the drunkenness of youth has passed like a fever, like foam upon the sand
S
hivers ache with the breathing of the island, the silence of the birds send skeletal hands stroking shaking ears that strain and strain and strain to hear every creaking branch and sighing leaf fall. Lazy, half moon, half sun, half demon eyes are falsely relaxed, tuning in to every moving shadow, every shifting thing. Swaying hips have made great men fall to their knees and foolish boys follow prettily behind in a train of nothing more than idiots and dreamers.
She is seduction in red skin.
Wings ruffle as green lined with silver run along shoulders and feathers, cheeks and hips. Fruits dangle, teasingly, temptingly, sweetly down from branches high and bushes low. In the caress of night, some glow, some sing, some bring her nearer and nearer. Only the hiss of cat-tail in the periphery pulls her away. Stops a mistake before it happens. Reminds her of her reason for being here.
It matters little what prying eyes watch, they’ll find a sight. They’ll find soft lips curled in a languid smile, curving cheeks grinning below half-moon eyes. There is no resignation, no damnation, only determination.
Not even Caligo can stop her now.
Night holds her breath when Moira takes another step, when her shadow that is not a shadow echoes it so closely, when trees crawl out of the way to bring her near a small, gurgling pool that shines with black pearls and strange fish. Blinking, they stare and she stares and eternity passes between them all.
Perhaps, the phoenix considers, this island is the most alive thing she’s ever known.
She slips away from Delumine in the dead of night when not even Somnus and his soldiers can contain her. Closed boarders mean nothing to her when there is a prize waiting to be had. There is talk of an ancient relic, something that was gone before she even arrived, but has returned. Relics hold power, at least the ones in the lands she has come from, so naturally, the idea draws her in. She needs to find this relic, wield this power (a power she doesn’t know for fact actually exists). And even if her search lands her at a dead end, she will consider herself more knowledgeable for taking the leap and actually looking.
After all, it is knowledge that drives her to leave the safety of her small, private island in Delumine. It is knowledge that she seeks, craves, lusts after. It is the idea that there might be secrets to uncover, secrets that can be bought and sold, that drive her forward. Her pace is quick as her hooves pound the earth. Her determination to learn is plain as day to any to look upon her.
She thinks nothing of the people she passes, those who are meandering their way towards the island that seemed to pop up out of nowhere. By the time she reaches the sandy beaches, her chest is heaving for breath, her body slick with sweat. Red streaked mane sticks to the nape of her neck, slit pupils taking in all the sights. She is unsure of where she should begin her hunt, but she knows she must enter the jungle. After all, things are never left to be found out in the open.
As she slips into the forest, the shadows overtake her and she seems to blend in. The white feathering on her legs betrays her ability to drift into the shadows, so she uses her magic to blend herself into the surroundings. It’s not perfect, but it at least allows her to slip past others who are on a similar trail.
By the time she reaches the red mare, she is exhausted and thirsty. She lowers her magic, allowing her to be fully seen as she stops here for a brief recharge. Coming to stand alongside the other, she looks at her with a curious glance before she lowers her lips to sip from the pool that tastes of sweet honey. The fish seem to scatter as lips touch water, Sloane not at all upset that the fish eying the two were so obviously disturbed. But there is something about the mare beside her that has her uneasy, as if she doesn’t fully trust her. Eyes look at the mare with an intense focus as she draws to stand at full height. She says nothing yet, unsure of what to say. It didn’t seem right to say “you better not be after the relic, it’s mine for the taking.” She was not the most social creature, but she was trying to learn to hold her tongue. It was difficult and she failed often, but she was trying to be more personable - something fellow Dawn Court citizens had challenged her to do.
O Love, O thou that, for my fealty, Only in torment dost thy power employ
'O
ne by one, something wicked this way comes,’ hisses into crimson mind, slithers smoothly down dark and light corridors until it finds the place that Moira’s consciousness rests. Inner gold eyes turn to find the orange jungle cat there, staring at her, reminding her that she holds the stars in the sky for the tiger. Merci, ma cheri. A mental caress travels between the two, and a small purr from the shadows leaks into the world.
To many, the island could merely be pleased.
