Citywide Plot: Past Lives.

[Legion]

Award Galio: Lore of Past Life. Wonderful, wonderful job.

[Legion]

OOCFor Cian Noc. Because it's fun. "I'm sorry," the young man gasped and spluttered, every syllable weighed with war's aching. The rim of the sky swelled behind him washed with warnings of winter. "I'm sorry. My lady, I'm sorry.." The sword swayed in the earth with from where the soldier's hands had plunged it, the dying light catching off the steel to throw shards of light across the yard. The yawn of green met the sand of a smooth shore, cobalt waters cradling the harbor fleet. Moira Solduvan stood with hands pressed against her stomach, the sword's shadow cutting her in half. A strong figure and proud with pale hair caught up in functional braids and grass stains littering the hem of her trousers, of a sudden all of her delicacy and seer's frail stature was apparent in the eyes of the men and woman who watched. "His.. His body," she managed, lips stung with cold. "Brady, did you bring me his body? He wanted to be buried in the orchard." Thoughts crossed and chased each other away, creating confusion in her shock. The clapboard house she had shared with Captain Orionis waited behind them, windows open and curtains hanging straight and still. Even the wind was dead. "How many? How many are coming back to us?" They were watching, all of Denval was watching, reeling beneath catastrophic defeat, crushed by the demise of their beloved captain. She had to breathe again. She had heal their hearts. She had to fix her own. "Nine and twenty, my lady," the soldier told her sadly and the cry of a gull sharpened against the sunset. "I.. I'm sorry." Nine and twenty. Nine and twenty. Oh, gods. Lady Avalis, blessed Dira. Please, no. No. "Call the ranks," she heard herself say as if from a long way off, hands forming fists, small chin going up. "Lieutenant Blake, the command of Denval is yours in the interim." Dawn colored eyes fell on her fallen lover's sword as people began to shift, to stir and move with the comfort of orders and familiar duties embracing them. Moira sank down and trailed her fingertips across the leather grip, wishing for the phantom feel of what his hands had felt last. "Brady," she murmured, and the waiting soldier gave her a drawn face. "Where is the stone? His body.. The stone." "I'm sorry, my lady. Both.. They're gone." Breath stopped once more. Her head bowed and the earth was warm beneath her while the wind picked itself back up. A rivulet of fire flared in her othersight, a divine reflection of the grief and fury coursing through her veins, paralyzing her. Someone said her name, familiar and concerned. She paid them no heed. Pain had consumed her, her own and the prophetic reflection of a god's. Finally a sob wracked through and the seer closed her eyes.

[Caelum]

those you've known and lost still walk behind you without them the world grows dark around you they call you as if you knew their longing they whistle through the lonely wind and long blue shadows falling through the wind through the dark through the winter light their song still seems to find you everything you've ever been is still there in the dark night - spring awakening - The strider Aingeru and her chosen rider flew like sparks off the surface of the sun. Earth crumbled beneath the fleet of hooves, the collection of their remaining party causing Semele Herself to tremble. Lightning the color of blood cracked across the diseased sky, illuminating the very night with the burn of Ivak's grief. Seasons gone, butchered in the determination of one man amid many, an Ankal of the Opal Clan had risen from his dawn obeisance to summon what souls amid the horselords of Cyphrus would hear him. His name was Kasb'el Sunsinger and though he was not yet old the weight and grace of too many lifetimes was on him. He had lost his second wife on the ruined road toward sanctuary that the gods were sweeping all of the Drykas toward, and two of his children had been trampled in the stampede one of the unholy storms harrowing the grasslands had caused. His skin was a map of stories, riddled with ink that mingled with the handprints left upon him by a collection of gods. Nysel and Rak'keli had added their imagery to his windmarks, but it was Syna who shone, who had always shone, in the greatest multitude. For this and the respect owed him in long service, he was heard in the firelight, watched while he crouched to draw a map in the dirt that stabbed a route north. His shining goddess had come to him in the hour of the wolf, that black before dawn, whispering in his ear with lover's lips. She needed his help. A dangerous stone blessed by the hands of both Leth and herself had been stolen from those to whom it belonged, those They had known well and trusted to keep safe. It was too volatile, too powerful to remain lost. He was to seek it and return it to the Suvan outpost called Denval. Failing that, he was to keep it safe himself while the world wracked and ruined itself in the rising cataclysm. He was, as ever, at Her service. Dissent rose, but thirty and seven rode with him in the end. They were sung and cursed out of Cyphrus, the horseclans harboring differing opinions on the wisdom of this mission. Half that many rode with Kasb'el now, fleeing the metal and magic backing the Alahean mage from whom they had successfully stolen back the Solduvan Stone. Rain pounded fists to shake the dust and mage fire burst the tops of trees into conflagration. Horses reared and bucked, swords and spears sang free of their sheaths, baring themselves to fate while the ambush party broiled out from behind the stone crops lining the river bed before them. "Fly," Melchior Skyseat spat at the Sunsinger, his dun colored strider wheeling into Aingeru's path with an angry drum beat of hooves. "Do you hear me, Kasb'el? Put up your sword and fly, damnit! We have not come all this way to lose the stone now!" Battle cries and death screams wove a symphony through the sunset. The Sunsinger felt his breath smolder in his lungs, the winged snakes of Rak'keli's sweet kiss aching on his flesh. "Go!" Aingeru pivoted and with Kasb'el went, bending low over her neck to weave a path made with his haste by the last of his siblings in arms. The stone pulsed like a second heart against his chest, tucked beneath layers of jacket and shirt and strung from a leather cord. The high pitched wail of a dying horse scrambled his thoughts and Aingeru stumbled without warning, strong back heaving beneath him. Agony exploded through their bond, blossoming so thick it nearly drowned out the more mortal pain of arrows piercing his back. They fell together, horse and rider, far from home with their last sight the sun setting in a sea of blood. OOCCaelum needs some lore too. Ahem. TABARNAC! If you please, sir?

