Lyr had been touched by magic that never took root, or so his mother said. As a young boy when he would lay awake during great and terrible storms, and his mother would come and sing to him in the voice of the Gealach, stories of the Dathuil and the sea. Lyr cannot remember the stories themselves, only the beautiful rhythm of their poetry, the way it did not sound melodic but instead mimicked the intense thunder of hooves, the dance of rain upon metal, the sea crashing in the very storm that kept him awake—
And anyway, all of this serves only to remind him that his affinity of beautiful things is intrinsically tied to their ability to destroy. Lyr loves the sea but does not belong to it. He lays awake to listen to the terrifying power of storms. He dreams of glaciers crashing into the ocean at the end of the world, and the sound of shattering ice that wakes him from his dreams. He remembers fire not for its ability to consume, but it’s ability to purify. These thoughts possess him as he walks through the half-mad streets of Denocte, where a warrior queen of old gods reigns and people paint their faces to dance wildly through the cobblestone streets. A festival. There seems always to be a festival in Denocte, but Lyr does not mind the chaos; in a detached, scholarly sort of way (surely inherited from a father he denies kinship to) he admires their wildness. You will never have to ask a man whether he worships Caligo. They belong to the fanatic sort, who show it with everything they are. Or so his father had once said.
Lyr does not doubt the truth of that statement. The Terrastellan finds an odd familiarity in their eccentrics, one he appreciates.
The city itself is familiar, too; the moonstones and how they catch the light; the dark stone that makes up the sea-side city. His father used to take Lyr with him during his travels, and he went to Denocte often during Lyr’s childhood. Wars. Political strife. The city had been ripe for religion to grow, weed-like, among the desolate. This is a different Denocte; but Lyr still knows where the shrines are kept, in small and quiet gardens, and he goes to visit them.
The first is small and decrepit, in the corner of a building that had once been a church. Renovated, it had become an establishment of law and duty; a soldier’s quarters of some kind, he assumed. The garden kept in the back corner of their militant courtyard hosted in a hoof-sized obsidian statue of Caligo with inlaid sapphire eyes. Another shrine by the orphanage, not as overflowing as it had once been. Perhaps her eyes watch that corner of Denocte more closely.
Eventually Lyr finds his way through the markets, a tangle of buildings and haphazard, colourful tents established for the festival. He stops to toss a handful of coins at a young girl doing face paintings; she rims his eyes with bright red rings, creates intricate loops, jagged edges, some tribal design that splits his face halfway across the nose and leaves him masked.
Further into Denocte’s markets he goes, into their furtherest reach where they edge the sand of the beach. Beyond, he sees the opening of the docks and the masts of ships like some great, strange forest of cloth-heavy trees. Lyr interrupts a group of adolescents playing a game of dice; one of them is bleeding from a cut beneath the eye, and the rest are painted wildly. They scatter with bright, high, mischievous laughter.
The last shrine is the largest; black marble, inlaid with various stones and gems; eyes bright with some stone gleaming, rippling like quicksilver. Lyr expects to be alone but is surprised to discover, at the end of Denocte’s celebration, a man cloaked in shadows with a glowing sigil on his shoulder. He appears to be paying some sort of respects.
An inevitable sort of anger lodges itself like an arrow in his breast; he feels the tug of it with each breath, with each forward step. Lyr steels himself for an interaction he is sure will be unpleasant.
Please, Lyr.
I’m so cold.
Lyr shakes his head of the memory as he approaches to stand aside the other man. Quietly, he says, “Would you not rather be enjoying the festivities?”
His private visitations to the shrines are now interrupted; the night of quiet contemplation ended in one definitive moment. He is always so surprised when he realises anger does not feel so different from adoration, in the way he examines man of devotion with an analytic, critical eye, with an eye as attentive as a lover’s.
"Speech." || @Tenebrae
And anyway, all of this serves only to remind him that his affinity of beautiful things is intrinsically tied to their ability to destroy. Lyr loves the sea but does not belong to it. He lays awake to listen to the terrifying power of storms. He dreams of glaciers crashing into the ocean at the end of the world, and the sound of shattering ice that wakes him from his dreams. He remembers fire not for its ability to consume, but it’s ability to purify. These thoughts possess him as he walks through the half-mad streets of Denocte, where a warrior queen of old gods reigns and people paint their faces to dance wildly through the cobblestone streets. A festival. There seems always to be a festival in Denocte, but Lyr does not mind the chaos; in a detached, scholarly sort of way (surely inherited from a father he denies kinship to) he admires their wildness. You will never have to ask a man whether he worships Caligo. They belong to the fanatic sort, who show it with everything they are. Or so his father had once said.
Lyr does not doubt the truth of that statement. The Terrastellan finds an odd familiarity in their eccentrics, one he appreciates.
The city itself is familiar, too; the moonstones and how they catch the light; the dark stone that makes up the sea-side city. His father used to take Lyr with him during his travels, and he went to Denocte often during Lyr’s childhood. Wars. Political strife. The city had been ripe for religion to grow, weed-like, among the desolate. This is a different Denocte; but Lyr still knows where the shrines are kept, in small and quiet gardens, and he goes to visit them.
The first is small and decrepit, in the corner of a building that had once been a church. Renovated, it had become an establishment of law and duty; a soldier’s quarters of some kind, he assumed. The garden kept in the back corner of their militant courtyard hosted in a hoof-sized obsidian statue of Caligo with inlaid sapphire eyes. Another shrine by the orphanage, not as overflowing as it had once been. Perhaps her eyes watch that corner of Denocte more closely.
Eventually Lyr finds his way through the markets, a tangle of buildings and haphazard, colourful tents established for the festival. He stops to toss a handful of coins at a young girl doing face paintings; she rims his eyes with bright red rings, creates intricate loops, jagged edges, some tribal design that splits his face halfway across the nose and leaves him masked.
Further into Denocte’s markets he goes, into their furtherest reach where they edge the sand of the beach. Beyond, he sees the opening of the docks and the masts of ships like some great, strange forest of cloth-heavy trees. Lyr interrupts a group of adolescents playing a game of dice; one of them is bleeding from a cut beneath the eye, and the rest are painted wildly. They scatter with bright, high, mischievous laughter.
The last shrine is the largest; black marble, inlaid with various stones and gems; eyes bright with some stone gleaming, rippling like quicksilver. Lyr expects to be alone but is surprised to discover, at the end of Denocte’s celebration, a man cloaked in shadows with a glowing sigil on his shoulder. He appears to be paying some sort of respects.
An inevitable sort of anger lodges itself like an arrow in his breast; he feels the tug of it with each breath, with each forward step. Lyr steels himself for an interaction he is sure will be unpleasant.
Please, Lyr.
I’m so cold.
Lyr shakes his head of the memory as he approaches to stand aside the other man. Quietly, he says, “Would you not rather be enjoying the festivities?”
His private visitations to the shrines are now interrupted; the night of quiet contemplation ended in one definitive moment. He is always so surprised when he realises anger does not feel so different from adoration, in the way he examines man of devotion with an analytic, critical eye, with an eye as attentive as a lover’s.
"Speech." || @Tenebrae
this was the difference between ichor and iron
the universe made you closer to itself than us
