midnight mass
a crimson pool so warm and deep
lulls me to an endless sleep

Shadows in the undergrowth, stars in the heaven of leaf-shuddered sky. The thicket is wild as ever, gnarled in every corner, twisted and uprooted and reached between the latencies of above and below. The winds have shaken the rotten branches from their mothering bulk, and even the hares quiver in their dens. The chill of winter sets, menacing, frost tempered in the northernmost reaches. The boar have left for warmer pastures, and the quiet that settles in their leave is unsettling, unruly, a callous patience.

Gauthier follows the ghosts through the frosten mist, the forgotten groves, a gargoylian creature of roving musculature and eyes that burn with a wintry ire. The intent of his nightly passage is amusement, solely - a paw has touched the border of Wolfbron, and so it is that paw he has followed until the dewy ground makes of it a sheer trail of sense and possibility. Though they've likely evaded, what harm was it in a pleasant evening stroll through the autumnal touches of the dark forest? It was pleasant, whether there was promise of blood in the end or not, to engross oneself in the meanderings of silence and ominous serenity.

Little of the brushed trembled in the tread of his shadow, not but the stirrings of mice and moths, the waned moonlight dappled on the crushing cripple of leaves. That of the most overgrown glades had long called to him, the heavy-browed heathen prince of ash, strung along meadows of bluebells and plaited wolfsbane. Who was he to deny the pleasures of the night, and what good (or terrible) things they may bring? Such was a part of his own contentment, to venture into untamed legions of crawling brush and thorned thick, to be released from obligation, duty, wile.

It is only he and the night and the wilds of the deep grove, the taste of nettle and the ides of phantasmagoric leisure. What haunts whisper in those dark hollows knows all, and he would never deny himself any form indulgence. To do such is sinful, after all.

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Akin to moths and flame, Ashtoret finds herself back in the thicket with little care as to what keeps drawing her here. The slender form of her bodice is fluid, maneuvering through the fallen branch and thorn with ease. Each time something is gained: knowledge of the terrain, its inhabitants and the easiest paths to take. Her previous foray into the nettle ridden palisade had been with purpose, but Ash finds mindlessly wandering to be the most exciting thing on her evening agenda. There is no haste to the gait in which she’s carried, no wistful drive to keep pace with whatever raced among her thoughts. No, this evening was spent in an almost meditative state–listening, watching observing where many would not. For an hour, a singular flower had grasped her attention–it fed on other materials such as flies and spiders, its scent was strong and pungent.
Despite this, it had a rare beauty even here with a crimson inside not unlike most creatures. It’s sap was silver-white, and it stung when touched or bothered. For another thirty, the patterns of bark and leaf had grasped her intently. Dry riverbeds cut through the rough-skin of trees like canyons in the desert–and dying leaves had such a wonderful smell.

It was a stark contrast of her previous eve, wherein four young foxes had been gutted in the name of her gods. The blood was still drying against earthy fur, tugging its longer parts back in places. Against the richness of her hide, the blood often is not as striking as the white markings she had been blessed with at birth, but this mattered not to the priestess. The blood was not for intimidation, despite what outsiders may think. She needed no life-force to do such, as often existing as she had was enough.

Regardless, the bones tied around her neck were not just for decoration, Ashtoret had every intention of finding a safe place to store them. But the delicate paws that carried her soon found purchase in the tracks of another–far larger beast that lurked here this night. A moment to observe size and pace, another to take in a scent, the wisp-like tail with a tuft of ghostly white twitches in anticipation–no–realization of not being alone out here any longer. It would not be the first, however, but she was no inherent fighter. The skills the woman possessed were far more intellectual than that of brute strength, and while she’d gladly rip the eye of an enemy from its skull in a moment of desperation, the cleric beast would rather silently slink by instead of confront.

But…..

Sapphire shaded in dark earthy browns looks down the path this intruder has taken, and the whispers in the back of her skull do not cease.

code by corvus

ooc: have a witch? lol @Gauthier

midnight mass
a crimson pool so warm and deep
lulls me to an endless sleep

The smell of blood. It is engrained in the Devorre fancy, the way a cook may know the proper measure of a sprinkling of basil, a crown of parsley. Blood is the bread and butter, the wine, the hand that feeds; blood is the life. It is this and this alone that betrays Ashtoret to the night fiend, to his endless hungers that run rampant through timeless curse. He stops and pivots, whiskers twitched, and all of that sprinkling moonlight cascades across his wild features with the rippling shadows of severity. Thirst, hunger. In the nightside of eden, the dark god reflects on such delicacy seeped through the whelm of flora. The tinge of iron, gamey and sparse -- as though only of a slight wound.

