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Played by Offline nestle [PM] Posts: 315 — Threads: 34
Signos: 4,030
Night Court Sovereign
Female [she/her/hers] // 6 [Year 497 Winter] // 15.1 hh // Hth: 50 — Atk: 50 — Exp: 90 // Active Magic: Transformation // Bonded: Fable (Sea Dragon)

“She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.” 
able is eager to turn his wings towards home even though there is a sliver of worry digging at him like a shovel. It feels sharp in his heart. He thinks of the way his shell felt when it was cracking, like porcelain at his lips, sharp and brittle. He wants to get to the bottom of whatever hole it that shovel of worry is digging in his heart.

The dragon, still young despite his size, hopes that the bottom of that worry will fill him the way the first sight of his unicorn did. Will there be stories at the bottom of this war? Or will there be only death like the blackness at the bottom of the sea?

All he does know, when he lands in the gardens in front of his castle, is that nothing feels the same anymore. Nothing feels really happy, each moment feels stolen (like a dream he never wants to wake from). Even the night feels colder around him with more than just winter, it feels darker too.

He does not think it is only the absence of his unicorn that has made this place feel so heavy on his wings.

His bugle rings, quite and haunting. Fable tries to sound like a harp Isra once played for him when she told him a story of a ship sailing the sea and a captain looking for a way to heal his broken heart. It was so long ago (or at least it seems that way to him) that he's forgotten how it ended. He tells himself he'll ask her again, when he can return back to his unicorn.

When Moria finally comes to him, he stops his humming. On his neck there glints in the moonlit a scroll of silver paper. It shines like a small star against his dark scales. Fable drops his head into the flowers. The scroll falls loose from the kelp twisting around his neck.

The paper sighs against the flowers and whispers secrets in the early-winter wind. Everything about it seems to pray for a touch or a teardrop in the places where sand lies on the paper like a sheen of smoke. Fable knows how many tears went into the words, how each tear was made into a drop of bright dark ink (dark as dried blood in the sunlight). But he doesn't know how to say any of the words to Moria, and so he only breathes on the paper until it lands like a too-large firefly at her hooves.

It unfurls and the sound it makes on the petals sounds like, read me.. Or maybe he's only hearing it as a dragon would. Maybe it really says, I'm sorry.

The ink shines in the moonlight like oil, slick as the sorrow of the unicorn who bedded down under a high-noon sun to write it. 


There are a million words I thought of writing. There are a hundred moments that I thought of you and our city. But I don't know how to form any of those feelings into words and ink. It feels like a cruel trick of my heart, that I can shape the world into the strange and wonderful but I cannot make words form themselves on paper with any sort of meaning at all.

But for you I will try. I would do anything for you and our city.

Here the paper runs onward, moon-bright and shining. There are dots of ink on that empty space. Maybe there are shapes waiting to be seen in those puddles of ink. The unicorn who wrote it was too busy thinking of words and war. It was her broken heart that splattered the ink like tears.

I am not coming home.
Not yet.

The paper runs on blankly again. This time there are no ink tears in that stretch of shining silver.

I can't come home when there is still a monster that was created in our streets running lose in the world. Raum has taken Solterra hostage and the desert is alive with more suffering than there is sand in the dunes. The citizens are hungry and living in fear, I cannot leave them to that fate.

Moria, I am going to war.

I must. 

There have been moments in which I knew I could kill him. Moments in which I didn't want to become a monster and so I swallowed my hate and stilled that final killing blow. I cannot make the same mistake again, not when so many are suffering for my softness.

The ink gathers closer together here, as if the world around the writer has quickened and tried to take her away. It looks like words running together, like fear runs on in the darkness. There is no pace to it but fear and heartbreak and each curl whispers a pattern of worry.

If one of us had to become war for this world I am glad that it was me. I am glad that the city still has you to watch it with love in your heart instead of hate.

And so now I find that I am gladly turning in my stories for blades and my love for rage. You are the only relief I have now-- you and the thought that Denocte will be safe even if I must become a beast to save it.

Love our court well. And know that I will love you more than that.

Do not pray for me. Pray for all the people who are suffering for my weakness.

