"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
She has been somewhat absent as of late. Planning a war is rather difficult, and she finds that much of her time is occupied by spying out of the eyes of her ravens. She need to know what everyone else is planning, needs to know what secrets they are hiding. Their traits, their weaknesses. She can fight, certainly, but she’s far more useful at gaining knowledge, keeping the Chamber one step ahead of everyone else. Having an army of spies really does have its perks.
Today though, she is out and about in the kingdom. The ravens will report, and eventually watching and listening through their eyes and ears becomes a drain on her magic. She is not limitless, after all, and even she needs breaks. After all, she already maintains an army of magical ravens. That in and of itself is enough of a task.
The magical entity is growing well. It’s nearly as tall as the other pines in the kingdom, and she stops momentarily to admire it. It’s not her favorite tree in the kingdom. Her favorite is the one with the S carved into the bark, the one Weed left for her the first time he disappeared from the kingdom. But still, she must pay attention to the fiery entity. She’s rather tempted to slit her ankle and see what the tree might tell her. It seems strong enough to start becoming useful.
The raven that stands sentry (a fire raven, of course, so it can live in the tree), caws at the sight of her. She looks up with a bit of a grin before looking back to the tree. Of course the ravens would die for a sacrifice. Of course they would offer to bleed into the roots of the tree. She knows what the sentry is offering, but for now, she will not ask it of them. One day, it might be necessary. But not yet. Not today.
12-11-2015, 03:59 PM (This post was last modified: 12-18-2015, 01:35 PM by Aurane.)
She blinks. Slowly. Pressing a bit at the apex, squeezing her lashes together. But when she opens her eyes again it is still there. Hot, and emanating — something. Whispers? Screams? She shakes her head, pinning her ears back to exorcise the din of clicks and screeches that fill her worried ears. It is still there. Hot. Holding something secret and knowing it its boughs; its infernal belly heaving smoke and licking flames. ***Still there. Growing ever hotter. Consuming the sky with the might of its own perverse heats source. She blinks. (It is still there. Hot. And the jack and silver pines around it are ashes, but it is still there, burning.)
(You have to give it to Eyes. He's found a place of curiosities for you.) The red woman shifts her weight, black-brown eyes overwhelmed with the scorch of red and orange. “Eyes was right,” She mutters, tilting her head at the caw of the flaming sentry, “...to... bring us... here.” Her eyes narrow, ears swerving to track the soft thump of hooves, and the queer thrum of grandeur.
Aurane smiles. She has never seen a queen before. Could not pick one out from the throng, for pomp or dignity. Many an ignoble wretch strut around like royal horseflesh. (There is nothing but bone and viscera under there, too.) “Too right,” She whispers through clenched teeth, moving quietly in her cloak of pine-green shade to watch the woman move into the sear of the that hellish tree. (The ground around them is ashes and flames, and Aurane smells the sloughing of melting skin — her own, though she cannot feel it. But She is untouched. This unnatural monument and her are intimate, sharing the waves of each other's warmth. The flaming sentry swoops down and digs its claws unto the poll of Her neck. Only smoke releases from the punctures.)
***She moves from the hold of sharp needles and mossy gloom, slow and easy; watching Her with suspicion and hunger in a heady admixture. The red woman feels the heat grow, the air distorted by the energy of that combustion. Aurane stops more than a body's length away, uncharacteristically tame. “What is this?” Her voice shivers with excitement and fear combined — the blend sending twitches down her spine like lightening. “It knows something...”
Aurane. ****Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claw.
I was looking for a breath of life another taste of divine rush
In case you didn’t know, Shaytan is a creature of many obsessions. She usually flits from one to the next, whenever it fancies her. The burning tre - her tree - is on of the things, like Straia, that is perpetually in the back of her mind. It fascinates her. Like some stoner pony, she often finds herself staring at it for more than is probably good for her eyes. Some might find this creepy.
99% of them will definitely find it creepy that she’s lurking, invisible, just on the other side of the tree. The other mare, the one that she does not know and is not her beloved Straia, talks to her self, just like the other stallion that invaded her space in the tree. It isn’t her tree, by any stretch of the imagination. She is not the Priest - though that would probably be a far more ideal position for her than to try and run the peace caste with Kushiel (whatever was Straia thinking?!?). But in her silly little mind, it is hers, which clearly means that she must reveal herself and explain the purpose of the tree.
Shaytan’s voice is heard first; flat and entirely unsexy. She smiles (leers) at Straia, though she answers the other’s question. “It’s the tree that gives visions with a blood sacrifice. It burns and burns but to ash, it never turns.” Oh, and she might have thrown some mystic-sounding shit in there too. Cause why not? She doesn’t know the other mare. She can be as weird as she wants to be.
Others come. They always do, though for once she cannot be certain if they flock to her or to the tree. Or both. But of course, the tree is what Straia lives for, breaths for, because it embodies her kingdom. It is the magic that courses through this land come to stand in front of them, the magic that keeps the heart beneath their feet drumming on and on. The rhythm, unsettling to so many, is a lullaby to Straia. But of course, she grew up with the sound of that heart. She would die to the sound of it beating in her ears one day. I
Well, if she died at all. She was still beginning to think that a retirement full of pestering Atrox in the mountains would be ideal. Atrox probably won’t agree.
