Your queen is buried in the Steppe. Good luck finding her grave to offer her respect.
If Elif had paused to think, this might have struck her as strange - the idea that this silver man, this black-souled Ghost, would have taken the time to bury Seraphina’s body.
But Elif has never taken the time for wisdom, only followed the barest breeze that ruffles through the tips of her feathers. And she is too angry to think as she takes off from the capitol, a few galloping strides where her hooves hammer the cobblestones like she wishes they could hammer him and then a flare of her wings, a few hard beats, and her shadow shrinking below her.
Once the girl is flying she thinks of nothing at all. She and the wind only urge each other on in turn, and the sun beats down on her back and her shoulders, and the whole world is simple and still.
She might fly forever, one day, if she can make that feeling last. But today, in the weak light of a winter evening, she sweeps low as she reaches the flat expanse of the Steppe. From the air, the strange magic is unmissable, and Elif can’t tell if the tight fist of her heart is from excitement or grief. The wildflowers shine up like shattered glass, casting a prism of light that she has to blink against as she lands. And, like a fool (like someone who has had little experience with magic) she lands in their midst, and cries out when the petals cut her limbs, little bites of blood.
The hawk tells herself it may be the only offering she can make to Seraphina. If it were only grasslands, she might have tried to burn the whole thing - swift wind, a struck spark, and the entire Steppe would become a pyre. Not even Solis could ignore the incense of that flame.
But these blossoms would not burn. She knows it even before she touches one, carefully, brushing her lips against it in the barest of tastes. It smells nothing of the blooms she has known, which sometimes seized the desert in a crimson or yellow superbloom, turning the horizon to a canvas. Instead it smells sharp, almost metallic, a tang that recalls that burning golden pool.
Magic has not lost its magnetic draw - but Elif can’t help but wonder what it is, what it could possibly mean, against a monster.
As she finally stands still - as still as she gets, skin still trembling, eyes wide, the breeze still pulling at her woefully short hair - and begins to hear the music the glass flowers make, Elif tells herself that there are worse tombs than one so beautiful, and so strange.
But she is only more determined to see Raum buried in one.
He had never seen their like before; and Ipomoea had seen a lot of flowers. These are special, beautiful and cold and utterly magical. As he walks amongst them the wind sets them t dancing, and as they dance -
- they sing.
They’re gemstones come to life, sprouting from the earth with petals of every color imaginable. Their music enchants him, draws him deeper into their midst, and as he does they bend on long, thin stalks to touch him as he passes.
Oh, how each touch thrills and terrifies him. His blood is rushing, his heart beating faster and faster, leaping wildly against the cages of his ribs. He makes no effort to calm it, preferring to let it run away inside of him. His blood is singing to the tune the flowers make, and each touch is them pressing a word into his mind for his blood to speak in turn.
They’re only flowers, he thinks to himself in wonder. They shouldn’t act this way.
But they do - oh, they rage and laugh and dance and sing and cry alongside his own tired soul, and as they do, they tell him of the tragedies that have taken place here, the blood that’s been shed on the steppe. It’s why they’re here after all - a testament to violence, a living memory of the lives that lost a game they had no right to play. A silver queen, a golden crow. A piebald child, an orphan running wild through the streets, a highborn girl burned by flame…
Their faces are bright in his mind, his magic seeping out into the field, the flowers pressing hungrily into him. They’re swallowing me whole, he has time to think, before he goes willingly down into their arms. The ground is cold against his skin, and overhead, the sky begins to shed soft, frozen tears upon the world.
And Ipomoea lays among the god-touched flowers, as dreams turn to nightmares and nightmares turn to dreams.
He had seen the flowers already - in passing that was, half a mile above the ground. They had glittered like a thousand gems strewn across the ground, dancing in the wind and beckoning him forth.
But they had just been flowers to him then. Particularly bright flowers, but just flowers.
Until he had gotten home and heard the rumors. A field of gems, carved into the shape of wildflowers, crafted by the gods. Only then had he realized what they actually were, and why they were growing in a blood-soaked land that even the hardiest of grasses avoided growing in.
So he had convinced Eros to go back with him, to see this “miracle” for themselves, up close and personal this time.
“For you?” he asks, a crooked smile playing at his lips as he plucks one long-stemmed flower, and holds it out to his beloved. It was reminiscent of a rose, with sharp pink petals that that faded to blush, nearly white edges. It glitters like a diamond in the sunlight, the wind turning to music as it danced between each petal.
@eros "speaks"
no one ever told him not to pick the flowers
hills washed up in violet eyes close
up to hide it
When Aion comes home one day, he tells Eros of a field of flowers; not just any field of flowers—a field of faceted gemstone ones. And while Eros could surely appreciate even a common flowered meadow, Delumine has more than enough to satisfy his need for flora. A glittering stone-cut one, however, was worth a trip to see. So they journey to the battle-worn Steppe, passing the time with easy conversation and the comfort of each other’s presence. Eros had almost forgotten how enjoyable traveling could be in the company of another.
As the mountains fade from view, and the field first comes into sight, it’s hard to distinguish these flowers from other, normal ones. But when the sun hits at just the right angle, the light reflects off in vibrant colors and it’s clear they aren’t any ordinary flowers.
