𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔱𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔫

WE ARE LEGION. There is a terror more boundless than any beloved deep, more monstrous than the winged ghosts that haunt ancestral black mountains — it is the teeming ocean uncharted within, my own distorted reflection and the leagues and layers of verglas that hold me fast.

[courtfallen]

// multi-muse blog for @ofcourtfables !

There is a terror more boundless than any beloved deep, more monstrous than the winged ghosts that haunt ancestral black mountains — it is the rippling wind beneath golden wings, my own distorted reflection and the leagues and layers of verglas that hold me fast. — as written by a e r i n . . .

𝔳𝔶𝔯𝔬𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔲 ❝ the white raven ❞, general of the armies of winter court. — cismale. he/him. 38 / 380. illyrian/high fae & daemati. intro.

a ribbon of night birds winding around a great mountain, hoarfrost cracking underfoot, the undying glow of embers in the cold dark, velvet black wings stark against the snow

𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔞𝔫 𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔞 𝔳𝔞𝔩𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔯, owner of poultice & pelt in autumn court. — cisfemale. she/her. 26 / 34. cauldron-made high fae & seer. intro.

the clatter of dry branches in the wind, the sweet smell of rot and fertile earth, searing visions and haunted eyes that see through the fabric of space & time, forever scars refusing to heal in the cauldron's womb

𝔳𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔫 ❝ 𝔳𝔞𝔰𝔱 ❞ 𝔫𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔞, right hand of the night court's general. — cismale. he/him. 32 / 320. illyrian/high fae. intro.

a massive black hole taking the blinking stars with it, the comforting sting of isolation and the raise of hackles when it’s breached, a long & lonesome patrol along the garrison wall, dark circles, bitter determinism, and restless nights, the perfect arc of an arrow to the white of his target’s eye

𝔦𝔥𝔰𝔞𝔥𝔫 𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔟𝔬𝔰 𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫, high lord of the night court. — cismale. he/him. 36 / 360. illyrian/high fae. intro.

a once distant world of moonstone blooming and taking shape, the echo of redemption a faraway call, mountain crags and frostbite traded for the warmth of a new beginning, a bastard's wings shadowing an abandoned throne

𝔣𝔢𝔶𝔫 "𝔯𝔬𝔬k" k𝔬𝔳𝔞𝔠𝔰, merc leader/tavern owner in gaea. — cismale. he him. 34/340. high fae/lightsinger. intro.

loose tesserae jingling in a stolen, leather purse, the burn of rebellion in a poor fae's eyes, the stench of the unwashed working class and ale, vision of a world leveled to ash & born anew

[shvdwscng]

within  a  matter  of  days,  the  commander  of  the  night  court  had  prepared  for  the  worst  in  these  eerie  lands.  one  would  be  foolish  not  to,  given  what  the  lands  of  dusk  have  demonstrated  itself  to  be.  a  land  that  truly  belonged  to  the  feral  beasts  that  claimed  the  skies  above,  and  a  land  that  had  returned  their  foresaken  abilities  within  a  matter  of  days.  very  easily,  it  could  be  attributed  to  their  dark  deity,  that  it  had  stolen  them  and  somehow  her  lands  returned  it.  in  a  strange  turn  of  events,  not  one  bit  of  it  made  sense  to  the  daemati  and  this  was  not  a  feeling  he  was  accustomed  to  and  he  despised  every  bit  of  it.  failure  had  never  been  a  part  of  the  greys,  but  since  they've  all  been  hauled  into  the  capital,  he  felt  far  too  much  of  it  then  he  cared  for  and  could  control  very  little  of  it.

the  returning  of  his  daemati  abilities  had  certainly  somewhat  stabilized  his  moods,  moods  that  no  other  than  siara,  or  perhaps  kerim  was  privy  to.  he  had  utilized  every  bit  since  it's  return,  slipping  in  and  out  of  minds  to  find  anything  note  worthy  but  as  he  expected  with  the  king's  newfound  abilities  and  confidence,  it  had  left  all  of  prythian  stumped  and  the  dusk  fae  entirely  puzzled  and  both  sides  -  beyond  unsettled.  revealing  to  his  high  lord  of  what  he  found,  only  feasible  in  mind  was  a  careful  task  of  revealing  without  him  inquiring  to  kalore  how  he'd  come  to  certain  knowledge.  an  ability  he  did  not  make  lord  ihsahn  privy  to.  his  relationship  with  the  high  lord  of  night  was  nothing  sort  of  endless  facades  from  kalore's  end,  and  some  days,  the  daemati  would  find  exhausting.  the  sensible  and  logical  side  certainly  understood  that  the  sins  of  the  father  were  not  sins  of  the  son,  but  kalore  had  not  claimed  himself  to  be  perfect.  superior,  certainly,  but  no  close  to  perfect  not  when  one's  entirely  being  was  fragmented  and  haunted.

he  had  joined  his  high  lord  in  the  communal  rooms  of  the  night  court  shared  by  the  high  family  and  it's  inner  circle.  his  mind  tugged  concentrating  on  both  ends,  his  inner  thoughts  of  what  he'd  pieced  together,  what  he  wished  to  do,  and  should  have  done  when  they  were  in  the  capital  -  eliminate  the  boy  king  before  they  had  reached  this  extent,  and  the  other  attention  to  the  man  the  high  lord  of  night.  when  he  could,  kalore  kept  their  interactions  brief,  but  careful  as  he  kept  the  pretense  of  friendship.  truly,  in  a  way  it'd  been  a  blessing  that  ihsahn  had  a  wife  and  a  son  to  distract,  even  if  the  thought  of  a  new  draven  in  line  left  him  in  distaste.  "i  have  a  plan."  shifting  his  gaze  from  the  parchment  he'd  been  shifting  through,  and  finding  the  other's.  "we  do  not  wait,  we  get  rid  of  him  the  instant  the  opportunity  presents  itself."

