I'm so sorry, he will probably forever say po's name wrong xD
Time makes fools of us all
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I'm so sorry, he will probably forever say po's name wrong xD IPOMOEA she said lay me down in golden dandelions
I t didn’t take long for the ground to resume its shaking, for the world as they knew it to crumble into pieces. Tremors still wracked the ground, as if threatening to split the continent in half at a moment’s notice—but they didn’t. The entrance alone was knocked down, but the clearing was left untouched. Po could only hope the outside world was also still intact. As the rock and dust settled, all thoughts of the statue and the arguing left his mind. All he could see were the brilliant blue feathers of his bonded, and the shy smile of the freckled girl whom Po had left him with. As much as he would have appreciated Odet’s calm and steady presence right now, the boy was glad his songbird was safe outside of the meeting. He would just have to be strong without him. “Eye-Po-Meah, will the trees bend for you?” Eik’s words brought him back to the present. His cerise gaze fluttered down to his ankles where the dandelions continued to grow and spread, their petals soft against his skin. A frown tinged at his lips. “I’m not sure…” With a glance at Somnus and at Orion, the flower-crowned Regent made his way slowly to the walls of wood and stone that held them in. He felt so vulnerable, walking alone. “But I can try.” For a moment, he tilted his head back—and up, up, up, until his neck was craned at an uncomfortable angle so that he might see towards the tops of the trees. It made him feel especially small, looking up at them; he wondered if this was how ants might feel. ’Is this how Tempus wants us to feel?’ He had heard of equines who had tried to make themselves like gods; there were fables of those who were rumored to have achieved it. Certainly Po himself did not feel like a god right now… but he could see how others in this room might, with their easy and unwavering confidence. The trees whispered to him as he pressed his muzzle against their bark, their energy chaotic as it thrummed through the connection he formed. They felt so solid and stubborn; impenetrable, even. The plants seemed to push back against him, as if already defying his unspoken question. His wings fluttered unsteadily at his feet in a nervous dance. Summoning his energy—and his courage—he directed a single thought towards the tightly knit grove of redwoods: ”Let us through... please.” @everyone | "speaks" | notes: gosh idk what this reply is, but I love Eik <3 CYRENE mother, why do fireflies die so young?
T he earth shook with the anger of a god scorned, hairline cracks spiderwebbing along the ground as rocks tumbled like marbles from above. The shouts of Tempus’ children waned into a slew of broken syllables as the world crumbled around them, and Cyrene wrenched her eyes tightly closed with a grimace.She coughed as the dust settled, a wing ghosting over her watering eyes as the trembling finally subsided. Amber eyes fluttered open, only to stare, horrified, at the damage strewn like shattered bones in front of them. The entrance was destroyed. They were trapped. Sealed away behind stone and bark, cloaked in visceral darkness. Like a tomb — and Cyrene had no intentions of playing a corpse. “Why intervene now?” Seraphina’s fury sucked up all the oxygen in the chamber and hurled it back out in a hurricane of chaos and wrath, and Cyrene’s heart clenched as she watched the tears trace silver paths down the Sovereign’s heated cheeks. Was this the change Tempus promised? A white-hot flame licked its way to the center of Cyrene’s being as the angles of her face tightened in bitter anger. Was this the peace he so desperately wished they find? Achieving peace by locking them all away like they were children sent whimpering to their rooms. Achieving resolution by forcing them to suffer together like they were soldiers in need of a common flag. She scoffed, her breath hot enough to scald, as she broke away from Dusk’s pillar to chase after the silver and gold of Solterra’s sovereign and second. The gods had sat atop their celestial thrones for far too long, to commit such comical oversight. “When we make it out of this mess” — because it wasn’t a question whether they would escape or not, it was only how — "I’m never looking at a goose the same way again.” Her smile was something unearthly as she quirked a brow at Seraphina, as misplaced as a butterfly in a ravaged battlefield. Her own special form of rebellion. A crimson wing prodded steadily at the places the queen had missed, testing for places of weakness. It was only then Cyrene noticed that she could see, clearly at that, and her eyes followed the light as an astonished stare came to a rest on the blues of Bexley Briar. She knew of Bexley, of course she knew of Bexley. Not just from her duties as emissary, but because