i am the fire
i am burning brighter
roaring like a storm
The sun was setting and, while most might be settling in for the night, Morrighan was just rising.
She didn't used to be a night owl, but ever since arriving in this land, sleep didn't seem to agree with her. To make matters worse, with her returning mortality, the lack of sleep made her body feel weak. It was all a mess and the annoyance would be clear on her face. Although, it was not all too different from her usual expression. Hating the world and everyone within it was something Morrighan did best.
The mare was wandering again, this time towards the mountains. The need to explore tugged at her, but at the same time she felt a need to step away from it. This land was still new even if she had been living in it for a few months. There was no telling what exactly was out there and there was already talk of some monster attacking another court. Until she had her weapon again, it wouldn't be very wise for her to stray too far.
So for now, she would stay closer to the Night Court's borders until she had a better idea of what to expect out there. At least with the mountains, there was still a decent gap between the Night Court and the others. Plus, she couldn't deny that the view was breathtaking.
Standing before her was a temple unlike one she had ever seen. Of course, any buildings in this land were new to her. She was not used to such structures looming above her as her old land was much more primitive. For some reason, it made her feel more vulnerable rather than safer, but it certainly sparked her curiosity.
Morrighan continued forward, keeping an eye on her surroundings just in case. Once she was within the temple, she couldn't help but look around in awe. There are designs etched into the stone walls, ones she was not completely familiar with. There is ivy curling around the pillars with purple flowers peeking through. At this point, the sun was just about set and the lack of light seemed to make the temple even more spectacular.
a whisper to the gods and the men they have become – the shallow things with dust in their bones and fire in their eyes. What is death to the gods; wherein their vicious pulse survives the pain of neglect, tracing the hollow veins with cruel trepidation, and they are made ruins, ruined. Perhaps it is the nature of the wind, the watchful stars, and the howls in the night. Something moved within him, drawing its sharpened claws up and down the bone-white halls of his ribcage, drumming along his lungs and the soft pit-pat against his skull. It was pandemonium, it was instinct – this harrowing call to rise, this magnetism that pulled in his veins and puppeted his desires like mad frothing frenzy. Yet it yields to his passions, teeming with a what if hymn that drones and drawls and slips between the cracks of what now. He passes as a breeze along the moors, smoke charade and gambling flesh, a culmination of all things uncertain, unstable. A stagnant escapee from purgatory – it should not be, it should not exist. But it does in each breath, in each step, one by one carried further from its void until it threatens to become what it is. Ghost matter, a haunt in the heath; it scatters the dusk-fawns and gasps cold recognition into the timid hearts of the october hares that bound and withdraw tight to their humble burrows. A one-two ticking timebomb of discourteous reprieve – the hangman's noose gone empty – the common poltergeist's awry dread. This tomb martyr buries his aspirations in the black soils to churn a new world, new age madness fighting for a breath. And repetitive, he asks: which thought is my own? Which desire is true?
Existence is futile. He frets nightmares of purpose, while his dreams of torment are things of relief, as if the only monsters in the world are words and words from words, empty things that beat against the rock until nothing is left. These are the horrors of a machine, no doubt. The things that gnash and clatter metal to metal, tinning a hollow chime from the chest of an aluminum cage. but he is not a machine, is he? Perhaps they all are and didn't know it, but the slick tendons and sore bones beneath the fragile flesh spoke of something more tangible, more frightening than any dead thing cared to behest. Those sheepish grins in the courtyard bliss'd of gods and paltry pleasures, wine and cheese and thanks to the heavens above for our bountiful feast. They quarreled like rats over a heel of bread, squabbled like crows for a pretty penny. Some lucky bastards lay in their chaise, smoking a long pipe and dreaming of the good old days. The child in him sometimes marveled and wondered, what days were those? While the rest of him scowled and looked on to the emptiness presented. What wonderment it must be to feel, to consider the plush of that chaise and the cold metal of that penny, to taste the warm yeast of a fresh heel of bread. And gods, his deaf ear flicked back against the undertow of names and blessings all, subconsciously ignorant to the customs of anything other than the tales of bitter titans who shook the ground from beneath all fools. Those who razed cities with molten gold, and crushed mountains beneath their furious grip.
