A blanket of stars glimmered amidst the cloudless midnight, staring down from lidless eyes as the world below busied on. Gently, a breeze drew slender fingers through reaching trees, stroking the golden leaves that yet clung to the clawed branches. It was a beautiful contrast to the weeks Castalla had spent at sea, confined to the space of a tiny ship, enduring the polite though restrained conversation of the sailors, and the stares they tossed her way when they believed she wasn’t looking. The boat had been but a feather in the storms that raked the ocean, tossed between the mouths of gigantic waves and thrown to the teeth of watery wolves. It was only by the skin of their teeth, and perhaps the skill of stallion who commanded the ship, that they had survived.
To call the month spent gazing out at the endless ocean unpleasant would have been vast understatement. Castalla was no stranger to the tides, to the feel of wood beneath her hooves and the scent of salt upon the air, and in other circumstances she might have made the journey beneath the waves themselves, in the form of some great aquatic beast. But with no destination in mind and no desire to spend ceaseless days in any form but her natural one, she had boarded a ship set to moor on distant shores. Such familiarity with the sea-travel, however, had not stopped her stomach from lurching as the boat had crashed against the hardened fist of storm-driven waves and the slight nausea that had roiled in her gut those first few nights spent huddled below, listening to the howling of the wind and the smash of adamant water against resilient wood. Most of the time, the crew left her alone- she had paid well enough to silence their questions. However money could never quash the stares and the glances, the way they whispered amongst themselves whenever she passed by. It was not lust, veiled behind the guise of a searching glance, that filled their oculars, but hesitant curiosity and then silent distaste. They were Alanisian, Anvidian born and bred and distrust was in their blood. Castalla was a shapeshifter, one of legend, and it was upon her stories these sailors likely grew up, hearing tales of the monstrous shifter who assassinated the tyrant king, the silent beast that terrorised Anvidian’s innocent people. It was propaganda and myths, most of it anyway, but the crew had no way of knowing the real White Wolf walked their decks. Instead their suspicion arose from the scars on her form and the unfathomed glint in her crystalline eyes. She was a mystery, an oxymoron cloaked in the fragility of their incorrect judgements, but money overruled sense in Anvidian, at least among mortals.
As at least they entered port, even the crew seemed happy as they gazed in amazement at the still oceans, at the stars reflected in their icy depths. Here the night met the earth, the sea an eerie replica of the sky above. At the prow of the ship Castalla smiled softly, breathing in the rich autumn air as she tipped her face to the moonlit heavens, calm beneath the gaze of her people’s goddess. Her father would be pleased to know Nysa watched over her, even so far from home. And then pain broke the reverie. Stabbing. Burning. Tearing at the very essence of her being. It was as though her wolf were being cleaved from her soul, her immortality and her power drawn from her body. A gasp left her lips, misting in the air around her as the assassin felt her knees give away. Blue eyes glistening with pain and determination, Castalla stood straighter, refusing to pander to the worry that ignited within her chest. The Wolf knew what it was like to lose her powers, but never had it felt so painful. So… devastating. Forcing air into her lungs, Castalla closed her eyes and focused on the silence of her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest. There, hidden by the sudden hole in her body, her powerful slumbered, weakened by very much there. Breathing a sigh of relief, she watched the as the boat drew closer, blind to the practiced movements of the crew as they readied the ropes for mooring as she grieved the abrupt fall of her power. Whatever this land was, the rogue had no doubt passing into it was what weakened her abilities. But she was the Wolf, and the Wolf did not break.
The feel of land beneath her hooves was a welcome reprieve, even if the earth wavered and wobbled beneath her legs, as though she were still aboard the boat. Forcing herself into a steady walk, she left the ocean behind and the wooden cage that had been her home for the past month, following the path of the moon as she moved elegantly beneath its watchful gaze.
she didn't need a weapon at all; not when she was born one
Autumn, it was a season of change. The change from summer to autumn was so drastic it was hard not to notice the change. The temperature continues to fall, going from smoldering to crisp and cool. Rain becomes less frequent, the clouds staying dark and gloomy. The leaves were no longer green and full, turning to shades of red, yellow, orange, and brown. They fall from the trees as the wind shakes the branches, the leaves falling like confetti around Denocte.
