he owl would arrive in the early morning, when the first few rays of light are still struggling to pierce the sky. The dawn illuminates his wings until they appear molten, and he streaks into the Court on wings of gold.
He doesn’t yet know that it is the Emissary he will find, not the Sovereign.
But he perches on her windowsill and waits, holding in his beak a folded parchment sealed with red wax bearing the Delumine seal.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Isra, Queen of Denocte,
The last time we spoke, you had been newly appointed as Queen of Denocte and both of our countries had been through unspeakable turmoil. I hope this letter finds you in a better state than when I left you.
Unfortunately, things seem to have gotten worse here in Delumine. I hope no one is planning a trip to see the poppy fields, as our borders have been closed. A pair of gruesome murders has been committed in our country, seemingly by a strange beast the likes of which we have never seen before. I fear they will not be the last.
I’m writing this letter because I know you as a storyteller, with wisdom unrivaled. It seems we are no closer to finding our culprit than we were on the night of the murders; but I implore you to help us, your friends, attempt to unravel this mystery. All I ask is to pick your brain.
In your travels, have you heard of a beast that lurks in the night and gorges itself on the flesh of man?
And if you don’t have an answer, I beg you: send me back some good news, if you can. Dawn Court is in need of a story with a happy ending.
ll the bonfires in the world cannot match the fire in her heart, the thundering of her blood, the seething monster lurking just beneath her skin. Ah, but how proud the shrieking phoenix is of the court that comes when they are beckoned, that raises their heads high to offer aid to their queen and her merry band that follows. Their hearts are strong, their courage true, and she feels as though this is what it would have been to be a parent, what it should have been at the Tonnerre Estate and was not. But now, now is not the time to dwell on the past and her family's many mistakes.
The Pegasus sweeps through the halls, having called her people within the doors of the castle, within the walls where spying eyes and prying ears cannot find them and report back to monsters that dwell in the dark. She directs them to a room, a grand chamber with a table in the center for Pan's map, and then excuses herself for but a moment. There are items to be retrieved from her chambers, and Moira needs a steadying breath to cool the rising flames.
It is within the walls she finds the bird, chirping on her windowsill, and pulls the letter from his leg gently, floating a bowl of seeds up for his pleasure and work.
Brows furrow and she darkens.
Quickly a new parchment floats from a drawer, her quill already dipping in ink with only a hurried splatter or two upon the top corner as the only indication of the urgency. Stakes have risen now that beasts of more than flesh like her own prowl the grounds.
Regent of Dawn, Ipomoea,
I am afraid your letter has not found its mark, for our queen is gone. A blight upon our lands has come in the form of a silver man made of death and rebellion and bloodshed who calls himself Raum. I fear that I cannot tell you a happy ending, not like our sweet Isra can, but I can tell you only this:
Death stalks our lands and monsters in flesh are rising. One of our soldiers court has been slain by the silver beast, and then he fled like the coward he is with our Queen limp upon his back. Our forces are rallying and we will bring Isra home.
I know not of the beast that lurks in your lands, this nightmare that feasts on flesh. Were Isra here she might, but I will look through our library and return to you with any word of lore that my court can find.
Ipomoea, stay safe in these trying times. If Denocte can reach her star-kissed skies to shelter you and provide aid, if we can do any more than unearth legends in this brewing battle, send word.
Night Court Emissary, Acting Sovereign, Healer of All Peoples, Moira Tonnerre
A single foot taps impatiently upon the stone floor as she watches the ink dry, watches wax drip upon the folded parchment as though in a dream, watches as she draws the Tonnerre Crest of an owl and maiden glaring, poised for attack, and delicate, spiraling T upon the cooling surface as it is sealed closed. At last, the phoenix turns to the beautiful owl and beckons him nearer. She whispers so sweetly in his ear, and with a flourish unleashes him into the air to fly quick and fly true back into the heart of Delumine once more.
s always, it was the time spent between sending a letter off and receiving a response that was the most exciting. Every day held a mystery, every morning asking the same question: would today be the day? Every shadow on the horizon made his heart leap, hoping the wings carried a message, aimed for his window. He can’t quite say why it’s so thrilling - his own letter had hardly been one to evoke joy - but he chose not to question it.
When the familiar owl finally arrives on his windowsill again, he allows himself a moment of eagerness. The anticipation builds with each step he takes across the room, until his hands are shaking with excitement - but abruptly falls when he sees the unfamiliar stamp sealing the letter shut.
He hesitates a moment, before tearing the parchment open. His heart flutters inside of his chest, his cerise eyes cautious, and he reads.
For a second he is silent, still, unable to move. Only his eyes flicker back and forth, reading and re-reading, hardly daring to believe the words on the page.