He recalled the tales his mother cooed to him when he was just a babe, sheltered beneath her wing and comforted far from the barracks that left his infant-bones aching with misuse. Any could be gods, child, if you drag them from the warring skies. But all gods fear a titan. A seedling to a wicked, gnarling thorn thistle that, her words were always so vague, so cold and matted with omen and grit and sorrow. They fell from her cheek like rain, staining her tongue with quivering sighs that rolled thunder in his heart. She said he was many things – and he was! A wolfish child, a lion brave and secretive tangle of shadows from a witch's shallow grave. Yet she never truly told him what he was, those words were always wrapped up in thick honey and choking sweetness that whispered tales of what once was. Some tales she said he was swept up from the shores of a black river, and not truly born to her but from the screaming skies and the pouring smoke that filled the forests with terror, or he was a small stone that fell from a god's eye and was swallowed by a serpent. That stone grew in the serpent's belly and swelled and swelled until the serpent had shed its skin, rippling with the gold of a god's ichor – it drank the river bed dry in its grief but found no satisfaction until it shook those glimmering coils from its back and revealed the polished stone for what it was. Sometimes she said the skies were angry that she stole him from them. Sometimes she hid him beneath her weight and love when the thunder would clash and the sea roared beyond, when the creatures yowled and screamed at the night and seemed to cry for nothing but his name.
All this, and he never knew what he was.
He was his mother's death, his father's best kept secret, the stone forged of smoke and terror which the serpent swallowed and caught in his throat – that drank the river dry and shed its skin along the stygian shores to retch an abominable thing. But for what, he was halved of his right. And for this he wandered each night, because it was the only thing he knew – his blood sang out to him, his bones moved to ache and trailed the moon like a compass. All the unrest and unhappiness swelled inside of him like a rock in his belly, but it had begun to grow its vines and wrap its thorns around his pleasures, his thoughts, his needs, until it was all he knew. Something in him moved yet, on and on, replacing his unequal parts with vicious things anew until he was no longer dead, no longer a machine but a living, breathing conjurement of daemon breath and hot flesh roving. Less a boy, and more a wolf.
It was this nature of knowing, or the lack thereof, that brought him to the mountains that evening. He chased the sun until it disappeared behind the peaks, and he was relieved to follow the whispers of the night that broke over the dusk. Dew settled meekly upon the grounds, rested a glossy sheen of gold over his austere features that spoke leagues of wonder and mercurial twitches of a vague agony. The trail had winded him to the height he reached – and his gaze trailed over the pepper of pines that bowed far below, a coarse sheet of rock that dove deep into the prairie brush. It could frighten the common timid yearling, but he found no interest in divining a thought of death here, he knew it was not his grave. It was a thing of awe regardless, the way the fog hung to the bottom and clambered its way up, up, as if it threatened to swallow him as it rose to meet him. He turned his attention then as it made its half way, refocused on the trail that disappeared between two shadowed shelves and a spine of granite that trailed on forever. Even despite being an arrogant thing at times, he was not so foolish to stray from that path. He had found bones at the bottom, those disfigured skeletal remains with parts where there shouldn't be parts and fractures that seemed an immediate doom, or a labored injury that suspended death at arm's length laughing. A friend to what common sense remained, he strove to keep himself above sea level.