In the dark behind him, there are only mincing shades, scattered starlight, the blue glow of the evening overtaking gold-violet laps of dusk. The overgrown halls of the thicket shudder with a lovely forsakenness, but exempt of any sign of a misfortunate fellow. Only the ancient wood tunneling on, on, desolate paths and gnarled roots.

And yet.

Gauthier turned back to his path and moved on, cutting a corner into sheltering brambles, but not before smearing his tracks. He kicked the soft loam, shifting leaves and burying himself back into a throng of fragrant winterhazel, smoothing his body against their limp yellow blooms.

There he would hide and wait, tolerant of the night chill and possessed of the divine scents that mingled, the berries and the hazel and the decadent sanguinary notes, for whatever rueful, agonied creature crept in his shadow.

@Ashtoret //gauth loves himself some witches.

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There is no sense of naivete about this situation. Ashtoret knows there is danger, and yet walks the razor thin line between life and death. It is the place she is most comfortable, most calm, in the twilight and dawn of each force. Off to the side, half hidden in the earthy shadows as slender paws carry her forward–everlong into what was most likely an encounter. But of what sort clearly remained to be seen. Again, the paws of this beast were far larger than her own, dictating that whoever, whatever this was, had the undeniable ability to cut whoever they deemed down to their inner core.

Pondering the world and its inhabitants is a rather fun pastime, one that has lead to a growth in her own understanding of the world. Even here in Amaryllis, there is much to learn and few who understand that simply watching, observing, could do you wonders.

A break in thoughts, and even in movement. The path in which she stalks has gone cold, frigid. A quick draw of the cold air revealed only the distinct scent of winterhazel, as the cleric beast made one half circle around the last pair of prints once more–but the striking color of her eyes was no longer on the ground. No, they peered out into the dark in a challenge–distinct against the evening's colors and her own. Almost, almost as if they gave off their own light. Faint clinks of the bones on her bodice were the only sound, aside from her own thoughts and whispers:

here

They say, for once in unison and agreement. A gentle caress in the recesses of her skull–an affirmation of what her own suspicions held. And so with the same stoic expression accented by blood and marking, Ashtoret takes a seat in the path, tail wrapping around lazily as if to tell whoever was here–watching, waiting–that she cared not. “I know you are here” she feigns in confidence, choosing to simply trust the whispers she carries. “Reveal yourself, beast. Speak with me face to face.” somewhere a whispers laughs in delight, another swoons, and another cowers in fear. But Ash stays the course, and stares into the shadows between bramble and thorn. Somewhere in the dark lies the stranger in wait, of this she feels sure.

code by corvus

ooc: @Gauthier

midnight mass
a crimson pool so warm and deep
lulls me to an endless sleep

The shift of shadows pass over mottled trail, the hissing of leaves submit to the croon of nocturne gale. The offender is careful, quiet, a shifting mass too large to be vulpine, too predatorily ambling to be a doe along the moon-traced grounds. Gauthier pulled indiscreetly deeper into the boughs of the hazel, slipped into nightfall, straining silence in each step.

What comes is feline by any delphic deliberation of effeminacy - curvaceous, bronzed, oxidized in shifting lunar haze. A face shirks from the dark abound; the round skull, the grinning jeer of skeletal bare, and all about it the stronger scent of iron. Like chocolate, like lush, blood and the spice of feminal flesh.

Below the drifting skull, the prying topaz facets, trinkets of sheening ivory crackle and clink. I know you are here, it says - tempering the boundary of arrogance, that surety. Reveal yourself, beast.

He chuckles at that, drawing from beneath the shadow of a willow short behind @Ashtoret, the mist of his breath curling smoke along the ridge of his maw. Who are you, to command me? he laughed softly, a sound light as brindle moths chasing the pyre glow, devilish and belial-cruel. He swept in the depth of shade, the faint striping of moonglow touching only faint traces of his anatomy, the cold, resilient bore of his eyes. To follow me? The slope of his skull rose high in the loft of willow-vine, crowned by bramble and umbra.

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In truth, Ashtoret has no preconceived notions as to what exactly will reveal itself. A beast, yes, of male breed and feline identified by scent alone. But senses only get one so far before the mind is needed to make critical decisions and judgements. What does emerge, does so behind the witch. A smarter, less arrogant woman might have turned to face such a creature out of sheer protection of the self. But not her. Danger was a choice, violence was a necessary evil, tempting fate was a profession. An ear inclines back to catch the brief laughter that comes out of this beings mouth, almost mocking in the question it asks:

Who are you, to command me?

