[AW] fall with me [autumn festival, open]

[Mephisto]

Mephisto
dusk court warrior

M

usic rose from the vineyards, and with it, the party had begun. All around, there are candlelights and jovial sounds – it is the type of crowd Mephisto generally ignores. But she cannot help herself, curious as she sidesteps the overindulged, sipping gingerly on warm spiced wine as it blossomed against her tongue. The taste of it is somewhat bitter, somewhat sweet, and entirely pleasant as it warms her to the core. It reminds her of fall, with the spiced herbs and harvent scents, and even the dark Pegasus has to smile at the celebration. Autumn was upon them now, and she was certainly ready for it, welcoming the cooler days and longer nights with earnest.

Visitors took advantage of the spectacle, stomping on grapes and dancing together beneath the harvest moon. It wasn’t really her scene, so she does not join in, but instead she stands near the edges of the vats, watching quietly and enjoying the festivities in her own reserved way.

Alone, the warg is left to her thoughts, even as she shifts slightly to allow others to crowd in around her. Their touch is warm, but she does not shy away, grateful for the company and the energy it brings. “Good evening”, she murmurs to those who press closer, “Welcome to Terrestella.”

While she didn’t usually find herself to be a welcoming type, these sorts of celebrations were different. Now, she knew their doors were open in camaraderie with their fellow courts, and so Mephisto had decided to be more social than usual. She even allowed the wine to fuzzy her mind a bit, closing her bright blue eyes to sway with the music, allowing a moment to lose herself in the energy. “What brings you to our autumn harvest?” She offers the question to a stranger to her left, deciding to open herself up to the possibility of company – if only for the night.

For the celebration brought out the bits of herself that Mephisto hid deeply – the girl who longed for touch and companionship, usually subdued by self-resolve and stoicism. Tonight, she simply lets herself be, free and exposed by the firelight.

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@Mephisto | "speaks" | @any

rallidae

[Cyrra]

You wrap your name tight around my ribs
And keep me warm. I was born for you.
Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.

She is an aibnatu alraml—daughter of the dunes—made when the rough skin of a meridional foreigner found the sun-forged hips of a tribal beauty. Raised in the irrigated gardens of a long-dead Queen, inside the white-hot walls of the Day Court; under the watchful eye of the sun high above in a realm of forever blue. 

Perhaps that is why she feels strange here—why she had always felt strange leaving the scorched earth of Solterra for the more arable lands that lay beyond. It wasn’t just the shift from giving sand to firm, supportive soil and stone, or the way the air cooled off and grew more or less humid with each passing phase of land. 

It was in her blood, which seemed to scream out like a string being pulled too taut, for the rust-red stone and clutches of hardy succulents that staked claims like so many sun-drenched pioneers.

For the land that brought her ever closer to mighty Solis.

She can’t deny the excitement. 

The trips far afield had always held the promise of adventure, even when they held the assurance of war. And it had indeed been war that had last coaxed her out of the desert and on a warpath to a destruction that ran as red and quick as blood. And, though that was a very, very long time ago, she avoids Denocte, pursuant instead of a path to Terrastella, where the gates of that Dawn kingdom had been thrown open in welcoming for Fall festivities.

She aches to get away, just as much as she does to turn around and go back.

By night, cool and full of rowdy spirit, she relishes the way the distance from that arcane hell—those catacombs that had long kept her as a ghost in the shell of hell—makes her feel. The way the shadows at the corner of her eyes no longer seem so intent on calling her back to the nether. The way she can no longer hear the faint click-click like bones rapping on the insides of stone sarcophagi. 

She feels lighter, plied further by a heady red wine, fire-warmed and mulled with cinnamon and nutmeg. 

Weaving through the crowd, seething like a sea of limbs and lips, Cyrra slips out to the margins where she moves with a sway that is somewhere between martial and sensual—a strange, disarming admixture. She takes another sip. It runs down her throat and settles with a rippling warmth in her gut and loosens, with every step, the muscles of her body, coiled and hard as snakes.

She searches for nothing.

Needs nothing.

Or everything.

She places the empty earthenware cup on a platter, folding her wings tight against her slender ribs; stark, hard blue eyes just slightly watery, just slightly softer. She meanders until she catches the sound of a voice. Stilling, the dark-brown edge of her lips stained a darker red, set in a straight, though not unpleasant, line; her gaze fixing in the throb of the crowd on the striking, dark winged-woman. A soldier’s mien tilts, and becomes something between standoffish and come-hither, as The Viper Slayer’s brow furrows, her head extending ever so slightly towards the stranger to hear her better.

‘What brings you to our autumn harvest?’

“Oh,” she pulls herself back, the coil of serpentine bronze around her neck settling into position. “Change of scenery.” Her voice is sharp, but tonight, it has an almost agreeable undertone. Though her body does not open up like the swirling dancers and merrymakers around them.

Not entirely.

She’s far too careful for that.

The Viper Slayer shifts her weight and clears her throat, “Cyrra. Day Court,” more or less. Though, less than more at the moment, for she had only just surfaced from a decade of stagnant hell underground, and had only the faintest grasp of the Novus she had emerged into.

@Mephisto

ENFANIR | BERB

[Mephisto]

Mephisto
dusk court spy

O

ne warrior knows another, before Cyrra even speaks her homeland – for the Day Court was one filled with soldiers, but Mephisto knew little more beyond that of the solitary desert nomads who called the place home. Curiosity brims in her as she turns from the dancers, far more interested now in her present company than their show, curious to know more about Solis’ kingdom… for while Mephisto wasn’t exactly new to Novus, she hadn’t made the rounds. Aside from a festival here or there, she seldom left the comforts of Terrestella, though guilt weighs heavy as she wonders why not.

“I have only heard of Solterra,” she admits with a curt smile. “Those who have ventured there tell of an endless desert, of a merciless climate. I would imagine the scenery of our court is welcome relief?” Not that each biome didn’t have it’s place… for Mephisto had come from a world of endless winter, where snow filled the fields even in the sunsoaked summer. It was a place which defied logic, cold when it should be warm, colder still during true winter. And yet, it had been home, despite its harshness and unyielding season.

“I would expect there is only some truth to that… tell me, what do you like best about Solterra?” She sips at the wine, enjoying the spiced bite to it, noting not for the first time that her people knew how to host a party well. All around, there is merriment and drunkenness, but the warg stays to the sidelines, watching and carefully imbibing to keep her wits about her. Though this was a time for celebration, there was never a time where the Pegasus would find herself complacent. It simply wasn’t in her nature to relax fully and throw caution to the wind. Particularly in a field of strangers.

“For my part, the lands of Terrestella seem to be lands of contrast – towering sea cliffs, verdant forests. From the sky, it’s a beautiful place to behold.” She imagined her winged companion would have flown here, and had likely seen its beauty for herself, but Mephisto continues the small talk. “It’s different from the land where I was before, though the magic seems the same… old and ever changing.” There is something wary in her voice, something which seems to distrust the magic of the gods. But there is also a note of respect and fear – for magic was a thing which could not be understood fully.

She stands quietly to allow the stranger to respond, her feathered wings ruffling in the autumn breeze as the piper’s song changed to a merrier tune.

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@Mephisto | "speaks" | @Cyrra

rallidae