Calliope has long since had her fill of the festival. It's too whimsical a setting for a unicorn made of scars, beauty and rage. She's better off dressed in scars and blood than glitter and paint. Where others drink from cups and lay, exhausted and high on pillow and flower she is still a wild thing. She slakes her thirst in a nearby creek and strays as far from the music and laughter as the tree line will let her.
They are gentle things, these horses with flower crowns and laughter than rings like bells. Calliope is far to hard for their petal crowns and their mead. She is not made to know any peace but one taken from the veins and flesh of sinners.
And so it's in the shadows of the masses that she roams, judging as she prowls and hunts in a place that has no purpose to offer her. Where others avoid the heat she basks in the sting of it. The children stay far away from her. They are young enough to know a fear of her, that nightmare of a unicorn with her patchwork scars. Only the children know she doesn't belong. The grown horses of Novus are made of dulled sharpness, their instincts whittled away by safety.
It's not until she catches the hint of star-shine red ducking into the darkness of a willow tree that she slows. Cyrene. She's only seen her in passing. Where Calliope lingers at the back of meetings Cyrene has always seemed content to talk of politics and peace and trivial kingdom things. Calliope hates to think of horses trapped inside walls and she she's spent all their other meeting prowling on the outside like a trapped, feral lion.
But here she's quick to approach, stepping louder on the grass so that she might move like a normal horse does. “You look as if you're waiting.” Calliope offers with a smile that doesn't manage to be quite kind enough. It's a hard glint in her eye that meets the Emissary, a challenge she doesn't know how to gentle.
“But if you're trying to hide a willow tree is a poor choice.” A certain chill lingers in her voice, a hint that she's trying to cage something that refuses to be tamed.
This is not the same meeting that she had earlier with another unicorn and the magic is gone from her blood. Willow trees are too lovely to suit her. Calliope is better off beneath old, tangled trucks of trees that know not how to bend and sway in the wings.
BUT THE BEAUTY OF HER FORM BRINGS VIOLENCE
A LONG AND LOVELY FALL NO WILL OR FIRE CAN OPPOSE
They are gentle things, these horses with flower crowns and laughter than rings like bells. Calliope is far to hard for their petal crowns and their mead. She is not made to know any peace but one taken from the veins and flesh of sinners.
And so it's in the shadows of the masses that she roams, judging as she prowls and hunts in a place that has no purpose to offer her. Where others avoid the heat she basks in the sting of it. The children stay far away from her. They are young enough to know a fear of her, that nightmare of a unicorn with her patchwork scars. Only the children know she doesn't belong. The grown horses of Novus are made of dulled sharpness, their instincts whittled away by safety.
It's not until she catches the hint of star-shine red ducking into the darkness of a willow tree that she slows. Cyrene. She's only seen her in passing. Where Calliope lingers at the back of meetings Cyrene has always seemed content to talk of politics and peace and trivial kingdom things. Calliope hates to think of horses trapped inside walls and she she's spent all their other meeting prowling on the outside like a trapped, feral lion.
But here she's quick to approach, stepping louder on the grass so that she might move like a normal horse does. “You look as if you're waiting.” Calliope offers with a smile that doesn't manage to be quite kind enough. It's a hard glint in her eye that meets the Emissary, a challenge she doesn't know how to gentle.
“But if you're trying to hide a willow tree is a poor choice.” A certain chill lingers in her voice, a hint that she's trying to cage something that refuses to be tamed.
This is not the same meeting that she had earlier with another unicorn and the magic is gone from her blood. Willow trees are too lovely to suit her. Calliope is better off beneath old, tangled trucks of trees that know not how to bend and sway in the wings.
BUT THE BEAUTY OF HER FORM BRINGS VIOLENCE
A LONG AND LOVELY FALL NO WILL OR FIRE CAN OPPOSE
@Cyrene
have a Calli who doesn't know how to be normal