The signature at the bottom is nothing more than a slash of ink. It looks like a blade that spells out the name--


And when Moira finally looks away from the letter she might see drops of saltwater gathering in Fable's eyes below the low burn of violence churning like a sea-storm.

@Moira | "speaks" | notes: I'm not crying at all 


Played by Offline e-cho [PM] Posts: 155 — Threads: 16
Signos: 905
Night Court Emissary
Female [she/her/hers] // 6 [Year 498 Spring] // 15.2 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 31 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: Neerja (Malayan Tiger)

Moira Tonnerre
agony is the color of my heart
I am not coming home,




The words look like blood, like death, like famine. They look like all those still-born children she helped bring into this world that would never scream, never cry out their defiance for interrupting such warmth and comfort a mother should provide - did provide. They look like the tears of Isra's dragon born of the sea as their sea-water queen, their storyteller queen was. They look like a death sentence and the shattering of her heart.

How many times, Moira wonders, can her heart break for Denocte?

There was a song that brought her - a song of the sea, not of the humid jungles that twine between Moira and Neerja. Sweet, brave, fierce Neerja who stalks in the pegasus' shadow, who curls about her in the lightest part of the day when nightmares would scream their damnation within her bursting head. Darling, possessive, jealous Neerja who looks at the dragon and senses the sorrow that boils like a geyser ready to blow. She looks to her cub, to her winged girl, to her broken girl, and wonders if it is a river of sadness that their land must feel before so that the water will nourish all that is to grow.

Neerja looks to Fable and does not growl. She leans closer to sniff at the salt of his skin, prowls nearer to take in all of the green and blue creature that does not lurk in her jungles but lurks in the markets only just starting to reopen and ring merrily once more within the kingdom.

And Moira looks to the dragon too, she can feel the icy blood pumping through them both, she can see the pulse beneath hard scales, she can find the depressions in every curve of Fable's mighty wings and know that he misses Isra just as much.

I will be war, Isra claims, and Moira knows that her unicorn will not come back unscathed. A great shadow has reached for them all, a monster threatening the beating heart of every artist, every lover, every dreamer of Denocte.

And Moira Tonnerre, a great and powerful daughter of the mighty Tonnerre Empire, Emissary of the Night Court, a Healer for all peoples, a girl born of fire and passion and all the goodness of two hearts...she will not stand for such a tragedy to be written.

Golden eyes are dried of all tears, unable to figure out what it is to cry for those sorrows when so many have already been written on her pillows, so many stained into her sheets, so many swallowed by Neerja's soft and rugged fur. There is nothing but agony as she looks up to Fable, reaches her nose forward until they are pressed together, until she remembers how her unicorn was when Fable merely twined infinity between them. Then, there was no beginning nor end.

This is not their end, and this is far from their beginning.

"Fable," the fire-girl says, standing tall and proud and a pillar of strength, a pillar of light, for the sweet dragon whose heart cries for that he is so far from. "She is alive and she is well and she is breathing. I know you feel her anger, her ire, the fury of her. I do not know what our unicorn has become, what my sister-kin has become." She pauses, thoughtful, bright, beautiful "I will love her until I can love no more. I do not care what our unicorn has become, I do not care for the scars that will line her or the memories that will haunt her. Bring her home when all is done, tell our unicorn, my sweet, sweet Isra… Tell her that Denocte will stand strong. Tell Isra that I will be her burning light and there will be a candle in the window until her return. Tell her to remember what love is, what life and light and the glory of our people is. Tell her for me Fable."

For there is no time for a letter, not when wings of fire and feather already brush scales and sea, not when fur of orange and night already hum against a phoenix' side, not when there is war on the horizon and the pieces on the board begin to move once again.

Moira will wait for her Queen's return and she will make a shield of starlight and hellfire to protect all within their realm. Death will stop at their gates and remember to knock before sweeping in.

They will not fall.

They will be eternal as the stars.

They will rise, red as the dawn.

@Isra | "moira" "neerja" | notes: eeeh sorry this took so long ! fable plz stay, mo forgot to invite you to comfort her and meet neerja for the night oops


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