They have journeyed through most of the night and the following day, only stopping to rest and recuperate when necessary (particularly before the ascent up into the mountains, when the shifting ground and higher elevation tends to strain on most muscles). Nevertheless, the blue mare’s spirits soar far too high to be dampened by such petty things. She is anxious to return to the familiarity and security of her mountainous home, surrounded by those she considers family (even if many faces are strangers to her at this point, she’s keen on that to change), and to share both its beauty and promise with her company.

Flicking out her long leonine tail behind her, the blue mare lifts her slender legs through the snow. Cloven hooves cut cleanly through the fresh, newly-fallen powder that softens the surface, glistening now beneath the sun’s bright rays, glowing with its initial descent as day slowly turns into dusk. In their travels she has kept up a steady stream of chatter between them, ever comfortable with filling a silence and much too excited to remain quiet for long. It is quiet now though as she leads Wicka higher until the ground gradually levels beneath their hooves, her breath saved for the labor of her body, which steams softly in the wintry air.

Passing through the last little stretch of the Frozen Arch, there is a break up ahead in the rising shadows of the mountains—an entrance into the valley. Tiamat smiles wonderfully at the sight, gesturing excitedly to Wicka before extending her gait into a bouncy trot, snow flinging delightfully from her hooves. It isn’t long before the two mares reach their destination, the blue unicorn slowing again to a walk. “This is it! The Aurora Basin,” her voice is brightened and breathless by her pleasure, white eyes gazing fondly into the valley below, and she stops briefly to admire it. What a place this is!

Looking up, Tiamat inclines her head to the massive equine-like machines that stand at the entrance to the Aurora Basin, looking down at the two mares with flat metal eyes. “These large machines protect our borders,” the young unicorn explains to Wicka. They hadn’t been here when she had initially come years ago, so she’s not very familiar with them and they would probably frighten her if they weren’t on her side, but their safety comforts her. “I’m not exactly sure how they work, but I know one of the Weavers can tell you,” the ocean mare nods, leading her newfound friend into the snowy valley.

“A Weaver is someone who creates things; we have many ranks in our herd, all pertaining to different fields, depending on what you’re interested in,” Tiamat is quick to continue, assuming that the white mare is unfamiliar with the ranks and roles that are within Helovia. They are the same for each herd, as far as she knows, with each land having their own language to classify them. She sighs happily, looking to Wicka with a smile. “I hope you like it here,” her wish is genuine. The day that Lena had approached her in the Threshold, so long ago, is still clear in her mind. The brown mare had brought her home, and she hopes to do the same for someone else.


tag;; @[Wicka]
“Speech.”

He was silent, decadent, wolfish rapture, a seething, smoldering blend of acrimony and upheaval, sizzling and piercing, puncturing and lancing, a heathen, a turbulent, loathing bracken feasting on the hills. He was a manifestation of fear and loathing, of contempt and oblivion; brutal, vicious annihilation, abhorrence and nefariousness. He was also death, menacing and ultimate, an eventual end to everyone and everything’s prowess, ignition, and unfurling, pushing past the virtues, the follies, and consuming the foolish, the inept, the inane, trapping them one by one on the ends of his powers, on the fringes of his Lucifer annihilation, relishing in the lethal throngs, in the shadowed throes. But amidst his darkened clamor, his polished avarice, his confident assurance and antagonistic sway, existed a frame of uncertainty and condemnation, seized and possessed as a sword, as a shield, as a lethal consignment to oblivion: so when others saw him, they feared, so when others came close, they shirked, so when his herd prospered, when his herd reigned supreme, he drifted away from their gathering, from their surges, from their conquests and triumphs; a constant, statuesque, marbled vessel of Mephistopheles’ fatal, final caress.