[courtfallen]

𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔡𝔬𝔲𝔟𝔱 to him, a sinking sense that he is a boy lost in a labyrinth of smoke and mirrors. this pervasive dread that a wolf lay within kalore, ready to pounce persists. for years, ihsahn has brushed the paranoia away. at first, because he was lost in his role, needed someone to hold the night court together while he transitioned from a stray, battle-born illyrian into something more refined, something more akin to a high lord. and lately, because his focus has been on the new life he and sera had brought into the world — an heir who deserves so much more than ihsahn was ever afforded. azrael would be given the room to understand the weight of the mantle before the responsibility of the night court was thrust upon him, and ihsahn would see that he received every opportunity, every affection, every chance to know himself, to fall in love with court he served, to find friendship, love, brotherhood from those around him.

but now, in this maddening gyre where things are steadily falling apart and coming together in unsettling succession, that paranoia can no longer be ignored. that gut sense that kalore is misleading him, keeping truths hidden, working in the shadows a level deeper than a trusted commander ought to be — there was a time when ihsahn remained willingly ignorant, had no choice but to dismiss his basic instinct. that era had grown wings and taken flight, fading into obscurity beyond mountainous vestiges. ihsahn knows that if they are going to move forward as a court, all suspicions and doubts will need to be brought to light lest they fester and eat their beloved court alive from the inside out.

that is the last thing ihsahn will allow to happen on his watch. not now that there is so much at stake. not now that he is ready to lead.

❝ i suspect that's been your plan all along, ❞ he speaks frankly, circling around the round table that separates them. ❝ though your target may have changed. ❞ he stops to watch how his words affect the commander, a hand splaying out upon the oak of the tabletop. quickly, he continues. ❝ kalore, i'm not a fool. whether you choose to tell me the whole of it or not, i won't do my court the injustice of not acting on my instinct any longer. i know there is something you're hiding from me, and if we are to move forward with this plan of yours, with any plan of yours, i will need to know the whole of it and your true intentions. i must be able to trust my commander, and more than that, you have to find a way to trust in me as your high lord. the circumstances of my ascension would give anyone pause, but i am here, now. i am fully invested in the sovereignty of the night court, because i know what's at stake if it is lost. you must know that by now. ❞

he stops to try and read kalore's face, eyes narrowed, discerning, attempting to solve the great enigma that he is. ❝ this court owes you a great deal — as do i, for everything you've done during my time of transition. i do not take lightly that you carried a great burden for my family and for all of our people. you have done well, acted honorably, and i am in your debt for it. but i will not abide secrets, as i know you would not were you in my precarious position. ❞

moving to take a seat, he gestures to the one opposite him, indicating he wishes for kalore to join him at the wartable. ❝ it's time to speak freely. i will hear you if you bring me truth. ❞

[ethercvl-archive]

closed starter for @courtfallen ( ihsahn )

taylan   knew   it   was   inevitable   that   her   ex   fiance   would   show   his   face   in   the   dusk   court.   he'd   been   sending   her   gifts   periodically   since   they'd   arrived   in   the   dusk   court.   she'd   hidden   a   bunch   of   them   under   her   bed,   too   attached   to   throw   them   out   but   too   detached   to   be   looking   at   them   on   a   daily   basis.   it   still   hurt   to   think   back   to   the   last   moment   that   she   had   spoken   words   with   the   autumn   fae.   distracting   herself   with   the   work   of   being   an   emissary   in   the   foreign   court   had   helped   a   little   bit.   it   was   every   time   that   she   returned   to   her   own   room   that   she   was   reminded,   especially   when   there   was   a   new   gift   from   the   older   male.   just   like   it   had   been   in   that   moment.   she   had   just   kneeled   on   the   floor   to   retrieve   the   box   holding   his   gifts   when   the   knock   sounded   on   the   door.   abandoning   the   box   on   the   floor   she   stood   to   open   the   door,   revealing   her   oldest   brother   behind   the   door.   "yes?"

[courtfallen]

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔤𝔥 𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 had found he had a generous nature, hidden beneath the layers of armored scale most illyrians developed, and taylan had been the first to bring this trait out in him. learning he had a younger sister had first simply stirred warmth in his chest, a desire to protect and dote, foreign but inborn — and it manifested wholly when he'd finally met her acquaintance & spent time getting to know her. she was kind, graceful, elegant and yet humble — everything that would drive an older brother to fits the moment he found out another male was interested in courting her.

it's just that, along with all of the other alarm bells going off in his head, that brings him to her door now.

❝ i know someone's been sending gifts to your room, ❞ he begins, perhaps more brashly than intended. he stops himself, closes his eyes, attempting to correct his forward demeanor with a deep and meditative breath. ❝ i'm not here to quarrel with you, taylan, but i need to know that you're safe. if anyone intended to do you harm, they would need only case your door and track the pattern of these .. gifts coming and going. it'd be too easy for them to slip something insidious past our guards themselves. ❞ the muscles in his jaw tense. ❝ it's just not safe. not right now. ❞ he nearly succeeds in biting back the question he shouldn't ask, but alas, it comes out — ❝ at least tell me it's not that same jackass from autumn court. ❞

[alaradraven]

ALARA was perhaps not in as foul mood as her cousin, but boy was she nearing the pissed-off state some of the other courts' generals were starting to feel. She had figured their own general was being pissy at the moment, too. & who could blame all of them for being angry & testy & scared? Even the Dusk court was left in the dark or this new revelation, though she suspected the other courts would attempt to shit their blame on their benevolent hosts.

it was just how it goes with the fae.

They hated the Night court for having powerful rulers for millennia & millennia on end, plus their own reputation did not help them, but it was all made in an effort to keep the other courts from ruining perhaps the only slice of goodness still left in the world - Velaris. Kabir was threatening Velaris, not just the rest of Prythian, but the only pure thing left in this blood soaked, war torn courts.

If she could help her cousin fight, she would. She will. Perhaps in the only way she knows how - by just being his support, his unwavering crutch. She was no general, no spy, no true tactician - but she was his scholar & an such she has had access to a majority of archives & old texts, & she could, no would, find a way to help him.

The bite in his words said enough & Alara sits down on a darkly coloured couch & pats an empty spot beside her. Pouring two glasses of whiskey - a habit she had picked up in this new court, even if she wasn't the one for alcohol before, now she found it a helpful ally.

"Sit, Ihs. We will come up with something, I promise, but your pacing around will only give me a vertigo." she offered a gentle smile, then softly sighed.

"Many things weight on your mind & they weight on mine, too. Let's think of something tangible & then we can share it in our next meeting with the rest of our court."

