Their adventure beyond the closed borders could lead to anything, though Ulric hoped that it would be uneventful. For as much as he wanted to find whatever it was that had killed Casper and Moore, he wanted to assure Regis lived to see old age even more, a sentiment he knew Somnus shared. But as they crossed the blood-stained, battle scarred steppe, they soon found themselves witness to a conspicuous, out-of-place field of flowers. Flowers unlike any he had seen, because rather than petals, in their stead were jewels.
As Regis drew back in clear discomfort and uncertainty, Ulric inched a little closer to the yearling until their wings had brushed against one another. Through narrowed eyes he inspected the admittedly eerie field, scrupulously searching for signs that something greater was amiss. Not long after Regis had spoken up, the Warden heard a temptacious voice in his own head that didn’t belong there. A cold shiver ran down his spine, over his withers and up the arch of his neck – they needed to go.
Although he wanted to draw nearer and get a better look, he knew that so long as Regis was in his care in any sense of the word, his safety was placed above all else. What was wrong with a little self-preservation, anyway? They were just a few feet away from the edge of the crystalline flowers, and that seemed to be a good enough look as any. Tipping his head toward Somnus but keeping a watchful eye on the field, the Warden gestured back the way they had come. “Maybe it’d be best to turn back. I don’t trust anything after everything that’s been going on.”
"Speaking."
***STAFF EDIT
@Ulric has rolled a 1! He has been awarded the Breeding: Healthy Pregnancy item for interacting with the flowers.
HISTORY HAS ITS EYES ON YOU ➳ allcontact is permitted and encouraged
These scars long have yearned for your tender caress
To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own
It’s… odd, the way the jewel-crowned flowers remind him of someone he doesn’t know. It’s odd, the way they simultaneously bring pain and comfort to his cold heart, but the longer he stares, the greater his confusion and doubt grow. It’s odd, how behind every beautiful thing there was some kind of pain which plagued him. In the back of her mind, Pryna knows exactly the reason her companion is at such a crushing loss over them, but she dares not speak a word of it, for the bond between life and death is sacred and she knows the repercussions of speaking her name.
‘They are beautiful,’ she chimes in, in an effort to break down whatever force was at hand trying to cut her Champion off from the rest of the world. It seems to work, judging by the way one ear curves toward her. Pryna smiles to the best effort a dragon can give. ‘But… they are tainted. Wicked. We should leave them and be on our way.’
Reluctantly the nebulous young man raises his head, yet pupiless eyes remain rooted on the vexing flowers which dance around him, brushing and scraping harmlessly against his legs. Misery has trickled into and overtaken the cerulean hue of his eyes. He can’t shake the feeling that he needs to stay here for a while, but he can’t place why, and wordlessly Pryna is able to pick up on it. Despite it, he knows the dragon speaks the truth – she always does, she always has and she always will. “You’re right,” he admits at last, and with one last longing, yearning look to the twinkling flowers, he begins to head south.
Feeling as though he was leaving a little piece of himself behind.
Neerja's whiskers twitch first, in her sleep they jerk and shudder, her nose turns up and her lips curl back as fangs extend, reaching for something that the tiger does not know in her sleep. Her great body rolls with shudders, racked with silent movements that remind her Pagasus of just how deadly her companion can be.
Like the fluttering of birdwing, Moira Tonnerre's eyes open softly, slowly, and all too quickly to the twitching and unease of her sleeping friend. Around them is magic, a sea of pillows and blankets sparkling and engulfing them, a canopy drooping, heavy drapes closed around the bed the two shared. Here, they are hidden to the world, but not from it. Phoenix heart shivers as she reaches forward, carefully running her nose down the tiger's neck, gently soothing her until golden eyes meet golden eyes. Are you okay? the girl asks, and the tiger frowns in return. Something is happening she returns, unnerved.
Nothing good ever comes when Neerja is brought to stillness such as this.
Hands tingle along the healer's spine, dip flirtatiously along her ribs to lure her out of bed, bring her to her mirror where she dawns her bangles upon her wings, her bracelets about her ankle. Carefully she combs through braids from the night, pulls them into some semblance of decency with only a few strands pinned away from her face. She is a beacon of the evening, a herald of night, and glory reincarnated with the face of a sharp-eyed girl.