And with this season of change, comes a change in Katniss. The death of Metaphor feeling less and less numb, her son weaned and coming into his own. It produces a hole in her heart that she so longed to fill. She tried to throw herself into her work, preparing the armies and keeping busy with her rounds. But no matter what she did, it never felt like quite enough. That emptiness was still there, still longing to be filled. But with what?
The night was crisp and clear, the stars were out in full force. For a moment Katniss looks up at the stars, watching as they twinkle. She wonders for a moment if Metaphor is up there, looking down on Denocte and helping to guide their son. The boy needed a father, someone to guide him. She was not a good mother, but she was trying. She simply did not know how to raise her son, to help him come into his own. She needed guidance but she was afraid to ask.
Looking down at the docks, Katniss sees a ship coming to port. She wonders what it carries and so, the warrior picks up a quick trot, leaving behind her thoughts of Metaphor and Kibou and instead, focusing on the task at hand. As she comes upon the dock, she sees only one individual emerge from the belly of the ship, looking a little rough and shaken. Had the waves treated her badly? Was she injured? Was she friendly? So many unanswered questions guide the made further towards the docks to intersect the stranger.
It does not take her long to come across the stranger, her appearance that of a warrior. She can see the way she stands, the way her muscles hang tight. She knows this because that is how she stands. She comes towards the stranger, her hand hanging a little low, a submissive gesture for now. This was a stranger and she would like to hope she meant no harm. So until it was decided whether or not she was friend or foe, Katniss would bring forth her best welcoming attitude. After all, she had been new once. “Welcome to Denocte.” Her voice is soft, welcoming, and she tries to offer the stranger a soft smile. “My name is Katniss.” Never did she introduce herself as Katniss, Champion of Battle. It was a mouthful and far too formal. Yes, just Katniss would do just fine.
The earth continued to bob beneath her legs as though she were just slightly inebriated, an uncomfortable feeling that the self-controlled mare abhorred. It was only thanks to the predatory grace that all shifters bore that she moved as elegantly as usual, the muscles gleaming fluidly beneath her silken coat. And training of course, years and years of training. Even blind, deaf or intoxicated, she was trained to be able to fight, to deny such weaknesses the chance to demean her skill, to get her killed. Castalla was a living, breathing weapon, whether she wanted it or not.
In the low light her blue eyes sparkled, illuminated by the moon’s smile as she gazed around her, memorising at much of her destination as she could map in the darkness. Much of her surroundings seemed to prairie lands, overshadowed by mountains turned black in the darkness. Very little cover she noted as the dock grew smaller behind her.
With the wind blowing in from the sea, no doubt carrying her scent toward any who might fancy a wander up the coast, Castalla sees the other mare before she smells her. Slowing her pace politely, though minutely, Castalla observes the taller femme’s approach with the keen-eyed suspicion of one used to being attacked by strangers on shadowy roads beneath the darkness of a night sky. Nevertheless her gaze and face was imperceptible, devoid of emotion but for the faint smirk across her pale lips. Already, upon instinct and habit rather than any actual aggressive intention, the rogue had mapped out several modes of attack and defence, scanning the dark mare’s walk and frame for strengths and weaknesses. One could never be too careful, not when there were at least a dozen noblemen, crime-lords and even a King who would pay a pretty price for her, dead or alive. Hunters were everywhere, all shifters knew that. Instinct didn’t care that this far from Alanaris there would be no one who knew her name, no one vying for the King’s favour by capturing the renowned White Wolf.