[courtfallen]

𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔦𝔠. it is a helpful emollient to the raging inferno that tears through him — this intense need to protect his family, to keep harm from infiltrating all those places most sacred, especially velaris — and sound reasoning does wonders on a mind ravaged by whims of reckless abandon. it would be so easy to tear everything apart, to meet the chaos where it had chased them to the dusk court with steady measures of the night court's own brand of violence and shadow. but that was not going to do them any good in the long run. it would only expose them to more danger than the looming threat of the one king.

ihsahn sighs, accepting alara's gift of calm as if it's a warm breeze moving over him.

❝ i know i'm not an easy one to talk down from the high tower, ❞ he says, his voice the growl of iron stoking through bits of ember and ash. ❝ but you have a talent for persuading me, cousin. ❞ in the compliment is also an admission he might not make to others, even seraphina, knowing it would not do to worry her when azrael requires so much of her attention. alara, on the other hand, has tended his feral manners since his arrival as crowned ruler of the night court, coaxing him from a stray beast to a high ruler in manner and approach over the years, and for that he is eternally grateful.

❝ vertigo, ❞ he echoes dubiously, taking a seat beside her and eying the glass of bourbon she's poured from him. a mischievous eyebrow lifts, a sign that, already, his hackles have lowered a bit. ❝ i'm no scholar, but i promise you, whiskey won't help either. ❞ his high tolerance leaves him reaching for the proffered glass, and he takes a deep drink.

❝ there is nothing tangible, ❞ he argues, though he understands her meaning. ❝ the only thing i know for certain is that we — our people — have to be unified in our approach. if we aren't, the night court will fall to whatever insanity is currently puppeteering that boy king. that means everything we are — our family, velaris ... ❞ ihsahn shakes his head as if it will chase away his cynical thoughts. the fire's light dances in his eyes. ❝ i will not lose it. not when i've only just found it. ❞ not when i've just found myself.

his eyes flick to hers. ❝ i refuse, alara. ❞

[courtfallen]

— closed for @dcwnthercad ( freya ) / 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 ! — scene: in a seedy tavern in the lower dusk court city, late into the night

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔬𝔩𝔰, an errant brawl, a roaring hearth, the smell of stew and ale — if rook closes his eyes, he can almost convince himself he's back at the broken crown in gaea, can almost hear his father's belly laugh as he serves up another round. and yet, from the shadowy back corner of the tavern, the pit in his stomach won't allow him to truly go there. there's dread gnawing at every inch of him. no bend of light can take him home, and no thermal can carry him away from this cauldron-forsaken place. he's trapped. on an island of faces he doesn't recognize, and the tempest continues to grow as the idiot boy king's shadow stretches tall.

he had purchased a room upstairs in the tavern, but incessant pacing had drawn him down into the belly of the place — drawn by the smell of freshly baked bread and spices. but after several deep pints of ale, his mood has only soured. he misses home, his father, his guild. everything he'd done to put himself and his crew in striking distance of the royal family's jugular thwarted in a flash.

he is an island to himself, an outlander with no allies.

this dark turn of his thoughts only grows more insidious when he catches an all too-familiar shape at the end of the bar. the cut of her is just as he remembered — but, no. there's no fucking way. fate could not be so cruel as to bring them both here. narrowed eyes of a storming sea refocus, and the reality that he's merely a few feet from her slips like a betrayer's dagger between his ribs. he looks toward the stairs — he could retreat to his room, but he was no coward. after all, she was the one who left him broken without a single look back.

he draws up from his table and moves toward her, his keen hearing attempting to catch the sound of her voice in a sea of drunken shanties and hollers, to hear what lies she whispers to the victim at her side. ❝ careful with her, ❞ he warns, voice lifting above the din. ❝ she's beautiful, but nothing she's offering is worth a dagger in the back. ❞ he crosses his arms over his chest and levels his eyes on freya. ❝ and that's what you'll get when it's all said & done. ❞

[dcwnthercad]

with their limbs tangled underneath the basking presence of a rather furious dragon – and the walls have a high probability ofa collapse-some would consider it a romantic. An adrenaline rush coursing through while having a near brush with death. Other may find it terrifying, roman couldn't speak for the latter. Although he had already made no effort to silence himself, he did nothing to remove himself from their current position, and it was not lost on him that his wings were intentionally tucked under the other man's arm. It strummed his cognitive strands, pulling his attention in every direction as he tried to remain focused -- speaking helped him do exactly that. some may find the stim rather inessential, but it was actually a focalizing tactic. the introduction encouraged a nod and an upward curve of his lips. in all honesty, he did not expect to get his name -- but not a single complaint would be uttered. " very much so, now that we are no longer strangers, and dashing through the lines of second base - " not relinquishing the compliment that he dispersed so casually, but shamelessly honest. " at least you would make a delicious dessert -- for the dragon, I mean. " that last part he laid for clarification - but not rescinding any other meaning to it.

to touch another fae's wings was an act of intimacy that had the peregryn internally YELLING. but there were so many other elements that were happening that he could not fixate on one. although amidst his rambling, his eyes finally traversed slightly to capture sight of his injury - due to the angle he was in, he couldn't decipher the damage. he wiggled in his hold, not regarding how uncomfortable it may be. " why did you go out of your way to protect my wings, you hurt yourself saving me -- " concern immediately showed itself. " as much as i would not mind staying like this with you vastien, let me help you." it did not leave his lips as a request. " my name is roman, by the way. " he extended the olive branch, realizing that he was not named.

[courtfallen]

❝ 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔡-𝔟𝔞𝔰𝔢? ❞ he whispers harshly, his cheeks flushing with color at the insinuation and only deepening when dessert is mentioned. vast swallows raggedly, shifting his hips once more to try and create distance between their bodies which meet ..at all the wrong conjunctions. ❝ can you just focus on staying alive for a minute? ❞ vast hadn’t considered where this haphazard lunge toward safehaven would land him, really: it had been his only bid to save himself, and the last minute decision to grab hold of the peregryn, too, had come from somewhere else — some place in him he couldn’t explain. whatever it was, he was coming to terms with the fact that the split-second decision could possibly be the death of him.

his eyes narrow and he feels his wings instinctively attempt to retract, under the scrutiny of the man beneath him, but it only worsens the tear — tangled roots snag and clotted dirt rain down on them. a wince. ❝ i didn’t think, ❞ he hisses. ❝ i just reacted — wasn’t much time to deliberate, you know. ❞

roman. roman is grateful, and he wants to help. vast’s eyes soften slightly, but before he can respond, the thunder of the dragon overhead grows closer once more.

