No Colors on our Skin.

[Albireo]

When we first came here We were cold and we were clear With no colours on our skin We were light and paper-thin And when we first came here We were cold and we were clear With no colours on our skin ‘Til you let the spectrum in. Spectrum by Florence + the Machine Spring 80, 512 AV Sleeping in bursts of two or three bells finally ceased to be a problem. Energy divided itself up into several parts of the day with four periods of rest scattered between those. Knowledge of places seeped into memory – hard to say whether it was a conscious process or not. As a matter of fact, she found her way around the streets in Leth’s as well as Syna’s light. Images of buildings came alive in her mind. The great skyglass hall with the curved roof, the curved walls grew on her during the daytime. Lhavitians called it the Basilika and she cherished and admired the name for words were precious. In the early morning hours travelers mingled with residents forming a kaleidoscopic pattern of new and old, veteran and young. There were differences, of course, those who listened and those who spoke – but roles were as quicksilver as the water of Leth’s pond. Such frequent movement often sent her head into chaos. It was not unlike the long evenings by the fire, with light subsiding so fast that one could barely enjoy it, but with mysterious colors traveling the night sky. When people were talking so much that the words mixed up in their mouths and thoughts melted together. Shaking her head, she returned to her idea conceived in the solitude of her own mind. An empty area, a solitary stool in the middle of a circle full of the last ghosts called out to her. The Vantha sank down and pulled up olive-skinned feet, boots on the ground like abandoned pets. As her gaze slowly rose to meet the surroundings, they melted into a watery blue and bright orange glow. Passers-by shot her quick glances. A thumping heart almost hopped out of her mouth as she sucked fresh air in. “In ancient times, a creature as dark and beautiful as the night sky traveled Mizahar – I will call Him Moon in this story. He was ever restless, as if chased by a foreign thought that kept escaping His feral gaze. One day, however, He crossed paths with Life and saw what should change Him... forever...” Words sent ripples through the crowd. Some lingered, drawn to the crystalline voice speaking out of emptiness. However, a handful of listeners soon dotted the circle. The Vantha noticed, but didn’t look anyone in the eye. Hers slowly darkened to a magenta-veined violet, hidden away by black lashes. Her gaze fell to the floor as she spoke again. “During an audience with Life He noticed the light of Sun and was blinded by Her colorful beauty for He had always lived in the shadows of a monochrome night. And lo and behold! Sun was fascinated by Moon as well. Only one problem remained...”

[Laszlo]