To the phoenix, it is a warmth like no other can provide that pervades her spirit. Honeyed eyes blink as dark fish dart away, water-whiskers the last to disappear into the depths once more while the body beside her own turns to look.
Briefly, the phoenix wonders what she will see. Kin of her kin? An Arabian woman clad in red (dressed for sinning)? Or a stranger and a threat to something she seeks?
The Regent of Denocte hums softly to herself, lowering her head to the reflecting pool’s surface, drinking deeply of its cool embrace.
When she’s had her fill, she rises once more and turns fully to meet the woman chest-to-chest.
Dark lips do not smile or frown, they rest easily in subtle indifference. Only a brow raises in question. "It’s beautiful here, wouldn’t you agree?” and she inclines her head, chin tilting low enough in greeting. "I think you fit nicely in the scene - you are exotic and dark. You’d make for a wonderful portrait painting,” softly she eases into a conversation, coaxing words from Sloane like water from the mouth of a drowning man.
And she is not afraid as she advances a step, staring at the silver that lines curved hips, follows short back, traces red strands in dark hair. Unsettling eyes meet unsettling eyes: gold within black within black fearlessly smiling into slitted grey pools.
@Sloane | "speaks" | notes: ovo moira would like to paint sloane and also figure out why she's staring so much.
This hunt for the relic had started off like a grand idea. She would go into the forest, be on her own, and look for some hidden gem that would make her life infinitely better. And yet, here she was, sipping from a sweet pool of water soaked to the bone in sweat. It was definitely not a look she preferred to sport. Normally she was very careful about her appearance, wanting to only look her best. After all, if she was unkept in appearance, who would take her seriously? No one. She had to be a badass in order to prove herself so there was no way in hell she’d let her appearance get the best of her.
She had meant for this little water break to last only as long as it took for her to get her fill. And yet, here she was, being stared at by the other individual who happened to be doing the same thing. She was just going to ignore the woman, allow her to drink her own water in peace, but it was the other who raised to her full height to look at her.
Slowly Sloane raised her head, her eyes meeting the stranger. Social interactions were always hard for the black mare, so she wasn’t quite sure what to say or do. But ultimately, she spoke first, starting off their encounter talking about the beauty of the forest. Eyes looked around her, never having thought to take in the beauty of the island. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, or so they say, and it had never been something high on Sloane’s priority list. “I suppose so, if you have an eye for beauty.” Beauty was not something Sloane was particularly well versed in, nor was it something she cared about. It was one of those things that a lot of people held much trust in, but to Sloane, it meant nothing. Good looks and pretty landscape would not get her anywhere closer to the Relic.
It was in this moment that Sloane felt like she was being watched. Eyes looked around her, peeking through the dense foliage looking for what might be the source of the feeling. She could not see the lurking tiger, but if she could, there was a good chance she might have said something snarky about its inability to be completely transparent. After all, a good hider does not give away the fact that they are spying on another.
It was the mare’s voice that drew her gaze back to her. Talk of being exotic and dark, what did this mare think she was? A French model? Eyes opened wide and if she had eyebrows, they would surely be furrowing in disgust. “Exotic? Have you not looked in the mirror? You’re a little more exotic than me.” She was flashy and red with gold trim. She was dark with only subtle hints of red. She was far less exotic, at least that was what she was telling herself.
But then again, what if she did sit for a painting? What would she get out of it? Surely it would not be a famous painting that would be shown in traveling galleries. Surely it would be placed in a vault never to be seen again. But perhaps she could get something out of it. “…and if I actually let you paint me, what would I get out of it?” She wanted knowledge. She wanted secrets. She wanted things that would be worth far more than gold.
She sighs, knowing that such a thing would be impossible. There was nothing good that would come from a painting and nothing to help her gain what she was after. This mare, after all, would not trade the relic for an art piece. “Look, the conversation has been nice, but I’m after something.” She wasn’t outright going to tell the other that she was looking for the Relic. Why would she? That would be telling the enemy where the base camp was. She wasn’t that dumb, at least she didn’t think she was.
Give me, for God’s sake, something of thy joy, That I may learn what good there is in thee.
