| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE |
| M.E. |
12-21-2013, 05:13 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-21-2013, 05:15 PM by Circe.)
CIRCE
It was morning time; Circe could feel the Orangemoon mornings become watered down, diluted and milder than they were under the Tallsun heat. In the newly-minted air always was the faint aroma of coming rain—for this was the season of rain and broken heat waves. Not the sort of raging storms that the summer brought in bursts, no, these were gentle showers that lasted days on end, a lasting shower that ambled its way into a bout of early snow that heralded the arrival of winter.
Now was the anniversary of a happier time, a period of almost dreamlike happiness that had descended upon the shadowmere as she had waltzed through the incessant rain showers, clumsy and radiant in her heavily pregnant form. It was during this time, ages ago it seemed like, that she had discovered the meaning of loss, had shaken hands with her greatest failure. Circe could not shake her mind from the thought of her dearest Callisto, a promise broken before it ever left the tongue. She knew what she had to do—otherwise her soul would roll and ache and threaten a descent into a familiar darkness, and Circe wanted none of that. She supposed she had business there, anyway, and so there was no reason to avoid the trip.
She listened to the clatter of Reginald’s footsteps behind her as she navigated the fields turned amber, crimson, and marigold in the season death and water. His steps sounded surer and balanced than they were before, when trips like this had reduced his thin legs into hopeless quivering. Circe would never admit her worry for her eldest son; it was a heavy burden on her heart whenever she wordlessly watched him struggle with coltish tasks that his brother performed with absolute ease and vitality, and to witness a growing strength in his body was an inexpressible sigh of relief to the mother. She knew his pride wouldn’t allow such weakness to persist—and she wanted to stop the nightmarish thought of another lost child. She wouldn’t lose him, even if it took the sheer force of her will to keep him safe.
“Stop here,” she murmured, turning her head to look down at the tiny form as he pulled up beside her. Reginald looked up at her with eyes sharper than a child’s should be—but he pressed against her, an ingrained, childish desire for closeness between mother and child. She touched his shoulder softly, breathing on him as she explained, “Their border is near, you can smell it, yes? It is poor manners to walk across a clearly marked border of herdlands. You must keep away from it and request an audience from outside.”
“Must we?” came the whispered response, and Circe heard something cynical on the tongue of the boy. She pulled away from him, her expression stern; those grey eyes looked up at her, wide and boyish, and he blinked rapidly. “Yes, mother,” he said, and his tone was fixed, even though Circe knew his attitude continued to churn careless and challenging beneath his words. With a heavy sigh at the cheek and balls of her troublesome sons, Circe proceeded to belt out a heavy whinny towards the heart of the Foothills— a request for Apollo’s presence, a need to speak with a friend and soothe the restlessness of her heart.
(@[Apollo] -- But obviously I can't stop anyone from intercepting <3 )
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Apollo the Merciful Posts: 251
| Outcast atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 11 HP: 63.5 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Zola :: Black Cat :: None
Sparrow |
A P O L L O
And how can you say that your truth is better than ours?
Shoulder to shoulder, now brother, we carry no arms Many visitors had been venturing to their borders as of late. Apollo couldn't recall all by name or face, for he hadn't greeted each and every one of them... But lately, it seemed like the Foothills had become the place to meet. A sharp, familiar whinny echoed across the crisp, Orangemoon skies, and the Merciful's ears flicked forward in general interest. His mouth chewed the blades of grass that he had just pulled from the earth, his demeanor screaming that he was in no hurry... But it wouldn't be kind ot keep a friend waiting.
Swallowing, Apollo turned on his heel to approach the one who had called for an audience, a knicker of welcome leaving his own dark lips. Could it be...? Apollo liked to think he was good with those that he had met in the past, that he could remember them intimately, but... There was always a first time for everything.
Still, as he strolled along the borders of his home, hooves crunching the grass beneath his weight, Apollo's honey-brown orbs met and lingered upon a very familiar form. Dark pelted just as he was, that flicking leonine tail, and alert eyes of a crisp blue... Circe, the shadowmere. Joy filled his breast at seeing the dark sorceress, who had served beside him in the Grey, albeit fleetingly. She had left with Ktulu and Archibald, and the overo had oftentimes wondered if they had been well.
"Circe," Apollo called once he had grown close enough to let his voice carry across the wind, "What a surprise to see you here!" His eyes roamed upon her, unknowingly checking her over for injuries as the medic inside of him often did... And it was then that he spotted the youngling at her side. A brow arched in curiosity, but he offered the colt a gentle smile before looking back to Circe.
"It's been a very long time, sister... Have you been well? Is there something I can do for you?"
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I Just Want You To Know Who I Am
Please Tag Apollo in All Posts!
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE |
| M.E. |
CIRCE
As the piebald shadow of Apollo emerged in the languid mists of daybreak, Circe felt a most imperceptive pressure suddenly lift, relieving her shoulders and once again giving her lungs room enough for breath. Until this moment, Circe hadn’t noticed how anxious she had been to once again return to these borders; she hadn’t acknowledged the lingering doubt that lay in her mind like cobwebs, the suspicion that she was waltzing to her own execution and bringing her child along to witness the beheading. Some inkling of an idea had festered in Circe’s brain that her actions with Phaedra had caused some sort of bounty to be placed on her head, an idea debunked by the brown warmth that greeted her from Apollo’s own eyes. He could not feign such affability—she knew this.
The hard edges of her gaze softened as she looked at Apollo, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly as she inclined her head once in respect. “Apollo,” she murmured, cordiality settling in her own throaty purr. It was curious; she was quite unprepared for the sudden rush of affection she felt for the stallion. He was a piece of the foothills she had left behind, the piece that still lingered in her waking dreams, a home-sickness and never an afterthought. Her eyes flickering down to her eldest son—who watched Apollo with wide, curious eyes, never once looking away—Circe said to the Merciful, “I’d like for you to meet my son: Reginald. His brother Abraham is with his father at this moment.” She paused, wondering if it was even required to name the father of her children. Somewhat tentatively, she brought her muzzle down once more to nuzzle Reginald’s shoulder, murmuring as she did so, “Reginald, this is Apollo the Merciful. He is Chief of these lands.” Her smirk growing wider, she nudged the thin shoulder of the colt, whispering, “It is impolite to stare.”
Raising her head and once more giving Apollo her attention, something somber seemed to etch itself in the lines of her face, in the sag of her eyelid. Still she smiled, for she was happy to be here, yet her errand was not a joyful one. “I’ve been well, Apollo,” she said, and her tail agreed with this claim, curling behind her languidly in expression of her pleasure, “very well, in fact. But there is something I must do for myself here, and I wonder if you could help me?”
Her words failed her for a moment; she wasn’t quite sure how to voice this personal quest of hers, which, until this moment, had been the chaotic reverberations of the tones of her soul, aching and crying out without ever having proper voice. Now, she gave it one. “I know I no longer live here,” she started, feeling Reginald’s bony frame pressed into her shoulder, “I know I no longer patrol these borders. But I—may I visit Callisto’s grave, Apollo? Her stone is erected in these lands.” Something heavy seemed to pull at her throat, dragging her voice down into a most melancholy octave. “Chaperon me, if you must. I will not be long. I…just want to see my daughter.” She could feel Reginald's stare as his eyes swiveled up to his mother's face, but she did not mind him at this moment; she would explain in due time.
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