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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/FirstMovement|First Movement]]
| + | #REDIRECT [[ADanceOfAngels]] |
| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/DanceOfAngels|A Dance of Angels]]
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| − | == Requiem For Fate ==
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| − | The beautiful, voluptuous body of the matriarch hugged Domiel’s scratched body, covered in dry sweat, tightly, and for uncountable minutes, only the wind blew its melody into the room. The sound of windmills and flapping wings, the sound of magic and wind... the sounds of Windia. And yet, they seemed somehow more... urgent this morning. As if the world had came down and nobody had warned the lovers. And in the wind, just shy of rational sense, lurked the scent of death. Domiel could feel tears trickling against his chest, but the woman never broke into sobs.
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| − | Instead, she spoke. “T-thanks...” She said, on a slightly broken voice, straightening herself and taking the tears away from her eyes.A single word, but the only one she could say to the gesture of acceptance he had just given her. Her wings stretched for a moment, and she cocked her head to the side, as if waking up again. Holding the sheet, suddenly aware of modesty, she smiled... and even without the tears flowing, it was clear some infinite weight had been taken from her as she did so. “I do not know what took me so much last night... but I am glad I did it.” And then, she kissed him. Not a kiss of consuming love or sexual passion... but a tender kiss. A kiss of loves that could be, of friendship taken a step further, of goodbyes to long-lost lovers, of gratitude, a kiss for to guard in the memory and know there will be no others.
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> The Here and Now seemed a world apart from the polish and glamour of the party last night. The woman kissing him was almost as a completely different person than the lusty eyed Baroness who had torn his flesh with her nails and cried his name towards the heavens. Much could change in a night, Domiel decided as he placed his hands upon her shoulders while she kissed him, a touch with the same affectionate intimacy as her lips gave to him. It was something to think about, on the road.
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| − | "I should leave," he told her quietly, though made no motion to depart. "A lesson of the past. The swifter I leave a bed chamber, the greater my start on those inclined to seek my head or other, more beloved parts."
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| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> The sound was faint at first. Then a shot of anger run through the house. The sound of something breaking, loud enough it seemed like the hosue had shook, but Domiel, as with everyone else who has been watched a tavern brawl unfold, knows it is only a trick of the mind. But not a sensation to care for either way. Shot with adrenaline, Anina ran to the door, opening it slightly... and hearing. The face she turned to Domiel was an almost comical embarassment, of someone not really taking the situation seriously but knowing it is such to others. “... And the great Baron Aleksei Tierney comes home... thankfully, he thinks you are already gone, or he wouldn’t be screaming with the servants! Normally, a lover would be, but...” She blushes, “We <i>did</i> get carried away last night. You are right, you <i>should</i> leave... now! His bodyguards are probably not looking for it, so there will be no problem if you just fly away...”
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| − | Then she stops, looking at her dalliance with saddened eyes. Was this goodbye? She would be sending the boy in his way soon enough, but... not like this. Anina might be many things, but she always tried not to use and discard people like <i>tha</i>t... “See you, <i>Dommy</i>.... good luck. And hope you dodge him as well as the others.”
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| − | The room is lavish, with many mirrors and windows, two great lockers and ( Furniture me no knows the name of), and the bed has these pillars at its edges, and veils of silk around it.... the manor is high up on Upper Windia, and outside the windows, there iis straight three floor and a cliffside about the samesize before the manor that is far down....
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> Anina was speaking to air.
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| − | Domiel knew that sound. What it be like, he had wondered to himself, to feel such rage? A symphony could be written with less passion than such a man enraged. What thoughts were floating in that sea of humiliation and anger? Did it feel like a slap, as he had so often heard it described, or was it like the laughing shadow his kin-folk called it, always in the back of your mind?
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| − | The Ashing Dove had never taken the time to stop and ask any of the husbands he had cuckolded. While a temptingly amusing thought on the back of his mind, he was in no mood to have his face smashed against the floor today, and from the moment the first peel of grievous thunder shoot the household, Domiel was already making his escape.
