kassandra,
and in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
i tried to find the sound
She is queen and night and all things, all-encompassing, and in her presence, Kassandra feels both held and swaddled and exposed, raw edges left out in the cold. She has seen where Caligo is supposed to rest-- she has seen the throne of the gods-- and it was empty. And this living embodiment of pitch-black and goddess of shrouds now dusts the paltry air they breathe with her stardust presence; her hooves touch the mortal ground upon which they tread.
And she speaks! To Kassandra! In real silken word, and not visions and tricks of the mind. Not scenes from the void pressed through too-small holes, unbendable material forced around corners. Not explosions of color, light, sound; and yet, when Caligo addresses her, Kassandra finds herself no less shaken, and small tremors run through her, across her pelt, making the stars dance.
All these people! All the faces, all the names, all the hearts and minds and ideas. They all stepped up to move Denocte forward. A cacophony of colors and voices; each one, whether they believed themselves chosen or not, willing to bear the burden of the kingdom on their backs. Each wanted the power but each knew the risks. If the story of powerful Morrighan, dread, damaged, deceased, did not put the fear of gods and the monsters they create in their hearts then they were fools beyond measure.
And what is Denocte at its core but a house, a home, a haven? Where did Caligo go when she was persecuted by the lords of Light? Where did Kassandra go, when her home burned behind her?
Oh, but she had so many questions. Please, just let me ask my questions; but the words turned to ash in her throat, and she turned her head away so the night-queen did not see her childlike tears. And when she does she sees the amaranthine form of a lovely, familiar face.
She smiles at Rivane and tries to pretend she isn’t crying (she’s only crying a little bit). Oculos is there, too, sniffing for his friends, nuzzling his black nose into soft little hands.
And she speaks! To Kassandra! In real silken word, and not visions and tricks of the mind. Not scenes from the void pressed through too-small holes, unbendable material forced around corners. Not explosions of color, light, sound; and yet, when Caligo addresses her, Kassandra finds herself no less shaken, and small tremors run through her, across her pelt, making the stars dance.
All these people! All the faces, all the names, all the hearts and minds and ideas. They all stepped up to move Denocte forward. A cacophony of colors and voices; each one, whether they believed themselves chosen or not, willing to bear the burden of the kingdom on their backs. Each wanted the power but each knew the risks. If the story of powerful Morrighan, dread, damaged, deceased, did not put the fear of gods and the monsters they create in their hearts then they were fools beyond measure.
And what is Denocte at its core but a house, a home, a haven? Where did Caligo go when she was persecuted by the lords of Light? Where did Kassandra go, when her home burned behind her?
Oh, but she had so many questions. Please, just let me ask my questions; but the words turned to ash in her throat, and she turned her head away so the night-queen did not see her childlike tears. And when she does she sees the amaranthine form of a lovely, familiar face.
She smiles at Rivane and tries to pretend she isn’t crying (she’s only crying a little bit). Oculos is there, too, sniffing for his friends, nuzzling his black nose into soft little hands.