overhead, vast hears the gargantuan felling trees in its pursuit of them, each one hitting closer to their cave. his eyes widen, his heart hammers, and his breath stalls painfully in his lungs. the limbs that hold fast to the fae beneath him tighten, rigidly, and he finds himself sending up a prayer to the despondent mother — the one he’s cursed so often before — knowing he’s a hypocrite and fool for doing so. his fingers are buried deep in the soft plumage of the peregryn’s wings, eyes locked on the gaze of the fae beneath him, as he hears the drake make its final rounds. the thought crosses his mind that his last moments might be spent tangled up with this stranger, but hope finds him as the dragon draws away again. he can make out the sound of it scooping up its kill, and then there is a storm of clattering branches, dust and bramble, in its wake as it takes flight. blessedly moving on to another location.

vast feels himself wilt then, all the tension in his body melting so quickly that his forehead momentarily presses to roman’s — roman, the fae whose life he saved — and his eyes close briefly. they are safe. they’ve survived an encounter with a dragon, somehow, by whatever sliver of grace remained for him in the mother’s estimation.  whether it’s the thrill of having survived or the absurdity of their current situation, vast finds himself chuckling as he lifts his head. ❝ the dark mother couldn’t reach me, so she sent me you, ❞ he breathes as the laugh disperses and sanity returns. ❝ let’s get the hell out of here. ❞

[crxssdhearts]

Poppy sighed. "I guess. I'm still not sure how they have stayed hidden and haven't had any power struggles. I mean they have literal dragons to take things over." She nodded, chewing on her lip lightly. "Yes well, still I should have been more conscious of it. It is very unacceptable to create a scene." She sighed. "Don't you worry about me. I might be a scribe, but I can hold my own." She told him way more confidently than she should have about the alcohol.

Poppy turned her head slightly confused momentarily by his response to her question. But then it clicked. Her cheeks burned hot, her eyes going wide at the realization of what she had just asked him. "OH, I didn't mean take off things, I mean if you want to take things off, I meant you said take of the edge or something and I just, That was not what I was trying to, oh, I. just you see." She rambled, her brain scrambling as she stared at him, his lips, his wings.

[courtfallen]

𝔳𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔫'𝔰 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔰 scattered across the night sky. he's reminded of velaris, the home he fled for the frostbite of the northern mountains that crown prythian. the foolishness of trading one brutality for another. and here he finds himself, yet again, in the midst of chaos. observing a dark mother's unraveling plan and mentally juggling it alongside the threat of swarming drakes come to douse them all in flame. ❝ i think the dusk fae and the dragons have a tenuous understanding, ❞ he says, idly, leaned back on his elbows. ❝ if you say so, scribe. ❞

he soon realizes she certainly cannot hold her own when he finds himself pinned by a hungry gaze on the tail of her rambling explanation. ❝ okay, lightweight, ❞ he sighs, leaning forward from his spot on the stairs & gingerly plucking the flask from her grasp. his wings tuck subconsciously tighter against his spine, further out of view. ❝ no need to get so bent out of shape. it was just a joke. ❞ vast shakes his head as he leans back once more, disgruntled. ❝ i think we're all on edge. you more than anyone, maybe. just go ..sit down — ❞ he pauses and gestures to a spot on the other side of the staircase. ❝ — over there. and maybe work on breathing. ❞

[slivertm]

her gaze tracks the fae's moves, saying nothing as she disappears the plant into the leather of her satchel. if they thought it would make a better home for it than a frostbitten window sill, then who was lavinia to keep it from thriving. but, if they were winnowed away in the night once more, then it was back at square one once more. abandoned once again.

watch, the voice said. watch. lavinia's eyes flicker upward. coal eyes sparking with an ember of interest. for once, her stomach settles.

she moves to her feet, more curious of the fae now. lavinia raises a brow. "am i the only one who will see it?" can see it? she was looking for meaning in the air, grasping at straws. looking for meaning in all things, in all words lest the messenger revisit her to offer clarification.

[courtfallen]

𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔞𝔫 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔥𝔢𝔯, eyes trailing up and down her form as if there is an answer to the question she poses in the thud of her footfalls, the thrum in her chest, the sway of her hip, the bend of her fingers. as a conduit, the seer has learned how to reach out into the ether, to feel for astral tethers and draw visions to her, and so she does. often, there is no answer, only more shadows, leering obelisks, cloaked figures.

but she also finds she speaks truth before she realizes it, as if subconsciously funneling from the contents of a cauldron over-full. ❝ is that what you want? ❞ she asks, lifting her chin and studying the priestess down the bridge of her nose. ❝ to be chosen? touched by the mother and granted special knowledge? ❞ morrigan closes the gap between them, leaning forward so that she's only a hairsbreadth away, then whispers: ❝ be careful what you wish for, priestess. ❞

drawing away, she falls back into a casual posture, adjusting the laden satchel on her hip. ❝ we all have a part to play in what comes next. it would be foolish to do anything other than accept the one that's been given us. however mundane, however trivial it might be. ❞

[vivianvaldemar]

CHOICE. None of it was her choice, but perhaps she was guilty of... feeding into the rumours about her. Guilty of relishing in it. But, wasn't the Cauldron the one who had set her up for darkness & madness & others screaming in fear of her? Did it not call her Nemesis, retribution & vengeance given flesh, blood & bones. Given immortality. Perhaps it had been it's plan from the moment she was conceived, a wrathful think wearing the mask of a pretty, young lady with soft smiles & hopeful eyes.

hope turned to despair. despair turned to hatred, to wrath.

But, the Illyrian had a point - she could've behaved better, been better... but it wasn't her. She wasn't a soft, pretty thing with a mortal's heartbeat & their weak minds. She was no weak thing, her mind as impenetrable as a fortress made of the indestructible ore that entombed the misty soul of the Cauldron.

"Perhaps I am both. Choice & fate are so often intertwined, imperceptible one from another." she replied with a shrug, but the eerie smile danced upon her lips.

& then her grin grew. & then the eyes paled further.

"It is both. The Cauldron took my mortal heart, so I took it's immortal soul. A fair price it paid. & it seemed willing to give it up to me. Perhaps I played right into it's... feet." she laughed, then continued, "Or perhaps it knew me better than I knew my mortal self & hollowed out what had been empty to begin with."