OOCSorry this is so long! My others won't be as wordy. By the time Laszlo finished crossing the bridge to the Tenten Peak, his jacket had been pulled from his shoulders and hung neatly over his arm. A gentle breeze flirted with his white silk shirt, of surprisingly ornate design (it had been woven in Kalinor). Before stepping outside, he had expected the weather would be cooler, but somehow he kept forgetting that Summer was just a breath away. It was not particularly bright out; the sun was mottled behind a slow churning ocean of silvery, sullen clouds. But the morning chill of the air was quickly dissipating, along with the fading scents of dew and mountain mist. By noon, the day would be hot. Summer was something that was usually happily anticipated. It was a warm and spirited reprieve from the chill and rain of Spring, marked by the deep emerald greens of fully fleshed trees and their sweet gifts of fruit and nuts. Though Laszlo had no memory of ever seeing the spring melt into the summer, he already knew the way it was supposed to feel for everyone. The familiarity of it was ingrained in the Ethaefal, existing in him since the day of his falling. Just over two years old, Laszlo had never experienced a summer above ground. There was the short stretch of time he'd spent traveling in the mountains during late Summer in the previous year, but then the peaks of the Unforgiving had already begun to feel the early chill of Fall by then. Also, he'd been too busy complaining about stubbed toes and the way small armies of tiny rocks kept invading his boots no matter how tightly he laced them. Who had time to enjoy the weather? While Laszlo's footsteps scraped noisily against the sandy stone road, the figure next to him stepped almost silently, possessing an air of perfect grace. Compared with the larger framed Ethaefal, Duvalyon walked as if walking were an art form, and did it effortlessly without noticing. The Symenestra's dark hair and pale countenance contrasted sharply to Laszlo's charming blond waves, colorful curled horns, and faintly glittering, healthily colored skin. The pair received odd looks and stares that ranged from perplexed to disdainful. Laszlo was too distracted by his own inner workings to really notice. They walked in imperfect tandem, one of them slightly ahead of the other. "I don't think I've ever asked," Laszlo spoke to drown out the slightly maddening crunch of his own footfalls, "but have you even been to Lhavit before? I always assumed you had." His golden eyes scanned the structures along the streets, sunglass gilded in sunlight and appointed with hanging gardens, and flowering shrubs. A large, creeping vine clung desperately to the face of a larger household, its lavender blossoms the same color as Laszlo's horns. The Temple of the Sun was barely visible on the higher parts of the peak, the tiers which rose around Laszlo, Duvalyon, and all of the Tenten's passersby like a vigilant keeper. He'd caught a glimpse of it before, when he came to investigate the library, but had not yet been inside. Today he visit Syna's Temple properly, while Abalia rested at their apartment. Laszlo had difficulty sleeping in the daytime hours, so now was a convenient time for a personal excursion. Somehow he'd convinced Duvalyon to come along with him. The Temple of the Moon held some allure for the Symenestra, who at least had some affection for Leth. Laszlo had offered a wordy explanation of why it was important to leave the dark confines of their home occasionally, and Duvalyon had either agreed thanks to Laszlo's winning conversational points, or because it was the easiest way to shut him up. "Thank you for coming along, by the way," Laszlo added as an afterthought, as the guilt began to bite at him. "Since we're out, we might stop by the Surya Plaza on our way back. The pantry is already getting a little bare." The grand body of the Bharani Library was slowly sliding through Laszlo's peripheral vision. A luxurious courtyard laid out before it, naturally lovely though that did little to make it stand out from the rest of Lhavit's scenery. It was the Basilika that stood out, dwarfed by the Library itself but still grandiose and unique in design. Within the yawning, shadowed mouth of its entrance, Laszlo could see a group of bodies moving inside. A woman's voice drifted into the street, and Laszlo made his footsteps lighter as he strained to make out what she was saying. A story of the Sun and Moon? It might have taken Duvalyon a moment to realize that Laszlo was no longer walking with him. His attention had been stolen, his feet pulled toward the Basilika instead of the waiting Temple of the Sun. The Ethaefal was captivated, like a child drawn to the colors of an animated pinwheel. Laszlo was not pulled all the way inside the Basilika, but stood in the entrance. There, the sun could still illuminate his horns and shroud his form in a cloak of golden sunlight. The woman inside was lovely in a conventional way, but Laszlo was more interested in her stories, sparing only enough focus to note that she was human and looked young. She told an intriguing interpretation of the tale between Syna and Leth, different from the one he knew. Crossing his arms beneath his hanging jacket, Laszlo leaned on the doorway and watched her.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

OOCHe lies. "No, never." Duvalyon slid past elaboration. He didn't relish any admittance of ignorance or especial effort on another's behalf. The pair continued walking in relative silence, the Symenestra simply nodding in response to Lazslo's attempt to fill the space with something relevant. They were light and shade conversing. One obviously thriving amidst his element, the other defined by his contrast to the surroundings. Despite an acute awareness of a monstrous reputation, Duvalyon moved with quiet surety. For a time he was slipping ahead of Laszlo, only to find he had lost the Ethaefal entirely. Duvalyon blinked and pivoted in a crescent: the only signs of his twitch of confusion. It was easy to find Laszlo in a crowd: simply scan the top and see where the light was catching hold, or where something was falling over. Defying expectation, Laszlo occasionally struggled with gravity, or it struggled with him. The distribution of blame was murky. "It's rude to block an entry." Laszlo heard it over his shoulder, delivered in the Symenestra's form of good humor, which sounded nothing like goodness or humor. The Symenestra said nothing further, but grabbed the casing opposite Laszlo's head and deftly moved past him into the room directly towards Albireo's voice. It didn't require an Aurist to discern what was holding Laszlo's rapt attention. Aware of his possibly disruptive presence, Duvalyon ignored the stools around the Vantha storyteller. He didn't care for human furniture anyway. It lacked imagination. Instead, he leaned against one of the statues dividing the space and folded his long arms in front of him. In Duvalyon's language, this was an exceptionally loud signal that Laszlo ought to indulge his inclinations.

