for he lives with the least worry
who knows not his misfortune
who knows not his misfortune
D
ays pass in a flurry of activities, her nights spent wide awake directing the troops of Denocte, the faithful people who are so quick to help, so quick to defend. They come and go from the chamber they've set up as a war room, Pan's map lain so beautifully over a large wooden table. Upon it, pieces are set like a gameboard, yet Isra's name is still hidden from them. She wonders what this means, but has no time to dwell as she sends another spy off, another informant that may never return. Each citizen that leaves hits her heart like a knife.
Daggers pierce one by one, inch closer and closer to the tender muscle that pumps so strong and fierce beneath layer upon layer of adamant and silk. And through the meetings, through the restless nights that bring no reprieve, she scours the library shelves. Darkness that holds her tight tucks ever closer now, pressing as a lover against her hollow ribs and sunken eyes, shies away from the candle on the table that's nearly melted completely. Oh, but the three others beside it, still untouched, and the two obliterated from before promise an even longer night ahead.
This is her sanctuary, and now it could save lives just as those many endless, priceless Eluoan taught her do outside of these four walls. All too soon, only another candle and two more collections in, an owl swoops to the arching ceilings above, their shadow covering the face of the moon and the phoenix loves so well. Slowly they circle and descend, landing dangerously close to the candles that are quickly moved away from the down drafts and put safely back upon the table. When the bird extends their leg, the Pegasus gently pulls the note from its bindings and reads through it once, twice, thrice before sighing and settling in a heap of feathers and fatigue upon the bench. "What would you do, little one?" She asks to the bird that only turns its head, asking who in return.
Carefully she pulls a sheet of paper from another desk near the entryway, a quill falling into place with the ink pot just up and to the right. Large eyes watch her, and golden eyes watch the paper as words begin to spill.
Ipomoea, Regent of Dawn
the words are a confident scrawl across the page, a foreign touch on a name that is not yet familiar but she hopes one day she might match a face to under better circumstances. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and with the heart of our people, for your thoughts and prayers. All I ask is for any news you might have, any scuffle, anything that could lead us to her - there are eyes and ears that listen in the dark and we will pull the pieces of our broken marionette together again. There is nothing the Night will not know. Is that a threat, she wonders, or simply the truth? For darkness shrouds all corners of their world, and in it her people revel and prosper. They will stop at nothing to return what is theirs. She ignores it, not willing to cross out the truth laid bare, and instead continues on.
I've scoured our library and will keep looking when I am able, but there are stories. Oh, Isra would tell them better but I shall try.
I've found bogeymen who come in the dark to wreak havoc and leave terror - creatures born of the night, to the night, born of fear and feeding on the living. They will not, cannot, be seen by the day. Our records say nothing of their appetites. Another, Coco , is a bogeyman, too. He comes and feasts on children in the dark who misbehave, but perhaps one has grown too bold, too big, and come to a court where he does not belong.
Others still tell tales of the Adze who are fireflies that feast on the blood of their victims, but be weary for they can shift before our eyes into one of us. You cannot tell the difference between who they are and who you are when they take on our mortal flesh.
The most recent I've found is La Llarona, and how she makes my skin crawl, Regent. A woman dressed in white, a crying to draw you in, an ephemeral shade upon the land that looks like a walking heartbreak and sounds like a mourning lover. They say she lost her child, they say her little one drowned, they say she looks for those to take his place. In the night she steals away our children, in the night she tries to make them her own. But how can our little ones replace hers? None will ever be good enough, and so she drowns them. There are no tales that say she feasts on flesh, but details get lost in the passage of time.
I will keep looking, Ipomeoa, and when we find your monster I will look for a way to rid you of that plague, too. Until then, let our courts be at peace with one another as this storm grows closer.
Emissary of Denocte,
Moira Tonnerre
She's too tired for the mouthful of a title resting on her shoulders, and she does not care that she is an acting sovereign when her heart shatters with every breath that Isra is gone. It is the only sound she hears in her veins, the thrumming of her heart sings missing, missing, missing like a broken record.
Delicate are the movements that tie the note together. She looks to the owl and finds them ready for food, ready for something other than flight. And so they go to the airie together where the phoenix deposits her faithful friend in an open nest and opens the food for all to flock to. Then, she selects a morning dove and wraps the note around their ankle with a whisper in their ear. They coo to her so sweetly, a promise in those large eyes, and take off into the night. Only when the dove is no longer a fleck on the horizon does she turn. "You may leave whenever you wish," and with that, the Emissary is back on her quest for knowledge to help their friends in the far North.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: I am sorry this took eons ! Take my poorly researched bogeymen 8)