"The Cauldron is paradox in itself. Empty & full, cold & so, so, so infernal. One cannot put the sensation of it to words, though not many were given opportunity to try, either." beside herself, there had been four more in the entire, somewhat recent history of Prythian that had been successfully made.

Vivian grinned wider. He mentioned of the fae whose name she had purposely forgotten the moment she held his severed head aloft in her hand.

"He was a foolish think & if you know that much of my history, then you know how his ended."

He speaks of hell. Of infernal things that he only thinks he can perceive. But, he had never been Made - he had never experience the kind of death & rebirth, & the pain! such mind altering pain that she had felt when her entire self had been shattered into pieces & forged again, forged into something sharp, & brutal, & cruel, & wrathful.

but the eerie smile remains.

"There is a worse hell than acceptance of one's fate, boy. Worse hell than the steadiness of character, the predictability of one's own emotion & action. The one true Hell you will never get to taste, not in the way I tasted it."

not in the way it had cleaved her into so many halves she did not know if any part of her had remained as it had once been, so so very long ago.

[courtfallen]

𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔦 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔲𝔱 with his mind, he feels those garrison walls that encompass her own. her shields are solid. and they were not built through practice, but born, a steel cage from the cauldron’s belly already solid in its own perfect mold. like the bones of her. he brushes against those shields, a test to see if she is even capable of feeling his trespass, lowering them for another to see within. or was she complete & whole & truly unchangeable in the cauldron’s eye.

vyros watches her as she speaks. it’s as if her mouth doesn’t even move. she is a suggestion, but still somehow as solid as moonstone. white as marble. how strange. how intriguing.

❝ i’ve read there is not one missing note in the cauldron’s song. an argument for predestination that all that is and will be is already written and whole, from the perspective of the cauldron. it challenges the idea of choice, doesn’t it? perhaps we are all fools, believing we have the ability to change ourselves, change our future, the future of the realm. i can’t say i prescribe to the idea, but maybe i’m too self-absorbed to simply acknowledge that as truth. it takes a lot of willingness and selflessness to be an observer of one’s self. i know no perfect being who can do that, always. all it takes is the right circumstance, and we are forced back into believing the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what role we must play. would it all play out the same if we were to sit back and watch from above the battleground, from where the mother sits? ❞

her explanation of the cauldron matches his own understanding, but words and expressions are limiting. he leans forward, wrenching rough hands around the bowl of his pipe. ❝ would you ever trust another soul enough to show them? let them inside your mind to see what you saw, what the cauldron showed you? ❞ it’s a dangerous question, but they have been treading dangerous hypotheticals all evening. if she had felt his brush against the shields of her mind, she would know that he is asking her to show him. but he leaves it unspoken yet.

❝ but you loved him, did you not? ❞ he presses the subject, carefully, eyes narrowed and searching. he means no harm, but it is his nature to want to understand. perhaps his own ego’s method of making sense of the world around him. a seeker until the end, plagued with a will to know, and without the faculties to truly see.

the condescension, whether intended or not, is a rake across him. it was how his father had addressed him — boy. perhaps all he ever wanted to do was prove he was a better man, capable of doing what his father could not: protecting those smaller than him. ❝ accepting one’s own fate is resignation, ❞ he challenges. ❝ i hope i am never satisfied with the story the cauldron has written for me, that i’m always clawing at the edges of the narrow path toward a fate of my own design. ❞

[liuyan-deactivated20250809]

SHE WOULD have somewhat ironically asked him had he ever met a dragon, had she not remembered he was not, in fact, a part of Zhou Yijun's court. & thus did not, by all accounts, meet a dragon. Given the underlying excitement in her head that was not her own, but Erinya's, that would soon be rectified.

she wondered how he'd fare.

She also wondered if he might be the first person outside of Dusk to actually meet a dragon - & a red drake, for one. So, when he spoke of insults & dragons, Liu Yan could not prevent a light chuckle to escape her lips. "That is exactly what a dragon is." she kept chuckling, then added ; "Well, a red dragon, that is. They all vary in character & colour, but the shared trait still remains that of stubbornness."

except maybe white or gold dragons, but they were deemed too wise to be bothered with trivialities. Though, she can't guarantee they were quick to change their opinion. If anything, the dragons only ever trusted their own kin & perhaps their bonded riders.

well that's just rude. Erinya adds to her monologue.

Refraining from entertaining her dragon's remark, Yanyan pursed her lips in thought as he kept talking. He was troubled, that much she could see. Whether it was a real trouble or simply the lack of proper perspective was yet to be determined. Still, she could see the weight of unspoken things, perhaps even dark things, dragging his shoulder like an iron laced cloak.

they all had their inner demons.

"if it is any consolation, dragons don't care about social pleasantries, which is why they remain... secluded. Lest one of them picks a fight because of the way someone breathes. I think as far as Erinya's opinion goes, you just might evade her flames." she offered another chuckle, then nodded.

"In truth, that is how most of us currently feel. It is only fortunate we did end up speaking the same language, but having this many outsider fae flocking to a single place... something is about to catch fire. It doesn't matter when, it's inevitable. Someone on the either side of this unseen barrier we've been secluded in, would say something that sparks a flame of misunderstanding & malice, & we might easily end up on the receiving end of the inferno, simply because we did not exist until recently." she hummed.

But, she chuckled & offered a secret of her own.

"I am very partial to sweets, candied fruits & fruits in general. I think I can find cherries, though I have to warn you, they taste a bit differently when stewed over dragon flames. Their fire had a very... sweet quality to it. I don't quite know how to describe it."

[courtfallen]

𝔦𝔱 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩𝔰 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔣𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 to know that there is a species that roams the earth with a temperament like his own — perhaps, in the lives he led before this one, he had been a red drake. and perhaps that’s why he feels so uncomfortable inside his own head now. the spirit of a dragon tormented with a maelstrom of nightmares ..that was an unimaginably terrible thing to try and comprehend. he shakes away thoughts of what havoc he might inflict if he carried the form of a dragon, given the current state of his mind.

❝ how long have you been bonded to erinya? how was the bond established.. the trust? ❞ it occurs to him, only then, that the depths of the bond are unknown to him. does erinya hear their conversation? feel her rider’s emotions? sense their nearness? the rush of questions is refreshing, this new subject, overpowering the darkness that usually looms at the edges of his mind. it’s a pleasant distraction from his usual stasis. 