On the hunt, on the prowl, the beast’s lacerating gaze notched upon individuals nestled amongst the horizon, nestled upon the borders, hallowed and hollowed beneath the Sentinels’ watchful eye. When the machines failed to react, not extinguishing, not flaring, not mauling an imminent threat, the impenetrable annals of his mind piqued and seethed, pondering over the juncture in which they boldly clambered – likely one a newcomer, one a guide to the wintry hills and the damned mountains – and the voices were too merry, too chipper, so even as he neared, he nearly thought to wither away from the raw contentment and the measured glee. Instead of bowing to the iniquities of escape, instead of murmuring and wandering back into the murky depths of brewing, brooding calculations, he challenged himself to the perilous edges of conversation and congregations - perhaps the most powerful of his enemies – drawing some audacious line between the simpering parallels and the keen, curious notes with his immoral fixture, with his avaricious, cretin posture, with his calamitous existence. His stare ran rampant, from the blue, ebullient femme (like the ocean, but not the rain, and the solid, nefarious contortions of his heart grew all the more bitter, all the more rancorous) whom he’d seen waltzing amidst their world from time to time, to the foreign, ivory mare, almost capable of blending into the surroundings. With his son’s challenge clawing at the back of his mind, at the bending, intangible wake of his flaws, of his faults, the stoic, nefarious King lowered his crown to each, and provided the barest of vocals, of introductions. “Welcome to the Basin. I am Lord Deimos.” Aligned and tempted into the hall of cretins, his intangible, nonchalant features hinted at naught of the various, brewing thoughts swarming his cranium: curiosities and inquiries, posturing towards the ivory stranger (who was she, what did she seek, what did she hope to gain from their wares?), until he settled another round of his deep, blunt voice into the fray. “Who are you?”

@[Tiamat] @[Wicka]

From what the ocean mare is able to decipher from Wicka’s initial silence, she seems quite taken with the Aurora Basin—just as Tiamat had been when she had first arrived. She can still remember, memories and images swirling in her mind’s eye, the very day that the brown mare had brought her to these snowy mountains, so glorious and merciful in their splendor. That had been a pivotal and changing moment in her life—she had come home—and it is one that she is sure she will never forget. To be able to give Wicka the same thing, a sense of security and a sense of family, a place where she can be accepted and belong, gives her a buoyant happiness that swells and blooms within her.

Breathing sighing, jubilant breaths from the soft skin of her nostrils, Tiamat’s white eyes shift from the grand beauty of her home—their home now, how exciting!—and back to the pearly white mare at her side, dainty ears tilting forward and velvet lips curving in bashful delight with her friend’s question. “I am a Scourge,” the ocean mare’s smile broadens with a righteous, unadulterated sense of pride—a pride of hope and benevolence, an optimism to heal and mend others, to offer aid and be the beacon of light amidst the darkness that wrecks across the world, blind to her innocent eye. Her passions are simple, she thinks. Only to have the knowledge and abilities to help, mend, and heal.

“I am a healer, more simply,” the blue unicorn continues, explaining to her new friend with enthusiasm twinkling in her eyes, “or, going to be—I’m in training. The Time Menders are the true healers of the Aurora Basin.” Tiamat speaks with a reverent admiration, in awe of those gifted powers directly from their God of the Spark, the magic embedded in the very sinews of their bodies to mend the wounds and aches of others. Perhaps one day, she will be so blessed, but she still has much to learn.

Shifting her weight and looking to Wicka with bright eyes that glisten in the glowing rays of the approaching dusk, she wonders what path she will choose to follow. “In addition to the creators and healers, there are also the soldiers, spies, wise ones—who communicate with the Gods—and of course, our leaders. Each play a different role in the herd and all are important,” Tiamat nods in confirmation to herself, smiling. It reminds her of a clock—surely one piece cannot function without the other—and although she is not very diplomatic herself, or really knows much about government at all, surely these fundamental principles are not hard to grasp. It’s part of being a family.