[Lucette]

Soola waited as she always waited. For Soola was but Moria Solduvan’s handmaid; there was no life for the young woman beyond the serving of her mistress. Serve and fetch. Serve and fetch… and wait. Silently. Patiently. As befitted her station, she remained ever alert for the time she would next be needed. And while she waited, Soola also watched. For days upon days upon days she watched as love blossomed and grew between Moria and Captain Orionis. And as the weeks and months progressed, the young woman secretly pretended their splendid love was her own. Never would she speak of it, for she would not truly dare to wish such a thing for herself. It was not her place to find love; or even to marry. Her place was with Moria, to serve. Soola would do anything for her! When she could, the handmaid stole away to where ever the two lovers retreated, hoping she might overhear their whispered words and proclamations of love. Her young heart beat more quickly at the sight of them together. Always though, she listened, ready to retreat, to tiptoe away should someone call or have need of her. But in the dark of night, curled in the small cot near her Mistress’ rooms she tried to imagine what that kind of love would feel like if she were her own woman… with her own man to love. With the same humility she performed all other tasks, Soola waited as Moria crafted the Stone. Her mistress never explained what it was that she did to create it, but the dedicated handmaiden knew the whys and hows of such a magical undertaking were beyond her own simple understandings. And ever patient, she waited for the Konti seer to finish each night, to help soothe her tired and exhausted mistress after the long labors, to bathe, to feed… and at times to comfort. It was her simple place, to do all things that Moria could have want of. And then the Stone was lost and the Captain with it… Soola felt a crushing despair. Her poor mistress! To loose both a love and the venerable Object that bound them so closely together was unthinkable! The enemy was at their doorstep… who would be their champion now? The loss of Denval’s Captain was doubly bitter to her heart. Did only loss come from love then…? There was no way, she knew, for a simple handmaiden, to make this tragedy better… for Moria or for Denval.

[Legion]

Award Lucette: Lore of Past Life. Oh-so-lovely, my dear. Caelum: You fail. Go home.

[Legion]

Awesome addition for a winter arrival! Sondra - Lanzara Zaital

[Lysander]

Morning’s pale grey light washed away what color remained in an already bleak world. A fire-haired bastard rolled onto his back, shielding what muted sunlight danced with dust motes through a yellowed glass window. It had been a year since his father had departed for a village most thought extinct, but it had only been a week since the whispers left him. The night visits had become something of a tradition; though he could not respond, a familiar voice would find itself tickling his ears, sometimes unintelligible and other times as clear and disconcerting as any specter that wandered within one’s privacy. He would stay up hours past the sun’s set; he would listen, and he would pray.

Not to his father’s Firelord, but to another.

A being as wild and violent as His glimmering reflection on shifting seas, as peaceful as His silvered touch that turned darkness into cold light; He rose nightly when His lover relinquished their mutual sky, and He would listen in silence to a prayer. Lanzara left his bastard a boy, but after the passing of only a few seasons, he was considered by most a man grown; he was also considered by most a hermit, a recluse.