The bird coos softly, and he reaches out absentmindedly to stroke his soft feathers. Then he settles down to write his reply, the quill shaking in his grasp.
When he finishes, he folds the letter as neatly as he is able, before affixing it back to the owl’s leg. “I’m sorry,” Po whispers, carrying him back to the window. “You’ll get a fair rest after this, I promise.” Then he releases the bird into the twilight sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Moira, Acting Sovereign of Denocte
Today is a dark day indeed. It pains me to hear of the tragedy that has struck your country; even here, on the opposite end of Novus, Isra was dearly loved. I will be praying for her safe return; may Oriens watch over her.
I’m afraid we cannot do much from home, but if there is any way we might be able to help, you have only to name it. We will keep our eyes out for this silver man or clues to his whereabouts. I hope he can be brought to justice soon.
If you can spare the time, I would greatly appreciate your offer to peruse the libraries. I do not have much information myself to aid your search, only that the beast is big enough to take down several yearlings at once, with a hunger to match. Predator-like tracks were found around the bodies, with deep gouges marring their skin. Everything else is a mystery.
Do keep us informed of your search; Delumine is anxious to see Isra returned home.
Stay safe as well, Moira. I fear this may be only the beginning of the storm that is to come, and it seems there are fewer and fewer safe places to shelter in.
for he lives with the least worry who knows not his misfortune
D
ays pass in a flurry of activities, her nights spent wide awake directing the troops of Denocte, the faithful people who are so quick to help, so quick to defend. They come and go from the chamber they've set up as a war room, Pan's map lain so beautifully over a large wooden table. Upon it, pieces are set like a gameboard, yet Isra's name is still hidden from them. She wonders what this means, but has no time to dwell as she sends another spy off, another informant that may never return.
Each citizen that leaves hits her heart like a knife.
Daggers pierce one by one, inch closer and closer to the tender muscle that pumps so strong and fierce beneath layer upon layer of adamant and silk. And through the meetings, through the restless nights that bring no reprieve, she scours the library shelves. Darkness that holds her tight tucks ever closer now, pressing as a lover against her hollow ribs and sunken eyes, shies away from the candle on the table that's nearly melted completely. Oh, but the three others beside it, still untouched, and the two obliterated from before promise an even longer night ahead.
This is her sanctuary, and now it could save lives just as those many endless, priceless Eluoan taught her do outside of these four walls. All too soon, only another candle and two more collections in, an owl swoops to the arching ceilings above, their shadow covering the face of the moon and the phoenix loves so well. Slowly they circle and descend, landing dangerously close to the candles that are quickly moved away from the down drafts and put safely back upon the table. When the bird extends their leg, the Pegasus gently pulls the note from its bindings and reads through it once, twice, thrice before sighing and settling in a heap of feathers and fatigue upon the bench. "What would you do, little one?" She asks to the bird that only turns its head, asking who in return.
Carefully she pulls a sheet of paper from another desk near the entryway, a quill falling into place with the ink pot just up and to the right. Large eyes watch her, and golden eyes watch the paper as words begin to spill.
Ipomoea, Regent of Dawn
the words are a confident scrawl across the page, a foreign touch on a name that is not yet familiar but she hopes one day she might match a face to under better circumstances. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and with the heart of our people, for your thoughts and prayers. All I ask is for any news you might have, any scuffle, anything that could lead us to her - there are eyes and ears that listen in the dark and we will pull the pieces of our broken marionette together again. There is nothing the Night will not know. Is that a threat, she wonders, or simply the truth? For darkness shrouds all corners of their world, and in it her people revel and prosper. They will stop at nothing to return what is theirs. She ignores it, not willing to cross out the truth laid bare, and instead continues on.
I've scoured our library and will keep looking when I am able, but there are stories. Oh, Isra would tell them better but I shall try.
I've found bogeymen who come in the dark to wreak havoc and leave terror - creatures born of the night, to the night, born of fear and feeding on the living. They will not, cannot, be seen by the day. Our records say nothing of their appetites. Another, Coco , is a bogeyman, too. He comes and feasts on children in the dark who misbehave, but perhaps one has grown too bold, too big, and come to a court where he does not belong.
Others still tell tales of the Adze who are fireflies that feast on the blood of their victims, but be weary for they can shift before our eyes into one of us. You cannot tell the difference between who they are and who you are when they take on our mortal flesh.
The most recent I've found is La Llarona, and how she makes my skin crawl, Regent. A woman dressed in white, a crying to draw you in, an ephemeral shade upon the land that looks like a walking heartbreak and sounds like a mourning lover. They say she lost her child, they say her little one drowned, they say she looks for those to take his place. In the night she steals away our children, in the night she tries to make them her own. But how can our little ones replace hers? None will ever be good enough, and so she drowns them. There are no tales that say she feasts on flesh, but details get lost in the passage of time.
