The mountains gave Metaphor room to breathe, room to quiet his wandering mind. He walked silently along the tree lined paths, cut by horses who strode here long before himself. Autumn breezes turned colder the higher that he climbed, and though the red stallion shivered some when the wind caressed him, its touch was not unwelcome. His dark eyes take in everything, drinking greedily like a child who could never see enough. Scents of autumn filled his senses – damp leaves, crisp mountain air, pungent cedars and firs. He was at peace here, despite the chaos in Novus. Metaphor was relaxing into his life here quite nicely, not sad to see the strange magic of the Rift go by the wayside. Here, life was simpler, in a way.
He hugged the mountain’s edge, looking over once or twice and wondering for the briefest of moments what it might feel like to fly. Metaphor was a simple creature though, as simple as they came. He had no wings, no horn, no magic. What he did have was a level head and a calming presence. With a whimsical sigh, he stopped for a moment in his journey, staring out on Novus and appreciating the beauty that the land had to give. Here in the mountains, he had a birds-eye view of the world, and a part of him never wanted to go back to reality.
Turning back, he almost began the descent back toward his and Katniss home on the edge of the woods… but something stark white against the greenery caught his eye. Looking closer, he could see it was some sort of structure, and curiosity has Metaphor pressing closer to learn more, even as Maaemo’s orb hummed a bit brighter behind him. Stepping carefully through the underbrush, he moved closer and closer to the temple, until at last the red stallion finds himself beneath one of its massive arches.
His hooves clatter against the stone, and Metaphor’s eyes turn this way and that, taking in as much as he could. It was a splendor to behold, a temple clashing with nature and civilization. Purple flowers climbed the walls that seemed to stretch forever to the heavens. It was a place which hummed with piety, speaking of some religion or god lost to time. Standing beneath the vine-heavy columns, he whispers reverently to whomever might be listening, “What is this place?”
t is the cusp of winter and the coming of it sharpens Amaroq like a knife.
No longer must he keep to the depths to stay cool throughout the sluggish summer heat; no longer must he wait until night, when the temperature dips enough for him to stray onto paths like a wandering moon. Soon the world might be his, and it is well it is so, for in winter his blood begs him to create.
He is no stranger to loneliness, but as frost coats the grass in the morning and the birds migrate south and the moon hangs in a ring of ice it his need to Make grows stronger than hunger. More and more often he ranges up into Denocte, heedless of the chaos of the country, searching for something more than prey.
But he finds something else altogether in the temple in the mountains.
Amaroq had seen it in glimpses from the sea, far below; moments when it gleamed like a mirror against the setting sun. Never had he come near enough, but when cool dawn broke over the waters he stepped from his beach and into the underbrush, and climbed up and up along the cliffs, until he stood below those ivy-hung arches.
Surely this, too, belonged to the unicorn with the city on the hill.
The kelpie keeps no gods but the moon and the ocean and his own sharp teeth, and so he steps beneath those curving doorways without hesitation. He does not count the time he spends wandering, in cool dim of the temple where the air tastes like cold dust and ancient salt, but it is long enough that he forgets everything but a low kind of wonder until he hears the feet of another, coming up the path.
The unicorn stills, turns his pale eyes to the colorful world beyond gold and marble and shadow. So quiet is he that even the stallion’s whisper carries to him, a scarlet leaf caught on a breeze.
“Have you no guess?” he says, voice low and cold, and steps forward from the shadows with his hooves echoing on the marble as they might on windswept ice.
@Metaphor | "speaks" I swear he won't try to eat him
Standing along beneath the grand arches of marble, Metaphor is struck with awe and wonder. His chocolate eyes want to drink everything in, roaming greedily over the place as he stands in silence within the ethereal hall. Surely this had been some grand temple in its day, long abandoned by the worshipers since. Where he’d expected to see an altar dripping with gold and adornments, there is little more than dusty piles of leaves. Still, the purple flowers add a touch of elegance to the wild temple, a hint of the grandeur which once stood in this place. And Metaphor aches to know more.