[Albireo]

OOCAs you can see, I'm guilty of long posts myself, so we're even... “... how could they be together? Life watched the warmth between them and thought it good, therefore she asked her friend, Time, to take the fellow under her wing and polish, cultivate him. In a fortunate leap of faith, Time had been searching for an assistant – it is said that the feral glint in Moon’s gaze challenged Her. So what did She do? Water is Her tool, a special kind of water, so She clothed Him in a wet coat reflecting the light of the stars and showed the path He had to follow across the sky to mark the passing of time. He had always wandered through night shadows... However, this time the weight of duty wore His shoulders out. As He neared the end of His journey, golden light blinded His eyes. Wiping away a tear or two, He caught a glance of Sun’s beauty as She passed Him in order to bless the world with Her light.” Pausing, the storyteller dared to shoot another glance in the circle. The stools filled up, listeners sucking in a story that these walls had probably never heard. Her heart stopped. In the entrance golden light collected in a spectrum of blinding reflections, forming a halo around a single person. Furious blinking didn’t do her sight any good. Who was he? Syna, it whispered inside her, Syna follows him. Averting her gaze, she reached for the thread of words and returned to yarning it. “Once again, He burned with passion so unlike His usual detached self... and Sun... Sun smiled at Him like She did at every living being, but the seed Time had planted inside Him whispered of affection. He retired for the day, but couldn’t wait to see Her again when... when...” Words tumbled out of her mouth and fell to the floor as almond eyes widened. Red shot through them, a shock of pale orange and gold. A creature of dust and shadow entered the stage like a monster preceding the deus ex machina. It – he? – strolled towards a statue and settled against it. Between folding arms, sharp points cut through thin air. A curtain of hair fell over olive skin as her feet slipped into the boots. Working around the stool, she took a step backwards, then another. Her knees seemed to melt under her body. She couldn’t look back at the creature. From the audience came irritated glances. Someone called out. She still bumped into the statue, closing eyes in shock and clinging to stone in an attempt not to fall.

[Laszlo]

