn, assessing.  His heart falls just a little to be presented with another grim faced warrior and yet he is coming to value these men and women.  His sovereign frightened him on first meeting, seemed alien.  And yet now he has listened to Maxence tell stories (grim stories) and call him 'brother' though he does not think he has earned the title.  His expression slips, just a touch, when the other man does not also give his name.  His ears flick forward, attention.  Questions he is used to.  Questions he can answer, as he has asked so many himself.  Even in this attitude of listening though he is not still.  His hooves shift, flirting on the sand as though some music hums in his bones and compels him to motion.

The wind lifts across the desert and briefly he shifts his body to catch the brunt of it, arching his mane-less neck to glory in the caress of the hot desert wind.  It is tempered, gentler with the touch of autumn.  He almost thinks he smells a hint of rain in it- perhaps winter will bring storms.  He is excited to see this desert after the transformation of a downpour though he does not like the rain itself particularly.

"Luca?"  His voice is curious, but holds no recognition of the name.  He files it away for later though, scattering his question to the wind with a quick shake of his white-masked head.  "This land is called Novus- the desert you travel is part of Solterra, the realm of the Day Court under the leadership of one Maxence."  

The words hold a touch of a story-teller's cadence and it is only barely remembered restraint that keeps him from elaborating with an artist's flourish.  His salt-white tail whips across his hips, intimidated by the height the stranger has on him.  Nor does he try to even put distance between them.  Perhaps it is only that many people are so much larger than him here and he is rarely reminded of the danger that such being bring to one like himself.  For all that he is in a realm of warriors, Vadim is no warrior.  

A fleeting expression of sympathy flits across Vadim's face as he begins to make a few guesses as to the warrior's confusion.  He tilts his head to meet the stranger's eyes.  "Novus is strange- most of us here are from other lands, and some have arrived in very peculiar fashions.  I do not know where.. Luca... is, compared to here.  There may be maps in the library?"  

The name rolls off his tongue hesitantly, as does the offer.  What maps he has seen show very little beyond Novus' coastlines.  Even his own home is not mapped and he has no real notion of how he arrived- it was only many weeks after that he saw one of these maps and realized that they were surrounded by oceans on all sides.  He remembers only walking here, scenting the sand on the wind and following it to the desert that seemed so much like an echo of home.

@Stavros

[Stavros]

[quote="Stavros" pid='6424' dateline='1509656187']

ash and urn and this silent STAVROS The warrior in Stavros finds the golden stallion's restless hooves disdainful, and he even glances down at them with an expression that reads as much. He doesn't say anything on the matter, either, having met enough foreigners during his skirmishes to know that not all thought that being composed was as important a thing as the soldiers of Luca did. The scholar, then, is silent, and wonders if everyone in this strange city is as rambunctious as moon-faced Vadim. That the young man seemed perplexed by the mention of the famed and great realms of Luca - great enough iya people were almost always at war with some jealous neighbor or another - boded ill, and made the aging man's belly drop, and his heart beat even faster. As Vadim continues, that rapid, heavy rhythm begins to fill Stavros' ears, with each foreign name striking him with how very meaningless they were in the world which the white and gold stallion had known. "Ma Dia," he mutters beneath his breath. He doesn't have to say he knows none of these names. It is written all over his face, and the long lines of worry which stripen it. That confusion hardens into a stoic expression when the older male takes note of the sympathy upon the cheerful stranger's face. While he notices Vadim's attempt at a comforting glance, he avoids it, looking instead at the nearby entrance to the city beyond. In the tall man's head, images of home flash by, between waves of cold chills and the flips of his belly, in time to the beating of his worried heart. He hears Perrin's soft laughter in his head, and can almost smell the wind which moves through his dark hair, as he leans in with a wide grin on a long ago afternoon: 'It's never just an ordinary day with you, is it?' The tired man sighs, and answers his beloved much differently that he had on that happy afternoon. Not even here, wherever this Novus is. Not even without you. "If you have not heard of it, it is far," solemnly answers Stavros, "on a map or not. Besides, I'd no intention of going back when I left. He had intended to find solitude, and to die alone, somewhere forgotten, where nothing reminded him.of his failures and loss. That was not Zeus' plan, however, and so it would seem that Stavros was here. Perhaps he might still not be reminded of Perrin in a realm far from the one they had both called home. "You spoke of the library as if anyone might enter," he continues, chasing his thoughts away with a subtle shake of his muzzle, "I would still like to see these maps, if it is of no inconvience to you." my recollections are all that is left of you

