boudika
you and atlas are one and the same, my dear
cursed to hold a weight you can't bear
and still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
cursed to hold a weight you can't bear
and still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
The magic of her old world was this:
The savagery of starving wolves in winter, turning the snow blood-red, avoiding death on the narrow edge of their fangs. Survival at the brink of death. Storms in November; the way the water rushed up to the very edge of the island cottages, and with it came the keening of monsters. The way a god would whisper in her ear as a young girl, we will disguise you as a boy, the burning of herbs and meat in the back of their small home, her father pleading with dead gods, forgotten gods, please. It was the magic of never being discovered and of the sea swallowing the horses when they fell. It was black cliffs and wind that, if you listened closely, would speak from the water-wrought caverns within the jagged rocks. It was a horse’s eye glinting in the waves before it became something else. It was gold dust in the streets, and searing flesh like acid. It was the rain when it came, first in a whisper, and then in a scream. It was the song of the sea.
There had been no singing bells or dragons, nor castles turned to crystal or monsters in desert cities that turned people to stone. There had only been the salt, the brine, the consistent inconsistency of the Khashran. There had been metal and fangs and a war that she thought must have been a little like magic, just a bit, just enough to make her feel alive.
Now, Boudika is in a world where there are dragons and singing bells, and a girl with magic that can transform the ugly into beautiful things. It fills her with a hope as delicate and uncertain as spring growth. The huntress, the dancer, walks the streets to answer the bells; she wanders down alleyways and listenings to the sighing sea in the distant; she thinks of a boy wearing striped skin, a boy she chased down through a blaze of traitorous flames; she thinks of what it feels like when she dances for a city she does not know how to become a part of.
She thinks of how her old world is a distant and faded thing. The smell of bonfires, however, is pungent; so real she can touch it, if she wants. So real she knows where to find the source. Boudika inhales deeply, a breath that contained many different weights—and when she releases it, she imagines them forgotten. Dropped. Discarded in the street. She walks, step-by-step, toward the chiming bells. She follows the glittering moonstone path, toward a garden alight with fireflies.
The sound of the dragon's hum is everything Boudika has ever known. It is the ocean, and sand, and a magic without a name. She looks at him tenderly; curiously; and then back to Isra, with her heavy burden of life. And Boudika wonders what it would be like to wear that. She wonders if the mare is afraid of men like Raum or the striped boy, setting things aflame again. She wonders what Denocte can become.
She wonders what it must feel like to love this country as much as she loved her old one.
“Tonight I am asking you for help. There is no longer the potential for war waiting at the edge of our home. Tonight is the first night in which we can start anew, and build Denocte into whatever it is we want it to be. Tonight is for possibilities.”
Boudika’s mind is alight with a city near the sea. Her mind is alight with magic and smoke and flickering lanterns. Her dreams are full of teeth, but her heart yearns and yearns and yearns to break free. She sees the infinite other in Isra’s eyes, the answer to the question that has been splitting her apart since her arrival.
Why did I love them so much,
her heart beats.
When they did not love me?
Her mouth is dry. And in her is a tigress. In her is the memory of every beautiful thing she had ever ruined, for love of something else. In her is the treacherous snake of self deprecation, tightening and tightening around her lungs, around her garnet eyes. She feels the burn of tears and the dryness in her throat of fear. But in her, also, is Orestes’ song; Orestes sea-deep eyes; Orestes words, when he whispered, it is your nature. It is Orestes promising, you are not meant to die here and it is the feeling of waking up on the baking sand of Solterra only to find her way here, all the way here.
To this moment. To the beating of her heart. To the love of Isra’s eyes.
And she sees something she had always wanted and could never defend. She sees the opportunity welling before her, the chance; to speak, to be, to become.
“I am only a dancer.” Her voice is a whisper, after the confident addresses of Antiope and Morrighan. She clears her throat, stepping forward, forward, forward, from the back of the crowd. In her mind, the bells continue to chime. In her mind, Fable’s hum gives her unfound courage. She lifts her head, and she is breaking like the waves against a cliff; she is breaking everything she has ever been or known; because she wants this infinitely more, the thing in front of her, uncertain and fragile, a fawn on new legs. The future.