It was interesting to see the room ripple outwardly from Duvalyon's arrival into the Basilika, inspiring a chain reaction of turning heads and conspicuous whispers. Laszlo watched the back of his head, a smirk still on his lips from the Symenestra's mild quip, relieved that he was in no hurry and condoned the Ethaefal's dallying. As always, however, there was also that pinch of guilt knowing he'd probably fractionally disappointed Duvalyon again. A mildly irrational pain that he was slowly growing resistant to. Duvalyon had once scolded Laszlo for referring to his vespertine form as monstrous, before he understood what it was. The Ethaefal had retorted that, with the way people on the surface regarded his Symenestra appearance, it had been natural to feel that way. The medic was unconvinced, naturally; he had the security of living with his own kind in the dark embrace of Semele. He had been out of Kalinor before, and no doubt endured the same sort of treatment he was getting now, but Laszlo wondered if he had forgotten what it was like. How could a newborn Ethaefal-Symenestra respond to these reactions, if not with fear, disdain, and self-loathing? Even the storyteller at the center of the gathering lost her place as she noticed Duvalyon's presence. Laszlo thought he could see a peculiar flash of color in her eyes—a trick of the skyglass refracted sunlight?—as she stumbled backwards in what must have been powerful apprehension. Finding this to be a bit of an overreaction, even to a Symenestra, Laszlo's tilted his head in mild incredulity. In another moment, the sunlit figure in the Basilika's entrance had gone. Tall and horned, he didn't quite have the ability to blend into the crowd that had assembled to listen to the woman's version of the tale. He didn't try to, either. After brushing past someone gawking at Duvalyon, and experimenting with a "Pardon me," in the direction of a distracted woman whispering about the storyteller, the Ethaefal gave up on patience before he even tried it. "Please." His voice was deep, but gentle as he disguised his Hypnotic order as a request. Whether the people nearby were listening or not, they found themselves compelled to make way for Laszlo, politely inching one way or the other to give him room. He made a breathy noise then, something between an exhale and an overt sigh. Touching his magic again, after several days of abstaining, seemed to soothe an ache he hadn't realized was there. He resisted the urge to look at Duvalyon as he passed the Symenestra, but watched him curiously as he passed like a shadow through the side of his vision. Trying to get a handle on the man's thoughts was nearly impossible. "When what?" Laszlo encouraged, settling into a vacant stool near the storyteller. He leaned forward on his lap, casually clasping his hands between his knees. Golden eyes were set on her face, insistent but kind. "Did Moon ever get to see Sun again?" Laszlo glanced briefly over his shoulder at Duvalyon, then turned back to the woman again. It was a wordless gesture of dismissal, as if to say, 'Don't worry about him. He's harmless.' The Ethaefal put on a soft smile, ushering her onward with the flick of his fingers. "There's more to the story, isn't there?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Amidst the small furor, Duvalyon maintained his nonchalant pose with perfect stillness. It was a common trick of both predator and prey. When the storyteller rounded the stool and stumbled against the stone, he finally tilted his head. There was something basely pleasing about the way the woman's eyes articulated fear. He might have been amused. Such reactions were expected, and Duvalyon had spent years of his life justifying them. This season his purposes were more remedial than rapacious, but it was all done in the name of his race. Laszlo eventually responded to overt permissions: yes, they could pause, and no, there was no hurry. The Ethaefal was probably pleased for the chance to be acknowledged, especially in light of the reaction to his companion. It made Laszlo's gilded divinity all the more profound. Duvalyon's pride peevishly wondered if he'd ever hear the end of this. As Laszlo approached, Duvalyon discerned a familiar sweep of power in the Ethaefal's requests. Instinct bid the Symenestra scowl, but he was mindful of company, so his expression was kept suspended between calm and disinterest. When the idiot hypnotists started choking on blood, Duvalyon wasn't going to do a damn thing save remind him of occasions like this. Laszlo had adopted a child-like posture to encourage the woman to resume, his back to the rest. He acknowledged Duvalyon, only to dismiss him. Giving the final cue, the Symenestra added. "Do continue." His voice was low, courteous and unnervingly even. Whether Albireo returned to her tale or not, the Symenestra's disconcerting presence was temporary. He didn't want to vanish at the height of dismay, and draw more attention, so when the cadence of the story was as agile as it could be in his presence, he quietly departed.

[Albireo]

A silken voice cut into a moment of silence. The storyteller’s eyes opened to simple shining beauty. She stared as her mind processed the attention coming out of his mouth. Beauty in words had been her travel companion, often the only one, but beauty in others was so rare that she had to drink it all up with a gaze melting from gold into violet. Then she lost his face to the monstrous creature behind. A shiver paralyzed her delicate body as his cool voice washed over her. Sense for art? Shaking her head, she tried to pick up the fallen words for comfort. Glass horns and the vibrant smile helped her focus. Sinking onto the floor, she found the previously abandoned thread. “When... when He could see Her again. And He did, albeit after a long, long time, or so He perceived at least. And so they met at dusk and dawn – happiness for many, many years. It was then that Fire escaped control of others and devastated large parts of the world Sun and Moon sent their light to. I’m sure you know that story yourself, so I won’t delve into it too much. Suffice to say, Moon acted on instinct, throwing Himself in front of Sun to take a blow meant for Her. The sky went black, but also burned with the aftereffects of the attack. Moon was wounded and Sun dragged Him to a secret cave where she nursed Him back to health. Those days were bittersweet as they were together physically, but Moon kept drifting off into realms of pain. However, He doesn’t regret. Their comeback to the sky was celebrated all across Mizahar. Since then they keep the endless cycle of night and day in balance, exchanging kisses in short chimes in between. Once feral and restless, Moon has settled down and accepted His burden now, because it also means He can see and protect His beloved. He is the symbol of quiet strength and change of personality...” Her gaze following a finger dancing across the floor, she concluded: “Therefore He is a force in Mizahar that is often overlooked. I’m glad to have spread knowledge with my story. Please don’t forget His lesson.” After the last words, previous images were impossible to ignore though. “So it is true that Night and Day can form an alliance.” A nod addressed the Ethaefal in front of her, although eyes were still glued to the floor and her voice dropped from the silk of storytelling to rusted with an awkward edge.