❝ i’ll keep my breathing in check, ❞ he half-heartedly jests. the more he learns about the beasts, the more he relates — social convention is grating to him. an unnecessary construct of the ego, a series of compensations and justifications layered over to explain away natural behaviors. vast is the first to admit, his brain isn’t wired for it, and so he plays the weapon. they have a use for him in that regard, and so he remains in play, regardless of his sharp edges and deathly aim. 

❝ i don’t fear the inferno, ❞ he says quietly, considering her words in his introspective way. ❝ it will come, and we will either put our self-righteous bullshit aside and survive it, or we’ll perish deservedly. i’m just tired of waiting — let it fall apart. i want to see where i measure up against it. in the end. ❞ he realizes he’s forgotten himself, and his cheeks of pallid olive flush slightly. he keeps his eyes trained ahead, aware he’s let slip one of his darker thoughts. one that’s not to be uttered, to see the light of day. once more, he blames it on the contents of his half-empty flask.

pointed ears perk at the mention of cherries roasted over a dragon’s fire. ❝ maybe erinya will have mercy on me and let me try some, one day. ❞ he looses a breathy chuckle, looking back to the woman who walks alongside him. ❝ if i survive first impressions. ❞

[stxrfclls]

closed for members of the gaea inner circle + other generals

she  didn't  like  to  talk  to  other  generals,  too  many  burned  experiences  and  annoying  interactions.  but  taria  was  also  on  edge,  and  she  knew  many  would  feel  the  same.  kabir  was…  different.  it  concerned  her,  the  way  he  spoke,  the  way  he  acted  as  of  late.  she  couldn't  let  any  of  that  show  either,  but  knew  damn  well  her  proximity  to  the  boy  king  and  his  mother  would  make  her  a  target  for  those  aiming  to  take  out  those  emotions.  nobody  would  take  this  lightly.  and  so  when  someone  walks  up  to  the  table  she'd  claimed  in  her  tavern  the  general  doesn't  even  bother  looking  up  before  speaking.  "  you  may  as  well  sit  down  instead  of  staring.  "  drawls  the  gaean  fae.  

[courtfallen]

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔦𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔭𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯 over all the courts of prythian & beyond was not so subtly made by the young king kabir, and vyros found it tactless, graceless, and a signpost for civil war to come. the courts might be quietly stewing now, watching & observing, waiting for chances to strike out, whispering amongst themselves in search of alliances. where did they each stand? sovereign kingdoms in search of their own independence? cowards complying with the stentorian demand of the self-proclaimed ruler of all? double-agents playing both sides until a path to supremacy revealed itself?

vyros doesn't frequent taverns anymore, though he enjoys them, finding them a natural common ground. and now, he finds himself in search of answers in all the little hollows and pockets where rebellions and gossip are born. his own motive is a many-tiered thing: to keep his high lady and the winter court safe, the highest priority, but a longing to see court independence out from under the boot of gaea another. his own rebellious and idealist heart is still a living thing.

the other general acknowledges him, and he moves toward her table from where he'd been sat at the bar, carrying with him a dusk court ale. it's too pale for his tastes, but he drinks it, all the same. ❝ i imagine you've been followed by stares & whispers for days now. ❞ he takes the chair across from her, his large form draping over almost half the table. ❝ i don't envy you, but it paints a different picture ..to find the king's general here drinking away the hours after the moves he's made. ❞ the question is in his eyes, but he doesn't yet ask it: were you aware of his plans? are you a pawn in his game or a more powerful player?

[stxrfclls]

closed for vyros ( @courtfallen )

it  was  rare  for  desmera  to  be  so  wrapped  up  in  her  thoughts  that  she  wasn't  paying  attention  to  the  world  around  her,  but  it'd  been  happening  more  often  than  not  as  of  late.  the  high  lady  of  winter  hated  it,  and  the  only  thing  that  seemed  to  help  clear  her  mind  even  a  fraction  was  running.  it  also  helped  that  she'd  been  too  busy  to  do  anything  physical  as  of  late,  running  was  good  for  her.  des  had  been  lucky  enough  to  procure  leggings  and  a  tighter  fitting  top,  shedding  her  normal  dresses  in  favor  of  something  practical  for  this  exercise.  as  the  high  lady  nears  the  forests  surrounding  the  outside  of  the  dusk  court  she  pauses,  leaning  down  pressing  her  hands  onto  her  knees  and  controlling  her  breathing.  

movement  makes  her  gasp,  turn  to  locate  it  only  to  narrow  her  eyes.  of  course  he'd  be  the  one  to  find  her,  the  one  most  likely  to  lecture  her  for  being  caught  so  off  guard.  after  their  last  talk,  she  wasn't  even  sure  how  to  talk  to  him.  the  general  was  among  another  thought  that  screamed  in  her  mind,  one  refusing  to  be  ignored.  "  general.  "  comes  her  pathetic  greeting.

[courtfallen]

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩. the title is a barrier, one he registers almost immediately — their last conversation had breached dangerous territory, and vyros acknowledges himself as the catalyst for the shift between them that inevitably must follow: a restoration of propinquity, prescribed distance. role established. perhaps what remains unspoken between them is just a tree that needs to be shaken loose of snow drafts in order to receive the sunlight once in a while. a stone overturned, then placed back into the frozen creek where it belongs.

boots crush wintry-cold loam beneath as he moves closer to her. it's good to see her out of the trappings of a high ruler and back into garb that's less constricting, less punishing to a body born to move. she's a warrior, like him, at heart. she is a cold moon that sheds light in shadow with a strike of twin blades. beautiful, distant, unreachable. and her soft, elusive blue light might grace him, but even his formidable strength could not pin it down. resignation. he knows his place as a member of her inner circle, the general of her armies, not the captor of her heart.

❝ your mind must be elsewhere to not notice my presence. we all know stealth is not my strong suit. ❞ hands clasped behind his back, he edges closer. shoulders square. voice level with a critical edge — remnants from their past arrangement as mentor and apprentice. ❝ what are you running from, lady desmera? ❞ he cannot help to ask, for despite his genuine concern and curiosity, he must know where her mind is if he is to serve her well.

