The strike of metal upon metal held a dimming croon, a radiating shine taht rattled up bone, leaving flesh to shiver and eyes to narrow. Each fall of the hammer was a quake to the heart, long having grown steady by the tremble of an inexperienced desire. Each breath fell hot, bitter with the scent of ash and fire, pungent where even long after he abandoned the hearth, the smell would linger, heavy as the soot that dyed his chest charcoal. When he breathed, nostrils flaring, the ash would swirl about in archaic patterns, blackened frost, slowly etching away the fine silver of the world. The bright blade at the slender throat of each grass blade dulled, appearing for all the world cruel and harsh, blackened like iron worked too long. This was a world he had known, had found comfort in, pardon the harsh songs and touches that met his skin. He was used to the burn of fire to close to his body, used to the sounds that drowned out everything else. He was used to the scars and marks that littered each corner of gilded mahogany and alabaster that made up his hide, open wounds rubbed raw with carbon and ash.
Ignoring the heat dancing against his sides, the reflective light of embers slowly smothered in their beds, Arion pulled away from the flames, his body shifting with the lethargic draw of a man who faced down the oblivion of his own limits, often meeting and drawing quarters on the line. He was tired... so very tired, the long hours of day leeching across the stone of the halls he had claimed his own, the shadow of the sun that burned even here, at the in-between. How long had it been since last he dared meet its grace, had felt the heat of the burning lantern high cast gold upon his hide? He could never answer that question, his memories seeming to fade into nothingness before he reached far enough back. Like the first ice of the changing seasons, they always vanished before the light, consumed by the earth and taken away, to reveal once against the dying world they lived. Always dying, always grieving, an endless cycle.
He had never feared death, never accepted it for anything other than a natural enemy. The enemy always won, always claimed its prey, and yet, they were to always fight its wrath, its hunger. To submit was to end the reign of life, and for that the stallion knew the words of old, the time when horses were far braver than they were now, each born a hero in the eyes of their mother. The complacency of the coming generations had always saddened the elders, so his sire had said, walking amidst the edge of the world where his ended and began all at once. That final battle field, that place of the dusk of one's end, the dawn of another's future. It was adequate he supposed, almost humorous, that he found himself here, in the eventide. A metaphoric end to his wandering for a time. He would like to think that the night of long steps had finally come to an end for him, and yet, Arion always grew hesitant, when he was given the chance to relax, to give in. What would it mean, should he let go of all that he had ever known, or would be? Walking, the movements of his body slow, the strike of heavy hooves upon stone was his own company the further he traveled from the hearth. The air was cool, the shadows long. The heavy lay of the pelt stretched upon his shoulders was the only thing it seemed to ward off the chill, the coldest hour of the day, when the sun had yet to break from its shackles and the moon grew complacent with her watch. There he stopped, watching as the sunlight slowly sighed across the stone, settling fine flecks of metal within the cobble aburn, and the air to dance with the mots of dusk. An ugly thing made beautiful for but a moment. Further it reached until, at last, it stopped, just before the tips of his hooves, his breath setting the mots awrithe, a tornado in the light.
Morpho was restless, drawn from sleep when the night was still dark and the stars were still shining above. It was unusually cold for the summer, and she shivered in the shadows, meadow green eyes blinking against the blackness as they focused on her surroundings. She had slept on the ground, burrowed in the tall grasses, with her ears constantly flicking this way and that, picking up the sounds of night around her. As she rose to her feet, Morpho shook away the last remnants of sleep, stretching in the pale moonlight before beginning to walk the now familiar paths toward the east.
She was a newcomer here, but had already begun to make sense of the Dusk Court. In her days, she spent time exploring the winding passages through the trees, the craggy seacliffs, and the deepest corners of the swamp. The land suited her, and the lack of structure soothed her as well. In time, the butterfly mare knew that she would need to take on a mantle of responsibility for the herd, but for now, she was simply learning and taking it all in.
Her thoughts were racing, never settling as imagination struck a cautious note in her mind. For in the darkness, Morpho knew the demons rested. Though they hadn’t found her here, the nightmares never seemed to cease (and perhaps this is why she was having a hard time sleeping tonight). But despite the chill to the air, the briskness seemed to calm her, and she drew the scent of damp leaves and stone into her lungs as her body pressed onward and deeper into the night.