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| − | No time to put on clothing, he simply grabbed what he could and wadded it into a ball. The crumpled cloth under one arm, Lovers Sweet Sigh tucked beneath the other, the Changling rushed to the window.
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| − | "And fair well to you, milady," he flashed her a smile as he stepped up to the window seal, turning to sketch a stunted bow as he inched backwards. "I hope we can meet again, under less hasty circumstance."
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| − | And then, he jumped.
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| − | <b>Windia:</b> On the way down, there is a panoply of creeping plants, as well as statues of angels and birds, slightly weathered and blurred, but still standing decorating the sides of the manor... down the cliff, which goes down some four floors same as the manor, there are numerous trees and creeping plants, as well as underbrush, to hold on to....
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| − | As Dom goes down the cliff's face, hearing of the baron's rage above him, he gets over the wall of the Manor immediately below it... standing some two floors over the surface, atop a smooth wall, all naked... with a female gardener and two male housekeepers looking at him, some going 'huh?' and some exchanging glances and grins.
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> At first, there was calm. For one instant, Domiel was falling backwards, looking up towards the pale blue sky. A beautiful heaven that for that first few seconds, it felt as if he were a part of. Weightless. Floating.
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| − | Then with a freezing gust of wind, reality intruded itself upon him again and he fell.
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| − | The window he had leapt from was becoming smaller in a remarkably short amount of time and any further reflection on the total exhilaration of the fall was quickly lost with the mind numbing terror of what he had just done. Three floors and a cliff bellow. This was not the greatest escape place he had ever devised.
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| − | No conscious thought drove him from that moment on. A gut-wrenching scream filled the air as he began to tumble. His body twisted limberly in midair, feet rising above his head, then flipping back bellow him. Blood rushed to his face, dizziness overtaking him as he watched the gray stone of the wall flash past him in a sickening blur of motion. Instinct drew his had towards it, desperation to grasp for something solid. Pain - white hot as the skin was simply shredded from the tips of his fingers. Dim awareness of the wadded ball of clothing slipping out from under his arm, a pant leg slapping him in the face as it seemed to suddenly be levitating upwards.
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| − | Then his bloody finger touched something. Grasped something. The tangled ivy tore free from the wall as his fingers wrapped around it, dust and mortar spilling into a hissing gray cloud that filled the air around him. Domiel screamed again, clutching the vine as tightly as he could, Lover's Sweet Sigh pressed to chest as if the fiddle would suddenly sprout wings and carry him safely away.
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| − | When the sensation of falling suddenly stopped, for an instant he thought the Fae-gift had done just that, until the weight of his entire body suddenly jerked onto his arm and instead of the terror of a dead-fall, Domiel found himself swinging on the ivy, some deep rooted vines impossibly holding him. He bounced off the wall, pain flaring up his side. More blood trickling down his arm. But he wasn't falling any more and relief turned his terrified scream into a peel of laughter as he looked down upon the top of a tree, scant feet bellow him.
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| − | His mind was still rushing to catch up to the rest of him. Someone was shouting near by. Above. Domiel craned his neck upwards, catching a glimpse of a fuzzy figure leaning out the window he had leapt from, calling down at him. Baron or Baroness? The world wouldn't stop spinning long enough for him to tell. Whoever it was, he gave them a jaunty wave before letting go of the vine and crashing naked through the tree branches and falling unceremoniously into the soft earth of the garden below.
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| − | <b>Windia:</b> "Missed a turn somewhere? You folks always forget you can't fly...." Says one of the housekeepers, stopping his work on a fountain, while the gardener woman turns her face away in blush... while still watching him on the corner of her eyes. Common stock of windians, two large man better suited for construction and a homely, large woman as a gardener, their feathers a clean brown.
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> "No," comes the pained reply, Domiel stirring slowly, testing everything with cautious flexes to make certain nothing shattered or broke "I must have taken the right turn, as this is just where I want to be. I simply forgot how rigorous the trip was."