B
etween them, the air fizzles and sizzles, crackling with tension and unease. Sloane’s discomfort, her lack of social propriety and manners makes the world slow and focus on those few moments when silence is stretched tight and time is stretched thin. Golden eyes wait with the patience of a crone, sewing away the moments into the tapestry of time, recording every minute flinch and flick of muscles that flicker by the soft glowing light of fruits hanging overhead and fish-eyes staring from below. At last, dark brow raises and brooding eyes meet that of molten honey. ”When one is raised to be a decoration and to breath and spew art from stardust lungs, they learn of beauty and its coldness,” she says mildly, letting herself rove over every curve of Sloane and grin.
The phoenix knows how unsettling her looks can be, how people shy away from those black sclera and piercing gold stares, how flowers bloom where she steps from kindness, but shy from demon-gaze that drips with sin and judgement.
There are quiet calculations within them that measure the standoffish woman, sizing up her strengths and faults. The pegasus knows that she herself is a rather imperfect creature. Made of blood and wings where ice and silver should have coated her, of mistakes the Matron both regrets and relishes, of so many errors that were avoidable should proper social conduct and the rules of the Tonnerre name been followed… And yet here she stands as a girl of starlight and sunshine, a healer with a chilled heart and restless mind.
"I am merely a sin and a stain, but I appreciate your eye for art all the same.” She winks, she purrs, she feels the amused brush of Neejra in her mind. The tiger watches, hungry and satiated, letting her cub play as she will with this woman who is not of Night, who is not her cub’s kin.
Standing face to face, it is easy to see the other woman is larger, lovelier and possessing that which makes a woman desirable. The pegasus is but a breeze in the hands of the wind, far smaller in stature, but just as large in presence. Aureate gaze hardens, lips tighten at the edges and she looks to the black koi in the waters, disgusted. "Why is the world driven by greed? Send it to a suitor, hang it, burn it. I never said I would, only that you’d make for a lovely subject. Set that aside - you should not be out alone in a strange new place.” At last she softens, concern for humanity, for others, for the sacred sense of life itself permeating every crevice of her star-studded skin, planting itself firmly in her breast, atop her heart that beats furiously for reasons that tug frustrations into the surface and pull threads from her carefully woven tapestry. "Let me accompany you, should you find yourself in a bind, I know a few ways to bind you myself so that you suffer less for your impatience. I won’t ask what it is you seek and you will not ask it of me.”
Brows raise, head tilts at the offer. The ball is passed to Sloane, and she lets the mare stew on the answer, waiting patiently once more for the silence to end, for the adventure to continue, and time to flow again.
Beauty and art had never been something Sloane knew much about. She had never bothered to stop and smell the roses, to look and watch and see the beauty in all things. Instead she only saw the darkness, the greed, the war. She saw everything that was the opposite of beauty for that was what she had been raised to see. From the moment of her own birth, she had learned just how harsh a mother could be when she could not take care of all the children that she had born. Form then on, it was only Sloane and her ability to fend for herself. She didn’t have time to stop and look at the beauty of the world. It was far quicker and far easier to only see the darkness that encompassed it.
She asked the mare why she should entertain her desire to paint her. Sitting still for something that meant nothing to Sloane was not something she did every day. The only way she would agree to something of the sort was if she was given something in return. But this mare, this stranger, pondered questions that she often pondered herself. “…because the world can never run off rainbows and unicorns. Where you see beauty and art…I see darkness and contempt.” She had found out quickly that she could make her way in this world as a dealer of secrets. She bought and sold them as she might a handmade item in a marketplace.
But regardless of how they saw the world, Sloane had no use for her art. What would she do with it? She would probably sell it to the highest bidder, or let the squirrels have it. Those little minions would probably accidentally burn that shit to the ground. After all, they did burn the forest down. She supposed it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Having this mare stare and ogle at her supposed beauty made her uncomfortable. Eyes roaming her figure, resting on the delicate curves of her hip, it all made her uneasy. But she said nothing of it, made no movement that might give away her uneasiness.