She found him in the fading moonlight – a fearsome beast with tusks and cloven hooves. For a moment, her mind settled on the image of a demon once more – and in that moment, her heart leapt with fear. But there was nothing for Morpho to be afraid of – not here. Gone were her nightmares, chased away by the fascination of the speckled stallion standing in the subtle glow of the rising sun. Curiosity drew her closer, even when her mind cried out for her to be cautious… but Morpho reaches toward him all the same, drawing in his scent – something wild, something untamed.
For a moment, the two stand alone in the breaking dawn, and she looks every bit the startled deer. Unsure of what to say, she simply watches the male, green eyes wandering unabashedly over his frame before finding his warrior’s countenance once more. There were stories in the lines on his face, stories she vowed to hear in time. But for now, the sage simply whickers quietly in the silent morning, waiting to see what he would do.
Night had become his refuge from the heat. Morozko was not made for the thick press of a humid summer, or sunlight like a physical weight; he was born for crisp mornings and frigid dusks, for winds that moaned and bit. During the day, he sought what escape he could, familiarizing himself with the corridors and rooms of the citadel, seeking shade in the forest or wading through running water from the streams fed somewhere higher in the mountains. This, for him, was like a cool cloth on a fevered forehead; he felt half-mad and sweat-slick most of the time.
It was not a good mindset for a Warden.
Beneath tonight’s set of constellations he’d been out on a lonely patrol, walking the borders of Terrastella because it was better than doing nothing. Though a fair bit of the soldiering life was waiting, Morozko was ill-suited to idleness. He preferred giving his body something to do - preferably something strenuous - to better keep his mind from turning down dark corridors and asking questions for which he had no answers. There had been too many of those, of late.
He knew he wasn’t the only one prone to pre-dawn wandering, and his silver-eyed gaze had struck the mare a few minute before, striding through a patch of moonlight. At first his mind went to Inkheart, also black and gold - but there were no wings on this creature, no rose. He was caught between relief and disappointment, but it was curiosity that drew him near - the stranger wore a glowing necklace, just as Inkheart had.
And so he followed her, slipping through the fading darkness with the dew slick against his hocks, as she made her way back to the citadel. He made no effort to conceal himself, but none to announce his presence, either; he was in no hurry. The unicorn would catch her when he did.
But she caught someone else first.
The dappled stallion paused, dropping his head so that his near-translucent horn sent a shiver of light through the new dawn, and watched her approach the man. He’d seen him before, but never at a moment he could introduce himself; nevertheless he was interested, his soldier’s eye not blind to the stories the man’s body and scent told.
Now was as good a time as any to hear them, and he continued forward, though the way they stood - the mare, especially - made him wonder if this meeting was more than chance. There was something caught about her, the way the light of her locket illuminated the expression on her face. But it was too late to slip discreetly away; and anyway, if they were looking for privacy, there were better places for it.
Morozko stopped a comfortable distance from both of them, his gaze sliding from one face to the other with the beginnings of a smile in one corner of his dark mouth. “Not interrupting, am I?”
For a moment, he was consumed by the silence, the isolation and hesitant, gripping consumation of night and day. It was a moment such as this where the untamable beauty of both existed; the darkness and jewel studded clothe of Denoctes' veil layed as crumbled silk along the shore, casting a transparent spell upon the secrets that laid hidden beneath his watchful eye; and the blazing heart of Solis, bared from the furs of his bed, the gossamer glow on radiant skin. They rose, falling and spiralling as the gods wrestled upon this endless canvas, interrupted only by the zealous peacekeeper Oriens, his mauve persistance visible for but mere moments, pushing the jockeying entities away, never to quite touch in their violence. It was a beautiful thing, this torturous duty the glimpsing divine were, the children who were forced to act as go between for the ever fueding kin. His breath fell hot, frosted and shimmering against the last fading light of the kalediscope dawn. It was always in these moments where he was tempted to leave his seclusion, leave the halls he had sequestered in his aversion to the pitiful wars waged in the waking reality, that place where greed and infatuation of status held so much, the whispers of schemes and betrayal.