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| − | He sat up slowly and dusted as much of the dark soil from himself as he could. Nothing broken, but bruises plenty. More wounds of passion. It was a blessing to land in her bed, but Gaia was even less a gentle lover than Anina had been.
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| − | Pain still flashed in his eyes, his smile pinched but friendly. "Have you seen a pair of pants come down anywhere around here? I seemed to have misplaced my own."
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| − | <b>Windia:</b> They look at you.... for a long time.... their minds working the basurdity of the situation and the request... and then, they laugh! The laugh of simple, honest folk after hearing the newest and juicyest gossip, and they laugh for a good, long while..... until turning to him, trying to stop their laughs, "Nah.... I s'pose I coulda offer a bush for you to cover yerself wit' but, y'see, these bushes be worth more than us all together." He continued, "Maybe use one tool t' cover another?"
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| − | They both laughed for some more moments, until a third, which seemed to be further in the back, came around, "Ah, I s'pose I can give ya a lil' help... a pair o'pants and shirt I had stashed 'till after work, for... yer name?"
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> "Oh, I doubt you could possibly have a tool large enough to cover what counts." Domiel grinned, rising slowly to his feet. The laughter was good. It meant they were distracted from piecing together other sorts of possibilitiesThe third mans offer was an even more welcome relief. "If that's the weight of your worldly desires, then you may call me," he raced through his mind for a name in the pause of a breath. "Coin. Coin Kalavilla. Musician and lover. Though I think perhaps the Baroness would attest which profession I excel at more."
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| − | <b>Windia:</b> “’Right then, sir Kalavilla... least now I have something to talk about at the tavern tonight, aye?” He says, taking a little sack with clothes, common as they can be and slightly smelling, and tossing to you. But one can’t look at a gift horse’s teeth, right?
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| − | After doning the cloths and running out of the Manor under the scandalized looks of female gardeners and the jests of the housekeepers, the changeling manages to go out in the streets of Windia... which seem to be readying themselves for war. The Lover was attacking. The Bull of the North was attacking. The Icewalkers were attacking. The Hslanti League had broken their treaties. Whiteshield was fightign the Bull. Whiteshield was broken. The Holyswords had been murdered, the Holyswords had sided with the darkness and made Whiteshield an outpost of the Lover, Whiteshield became a shadowland. The Silver Bird had fought legions of darkness. The Silver Bird was dead. The Silver Bird was coming defeated to Windia. Many rumors got to Dom’s ears, most of them contradictory.
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| − | But most of these who seem to be coming into the mountain, those who really saw something out there, agree on one thing – whatever is doing it, it is dark. Forces of the Underworld seem to be loose on the countryside... burning temples, burning faith. A grim scenary to walk out in, but even worse to stay in, if the Baron wants his head... his tale, he heard on gossips already before being at the Mountain’s foot, and that was probably only a little after the Housekeeper’s shift would be over. News spread like wildfire on the mountaintops...
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| − | <b>Stranger:</b> And at Dusk, at the foor of the mountain, Domiel saw himself ready to leave... until that person appeared before him. Dressed in regal clothes, a butterfly brooch close to his right shoulder. He looks familiar, somehow... like someone who has been seen many times, every dasy, and that you have never paid attention to. His finers move absent-mindedly over the book on his hand... “Excuse me, Ashen Dove..” he says, his eyes glinting, his smile sly – the one of someone who clearly knows more than you. “But if you would give me a moment of your time, I will give you a proposition you won’t resist...”
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| − | The wind howls at the gates of Windia, at the seat of the great mountain the capital city of the kingdom of winds was built over. Smoke clouds the sky to the East, mingling with oily black clouds... and as the Unconquered Sun finishes its vigil over the world, a child of chaos meets his face, in the form of a graceful, regally-dressed man, dressed in black and white, an embled of an equally monochromatic butterfly. Dark hair falls over his face, so uncommon in these parts, as a white glove sets glasses into place, mysterious green eyes seeming to judge Domiel like a mouse in a labyrinth as his lips curve into a knowing smile. "Excuse me, Ashen Dove.." He says, with a voice that sounds deeper than it should, "But if you have a moment to listen to me, I have an offer you can't possibly refuse..."