Once the femme was close enough, Castalla noted the muscle that ordained her frame, the body of a warrior who stood at least a hand taller than she, and yet her head was low, acquiescent. The Wolf had to fight the urge to raise her own, to give into the officious instincts that plagued all the dominants of her kind. Instead she remained neutral, tipping her head slightly to one side as her silken locks cascaded down her scarred neck. A small smile graces her own lips in response to the others, polite enough, perhaps even friendly.“Thank you,” the assassin responds politely, dipping her cranium in a respectful gesture. “Castalla,” she adds offhandedly, not interested in proclaiming her royal bloodline in such a foreign place. “What is this place... Denocte?” Castalla rolls the name on her tongue slightly, her accent a musical addition to the unfamiliar word. She needed to find out as much about this land as possible, including why her powers had diminished.
DARK
@Katniss sorry, the first paragraph is rubbish lol the rest gets better
She already knows the other is sizing her up, trying to take note of her strengths, her weakness, where she could attack if necessary. Katniss knows all of this because she is doing it herself, subtlety sizing up the other mare just in case what was supposed to be a friendly meeting turned into something far more dark and without good-intentions. But Katniss keeps her posture loose, relaxed even. She does not want to make the newcomer feel threatened. After all, Katniss means her no harm. This was strictly to welcome her to Denocte, to make sure her intentions were pure.
She introduces herself and the other responds with Castalla. It is a beautiful name and Katniss wonders what it would be like if her name had been different, to one that seemed to roll off her tongue with far more fluidity and grace than her current name. But then again, Katniss cannot think of another name that would suite her so perfectly as Katniss. It was all she had known. It defined her. It was strong, independent, indicative of a leader who had never wanted to lead. It was far too perfect to change now.
Dark red eyes are soft as she looks on the pale individual, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She’s trying to be nice and friendly, but only just enough to make the other comfortable. “You have a beautiful name, Castalla.” It was beautiful. It made her sound as though she was someone to be revered, as if she came from a background other than the warrior she so clearly was.
Katniss knows that the mare will identify her as a warrior as well. After all, what else could she be? The way her body is built up with muscle, the way her movements are calculated, even the multitude of scars that riddle her body. Big and small, they all have a story that Katniss will share if she was ever asked.
Ears prick forward, focusing on the other as she asked what this place was. What was Denocte? It was a question she had never heard asked before…unless you count the time she too asked what this place was. It was a loaded question. What was the land, what secrets did it keep, what things were waiting behind bushes to attack in the dead of night. “Denocte is one of four courts in a land called Novus. We are also called the Night Court.” But perhaps most importantly, Denocte was her home. It was the place she was raising her small family in. It was the place where she would give her life in battle should it be asked of her. It was the place that welcomed her with open arms and the place where she was so sure she would eventually meet her demise.
Katniss looks at the mare before she beckons the other to follow her with the graceful tilt of her head towards the main city where court life was abundant. “Come, I can show you around.” She wants the stranger to follow her, to get a good feel for the place she has come to love so much. “The heart of Denocte is just over this hill.” And should she choose to follow, as she crests the hill, she will be greeted with the soft glows of fire in the city, flicking and reflecting off the cobblestone streets and stone buildings. It looks like something built by men, but inhabited by equines. It was beautiful, even though she was still getting used to the new style of architecture.
I want to love,
but my hair smells of war and running and running
Gods she missed her magic. This meeting would have been so much easier if she could simply read the other mare’s mind. Or detect that minute change in a creature’s scent when they lie. Not that the shifter made a habit of invading others’ privacy like that. In fact she rarely used her telepathic abilities- only in dire need would she be so invasive. Yet, did strangers here usually ask questions? Experience told the assassin that asking too many questions would raise suspicion, but she needed to know why her powers had diminished. And if they would ever return. But to blurt it straight out, to admit such a weakness went against every fibre of the femme’s being.
Nevertheless, Castalla was trained in the art of reading behaviour, the subtle flick of someone’s eyes when they lie and the nervous ticks of someone with something to hide. She got none of that from the earthen-painted mare who’s posture was clearly open to put the Wolf at ease. A warrior would not be submissive by nature, not when a fight calls to the courage in a soldier’s veins. And like Castalla, the scars wrought over the expanse of Katniss’ coat tell the story of a history fraught with battle. There was no denying that Katniss knew the bitter kiss of war.
