for the night is dark and full of terrors
#1
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(349)backdated to 28 April. Almost dusk, at this point. :|


The gods smiled upon Siv Helsi.

She knew this, now, as she had never known it before. By giving them this land—by giving them this blood—she had pleased them. Her sense of security had been tested, but time and time again the raiders fell back. Now, with their allies to the east prepared for a final battle, it was time for her to wait. Patience was a gift that the dark woman held. It gave her no qualm to stand by, to bleed, and to watch as her so-called Family was torn apart from the inside.

Her ride back was split apart from the other two men, and carried her towards her home. Since Dragur’s departure from the place it had been very quiet, and she liked this. Aside from Hildr, Siv had no companions. The horse trotted on, worn from the trip and very much looking forward to respite. While not made for war, Siv’s suspicions about the horse’s origin had convinced her that Hildr was northern-bred. Foreign, like she was. Another sign that she had been right in coming here.

Even Reykr’s presence could not shake her. He was nothing to her, only another tool, and what he did or did not do when it came to her daughter (her, not their, and never his) was beyond her control. Siv had done all she could for the girl, and her training would go on further. It would take her years to become what Siv intended, but the training was meant for such a thing. The fact Dra had failed to ascend higher in the ranks was only further proof of some flaw that needed fixed.

Siv tended to Hildr quickly, removing her tack and wiping her down, but a true grooming could not take place. As she stepped away from the mare to go for one of these primitive combs a shape moved against the landscape. Her steps took her away from the small paddock and out towards him.“My Lord Hunter,” she greeted formally, purple eyes already carefully and subtly looking over his form.

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#2
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For he is Azor Ahai reborn! +3


The infection was hot, and it itched. He could not sleep for it, felt no hunger but for death. Death to those who rode with the mercenaries; Death to their mothers, their children. Death to those who had taken his un-brother from him, those who had threatened his borders, those who had frightened his people. Sirius Revlis was no merciful ruler, and he would no crumble beneath the weight of this burden; But it would warp him all the same. A grief he had never known, and could no come to terms with, festered within him, just as the ravaged flesh on his arms did likewise.


He had gingerly wrapped them with soiled bandages once more, wanting to hide the sight from any who looked for weakness within him. He called to his aid no healers, though the pack had a handful skilled enough to ease this as-yet undeadly infection. No weakness could be shown, not even to them, not when weakness was all around them. He was the figurehead - The Family would look to him for strength and wrath and revenge, and he would provide it all.


The three that had been sent to Inferni returned, and he rose from his chamber, and strode with purpose into the falling darkness. Dusk was a heavy breath in the air; still and silent, filled with bitter anticipation. His expression was set with grim, barely-controlled anger, as it had been for a moon now. The walk was long, and lonely; He had not the energy to change into a faster form, fearing that such a move alone would drain him of all spirit and leave him unable to move. The frequent changes into his formidable, terrifying Secui form had taken their toll. In this, his two-legged form, the man was usually a portrait of brooding vanity, handsome and stylishly disheveled, lean and powerful. Now, though his acidic eyes simmered with all of their vitality, they were deeply shadowed - His gaunt frame even more so than usual. It was with some effort that he walked tall, and long.


The shadows parted to allow himself into view, but the woman had already sensed his approach. Narrowed pupils lingered on her, the only display of the unease that always filled him when in the presence of the witch. "Siv," Her reply was returned, as as their customs dictated, his own dark-tipped muzzle brushed against hers. Her purple eyes were scrutinizing, and he feared that they saw too much. "Tell me of Inferni, of the meeting," There was little time to waste on pleasantries these days, but Sirius had never been a blunt man - His charm was more effective than most armor. It was telling, that the serpent had lost his silver tongue.




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#3
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(310)


There were signs all around them, if one bothered to look. Since the death of the Arbiter, it was apparent that Eris was slowly, gently, breaking. It was a most terrible thing to see, but oh, she saw all. Even now, while the mad King stood before her, she saw the signs of fatigue in his body and in his face. Another might have overlooked it or ignored it for posterity’s sake—Siv was not that person. She was a product of her culture and of her upbringing.

A smile cut across her face, slow forming and gentle. “My Lord,” she crooned. “Come inside, so you might sit. I would not ask my King to stand outside like a common man.” Before he had time to object she had taken a step back, turned, and moved towards the hut. It was constructed of strong wood and leather, forming a large circle by its design. The flap was decorated by a singular design, well-oiled and cared for. She held it back upon entering so he might follow.

The inside of the yurt was expansive. Its floor was bare earth, long since compacted from those living within, but clean. This was marked by a central fire-pit below an opening, circled by large stones. Since taken to living alone, Siv’s sleeping area was exposed from a hanging cloth ragged and nearly transparent. A well-made wooden bed, gifted to her by a fellow Salsolan, was the pride of her room. It was packed high by leather and soft materials, by well-tanned hides still lined with plush fur for winter.