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> Dressed in another mans clothes, hair still mused and feeling the dry stink of sweat hanging about him, the man the call the Ashing Dove has been in better moods. Traffic is light so late at night, but it's still easy to slip quietly out the gates. Whatever the Baron's influence, he hadn't yet seemed to have time to order any bars put in the path of the half-fae musician. It was only a matter of time, though.
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| − | <i>Windia...</i>
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| − | He can't help but look back over his shoulder as he passes through the gates, once again. Many times already in his swift run from the home of the Baroness Tierney. Always one more look at the rising skyline, once more at the great sweeping windmills twirling lazily, at white, looming walls of the castle cresting the top of the hill. Not his home, never his home, but even without wings he was Windian-born and held this city in heart. It was hard not to look back. Chances were, he wouldn't be back for some time.
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| − | <i>My father will laugh in my face when he hears I've managed to be chased out of the captial of the whole country...</i> Bitter thoughts for bitter weather. Kind as the gardener was, the clothes offer little warmth in the oncoming night. Kitrain would keep him warm, but it would be some time before he could hike out to where the flame-stag awaited him, on the edges of the Wyld-land. Home would be his first refuge in flight, as usual. There as long he could stand his fathers heckling for marriage, then back to the road...
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| − | Lost in his own miserable state, he almost didn't realize the stranger was speaking to him. "Hmm?" Domiel Winterwing turned him a dull stare for a moment, blankly taking in the mans finery and unfamiliar heraldy.
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| − | "Could you, now?" he answered in a tired tone. "You would be surprised at the depths of my ability to refuse."
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| − | <b>Stranger:</b> The man's smile seems to go through the Ashen Dove, a smile that's familiar in an uncomfortable way... walking closer and closer, his gloved hands holding a nondescript black book."Oh, I know of that as well... you certainly would refuse danfer, right? Life is already dangerous enough for one to leap on any foolhardly danger, even for a king's ransom, isn't that right? I suppose there would be much you would refuse, but among them isn't my offer." He says, laying back on a wall and walking up at Windia, "Beautiful, is it not? Would be a shame to part from it... to be away from the parties, from the life, from the women? Sad, sad, that... specially since, even inside howling winds, Windia is warm, isn't it? Not just on its human embrace, but it just... is."
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| − | He seems to think for a moment, enough to leave... something in the air. Something that's on the tip of your tongue, but before Domiel can open his lips, he talks again, "Now... what if there was an easy way to get a Princess' favor?"
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> It's an unusual position for Domiel, to be the uncomfortable one in a conversation. He fights the urge to step back as the stranger moves closer and again not to shiver at that smile.
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| − | <i>Preditor</i>. The Wyld could teach you many things, but the most important lesson was which flower was safe to pick and which would snap closed on your finger and suck the blood from your body. A wiff of smoke could be something living and deadly. Nothing could be taken for granted. People, he had come to find, were not so differnt.
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| − | "Rumors spread quickly." Domiel kept his tone conversational as the stranger laid on thick. Quickly, yes, but not that quickly. This man knew an awful lot.
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| − | Folding his arms, nervously tapping Lovers Sweet Sigh against his side in what he hoped were an idle manner, the Changling stared back up at Windia. "If there were such a way, we would all hold the favor of a princess."
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| − | <b>Stranger:</b> "True. But not of all are gallant princes of chaos, shining with sweet whispers and great atop their burning stallion..." He says, his sidelong glance to Domiel being just... wicked, his green eyes studying his reaction to his words as he shrugs, "Yes, yes, rumors spread quickly. And I can say with all honesty that I have... good ears. Now, I am sure you have seen the chaos we are all in right now... certainly even with your... problems... you are able to notice something is up, hmmm?"
