we're all just searching for something
bigger than we're all able to find
bigger than we're all able to find
The court is full to the brim with equines from all over Novus and Antiope is brushed and bumped and pushed as the crowd swallows her into it as though it is a living, breathing thing with a mind of its own. She has not slept, again. Restlessness is in her bones, like the lioness that tracks a path back and forth and up and down her veins.
She needs to get away from the crowds before her magic does something she will regret.
Antiope has never regretted the use of her magic before, has never thought for a second about the repercussions of its lustful hunger, but she does know that she doesn’t want to hurt these horses. She has not come here to hurt, and the tigress’ magic is getting stronger. Just earlier she was out by the maze and, when she attempted to bolster her energy one of the corn stalks began to die. Antiope is a god-thing with greedy magic, made to destroy even as it aids.
There is no telling what it can do to someone else, if anything, but the woman doesn’t want to risk it. She pushes her way through the crowd, brushing tense shoulders against sides and chests. Something hard and sharp jabs her in the ribs, but she doesn’t stop to see what it is, only grits her teeth and squeezes through and opening ahead, where the gathering seems to have dwindled down.
She finds herself standing before the altars, lit mostly with candles and decorated with all manner of gifts and offerings. Antiope doesn’t recognize the faces of the equines whose portraits have been added to some of the individual shrines, but it is clear from the items strewn at their places that many of them were well loved and greatly missed.
There are so many, she stops trying to figure out who they were and what lives they led halfway through the collection of tables and other set ups. It makes her wonder whether such celebrations were arranged in her old world, for all the lives that had been lost in needless war. Those altars would have covered a battlefield.
Antiope wonders if any would have been made for the gods.
She stops at the table full of nameless, faceless candles, where the champagne colored man stands in the firelight and shadows with hair silver like his eyes. Although he doesn’t look familiar, her sapphire eyes slip to the tattoo on his shoulder and Antiope knows he must be connected in some way with Aghavni. Curious.
He seems to hear her approach, turning toward her to offer a lit taper. “I, ah-” she wants to say no, and I’m just passing through, but when she sees the distant look in his eyes she stops. And she takes it, slowly, from his grasp, but hangs onto it a little too tightly, “Thank you.” Antiope’s gaze shifts back to the table, covered in small candles and other trinkets.
Her instinct is not to light anything. To let the taper burn away to nothing more than ash and smoke on the wind and keep them close and tight to her heart. But then she remembers the night on the beach, when the sea had tried to swallow her, and Isra had come with rubies at her feet and she had finally spoken of them.
She tips the flickering, wavering, lit end of the taper out toward two of the candles and, after a moment’s hesitation, after a breath she holds a little too long, lights them. The wooden stick burns down and down and down, until she places it within a cup of sorts no doubt filled with some sort of extinguishing liquid.
Should she say something? Antiope looks at the two candles, one a little taller than the other, and images two pairs of verdant, forest green eyes. Perhaps she should just leave. They are not here, there is nothing of them here but the memories of them she has always carried, and the pain that comes with them. A short, sharp breath escapes her.
"Speaking."
She needs to get away from the crowds before her magic does something she will regret.
Antiope has never regretted the use of her magic before, has never thought for a second about the repercussions of its lustful hunger, but she does know that she doesn’t want to hurt these horses. She has not come here to hurt, and the tigress’ magic is getting stronger. Just earlier she was out by the maze and, when she attempted to bolster her energy one of the corn stalks began to die. Antiope is a god-thing with greedy magic, made to destroy even as it aids.
There is no telling what it can do to someone else, if anything, but the woman doesn’t want to risk it. She pushes her way through the crowd, brushing tense shoulders against sides and chests. Something hard and sharp jabs her in the ribs, but she doesn’t stop to see what it is, only grits her teeth and squeezes through and opening ahead, where the gathering seems to have dwindled down.
She finds herself standing before the altars, lit mostly with candles and decorated with all manner of gifts and offerings. Antiope doesn’t recognize the faces of the equines whose portraits have been added to some of the individual shrines, but it is clear from the items strewn at their places that many of them were well loved and greatly missed.
There are so many, she stops trying to figure out who they were and what lives they led halfway through the collection of tables and other set ups. It makes her wonder whether such celebrations were arranged in her old world, for all the lives that had been lost in needless war. Those altars would have covered a battlefield.
Antiope wonders if any would have been made for the gods.
She stops at the table full of nameless, faceless candles, where the champagne colored man stands in the firelight and shadows with hair silver like his eyes. Although he doesn’t look familiar, her sapphire eyes slip to the tattoo on his shoulder and Antiope knows he must be connected in some way with Aghavni. Curious.
He seems to hear her approach, turning toward her to offer a lit taper. “I, ah-” she wants to say no, and I’m just passing through, but when she sees the distant look in his eyes she stops. And she takes it, slowly, from his grasp, but hangs onto it a little too tightly, “Thank you.” Antiope’s gaze shifts back to the table, covered in small candles and other trinkets.
Her instinct is not to light anything. To let the taper burn away to nothing more than ash and smoke on the wind and keep them close and tight to her heart. But then she remembers the night on the beach, when the sea had tried to swallow her, and Isra had come with rubies at her feet and she had finally spoken of them.
She tips the flickering, wavering, lit end of the taper out toward two of the candles and, after a moment’s hesitation, after a breath she holds a little too long, lights them. The wooden stick burns down and down and down, until she places it within a cup of sorts no doubt filled with some sort of extinguishing liquid.
Should she say something? Antiope looks at the two candles, one a little taller than the other, and images two pairs of verdant, forest green eyes. Perhaps she should just leave. They are not here, there is nothing of them here but the memories of them she has always carried, and the pain that comes with them. A short, sharp breath escapes her.
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