One last glance in the mirror leaves searching eyes watching the tiger that pokes her head from between heavy curtains.
The ensemble walks quickly, humming a reply to the magic that seeps into the air, a boiling pot of potential and a breeding ground for disaster. But she cannot resist, and Neerja is sworn to protect her cub.
The field is first seen by the beast, a look of distaste heavy on her brow until she glances upward, upward into the face of the sun who wears a gentle 'o' upon her lips. Delight, surprise. Her silver bracelets chime as she glides forward, her bangles sing a song to the wild mountain flowers on the Steppe where they met Sabine not so terribly long ago. Neerja cannot resist the childlike awe that is sewn into the seems of the phoenix heart beating so loudly.
"Neerja, there are jungle flowers here!"
Lobster-Claw glistens under the dying sun, made ever more radiant in their crystalline form. Promeliads seem to beg her to look at them, to reach forward and try to smell the magic that they stew in, and oh how she answers. The winged girl with a carefree smile slips between poppy petals and gardenia leaves to bend closer, closer. Eyes sweep closed, she's near enough she knows she should stop.
But how can one deny the request of a flower?
She does not stop, does not feel as crystals graze her nose, does not feel when a cut upon her cheek from a too-sharp edge begins to bleed red. Red as the sunset, red as orchid veins. Neerja does, and the tiger growls, demands her Pegasus return.
Moira does not listen as she hears their jungle song, its frantic rhythm pulling her heart as the magic does, thrumming inside, strumming outside, humming from carmine lips pulled back in a haze. And she dances. A slow waltz through crystal fields, a solo act of isolation, a piece of art her mother would love to join in on. Perhaps then, she does not stop because she feels close to the soul of her gypsy dam, the fire that a long-ago artist once felt as she danced and drew until love swept her away on a tide of misery. So she lets those leaves graze her knees, lets the blood splatter drop by drop upon leaves of yellow and white and blue. Moira does not feel dead, oh no, she feels very alive as euphoria climbs higher and higher. She does not think of what it will do when that feeling dives off the cliff, into an unknown below, for there is too much to forget, to let flow from her now in her wild and wondrous display.
OOC: I didn't put her at a specific time with anyone, so if anyone wants to see her dancing like a madwoman pretty little thing feel free ! @Random Events
***STAFF EDIT
@Moira has rolled a 4! She has been awarded +100 signos for interacting with the flowers.
Breathless with wonder, Runa could hardly believe the sight that stretched out before her. Like a glittering sea of otherworldly gems, poised on elegant stalks, a field of flowers bloomed before her. Petals cut like glass and diamonds glittered and twinkled beneath the sunlight, breathtaking and awe inspiring. Like a sun catcher they cast vibrant lights of all sorts of colors across the earth, catching the rays of the sun and turning the Steppe from a torn battleground to a kaleidoscope of colors and vibrancy. It was beautiful, and Runaveig was helpless before its splendor.
Without thinking she walked closer, her steps light and airy, nimble legs carrying her across the field to reach the strange blooms. Like a dancer she moved, weaving through the curious little flowers and feeling them brush against her legs, a notable sharpness to them but not cutting, never cutting. “I wonder what they are. Umbra? Do you know what they might be?” Never had she seen such a flower, but there was an energy here that seemed to ripple beneath her striped flesh. It coursed along her being, flowing through her veins and settling within her breast like a living, foreign thing. It wasn’t exactly unwelcome, but it was very strange.
Above, Umbra soared almost cautiously. The black dragon could feel the energy of this place, the displaced, warped sort of magic, and grimaced. He swept down lower, reaching out with claws to snag onto Runa’s back, and let out a breath. ’Best not linger, Runa. There’s something strange about this place.’ But there was something else. The dragon lifted his head, blue-green eyes raking across the area as though feeling something in his chest that had nothing to do with the lingering magic so very obviously felt upon the breeze. Something else… Something bright. Familiar.
Pryna?
Just as quickly, though, the feeling was gone, and Umbra focused back on his companion. Oblivious as she could be, he knew he would need to keep an eye out in order to keep her safe. Runaveig was frowning, a soft little furrow to her brow giving away her displeasure at the thought of leaving, and the young entertainer let out a breath.