Her focus fell to one of the large stones. They had been carefully chosen and arraigned to form a circle around the flames, and while only four existed, it was enough. A dark hand gestured for him to sit. “Would you like anything, My Lord?”

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#4
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<3 +3


Her smile was shadowy in the dimming light, and he viewed it with suspicion, his own black lips remaining in their grim, weary line. He was too weary to conjure the usual amount of paranoia, though, and was wooed by her winsome words, her petty complements, just as she had surely known he would be. Without further word, the man followed Siv into her home.


He heard the flap of material fall back into place as he passed the woman, and moved deeper into the dwelling. Its design was intriguing, but his gaze had focus for her alone, watching as she moved to the center of the chamber where a fire cackled, warm and lively. The orange glow glittered on her fur, eerily powerful as his sickly mind watched on. In silence, still, the man accepted her silent offer and moved to sit on one of the low, flat stones. Oh, how his muscles ached! He felt like an old man, and it was a terrible, hollow feeling. Both hands, tipped with elegant fingers, lifted to the warmth of the crackling flames, and rubbed together to capture some of it within complaining joints. His bones had been shifting too much lately, from one form to another, and they complained relentlessly.


Her question was answered with a callous snort, narrow pupils lifting from the fire to watch her once more. "Have you a broth to make me immortal, that I may crush these foolish men who tire me so?" His voice was bitter and dryly sarcastic, and again his gaze returned to the flames, watching intensely as they twisted and writhed against one another. He was aware of a coldness within him, and after a moment, spoke again: "A warm drink would do me fine, witch," There was little bother within him now to complement her, or attempt to hide his open distrust of her craft from her invasive purple gaze. Yet, the title was not so much an insult as it was acceptance of her purpose - He had seen it, at Larkspur's funeral, and could deny it to himself no longer. Siv had brought magic to this place; Not his magic, nor Larkspurs, but magic nonetheless.




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#5
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(409)


It was apparent to Siv, as it was undoubtedly to anyone, that Sirius did not trust her. This was wise of him, and she respected him for such wariness. The Hearg had been slower to realize what they had formed, slower still to catch her, and she understood why now. Her destiny had brought her here, where power was within her grasp.

Another smile was offered at his question, but she did not humor him with a response. Instead, her body moved as if on his command. She undid her cloak with a faint motion, loosening hidden leather thongs, and hung the massive leather and feathered thing upon an impressive rack of antlers. Nude from the waist up, her broad hips flashed with metal as she moved. The chains served a purpose well enough, though the true beauty of the skirt was in the thin, almost fabric like leather she had tooled for it. A paler purple than the cloak, it trailed behind her while the imitation of feathers covered her groin. The mastery of combining the belt and skirt had been a genius idea, and she quite favored the style. It afforded movement without compromising the garment, and protected her fur from unwanted exposure when riding or seated upon bare earth.

She returned with a metal pot, scavenged from the city to the north, half-filled with water. It was positioned over the fire, hung on a makeshift stand fashioned from bone. Almost as quickly she was moving again, though her voice carried through the room now. “The name of our enemy is Boreas. The Inferni leader—Ezekiel—he spoke of them as if he knew them. They have come to war not for conquest, but for blood.” Dark hands turned over leather packets, sorting through herbs. Several were mixed into a wide bowl best suited for Luperci drinking. A jar of amber liquid was pulled forth and from this a small amount was added. Only one was prepared.

“I think,” she went on, and returned to the fire. “This will only end with death. If one worships a god of such practice, he will not rest until the debt is paid.” Satisfied by the heat of the steaming water, she gingerly poured it into the bowl. The scent of mint filled the air, along with subtler hints of lavender, chamomile, and below this, honey. Siv bent to offer this to Sirius, dark hair tumbling from over her shoulders.

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#6
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Forgive me, my love <3 +3


Although a great man, a terrible man, Sirius knew himself to be mortal. So much of his energy was spent denying others of this knowledge that sometimes, in glimpses, he could assume the mental position of a deity. He knew power; Saw it glisten in Salvia's eyes when she looked at him with the undying loyalty of her father. Such dedication could surely only be given to a god. Did that make him something more than his own conceited flesh and bones? Power had warped him from a practical man to a greedy one, as it did with most. He relished the idea of his own infamy, allowing with such pride these new nuances. Siv and her magic, her gods - They were thoughts that did not repulse him as they once had. He knew his own mortality, but detested it, and subconsciously dwelled on ways to be rid of it. This made him vulnerable to her in a way that he could not, and would never, understand.


