Noctii is late again, but this was never any surprise to her. She is still trying to rebuild herself and to wrestle her fury back inside the ugly chains that bind it. It is a mournful call that weeps bitter symphonies that calls her to the heart of Denocte. It pulls her away from the home that Isra has given her. She arrives in the shadows of her own fury and sadness, and she is only able to catch the ends of the conversation. A new mare who has taken the maw of the night for her own. It is not Isra. Her words strike like a sharp blade that has been left in the snow. Her words carry the weight of betrayal and pain. They boil her blood. Noctii remembers well her last visit with Isra, and how the flames of their rage fed one another. Though she is stuck in wonder, and a dreamer as Moira says, she too is a warrior. She is on the edges of the group when she arrives, and many of these faces she does not know.
She should. Noctii breathes in her fury and the chains that bind the ugly flames to shatter. The golden maiden with seas of ivory moves to stand beside the equine who had asked about the mermaid. "They won't keep her for long. Just as I promised Isra that our enemies would tremble at the mere sight of our stars that shine like teeth... I will promise the same to all of you. We will find her, and those who have her will pay. They will be swallowed by the fury of the Night, for the injustices they have brought upon us." Her passion spills from her lips, just as her fury does.
Noctii does not know them, not as she should, but that does not mean they are not her kin. Isra promised her that the moon would love her just as fiercely as the Sun had. Isra loved her, and she was the blades and beauty of the night. Caligo had chosen her. She had chosen all of them in a way, by accepting them. But she still does not trust their Gods, not yet. Not until Isra came home safe.
"Speech"Thoughts
Notes: Sorry for the delay <3 and that this is awful.
Tags: @Moira /Everyone
And I thought
Maybe we could save ourselves
03-01-2019, 08:45 AM
Played by
Firefly [PM] Posts: 31 — Threads: 2 Signos: 0
Though Metaphor does not know this court or its queen, he feels a strong sense of duty and an urge to protect. This was Katniss’ home, and so, it was his as well. His mind drifts to their little house at the edge of the woods… the one with a fire at the hearth and flowers on the table. Their peace and harmony was worth fighting for, and with Isra the queen stolen, it was only a matter of time until the darkness comes to Denocte.
Already, he had seen the horrors of murder in the Dawn Court. Maybe the same beast who had caused such damage is the one who had taken Isra. Raum. The beast had a name. Metaphor’s jaw is set in a clenched manner as he reaches to stroke his mate with a reassuring touch.
“You must.” His voice is quiet and thoughtful as he validates Katniss desire to fight. Though he didn’t like her going into battle, he understands that this is a valid reason… and a necessary one. ”We all must fight… for if we do not, the very peace of this place cannot be found again.” Stepping a few paces away from Katniss, he addresses the winged mare, Moira.
“I am not a fighter, but I shall be available as a healer for those who need it. We will need our wits about us, and every gift should be put to bear, in the name of vengeance.”
The red stallion steps back with the others then, a resolute sadness washing over him as Maaemo’s orb blinks steadily beside him. If anything, it was just one more reminder to him that peace was such a fleeting thing… that greed and selfishness would always threaten stability in life. At least this time though, they would attack as a unit. The Night Court, for all its eccentricities, seemed united in this regard.
Taken. Isra had been taken from them. It was no wonder then, that Fable had not responded to his cry. No doubt, the dragon was protecting his queen. Still, Pan has to wonder where she had been taken to. In his time at Novus, the boy has seen every court, and he had no idea where to start looking for a mermaid and her dragon. As he puzzles through it, the boy remembers the map. Drawing it from his bag, he stretches it out against the flagstone hearth, seeing dots popping up across it, each one labeled with a name.
We can use this, he offers suddenly, a note of optimism in his voice as he scours the map for the queen’s name. It shows us where everyone is… but… I don’t see Isra on here. Where do you suppose he took her? Where, indeed? Clearly, Isra wasn’t being held in the capital, for otherwise, the map would show her location. It wasn’t much to go from, but it was at least a start. Gulping with a determined look on his face, Pan turned to face the strong and beautiful mare who had called them to the temple this night.