“But… It’s so beautiful. Can’t we stay for at least a little while? Perhaps take one home? Imagine going back to the troupe and telling them... I don’t even think the elders have seen such a thing as this.” Or, at least, she had never been told about any gem-like flowers that bloomed within Novus.
’I know that you find it beautiful, and you’re right. It is, but… I fear it’s truths, for even the most beautiful of things can hide the darkest of intentions. Come along, Runa.’ The dusk-colored woman turned her golden eyes upon him, lips pursed, and let out another long sigh. Umbra had never steered her wrong before, and if he felt that this place wasn’t right, then perhaps she should go. Still… Turning her head, the woman admired the bed of glittering flowers for a few more seconds before turning around, feeling somewhat heartbroken to leave such a pretty discovery behind.
“I wish that I at least had something to sketch with… Maybe Miss Moira will let me have a garden of my own back home?” It was a nice thought, yes, but Runaveig highly doubted her worthiness of such a gift. Maybe at another time.
Somnus understood their uncertainty. He had plenty of his own, gazing out at the unnatural field of glittering, gemstone-like flowers. The voice drifted through his own head, unwelcome and sudden, and the dunalino sucked in a deep breath, ears falling back. For a few moments he held his breath, staring hard, cautious, uncertain… Nothing about this was normal, and it reminded him so much of the glowing pool of gold that he and Regis had found weeks back. Could they be connected?
This place did not feel of any god he knew, and it most certainly could not be Oriens. Could it? The magic that seeped and crawled through the soil here could be felt through every breath that he took, and just as with the golden pool, Somnus felt drawn towards the drifting field of glittering flowers. He did not yield, however. Something about this just didn’t seem right, and he was fairly certain that it meant no good.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before, Regis, no,” Somnus relented softly, watching as the yearling balked and backed up a few steps so that he was snug and protected between the Dawn King and the Warden, “But… Perhaps you both are right.” The flowers were close, very close, and it really wouldn’t take much of anything at all to step out and walk through their glittering waves, but… He couldn’t. Not after what had happened last time. This was supposed to be a simple outing, after all, and he would loathe if something happened to Regis or Ulric just to sate his unending pool of curiosities.
Later, perhaps. Maybe on his own, or he and Ulric could return on their own. Regardless, it was strange, and Somnus made a mental note to keep an eye out for things like this in the future. Verdant eyes turned towards Regis, taking in his son’s worried face for a moment before lifting to stare into Ulric’s familiar golden eyes. “Come. We should return to the citadel and inform the court. I would like to keep track of these strange occurrences that have been popping up around Novus…” One last look was sent towards the field of flowers, the glittering of their gemstone-like petals of various colors seeming to beckon and wave them closer. The Dawn King frowned, and with a flick of his tail, ushered Regis between he and Ulric and turned to head home.
Somewhere, somehow, a clenched fist has gone slack, and magic slips through its fingers like grains of sand. The wind seizes it, and that is how he knows something strange runs amok tonight. He feels it in his feathers, calling him southeast.
So southeast he flies, past a sad border long closed, past quiet fields blanketed in snow, southeast into the heart of the night-- and when the wind gently steers him to earth, he lands among the flowers.
Not just any flowers, of course. They sing and laugh and they make him feel...
They make him feel like all these years he's never really known where he was. Like even when he was in the most familiar of places-- his favorite nook at the library, or tucked among monks at the tavern, or in flight with Delumine unfurled below him and the wind's song in his wings-- even when he was home, he was a little bit lost,
would always be a little bit lost.
The flowers make him want to drown in the belonging of the present. They sway in the breeze and he sways too, for hours, committing their song to memory.
- - -
ooc: beep boop! I'm down to branch off into a separate thread to ponder the flowers if anyone would like <3
***STAFF EDIT
@mateo has rolled a 6! He has been awarded +150 signos for interacting with the flowers.
The rumors spread rather quickly, carrying through the hushed, secretive hallways of the Scarab and even piercing the practically impregnable veil to his workshop. Vikander hadn’t thought anything of it at first, lost and drowning in parchment and ink. Why bother? A patch of curiously colored flowers? Pah. He had seen thousands of such specimens during his years in Novus and they had all been useless. Such a thing seemed frivolous and unimportant, and surely of no assistance to his work… But then the whispers grew in detail, and the secrets unraveled like yarn at his feet.