She doesn’t actually know the mare who approaches first, but the ravens have kept her well informed, and one caws again now to remind Straia who this stranger is. Aurane, new. But before Straia can reply, she hears the far more familiar sound of Shaytan’s voice. Straia nods at the comment. “The tree is the magical entity of this kingdom. In essence, it is the life blood of everything that happens here. And as Shaytan said, it can be rather useful too.”
She pauses for a moment, looking between the two mares. “I’m Straia. Aurane, right? And this is Shaytan.” Then her attention shifts to Shaytan slightly, and she asks, “Have you tried it yet, Shaytan?” Because she can’t help it. Her curiosity is growing.
The spotted mare's own eyes reflect the lick of flame, and Aurane finds the drone of her voice hard to focus on once she notices this. She is, in many ways, still a constantly restless child — a magpie driven to the shiny marbles of flame in her skull. “Mhmm,” The sound rumbles low from her chest and she tilts her head, (those glassy eyes acquiesce to the heat within, and drip onto the lovely edge of her cheekbone... like jelly, perhaps), “Ew.” She pulls her head back and snorts. “Well, that's very interesting.” ***But not terribly, not for her. She surrenders to nearsightedness, symptomatic of her immaturity. They may have good reason to spill blood for their future, because it may not just be their own. The red woman operates on the simple assumption that she has one. Foolhardy arrogance in itself. It works for her.
She smiles at the vastness of her own precious ignorance. She does not know of the kingdoms' little toys, or much of anything. Of course, it is rather unbecoming. Not cute at all. Though whip smart in a savage sort of way, Aurane has much preferred to simply sate the wont of flesh and her appetite for disarray. She grows soft and mindless; a numb deliverance of her potential to nothing. Now chaotic energy is funneling into something useful. Slowly. ***She is here.
Aurane lets out a single note of a laugh, ha. It is humoured and surprised. She turns her black-brown eyes to Straia. (Curiouser still... How very interesting.) “Aurane. Freshly delivered to your feet by a faithful little servant of yours,” Eyes had not made an effort to disguise his devotion. Poor Eyes. “Just lovely to meet you both,” She means it, in a way. But there is an undertone of mechanical note taking. Like a predatory creature learning her stalk, except not nearly so dramatic as all that. She knows her limits, and her strengths. But still she keeps her database, as everyone does. Her dark eyes carefully filing away details — ravens like watchful cohorts, (Eyes is not the only underling that wants to reach down and kiss the dirt around her hooves).
***She looks back at the tree, to the infernal sentry flicking it's beady little eyes around. She waits for Shaytan's answer. The red mare may not see the fuss in glimpsing her own future, she cannot deny the tug of curiosity — what must it feel like to be ripped out of time and given a window there?
Aurane. ****Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claw.
The thought of seeing the future doesn’t immediately fill Shaytan either aversion or giddy glee. Although if she did know the future, she might be able to keep Straia’s attention better. Then again, the lovely Queen could simply just cut herself (why? she could ask any one of her subjects to do it, and they would gladly do it) and find the sacred knowledge within.
Shaytan absently nods politely back to the bay mare, saying simply, “Yes.” All of her attention is on her bay and white lady. Just as it’s ever been. Can Straia feel the yearning that lies heavily around Shaytan? Everyone else is a fly in her ear, a pesky mosquito that whines and bites and gets an irritated flick of her tail or the occasional kick from a large hoof. Thus is Aurane. She would bare her teeth and flick her ears back - but she doesn’t have the time right now. Instead, she eagerly steps forward and awkwardly tries to ingratiate herself. “No, but if it’s time… I can do it now.” Her breath catches in her throat, gaining a slightly pleading intensity as she continues. “Please, Straia. Please. Let me be the first.” She shifts from one foot to the next in anxiety. As if she has never wanted anything else before.
Wouldn’t her being the first just piss off that flame-loving Kushiel?
shaytan
when people run in circles, it's a very, very mad world
She listens to Aurane, who seems less and interested and less than reverant. Something that, while Straia understands, she doesn’t necessarily like. To live in the Chamber is to believe in everything that the kingdom holds more than you believe in yourself. Your heart beat should match the beat of the heart beneath their feet (yes, there’s a literal heart of the Chamber). Your soul should burn as endlessly as the tree.
In the end, those that don’t feel this way, don’t last here. The Chamber asks for too much. It takes families and hearts and blood and souls. It takes everything, in the end, including your life. And to serve the kingdom, to make something of the kingdom (and through that, of yourself), you must be ready to give everything.
Aurane doesn’t strike Straia as such. Not yet, anyway. But perhaps she will grow and change in time. “Well then, welcome to the Chamber. And who, may I ask, brought you?” Of course, it’s not really quite so polite of a question. She’ll take the answer, either from the girl’s mouth or from a raven’s. It doesn’t really matter to her who tells her.