A last of a noble house they would say, one of the few that cared little for self-gain and self-indulgence. There was neither great love or hate for the way the world spun, only a solemn acceptance that very little would ever change. His story had been sung, his voice a fading baritone at the end of the rising dusk. Perhaps it was why he was drawn to the collision this court represented. The death of one, and the birth of another. Where day was the unrelenting victory and celebration of empowering spirit; where night was a haunting call of that which came before, dusk and dawn were in constant transition, fleeting in their beautifully short lives, appearing for but a moment, always constant in their awareness that they were there, yet, uncaring if they turned their eyes upon another. The observer in the crowd, a prince bearing the tattered cloth of a commoner. He wondered if they were humble. Cocking his head, the strong cords of his throat flexing beneath the weight of heavy bone, Arion allowed an amused expression to lighten the heavy thoughts that etched his eyes. That face which shared all to the world the variety in his life thus far, the struggles and trials, the passion of wisdom so few ever truly pursued. It was one that revealed the inner monsters, things many dared not, could not bear to glimpse. And those truths in himself were what weighed heavily, the weakness in his inability to act, his helplessness that came with the path that walked away from the power to fight and heal. He both made with his own power the power to kill and save, and yet, he himself was responsible for neither.
He was in no means a romantic at heart, yet, when he saw her the only thought that came to mind was she was unearthed splendor. The addiction many sought, the thirst for gilded gold, locked away in ashen stones deep. Brushing away the simplicity of what hid away her truest self, the marks were as coins, freshly sung from the forge, bright and reflective from their careful treatment of oil and cloth. Watching her from a glance, Arion was aware as the mare drew closer, a sudden spike in her scent that spoke of a terrible fear, a shocking realization of the world falling away to some forgotten dream. He wondered if he mistook him for someone else, unlikely as it was. In his travels he has seen none like him, the oddity in the cosmos of his marks, the ivory bone of daggers vaulting from his jaw. Yet, shadows whispered their devilish tune, as it always would. Perhaps she saw what she wanted to see, or what she wished never to see again. The silence persisted, an old friend he never tired from, knowing that should she wish to say something, she would. A member of the court, yet a spirit of the wilds, the fine etiquette in greetings long eluded him, finding neither importance in learning or acting as a pretender.
The sigh came soft, nearly missed when she finally made a sound, his ears flicking against the velvet of his neck. Arion turned, careful of his arcing tusks, his miss toned eyes seeking and finding her own, a molten gold that matched the marks on her hide, the jewels that clung like dew to her brow and cheek. A low strum of the cord fell from his lips, offering his greeting in turn, watching the way the rising vapour gold reflected off her marks, casting them even more bright in the dark. He had always admired beauty, a critical eye well practiced in measuring the value of a finished trinket. From over his back, a ghost though faded into his sights, a will-o-wisp of faint colors. A man of flesh and bone at last. The Arnorian snorted, his heavy crown tossed back, a twinge of mirth cracking his solemn thoughts. A faint memory rising. "Aye. You interrupted my thought. Yet then, it would have been the same outcome should I have been anywhere else." He turned his crown to her once again, a slow nod to her. "Greetings m'lady."
In the breaking dawn, Morpho’s spots began to fade to a duller shade of gold, though her eyes held a brightness as she watched the tusked male turn and watch her. For the briefest of moments, there is a silent exchange between them, each caught in the moment of stalking a stranger… but before a blush can steal away her color, Morozko breaks the quiet that had fallen between them. She turns, not flinching at the sound, but finding the dappled male and putting a face to the voice. As Arion responds, a quiet laugh catches at her throat – for she can sympathize with the beast – though the difference for Morpho is that her thoughts were far too dark and all-encompassing. Any distraction was a welcome one, and she relaxes some in the presence of both males, content for the moment that they meant her no harm.
”Hello.” She says after a pause, regarding one male and then the second, stepping back a pace to form something of a circle, allowing Morozko to step closer. Her breath was sheer in the cold morning, and the silver male seemed to bring more of a chill with him (if such a thing were possible). But she shakes off the thought of winter that plague her, blinking toward the rising sun as the skies begin to paint with shades of pink and gold. ”Forgive me for interrupting your morning. I find the nights grow long, and I grow restless more often than not.” Nevermind that the nightmares would keep her from ever truly finding peace as she sleeps. Here, in the presence of others, she felt more at peace than at rest with the demons of her mind.