Image by Simon Breese@Flickr - Code by Me
@Vadim

[Vadim]

With patience that is at odds with the restlessness of his body, the sun-dancer waits.  He watches the flickering changes of expression on the stranger's face.  Vadim can't help but feel for him.  Though he does not know the precise cause, the loss of home is something that he is familiar with.  He doubts he will ever be completely free of the homesickness that plagued him often when he first arrived, though it has faded to less regular bouts.  Usually it strikes worst when he is faced with a crowd of these warrior-like folk who seem to think first with their hooves and teeth.

Not all of them, he chides himself a little.  There are many sharp minds at court among all the ranks and he would do well to remember that.  Though Bexley's views were strange to him, he did not doubt her intelligence.  Nor the silver Emissary who seemed cold but fair.  And fair was something Vadim could appreciate.  

So he waits the solemn white stallion's answer and listens when it comes, trying to read what is left unsaid by his speech.  He is at a loss- Vadim knows not how to lift the invisible weight from this warrior's shoulders, not even for a moment though he yearns to.  Even Maxence, caught in moments of quiet, is not so closed and stony.  Not that he has much interaction with the Sovereign.  Perhaps he should fetch Seraphina- her own cold apathy might give the unicorn a more familiar personality to speak with if all his people are like this.  

He turns to come alongside the unicorn at his request, muzzle turned towards the gate.  "Residents of Solterra and welcomed guests may enter freely," he confirms, taking a step towards the gate.  He keeps a little distance between them, pointedly aware of their size difference when he is alongside the other stallion.  "I will speak for you if anyone asks- and if you give me your name."  

He smiles, his voice making the request light with humor.  He isn't precisely sure he is allowed to make this kind of call but try as he might he cannot recall any laws forbidding it.  And he had made a point to remember the laws Maxence had laid out.  Regardless, if someone challenged it he would accept the consequence.  It's not as if he could just leave this man standing in the desert before the gate, under the merciless burning gaze of Solis.  Hospitality is too much in his nature.

@Stavros

[Stavros]

ash and urn and this silent STAVROS It seems that Stavros’ somber mood tarnishes the sparkle in the step of Vadim, though the dappled warrior cares very little that he has managed to diminish some of the cheer inherent in the gilded gentleman’s day. Glad to be moving, the aged warrior in fact notices nothing about the chatty stallion’s change in mood, and instead is more focused on the features of the city towards which they turn. When they pause, however, the white warrior tilts his attentions towards the moon-faced lad, the slightest hint of inquiry visible through the weary expression that otherwise seems forever plastered to his expression. That he’d not given his name was a fact that had passed Stravros by; with a grunt of disgruntlement (with both himself, and the necessities of society), the tall man takes in the good humored smile of Vadim with all the warmth of an ice coated rock on a February morning. "Stavros," flatly offers the former soldier, wondering as he looks back towards the city if this unclothed young man is the best escort for a vagrant such as himself. Thin and dirty, his normally trimmed mane in disarray, and his features lined with enough blank hopelessness to make a gentle-hearted child cry, the only true semblance of the well-kempt gentleman he truly was lingered in the stark whiteness of his chiton, the fine glimmer of the metal threads which trimmed it, and the prettiness of the golden bird which pinned it in place upon his waning figure. For a brief moment, he thinks that he maybe shouldn’t go into the city, the faintest inkling of shame slipping through him to be such a poor representation of the honorable Luca. Looking at the strange city, however, the once-soldier is reminded that he has little choice; as far from home as he seemed to presently be, it would be foolish to turn away the chance to gain some insight into his new situation. With a sigh of resignation, he hopes that they can get it over with as soon as possible, and that, maybe, there is a bath house somewhere within. my recollections are all that is left of you

Image by Simon Breese@Flickr - Code by Me
@Vadim