“Thank you.” With a gracious dip of her head and a genuine smile lighting up the blue of her eyes, she thanks the taller mare. Few rarely commented on her name, perhaps because most outside of her family either called her ‘Your highness’, ‘Wolf’ or some derogative term shouldn’t be uttered before mortal ears.
“The Night Court.” She repeats, a grin playing across her lips. How apt. Most, if not all shifters, revered the Night goddess, Nysa, Queen of the Darkness. She was their patron, even if their magic did not come from her. Perhaps it was from that that mortals confused shape-shifters and werewolves, believing both to be kissed by Night. But these days, when knowledge of the Old Gods was long buried, remembered only by those blessed with immortality, few really knew why shifters were hunted like monsters. “How does your Night Court feel about strange newcomers?” A coy smile dances across her visage, sapphiric oculars gleaming playfully.
Katniss inclines her head in the direction of the hill, a soft glow lighting the rise. For a moment Castalla tipped her head to the left and considered the mare’s offer, before skipping gracefully forward with a push of her hind legs, keeping pace with Katniss easily. As she crested the hill and laid eyes upon the kingdom spread below, the Wolf couldn’t help but let out a quiet gasp f admiration. Beneath the night’s gaze the town was lit up by a thousand flickering candles, each building glowing in the darkness. A flicker of bittersweet nostalgia alit in her chest; it reminded her of the caverns of Nightfall where buildings like this were nestled among moonlit caves. The guarded secret of her father’s kingdom. “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, still gazing out across the Court, eyes reflecting the orange hues. “Is there much magic here in Novus?” A lame question as questions go but Castalla needed answers.
Katniss, despite being a warrior, had the ability to be welcoming and diplomatic. Being a warrior was great for protecting her home, but being a leader helped her navigate the different sorts of personalities she would encounter. It was no surprise that her time as a queen had served her well. As a warrior, she had served in battles and brought victory to her home. But as a queen, she had been able to navigate them to miss a war that she knew they could not win. So even though she has the scars to show she is skilled in battle, she hopes that per gentle personality will be a beacon to others to know that she is good and true.
As the other thanks her for the welcome, she offers her a soft smile and a gentle nod. The other continues, asking how her Night Court feels about strange newcomers. She is silent a moment, thinking back to when she had been a newcomer. She had come in a time of need and had helped her court with her strength and words of wisdom. They had welcomed her with open arms and she had vowed to do the same. “We welcome all newcomers, so long as their hearts are true.” They had opened themselves up to individuals that only meant them harm. Those had been driven out, thankfully, but they still welcomed each individual. No judgement would be made unless they had shown their true colors and posed an immediate thread. As Night Court’s Champion of Battle, Katniss paid special mind to all newcomers, keeping them on her radar until they proved themselves worthy. But she would never deny anyone a home without just cause. Perhaps that was why she was so open and willing to lead the stranger into her home. Perhaps showing her just of lovely of a place this is might encourage her to stay and become one of them permanently.
Katniss leads her towards the center of Denocte, where the hustle and bustle of the citizens still rages on even though the sun has all but set. When they crest the hill, she looks to the stranger, to Castalla. She seems in awe of its beauty and Katniss knows that look. She will never grow tired of seeing Denocte under the flickering of candlelight. She wishes Metaphor was still here. He appreciated this very same view.
Her question is slightly off topic and Katniss wonders where it stems from. Not many who come to Novus are immediately asking about magic, so she makes a mental note to watch what she says. She will not lay all her cards out for the other to see, not yet at least. “The ground is seeping with it.” There was so much magic and mystery of Novus, many of which is still waiting to be unlocked. “You ask a strange question for only having just arrived.” She is unsure what to think. Should she be cautious of the warrior? Or would her hesitancy be seen as threatening. She was only looking out for what was best for Denocte, for herself, and for her son.