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| − | The stranger's tone becomes one of confidence as he moves closer to Domiel, the contrast between the fine man in monochromatic suit and the Faerie boy in the tattered garments of a housekeeper being almost comical... countered simply by the perfection of Domiel's form over the stranger's."See.... there has been a coup at Whiteshield. I trust you know Windia's neighbor, their frontier to things like the Bull of the North and... less savory things? You might even know their royal family, since they come here quite often... the Holyswords. They are mostly still alive, scattered, but alive. Their country torn asunder, but their names and words still carry power, specially here where many of their riches and relatives lie." As he says that, he walks around Domiel, his voice low as he watches the sun fade over the mountain, covering them in shadow under a still-blue sky... "I know where the princess of Whiteshield, held in bondage, will be. But I am no warrior, but a humble man who knows too much. Whereas you, know how to use a blade, not enough for others of your kind... but certainly more than enough for guards who are simply supposed to keep brigands away and hold a little girl captive."
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| − | "You can save the princess. Bring her here. Have the gratitude of a princess, the gratitude of her relatives. Mine. To be sung about, and to be accepted here, for no one would dare hurt one that would become so... notorious, now, would they? The Baron knows better than that." He chuckles, a low, morbid chuckle. "A princess' favor, notoriety and a pass back into the land of winds and the beds of its maids, complete with the realisation of a boy's fantasy... all for a quick swordplay. I would think it doesn't get more tasty than that ,now, does it?"
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> Pride, damn him for it, nearly sends color to his skin for a moment at the strangers compliment, before he checks himself. <i>Predator.</i>
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| − | "A honeyed tongue," Domiel interrupts softly. "Is better saved for callow youths and naive girls. I've little use for your flattery and a great deal of haste to be somewhere other than here, as I'm sure a so well informed gentleman such as yourself would be well aware"
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| − | He almost leaves, then. Every inch of sense in his mind screams for it and the nervous tick of the fiddle against his arm begins to twitch faster. The day was becoming night all to swiftly, shadows growing into inky pools as the sun dipped behind the mountain, bringing an extra chill to him, one, though he was loath to call it so, more spiritual than physical. Kitrain awaited. Home. Escape. No more of this clever fellow with his serpentine smile.
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| − | Domiel opens his mouth to speaks the words to excuse himself. Then the man mentions Whiteshield, and the breath becomes a startled gasp. His head snaps uncontrollably to the man, eyes widening. The twitch in his wrist grows still.
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| − | Whiteshield he could still remember it clearly. There had been music there, wafting in the warm, friendly air of it's golden streets and white houses. He could remember strolling and singing and laughing through the candle-lit streets admits people who felt safe enough to wander out at night. The smoky tavern with it's fat-faced matron and slim-waisted working girls, who had giggled and danced for him while he played. The openness and hospitality the royal family had treated him with and the betrayed rage of the king when he found the Changeling's lips upon his daughter beneath the moonlit gazebo.
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| − | Gone now. All gone.
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| − | Domiel blinked slowly, pushing through the veil of memory and back into the dying light of the sunset. "Sword play ?" he echoed the other mans words as though they had been spoken in some ghastly foreign tongue. " what hero do you think you're trying to hire?" Domiel laughed, a harsh peel of black humor that drew stares from the guards at the gate. "I'm a <i>musician.</i> I fence a bow across strings, not steel into another mans breast. Would you like me to play those guardians into their graves? Draw a note so sour to cause their ears to burst into their brains?"
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| − | "Oh lovely man" he patted the strangers arm with a low chuckle. The looming fear was gone, the man had signed it away the moment he had attempted to recruit the greatest coward who had ever walked into the marches to be a mercenary. "I think perhaps you call to the wrong door, in this. I'll take my chances in flight from the Baron and in refuge with my father whatever badgering that old man will put me through, he won't be attempting to drive several feet of steel into my skull."
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| − | "Pay whatever ransom her captors request and be done with it, if her safety means so very much," Domiel smiled faintly, still on the edge of laughter. "The cut of your cloth speaks of deep enough pockets. Pay her ransom and get her back. It will be far easier than cornering innocent entertainers and appealing to their vanity."