Exhaling in a billowing white plume, Tiamat’s wandering eyes catch a figure in the distance—a shadow approaching them. She does not know her Lord very well—either of them, or her Lady—and has yet to communicate with him directly since her return, but she is eager to. Still, some small part of her is involuntarily afraid. He is her leader, he demands her respect, but he is like the shadows—dark, distant, and shifting. He is death, if the rumors prove true. But the benevolence of her heart is far too pure to be shaken by simple, wafting words, and she nearly pities him for his isolation—after all, the leader of her home, her kind and wonderful home, must be just as generous and grand.

“My Lord,” Tiamat’s slender neck arches as she bows her head in respect to him, her eyes glancing bashfully beneath her long lashes. She allows Wicka to introduce herself then, thinking that it will be good for her to do so, before reaching forward again with her own voice, still bright despite its reverence to her superior. “We have only just returned from the Threshold, I was explaining to her the various ranks in our herd,” the mare’s white eyes trail from the dark to the light, resting again on her newly found friend with a smile, “Is there a particular rank, or ranks, that interests you?”


tag;; @[Wicka] & @[Deimos]
“Speech.”

The titan listened, grave and decadent, unholy and immoral, glancing back and forth between the two mares, lingering amidst peccadilloes and scintillating sins; causing an imbalance between the fleeting chipper dwellings and the higher reaches of pandemonium. With Tiamat’s gentleness and Wicka’s softness, he was the most scalding, brutal contortion in their abyss, and it plucked at his nefariousness, maneuvered the stone-beast to irreverent fragility and loitering isolation, becoming more and more detached as the moments spun on – ill-equipped to foster anything but upheaval and disaster. Seared and scorched by devils’ hands, caressed by vile venom, unleashed from the annals of darkness and the pernicious outreach of clawing, rapacious devils, the molten monster felt out of place in their virtuous field, and he stifled a few muted breaths, brooded and brewed in his restless armaments, pausing for rapture, for reverie, for resolution in the entanglement of mellifluousness and dulcet alms. The effort of standing amidst innocence cut across like a puissant, potent knife, searing deep within his nefarious heart and unnerving the debauched highlights of his coiled veneer; no predatory claws were unsheathed from his scabbard, no abhorrent indulgences whispered, murmured, or contorted through the luminescent bounty – he was more witness than master, satanic whims distorting and destroying the harmony between cherished tundra and laced unfamiliarity. Without Erebos’ provocation, without his curiosity, without his determined, wicked pinnacle, he may have dissolved and disappeared into shade and shadow, fading into the crisp, destructive alms, chiseled, cold, and desolate all over again. He tilted his head, like an inquisitive slip of a more childish gesture, framed and waxen in a yield of juvenile tendencies, ruminating along the dark horizons at Wicka’s idle murmurings, recalling his unholy barbs into the rubble and stone. “You do not have to choose now.” He recalled the beast Mortuus Nox, whom had been invited and coaxed towards a Phantom position, but refused it outright for a chance to discover and explore his passions, his talents, his aptitudes beyond the remarks of predilections and woven lies. “You may learn from those higher ranked, and see where you fit.” While Deimos had known what his role would be from the day he entered Helovia (all blood, all power, all potency, ravaging and suffocating and mauling, the thrill of chaos, the swell of bedlam), others couldn’t say the same. They had to endeavor, they had to pursue, and they had to grow.