’They say the flowers sprouted in a single night,’ one visitor, deep into his cups, admitted over hushed whispers and boisterous laughter.
’Well, I heard that they were made of pure gemstones!’
Another, female this time, chimed in with her own account. ’I bet they’re worth a fortune. I also heard that they have magic in them.’
Desperation gripped him. Vikander hung off of every word, gripping the rails of an unstable parapet that would ultimately give way and send him tumbling into that familiar pit of darkness and despair. Magic. Everything changed. Perhaps this was the answer?
In a flurry of shadows and long hair of matted curls, the warlock tore from the Den and rushed towards his chambers. He slung a patchwork satchel over his shoulder like a man possessed, the ice of his eyes wild and rolling with madness. “Quick,” he breathed to himself, a mantra of frantic whispers, “Quickly, now. I have to get them. I have to.” Nothing else mattered. He forgot his cloak, his spell books, his inks and quills. He forgot to leave a note, should anyone in the Scarab come knocking. He forgot to put out the lit lantern on his workshop desk, so close to his precious work, so lost in the frantic desperation as he was.
He did not get far. A beckon, almost as soon as he left his workshop, a voice calling his name. Aghavni. He froze, halting in his tracks like a rabbit stared down a wolf, positively quivering with anxiety, a lost spectre full of brash decisions yet to be made. His eyes flashed her way, wide pools of icy blue, and his lips parted. No sound emerged, not at first, but eventually he croaked out his response.
’Magic.’ Damnable gods bless her, because she understood. Perhaps she saw something within his madness, a daring determination that had been vacant for as long as they had known one another. Aghavni agreed to accompany him, and like that, they were off, leaving the White Scarab behind.
Together, they arrived at the Steppe. Evening was approaching and the skies were beginning to turn dark, and soon Vikander knew that stars would start poking their heads out of the blank abyss of the night sky. He did not look to see if he was correct, though, for his gaze was locked on the twinkling forms swaying in the cold winter breeze. The blood pulsed in his ears and his lungs strained to draw air. It was true.
There, not two lengths away, was a field of gemstone-like flowers. Their petals, seemingly made of glass, glittered in the evening sunlight. They were beautiful. As though possessed he stepped forward, unable to hear anything save the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. The black of his coat was marred with dust and sweat, dark curls dancing and swaying about his face in time with the swaying flowers.
“It’s true. Aghavni, it’s true.” The wilted grass beneath the flowers meant nothing. Vikander knew magic, and he could feel it, ripe, powerful, raw, within the soil beneath his very hooves. Whether or not Aghavni tried to stop him, Vikander would pay her no mind. Instead, he ventured into the fields, wild eyes admiring every flower, every sharp, glass-like petal, and then reached down to greedily, desperately pluck a few from their bent stalks to shove into his bag and take home.
Please… Please, let this work. It was all he had left.
@Aghavni <3
***STAFF EDIT
@Vikander has rolled a 5! He has been awarded +1 EXP point for interacting with the flowers.
The pendant adorning Polyxena’s throat emits a soft glow and is warm to the touch. Every step she takes the pendant pulses stronger, warmer; drawing her to the lonely high plains. The wind murmurs through the dry grasses and a curious, melancholic tune is carried by the gentle breeze. Soft, at first, almost timid. Then more urgent. She hears a voice; a beautiful, sad, keening voice. A whisper of warning, perhaps. She can nearly taste the magic in the air and the strange energy of this place makes her heart pound like a wild drum with excitement. Has she discovered a well of magic in this new land?
She approaches cautiously. The dry, trampled grass has fallen away to a rolling carpet of color, petals, and the sweet perfume of something like a goddess might wear. Polyxena stands motionless at the edge of the sea of ethereal flowers. The gentle breeze caresses strands of her wine colored hair lovingly, drawing them across her face and bidding her to step forward into the unknown. She holds her breath, straining to hear the sad, crooning melody that has drawn her to this place but a hush has enveloped the area in a silent, still embrace.
The pendant is so warm on her skin that it burns her throat. It is all she can do to remain at the edge of the flowers with the wind grabbing and pulling more urgently at her hair. She longs to feel the petals brush her skin…but she is not familiar with the laws of magic in this new land and from previous encounters she knows most strands of wild magic to be feral and treacherous. This is the kind of magic one cannot tame. She realizes with bitter disappointment that this well of magic is not something she can claim for herself.
