[AW] Let the Fires Burn [ meeting ]

[Moira]

those who want peace should prepare for war and be strong

Oh how they rise like the tide, rise like the sun, rise like the moon; the people of Denocte, are a united being, a single entity writhing under the morning light. They pull at the bit, they tug at her heart. Moira knows how to read a person's body than she will ever know how to read their emotions. She can gauge her words and their effect on the tension in their spines, the color of their eyes, the tightness of their words.

@Katniss steps forward, boldly taking the lead to take the helm. Protection is heavy on another's shoulders, and Moira feels the weight of it, but this will not be the straw to break a camel's back. Gold clashes with red, meets in an understanding, and at last the phoenix lowers her head in acceptance, a grateful nod. The thundering in her veins slows, quiets, it lets the voices of Denocte, of her people, wash over her as a cleansing rain. How much love Isra has sewn between these people makes her want to cry at the injustices of the world, makes her want to rage and storm and destroy everything she could touch, but that is not her job. She is the thread to bring the jagged edges close, the mouthpiece to look to when there is nowhere else to look.

Moira Tonnerre is the flame that will never die so that her people may live on and on and on.

@Michael is softer than the warrior woman who wears scars as stories upon her skin, stories Isra would spin for them into great feats and tales of wonder. No, the man of moonlight hair and golden skin is a dream given flesh, a heart meant for the skies and seas and all of the wonderful adventures that are not meant for today. Oh, but how he rises just as the rest, head bowed and humble, a sweetness she hopes will never be lost. They speak, they fill her heart. @Noctiilucent follows quickly after, horns gleaming as a blade to strike down any enemies seeking to devour them in the shadows.

So few know how comfortable the Night Court is in those shadows, how they grin their barbaric grins when darkness rises and take like wild things to the night.

But it is fear blossoming, young and frail, when the tricorn woman's words ring with hatred, with a promise of death. It is there on the wind, like the once-corpse of their friend, their brother, their comrade. Not even Isra's flowers can mask the sweet stink of decay. She cannot let it swallow their hearts and rip the dreams from them all. But she nods as only she can, letting them find their voice one by one.

@Metaphor keeps fast to Katniss' side, and in the devastation of their loss is a comfort as unending as the night skies. Love blooms here, a tie much stronger than any hatred or any war will ever be. Will it be strong enough to hold warring hearts together when all they try to do is break apart? She smiles that sun-bright smile, a spark growing brighter at finally, finally learning of another healer.

At last the mermaid boy steps forward, as taught as a bowstring, quivering like a leaf in the wind. He stands tall despite his fear, despite the sorrow growing in all of them. He stands tall as a flag for them all to look to, to cherish and hold close, and he pulls from it a map of wonder. Dotted across the land are names and places, so, so many that she cannot take it all in. But to talk now would be to unleash a tidal wave, to let loose a wildfire ready to sweep over them all again, and so she goes to his side, brushes comfortingly along @Pan 's shoulder and picks the map up off the ground. Dirt does not dare to sully such a prized possession, and those that dare are quickly banished back to the grounds from whence they came.

@Anzhelo follows then, piping up on Katniss' other side. She has not seen him often in the court, but the phoenix knows this will be amended soon. How she nods toward the trio, wondering how such talent and heart could be gathered all in one place. It is @Morrighan that draws a chuckle that crackles as a storm, a fierce lightning grin that is much more brave than the healer has ever been.

But her court makes her brave, and they make her bold, and they make her stronger than she ever knew she could be.

@Ianthe is less than thrilled, standing away from the masses, and Moira makes a note that she must meet with the other winged woman, soon. Hers is a face newer to the court, but she is just as ready to rise to a challenge. A winged woman grounded, the phoenix cannot imagine how awful that must feel. When she's never tasted the skies, she's never known that loss. @Lysander and @Florentine do not speak to the crowd, only stare at one another as Metaphor and Katniss do: with love. No words or pledges or vows will be forced from their lips, and she does not mind more faces in the crowd.

The Pegasus' brows raise when they meet the demanding glare from a demon itself, a boy that is dark and battle-ready, a boy whom holds monsters in those eyes. But Moira does not shy from @Erasmus. Like water, she flows from Pan to the boy's side, looking at him as she had so many patients. What future promises does he hold? What pain will he cause? But what would happen were he to go into the mountains and snarl in the face of murderers? How is she to send a boy to war?

Brows are drawn heavily over her eyes as she withdraws from him, the promise of a future conversation at the corner of her mouth, at the wrinkling of luminous honeyed gaze.

And at last the entertainer sings, cries, and whispers as though she almost does not wish to be heard. Moira finds her way there, too, and kisses the girls' cheek. How she seems to grow and grow and grow before the heart of her people, and how she once more turns to them all.

"When I look to you all, do you know what I see?" Her voice rings out as a dark siren call, irresistible and otherworldly as she steps forward. Gone is their healer, their secret-keeper, their diary; before them is a raging fire, a burning woman, a leader ready to do as only they can: to lead. "You are a sea of stars, each one guiding us home. You are a cauldron of wealth and warmth and love. You are a conflagration of hope that cannot be denied. You are my beating heart and my living dreams - each of you a piece of this court that is just as invaluable as the next. Were Isra here, I know she would be far more poetic, but she would tell you the same. And our queen is proud of you all, no matter where she's been taken. There is no doubt in my heart that we will bring her home, my friends." She pauses, swallowing before moving toward the doors behind them all, moving toward the Palace that would keep them safe and keep prying ears from hearing too much.