I’ll help you find her… just tell me how I can help, and I’ll do it. There is a resolve in the boy as he juts his chin forward and clenches his teeth against the inside of his lip to keep from crying. Too many tears had been spilt recently, and Pan needed something to keep his mind off of the horrors of Novus. He needed a project where he could feel useful, and perhaps this quest to find the queen of darkness was exactly what the doctor ordered. Looking around him, the boy senses the same resolve in the others, and he knows… together, they will prevail, one way or another.
you shouldn't have to pay for your love
with your bones and your flesh
There are bells tolling in the night air, calling across the expanse of Denocte to every sleeping citizen. He awakens from a dream about monsters vanquished and a weight lifted from his shoulders, except that it wasn’t quite a dream -- there is a feeling of lightness in his chest where before had been only sorrow, a layer of shed guilt left behind him. There are still the lingering thoughts of ‘what-if,’ but the past no longer whispers in the back of his mind, and there are no longer padlocked chains around his heart.
He moves through the court with feet made fleet by concern, hooves tapping against the cobblestones and tail flashing like a warning sign. When he finds the crowd, he knows he’s found the right place -- he slips in between the larger members of the court and finds himself at Katniss’ flank, ears perked forward and eyes on the mare he’s never met but knows isn’t their queen.
“I’ll help search,”He offers in the silence between two others.
It was the sound of bells that rudely awoken Morrighan from her slumber. For once, she had fallen immediately to sleep as insomnia had plagued her practically since she arrived in this world. Of course, nothing could work out as it was supposed to, so it was apparent that she would not properly sleep tonight either.
She was still fairly new to the Night Court, but its people had taken her in despite being an outsider. She supposed they weren't all bad, although some got on her nerves fairly quickly. Most of them knew to give her space and so she enjoyed the solitude many days. It gave her time to think and to plan, mainly on how the hell she was going to get her magic back, but then also if there would ever be a way to get back home.
For now, Morrighan supposed she should find the source of this incessant ringing as it seemed important. When she left her bed, she could see figures gathered within the court's keep, so she knew she'd have to pick up the pace.
As per usual, she was fashionably late but had been able to hear Moira's speech to the group. Apparently their Queen was gone, stolen by some brute named Raum and another had been killed in the event. She didn't know either of them and she barely knew their Queen, but Isra had been kind enough to let her sorry ass in. The news of her disappearance was indeed troublesome.
She could feel the determination rising in the air among everyone and the smell of war on the horizon made Morrighan restless. It was not that long ago that the war had taken place back home, so the fight had not quite left her thoughts. Battle was all she really knew both due to her kingdom's ideals and her survival skills. Then, she was frustrated as she was reminded that in this world, she was useless and powerless. She would have to rely on her combat skills to get her through until once again she could control fire.
"I will fight too," Morrighan declared, taking a spot within the gathering. Really, she may as well. While this court was not her true family, they were for now and there was strength in numbers. "Let's get this jackass."
Her ears twitched at the sound of an unfamiliar voice - a light gray man with glittering green scales covering his body. She did not recognize him from Night Court's usual folk and it made her confused as to why he was here. He offered to help and pulled out a magical map that supposedly showed where everyone is, although it did not show Isra. Morr's eyes squinted as she tried to figure his plan out. Clearly this map he had was not that useful if it couldn't show the one individual they were looking for. She snorted and shook her head. She'd have to keep an eye on that one.
The missing Queen must have no lover to speak impassioned words for her – or perhaps this General is her lover, Ianthe hardly thinks it matters what station this mare occupied in the Queen’s life – but as voices rise out in calls and questions and offering, it is hard to miss that the Queen is very much beloved. It’s strange, standing amongst a crowd nearly rioting in their eagerness when she feels no little dispassion for the missing monarch and her dead foot soldier.
It is disquieting to stand amongst these people at all, instead of hover high in the air with her kin. On the ground, the concern these heretics nurture is nearly a physical entity, at first swirling about her ankles like a quiet breeze before rising into a tempest all at once. She aches with it, tries to bat it from her with a flick of her tail and a twitch of her skin, but it stays persistent. She does not understand.
A monarch is missing, and she has no lover to mourn her, no children to watch for her. This General speaks well, and when she called the court answered. Why then is the take-over not a simple thing? Why then do they insist on clinging to the past? Members come and go as they please, why should leaders be restricted from doing the same? Members fall from the sky as the gods and situations merit, why do they weep for her?
But they do. Oh, how they miss her! They carry on and prepare for war where Ianthe has only seen skirmishes. Their missing leader riles them, unites them, and she can only watch as one after another steps forward to offer their services. There will be blood, she thinks, and wants to turn away.