[Laszlo]

Despite Laszlo's attempt to comfort the storyteller, she couldn't seem to compose herself again. Her eyes appeared to shift colors again, and this time Laszlo was close enough to know he wasn't mistaken. There was something different about her; like so many others Laszlo had met in Syliras and Kalea, she wasn't quite human. Mizahar's races were seemingly countless, but all seemed to keep to a similar, humanlike theme. Some of the differences were so subtle, one would hardly notice anything out of the ordinary. She told the rest of her story, but from a crumpled position on the floor. Laszlo leaned back in his stool, resting one hand on his knee while the other felt at his chin. She was pitiable down there, somewhere between bashful and terrified, and his heart bled for her, a little. It was his fault that her small presentation had gone so badly. Duvalyon had caused the interruption, but only after Laszlo wandered toward the sound of her voice. Even after Laszlo tried to make it clear that she was perfectly alright, even with a Symenestra nearby, she couldn't seem to find her confidence again. Around the woman, there were mild sounds of applause and polite appreciation. Someone else was speaking nearby, and the lingering crowd began to evaporate in a new direction. Laszlo turned to give a telling look to Duvalyon, but the Symenestra had gone. Laszlo wasn't surprised, but he was somewhat disappointed. Offended by the room's reaction, perhaps? Or was all this a little too puerile for him? Laszlo faced front and rose from his seat, hesitating as he watched the small form of the woman still seated on the floor before him. The Ethaefal wanted to help, naturally, feeling partially responsible for bringing this upon her. Still, he wasn't sure he should try. She seemed just a tad unstable. After all, he had recently spent a great deal of time in Alvadas, mostly around other people with some deeply seated issues. A sadist, an amnesiac killer, and another terrified Ethaefal—the latter of which Laszlo had tried to help. She thanked him by trying to run him through with a dagger. A hand felt at his scarred side. She had nearly succeeded, too. This wasn't Alvadas, however. People were less guaranteed to be insane here. Still, a light touch might do for better results, and less violence. Laszlo stepped up to the storyteller, kneeling down in front of her. He fished in his belt pouch for half a moment, eventually producing a native kina coin between his fingers. It was laid in front of her, made of the same shimmering skyglass as the Basilika itself, tiny and round with a hole carved in the center. Startlingly different from the more familiar miza coins. "I enjoyed your story. Thank you." More needed to be said. Laszlo blinked several times and glanced aside, lips still parted. "You needn't be so nervous about my friend. He's a doctor, not some evil goblin. We were just passing through. I'm sorry if we disturbed you." He rose to his feet, absently straightening the folds in his silk shirt with blind sweeps of his hand. "I'm called Laszlo. It was a pleasure, miss." Good enough. The Ethaefal turned on his heel and made his way quickly toward the exit. Being near the poor woman too long made him nervous, fearing she might fly at him with some sharpened weapon. Abalia would be cross if Laszlo had managed to get himself randomly murdered while out on a walk. Perhaps he was a little paranoid, but reasonably so. He thought, anyway. Appearing in the light again, Laszlo couldn't see Duvalyon anywhere. At first he assumed that the Symenestra had gone ahead to find the Temple of the Moon on his own, until he caught an unusual shape in the corner of his eye. The Ethaefal turned his head to the side… and then looked up. Garnishing the face of a nearby building, Duvalyon was perched on the edge of an alcove, a small nook carved into the skyglass wall where someone had planted a handsome garden of white and violet flowers. Long, snaking vines hung from the edge, occasionally curling around each other until they barely scraped the earth below. Duvalyon crowned them with his thin, able frame, like a wasp on the head of a rose. Some differences between races weren't so subtle. Laszlo pocketed his hands and bit his lip, playing along in pretending that this was nothing out of the ordinary. The gesture was plainly ironic. "That was exciting. She reminded me of Siofra. We could move along now, or would you like for me to join you?" Ledger : -1 kina (equal to 1 gold-rimmed miza)