“Good morning,” he murmured. The feline cohort vying for the warmest spot on his bed chirped her response. A hand landed between her ears and she returned the gesture with a bodily push and an appreciative purr. “Well. Morning.”

He had his Moon, he had his whispers, and that was enough for him.

Unfortunately, dawn was as predictable as dusk, and it held little joy for a man that clung to night with desperate and bone-white fingers. There was routine too look forward to; he swung his legs from the body-warm wrap of linen on a straw mattress; he gathered the remnants of a hardened loaf of bread to chew on; he set to work lighting his hearth. It was all done in silence, for day was a time of mourning for a night lost to inevitability.

[Legion]

Award Lysander: Lore of Past Life. D'aw. That was beautiful. All of you are just pulling out your A games. It rocks. Also, did you notice that your past life daddy is a-comin' to town? Like Santa only, you know, without the reindeer.

[Tabarnac]

Far, far away in Fort Endrykas, the youngest wife of Kasb'el Sunsinger swooned with Vision even as their daughter was pulled from her ravaged womb. It had not been an easy delivery, even surrounded by the Opal Clan's best and Rak'keli's priests and priestesses. But as the Seer's Lily etched itself into her skin, she Saw her love die, felt the divine ink of Cheva's glyph fade from behind her ear even as his blood slid slick and hot down his back. Another fleeing horseman dared a similar fate to dig into Kasb'el's shirt to rip the thong and its treasure from his neck. It needed to be kept hidden, to be kept safe. Aingeru struggled and fell, rolling with sickening, wet cracks of bone to Dira's embrace, but Kasb'el did not fall. His body hovered over the ground, flying forward with his Strider's momentum, and began to burn. This was no charnal pyre, but the glorious solar flare, transforming him before Dira could claim him for a dance partner, and what had been the Sun's Champion shot into the air like a newborn star ascendant. "He's gone," she whispered, coming out of the daze. "Too much blood lost," murmured a midwife nervously, wrapping the clean baby girl in swaddling and resting her against her cloud-pale mother, supporting her in case the woman could not. "She will survive," claimed a priest, pumping her full of the goddess' grace. "Sorcha," she whispered to the last gift Kasb'el had given her. "Sorcha Sunsinger." “The virtue of the candle lies not in the wax that leaves its trace, but in its light.” antoine de saint-exupéry Award! Caelum Lore: Past life as Kasb'el Sunsinger. Excellent work as always. Now I've got the Stone! Neener, neener!

[Tabarnac]

OOCA little Justus for you. Moira was a vision in the moonlight. They said he took after Lord Leth himself, and certainly the borderline blasphemous talk about his lover and himself related to their similarities to the celestial bodies as described in the sacred songs and writings. He rose from her side, tall and rangy, hard-muscled from years of training and battle, sure in his movements as a man accustomed to command both of himself and others. His skin was crossed here and there with silvery scars, and with marks of favor, chief among them the honorable mark of Aquiras. Looking down on her, he wore nothing but the sunlit heart upon his chest, the gift she had given that he was eager to test out. Even in the color-leeching light of the moon, her gift seemed to carry the sun's warmth within it, a promise of power to come when the sun rose. Orionis began to dress himself, everything folded neatly and laid out on the dressing table, layering linen over his body that would protect it from his armor. All the while he watched his lady love in her slumber, wished there were a few more hours to steal kisses, moans, and shared triumphs, but alas, the Emperor willed him away and he could not but obey. A knee to the mattress, he leaned down to kiss her lightly upon the lips, a farewell until next time. She murmured something. It might have been don't go. He took up his matched set of swords and crept out of the bedroom. Without, a light burned, his squire ready, though sandy-eyed. Piece by piece, he girded himself for war, scaled armor allowing for movement and speed, the specialty of the Denval Garrison, the Spear of Aquiras. Silken laces were knotted elaborately, hidden under protections until he might have worn a second skin of burned dragonscale. Taking a draught of water and an apple from the table, picked the day before from the orchard, he bit into it as his squire secured his weapons. Soon they would ride. His squire opened the door for him, and he walked through, shielding his eyes from the sudden sliver of dawn over the eastern horizon. The warriors of Denval were assembling themselves, and he and his squire mounted their horses, held by grooms, and turned toward the Watchtower. Glittering on his chest, Moira Solduvan's heart cast Syna's beams back at Her, rejoicing in the coming day.