H
ere and there, Isorath had caught a glimpse of Vectaeryn wares, when he found time to peel away from the library and the grand Court. The tea of the Capital City had just been one of the pleasant, nostalgia wrapped surprises he had glimpsed at. The fine silks of the Red Coast, with it's bay of Merchant Cities, he had spied as they flickered in the breeze — the familiar gilded dragons carefully embroidered on the expensive fabric, it's signature. Vectaeryn was a treasure trove, for merchants bold enough to do business with them. Fabric, spices, teas and for those truly who were both bold and brave — the shimmering dragon fire steel. He had mused that day, silver strands billowing in the sea breeze as he'd peered at the fabric. How far both he and the exotic wares had come, to be within the Night Court. To strange places and into strange faces, their stories a secret, they remained unquestioned and undiscovered. Except, no one had asked Isorath where he had come from. Where he had been. What had come before. Perhaps too many were afraid of the men dressed in gold and gemstones, with dragon blood in his veins and stars in his hair. Scared of what, though? That if they pulled back the veil they would shatter the ethereal figure they were so enraptured by, make him a mortal instead of holy. Or, that they would find something too wounded and tragic for their tastes?
He savored the taste of home on his tongue, allowed it to wash away the displeasure at the circumstance he'd found himself in. Again. Preoccupied his thoughts with the easy smile Reich displayed, how his whole face warmed with it's appearance. The silver of his eyes was molten, the kind smelted by artisans blessed by the Gods of the Forge. Yes, getting wrapped up in the little things he observed in the Monarch was a far more appealing idea than the budding war which loomed over their head. An axe waiting for it's handler to swing, so it might bite and cleave it's way through friend and foe alike. Dusk and Night were symbolic, just as Dawn and Day. Vespera danced between the Sun and the Moon as Calligo ascended to her throne of stars. He cannot blame Reichenbach, nor the rest of the Denoctian's for reacting to the slight, as that was what it was, no matter how one might have tried to dress it better. Why would one venture into a place now filled with uncertainty when once it was one of welcome?
Isorath, who had been welcomed and embraced the Night Court as though it's songs and blood was his own — felt the heat, it's a familiar sting and burn that licked against his scales and at the porcelain of his hooves. He's sure there are many who would have left the moment the raven carried them news of the alliance, self-preservation and Court loyalty clutched to their breast. It appeared to be the case, too. Not just idle musings. Isorath remained in the fire, unharmed and unafraid — pledging his loyalty to a King that was not his own.
A crime, perhaps. Yet his soul and very essence felt not an ounce of guilt as summer lilac mixed with smoky silver. His fires have never been tamed by anyone, and gladly, they would burn those that tried for their arrogance. His fires are his own, and those he gave them to, were of his own choice. They were worthy, or they had stirred something within the ethereal man he'd long thought unobtainable.
As you have mine, Isorath.
It's his turn to smile, it's delicate but radiant. Spun on a silk loom, a bird feeling sun on it's feathers for the first time in forever. A breathless noise, caught somewhere between a hum and a laugh. The motion cause pieces off his too long forelock to shift forward, covering one of his eyes temporarily until he pushed it aside with one simple press of his teke. Flustered momentarily by the richness of the monarch's words, and how they hadn't faltered from hesitation. Such kindess... "You're too kind. You flatter me and you've yet to see all my talents, Reich." He responded with just a hint of mischief lacing the lilted tones of his sing song voice.
Believable legends, Isorath had no trouble seeing where such stories came from. A man such as he was born destined to have songs and stories written about him. Immortalized in ink and the hearts of the enraptured. A man who stepped into a room and commanded very ounce of attention a mortal had to give, enraptured and enthralled by the melodic Reichenbach could of convinced stars to fall and the moon to weep.
Interesting is too soft a word for Calligo — tempestuous and feisty, perhaps.
"Forgive me for trying to be modest with my compliments." Isorath retorted in good mirth, eyes glittering in the firelight. "Passionate. Tempestuous. Feisty. Mysterious. Spirited. Free, and many many more words. Yet, I don't think they would do you, and yours justice." Each word that escaped his lips is like smoke on the water, and incense clasped delicately through the hair. Wispy, half-purred notes with sparks of fire between.
"It was hard not to fall for the Denoctian charm, I just hope Denocte has been charmed by my presence in return, and want to keep me around." Isorath mused, sliding into a comfortable silence when Reichenbach mentioned that he hadn't witnessed the bonfires. It was almost a cardinal sin, to be in the land infamous for it's parties, and not have joined in. He's unable to help the sly look which crowned his visage, the idea of needing a denoctian to show him playing around in his mind, a dragon chasing it's own flame. He deliberately rose his cup to his lips, gemstone gaze once again settling with a mischievous glint upon the man opposite him.
"Perhaps, I'm waiting for the right Denoctian to ask me to dance."
He and whoever graced him to the bonfire reverie would be splendid. Bodies aglow in the firelight and illuminated by the stars. With no one but Calligo and her children as their witness as their bodies found the infectious rhythm of the music. Isorath, bedecked in his gold and diamonds, stars and fire caught in his mane and tail, would be moonbeams and sun glow made flesh and blood among them. Yet, the figure beside him was often obscured in his idle thoughts, a shifting shape of shadows and mist that dared not let him glimpse his partner for the night.
I'll happily volunteer.
The mischievous glint in his eye became positively impish, head tilted a fraction to the side as he regarded Reichenbach for a moment. Yes, the shadows and mist could easily have become Reichenbach. His splendid frame positively smouldering in the reflection of the fire. Was he was wild in the moment as his fellow Courtiers? Did he allow the passion of the drums and voices raised run through him like electricity and the wild wind? "It's a date then." Hummed with a wink, the kirin allowed it to turn thoughtful.
"I will have to find something new to wear, something befitting Denocte and it's King. Any suggestions?"
@Reichenbach — it's fine! you don't have to apologize at all.