Graciously, Castalla dips her head. “You and yours have nothing to fear from me. I do not come here to cause pain or trouble.” Castalla knew enough kings, enough kingdoms, to understand that one would not be so welcoming as this only to abuse its people. Assassin she may be by trade, she was a warrior by nature and sought to defend the innocent and protect the good. She was also a princess, drilled in courtly intrigue from the moment she could speak. Though she rather disliked the games of sharp words and poisoned looks, she understood the value of diplomacy and talks and knew how to wield her tongue as well as any weapon. No, indeed, they had nothing to fear from the Wolf.
Blue eyes alight with lantern flame, reflecting the glimmer of the fires as they lit the moon-bathed city. The city is alive with movement, its citizens busy despite the darkness overhead and Castalla can’t help the smile that spread across her lips. To live in a place like this must be lovely. Where everyone knows everyone, where you can wander outside your door and be greeted by smiling faces. It had been a long time since Castalla had seen such a place. The cave-haven of Nightfall was much like this, but Castalla had withdrawn from it recently. Too many memories lurked around each corner; too many faces filled with pity upon seeing her.
Castalla easily detected the hesitant confusion with which the taller mare took her question- and why should she not? It was certainly a random question, one fathomed from the internal struggle within the Wolf that no one was privy to.
“Where I come from magic is the very air we breathe. But some are hunted for their particular magics, slaughtered for the blood in their veins.”
There is a bitterness she cannot keep from her voice, it subtly laces her undertones. There were some creatures in Alanaris that deserved the classification ‘monster’, some that hunted innocents to feast on their bodies or drink from their blood. But shapeshifters, Castalla’s people- they did not deserve it. And whilst the Crown believed they were executing the warriors, the leaders like her; in reality the miserable beings that hunted down shifters only caught the innocents. The bakers and the teachers, the farmers and blacksmiths who wanted nothing more than to live a normal life. Castalla had tried to put a stop to it, tried to end the torment by assassinating the tyrant king who began it all. But alas, despite suffering months of the cruellest torture and starvation, despite killing the malevolent King upon his own throne, the regime remained. Continued on by kings who understood not the horror they were reaping.
Castalla turns to Katniss now, fixing her with a level gaze.
“I want to know if Novus is beholden to the same cruelty.”
There is no judgement in her eyes; no anger or aggression. Instead, the oceanic depths glittered with pain, hidden to all but those who truly understand what it was to be hunted. What it was to know you had suffered immense pain to try save your people and failed nonetheless. Castalla would not, could not, live in a world where the same was done to others.
Katniss has always been the individual who likes to look upon others with a welcoming and gracious heart. But war and loss have hit the mare hard, so she finds herself far more guarded than she should be. Perhaps it is a good thing that she is finally cautious. Perhaps her willingness to be open and welcome others has gotten her into far more predicaments than she really needs to find herself in. Perhaps this is just a foreshadowing of the change that is brewing and the change that will wash over her in the future.
To hear that the newcomer means not hard to herself or her court is comforting, if only a little bit. There is a part of her that is untrusting, unsure of whether or not she should believe the stranger. After all, it was a stranger who had tried to take her own life, only to take away the life of her lover. There were things brewing in the shadows that she could only hope to comprehend. Perhaps her hesitancy to believe this mare was a way in which she was protecting herself and her court.
But her attention is now on her court, watching the others move about the city. The air is filled with laughter and joy, feelings that she wished she could once again feel. It had been too long since she had truly felt joy, too long since she had truly laughed. When was the last time she had a laugh, a good throaty laugh that came from deep within her belly. Not since before Metaphor had been killed. Not since before her life had been destroyed.
Castalla asks about the magic here and Katniss answers with honest truth. The ground here is seeping with magic, just waiting for each individual to tap into it and begin to wield its powers. But what the mare answers is horrifying: that where she came from, people are hunted for their abilities. Why be given such a gift if it was only going to be taken away prematurely? It wasn’t right and it didn’t make sense. “What an awful place to live in.” Here it was only the seats of power that were enticing enough to kill for. She had seen many magics, all different and all unique, but none seen above the others.