Solterra’s newest regent had a tongue more wicked than sin and a beauty to bring men to their knees. “How long can you sustain your magic for, Bexley?” A stone wiggled under her feathers as she asked, and she frowned thoughtfully before pushing it harder. "We should work quickly, while we still have your light.” She nodded towards the others who had gathered, all of them puzzling how to put their own respective magics — or lack thereof — to use. Guidance from the gods? Too late. Five hundred years too late. "speaks" | notes: cy's a fan of solterra's entire regime (also the first time I actively struggled with the word limit rip)  I sorath's concern isn't the malcontent of Gods. Gods are Gods, and he is but a chapter in a librum owned by entities unfathomable. When he dies, he will return to Gods who are not of this land, reside in an afterlife with those that come before. He will return to the earth and the troubles and tribulations of the unworthy, petty, and discontent will no longer be his to laugh and sneer at.But now is not that time. His concern is for his beloved and his soul-sister. When their exit vanishes beneath a Gods whim, Isorath can only stare in indignant disbelief. Forcing them to work together to get out? He snorts internally. In here, there is nothing but latent greviences to fester among the few who genuinely try. "Of course, Amatus. What do you take me for? Can I call him, of course I can." The Kirin hums, sing song and contrary. The discord and discontent flows freely between him and the dragon, whose questioning sings back to him through the intangible threads between their hearts. 'Trapped?' The dragon questions, exasperation evident in his words. Outside he can hear the muffled, faint roar of Gilgamesh descending on the summit, the heavy thud of talons scraping against the earth and vibrating in the stones as the dragon sets to work outside the door. He can feel Gilgamesh's questioning puzzlement, mental ???'s pouring from him. 'I cannot believe this.' the dragon grouses after a moment, one final dig. "This is a good look for you." Isorath comments slyly, as he watches Reichenbach work, his muzzle nudging against his flank. He rears, winged limbs extended to grip their prehensile talons around the looser rocks and pull, testing for weaknesses himself beside his King and Orion. "We should get caved in more often, if it means watching you get your hooves dirty more often." @Isorath  i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls Oh the echoes of arguments ring in her ears like the clamour of clashing cymbals. Her gaze lifts to catch the wrath of the gods, blazing with the bright of a flare star. Their shared anger, however, is but a flash, brilliant and bright. It sears the Dusk queen’s skin and is gone in a second. Its only remnant is the lurid red glow, lingering in her gaze– was that all the wrath of the gods was? Their squabbles are no different to the mortals that Tempus tries to unite. “Would it not be wise to unite your children first? There is no god here worthy enough of our following. If they cannot find agreement themselves – how can they ask it of their followers?” Her chin is lifts in defiance, her gaze as sharp as her dagger that threatens to split the skies and send the gods falling from whatever plane they reside within. How many worlds had she been to? How many gods had she met? The Time-traveller girl is too jaded – she has seen too many gods to ever again see them as divine. She has stood beside too many to ever wish to call one hers and bend her knee. Not even when Vespera’s voice rises above the rest is Florentine stirred. Not even then does her heart warm with love for Terrastella’s goddess. Seraphina is wildfire. Fury falls, bright and devastating, down each silver cheek. Florentine watches Solterra’s grief painted upon its queen’s face. Laughter, as furious as Seraphina’s anger and as ugly as beautiful Cyrene’s smile, gathers in Flora’s throat. She casts a hidden look to her brother for now she understands his tales of too-righteous gods that sought to unite their people in cruel ways. It was in vain then, would it be now too? In silence the Time-traveller girl regards a Time god who cannot even unite his own children. As Tempus’ earthquake groans and rattles the foundations of his mountain, as the gate crumbles in with a roar of shattering stone and a gust of swirling dust, the gilt queen stands like a statue. In the darkness that follows, she catches the flash of Bexley’s shadowed eyes before light pours out from nothingness. Beneath the glow of the girl’s new magic their eyes catch. Bexley’s pain is still a lance in Florentine’s heart. No appropriate words can be spoken here, not now. But in the silent space between the gilded girls, in the blue-purple of their shared gaze, words press in all the same. They are private and warming and so full of love. As one the regimes all test the rubble. Magics meld and drift