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon had been calmly absorbing the limited view. The distant Lhavitians were diminished at this height; a tangle of mice scuttling and twitching over one another in the street. They meant nothing to him, he realized. The street could swell with fire, and they could squeal into a writhing ball, pink skin blistering and splitting. Only the demands of his god would pull him from his perch to lift a claw. Duvalyon's divided mind questioned these thoughts. Were they the product of a temper that had been distended by the troubles of the season? Or had all his slivers of contempt finally gathered into a noticeable hatred? The nobler fraction of his character finally lashed out, castigating him for letting malice move from moments of necessity to habit. His gnosis seemed to cinch painfully, reminding him that Viratas would have him preserve blood when it didn’t threaten the deeper ties Lhex had assigned him. He needed to get out of the sunlight, or write a letter to Melia. His crystalline mind was ringing with strange tones. Rein your temper, Duvalyon. Well-timed, Laszlo arrived. The Symenestra shifted to look down. He made a rough thrumming sound and one hand rubbed the back of his neck for an instant. His momentary embarrassment ran deeper than being caught brooding out of place. Laszlo didn’t have to know how cheap his brethren could be to Duvalyon, so the Symenestra let the Ethaefal believe his chagrin was limited to the disruption and his unusual location. "I'd enjoy watching you try," he answered neatly as his mind fell into place. He raised an eyebrow at Siofra's name. A charming creature who had run Laszlo through. While Duvalyon could occasionally sympathize with the desire to hurt the Ethaefal, she had been particularly adamant about it. Done with thinking, the Symenestra quickly crept down the vines and wall. There was always something terrible about watching him move naturally. Limbs were interchangeable in their use and the proportion of the body was profoundly wrong, like watching a broken limb swing out of joint. His sandals were tied around his wrist, so his feet could adhere. They swung sloppily, highlighting the insect grace of the rest of him as he descended. Duvalyon, frustratingly, thought very little of this display, or was ignoring how it unnerved everyone else. He leaned against the wall, retying his shoes. "It was well-phrased," he admitted sedately, "Her story."

[Albireo]

A shimmering disc appeared on the floor. Her brain spit out its meaning: money. But the connection to the words she had shared was only made after his declaration of gratitude. How...? Whispered words faded unheard. He said friend, doctor. The creature of darkness and ash appeared before her, but it was hard, oh so hard to believe! Jet-black hair moved as she shook her head lightly, could be in denial of his truth, could be to forget earlier discord. Then a name touched mortal ears; her head shot up. A flash of the not-so-distant past sent ripples through the fog, even caused her to tremble a bit. But the Vantha couldn’t read those signs. “Suria Skyglow,” was all she managed, with blue-green seas staring up at Laszlo. Swallowing a sore throat, she observed his horns, that gentle grace in his movements until daylight claimed him back. She abruptly scrambled to her feet, picking up the coin, and hurried after him. Only as far as the entrance though. A squinting gaze followed the Ethaefal, so similar to herself even though he didn’t know, and her mouth opened. Only hot air came out. Wait, thank you, look at me, help me... Which one was it? Desires and fears tumbled over one another and fueled confusion. The claws and burning eyes was with him. Doctor who could help? All she did was stand there, the coin in outstretched palm – pay not for stories – and silence sticking to her tongue. They turned their backs to the Basilika. But from that moment on she would wait and search streets and bridges. To return the coin, to talk, to ask for help, all that and more, until she understood it all. THIS IS NOT THE END