Around the bend, the sunlight bore over the horizon and painted the granite slabs in peach and brilliant gold, set fire to his shoulder in its glimmering fashion, the strains that broke through like cracks in marble. He paused to squint past the gleaming light, beholding all that lay beyond the pass of Denocte, before he turned his attentions back. As he did so, the sun had caressed a faint hint of stone pillar that seemed offset from the more rugged forms around it. It sat behind the cover of looming pines and withered boughs of summer trees that outstretched their arms desperately for the dying light. It lay beyond the beaten path – but it was there, and his eyes dropped to the ground that seemed to form, just ever so faintly, a deer-trail through the juniper brush, which he could only assume led to the structure. There were less pitfalls around this risen ground, though he didn't doubt if he strayed too far from that vague road, he would meet an end similar to those grinning corpses at the bottom of a long drop. But this was not his time for death. He obliged the call that rose then, as the swelling breaths pushed against his chestplate and his legs had already found themselves ambling for the glowing pillar through the rock and trees. There were a few sets of hoofprints in the dusty dirt, half hidden by leaves and granite dust but surely there, though he didn't pay enough attention to be sure that there were prints leaving just as casually as they seemed to arrive.
The temple – is that what it was? - was a pristine thing of sharp carved marble – or quartz, or moonrock, or petrified starlight – that rose from the granite like a spring. He marveled at the craft of this existence, and found himself entertained with following the veins of gold and silver that ran through the walls. Smooth, cold, his hoofbeats shook dust from the floors (except where those other hoofbeats were pressed, here and there in explorative manner) and echoed in the hollow halls. He paused when he came to an inscription in the stone, and his mind grazed over it as fingertips pressed to the cold marble, thumbing over each engraved character in wonder. The overall design appealed to his quiet pride, some kinship in resemblance to his own appearance – the strains of gold that they both shared, and found some comfort in the chill that surrounded him.
Comfort, that is, until he heard another slip and clatter of hooves from deeper in the temple. His eyes chased to the source, their owner silhouetted in the hall. A creme-splashed dun mare that stood, and perhaps had not seen him just yet, but surely would. In truth he wasn't wholly discomforted in the way that he was fearful of a stranger's calculative eye – moreso discomforted by the fact that there was another, solely, that he could not enjoy the discovery alone. For this reason he stood still as the marble walls about him for a long, drawing moment, his gold eyes lain heavily on the woman while his skin twitched with misanthropic woe. He is a rugged child, not a sort of rugged that is dirty or disheveled, or even overtly rough - rugged in the way his design is sharp at every edge, and the way it sharpens at each second, as if his skin is metal plated and his spine is a ridge of obsidian daggers. The shadows fall against him, so that the veins of gold and the lustre of his matching eyes are the only striking things about him. He is deceived only by the glow of the marble walls, that he could almost emulate were it not for their opposing contrast. In that moment, he is less a wolf... and more a dragon. He feels his fangs softly against the inside of his lips and his tongue rolls to greet them in remembrance, but a part of him relies on the lazy hope that he does not have to use them.
“do you know what this is?" his voice rolls, but it is distinct – it should sound like a young man's, full of life and vigor and pride, but it doesn't. It sounds ambiguous and deep, whiskey hot and winding like the deepest, blackest river. It is a whisper just as much as it is a roar; the words drip with a looming weight, like a stroke fuse peppered with flame. Tense, begrudging, but not without its subtle courtesies. After all, most of his mind screams that he should leave, and just wait until she is gone, then explore it on his own. But the rest of it growls an answer to the question he posed for her, This is mine.
It was a voice that cut through the lingering silence of the hidden temple, nestled in the crooks of the Arma Mountains, lost to legends and time, that caused the Warden to pause. In her time within Novus, Israfel had seen many ancient buildings and structures placed throughout the land, but this one held a mystery that she found herself genuinely interested in discovering. It was a puzzle, and she hoped to slot the pieces into place to reveal the bigger image. Perhaps the owner of the voice had arrived before her, maybe after, but honestly, the Sun Daughter did not care.
As the sun had begun to set and cast the interior of the temple in shadow, ancient and musty, ivy-covered and blooming flowers accenting the otherwise decrepit state of the place, Israfel allowed the depths of her magic to slowly trickle through her blood. Heat coursed through her veins, pouring, pooling, depthless reservoirs igniting as flames began to flicker to life upon the golden accents of the shield-maiden’s ivory body. It was a mere whisper of its true strength, but right now, in here, there were no reasons for light-show and fireworks. That could wait.