and flow. They push and pull, the air static with unearthly power. With ears tight upon her poll, with petals falling to adorn the rubble, Florentine moves to stand beside Cyrene and Seraphina. Her brother, stood close by, is a comfort with the warmth of his star-strewn skin. A smile curls her satin lips for Florentine had once before loved a star-born boy, but it had been the wrong love and the wrong boy. Her own telekinesis moves to aid Cyrene as she loosens a stone, her dagger a warm, insistent press upon her chest. “I could open up a window, one so close to the sun it will hopefully melt the stones.” The fae-girl says slowly, wonderingly. Releasing the dagger about her throat, she raises it high above the pile and presses it deep into the air. A cut forms, thin and bright and wicked hot. Florentine does not dwell too long upon it, not when she replaces her dagger and rejoins the effort of pulling stones free. Amethyst eyes roll, gleaming in the dark as the words of the Night Court’s Emissary ring around them. It was a jarring contrast to the fury of the Day Queen and the quiet sincerity of the Dawn Court. All the same, Florentine’s lips tip into a smirk, devilishly playful and wickedly sharp, “That can most definitely be arranged, boys. I even know who to ask...” Her eyes tip up, settling upon Bexley. The scar is lit upon her face and for her comment Florentine is full of apology. However, the Dusk girl is not blind. Ahead of the meeting only a few could have missed the way the Solterran girl watched and met with the Crow who wronged her. It seemed attraction was a strange and twisted master. florentine rocking your pretty flower world  ★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
THE SNAKE WILL ALWAYS BITE BACK Eik and Bexley are tethers, barely keeping her hooves grounded to the rubble-strewn soil; she can feel the press of Eik’s warm skin against her throat just as she can feel her Regent waver, and she is reminded for a moment of her in the cave, crushed beneath a stream of stone, with a pang and a fresh flush of outrage. Ashes fall like snow on her coat, on snowy lashes; they cling to the tear stains on her cheeks, and there is something feral about the sight of it. Bexley Briar follows her to the collapsed doorway, and, when she turns to look at her, she glows - she burns. Solterra’s Golden Girl, their wildfire regent, now ablaze, but her light is a comfort. Seraphina follows her gaze to the statue of Solis, then back down to Bexley, who offers a nervous smile. What had she thought, after the Davke attack? That Avdotya was flame and she was only smoke-? Her lips curl up, and she smiles - not full or broad, and certainly not bright. There is something dark there, something wicked and rabid. She had contained herself for so long, kept a tempest caged up in-between her ribs by convincing herself that it was not there. She had played the regal queen, the diplomat, the passive warrior-queen who would quietly deflect insult after insult with a carefully-clamped tongue. But Seraphina is not Solterran steel, nor some quiet noblewoman brought up from infancy to wear a crown on her head. No, no, no. She is a girl who clenched a knife between her blood-soaked teeth and cut her way to survival, and it is the survivalist who claws her way to the surface, the girl who chose between killing and being killed, rampant. The gleam in her eyes is something lethal. “Yes,” She agrees, “Yes, he is.” They are surrounded by the blessed, working their magics and summoning their companions; Dawn in their quiet, thoughtful, tactical ways, and Night with a strange joviality, though she is not ungrateful for it. (For a moment, her mismatched eyes dart across the Night King. It feels as though it was a lifetime ago when she met him, when neither of them wore a crown on their heads. There’s something strangely familiar to him, something that reminds her of someone else – but she can’t think of who. Perhaps it’s in the eyes.) Cyrene’s strange, bright smile and attempt at lightheartedness is met with her own, something bitter and gnarled by comparison, though there is some warmth in her gaze for the girl. Florentine approaches, then, and, even from a distance, the cut from her knife sends waves of warmth through her tensed frame; her words to Isorath go unacknowledged by the silver, who returns her focus to the stones, sweat and dust matting her coat. Collaboration is a cold comfort – it seems to her the gods love to string them along, but the mortals are always left to toil in the dirt. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- tags | <3 notes | eeeexactly 500 words. anyhow. promised second post.  I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence  "Oh, but my tongue is a weapon." The din rose, higher and higher, until it rang in his ears with the buffeting force of a gale. It was halted by a single shout, loud and demanding, leaving no room for questioning disregard.