[feathcrcd]

it was a wolf. she had not let her arrow fly, she had hesitated, looking the creature in the eye and forming what she thought was some form of an understanding. a predator to a predator. she heard the movement behind her and wanted to turn towards it when an arrow cut through the air and into the gray wolf's chest, throwing it back as it let out a loud series of whines. shock overcame her as she looked back between this fae who had clearly lost at least a part of her sanity and the wolf in pain, but still standing. the previously created bond that she had made with him evaporated in the air between them. he was in pain and he was angry. wolves were beasts in packs. if there was one, who was to say there weren't more ? that's of course if it wasn't a shifter. " holy mother, " she swore in shock and anger. if it was a shifter from spring court they were absolutely screwed. or was she ? it was not her arrow after all. and it was not possible to say if he was alone or even if the beast would live or die.

celeste did not manage to come up with her conclusions as she felt the warmth of another's touch. her instinct was to stop it and pull away, but it had been a shockingly long time since the last time that someone had dared to touch her like that. she couldn't recall a time where someone attempted to save her either. she always did that herself.

the peregryn did not turn her back on the wolf until they had created enough of a distance to have a chance of running away from it, but it seemed like her new company had made a deadly shot as the wolf slowly slacked. " stop, " she hissed quietly and forcefully pulled her hand out of the stranger's after joining her to run farther away from the scene. " why did you have to shoot it ? " unless it had attacked them, celeste wouldn't have made such an impulsive decision. she was not in her home territory, she was in a court where a lot was still unknown and it was too easy to make a wrong move and screw something up. celeste's eyes found morrigan's fiery hues as they started slowing down and she observed her once again. her opposite. "i'm not going anywhere with you unless you tell me what you are, " her commander's tone slipped out.

[courtfallen]

𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔢 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 — the once-hedgewitch had been encircled by them on too often an occasion in her mortal youth. rings of dripping maws, rising hackles, a chorus of growls. as soon as one of the great beasts leveled its golden gaze on her, all it took was a signaling call and others would flood the little swales in the forest, and they would come, like trickling rills, to the fountainhead of that call. hungry, howling, a horde. instinct is a difficult thing to overcome for morrigan; in fact, perhaps it's all she is. a reactive force, something separate and apart from the calculating ilk that surround her now, that survives on impulse, that lives by the grace of natural law. and who now sees through the gossamer fabric of reality into the misty realm what has been and way may yet come to pass.

when the white woman jerks away from her, morrigan halts her descent through the thickets and brambles, her posture low and ready for another attack — ready to bolt, to disappear in the sheltering embrace of a foreign wood that, in time, she could coax to answer her call. it's abrupt, the fork in her mind set by another. ❝ it was too late, ❞ she whispers back hoarsely, eyes rising to the trees when a flock of birds takes flight at the sound of their argument blooming. ❝ you give a wolf an inch, and he'll take your hide. but not before calling his brothers to join the feast. ❞ dark brows furrow mid-forehead; it's taxing to her, the task of pulling the obvious bones out of the moment, cleaning them off, laying them out for another to read.

morrigan's spine straightens, and her arms lower to her side, as the pant of her breath slowly evens out. the sound of the winged fae's voice is a harsh bite, but it's as if it rolls down morrigan’s body like clots of dirt in the rain. her body and mind respond to it in a way that's too noticeable to her, too ..visceral. a pang that echoes endlessly. it's as if the woman has snatched her by the hair at the nape of her neck, but morrigan only relaxes into the hold like a young feline. still, her focus holds.

❝ i am morrigan, ❞ she offers openly, wiping the sweat from her lip with the back of her hand and smearing the thin layer of earth that clings to her skin. ❝ the third eye of the cauldron, borne from the void of its womb. & i see what others cannot. ❞ there's amusement in her eyes, because she wants to ask the same of her — what manner of fae are you, all silvery & winged, burning a seam through my visions? ❝ i've seen you, ❞ she expounds, carefully. a doe in an open field. ❝ your wings, your light. the ice in your eyes. we were meant to meet. ❞

[cresccents]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 : OPEN, 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 : some library

the  recent  news  was  nothing  but  exhilarating  .  a  sickly  king  plagued  by  weakness  turning  ridicule  into  fear,  shaped  by  nothing  but  the  weapon  of  power.  yet,  as  soon  as  the  whispers  reached  her,  the  state  of  euphoria  was  dissolved  by  nausea,   sickened  by  her  lack  of  knowledge,   and  pressing  questions  of  what  had  happened  within  those  hours.    “  could  you  step  aside. ”  irritation  settled  between  her  brows,   allowing  itself  to  be  erased  by  the   quick  realization  that  she  wasn’t  known  for  speaking  so  crudely.  that  she  was  supposed  to  be  above  that.  “  please. ”  yurim  quickly  added,  pulling  her  lips  into  a  saccharine  smile  as  she  waited,  eyes  fixed  upon  the  book  on  the  top  of  the  shelf,  waiting  to  be  stacked  on  a  pile  of  many  others.  “  unless  you  might  know  more  than  those  books  and  what  happened  to  the  king,  if  that’s  the  case,  feel  free  to  sit  down  and  enlighten  me.  ”

[courtfallen]

𝔯𝔬𝔬k 𝔡𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤, and libraries, for that matter. the sea of motes, and the papery-rot smell of old books — it all transports him to his ill-spent youth, a wild bird in a cage of fluttering pages, titles, and political games. and yet, he finds himself at the little shop in search of ink and clean vellum. arriving at the dusk court with nothing but the clothes on his back had left him in need of the most mundane necessities. he’d stopped writing letters when he first arrived, too jolted by the shock of the transportation, too befuddled by his inability to get free of this place — but now he finds himself in need of doing something normal, something he’s used to. something familiar. 

he’s idling near a table of quills when he hears the chirp of the girl breaking the stodgy silence. a welcome diversion from the current task, he steps between her & the obstacle she's identifed — a clueless man with dull eyes and an even duller wit; it seems to the lightsinger whatever books the man has read has given him no hints.

rook plucks the sought treasure from the dusty shelf, then turns to level oceanic eyes on the man. there’s an unspoken and playful challenge proffered, but it’s answered with a quick retreat by the fool caught in his crosshairs.

❝ self-awareness, ❞ he tuts, handing the book over to the girl. ❝ seems it’s in short-supply these days. i doubt that man could tell his ass from a hole in the ground, let alone unravel the mysteries of the great king’s resurgence. ❞ he cocks his head to the side. ❝ what makes you think that particular book will tell you anything? ❞ he's genuinely curious.