There is an eerie sort of quiet in the marble mount, but where he could have found a disquieting loneliness, Metaphor instead finds peace. For the briefest of moments, he closes his eyes and lets the autumn air wash over him. This peace is quickly interrupted though as his absentminded question finds an answer. Turning slowly toward the voice, the healer looks over its bearer.
He could be frightened by Amaroq’s appearance – and perhaps he should. But there is little that threatens the red stallion but a coldness, and the glean of sunlight against the stranger’s sharp teeth. His eyes are unabashedly curious as they roam over the silver creature, stopping when they meet eyes as silver as the moon, and just as emotionless. He offers something of a half smile to the stranger, not one to present a wary face, even as Maaemo’s orb glows brightly behind him like a beacon staving off the guarded fear that catches in his breast. I have nothing but guesses, truly, he answers honestly. Is this where they worship Caligo
Being new here, Metaphor had to speculate that it was a temple to the demi-goddess which Katniss had told him about. Why else would such a strange monument be carved into the cliffs? It could only be a pious sort of place, judging by the way the wind whispered against its marble walls. For now though, this is the best guess Metaphor can come up with… why then, was it hidden?
or just a moment he imagines what it might be like, to be worshipped.
Amaroq has seen wonder and awe in the eyes of his prey, the ones he has turned and the ones not made to be hunters, only dead. If being a god is being feared then the kelpie has been holy, though now he is nothing more than a winter-lean ghost.
But he and his kind have been hunted in turn, and what gods are pursued and killed by their worshippers?
He breathes in sea-salt, he breathes out a stream of mist. Ice rimes the soft spirals of his horn and reaches out from where he stands, coating the tile and marble in frost. The unicorn’s pale eyes pass from the chestnut stallion to the orb that hangs behind him like a full moon and Amaroq’s gaze softens into curiosity. Now he leans back, now his tail lays like silk instead of twitching like a cat’s.
Caligo, the man says, and the name snares in his memory. He has heard it mentioned in the few times he’s neared the chaos of the city, but the only image he summons with it is that of a unicorn, a queen, with a brush of scales on her belly and a dragon by her side. My city, she’d said, though he knows she was not a god. At last he looks away from that small, strange moon and back to the stallion it follows.
“No one has been worshipped here for some time.” There are footprints in the dust of the temple but they all belong to him; the only scents of living things are birds and mice. If there are worshippers still then they are ghosts.
Amaroq tilts his head as he considers the stranger, and his horn of bone drops toward him like the point of a sword. It is not quite a threat; he is still more curious than he is hungry or vengeful or mad. “Perhaps I will be its god now,” he says, and smiles thinly, like autumn’s first frost.
Far beneath the ivory temple, Metaphor watches the world below them. He can see horses milling about, minding their business and going about their daily activities without a care or even seeming to notice the temple overhead. Indeed, this world had been forgotten for some time, and as Amaroq gestures to the thin dust which swirls at their feet, he has to nod in agreement. No one had been here in some time, and there is a bit of a thrill at being one of the first to stumble upon it in god knows how long. What secrets did these walls hold? He wanted to know, but even as the two paced through the temple’s empty halls, they didn’t seem to unlock the mystery.
Perhaps you could be, he murmured in response to Amaroq’s dark humor, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Anything seemed possible in this world. I wouldn’t tell them any differently… There is a quiet that falls between them, easily and unspoken as the wind whispers through the arches. I suppose you’ve come from the sea? Though there was nothing in the kelpie’s appearance to blatantly speak to his water dwelling, the scent of brine and seafoam still clung to the stranger.
I am Metaphor, by the way… healer for the Night Court. It still sounded strange to the stallion, to claim that he was from a place which he’d only known for a short time now. Still, the red stallion knew that the Night Court needed numbers. It would seem they were headed for war, and none could be standing on the outskirts when the dust settled. Whether they wanted it or not, all of the courtesans would be pulled into the battle for Isra’s safe return. Perhaps this is why he breathes a bit easier here, in this forgotten world with no one to interrupt his wandering mind.