”STOP!” He jerked in surprise, his side bumping gently into Ipomoea. Somnus was only mortal. He was flawed, just as all mortal men and women were… And, as he realized what was happening, so were the Gods. It was blasphemy to think such things, he knew, but as he realized that it was the Gods who had been shouting amongst each other, the patron deities of Dawn, Day, Dusk, and Night, he could not help but think of Tempus like the father he was. A father, who’s patience was tested, again and again and again, until he finally snapped. The earth rumbled beneath his hooves in violent tremors and the Dawn King watched with mounting alarm and growing dread, as the stone doorway crumbled and left them alone and abandoned. Stuck. Imprisoned. His gaze sought out Oriens’ statue that loomed above in a rapid movement that caused his neck to crack, but the pain was nonexistent amidst his worry. What is happening? He wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come. They were a waste of time as it were. The earth continued to rumble beneath them and could surely be felt throughout the entirety of Novus, and his panic grew. Not for him, but for those who waited obliviously outside, and for those of close circle of family and friends that were here with him. He looked towards one of Day’s Regime as he addressed Ipomoea, and Somnus’ verdant gaze locked on that of his Regent before he nodded. ’As am I, Alba. As am I.’ Leaving Po’s side with a parting brush of his muzzle against the appaloosa’s flank, a touch of brief reassurance, Somnus joined the others by the remains of the stone door. He shoved his way in between the bodies as politely as he could manage, muttering a ‘pardon me’ to any he brushed against, and then attempted to use both physical strength and mental telekinesis to find any sort of weakness within the rubble. Sorry. :||   A breeze rustles the treetops, sending a showering of leaves down onto the fourteen horses waiting below. The rubble moves bit by bit, piece by piece beneath their telekinesis and their hooves. It is slow work, and many of the pieces refuse to budge, stubborn in their resting place. The heat from Florentine’s portal fails to melt them; the trees protest Ipomoea’s request to yield with a creaky groan. Even the dragon on the outside of the meeting appears to struggle to dig out the rubble where the gates once stood. For all their effort, it seems an impossible task. But their persistence was unwavering, their optimism relentless. Even trapped, even despite their many differences and quarrels—the leaders of Novus work together. Despite some of their reluctance, the four corners of Novus mingle together with a sense of determination and cooperation. The eyes on the statue flicker with light. Time bends to his will, turning over itself slowly but surely. Off to the side, the trees begin to shake. One by one they shrink, their branches and trunks growing in reverse. They appear to cave into upon themselves, growing now in reverse. Smaller and smaller they become in both width and height… until in the place of a wall, there are only a dozen saplings. They’ve opened a hole in the barricade, providing room for the equines to file through. Without a word, the eyes of the statue go dark as quickly as they had brightened, as if the god had never been watching at all. In the same way he caused the trees to exponentially grow, Tempus has turned back a piece of time and caused a section of trees to revert back into saplings! This creates an opening in the trees, so that the Regimes may their way through to freedom. Each of the equines is now free to leave. The opening is towards the back, away from the entrance; they will need to travel through some forest to get back to the others. It is up to you how your character chooses to process the event. You are free to confide in other members of your Court, or to keep it a secret! Only one thing is clear: the gods have returned to Novus. (And Tempus is one Disappointed Dad… will the God of Time continue to meddle?) This round will end on July 3rd, 11:59 PM EST. The requirements for this round are similar to the last: - First there is no maximum number of posts per character! Please wait however for at least 2 people to post in between your post. - Second, only one person from each Regime is required to post. It is highly encouraged that everyone should post, but understandable if you cannot! It is highly encouraged you talk with the other members of your Regime to coodinate. - Third, at least one person from each regime MUST post by July 3rd, when the meeting will officially end. After this deadline, you are welcome to make more replies to continue the story and conclude the thread organically if you wish, but there will be no more prompts or time limits! - Fourth, that's it! The meeting is concluded c: Thank you all for participating, you have each been awarded 250 signos for it ;u; This has already been applied to your accounts! @Somnus @Ipomoea @Orion @ @ Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
made on the sixth day to rest on the seventh and now we just try to survive They toil in the dark and the grime, and, despite the combined efforts of all of the Regimes, they seem no closer to freedom – Seraphina doesn’t often wish for divine gifts, but, in that moment, she wishes that she were something a little bit more than mere mortal, if only to be capable of more than desperately heaving at the stones. This is a test, something at the back of her mind screams. What use is faith is it’s never tested? But her faith has been tested time and time again, and she’s never been told why; no excuses, no answers, no blessings, no curses. Nothing. She’s always believed in the gods, and she’s never blamed them for mortal affairs, but now they’ve become involved in a conflict that was well within control, and now they’ve (or Tempus) trapped them in a collapsed cavern in what she can only assume is some long-winded effort to force them to cooperate. Her heart constricts inside of her chest, because she believed in them - she believed