T E N E B R A E
On my body, the grace of shadows
and in my heart: all Hells
and in my heart: all Hells
Sweat is slick across the silver of his torso. It gleams in the firelight as he moves through the thick crowds. The citizens of Denocte have tumbled out upon her streets, drawn by the enchanting whispers of revelry. The fires crackle and dance, they leap up to set the sky alight. Smoke billows up to blend with the clouds and shadows that darken the midnight sky.
Great torches light the sky in a warm glow, painting the swirling smoke in an eerie red. Even the moon is painted crimson with the light of this mid-fall dance. Tenebrae watches the dancers who entertain in the center of the streets. They move to a song of voice and instrument and it is not unlike the battle training Tenebrae has come from. Yet his music is the clash of weaponry, the gasps and grunts of pain and effort. These might be the only symphonies that he will ever know. Warriors and dancers share their grace and elegance and idly the Disciple wonders if he too might have been a dancer, if he were set upon any other road - one that did not lead to the sun and to death..
His knees still ache, remembering the cold stone of the temple floor. How many hours had he been there penitential that he looked at a girl, fearful that he might have wanted more than just to simply see. Is there no part of him that does not ache with sin or with the labours of war?
Shadows crawl along his skin as he walks beyond and away from the Night Markets. The darkness drapes him as if he were clad in armour. The glow of his eyes, of his half moon sigils have the crowd parting like the Red Sea before him. Some know the Night Order and its Stallions who Swallow the Sun. Others do not and yet one look upon the blazing sigils of half-cut moons and the eerie, light-swallowing glow of his eyes are enough to have them scrambling to step around him.
He moves through the spaces they make, walking like a warrior returned, not from training, but war. Dust and dirt are thick upon his coat, blood gleams like trickling black ink across his muscles torso. Still Tenebrae can hear his fellow Disciple’s laugh as his shadow blade caught across Tenebrae’s shoulder. The muscles smart, still they cry out their agony through whitehot nerves cut and riled. Yet even through his body’s pin he hears the song of stars and stops.
Tenebrae is stood before the tent that lays itself beneath the sea of swirling stars above. He looks upon the sign that welcomes him in and promises to know what the future holds for him. A girl moves in beside him. He feels it - he does not need to look. There is a fragrance upon the air, it clings to her skin, it dances across his tongue and he might laugh for all the ways she is beautiful and he is not made to behold her. Least of all when he is battle worn.
Tenebrae takes a breath and does not dare look at her, but bathes her instead in the rich whiskey of his words. Better to bathe her in the amber of his voice than to limn her in the starlight of his gaze - well, it is for him at least. “Do you think they can tell you any more about your life than a goddess has already decreed?” His skull tilts, as if to look at the girl before remembering the danger.
He keeps his gaze upon the tent and the truths its royal silks shield.
@Katherine ~ for any of your ladies <3
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