When Castalla brings her gaze forward, Katniss meets it with her own. She can see the pain and anger in her eyes, the undertones in her voice are hard to miss. She knows that Castalla has come from a horrible place, a place where tyrants rule and the poor are the ones who suffer. Katniss had been born in a place like that…and it has been her mission since birth to put an end to such kingdoms. “I am truly sorry to know you lived under such tyranny. Novus is nothing like that place.” Her eyes are soft, trying to bring some comfort to the other. “We embrace our magic and use it to help others. Sure, there are some bad apples that use their gifts for evil, but most of us just want to live happy lives.” Happy lives that were not interrupted by death and destruction. Happy lives that brought children into this world and helped the elderly pass on. Novus, for the most part, was a happy place to live - probably the happiest she had lived in for some time now. She had her bitter memories, but most were pleasant.
Castalla had spent many of her more recent years as a spectator, cursed to watch the joy of others as she slowly seeped into the shadows. Once she had revelled in that delight herself, the wild princess, the jewel of the Kingdom. Once she had been in love; with a man, with life itself, with the feel of her power in a fight, with the wind in her face and the scents in the air. But then her husband had died, and not long after her ability to create life was taken. Now all she can do is watch the flame of life burn brightly in others, quietly jealous of the way they shine. Though she does not know that Katniss, too, is burdened with a loss that leaves her but a bystander to others’ happiness, they both gaze out across the city possibly seeing the same thing. Night burdens the sky but the streets are busy, lined with stalls and shop fronts, filled with meandering souls. The aromatic scents of perfume and spice fill the air with sweetness, and sounds of laughter and chattering voices are a harmonious orchestra. Castalla smiles a sad smile, its light barely reaching her eyes.
The politics of Alanaris were complex- so much so that even those well versed in all manner of courtly scheming could find themselves lost in the game. The Northern Kingdom, Anvidian, was ruled by a King who encouraged the hunting of shapeshifters. The Southern Kingdom, Solterra, was ruled by a man whose son was protected by shapeshifters. Somewhere in the middle of that, all sense was thrown out the window. And yet there was joy to be had for many. Simple happiness like singing to the moon, running in the wind, celebrating a young Kajak’s Immortalis, yes happiness could always be found.
“It is not all so bad,” she snorts softly. “It just depends what side of mortality you are born on.”
Their gazes meet. One of sky blue and one of ruby red. A mutual understanding seems to pass between them and the Wolf looks at Katniss anew, a grateful smile gentle upon her lips. “I’m glad to hear that,” she says softly. As though remembering herself, she blinks and suddenly her gaze is polite though devoid of emotion and her smirk is back to dancing across her lips. If there was one thing that her father taught her that could be most important, it was to hide any weakness. Anger, fear, sadness- it was all a weakness someone like her could not afford to show. To anyone. Indicating the city before them with a toss of her head her eyes gleam mischievously. “Shall we…?”
Katniss listens to the newcomer’s insistence that where she had come from was not all that bad. She wonders for a moment if she was brainwashed. Perhaps it was just perspective. From where Katniss was standing, tyranny, in any form, was something that needed to be stopped. But she supposed she could somewhat see what Castalla was saying.
All throughout history there have been wars fought on the premise of perception. Each side was born into a way of thinking and eventually, adopted it into being. Younglings were raised in that mindset, taught to believe what the regime believed. And on the opposite side of the battle field, the same could be said about those individuals. They were all born to one side and taught the ideals of that group of peoples. So really, she could be living amongst a group of people that others think are tyrannous. Perception - it was a great lesson - one she needed to teach her son.
She looks out over the city, looking down at people as they laugh and smile and enjoy themselves. It is so hard for Katniss to fit in with them when she feels nothing but darkness and sorrow inside. So when Castalla invites her to join her, Katniss politely shakes her head. “Please, go enjoy yourself.” She looks back at Castalla, trying not to appear rude in her refusal to join her. “I must get home to my son.” Kibou was old enough to take care of himself, but Katniss would still use him as an excuse if she needed to. She simply was not feeling social tonight. Perhaps tomorrow…perhaps next week, perhaps sometime in the future she might feel like being happy again.