I will keep looking, Ipomeoa, and when we find your monster I will look for a way to rid you of that plague, too. Until then, let our courts be at peace with one another as this storm grows closer.
Emissary of Denocte, Moira Tonnerre
She's too tired for the mouthful of a title resting on her shoulders, and she does not care that she is an acting sovereign when her heart shatters with every breath that Isra is gone. It is the only sound she hears in her veins, the thrumming of her heart sings missing, missing, missing like a broken record.
Delicate are the movements that tie the note together. She looks to the owl and finds them ready for food, ready for something other than flight. And so they go to the airie together where the phoenix deposits her faithful friend in an open nest and opens the food for all to flock to. Then, she selects a morning dove and wraps the note around their ankle with a whisper in their ear. They coo to her so sweetly, a promise in those large eyes, and take off into the night. Only when the dove is no longer a fleck on the horizon does she turn. "You may leave whenever you wish," and with that, the Emissary is back on her quest for knowledge to help their friends in the far North.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: I am sorry this took eons ! Take my poorly researched bogeymen 8)
ow many days had gone by now? Ipomoea wasn’t sure.
Day after day after day, it was all the same. Days filled with waiting, with dusty pages that all but crumbled when he turned them, words that swam across the page and befuddled his mind. None of them said what he wanted them to say. None of them guided him in his hunt for knowledge.
Each day he woke with a question, the same question that burned upon his lips. What will happen today? And yet each night, when he lay his head upon his pillow, the answer was the same: Nothing.
Yet.
He was growing tired of waiting.
His sleep grew restless, the Regent tossing and turning for hours before finding rest. Oftentimes he would find himself at the window, gazing up at the moon and the stars scattered like a thousand eyes upon the night sky. His thoughts ran rampant during these times; there was nothing left to do here in this period of waiting, except to think. His mind was his greatest weapon, his only weapon; but gradually, there was nothing left to fight. The fires were gone, the monster was silent, the borders were closed. Delumine slept, be it day or night, summer or winter.
Delumine slept while the rest of the world raged.
Ipomoea wanted to rage alongside it.
When the owl arrives once more, it takes everything in him not to sing for joy. He knows even before unrolling the parchment that the words will be dark and heavy - how could they not? The Tonnerre seal was emblazoned in the wax, Moira’s handwriting was beautifully messy, he could imagine the way she might have leaned over the parchment as the quill danced across its surface.
He tore it open, his eyes hungry for news, and read. This time, his brow did not furrow, and his lips did not frown. His eyes turned to steel, his jaw setting in determination as he pulled a fresh strip of parchment out.
Dear Moira, Acting Sovereign of Denocte
I thank you, Miss Moira, for your dedication and your friendship, even from a world away. The monsters you’ve described are fearsome; they turn my blood cold, and remind me of the murders in our forest.
But our monster has been silent. I have not seen any signs that you’ve spoken of - or any signs for that matter. The beast is sleeping, for how long, I do not know. Here the letter transitions from neat print to a frantic scrawl; anger is inscribed into every letter, and a desperation bleeds through the parchment. I hope it will be a good and long rest, long enough for us to find wherever its hidden itself and slay it in its sleep.
Ipomoea pauses. The quill hovers in the air, trembling. He knows the weight of the words he is about to write, knows he will not be able to take them back - does he dare? Is he brave enough? He thinks back on that night, where Messalina burst through his door and awoke him from his sleep, how they ran through the forest with makeshift lanterns hunting alongside the rest of the Court. He had never felt so brave as he had that night, as he does right now. His heart is swelling, his hands are trembling as he dips the quill into the ink once more.
With our forest quiet and our borders closed, I beg of you: return your focus to our dear queen and the silver man whom has stolen her. Right now, he is more a monster than any hiding within Delumine.
I hope I can repay you for your kindness, Miss Moira. I am forever in your debt.
I will be in Denocte soon, not long after this owl arrives. I will aid you in your plight against Solterra in whatever way I can, if you’ll have me.
Signed,
Ipomoea
Boogeymen, Cocos, bloodthirsty fireflies, not even La Llarona would be enough to keep him away. The world was full of monsters, this much he had begun to learn.
Some monsters were more fearsome than others, but all must be slain.
Ipomoea takes only enough time to rouse Odet from his sleep before he slips from the library. The stars are winking down at him, their whispers a scream in his ears, as he hurries across the courtyard. His heart is pounding, his blood singing a song he didn’t know it was capable of.