She frowns with distaste at this sudden realization but does not dismiss the opportunity to learn something new about the properties of this wild magic. At the wind’s whispering, musical behest, she steps amid the flowers. The petals leave a shimmering residue on her skin like the velvet dust from butterfly wings.
***STAFF EDIT
@Polyxena has rolled a 5! She has been awarded +1 EXP point for interacting with the flowers.
P O L Y X E N A there's a serpent in these still waters, lying deep down
to that king I will bow, at least for now
04-11-2019, 12:42 PM - This post was last modified: 04-16-2019, 08:45 PM by Sparrow
It is the sound of magic that she follows (and the thin note of violence running between those notes of wonder). Each of her steps rings on the stone and dirt to that melody of strangeness. It echoes in the throb of her eyes, a humming beat of light that aches and shines and blazes in the darkness. On and on that magic and strangeness carries her onward like a wish being carried along with the flame of a falling, dying star.
Each petal made of gemstone winks in the moonlight and reflects upon its petals the stars blinking patterns overhead. Every flash of light is echoed in her own light pulsing like a sun from her eyes. And with each throb of brightness from her lips Eshek wishes and wishes and wishes.
She wishes for her swamp, for her endless black spaces between universes. She wishes for the wings that once trembled and beat beneath her holy hooves. Eshek wishes for the end because that is all she is, a million endings caught in a cage of dead bones and cold flesh. Is there anything else death wishes for but what is black and cold?
The song pauses when she hang her head over the copse of gemstone flowers. Each moment of silence sounds louder in the pause, as if the whole world inhaled one last time before it died. To her it seems as if there is only sharp stone flowers and her.
Eshek smiles and the light of her reflects like an eclipse over those slick, shining petals. She plucks a flower from that small garden and starts to chew.
Soon it's not only the light of her eyes shining on the petals but drops of blood blazing in the gloaming as the stone cuts deep into her endlessness of her. And still she chews.
***STAFF EDIT
@Eshek has rolled a 3! Perhaps she has decided to pick a flower to take home with her; however, bad luck will dog her heels for the next 1 RL month (half an IC season). You can decide what the details of her bad luck entail, pm @nestle or @sid if you want ideas!
04-12-2019, 10:05 PM - This post was last modified: 04-16-2019, 08:47 PM by Sparrow
Finally, the boy stallion had made his way to the edges of Solterra. Nothing as there to stop him as he stepped over the threshold, feeling free for the first time since arriving here as he picked up the pace and raced toward the North without flicking a second glance to the desert wasteland he left behind. For the briefest of moments, his heart feels free and there is a part of him which chinks through the haughty exterior and shows the boy within – scared, sad, and more than a little emotional. Still, it is not enough for the outsider to know, but Rufio feels lighter in a way, and he even smiles as he walks toward the Bellum Steppe with little purpose other than to leave the desert behind.
Darkness grows quickly, the autumn nights giving way to winter winds as the sun dips low behind the hills. There are a few minutes where the sky is painted gold and red by the dying light – and even Rufio has to stop and marvel at the beauty of this new world, for in that moment he finds peace. It is short lived though, as the darkness spreads and a silver moon takes its rightful place in the night sky.
Now, his walk is lit by moonlight, and the shine is bright and ample enough that it seemed almost light enough to be day. Closer he presses to the Steppe, and as he finds his way to the new world, moonlight illuminates the hill of jeweled flowers. It is a peculiar sight, all glittered and white on the hillside. He knows at once there must be magic at play, for surely no plants can give this kind of glow in the stardust. Curiosity takes over as the metal-clad stallion steps closer, the gold of his cuffs clinking against the blooms as he walks and creating a melodious sound. Curioser still, he dips his head to examine the blooms closer, finding quiet delight and surprise in seeing their gemstone faces up close.
Though he cannot tell the colors exactly, there is something wild and magical in the flowers that tempts him to take one, and he greedily weaves it into his mane for safekeeping. Not one to stick around and see who guarded such a field of treasures, the red and black stallion quickly leaves Bellum Steppe behind, lest he be punished for his thievery.