"Denocte was not built in a day, and like those before us we must plan. Runaveig, Metaphor, as our healers you hold our lives in your hooves. I know you will not fail us when we need you most, but I pray to our ancestors that we will not have need of your talents when all is said and done." She smiles to them each, undimmed faith and hope glimmering in her eyes, shooting down her spine until she nearly floats up the steps without ever lifting a feather. "Katniss, Noctii please bring our many brave lion-hearted warriors and Pan to a chamber where we can assess the damages and go over any information we have. Anzhelo, Erasmus, Ianthe, we will have great need of you in these times should you choose to accept. But first," the doors are thrown open, a great foyer welcoming them. "Let us find a warm room and refreshments so that we may weather this storm just as we did the last."

So she turns, wings sweeping wide, recovered from the thunderbirds after many long months, and as a living flame she leads them into a world of war.

"Speaking."

credits Let's move this party indoors !

[Only]

  

“ polarized, divisive drowning in strife ”

The serpent weaves his way through the darkness, sleek and slick and silent like a black adder, when he arrives to the meeting, no one sees him for he does not join the group.  Stephen takes his place between two shadows, white hair lost in the pitch stain of the evening.  He studies the Night Court as they congregate, each one bringing with them a concern, a passion, and an opinion of those who oppose them.  The meeting proves to be informative, even to someone like Stephen who merely listens with one ear attached to the voices.


Only would join the group if he were awake, but he is not all thanks to Stephen and his own traps.  The gimp probably would not voice his opinions but he would try to fight with the rest of them.  He would try to clutch a pitchfork to his side and carry a torch to chase the beast they all so despise.  But Only is not here to know the word 'Raum' the way every one else does.  He does not know that Isra has been stolen, that someone else is dead because of this word.  One word.


Raum.


It is the kind of word that holds a certain weight.  The way 'Winona' does for Stephen.  It sounds dangerous.  It sounds intriguing.  It sounds like something that might be worth his time while he spends it waiting for Only to find his most prized possession.


Stephen peels off as followers agree with Moira, their passions foreign to the man who only has one thing on his mind still. He does not think about their crusade.  He does not bother to form an opinion on the things he has heard this night.  Without much else, the man turns down a road long and winding and soon, is widdled out of sight by darkness itself.

O N L Y
technically I still exist, but not in my mind

 

We are only replying because it is only fair that he learns this information through interaction/not interacting?  If you spotted him that is fine, he isn't trying to hide himself.  He's just an 'in the shadows' kind of dude.

[Katniss]

All throughout this meeting, Katniss keeps close to Metaphor. Not only as a constant for herself, but as a reminder that she is also there for Metaphor. Deep in her heart she knows that war is coming, that she will be called to protect Denocte and all those within it. She knows it will be dangerous and she looks to Metaphor with her eyes soft. She hopes he realizes that this is her duty, her calling just as she understands that it is Metaphor’s to heal.

Eyes look back to Moira, just in time to see her own eyes of gold catch her gaze. She gives a silent nod, a way to tell the acting queen that she will do all she can for Denocte and all she can to see her queen home. While she has nothing against the ruling of Moira, she cannot help but miss Isra. She misses the stories, the talks of visions and pasts. It’s all comforting to Katniss and she wants to see her friend return.

Anzhelo joins the gathering and Katniss turns her head to give him a soft, welcoming smile. She doesn’t forget the heart to heart conversation the two of them shared at the Festival and she hopes that their friendship will continue on. He’s a kind fellow. For a brief moment, she thinks that he and Metaphor might get along very well with one another should they attempt a friendship.

It is Moira’s voice that brings her thoughts from those gathered around her onto Moira. Her attention is unwavering. She’s dripping with the desire to know the mare’s plan on how to find Isra and bring her home, as well as how to bring justice onto Raum.

Katniss is encouraged that Moira seeks to bring Isra home and that she recognizes that each of them holds a piece of that journey. Each one of them has something different to offer. When Moira announces her name, that she and Noctii should bring together the armies, she nods her head lightly. She is prepared to lead them all into battle. She nods her head at the direction that Moira has given her.

The doors to the palace open and she looks to Metaphor for only a brief moment before she takes a step towards the open doors.

[Ianthe]

Never regret thy fall,
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.

Pretty words, Ianthe thinks, worthy of the muses, or else a result of the General’s prophet tongue. It is clear how highly the General thinks of her missing Queen, speaking so cleverly and denying it all in the same breath. Ianthe is almost curious to meet the woman who inspires such strange loyalty in her soldiers.

But much more does she wish to stand beside the General who calls on her by name, who ushers them all indoors with wide swept wings (they are not Swift wings, too deep for that, but Ianthe can not help but admire the strength inherent to them even as she scolds herself for it). In any other situation she is not Swift enough, but the gods have led Ianthe to answer her call, have lit her aflame. As things stand this is a woman worth following to war.

The doors swing wide at the General’s command, and Ianthe steps in amongst the others. Her skin twitches at the proximity of so many heretics, and she purses her lips to keep from curling them. The air moves strangely in the palace foyer, stifled, and she shifts her wings as much as she’s able with the discomfort of it. Already everything about this situation is in direct juxtaposition to everything she has ever known, ever painstakingly learned.

But Ianthe is dutiful.

sorry this is so late!