Letting the flames she emanated bounce off of the weathered stonework and create a warm lightshow, Israfel rounded a corner to spot two equines. One stallion, one mare. Keen, vibrant vermilion eyes offered them both a cursory look, a single pale brow arching, and then with a confident, casual sashay, the Daughter of the Sun stepped further into the antechamber. When she made to answer, it was sensually and light, her tone airy. “Is? Or was?” The truest of questions, surely, for it looked like the only creatures that found use in this place now were ghosts, listless and wandering.
These two strangers smelled of Denocte, carrying its stench on their skin. Immediately Israfel knew caution, and it trembled along her supple flesh like a careful caress. It wasn’t that she disliked Denocte, not really, but… Poor impressions of the prior generation left her with a rather unsavory after taste, and it was not their fault that the previous Regime before the lovely Isra weren’t worth even their weight in horse shit.
Gilded wings tipped back to rest comfortably against her sides and Israfel’s jaw tipped upwards, glancing first to the mare. A grullo paint mare with a rather serious expression. Glittering eyes of ruby focused then on the stallion, taking his seal brown accents and dusty golden strokes. What an interesting medley of individuals.
’Isra?’
Solaris’ call echoed mentally within her head, and Israfel twisted her neck to glance back the way she had come. The flicker of flames shone on the aged temple walls, revealing the strange etchings on the pillars as a large, flaming bird entered the temple after her. The Phoenix arrived in a grand display of flames and crimsons, gliding through the air to swoop in low and roost upon Israfel’s croup. Solaris’ eyes, pricks of piercing lavender, quickly surveyed the two equines in their company but otherwise grew silent, her flames beginning to dim.
So you caught up, hm? Don’t worry. We just got started. This might be the place we were looking for. The thought passed effortlessly between equine and avian, and then Israfel focused entirely upon the grullo mare and the seal brown stallion once more. She grinned, a rueful, coy expression. “Don’t mind us. We’re just passing through.” And they need not know why.
i am the fire
i am burning brighter
roaring like a storm
A bay stallion came into her peripheral view shortly after she entered the temple, disturbing the peace she briefly felt. Apparently she wasn't alone like she thought. Morrighan rolled her eyes now that she had to share the space with someone else.
She was put off by his demeanor and became instantly irritated. Normally, this would be when she'd let the flames ignite and establish control of the situation. It would warn the stranger that she was not one to mess with and she wasn't afraid of proving that. But no, she was mortal here and wasn't entirely sure if the stranger was as well. If there was some power he possessed, Morrighan would be screwed.
He asked her if she knew what this place was and the mare snorted in response. Clearly this guy was not that observant if her inquisitive expression didn't give it away. If it were up to her, she'd live in here and keep it out of reach from random visitors, but no, she did not know what it was or where it came from.
"Does it look like I know?" she replied, her attitude showing strongly in her tone. "I'm not even sure that this place was here a day ago." Since arriving in Novus, she did notice that a lot of weird things happened. Of course, none of it could get her magic back, but magic did appear elsewhere.
Then she saw it - the warm glow of fire - and her eyes instantly diverted from the stallion to the source of the flames. It distracted her for a moment and almost made her feel hungry. For power, for control, for the ability to burn. Oh, how she craved it.
This new stranger - a woman - came around the corner almost as if to show off. The fire magic she possessed was rubbed into Morrighan's face. Whether intentional or not, it immediately set her off and her eyes became narrow slits, followed by her ears pinning back. This was unacceptable.
The odd part about her presence was that she did not share the same scent as Morrighan and this stallion, so it was apparent that she was not of Denocte. What brought her here then? Or was she the keeper of the secrets?
To make matters worse, it appeared this mare even had a flaming bird companion. It took perch onto the winged mare and eyed them both. Morrighan's lip curled with disgust.
The mare announced that they were merely passing through and not to mind them, but that was clearly a lie. The big display of fire both from the equine and the bird was not just passing through. It was a message- perhaps even a warning. It was what Morrighan wanted to do so badly but could not. It was the universe reminding her of all that she lost.
