It’s well after midnight, now, and the snow has stopped falling. Tracks criss-cross the soft shroud it makes, but the setting moon still sets the untouched places to a diamond shine.
There is wine like a sweet slow hum in his veins, an old friend keeping him warm. For Lysander it had been a fine night, a reminder of times too long ago to count. Only Florentine kept worrying at his mind like a bramble in his coat. The antlered stallion had searched for her, after splitting off from the kirin, but there had been no trace of the golden Anthousai. Even the breeze had no trace of hyacinths; it was overwhelmed by woodsmoke, by spiced wine, by jasmine.
And so he walks alone, content to wander and observe as the last of the fires burn down and the noise of the revelry fades. Over and over his mind turns to her, to the way her face had fallen at the sight of her gypsy-king, the hurt writ plain in the lines of her mouth, her lashes, her amethyst eyes. Oh, he had warned her, long ago, that love could be a troublesome, painful thing; what he did not expect was for her hurt to wound him, too.
Even so, deeper and deeper yet beneath the slumbering soil of his strange old heart, there is a god’s jealousy and god’s curiosity, green and vital as sap from a weeping tree.
If he were to remain mortal, what else might he grow to feel?
He has wandered far from the festival, now; the cold has crept in again, enough to make him shiver. It is dark, the fires distant. The stallion pauses, breathes a stream of silver into the winter air, stands poised between the forest ahead and the castle behind. Lysander isn’t sure where he’s going, but he isn’t afraid.
He has never been afraid in his life.
@Reichenbach @Raum @Lavinia and any crows I missed
The air was crisp upon his mahogany skin, the breeze stroking a cool hand down his muscular back. He wore a wild grin, the moonlight glinting in his abyssal eyes as he watched Lysander track aimlessly through the snow. He rolled his broad shoulders, feeling every shift of the air and touch of his coal curls, his coins free and tinkling through the still night air.
He could of silenced them, for cautions sake — but he wanted the now mortal God to know who was coming, to hear that sound and remember it. Perhaps if Lysander had not smiled at him so knowingly the events that followed would not have had to occur... but he had, and Reichenbach had not liked the words that smile had said. Hadn't particularly enjoyed the way his eyes had lingered on Florentine either. Or that he'd then taken Isorath dancing — it was irrelevant that the invitation had been posed by Isorath himself.
After such an emotionally tumultuous evening, the King Crow was itching for a fight.
Some of his Crows had found him along the way — some of the more violent, the more willing to get their hands dirty. Reichenbach saw some of himself in all of them. Acton stepped vigorously next to him, so handsome in his black and gold, the same itch for a fight underneath his skin. That boy was chaos and fury bottled up into a raucous grin and flashing tricks — Reichenbach adored him, fiercely cherished the runaway and his loyalty. The anger inside of him was so like his own, so unstable and ready to ignite.
It was likely why the raven-haired trickster had been the first to fall into step with him, perhaps sensing a current of that similar rage, the tension that would result only in bloodied fists.
Lavinia had fallen into step upon his other side not long after, her long lashed eyes keen and bright against the frigid night air. Her lithe body moved with a dancers grace, the knives he had given her no doubt glinting excitedly within the expanse of her beautiful copper hair. God help the world of Novus when the twins grew into fully fledged women — even Reichenbach would be no match for the lethal girls.
And finally Raum... Raum could have been there all night, or for none of it — his Ghost was just that, a wraith shifting through the evening, his boyish blue eyes capturing everything. He'd known his Ghost was there likely because the boy wanted him to know... Reich was glad. Raum certainly was one of the most capable and experienced of their crew, no doubt he would be glad to finally remove himself from the desert sand of Solterra and shake loose some of his tightly coiled energy.
Reich turned his head slightly toward Acton, then Lavinia, grinning as they emerged from the shadows in front of Lysander, he first and then the two of them — wicked and joyous, chaotic and calm.
"You're not done dancing yet.."
He drawled, those long lashed argent eyes glinting through the darkness.
@Lysander @Acton @Lavinia @Raum sorry for the wait!!