A good question, she thinks. Astute in knowing its own pride and price. Not an object, a person, a soul. Shifting her gaze, Ash notes how the incline of this creature makes as if his head is crowned in bramble and death, an intimidating show–just for her–who clearly poses no threat to its masculinity or power. A flick of her tail, she does not move to face him as he asks another:

to follow me?

It was a smirk that distorted the corners of kohl lips, mirrored crown with white marks befitting the slots of a toothless skull. What did give her the right? Nothing, really. She was no lord or leader. She did not own the land they tread upon, either. No, this night it had been nothing more than curiosity that drove her to flirt with the reaper. An incline of her own head, a deep breath as one does when deep in thought, Ashtoret finds her voice ”I am no one. A vessel with a name, and nothing more” she answers, able to keep steady tones.”It was simple curiosity that drove me to follow you like shadow, wondering–who walks these paths with me tonight? Do they also seek to be one with the dark? These are questions I ponder, stranger.” a soft hum escapes her, like a lilt of one who stifles gentle laughter. Ironic really, that she finds herself here, and the danger the beast radiates is almost intoxicating.”Are you beast or man this night? Do you howl at the moon in your heart, wishing for the tearing of flesh?” she asks ”Or are you simply a wandering soul, belonging to something greater than yourself? Seeking nothing but solitude and sanctuary in the temples of bramble?”

code by corvus

ooc: @Gauthier

midnight mass
a crimson pool so warm and deep
lulls me to an endless sleep

There is cold between them, cold and winding dark and the reaving of scuttling notions into divinity; Gauthier is more flesh than celestial. More brawn than grace. Yet here he is, consumed by the garlands of sacred forests, wicked by a sickle moon. She does not move at first, pleasantly - and unpleasant if only not to bear witness to what she may be. There is no flash of fangs or the cutting tread of claws, no bustle, no wasted ichor.

No one.

He sighs a breath of kinship in it, echoing a name he once gave to any he did not deem worth tugging his essence like a chain, a leash: Nessuno. Nothing. No one. It no longer stayed, even if his was a name to vanish among the rest, assimilate the sea of No Ones. It is valuable, to be nothing.

Gauthier did not seek anything but the beauty of the night and the silence that hollowed the halls of the thicket deep. The dark did not bear him, the dark would not have him, nor the sunlight, the wicked dream of belonging. His heart was a vagrant's heart as ever, no matter what place his body found home. I come to be alone, hums the gargoylian wretch, taking a stride forward, sweeping a breeze of thistle and hazel, moonlight passed softly over his features, the glint of exposed teeth. His words are not dismissive, only simple, honest.

Yet, all of what you ask isn't entirely false. He is man, beast, bloodmonger and wanderer, a devil in the court of the moonlit forest. Gauthier turned to her, his eyes calculative, stirred in their press, enveloping and consuming with winter's fire. Her company is impressive enough to find peace in it, undisturbing the stillness of night. Stoic, her features are paled by the ghoulish yield of lunar haze, peppered by shadow; his gaze traced the hollow of her brow, the line of her cheekbones, the glint off her skeletal regalia. He breathed deep the parfum of blood and clove, the floral savor of her flesh. What is it you search for, No One?

@Ashtoret

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There is something to be said about solitude: how one can find a resolute, stalwart peace within it. Indeed, Ashtoret has spent much of her life alone by choice–a vagrant soul wandering endlessly until she found someplace to call home. Yet, even then, the ideals had been short lived and the witch had gone once more. The whispers, her only companions, guided her from each new escapade, and they had yet to steer her wrong. Strange, they had gone almost entirely silent when this creature revealed itself. Normally, an eye roll would be sufficient, but Ash refrains.

What is it you search for, No One?

And what indeed. There is a long moment that she takes to ponder, just what exactly she wants this night. Her observations were silent and inwardly pleasing, to keep a mental repertoire of which plants she needed and could utilize in her practice. Another was to scope out more places to strengthen her connection to the goddess of her people, to allow blood sacrifice in peace without the prying eyes of onlookers. Perhaps it was, like this stranger, a desperate need to be alone. Wrapped in darkness and swathed in the pale moonlight, cradled by the hands of the primordial Mother herself. This is where the cleric felt most at peace, most at ease. Where the lines between spirit and body are blurred, the veil between life and death thin. The deepest hours of the night wherein most slept, were the hours she frequented. When at last her musings grew ever too silent for even herself, the witch inclines her gaze back to the beast who has, graciously, not attempted a fight.

“This evening, a similar one to yourself. I had wished for solitude, but–” she ponders again, quietly humming on a thought “It seems the whispers sparked curiosity, and here we are.” she offers with a wave of her paw as if it had been nothing to mention the voices that guide her. “They tell me to follow, and so I do. It has proven to be an…interesting method of exploration.”