in them, and she trusted them, and she followed them, and she worshipped them, and she needed them, but it seemed that they’d never needed her…or wanted her, perhaps. When she needed them, they were silent. When her people needed them, they turned a blind eye. And now, for the sake of some heartbroken queen or a rash king or a change that they refused to explain, they’d revealed themselves. If it were explicable – if it were justified – why didn’t they explain it? Her eyes sting. She had forgotten the way that they itch after tears, especially with dust clinging to her fur like a second skin. More than tears drips down her skin, now; she is coated in streams of sweat that streak metallic down her sides. Her motions are mechanical and driven, desperate to counteract the swirl of white-hot rage and painful rejection that seems to be determined to overtake every ounce of self-control that she has left. She doesn’t feel like herself. She doesn’t feel like anyone recognizable at all – she feels all animal, all feral, torn and loose at the seams. Everything inside of her wants to spill out, to overflow, and she doesn’t know how to hold it all in. It is nothing at all – or too much, all at once. There is no middle ground. All at once, off to the side of the grove, the trees begin to change; they shudder and shrink, collapsing in upon themselves, towards the ground. It takes her a moment to realize that she is witnessing the magic of time – it takes her a moment to realize that it is flowing in reverse, growing them back into saplings. Seraphina looks at the small sprigs of green and the expanse of forest beyond them, then to the others gathered. “It seems that he has decided to free us.” And what was the point of all of this? Was there ever a point, with the divine? Her eyes turn to stare intently at Bexley and Eik. “We should return to the other Solterrans – I’m sure that they wish to know what occurred.” With that, she strides forward, eager to escape the claustrophobic, painful space. (If she runs from it, perhaps she can run from her, too, from the pit that’s opened up in her stomach and the vast tangle of somethingness that wants to eat her up.) But first… She pauses at the base of Tempus’s statue, and she looks up into those cold, cold eyes – they are dark now, and lifeless. She remembers them bright. “I don’t…understand,” She says, slowly, staring up and into those empty circles of carved stone with blurred vision and eyes ablaze; and then she casts her eyes away and turns towards the trees. She does not look back. When she finds her way back through the woods to the people of Solterra, coated in a thick layer of grime that nearly obscures the lines of glittering golden warpaint that have come dripping down her cheeks, she will make no efforts to disguise what occurred in the meeting with Tempus, and she will prepare to linger at Veneror until she can find answers. She can’t keep it from them, even if she wanted to – trying to hide the presence of divinity would only do more harm to them in the long run, however painful and dangerous their presence seems to be – perhaps especially to the Regimes – in the moment. She has no secrets to keep. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- tags | <3 notes | aaaaand, sera out. it's been fun, guys <3 I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence "... It fills you with determination." Somnus was aware of the uncomfortable heat that seemed to grow, as well as the sweat that began to darken the dusty gold of his coat into a rich copper. Rivulets of moister beaded and fell upon his brow, as well from the crest of his neck, and even upon his shoulders and beneath his wings as he struggled and strained against the pile of rubble. It seemed that every time they made even an inch of progress, their hard work would be dampened by another slab of rubble falling into its place. Then, their struggle would renew itself, and even though there were so many bodies straining and struggling to open up a pathway so that they were no longer trapped, Somnus was unskilled with his telekinesis.
Using it in such quick succession for an extended duration of time was exhausting. He was just a mortal man, no matter what his title was. He bore no magic or skill other than the limited telekinesis he carried and his fleeting prowess in battle, but damn it all, he would try and struggle until he collapsed if it meant helping them all escape the confines of the meeting place. Florentine’s portal did not help, nor did Po’s reverent, pleading words to the trees. It seemed that nothing that they would try would be enough… Until behind them, a section of trees began to twist and change. They seemed to revert into themselves, shrinking and growing smaller as though in that very place, time itself shifted backwards. It was peculiar and ominous, and Somnus’ head turned towards the statue of Tempus as he stepped back from the collapsed remains of the stone doorway. It was strange, and truthfully, beyond his comprehension. They all had so many questions upon why they had been summoned here, and to a degree, that had been answered; change was coming, yet... When they had pressed for information, displaying their eagerness to learn and know and prepare, the Tempus had given them nothing. Maybe that would have changed had not Tempus’ children behaved. Maybe if the Gods had worked together, this end result would not have happened… Yet they were not like Tempus. They could not turn back time or alter universes. They could do nothing now save take their pathetic insight and prepare for whatever change Tempus had warned them of. Verdant eyes returned to the cracking, morphing shapes of the trees, and tentatively, he followed after the Solterran Queen. Soon enough only petite saplings remained where impassable, mighty trees once stood. He watched solemnly as Seraphina passed through, and silently he wished her well. It was done, and they needed to prepare for whatever change was coming to their land. I might post Somnus once more, maybe. Or I might just end it here. :D |