Reichenbach was right, Raum had been there all night. He had been following the boy since the King of Crows mentioned the attack. When they began to creep out of the darkness, his Crows, his beloved orphans, Raum felt his skin ease. It had been tight, as if its surface area was not enough to cover all his bones. But now, oh no it was liquid mercury pouring over his skeleton.
He waits, so still in the darkness, in the shadows that hang so oddly still. He has never been to Terrastella before and following their target as he had, he had come to know some of its arterial routes: in case they would be the only means of escape when the time should come.
His eyes glint electric blue but shrouded in darkness until they are nothing but an occasional gleam. They are, tonight, black ink caught beneath the moon’s glow.
You’re not done dancing yet.
And that was Raum’s cue, he steps from the darkness, opposite his Crows, the ex-god, now mortal, now so vulnerable between them. His lips pull into a grim, grim smile. No one stayed mighty forever.
The moonlight catches the blue of his scarf, so recently returned to wrap about his throat and at his limb, wrapped tightly about it, his knife glinted ominously. It had shed blood already and its thirst was far from slaked.
With the grace of a panther Raum stalks forward until he stops. His eyes pour like mercury over the victim, looking at his every weakness with the languid appraisal of a predator searching for the sweetest meat upon its felled prey.
He does not lift his eyes to gaze at his brothers and sister, he does not draw his eyes from the task at hand. He is hungry to remind them all just how much he is a Crow, no matter how long he has spent beneath the Soleterran sun.
@Reichenbach, @Acton, @Lavinia, @Lysander eeee he is back with his Crows <3 <3
Where had he been for the rest of the night? It didn’t matter; already it had blurred into hazy memory against the blade-sharp focus of the here, the now. The sweet-sharp smell of the pines and the starlight on their skin and Reichenbach at his side – the way it had been, the way (as far as Acton was concerned) that it always should be.
He didn’t even try to keep the grin from his dark mouth, the swagger from his steps. There were parts of himself he had to keep hidden, sometimes, but not this one. Never this one.
As soon as he’d seen his king he’d known something bloody was coming. There was, of course, some measure of guilt at the pain writ in Reichenbach’s brilliant eyes, but Acton had never had a terribly high opinion of romance; as far as he was concerned, this was how it always ended.
And if a particularly nasty breakup meant he got to brawl once more alongside his brother, well. Love never stood a chance.
He wanted to laugh when he first caught sight of their prey. Not much but shadow and antlers, this late, but he could see the curls of his hair, a hint of dapples in his coat. Poor man, poor god, poor fool; the buckskin ran his tongue across his teeth, felt each muscle taught with adrenaline, counted down the beat-beat-beat of his heart until their gypsy king gave the signal.
Acton wanted to leap forward but forced it to a strut; his amber eyes gleamed to see Raum step from the shadows like mist rolling over the snow, to see Lavinia close in, too. He couldn’t help the shiver, half cold, half anticipation, and neither can he help the click of his teeth as he closed in off the stallion’s left shoulder.
“I hope you had plenty to drink, friend,” he said, and grinned a hangman’s grin.
Tonight Lavinia had kept close to her king or as close as she dared while he mingled with the others. Normally the fire and gold adorned woman would have been out there amongst the others, dancing, singing and drinking. But..tonight was different, the night was tense and every muscle in her body was coiled and ready for action. Soon enough she was beside her crow king and her fellow brothers, gaze alight in anticipation. She longed to use her knives for something other than dance and if her knives could talk? They would agree. They longed for action and they would get it tonight if things went well..or not.
She waits in the shadows for a moment longer while Reich spoke to this so called god turned mortal. She didn't know if she believed the story but he certainly wasn't a god now. He would bleed like any other on this world. Lavinia takes one long step forward from the shadows, her gaze glancing at her two brothers for a brief moment. A dangerous glint there before she turned on the one who was wanted by their king. A cool smile graces her lips like a snake that was waiting to strike, "I do hope you're a good dancer." She spoke quietly, a dangerous whisper that spoke of other things.
@Reichenbach @Acton @Raum @Lysander
"this here is your speech colour!