[stxrfclls]

closed for members of the night inner circle + vast ( @courtfallen )

being  new  to  the  inner  circle  felt  odd  for  kerim.  he  didn't  think  the  adjustment  would  be  a  struggle,  but  it  did  pose  something  that  he  never  had  enjoyed.  socializing.  still,  the  illyrian  felt  learning  those  he'd  be  working  with  was  important,  hence  why  he's  attempting  to  find  each  and  actually  speak  to  them.  when  the  looming  fae  turns  the  corner  and  finds  just  one  of  those  faces,  he  flashes  a  grin.  "  just  the  fae  i  was  looking  for.  "  greets  the  general.

[courtfallen]

𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔰. forbidden things, and yet a necessary evil. the handling of them is dangerous. the making of them criminal. but vast had found a little stand of the seemingly innocuous trees at the far edge of the dusk court's territory — and, unsettling enough, they were tended. not a mistake of nature, but a purposefully planted crop of fae-death ripe for harvest.

the knowledge of it has eaten at him for days, and yet it's only now he's given the chance to tell the one soul he trusts beyond all-else, the only one he'll dare breathe word of it. but there's more to the secret, a truth he's been burning to tell, and yet somehow, it all doesn't come spilling out all out once.

as kerim approaches, vast continues his steady work.

❝ mm. you know, i've been thinking. if you hadn't accepted this cursed position in the inner circle, maybe we would still be at the war camp freezing our asses off in peace, general. at least in the blood rite, we knew what the fuck was going on. ❞

[stxrfclls]

closed for any spymasters or night inner circle members

it  wasn't  in  siara's  nature  to  seek  out  others.  she  kept  to  herself,  stayed  on  the  outskirts  and  lived  in  the  shadows.  having  them  return  only  pushed  her  more  into  that  behavior,  surfacing  for  one  reason  and  then  returning.  it  made  her  an  effective  spymaster  this  way,  hardly  any  ever  realized  when  she  was  around.  occasionally,  however,  and  also  due  to  the  need  to  have  adapted  without  them,  the  spymaster  chose  not  to  travel  through  her  beloved  shadows.  what  was  more  surprising  were  the  steps  behind  her,  and  so  siara  turns  and  lowers  her  cloak.  "  can  i  help  you  ?  "  not  the  warmest  greeting,  but  she  was  never  the  warmest  to  begin  with.

[courtfallen]

𝔭𝔬𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔤𝔥 𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔡 through the dusk court streets. the hour is far too late for such a stroll, but after spending the evening with his wife and putting their son to bed, he feels that incessant pull in his chest, the one he must answer lest is fester and scourge. he does not hide his approach — as if he could from his spymaster — but he does consider turning back, not engaging. there is little doubt in him she would not mind if he did just that, in fact, she would likely prefer it. after all, the spool of his mind, unraveling itself, leaves him somber, reticent, not himself. hardly cheery company. her snap, however, keeps him planted, and his wings rise at the sharpness in her words, that untamed soul of his wanting to snap back, but it only rocks back and simmers — lava flowing back to cool. ❝ i suspect a little divine intervention couldn't hurt, but i doubt you have any that up your sleeve, siara. unless you're holding out on us. ❞

he passes by her and approaches the stone railing of the bridge on which they stand. he presses his palm to the biting cold of it and leans forward, eyes dancing over the sleeping city. ❝ what are you doing out here at this hour? ❞ he doesn't look to her when he asks.

[shvdwscng]

CLOSED ⟳ @n1ghtsongs , @sparkledcrowns , @vivianvaldemar , @courtfallen ( not a group thread ! )

it  was  now  that  perhaps  kalore  took  a  moment  to  study  the  interiors  of  the  dusk  palace  that  held  so  much  history,  and  he'd  long  wager  on...secrets.  they  had  closed  off  many  of  the  passageways  and  rooms  to  their  guests,  but  none  that  could  be  hidden  for  the  commander  of  the  night  court.  when  his  daemati  abilities  returned,  he  had  slipped  into  the  minds  of  the  staff,  in  an  effort  to  uncover  all  that  the  high  lord  of  this  court  did  perhaps  not  wanted  discovered  by  them.  they  hadn't  offered  as  much  as  he  hoped,  but  there  was  certainly  satisfaction  that  he  was  that  much  closer.  the  few  bits  of  information  he  had  scoured  through  the  dusk  fae  staff  did  reveal  just  enough  to  put  the  pieces  together.  although  currently  one  thing  ran  through  the  minds  of  the  dusk  fae  as  it  did  for  the  other  seven,  the  change  in  their  king  had  left  them  all  equally  puzzled.  he  made  his  way  to  a  room  that  seemed  to  hold  artifacts  of  sorts,  a  room  closed  off  it  seemed  until  some  careless  staff  fae  left  it  open.  the  presence  of  another  has  him  alert,  but  without  turning  he  speaks,  never  once  removing  his  gaze  from  the  blade  he's  studying.  "i  am  well  aware  you  are  there,  so  you  might  as  well  show  yourself."

[courtfallen]

𝔠𝔞𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔲𝔰k 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔱 corridors had, for short while, given the general a sense that he had some semblance of control over the situation, but that sense of comfort is quickly diminished by stark reality. as it often is. the shadows only seem to get darker, the distance between himself and the changes unfolding around him growing too perilously out of reach for the bounds of his strength or intellect to sunder or snap back into alignment.

with the return of the winterborn illyrian's daemati powers, he began to tactfully pry, to peel back at the layers and see into the veiled minds of those in the dusk court, but it proved to be a fruitless trespass, a waste of energy. for now, he paces, his mind reaching, a loose string of fateful thread uncoiling in his belly and guiding him forward — the purpose unknown, until the silhouette of his once-friend takes shape. vyros snorts. kalore would be in a warded-off place such as this, down a dark corridor where one should not go unless uninvited. it makes vyros chuckle at the absurdity of finding him here, at knowing his wayward patrol ended in this particular commander's presence. that they were both endlessly seeking, hounds chasing their tails.

❝ you need only turn around, ❞ is his teeming growl of an answer, a playful sort of gravel in it that speaks of their tangled histories, the fall of a brotherhood, the singe of what might be perceived as ... broken loyalties. ❝ i come in peace, kalore, not flanked in shadow, ❞ he adds, leaning the meat of his great shoulder into the stone of the threshold. arms twine across his chest. ❝ whether you will receive me in the same spirit is yet to be seen ❞ humor dances in his eyes of golden embers.