“But I would have Denocte become what I see in your eyes.” The castle is now nothing but gems and crystal. The stars are bright, feverish above. The unicorn is a mystery to Boudika; a beautiful mystery; but she has never trusted anything as much as she has trusted the look in Isra’s eyes. “I would have it become a city by the sea that cannot be conquered by evil men. I would have it become a haven for those who, like Caligo, feel as though they do not belong. I would have it be a city of magic, and peace, and good. I don’t know what I can offer, besides the same passion you feel. I don’t know what I can offer, besides a need to do good for other people.” To undo the bad I have done. But Boudika does not say that.
She takes one more hesitant step forward. Now, her voice is more confident. Now, she remembers the general’s daughter she had once been. “I believe strongly in peace, until the only way to secure it is through violence. I believe in love before hate—I have seen, over and over again, how hate ends. I was raised to lead in wartime, but I will become whatever you need of me. I would become your Champion, your Warden, your Regent.” That is all Boudika has to say. She nods her head, respectfully--nearly bashfully--and takes a step back into the crowd. Her heart is beating furiously, wildly, but she thinks of how badly she wants to become more than what she had always been. She thinks of how badly she wants to share in such a fierce love for such a beautiful place, and she can think of no better way to do it than to devote herself utterly. To say:
Enough,
and step into tomorrow, instead of the past.
The savagery of starving wolves in winter, turning the snow blood-red, avoiding death on the narrow edge of their fangs. Survival at the brink of death. Storms in November; the way the water rushed up to the very edge of the island cottages, and with it came the keening of monsters. The way a god would whisper in her ear as a young girl, we will disguise you as a boy, the burning of herbs and meat in the back of their small home, her father pleading with dead gods, forgotten gods, please. It was the magic of never being discovered and of the sea swallowing the horses when they fell. It was black cliffs and wind that, if you listened closely, would speak from the water-wrought caverns within the jagged rocks. It was a horse’s eye glinting in the waves before it became something else. It was gold dust in the streets, and searing flesh like acid. It was the rain when it came, first in a whisper, and then in a scream. It was the song of the sea.
There had been no singing bells or dragons, nor castles turned to crystal or monsters in desert cities that turned people to stone. There had only been the salt, the brine, the consistent inconsistency of the Khashran. There had been metal and fangs and a war that she thought must have been a little like magic, just a bit, just enough to make her feel alive.
Now, Boudika is in a world where there are dragons and singing bells, and a girl with magic that can transform the ugly into beautiful things. It fills her with a hope as delicate and uncertain as spring growth. The huntress, the dancer, walks the streets to answer the bells; she wanders down alleyways and listenings to the sighing sea in the distant; she thinks of a boy wearing striped skin, a boy she chased down through a blaze of traitorous flames; she thinks of what it feels like when she dances for a city she does not know how to become a part of.
She thinks of how her old world is a distant and faded thing. The smell of bonfires, however, is pungent; so real she can touch it, if she wants. So real she knows where to find the source. Boudika inhales deeply, a breath that contained many different weights—and when she releases it, she imagines them forgotten. Dropped. Discarded in the street. She walks, step-by-step, toward the chiming bells. She follows the glittering moonstone path, toward a garden alight with fireflies.
The sound of the dragon's hum is everything Boudika has ever known. It is the ocean, and sand, and a magic without a name. She looks at him tenderly; curiously; and then back to Isra, with her heavy burden of life. And Boudika wonders what it would be like to wear that. She wonders if the mare is afraid of men like Raum or the striped boy, setting things aflame again. She wonders what Denocte can become.
She wonders what it must feel like to love this country as much as she loved her old one.
“Tonight I am asking you for help. There is no longer the potential for war waiting at the edge of our home. Tonight is the first night in which we can start anew, and build Denocte into whatever it is we want it to be. Tonight is for possibilities.”
Boudika’s mind is alight with a city near the sea. Her mind is alight with magic and smoke and flickering lanterns. Her dreams are full of teeth, but her heart yearns and yearns and yearns to break free. She sees the infinite other in Isra’s eyes, the answer to the question that has been splitting her apart since her arrival.
Why did I love them so much,
her heart beats.