He is aware enough to know when he goes from being alone to not. Before, even, the faint chime of coins carries across the clear cold air, he can feel it – the weight of eyes on him.
Lysander has never minded being watched. Tonight there had been plenty of it: he was a stranger to them all, his new antlers bone-white, strange smells in his dappled coat and the dark curl of his hair. Strange things in his shifting green eyes. And that was to say nothing of the company he found himself keeping: kings and queens and kirins. It has been a long, long time since he’d found himself amidst such politics, such finery, such civilized savagery.
Even so he is surprised, for a moment, when three shapes peel themselves from the darkness of tangled limbs and black trunks. He even stops, his tail lashing, one cloven hoof poised: a startled stag on a midwinter night. But then he drops his foot back to the snow, and huffs a soft laugh that dissolves into silver mist. There is even a measure of humor in it, though small.
He says nothing, only watches them come forward. All of a sudden he can feel it, this strangely intricate mortal body, each humming vein and stretch of sinew. It’s a marvelous thing, truly, though terribly delicate.
He knows how weak these bodies are.
At the arrival of the fourth behind him, an ear twists back, the first betrayal of nerves. Had his transgressions for the night numbered so high?
The king speaks, as do the ones to his left and his right, and a smile creases Lysander’s cheek.
Strangely, he can smell the sharp tang of metal, though there is no blood yet.
“I’m afraid I don’t know this one,” he says, and oh, it is a lie. The knowledge of it is there in the dark, creeping green of his eyes, in the soft and knowing curl of his lips. His gaze snares them all, and comes to rest on the silver of Reichenbach’s eyes, gleaming like the moonlight, like the glint of a knife. “You’ll have to teach me the steps.”
Each of them said their hello's — Raum's a silent promise, Acton's a jovial grin and Lavinia's a chillingly feminine remark. He found himself grinning wider at each Crows word, lazy and certain in all his movements. Lysander was in for a rough, rough night. There was nothing the ex-God could do to prevent this moment, no amount of careful, knowing smiles or elegantly chosen words would save him. No golden girl with petals in her hair would alight and command them to STOP.
“You’ll have to teach me the steps.”
Gladly.
The Night King did not wait to say something witty or smart — he just raised his vast hooves quick as a flash and brought them down with a sickening thud upon Lysander's waiting head. He heard the grunt and exhale as he struck, felt the slickness of blood upon his hooves even as his own blood pounded excitedly — this was what he'd been waiting for, all the torture of this long winters night had drawn him here, now.
The others he could sense around him, Raum like quicksilver, Lavinia a graceful dancer — and Acton just like him, punching and tearing with a bloody grin. They were artists, and Lysander the unlucky canvas.
@Lysander @Acton @Lavinia @Raum <3 a bit short sorry guys!
Gods. They meant nothing to Raum. The only one that mattered, that would ever matter was Calligo with her wild, generous shadows. He would be glad to remind this mortal god so. Remind him how fallible he is and how foolish it was to become mortal – if it had ever been a choice to begin with.
His goddess, good and giving, shrouds them in night, banishes light from the sky, so not even the stars can watch their deeds this night. Slowly the rest of the Crows creep out of her darkness. Their smiles are electric and so full of teeth and claws that promise violence and misery. Reichenbach is feral magic. His presence is an intoxicating liquor designed to punch and cut and bite. Raum’s feels its force, its coming is like electric air before a storm.
Acton delivers his quip and an ear twists to listen in, to catch the snide remark. But it does not stir Raum, it does not inspire a smile to curl his lips, instead the Ghost steps back into the darkness, disappearing into shadow and night.
It is unclear where he goes, shrouded in shadow as he is. Maybe his Crows know him well enough to know he would be scoping, listening, watching, for any who might over hear them or stray too close. Content, they are alone, he returns to his Crows in time to watch Reichenbach rise up for the first strike. His limbs are serpents but their bite is to be something far more terrible. They coil back, and in the silence of that split second Raum’s knife unsheathes with a shivering, feverish sigh.