But the sunrise flares through this General until she is a mouthpiece, a prophet, and she asks, pleads, demands. But Helios combs his fingers through her feathers until she is wreathed in rage and the dawn of a new day – a new age – and others answer her call. But Ianthe’s heart drums in her ears as she at last takes a single step forward, toeing the shadows the General casts, and embraces her fate.
“I know not how to fight on land, but I will learn. Direct me.” Ianthe can do no less for her gods.
There are a hundred beginnings to any story, even this one.
Lysander’s was this: Once upon a time, there was a festival not so different than this one, only it was midwinter and not the heart of summer. Only there was snow falling like Death’s blanket and not a dozen wonders borne of a storyteller’s heart. In that story he was walking alone beneath the pines, and from the shadows of the trees broke another set of shadows. They belonged to a murder of crows, to a crooked king of Night, and although Lysander does not think often of that day (not anymore, when it used to consume him) he remembers it oh, so well.
He remembers Reichenbach, the tumble and curl of his hair, the bright mark of his star. He remembers the girl, and her wicked knife’s smile. And he remembers the other two, the buckskin too bright to forget and the other one, silver and silent, whose dagger shattered between his ribs. Oh how intimately he recalls it, how it had nestled in its new home against his muscle and bone, grinning its killing grin.
They had meant to leave. He had been about to take Florentine home, home to the blue ocean and the olive trees and all the grapes sweet and heavy on the vine - home to the forests of laurel and salt and home to the nymphs who lived there. But she had to answer the bells.
Lysander could not blame her. They begged to be answered.
And so they joined the others, him with his nose to Florentine’s hip, green eyes watchful but nothing more until -
Isra has been taken. It is then the bell first tolls in his heart. -taken by Raum. Oh! How the bells echo and roll then, a teeming wailing rallying cry, and each one he answers with rage and fury. He had not known he could contain so much; his skin shivers with it, his dark lips lift from his bright teeth; he seethes.
The once-god does not listen as the others pledge their fealty, to fight and to search. He feels like a storm far above the surface of a thrashing sea; not since losing his magic has he longed for it so. When he looks at Florentine there is little recognizable in his eyes, and each sharp tine of his antlers begs for blood.
Oh, Calliope had been right - he should have cut out his revenge two years ago. It is not a mistake he will make again.
you fester in the daytime hours
boy, you never sleep at night
always one decision away from a totally different life
-- ♕ --
The bells, oh the bells.
They tolled out and Florentine knew from their call that all was not right. How could they leave now? How could they go when Denocte was in distress?
The gilded girl stops when she hears their chime begin and her lilac eyes look to the citadel from where the sound echoes. Her heartbeat is as fast as a butterfly’s wings. It thrums in her throat and in her chest. It beats and cries as her lips reach for Lysander, as he continues by her.
Oh how her stomach clenches, how it twists bitter and sad. She was supposed to see his home, to see the anthousai and dance their dances of flowers and leaves. She was supposed to sleep beneath a canopy of trees and wake only when wine slips enough from her blood that she feels the weight of earth beneath her again.
But the call of Denocte is stronger. A part of her soul belongs here, for always has she been drawn to its stars and its midnight wonder. Now it is lead by a girl of stories and a magic of fantasy and Florentine is ever more a little bit in love.
“We must go and answer the bells.” She whispers against his skin and knows what disappointment will slip into the green of his eyes. So she sets her own gaze more wide and earnest as she implores him in silence. Then, she reaches forward laying an apologetic kiss upon his cheek before she turns in a flurry of feathers and runs.
~*~
Lysander moves beside her and her heart is warm, though guilt still limns her veins cold and sharp. They reach the gathering and at once her guilt is banished. The words are a heavy and visceral and oh how it makes her heart ache. Florentine has eyes only for Lysander, she drinks him in as he watches the meeting unfold, the fury, the hurt, the vengeance.
Beneath the fan of her gilded lashes, Florentine studies Lysander. Every part of him, every piece she knows to be soft and warm turns sharp and cold. His lips grow tight and peel back from his teeth, they gleam silver and savage in the moonlight.
Flora watches her lover become something other. Her heart trembles for it and how easily it makes her forget her own fury, her own worry. And when Lysander looks to her, when he smothers her in a green she has no name for (for that look is like none he has ever cast her way before) she knows that they will not leave until the sinner is found.