Poised to drift back into silence and ambiguity, the monster hadn’t expected the light of her eyes to reign in inquisition, to bask and glow straight into the malicious spoils of his life – he raised his skull, his crown, his cranium almost abruptly, chiseled a sharpened arch to his brow, attempted to start piecing together whatever puzzle she’d tossed his way. He hadn’t been born in Helovia, in fact, far from it, across seas and empires, mountains and valleys, down deep into fathoms of rock and shoal, where the tides rippled across moonlit stretches (and here his heart lurched and his teeth ground together, tight within his jaw). The Reaper’s poise and prose hadn’t begun amidst this tempest, but in Isilme, where the reach of hate and contempt and pure, utter loathing spilled along the runes and wishes, where it was normal to beat and bludgeon their way through life, where politics were woven dreams and aspirations, where war fed every nuance and spark of life, where he’d drifted across the damp sand and listened to his father, his mother, his sister, and where he’d turned a year old, then watched the world decay around him. But why did she wish to know? Did it make him seem unworthy, to not have been carved from this earth, but another? Or did it align him to prowess, to potency, to precision, where he’d lived in one villainous wake and drove his ferocity into the next, learnt and polished his merciless, heedless skills upon a carved beach, then lent it to the ice, to the rime, to the summits? He could have lied, but the sense of mystery, of enigma, and inquiry led him down the audacious path – and he wanted to tell the sovereign where he’d come from, wanted to feel the weight of his sire’s words across his shoulders again, wanted to see his mother’s warning glances, wanted to witness his sister’s antics – he wished for them to be remembered beyond fables and mythos. The King’s words dominated, not fierce, not severe, but mighty and absconding, feeding into the croon of curiosity and the intrigue of interlopers, a swell of power, a rush of sedition. “No. I was born in Isilme.”


@[Tiamat] @[Wicka]

The snowy white mare responds respectfully to the arrival of their Lord, speaking of her faraway place—as many do in Helovia—before murmuring a compliment of the mountainous valley that they share. Tiamat tucks her pretty head in towards her chest in an attempt to restrain the brilliance of the smile that tickles her lips, her dainty ears tilting intently forward. “It’s the best home,” she says with soft conviction; even though Wicka’s voice of approval had likely not been directed at her, she cannot resist adding to the praise of her homeland. It is a wonderful paradise, her home, and where she belongs. She can’t imagine a more perfect place.
 
A brief moment of silence settles between them then as the blue mare allows her new friend to consider her answer. Tiamat waits with baited anticipation, focusing most of her attention on the other mare, her gaze excited and kind, although an occasional glance is given to their superior. She would be lying if she said that she wasn’t a little nervous in his presence—he is her Lord, after all, one of the leaders of her heaven—but the last thing she wants to do is not make him feel included.
 
With her buoyant and friendly smile still lingering on her lips, Tiamat turns her white eyes back to Wicka when the pale unicorn voices the possibilities of her chosen practice. “Those sound like wonderful options!” Her smile widens brightly. Of course, any of the possibilities deserve some amount of praise (the herd must have each of them to function properly, as she had mentioned earlier) and although the direction of a Weaver or a Thief are not necessarily practices that interest her, that does not mean that they would not bring as much joy to Wicka as healing does to her.
 
The ocean mare nods when Deimos speaks up, agreeing with his statements and casting him a bright glance. She thinks of Lena, the gentle Time Mender who had brought her here to the Basin so long ago—both a mentor in healing as well as a dear friend. Tiamat feels joyfully indebted to her for her kindness. “I’m sure you can find a place here,” Tiamat assures Wicka with her glowing optimism, knowing the Basin to be nothing but welcoming to those who cross into its borders, “if you ever have any questions, let me know and I can try to answer them—or find someone who can.” The blue mare chuckles lightly, the shells in her hair chiming as she tosses her head.
 
In her blooming enthusiasm, Tiamat had nearly overlooked the white mare’s inquiry of their Lord, and her attention settles on him now—somewhat bashfully—when he mentions his own place of origin. “Isilme? I’ve never heard of it,” the blue mare muses, almost to herself, the plumed length of her tail flicking out behind her. “What is it like?” It is asked in modest eagerness, almost shy with the hesitation of offending him. Even so, the opportunity to familiarize herself with anyone—especially her Lord—is too great an excitement to ignore quickly. Perhaps she might even make another new friend!


notes;; I'm half asleep so I apologize for the wait and any...blehness haha.
tag;; @Wicka & @Deimos
“Speech.”