"Who do you think you are?" Morrighan asked, unafraid of showing some hostility. "Making a big deal of your arrival doesn't look like 'just passing through' to me." It was a heavy accusation, but she didn't care. This mare would need to explain herself and soon. Morr was already pissed off and wasn't in the mood to deal with anyone that believed they were all "high and mighty".
@Erasmus @Israfel whoops LOL doesn't take much to set her off
he is possessed of marble and shade, cascaded over brusque delineation and haughty, boyish height – as often, the elegant slope of his skull is raised, fitted with the strains of gold and silver that match the veins cut across his own likeness. a horn faintly scrapes the wall as he does, taking with it a hiss and breath of white dust. he is almost surprised that the temple about them is even tangible, though his attentions waxed more over the pinto mare that scoffed at his ignorance. or was it his existence, alone? something rolled about in his chest, curled around his ribs and rose in throat like a somber wolf growl, too low to be acknowledged to any but himself. there was little satisfaction to be had in discovering that she, too, was clueless as to the temple's origins, and found it oddly bold to find herself hostile considering. it's mine, anyways. whispered his blood, shrugging softly beneath his shoulders. he was just as unamused by her presence in the temple as she may have been of his, and her first impression did little to lessen (but perhaps greaten) those crawling feelings of misanthropy. there was some sliver of her arrogance that was of some entertainment to him, that hinted to some recklessness he could approve of, sparingly. in truth, her oddity and spite to his being there made him want to linger even longer.
a spark caught his eye then, a warm glow that unraveled itself into the apparition of another mare – a new kind of pride, warring wages with the first mare with a kinship bred in hell. she arrived with equal wariness as she did a casual hubris, and despite seeming wildly misplaced she loitered as if she belonged. soon after a peculiar bird took flight to her quarters, an odd thing swarmed in flame and fluttering feather unburned. he had never seen one, though the previous meeting with a dragon and talented alchemist left him jaded to much else. there was little left to disbelief here, he found, that made the wilds seem as quaint and primitive as they truly may have been. erasmus did not bother to spare his breath, no words seemed fit or worth their merit to either parties. this new audience was an odd sort, and while he found little conniving in the way she rode her eyes over the pair of them, he wondered if the hint of condescension was true or misinterpreted. she regarded them as an outsider, moreso than a plain stranger. little did he know the light show was enough to instigate on its own – he caught the air of her grin and it rose like the sharp rinds of daggers in the back of his skull – and the former woman sought its nary innocence for a bartering chip in the head of a quarrel.
priceless.
the painted woman shot back with a tongue sharp as arrowheads, slicking her words with venom and an honorable loathing he found fine to place on anyone but himself. perhaps they would bloody each other on their own and forget that he existed entirely, and he would be left again to his own devices. one could hope. he loosened his body again, returning to the oddly warm stone (bone, moonrock, cement?) that enveloped him in welcome, and he wondered if he tried hard enough that he may disappear into its texture. then he could watch unbothered, as two strangers fought over something so small as a perceived misinterpretation. maybe they would even kill each other, and all would be silent again, and he would be free to explore his temple in true peace. he took care to make as little noise as possible, leaning his side against the smooth alabaster, but could not help the wolfish grin that found its crooked way across his lips, plucking soft flesh from over a peeking fang.
By now Israfel was not surprised by the open hostility that she was met with. Denocte at its finest, honestly.
The painted mare of mouse-grey and ivory seemed less than excited to see her, a look of contempt and disgust immediately warping her pretty little face into a rather unflattering appearance. The Sun Daughter could see the unbecoming expression through the darkness that hung heavy in the chamber, illuminated by the flicker of flames radiating from her own body as well as Solaris’. The halls glowed a warm ambient gold, revealing more in the dark chamber than previously seen. Vermilion eyes tore away from the two other equines to instead give the vast antechamber a once over, admiring its detail in a quick glance before focusing once more on the grullo. The darkly colored stallion did not warrant her attention, not as he began to shift and slink back into the shadows like an observing specter, seemingly content to just lean up against one of the stone pillars to witness whatever this was.