He watches the other, waiting for a chip in the wariness but knowing that Amaroq had no reason to trust him. After all, they were simply ships passing in the night – both drawn here for the same reason – mild curiosity and wanderlust.
t interests him, the way this stallion is so content to watch the world bustling far below, distant and inconsequential, and not the creature who just declared himself god.
Not that he is vain - or at least, not terribly. Not any more than a lion in its prime whose mane is full and claws are sharp and eyes are terribly bright. But it is strange, for Amaroq, to be so near a man so seemingly indifferent to his sharp teeth and the way his horn points like an accusation or a question.
But his words make the keplie smile, and settle back, and soften his gaze to something more curious than hungry. “As good a guess as your one for the use of this place,” he says, and at last draws out from the shadows to stand alongside the chestnut. He, who fears nothing at all from his company (though he still wonders about that small moon that trails the stranger like a satellite) casts his gaze down, too, where the horses bustle like seagulls following sharks. They are too far to hear - the only sound is the wind and the waves that run up against the cliffs and their breathing - and for that he likes the temple even more.
The unicorn is a friendlier thing when he is not irritable, and he is always made irritable by the squabbling commotion of land-horses.
Even as he feels Metaphor’s gaze on him, he does not return it; instead he shifts to watch the waves, glittering bright as diamond dust beneath the sunlight. It is too far to leap, and ah, for a moment he wishes for wings. Amaroq is not accustomed to wishing himself anything other than what he is, and it clenches something dark below his breastbone.
“I am Amaroq,” he says, still staring out over the waters, “of the sea.” A small smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, but the kelpie offers nothing more. He has already given enough: Metaphor is the first to receive even his name.
There is a part of the red stallion that wants to stay up here forever, lost to the silence of the mountain and held in the peace of Mother Nature’s arms. He feels most at home in the stillness of morning, and deep in the silent temple, he finds a piece of himself once more. Maaemo’s orb blinks a bit brighter, hovering lazily over his left shoulder as he watches, murmuring quietly to his companion. The world just seems so small from up here – so inconsequential. I have to wonder if this is how the gods see us, as little more than bustling ants going about our days, oblivious to the greater world beyond our understanding.
He watches Amaroq’s gaze trail to the sea, noting the longing in his eyes. Here, he knew, was a creature who was as born to be among the waves and surf as his own wandering heart would draw him back to the forest. He could understand the draw of the sea, the peace that comes with the sounds of waves washing ashore and the enveloping of water rushing over you. It would not surprise him if the stoic grey beast were growing tired of his time here on the mount, desperate to return to his briny depths.
I suppose I need to return… after all, dark times are upon us, and we should all keep our wits about us and our sights trained on the horizon. It’s only a matter of time until war finds its way to Denocte. When it did, perhaps this very temple would be a good spot for the sentries and spies to gaze upon them. He turned then to Amaroq, offering him a nod and a slight smile, before turning back toward the kingdom and making his way toward the herd once more.
“I would rather the gods not see me at all,” he says, soft and dry as dead autumn leaves. From what he has heard in his few trips near the city he is not the only one to think so; Amaroq knows no more of the local gods than their names but the ways he heard them spoken was hardly praise.
But the wolf’s gods were not the kind to watch. Their country was the stars that set his course and the frigid depths too cold for life, where bodies drifted after death. They did not look like him and they did not care for him, but they gave his people sharp teeth and sharp horns and sharp wits when the other two failed.
Amaroq’s people built no temples, but each successful hunt was a kind of worship.
Even his tail has fallen still as he stares down at the shimmering sea. His hair floats around him in the breeze, pale wisps of sea-foam and silver cloud, and when at last Metaphor’s voice makes him turn it is with a shake of his head.
At the words of caution a lupine smile draws across his mouth and his tail begins to sway and curl again above the floor. Bits of shell and horn tied there shiver and clack like a string of teeth against the marble. “If there is to be war, I would think this place soon to be rediscovered. It has a way of bringing out religion.” But until then, perhaps it will be his.
He follows Metaphor with his gaze, dipping his head in return, and now his smile is something other than a crack in ice.
It thaws and thaws until it is soft as snow, and when Metaphor is only another red leaf on an autumn path full of them Amaroq turns back into the shadows of the temple.
