PRAVDA
Pravda had not first intended to stop in Denocte, but the last time he had visited the Night Court had been during times of peace, many months ago. Since then, he had come to understand that they were undergoing a significant amount of strife. Not nearly as much as Solterra, perhaps, he thought. It seemed as though all of Novus were subjected to some sort of discord, if only through their relations to other Courts. He was only a scholar, but it seemed foolish to him. He had heard rumours of terrorism and looming war—but Pravda struggled to know what to make of it. He had never known war, aside from the vast and many chronicles in Biblioteka Syyaschnennikoy, the Library of Priests, and to him those had only seemed like so many stories.To see the palpable concern and anxiety on people’s faces, however, was another matter entirely. Pravda felt inept at quelling their concerns, and soon stopped commenting on anything regarding the current state of affairs in his new world. A snarky, bitter voice continued to remind him, what do you truly know of Novus? and a softer, even crueler voice continued to answer: Nothing.
However, he was determined to learn. And so he travelled to the Night Court by himself, rather than continuing to rely on secondhand accounts of what had occurred. His curiosity had certainly gotten the better of him. But, as far as Pravda was concerned, curiosity was no sin.
The spring air was pleasant, albeit cool, and his travel went more quickly than he expected. He first found temporary lodging—a night or so, was all a weary traveller needed—before leaving the establishment to visit the marketplace. Pravda knew from experience that, as far as gossip went, it would be the most reliable of sources. He always felt… almost as though he could not trust himself, at the Night Court, full of such passion and vibrancy.
The music that came from the market sounded like a festival, and he meandered into the bustling streets, delighted at the spark and shine of moonstones against his hooves. His nostrils filled with the scents of exotic spices and foods, and around a corner a vendor sought to sell exotic animals, as well—he noticed creatures in miniatures he thought mythical, newly hatched griffins and large serpents, a three-headed dog that bayed at him as he walked past—certainly Pravda was imagining it?
But he continued, regardless—weaving through silken cloth that fluttered in the wind, depicting intricately woven scenes of magic or history. He nearly paused to discuss the nature of the vendor’s ware—for example, what was depicted on the glimmering cloth—when he instead opted to continue to the docks, for whatever reason. Perhaps a breath of fresher air.
He crested the edge of them, where sailors were busy tying masts or docking ships. Being that it was around midday, many had paused to eat their meals and Pravda walked by without comment. He stopped on the furtherest edge of the dock, staring out toward the sea. He’d heard of the new island… and everything within him wished to explore it, but first he wanted to see how the Night Court was faring. He wanted to know—
And then his thought was cut abruptly off. What, exactly, did he want to know? And Pravda did not have any specifics, any concrete idea…
Debrodetel’Nyy had had no seasons. The knowledge of the place had always been second-nature to him. The markets were not surprising, or full of alluring, mysterious goods. And the thought of this put pits in his stomach, and restlessness in his limbs. He cast a glance over his shoulder, seeking… what? Pravda did not know, but he began to trail back toward the Markets, his curled ears cocked toward the gossip of the sailors as he returned to the bustle, music, and spice of the vendors.
@Pravda "speaks"