’Who do you think you are?’ Israfel only arched a brow. ’Making a big deal of your arrival doesn't look like 'just passing through' to me.’ An eye twitched. Wow. The Night Court really knew how to pick them.
She wondered if all members of Denocte were like this; bitching, moaning, and complaining like spoiled children and throwing tantrums whenever they did not get their way. It seemed like every person she met from the Night Court fit nicely into that little category, and this woman only solidified the theory. They did not need to know why she and Solaris were there, and the robust black fellow seemed to understand that quite clearly. This girl, however, did not seem to understand such a fact.
What a stuck up pig.
“You’re an arrogant little spit fuck, aren’t you?” She asked, the rough timbre of her voice giving away just how very unimpressed and apathetic she was by the hostility. The Warden had encountered individuals like this before, creatures that were all bark and no bite, who were quick to be offended at every little thing. Ironically, most of them lived within Denocte. Ha. It would have honestly been quite funny if the reality of it all wasn’t so very sad.
With a callous sort of sigh like an exhausted parent might do to their unruly child, the shield-maiden went on to explain. “It’s dark. Fire gives off light. Light helps you see. It isn’t that hard to understand.” Vermilion eyes tore away from the grullo mare, focusing instead on the lingering stallion. Honestly, Israfel liked him and he hadn’t even said anything. She didn’t trust him, of course not, but her respect for him was far more than what she felt for this bitching, whining woman.
With a ruffle of her own gilded, flaming feathers, Israfel walked further into the chamber, intending to pass the paint mare by. The Warden of gold and ivory moved at a confident sashay, the sound of of her hooves scraping against stone echoing off of the otherwise silent walls. As they passed, Solaris’ lavender eyes narrowed at the grullo paint but she made no move or indication of violence, instead remaining perched upon Israfel’s croup, her fire still burning.
Not even bothering to address the whiny woman, the Sun Daughter turned a piercing gaze upon the dark stallion, casting him a quick glance as she made to pass him by as well. Her lips formed a sympathetic frown. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.” Meaning, of course, the ire of the unnamed mare. How unfortunate. “You seem like a smart man, though. What are your theories on this place?” And she grinned, rueful and dangerous, a knowing glint sparking within vermilion depths.
He was not a fool and Israfel would not treat him like one, but she was intrigued.
i am the fire
i am burning brighter
roaring like a storm
Morrighan was focusing too much on the woman before her that she didn't even see the man start to slink into the shadows. Perhaps it was best that he simply became eyes in the background because things could get ugly quick.
Her ears pinned back at the mare's comment, wanting so badly to lunge at her right then and there. Of course, without her magic, she was nearly powerless. She would look foolish attempting to fight without it. Still, her body stiffened and she raised her neck in a challenging stance.
"At least I know better than to trespass in other Courts' territories unwarranted," she spat, like a snake threatening with venom (if only she could). "State your name and purpose of being here and maybe I'll reconsider kicking your ass out of here." To emphasize her demand, she stamped her front hoof and it made a clacking sound against the stone floor.
The woman of fire didn't hesitate to piss her off more by attempting to undermine her intelligence. She was certainly making a big show for the sake of an entrance, not just using her fire as a torch in the night. If you could even call it that, considering the sun set not too long ago.
"Unless you're that blind, normally that much fire isn't necessary to see your way around, but okay, sure." Morrighan rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin.
Now, it was the man's turn to be bothered, although of course her words were much kinder to him. They were in pity that he had to deal with Morrighan, but again this was a useless statement. It was his own choice to be here and, quite frankly, Morr didn't ask for company from either of them.