A contemplative pause, a gentle inhale.

“Pray tell, stranger, what are the truths you harbor then?” She quirks a darkened brow, “Better to speak to nothing than harbor it inside, no?”

After all, she had little to no allegiance in this world. None that would stir the sparks of war or conflict. Most, if not all, did not even know of her existence. This was how Ashtoret wanted it to be, the silent stalking along the course of time–a watcher from the depths of the woods, a keeper of histories and old things forgotten. It had been her duty, born and bred to bear this task till the end of days. Even if she had fled from it, Ash did no longer. Embracing her role and part in the world of the dark arcane with arms wide. And this evening, as the conversation grew bit by bit, she allowed herself to be swallowed by it.

code by corvus

ooc: @Gauthier

midnight mass
a crimson pool so warm and deep
lulls me to an endless sleep

The time lapses between them with no conceivable impatience. They are given to the night, its stellar quarter, framed in an arbor of thistle and nettle trail - the succulence of honeysuckle in its decadence furnished the sweetness of the midnight breeze. Gauthier is not unruly hostile; no froth-mouthed hound released unto the virtuous world from discordant kingdoms of desolate grandeur. He is a patron of violence, an artist by it, engrossed in the artful beauty of the cut, the bleed, the agony.

Perchance there are stolen seconds that he has let dreaming eyes chase the rush of blood up the discreet warmth of arterial bloom, the smooth line of her neck resigned to moonglow and hazel backset. But it is hunger, only, a restrained thing, albeit the appetite grows by the presence of ambrosial suggestion. She is painted in his favorite medium, and dare he resist lick it off.

When her musings find grasp he recognizes the look of enlightenment and peels his gaze back to her own with a hard grin.

The whispers, she says. Odd enough conversation for the common passerby, but Gauthier does not wince or gawk, though curiously listen on to her claims. We. They. Telling to follow, and so do. The whispers, the voices of the night, the senseless carousal of intangible whim she does so follow - to Gauthier, to Gauthier, they said. Is it so off hand to suppose it is right? He, himself, had heard the whispers of the Naesarpe that evening, as his sister had, demanding proper sacrifice, promising...

His gaze flicked back again when he is called upon to recite truths. Had she read him so clearly? His inability to lie - but his skill in half truths would succeed such a weakness. There isn't much to harbor. And what secrets he keeps are more valuable kept. I want, as many, that which I may never have. Always, forever. he softens the end of it with a bloodright in shame, mystery, and a swallowed ire. The Devorre curse, true and through and unavoidable. May he forever chase and chase and chase --- and never know satisfaction.

Walk with me, then? he asked courteously, extending a paw on to the bluebell lined paths beyond, but he would not beg. Gauthier moved forward to continue at his leisure, whether @Ashtoret would partake or not. What is it that whispers to you? hushed, a secret folded into the eve, he could would not contain curiosity.

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There is honesty about his riddle that the witch feels the need to acknowledge: a curve of kohl lips blossoms into a spark along her eyes. Riddles in the dark, moonlit and madness to run amok. It takes the priestess back to a time of far more innocence than she'd like to remember. What had become of those lost souls in her homeland? Did anyone even weep for her? Her thoughts were once more broken by the sound of this strange beast, as he inclines to walk down the path lined in silver light--blue flora accented only by the places the moon cannot touch: the places where her gods dwell.

What is it that whispers to you?

Comes the fated question. Ashtoret does not answer, no, not immediately. The lithe frame of her body comes in stride by his, only a half step behind. Their ambiance the faint clack of bone on bone. And what was the whispers she is fated to carry? How could she put the vastness of their echo into speech? They caress her mind in each wavering thought, pushing and pulling like the tides. "Fragments of my gods: The Mother and her slain Child. The womb of the Universe which gave birth to chaos" she states it matter of fact, no need for fanfare or mystery. They are simply that even with out Ash's ability to twist them into more. "The whispers I harbor is their Will, fractured and fragmented. Separated but whole."

To think of herself as more than one was a new concept. These whispers revealed themselves in nightmares and terror, in the deep recesses of the mind where dreams layer. Ashtoret had known of their existence all her life, but it was this that had driven her from duty as a young lioness. Fear was the mind killer, the little death--which only and truly could lead to nothing but obliteration. Comfort came crawling from the depths of those deep horrific hells, and it was there that the witch found her serenity. In serenity, she found power. Unlimited potential waiting to be tapped like an untainted wellspring. "And what is it that drives you?"her voice inclines with her own head, sapphire gaze forward on their path. "Do whispers of will dance behind those vibrant eyes?"

code by corvus

ooc: @Gauthier