The first strike of their King’s serpent limbs is a crack. It draws out a spray of blood that splatters the snow like thrown rubies. More blood joins the first spray, and Raum is in motion, silent and swift. Only the snow betrays him, leaving his footprints like a tattoo across its pallid face.
From the darkness the quicksilver Crow launches. His dagger glints malevolently in the moonlight and it strikes hard into flesh and bone. It reaches for the softness of lungs, to release what air might be there. But it collision with bone is hard and unsatisfying. Such a hard end was an ominous sign and in the darkness, as the dagger peels back, Calligo’s shadows unfurl to reveal a broken blade. Its tip is jagged where it should be smooth. He could only hope its deep was done at its end and that it was not just his blade that broke, but the victim’s ribs too.
Black eyes flash like ravens wings and he looks across to Acton. “What the fuck have you done to my blades in my absence?” Raum hisses, furious and bereft. This dagger was his finest, but in a moment he casts the weapon aside and unfurls the cobalt blue scarf from about his throat. At least there was one weapon that would not let him down.
Savage and hot leaped the blood in Acton’s veins as the antler stallion responded, as his chin lifted, proud. Let him fight, thought Acton, the closest to a prayer he ever came. Let’s make this fun.
But as soon as Reichenbach’s hooves came down he knew there would only be one of them shedding blood tonight.
The thwack of hooves meeting skull was a startling sound in the otherwise still night, the world muffled by snowfall. Blood bloomed where contact had been made. It was hard to follow, then, but he thought one of the stallion’s antler tines might have snapped, too.
It was enough of a signal. Acton went in with his teeth first, black lips peeling back as he lunged in quick as a snake to rake his jaws along the arch of Lysander’s neck. He snapped for an ear, next, then withdrew enough to lift his hooves and strike at his shoulder, his legs.
Had Reichebach instructed them not to kill? He couldn’t remember. Even if he had, their king crow clearly wasn’t playing by his own rules. The buckskin licked his lips and tasted blood. It reminded him of his powders back in Denocte – explosive, dangerous magic. Like this.
It’s not until Raum’s hiss caught his ears that Acton looked up from his bloody work again, skin slick with sweat. Despite the night, despite the snow, his body burned like full summer beneath the Solterran sun. At the feral, furious look in Raum’s eyes he only laughed, a wild, black sound of joy, too caught up for full understanding. His ears were too full of other sounds, his mind at once chaotic and singularly focused.
They could fix anything that needed it later. The only broken thing that mattered in this moment was the poor bastard they were bludgeoning.
He had, in the first moments that he’d seen their shadows rising from the edges of his vision, considered whether he might fight – but in the end there is no chance to act on the decision he had made. The silver mist from his final words was still fading when the gypsy king rose, and before Lysander could even flinch (this mortal body tried what it could to keep itself whole), before the smile could even vanish from his dark mouth, the blows landed like clubs.
On instinct his eyes closed, so he could only hear and feel the first sickening snap as one of the bay’s hooves broke a tine from one of his antlers. Before he could process this fully, he felt the slice of a hoof down his cheek, and then the other landed like a bludgeon on his poll and he was down, on his knees in the snow with a low grunt of pain and the sweet-bitter smell of his own blood in his nostrils.
Oh, he has smelled his own blood before; has been beaten down and killed and drowned. But always he has risen; his immortality kept him returning and returning like a seed below the soil waiting always for spring. Death was nothing to a god.
But he is not a god.
Lysander might have been curious – has pondered the idea of his mortal death before – if not for the pain. It is blinding, it is ringing, it is a hundred adjectives he has never considered before, and even so he licks blood from his teeth and wants to laugh at how meaningless it is, his potential death here. For what? A king’s pride and a regent’s treason?
Still the blows rain down and his body gives way before each as he kneels – until comes the knife. Only then does he cry out, as the blade that had gone in swift as lightning shatters against a rib, a bright star of pain that only grows. Within a moment, within a heartbeat, it becomes a supernova, and then it is a universe, and then it swallows him whole.
With his blood steaming on the snow around him and his breathing silent and shallow as a secret, Lysander is taken by merciful darkness.
![[Image: x341oLX.png]](https://i.imgur.com/x341oLX.png)