Though, she would be curious of his response, simply because of his cowardly actions thus far. He was not completely hidden in the shadows yet, but it was clear that he was making the attempt. In all honesty, if the man was smart, he'd simply leave and not spend anymore energy on magic to disappear. Also, if this woman was smart, she'd know better than to barge in unwanted unless she was asking for it. Really, they were both idiots.
for a moment he is nothing. he is a brief spectre, a lapse in time that folds breath over breath in tender flesh – bone, and unhallowed marrow, that which pulls and drags like the current of the oceans. unmoving, unwarranted, he is a shade amongst shades, highlighted only by the shimmering firelight that falls across his sharpest features. they pool in the shallows, gather against the high, haughty ridge of his cheekbone. they taste his skin in tendrils of embracing warmth, but even they cannot reach the chill. his expression remains empty, save the small spark of amusement that lingers in those scythe eyes. they are crescent moons – waning, weary, and as treacherous as the rest of his carpathian features. they glow with the reflection of flame and starve it of its humble glow, drinking in with uncontested depth and malice. he waits. they, too – these rogue crescents that bide like knives, precarious and collusive.
where one streak of gold ends, another begins. they vein in the pallor of the marble, etched between two nestling streaks of silvery aurora, and his flesh rises to meet them. he does not shrink from the warring females. he does not recede into the dark, skin crawling with the apprehension of turbulence. he merely lingers, loitering child of the fates, and waits for the scent of blood to permeate the abandoned halls. he longs for it. he yearns for it. a part of him reaches out to their flesh, aches to peel it from bone and bathe in the succulence between – of mortality, drink in. his heart is a bitter thing but it stammers at the thought, rising swollen in his throat as he is consumed.
time seems too slow. too grudging. they hold back too much. too much.
his tongue slips from between his lips in anticipation, wetting the dry line and roving over the rind of his canines, their sharpened peaks. something lurches in him as tensions rise between them, and he swallows it back with a predatory gulp that threatens to stick to the crags in his throat like a knot. the weight is heavy. the ichor rises in his veins, hot and wanting. it presses to every fine line and kisses each pore with wanton lust, beckoned by the notion of war. but these are petty words, empty things that seared and hissed like the fire at the dame's heels. none burned. not enough. not enough.
erasmus, though finding kinship in the craft of their temple, was not a twin to its design. his silhouette stood out from its alabaster halls, ever more highlighted in the pyre light that sought him hungrily from the shadows. their exchange is too limp for them to pursue (yet, we think) and their eyes remember his shape. he does not withdraw. a part of him enjoys the attention. the other scowls behind the corner, a hades grin full with misanthropic grit.
the sprite appeals to his better vanity, though his arrogance pales to theirs – he knows better. he does not feed her compliment with more than the spread of a wry grin, something far more feral and toothier than it should be. but it is suave, curtailed with a handsome dimple that carries the mask of innocent youth. a boy with the soul of cerberus. what does he know of temples? what does he know of gods? of sacrifice? the shadows pull against his frame and laugh from the darkened edges. for, we know more than he. indeed he is a spiteful, curiously proud creature, but such wisdom is not one of the things he chooses to feign – moreso for the off chance that he is horribly wrong. if it were his first choice, he would be mute, so as to never let on to anything he ever knew. untold stories were precious secrets, and there were so few of those left in the world.
he discarded the penetrative gaze of the painted mare, and shrugged himself from the marble. his eyes, jewelled things that roved hungrily from the black, rolled over the incantations embedded in the walls, the astrological diagrams that sprawled every corner. the flames mingled with the dying sunlight, sparking flickering lights and hovering shadows across the broad breezeway, illuminating etchings that died and flourished with each timid flare. the words were archaic and bold, and while he did not recognize their meanings they seemed just on the edge of his mind, like some ancient language lost to him as an infant. at last, his eyes fell to the altars, and clung to them as he spoke. “i am not from here," his eyes flicked between each altar. one, two, three. dust rested in their bowls, twigs and dead leaves that crumpled, veined with age. “as a child, i was told that gods did not die, but fade..." a breath in, a breath out, a small chuckle followed the exhale, and he brought his eyes back to Israfel's. that the gods survived on veneration and sacrifice. and without either, their power ceased. it was deeper than that. deeper than the roots of the oldest trees, deeper than the core of the world. he knew more, there was so much more. but that was his, and his alone. “i know nothing of this place." but he wondered, how it rutted inside of him, the wonder, as he studied the altars full of dust.