From the edge of the field, Aion picks one and offers it to him. It gleams in the sunlight, the same way Aion’s icy tulip had last summer when they had first reunited after so long apart. Eros takes it tenderly, as if it might shatter upon contact. “Takk, min elskede.” He thanks his mate with a smile and gentle kiss to the cheek, laughing as he pulls him down into the gilded field.
home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
A raven had gone ahead of him, with a piece of parchment tied to its leg with only one thing written on it: Midnight. Three days hence. A single flower petal was crushed and rolled up in the parchment, the only sign as to the location of the meeting place.
But they were twins; Toulouse knew he would understand.
So he waded through the flowers absently, green eyes looking over them with disinterest. They had all turned grey in the darkness, their glass petals whispering every time two touched, like dancers trading off their partners, gossip running rampant among their ranks. He would do anything to speak their language, to know the secrets they kept.
When the familiar figure appeared - alone, not another soul in sight - he went to him. The flowers parted like a river about him, and he swore their whispers grew louder in anticipation.
“Brother.” One of them greeted first. In the shadows surrounding them, it was impossible to know who was whom. Perhaps they were the same person all along, two halves of a whole.
@toulouse
notes
***STAFF EDIT
@Toulouse has rolled a 3! Perhaps he has decided to pick a flower to take home with him; however, bad luck will dog his heels for the next 1 RL month (half an IC season). You can decide what the details of his bad luck entail, pm @nestle or @sid if you want ideas!
home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
“Brother.” The other greeted in turn, never missing a beat, a smile slipping onto his lips. Toulouse smiled back, each of them wolfish, each of them reveling in the sight of each other. “We have much to talk about.”
And talk they did. Well into the night, until the stars reigned supreme in the sky above them, and the gemstones reflected their lights back into the sky. Their bodies turned silver in the moonlight, surrounded by a field of silver flowers, the world a gray backdrop all around them. Identical ghosts, heads tilted so close their horns touched and twined together above their heads, voices a quiet murmur meant only for each other ears.
They didn’t have a lot of time; they spoke quietly, but they spoke quickly. One had to go east come sunrise, the other west.
Until finally there was nothing left to say, and they prepared to part once more. Until…
“One more thing.”
“Oh?” His eyes were full of light and interest as he turned around.
“The Red Rose. She’s at the White Scarab, and wears a twig crown with gemstones hanging from one end.” His twin stomped a hoof at the flowers, watching them ripple like a sea of glass.
Their eyes met slowly, identical pairs of green gazing back at one another. For a moment neither one spoke; the wind played with the caramel curls of their hair, the flowers laughing all around them. Toulouse didn't need words to understand the look in his brother's eye, a look he did not like.
But still he nodded, and each of them disappeared.
@toulouse
notes
***STAFF EDIT
@tuolouse has rolled a 2! He has been awarded +50 signos for interacting with the flowers.
She had frequented the Steppe some time before, back when she was new to the lands began to learn of the territories; she was told there in the open field surrounded by far-away mountains was the battle ground, and she took to it like a bird to a nest to raise its chicks. She was decently well versed in the art of battle since her time in Heimsterra had taught her everything she needed to know--Jarl, above all, trained her enough to beat their best warrior. And so she often went to the Steppe to wait for challengers, or brought the young or inexperienced from the Dusk Court to teach them basic skills; she believed each should be able to hold their own in a fight, and she was all too pleased to help.
But since her return after her last time in Veteris, everything felt different. She made rounds through the lands again in a sort of effort to refamiliarize herself with Nouvs. It was, after all, the only land she had left to call home. With the fall of her Winter Court she was left stranded. Without home, without purpose. So she wandered to the places she knew once, drinking them in, feeling a little more at peace.
But when she crossed into the borders of the Bellum Steppe, her trot sending her hair waving behind her and a coat of wolf fur strapped tightly to her dual-colored body clinging close, she pulled up short. The grass glistened and twinkled like stars set against the backdrop of the moon's throne, but it wasn't night and there should have been no stars there. The worn out patches were fights had broken down the ground were gone, and in their place was a thousand different flowers all crafted from crystal. The sight made her heart race, her striking teal eyes cutting across the landscape with worry; the atmosphere was heavy with magic, and it hung around her like honey as she pushed through. Slowly she began to walk forward once again, always looking down, down at the sharp-edged flora that clinked against her legs.
She knew what Vespera had done. She knew that she had put Dusk through torturous 'trials' and called them tests, made them sink or swim to show that they were worthy. She wanted to scream, to claw her way through to Vespera and ask her what she was thinking, what could possibly posses her to treat her kingdom that way? Rann was angry, her pulse quickened and blackened, and she wondered if those glass flowers were part of her doing to, if they would have some sinister effect on the rest of Novus at the goddess's hand too.
She didn't get far into the fields when she stopped at turned back, disgusted with her goddess. Her body glided through the path she had come; before stepping beyond the threshold she passed through, she plucked one multicolored flower to study it later. She would find out if this was Vespera's doing.
***STAFF EDIT
@Rannveig 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!
04-30-2019, 08:08 PM - This post was last modified: 05-01-2019, 10:39 PM by Sparrow