But what Sloane did capture, was that this stranger thought that she could tell Sloane what to do, that she welcomed her unsolicited advice. So many people wanting her to be in the company of others - first Somnus, now her. She was fully capable of defending herself. Even if she preferred not to fight, she could if she had to. “The same could be said for yourself…” Although, Sloane still felt as though she was being watched. No doubt this mare was not truly alone. Then again, it did not matter to her. She could stroll with whoever she pleased.
Perhaps what bothered Sloane the most was the way in which she asked to accompany her. It was almost as if she believed that Sloane would find herself in a compromising situation and she would need help. “You know, I’ve gotten along just fine without your help. What makes you so sure I need it now?” She could survive in this jungle by herself. She could find this relic and slip out of here undetected if she were alone. Traveling with a companion was not exactly what she wanted to do today.
I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles.
S
tillness permeates and haunts Sloane as it does a dark pegasus that is never far from the phoenix’ mind. The woman of blood and night stares and stares, disapproving, slightly discontent, and ready to turn away in disgust at any given moment - and those unnerving bright eyes ensconced by a black sclera meet her displeased gaze without hesitation, without discrimination, without any expectations. Red crown tilts to the side, black lips tip up at the edges, and a laughing purr hisses in caged mind. Amusement flickers in the roll of her shoulders, the readjusting of feet beneath her, the gentle flick of her tail that resettles once more. “It’s all a matter of perspective - rainbows are a refraction of light and it seems you’ve lacked the truths it exposes. Nevertheless,” the woman shrugs then, settling in for a lecture.
Movement in the brush grows louder, ferns part to the pegasus’ left, and from them Neerja comes. Stalking the women that stand before her striped frame, she eyes Sloane with disdain, mild hunger in blue eyes quickly swallowed by boredom and dismissal. Slaone is nothing to the tiger, to Moira’s keeper, to her secret holder.
Woman and beast stand shoulder to shoulder after a moment, and the Emissary purrs, pleased as a cat with a belly full of warm cream, “Who ever said I was alone?” Gold turns to blue, clashes and lashes and falls into those depths. There, love is echoed back - or whatever semblance of it a bonded feels. Perhaps it is something deeper, something truer, or something else entirely.
“Every now and again,” Moira says softly, “we all could use a hand. You are so resistant, nevermind then. Neerja is hungry and I won’t let you be the main course. Here I’ll take my leave and let you be with your secrets. Good-day and good hunting, whatever it is you seek.” Black lips tip up again, as though she knows something more than she lets on, and in a whisper of wings and swaying leaves the duo moves into the jungles from whence they wandered in through.
@Sloane | "speaks" | notes: taking our leave, thank you for threading with me !
Perhaps Sloane’s view on the world was a little darker than most. Perhaps if she had been shown an ounce of love or affection when she was but a foal, perhaps she might have turned out a little better. She may have developed a slightly less rough personality or less of a hatred of others. But that was not the life Sloane had been given. She had seen all the darkness of the world and it was too difficult for her to see anything else. It was almost as though her life had built up walls to protect her and now, she was unable to break them back down again.
The tiger that slinked form the shadows did nothing but capture the slit pupils of Sloane. She had heard the rustle, felt the eyes upon her pelt. She knew she was being watched, that the two of them were not completely alone. Sloane has seen relationships like this before, where animals remain friends, with their equine counterparts, where the relationship goes far deeper than friendship. Bondeds they call them. It was something Sloane did not have, nor was she certain that she really wanted that sort of relationship. After all, she enjoyed being a lone from time to time and with a bonded, she would never be alone.
As she continues, saying that they could all use a helping hand, Sloane nearly scoffs at the idea. She hadn’t needed a helping hand since the moment she broke free from her mother. She was never given help or helping hands. She wouldn’t know what to do with one even if it slapped her in the face. See exhibit A. “Perhaps you need helping hand from time to time, but I don’t.” She had never been in a situation where she really needed help. God. If she ever was, she was sure that she would choose death over help. She could not show weakness like that.
As the pair slip into the forest, the thick underbrush swallowing them whole, Sloane sighs. She takes another long sip at the pool before she turns in the opposite direction and continues on her hunt, the hunt for something far greater than she even realizes. Perhaps it wasn’t a relic that she sought. Perhaps it was something far darker.