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| − | Shaking his head in bemused disbelief, Domiel stepped away from the stranger and began to walk away..
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| − | <b>Stranger:</b> The stranger laughs with Domiel, in the healthiest of embassments. "Well, you did get me there. I am looking for a hero, specially one that isn't compromised. But, you see... we are short of these right now. Like I said, I was well aware of your ability to refuse. I know you wouldn't do it for money, the same reason why you would not want her ransom yourself... like most would. Those in more important positions might use her for political play... she is destined to great things, Dove. It would be dangerous on their hands.... I did pick you because of that, musician. And also because I know you can do this."
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| − | But he walks away. The man's lips curl in irritation behind Domiel, his eyes narrow. Clearly, not someone used to be walked on. "Ransom? I do not suppose there will be such... Whiteshield was overrun by the dead. Its inhabitatns became meat for the walking dead, families subverted by their ancestors... the land and sky colored black with death's touch. The Bishop takes her to his home, Domiel. The Bishop of Chalcedony Thurible, the Shining One, the lord of the death cults on the West. Whatd oyou think the dead want? To ravish a soul on their cold passions, to kill it inside and make it pass to their world. To forge a princess into Soulsteel, mayhaps?" As he says so, his voice is hard as stone. <i>Her screams will be on your hands,</i> he seems to say.
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| − | "She is passing through, being carried to the West." He says, shaking his head, conscious Domiel might not even be hearing it anymore. "Most won't bother. Many will have too many interests. <i>That</i> is why I'm asking you. You're not a player; You're not a hero. You're barely a decent individual. But you have a chance to get to her, specially with your mount. That is more than most have."
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| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> <i>Keep walking.</i> Domiel took another step as the man began to talk again. Another step down the road, away from Windia and towards the hedgerows and hills, towards Kitrain beyond.
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| − | <i>Her skin had been so warm...</i>
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| − | <i>Don't look back..</i>. The dead? What was a musician supposed to do about the dead? The Ashing Dove hunched further into his borrowed shirt against the cold that seemed to cut through any attempt to ward it away.
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| − | <i>Her wings had seemed to drink in the moonlight, sharing in it's silvery splendor...</i>
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| − | <i>It's not your affair... you scarcy knew them... "</i>Yes," he whispered to himself as the strangers words echoed out behind him. "So very terrible for them. So very tragic." But the fall of Whiteshield changed no facts in his life nor solved any of his problems to try to fix them. At least none that time would not cure just as well and with far less danger.
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| − | <i>When she blushed, it lit up her eyes, brought warmth to the very night...</i>
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| − | <i>You don't owe them anything...</i> It was growing darker, his footsteps slower as he trudged away from city that lead to the sky. From the dubious praise being hurled at his back.
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| − | <i>And the shy touch of her hand against his own had brought fire to his veins...</i>
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| − | <i>Nothing...</i> Kitrain would want to run and he'd give the buck lead to do so, tonight. They had days to travel in a single night. Days to reach home. Back to the warm bed and soft sheets. Back to the Queen of Emerald Roses and the songs of the Summer Circle. Music in the white circle of the clearing. Laughter and love with his kin-folk.
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| − | <i>Nothing...</i> Nothing at all. No more music in Whiteshield. No more golden candles glowing from alcoves in the streets where people laughed. No more moonlit gazebos in secret gardens. No more forbidden kisses from blushing princesses. No more Whiteshield. Nothing...
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| − | <i>Goddamn it..</i>. He stopped. He didn't look back at the man who had accosted him at the gate. Still close enough now to be heard, he raised his voice as loud as he could, the music in his breath lost behind a sullen sense of defeat. "I'll need a sword. I don't know where mine is. And new clothes, at least. A padded jacket would be better. Blankets for the girl when I find her, for both of us."
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| − | <i>Idiot.</i>
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| − | ----
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| − | The stranger is actually... Swift Whisper!
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| − | She is good at disguises, blame Arcane Fate! ^^
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| − | ----
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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/FirstMovement|First Movement]]
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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/DanceOfAngels|A Dance of Angels]]
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