The flower girl keeps her eyes wide, wide, wide, for to close them now is to see Lysander dying, Raum’s blade between his ribs. She swallows and it feels like the world, but she steps closer to his side, to the warmth, the comfort of his skin.
“I will help you.” She says to Lysander, her voice made of steel petals and bullet rain. “He will pay for his crimes.” For they are too many and too great. And then, she adds with a smile, hesitant beneath the fury of his stare, “I will make sure you steer clear of his blades this time.” Her lips brush her dagger, gilded and beautiful, that hangs about his throat. “It has a taste for blood now, after all.”
He wakes before the toll of the bells – before their chime cascades in echoing over the rolling knolls, the lanternlit walks of the merchants' markets. before they rattle the walls of his den, a resonant quake in the earth that hums and whispers of trepidation. His eyes turn to the southernmost wall as their timbre rolls through – desperate, but ever so true, quivering the collection of rattling bones that cackle and jeer in the breeze. It wasn't a dream or sound that brought him to in particular, though often he struggles to sleep as it is; it was the course of his own blood, pulsing in his ears and his eyes and his chest. How it thrummed, how it drummed, how it seared like hot iron poured against his bones and beckoned, softly then but louder now, this is it, this is it. But what was it for him came with it a many meaning, many roaring risks and chiding chances that bore with it no certain end; as he is endless, a river of crooked paths that gnarl like thistle brush. Youth is cursed with naivety. With time he learned what the grating of his bones meant, the way his teeth ached and craved for flesh and the spark of his eyes held a tombstone wonderment that dredged the gasps from those dead hallows. He learned the depths of the dark, the scraping claws that raked along his breastbone and tore barbs deep into his fleshy heart – the way his core writhed like a pit of vipers, hissing and seething with all the rage of a thousand hells. It was a hound that resided in him. It was its fangs that were his, its eyes that peered from his own, ravenous and ever wanting for all that which it could and couldn't have.
But for now, he is no more than a boy – not quite lost, but not quite found. Much more than the tattered edges of a hopeful child at the gates of Denocte, he has found few temptations to fill him with the fullness of vigor. With what ale and gluttony fed him, he had filled those once hollow pits between his ribs with rustling sinew, bulked his delineation with its former brawn. Yet he is still all those sharp angles, roughened curves, a wolfish and vampiric charm that ripples across his expressions with a darkness too far out to touch. Intangible handsomness, ghosting and morbid as the years press on – it is those eyes, they deceive the pretense of a juvenile cherub entangled with the bliss of childish mien, deepset with a hunger far more feral than any child should ever suffer.
It is this, then. That is it, this hunger, this desperate craving instilled in him from the moment he first drew breath – this machine, this harbinger, this monster created of heavy etchings and arrogant halves. But he still does not know, but to want. To want endlessly, to need the need to feel and thrive, and that is the thunder that starts in him so deep. So deep that it cannot be bothered by the ringing of the alarms, no matter how sharp they toned. His pulse was sharper. Louder. It grew in his ears, a culmination of storm clouds and thunderous growls that bid him rise. It drowned out all else that dared interrupt it, were it voice or bell or scream or animal yowl that cried out in the night. He is deafened to all but the force that drives him on, that runs heat wild through his legs, tearing the ground below in blurs of shade and flora. Shrugged past the whispering commoners and their agonized voices hushed as if they could not help but suffer their pities aloud, despite themselves. Something is wrong, something is wrong, a low chant hums over the crowd like waves of trauma, but none of them seem to quite settle on one subject. They drift between them all like scared lemmings, yammering about the murders in Delumine and the ghost of Denocte, no more than parroting one after the other.
Erasmus is not a man of many words. He is not the first one to break the wall of citizens that have formed around Moira, nor is the first with questions to pose. While he is without doubt a proud creature, one who thrived in heat-seeking temptation and the thrill of seduction, contemplation ruled all in his strategies mounting. For a while he stays back from the wetted eyes of those at the forefront, sheltered in the shadows of curtain and corner. There he listens intently, then and between the pulsings of war that roar incoherently, thrummed between one thought and the next. Moira speaks and he listens, but his pledge is not to her words and so his his mind (and penetrative gaze) wanders freely among those who surround her. Some are weary, some are tearstricken, most are suspended in a state of awe that leaves them gaping or stern. None seem to truly catch his eye, even as a few step forward to lead their allegiance to a cause. A cause. He rides back in his memory, allowing Moira's words to ride echoes in his mind, pouring forth the manner of all melancholy. Isra is stolen. Raum. Tempus. Who will fight? It was purpose he desired at first, but now he wondered what purpose it was.