”I’m not sure that we’ve met. I am Morpho, Sage of the Dusk Court.” It seemed strange to introduce herself using a title, for Morpho hadn’t really made much of an impression on this place yet. Instead, the black and gold mare had strayed from the others, taking solace in the quiet. This was a place that gave her peace.
She wanted to know more – to ask a thousand questions of the pair. Where had they come from? What stories did they have to tell? But still, the mare knew that these questions would birth more in kind. And while she wanted to know, she wasn’t sure that she was willing to share her own past. ”I apologize for staring. From afar, I could only see your shadow – your tusks in the darkness.” She laughed nervously for a beat, before composing herself. ”I must admit… my imagination got the best of me for a few moments.”
ooc: apologies, still feeling out the new character. She’s intrigued though :)
home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
Weir has finally arrived back into her territory from the cliffs of the terminus sea. She had been called a storm child along with many others who had seamlessly, coincidentally, and almost telepathically a group had collected together with a communal sense of appreciation for the storm. Their hearts seemed to beat as one with the cracks of the thunder in the sky. The scene is still fresh in her pink rose eyes. She seemed distracted as she crossed the border back into Terrastella. Her steps only soft thuds as she wanders on.
Her legs carefully and gracefully step around branches of large scrub bushes that dot the grasslands of the center of Terrastella. The thin blades in the darkness tickle and her ankles as the tendons support her the weight of her body and her immense caribou horns. She thought about her new friends and her new role here at home. She lets her mind reflect on the time of her childhood playing in the cool crisp waters of the river new her village. She would play with the other girls and tease the boys. They would try to make necklaces out of the reeds and flowers on the riverbank and place blooms into other girl’s hair. Weir always loved ornate things and decorating things and others. She wondered if there were ways she might be able to decorate her home.
There is a glow in the distance that Weir had noticed some time ago but she has seen wildfires before and she has seen campfires and she knew this was not a wildfire. It was much too small and the ground is still much too wet with the most recent storm to be the beginnings of one. The night is still cool and the air around her still seems calm.
She examines each of the members as she approaches without fear. She has no haste in her step but also, she is not the sleeping walking. She scans them with a light smile on her pink white lips. She faces them innocently as tries to acquire as much as she can from their appearances, knowing that it is just the surface of who these strangers really are. The one with the curious spots is familiar to Weir from when they were speaking to the Sovereign at the main hall of the Dusk Court. She seemed sweet but quiet from Weir’s first impression of her. She also sees the spotted and tusked male. He is quite the site from another time. He seems ancient and like he is a few evolutionary steps back than the others. He seems to be closer to the age of fire than others. The third is like the snow of her home. His horn like ice and his coat ducked like stone and rocks of the cold hard ground of a first snowfall.
She looked to the fire that seemed to have died down as the night began to take the place of the color in the world. The wood is just embers now. The ash listlessly drifting of the tops of glowing blocks as the winds brush the ash off.
Hello there. My name is Weir. I recognize you Morpho but the rest of you are new to me. Are you new to Terrastella?
They seem like a strong group and she always loves the sight of new faces in her home. It means that the Dusk Court is growing which creates diversity, partnerships, strength within the herd, and most importantly a community.
The quiet grouping had grown still, and a chill came to the air as she waited in the throng of others. Morpho’s gaze flickered from one to the next, and when no response came, she was grateful for Weir’s appearance, wondering if perhaps her question had made the tusked male uncomfortable. Offering the pale mare a smile, she reached toward her and nodded quietly at her question, mind wandering to other places. In the distance, she heard the cry of a predator bird, and longed in that moment for wings to fly from the awkward pause in conversation. Deciding at last that perhaps she should excuse herself so as not to make things more awkward between them, she offers something of a quiet smile and an excuse to the group.
”Apologies, I must be going… but you’re in good hands with Weir.” Looking back once at the group, she makes a hasty exit, following the eagle to the cliff’s edge, suddenly wishing to be alone with her thoughts.
ooc: sorry, wanted to go ahead and close this so I could get credit for it, and since Morozko quit, I wasn’t sure if it made sense to keep going with it, but feel free to start a new thread with her if you want!