When they did not love me?
Her mouth is dry. And in her is a tigress. In her is the memory of every beautiful thing she had ever ruined, for love of something else. In her is the treacherous snake of self deprecation, tightening and tightening around her lungs, around her garnet eyes. She feels the burn of tears and the dryness in her throat of fear. But in her, also, is Orestes’ song; Orestes sea-deep eyes; Orestes words, when he whispered, it is your nature. It is Orestes promising, you are not meant to die here and it is the feeling of waking up on the baking sand of Solterra only to find her way here, all the way here.
To this moment. To the beating of her heart. To the love of Isra’s eyes.
And she sees something she had always wanted and could never defend. She sees the opportunity welling before her, the chance; to speak, to be, to become.
“I am only a dancer.” Her voice is a whisper, after the confident addresses of Antiope and Morrighan. She clears her throat, stepping forward, forward, forward, from the back of the crowd. In her mind, the bells continue to chime. In her mind, Fable’s hum gives her unfound courage. She lifts her head, and she is breaking like the waves against a cliff; she is breaking everything she has ever been or known; because she wants this infinitely more, the thing in front of her, uncertain and fragile, a fawn on new legs. The future.
“But I would have Denocte become what I see in your eyes.” The castle is now nothing but gems and crystal. The stars are bright, feverish above. The unicorn is a mystery to Boudika; a beautiful mystery; but she has never trusted anything as much as she has trusted the look in Isra’s eyes. “I would have it become a city by the sea that cannot be conquered by evil men. I would have it become a haven for those who, like Caligo, feel as though they do not belong. I would have it be a city of magic, and peace, and good. I don’t know what I can offer, besides the same passion you feel. I don’t know what I can offer, besides a need to do good for other people.” To undo the bad I have done. But Boudika does not say that.
She takes one more hesitant step forward. Now, her voice is more confident. Now, she remembers the general’s daughter she had once been. “I believe strongly in peace, until the only way to secure it is through violence. I believe in love before hate—I have seen, over and over again, how hate ends. I was raised to lead in wartime, but I will become whatever you need of me. I would become your Champion, your Warden, your Regent.” That is all Boudika has to say. She nods her head, respectfully--nearly bashfully--and takes a step back into the crowd. Her heart is beating furiously, wildly, but she thinks of how badly she wants to become more than what she had always been. She thinks of how badly she wants to share in such a fierce love for such a beautiful place, and she can think of no better way to do it than to devote herself utterly. To say:
Enough,
and step into tomorrow, instead of the past.
@everyone | "speaks" | notes: text
-Which role(s) would you prefer to have for your character? Please rank your choices if there are more than one.
Any of the Champions, but preferably Warden or Regent!
-If you are given a role how many posts can you comfortably commit to a month in the court boards on average, without feeling stressed out?
Easily 8, but anywhere between 8 and 13 probably? Sorry those are such random numbers.
- Would you be willing to help with adopts, lore, plots, any court events?
Of course!
-Do you have any events in mind that you would love to do?
-What would you like to see done in Denocte?
I would love to help contribute to some sub-plot ideas, maybe more emphasis on the Night Court being a kind of "Night oriented" city? An emphasis on seasonal festivals. Mostly, I'd love to come up with some kind of adoptable lore that has a strong influence/emphasis on the Night Court, and potential competitions that take place within the city? Definitely artistic-based ones, like... maybe character poetry reading or something along those lines. Another idea is a "magic school" for characters that may have trouble with their powers, that they could possibly get EXP from or at least some neat IC stuff/writing prompts/stuff like that! Also, Denocte has always been really well known for orphans, and after the war with Raum I would love to see some kind of support system--perhaps even extending into IC interaction with the Day Court--for that if there were any characters actually affected by that, or even just within Denocte. Just a lot of random ideas that could potentially be developed!
-What would you character like to actually do IC?
... just a lot of interaction? I'd love for her to be a super involved, slightly awkward whatever she is. Through this I would love for her to get some personal development and grow as a character. I'd like for her to become very involved with the different types of people of the Night Court, and develop a really intense love/passion/defense for them. I could also see her doing quite a bit of travelling for the Night Court on diplomatic or whatever types of things.