He is not a knight. And inside of him, somewhere deep and dark and etched so heavy it touches his marrow, a repulsion grows even at the suggestion of their bold call to arms, their glory and cheers that call out into the night. He is stirred to howl with them but withdraws instead against himself, his brow furrowed as he watched the engagement. He remembered the vow the spoke to Isra, the first night he lied his way through their gates. I will fight for Denocte. now he hears this over and over again, until it just becomes so limp and lifeless in the air that he holds his breath. The phrase is stale, its promise poisonous. He is a warrior, a hunter – but he is far from mindless, far from a pawn called upon for bourgeois entertainment. Though there are few things he knows about himself as he steps through the crowd, shouldering their busy bodies from his path, he knows this: he swore to fight for Denocte, not for Isra. Not for Moira. And even deeper, he knows: he swore to fight for pleasure, utmost.
He steps to the rank of those who have stepped forward in pledge, though says nothing. He makes no promises, no more vows. Instead, his eyes hone on Moira, and they speak louder than any word he has ever ushered from between velveteen lips. They are harsh and dark despite their regal brightness, swarming with bloodlust and an uncultured violence that bleeds through his pores. He emanates it, he thrives in it, this ambiance of cruelty. He waits there, partial curiosity lingering on the expectation of plans, explanation of who they are, presuming the they she speaks of is an unsullied army by the way they all rally bold as lions to a blind cause.
03-18-2019, 11:51 AM
Played by
Sparrow [PM] Posts: 18 — Threads: 3 Signos: 20
There is a mighty grip that ensnared her as Moira addressed the people, letting them all know why the meeting had been called and why the very air around them seemed to crackle and pulse with an explainable desperation. Every so slowly did Runaveig’s golden eyes widen, realization dawning on her. Oh. Acton was dead. Isra was stolen away. The one responsible, Raum, had committed incorrigible crimes against Denocte and needed to be punished accordingly.
Looking to the left, then the right, Runa watched the multitude of reactions that sent ripples of emotion through the gathered citizens. First, shock. Who in the world could do such a thing? Why? What had caused it? Then, grief. Not a member of their own, betrayal stinging quick and close like a sharp, hot knife burning beneath flesh. Finally, anger. Justice was demanded just as swiftly as Moira’s words had come, and Runaveig, well…
She quivered.
Far more noble of equines stepped forward to pledge their efforts to Moira in bringing Isra, the Queen that Runa had not been lucky enough to meet yet, home. Soldiers and medics alike swore their abilities to return Isra from the clutches of a madman, and every effort was commendable and respectable… But what could she do? Runa shook, her dusk colored body quivering with every shiver and shake. She was just a singer, a performer, an entertainer. What efforts did she have to help? Darkness and anxiety pooled within her gut, and unbidden, the young woman took a step back as though to make a hasty exit. She didn’t, however, somehow managing to hold her ground… But only for a moment.
Watching her carefully, Umbra frowned. The dragon knew of a time where Runaveig would have brazenly pledged her militaristic prowess to Moira and Denocte’s Queen, but this was not the same woman. This Runaveig was not touched by the cruelty of war, the desperation and need to protect others. This Runaveig did not have Kratos. She was just a gypsy girl raised in the mountains, thrust into a sudden uprising that could hold disastrous results.
’We’ll be alright, Runa,’ he said to her gently through their mental bond, ’There’s no need to fret. We can help in our way, hm? You know medicines, darling, and your voice is a medicine in itself.’
Golden eyes flicked gratefully towards the opalescent black dragon roosting upon her shoulders, and Runaveig let out a deep, heavy breath. Her shoulders were raised with tension and fear, and slowly she took a few steps closer to speak out over the other proclamations of fealty. “I, um. I know some healing remedies. It isn’t much, but… It’s there.” A pause as anxiety grasped her heart in a merciless grip, squeezing tight, and Runaveig swallowed. “Um. Yeah.”
Ducking her head, she stepped back once more, shame and embarrassment coloring her cheeks.
