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Played by Offline Cannon [PM] Posts: 9 — Threads: 4
Signos: 720
Dawn Court Scholar
Male [He/Him/His] // 4 [Year 500 Fall] // 14 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A
#1






ANDRAS DEMYAN

who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
The sun is down, early.
And he, above it, hung like a black candle in the dusky air, pressed between the red light of the horizon and the weight of a million far-off stars: something beautiful in its simplicity.

If Andras had been born a slug he would still remember flying; the air that gushes through him feels like it has been his forever. He has never been able to put a name to the strain of his existence but it feels a lot like opening your lungs and filling with too much oxygen. Dizzying. Terrifying. He is a balloon about to pop.

He has been buried in the Library, only ever at home among its knotted wood, in the company of its chattering staff. The small things are tired of Andras' glowering, of his smudged notes and his tactless slumbering, collapsed over books and cracked parchment far older than anything else he's seen. One or two of them had suggested (begged) that he go, for a night - abandon his obsessive reading and do literally anything that does not involve ripping volume after volume off the shelf in a desperate search for-- well, something.  Andras cannot argue with an entire society and so he goes - packs his bags and flies South. It happens that Denocte is throwing a festival, one that celebrates their planet, plummeting into winter, and their dead, on a spiral through spacetime that he can only guess at.

The pegasus hopes that he'll find something here - anything, really. As long as it makes him feel alive. As long as he can feel anything but the bitter lump in his throat. If he must be gnashing teeth and bloody knuckles every other night of the year, perhaps he can have this one.

Oriens help him, he has become something hateful.
Andras banks eastward, chasing the gold-orange light of the markets in full celebration.
But he has always been hateful.

The little horse lands with a graceful whoosh and the clatter of hooves on pavement, scattering a small crowd before they find their way back to each other with more than a few dirty looks and curses, mumbled too quietly for Andras to hear. He has no ghosts to lay claim to; the empty space of him (and it is massive) does not echo some long gone thing -- if he were to miss anyone it would be his mother and he's sure, with an almost bitter sense of finality, that she is not here, among Novus' numbered dead.

"It is beautiful, though," he remarks to no one, rubbing his glasses on one inky shoulder before placing them on the bridge of his nose and tucking his wings neatly against his ribs. Even here he is pulsing with something he has no name for. He knows only that it is black and red and tastes like bile in his tongue. Even as Andras rounds one decorated corner after another--streets hung in gold and red, candles flickering weakly at the corner of every stall, some patrons intricately costumed--he is biting his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

He wonders if he will ever be big enough for his anger.
He wonders how anyone else survives like this.
(He does not know that most don't.)


@Isra




they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.

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Played by Offline nestle [PM] Posts: 330 — Threads: 35
Signos: 3,105
Night Court Sovereign
Female [she/her/hers] // Immortal [Year 497 Winter] // 15.1 hh // Hth: 50 — Atk: 50 — Exp: 90 // Active Magic: Transformation // Bonded: Fable (Sea Dragon)
#2

Isra with the fire halo



When he landed she had been watching the crowd gathering around Raum's memorial. There had been dark thoughts running through her head. Things like: turn it to bone, or dust, or everything sharp and ugly. There were thoughts full of sorrow too and like rain those fell heavy and cold on her heart. And instead of making a hushed drumming sound it sounded like, traitor, over and over again, traitor.

Isra had hardly turned away before she felt the way the air pressed against her a little harder. A fire had crackled with the force of his arrival. Her first terrible thought had been that a crow had landed nearby (or perhaps a stallion crow-touched and stained).  Isra turned to watch him push through her city and all her magic swelled and echoed in her ears like the sea.

Shhh. shhh. shhh.  And below that there is still the drumming of sorrow and the slice of traitor.

She does not hear him say it's beautiful. All she hears is black.

So she follows him because she wants to do something terrible and he is moving quick enough that she has to focus on something other than rage. Turn after turn the fires grow further but it still feels like that memorial is nipping at her heels like one of her daughters' wolves. And oh she remembers how it feels to be chased, to be nothing more than a ghost running through a graveyard of soot (or to be nothing more than a girl in a world full of evil, selfish men).

But she remembers too that she's the darkest thing in the forest now.

He does not stop the way that she expected him to. None of the tables lure him closer, and the tiny dragons swooping low enough to knock his glasses loose do nothing to slow the way he walks like a metal horse made out of gears instead of blood. Isra wonders if she could change him. If she could change his skin to glass so that she might see the cogs turning, turning, turning endlessly inside him. It's that thought that makes her decide to stop him.

A bit of silk draped down across the alley turns to wood with knots of marble cut into it (some merchant had hung it there hoping it would add mystery to his part of the market. It did.) There is no way to go past it but back-- back to where Isra is waiting with the distant fires lighting a halo around the tip of her horn.

“Who are you?” She asks because she has to know. It's the same hungry way she needs to know if he's a crow pretending to be something else.

Lately it seems like she's always hungry and everything around her is rotten.



“They had discovered one could grow as hungry for light as for food.” 



@Andras





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Played by Offline Cannon [PM] Posts: 9 — Threads: 4
Signos: 720
Dawn Court Scholar
Male [He/Him/His] // 4 [Year 500 Fall] // 14 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A
#3






ANDRAS DEMYAN

who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
Oh, he is rotten. Andras is flies and brown, sticky blood. He is soft fruit, black fruit, black like the void between stars. But he is not rotten how she thinks.

And if he is one long snarl then she is the teeth at his throat, gnashing and needy. If his is the song of survival then hers is the song of violence. If it has ever been used, just to survive, it has become something else entirely. It has become hungry. Deep and wide as the ocean. Sharp as the point of a pin.

He hates it.
Andras feels her, reaching out with her night-sky hands, molding the very earth that turns around him. It starts at the base of his tail and rolls up his spine in waves, pulse after pulse of something more than magic, something more than her pain or his. Something that is altogether another animal. Something knots in him that he cannot name, some faceless fear with a yawning canyon mouth and teeth as big as a house.

The ghosts are out. They are so much worse than your nightmares.

A bird in an alley, a black bird, and a cat meet in the dead of night. Ten feet ahead of him, Andras watches as Isra reaches out with her night-dark hands and her night-dark thought and the scarf laid overhead first whips like a snake, then coils into boards that clatter as they fall in a neat stack. Andras startles upward, as birds do, unfolding his wings and floating back on the rush of cold air and wheeling five feet off the ground.

Ah, and here is Isra, queen of Denocte. He has read about her.
She is as terrible and beautiful as he imagined.

Who are you, she asks, and he wonders why, even as his blood starts to sizzle, even as the crackling starts in his brain, the fizz and pop of oil bubbling below the surface. Later Andras may wonder why they'd throw a party at all, if their queen is so volatile, if she roars with the force of the gods. Later, he may wonder what they'd think, their gods, if they saw what she is up close. He does not think any of this now.

He thinks the thoughts of a trapped animal. Closed spaces. Teeth closed tight around his tongue, so tight it hurts. He thinks things like the gutteral moan of thunder and the lighthing that burns in him, brighter and brighter. He thinks that he may die if it does not leave him but it has nowhere else to go. Andras levels his gaze on Isra. It is unwavering and full of bile.

"Andras Demyan. From Delumine." He says, tense and forced. "I'm just here for the festival. I'd assume everyone is here for the festival."
He thinks, he can already taste the blood. He thinks, what he wouldn't give to sees himself trapped, angry, feral. Maybe from outside he does not look like he is eating himself alive.


@Isra




they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.

Reply





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