[P] All at once

[Renwick]

renwick.

Strangers have that look about them, Renwick finds, when he engages in the age hold and timeless art of people watching. The look in and of itself is varied, but the aura remains steadfast as any shield wall, locked tight and inpenetrable.

Only a truly spectacular reposte can ever hope to shatter it, a lance hewn from diamond self-assurance inlaid with gold infused destiny.

Novus calls to them all, the world weary and the unprepared. Doe eyed or dead eyed, sweeping them all up in her raven feathered wings. Measuring their worth with flame eyed scrutiny and impossible wisdom. Deciding whether to uplift or let go. Graceless, forgettable falling into whatever void will open gladly to swallow them between jagged, serrated teeth. He's seen it happen more times than he wished he had, stepping off boats, washing up on sandy shores with nothing but a handful of foreign coins and a cloak to stave off the chill. He feels for them, the same as any who take it upon themselves to dutifully become something of a pillar for those who have long lost their way.

Calligo's wayward children casting a cautious, considerate eye on those who arguably have it worse than them — until they find their way back to the path. Little lanterns in the mist, hooves resolutely plastered to the well worn stone beneath their feet. Seldom to their return to the mist with their generous benefactors, but Renwick can't fault them for that, not really. He judges, as any Denoctian does, all thin lipped smiles and twinkle in their eyes. The Night Courts reputation is a misunderstood, but surprisingly prominent one no matter how far you go. Even to the most obscure points of the map.

Who wishes to stay with the thieves and beggars but thieves and beggars? Scholarly minds turn their sights to delumine, while the gentle hearts turn to terrastella & of course those whose hearts are aflame disappear like mirages in the golden deserts. Lost to brighter more appealing pursuits of more gallant courts, missing the point & music Renwick so loves about his raven winged home.  

"Are you lost?" He queries, mild toned & humourous. Privy to some private joke not a soul in the vicinity would ever know, down to the upturned corner of a dawn dusted lip. Young Ren would of been more enthusiastic, more pep-in-step attitude. Sort you'd find quickstepping with bards on cobblestone corners between guard duty. He's still there, of course, it's the music of him. Now it simmers instead of boils.

Matured into something greater. One has to enjoy the music first before finding the beat, before you dance like it's the first & last time, roses in your hair.

From his perch, nestled snuggly on a cragged rock moss covered and damp from nightfall rain, he admires her with molten pools of solar gold. Once upon a time, they were silver, silver and bright. Brighter than the moon & all of her court of stars. Now all that's left is a grand homage to Solis' golden splendour, and Renwick cannot recall memories where they were anything but. The lack of pupils is new, and disconcerting, if he listens to his fellow knights. Their disappearance makes him hard to read, they said between mouthfuls of mead, makes him a smiling unreadable wolf.

I'm gentle as a lamb, he'd laughed, while fighting the pit in his stomach. Not a rock, but a chunk of solid, Zolin gold.

He must be a wolf, outside looking in, to this quaint little scene. A pale doe with a griffin at her back, alone in the woods with nothing but the hide on her back and her wits at her hoof tips. But he hopes he paints a somewhat kinder picture, the kind which reveals he is a knight of some sort, down to the particularly noble lilt in his voice, betraying less than humble beginnings. "Ruris is the home of the lovers, the thieves and the scoundrels. Or those who have yet to find a home." He explains after a beat, pauses to pass her griffin another wondering glance. Rocs had been the preferred choice of companions to his brotherhood, until their weyrs had withered and the wars had taken the last of their birds. A griffin is no roc, but it inspires all the same, with it's face upon heraldry and armor alike. "So I must ask which one are you this evening, among the grass and river waters?"




§

Remember that you are a wolf. And you cannot be caged.

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