Shaytan steps forward, attention torn between Straia and the tree, though she’s bouncing side to side in anticipation. She wants to be the first. Badly, it seems. In truth, Straia wants to be the first, simply because she wants to know if a Queen’s blood can show more or if it’s the same as any other. But she can be second and still find this out. She may as well save herself for closer to the war, find out just what her blood can do then.
Besides, she really can’t take away the pleasure from Shaytan. “I’m curious to know, and I’d be happy if you did the honors, Shaytan.” She reaches out, nipping the mare pleasantly on the neck before stepping back, waiting to see just exactly would happen.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
Aurane doesn’t care. Clearly. Which renders her insignificant in Shaytan’s obssessive eyes. Just like that, the bay mare fades into the background, and Shaytan doesn’t even bother to acknowledge her departure. She’s petty like that. Instead, her gaze feasts ravenously on the dancing flames, barely daring to believe that Straia has granted her permission to be the first to try out the sacred tree.
And then the nip. Ahhhhh. Contact. Maybe her beloved Queen does love her after all. Just a teensy, weensy bit?
Her eyes reflect a sort of manic feverity as she steps even closer to the trunk. It requires blood, and while she would just love to offer it a dead bunny, she doesn’t have one right now. Shay has only herself - and nothing to facilitate bloodletting. Hmmm. She spots a decently sized, edged rock a couple of steps away and reaches over to grab it in her teeth, bringing it down upon her foreleg. It isn’t that sharp though, so it takes some finagling until she can break the skin. Crimson spots begin to well up on her graying coat, and she extends her leg in a very awkward manner, trying to shake the blood off her and on to the bark. Or roots. Once again, the mechanics of where and how she’s supposed to give the offering to make the magic work.
She must get it right - somehow - because the flames roar to life in front of her. Whether only she can see it, or if it’s impressive to Straia too, is unknown. The images weave in and out before her eyes, twisting rapidly into this and that and present her with pictures that do and do not make sense. After a couple of moments, she shakes her head as if to clear something from the edges of her vision. Awe-struck, Shaytan turns to Straia and nods. “It works… Did you see that? Are you going to try?”
shaytan
when people run in circles, it's a very, very mad world
Aurane’s disinterest is apparent, and Straia simply offers the mare a nod as she leaves. While she allows freeloaders in the Chamber, they are not her favorite, and she doesn’t waste much time on them. At the end of the day, she cares more for those that put the Chamber first, as she does. Weed is a rare exception to this. She doesn’t mind his lack of loyalty to the Chamber, but perhaps that’s because it comes with some level of loyalty to her.
Only some. But that’s more than she could have ever expected from her plant-manipulating monster.
Straia turns her attention back to Shaytan, watching as the mare steps closer to the trunk. It isn’t long before the Shaytan is using a rock to break her skin, and when the mare offers her blood, Straia shifts her gaze to the flames. When the mare’s blood hits the tree, the flames roar to life, more powerful and amazing and impossible than even before.
Straia’s smile spreads, but it’s the look in her eyes that’s far more pleased as she watches possible futures for the Chamber dance through the flames. There are images of the war, variations of how it can go. But her attention is caught by one, her gaze and smile turning wicked and pleased.
“I don’t think I have to try,” she says, voice sultry and smoky as always, laced with the promise of what this tree can do. “You’ve done well, Shaytan. How would you feel about becoming the Chamber’s Priestess? Our tree will need a guardian in the coming war.” She pauses, waiting to see how the mare feels about this proposition, though suspecting Shaytan will take up the offer.
“Also, would you tell me what you saw? I’m curious if we saw the same things, or different things.”
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
At first it was overwhelming when the flames came to life. watching the images writhe around, changing to show what she can recognize, and other things that seem impossible. Things that are familiar, but she knows have never happened. Things that still haunt her dreams. Nerissa. Belgarath. Sayaa. War. The birds. Shaytan’s mind whirls, her eyes growing distant until the pictures fade. She’s beginning to come back to their world when Straia’s voice (sultry and sexy and summoning) yanks her the rest of the way.
You’ve done well, Shaytan
Ugh, she could just melt. Her name on her Queen’s lips. It’s the boon she’s always yearning for.
And then, she says it: Priestess. The spotted mare can hardly believe what she is hearing! Her crazy eyes light up, ignited at the thought that the tree would be all hers (well - the Kingdom’s - but hers, mostly), and that she is now somebody important. She is someone to Straia. She has finally found a way to prove herself! “Of course I want it,” she ekes out, elation flooding her veins like a heroin addict’s much-longed for high. “Anything you ask.” And you know she means it.
“I saw some of my childhood. The box and the bunnies and my daughter. But they weren’t.. right. They weren’t what really happened. There was war, but I couldn’t tell who was winning. A fire-raven flew into the sky and then dove back down to the ground. There was a dragon, too…” Poor Shaytan. It’s all a little confusing for her right now. But even if it is confounding, she knows that she will guard this tree with her life. She will give her all for Straia, and for the Tree. No one has ever put that much faith in her before… and no one is likely to again.
shaytan
when people run in circles, it's a very, very mad world