Unable to resist, eyes traced the curves of the dark woman's body as she moved. It had been some time since he had lain with Clover - That had been before this, before the intruders. He had barely seen the golden-haired girl since; His body had been too occupied with war cravings to lust again for her soft flesh. But with exhaustion came this, too - A desire for feminine softness, for a gentleness to sooth his blemishes and irritations. But, subconsciously, he feared what he could do to the pure maiden, in this current war-lord state - He was not himself, had not the control of his usual self. That made everything dangerous.


Tall, coyote-esque ears lifted to catch her words, and narrowed pupils returned to the fire as the woman delivered her news. In the orange flames, he saw Ezequiel, watched as they fought and writhed together. Black lips twitched up, mirthless. There was no sin, when one was a god - A god of death. "You would have me speak false words to a carving in a tree?" His voice bristled with rudeness, with disregard. He did not believe in her gods, could only believe in himself. It had always been this way. Magic, now - That was another thing. If she could name her magic as gods, then perhaps he would show less restraint in bowing to a power greater than his own. The way to Sirius' heart would always be his pride.


He took from her hands the bowl, eyes grazing her well-exposed bosom as he did so. It was weak, to allow himself such glances, and irritation puckered his brow as gaze darted away again. Black nose sniffed at the contents of the bowl, but he was no apothecary, and did not know the scent of most poisons. Thin pupils returned to her visage, and held it as he took first one shallow sip, and then a few moments later, a deeper one. Warmth began to spread through his chilled veins, and again, the man relaxed. "What enemy has Gabrielson brought to my borders? Foolish git, I should have his head for this," The thought was clearly amusing to Sirius, for the wicked King smirked, before returning to a more solemn expression. "Boreas..." Eyes moved to the flames again, unwilling to see the intensity of her expression. "You know... Things," He stated, with a blunt awkwardness unfamiliar to him. He shrugged it off, uncomfortably. "So, witch, give me counsel. Tell me, what would you have me do to rid us of this vile plague?"




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#7
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(660) Siv is using ground chalcanthite for the fire; this is the closest approximation to the color.


While men were not gods, they were like gods. They were petty, squabbling things that valued only themselves and in the end paid in blood. Had All-Father not hung from the tree for nine days, spear in side, to learn the wisdom of the nine worlds? Had one of her own kind not spoken to him of his journey, and of his eventual demise at the mouth of the great mad wolf? Siv knew these things as well as she knew her own blood. She saw glimpses of her gods in mortals—in the silvered tongue of her king, in the iced gaze of his prized tiger? There was a reason she had been drawn here, and that her cousin had followed.

Pale eyes watched, in the subtle way of well-trained women, without being truly observed. Only when her offering was taken did she leave him, crossing to the other side of the crackling fire. She did not fail to see how he watched her, nor did she attempt to cover herself. A faint and terrible smile lingered on her black lips even as he questioned her faith. He would learn, in due time. They all would.

It would be fair to say she was eager, now, watching him, but she was careful yet. Heavy pouches, burdened with the spells of trickery and deceit, hung at her hips. Her fingers lingered near them, but loose, gently. Patience was part of this game.

There was a moment where she thought he might leave her; might cling to his doubt and his anger and use it against her spell. This too, passed. She could not hide the pleasure in her eyes, which darkened deeply. Siv dipped her fingers into one of the pouches at her side. Salt-like material grated against her fingers. “It is my nature to know things,” she echoed, her voice low and husky. “Some are born with great destinies. This you should know,” the witch went on. “You were made to rule.”

Her hand moved quickly, flinging a handful of the ground stone into the flame. It coughed up smoke and hissed like a snake, flashing only once before the flames began to burn green. Siv’s other hand followed suit; sawdust, soaked in sweet smelling herbs and horse blood, gave the green fire a heavy scent and heavy smoke. She breathed it out, all fine, and breathed it into the man she called a king.

For a long time, she looked into the fire. She waited—waited for him to drink the drought, to have his mind forcibly released from its burden of doubt—and finally, when she saw something strange flicker on his face, she began to speak.

“A charlatan without faith poisoned these lands against you,” the black wolf said, waving her hands through the smoke. The gestures were meaningless. She was well practiced in the oldest of all magical arts; deception. “I’ve begun to cleanse them. There was bad magic here; magic to give strength to those who would usurp you. There is doubt…there are those yet who have lost their sight.” Riddles, as if she herself were speaking with Loki’s mouth. Perhaps she was. He could not, while it was sewn shut, but mortals might. The ways of the gods were still so very strange.

“When the summer turns, I must be allowed to cleanse all. The gods will favor us as long as we give them blood; the blood of our enemies, the blood of those who would stand against us…the blood of living things that serve them as I do.”

Dark feet carried her towards him, circling, weaving, until she was at his back. She hunched and bent at the waist, pressing her firm breasts into his back, whispering in his ear as a lover might. “Your path is one of conquest,” Siv purred, and believed it. “But you must learn to embrace that which you fear. These are dark nights, Thistle King.”

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