Log:Winter Crowning 2021

From Fate's Harvest
Jump to: navigation, search

Winter Crowning 2021

Zillah, Carter, November/Annapurna

21 December, 2021

Queen Zillah hosts her first Court gathering as the Crown for the coming season.


H06 The Broken Hearth

For members of the Moon Court, and those in their inner circle, the Winter Solstice is a whirlwind of events. As such, those members of the Court that show up are an interesting blend of wired and exhausted, many of them still bearing the markings of their Hunt, the scent of bonfire and blood around them. They are the Freehold's monsters, and they revel in it always. But especially these nights.

Zillah Logan is no exception to this. The shadowy Daemon has peeled back the layers of darkness around her just enough to allow those gathered for the passing of the crown from one monarch to the nest to see her dress, her form. And what a form it is. That normally hourglass figure appears pregnant. Very pregnant. Could go into labor at any moment pregnant. In some women, this would result in a dash of modesty. But this is the Serpent, and much like shame, she knows nothing of modesty. The black transparent fabric of her dress just barely casts her grey skin into deeper cover, but not enough that details of her body can't be made out if one *really* wanted to see it. The neckline is wide and low, putting the fullness of her breasts on display. The skirt of the dress splits, all the way up to her hipbones. Ribbons of pale moonlight wrap around her legs, holding on the heels that she's wearing. She may be lacking in some of her usual grace, but the Goddess never fails to put on a show. The only bright thing about her tonight is the red of her lips, and those glowing moon-struck eyes.

The Serpent's husband is no less impressively dressed, tonight. Carter Logan might not be technically part of the Moon Court, might not take a direct hand in their most private rituals, but he is as close to that inner circle as one can be without being part of it. He is wreathed, just now, in more than the usual impressive array of seductive aromas. There are strange, unidentifiable scents around him - and many of them originate from the cigar he's smoking.

He holds it in long, elegant fingers, the embers flaring green every time he takes a drag. The smoke is violently purple, drifting upwards from his draconically-fanged mouth to wind lazily around his broad, bullish horns. He lounges in a fancy, high-backed chair that some hob must have fetched for him, his black, Hedgespun suit and silver buttons glittering like captured moonlight.

The rest of the crowd is giving him a wide berth, presently. They always do, even those of his own Court who can't help but hover around the edges of his aura, a little drunk on secondhand Spring (and a little high on whatever that smoke is laced with). But he doesn't mind. His gaze is on Zillah as she stands beside him, and one of his hands has lifted up to twine his fingers with hers. He laughs, quietly, and tugs her down to press a kiss against the side of her neck before handing the cigar up to her. Something is murmured, there, but nothing audible.

      The year's previous rulers sit at their table, chatting quietly amongst themselves. August Bordeaux, until today the Autumn King, has already filled Zillah in on lingering matters from his season for her to address in hers. A number of freeholders are already present elsewhere in the room, drifting from conversation to conversation as they wait for the proceedings to begin. Speculations among the crowd are rampant, what with The Belly Who Ate Manhattan so abundantly displayed, and Carter gets his own fair share of sometimes awed, sometimes wary looks.

      Being friend to both Winters and Moons, November, too, has been a busy busy bee the last few days, though she, unlike others, remains as pristinely immaculate as always, scented with no more than cold, clear air, alert, aware and carrying the Dawn's crisp-edged potentials everywhere she goes.

      Thankfully, the androgynous Ancient does not share Zillah's bountiful belly. The world is safer without it.

      The quiet clicking of heels on stone heralds her audible arrival, though the passage of one so far removed from her humanity is palpable enough without it. Unsettling for very different reasons than Carter's own, her aura is one of fickle possibility, patient and inevitable as it stirs thought to life. Where Zillah's grace is waddlified, the rainbow's smooth stride is not, though for Moon's sake, she has restrained her colours to better suit Dio. Nothing, however, can restrain the sparkling, scintillant motes of crystalline light and ice which drift in her wake. Rainbows will be rainbows, and those damned wings refract light whether or not she wants them to.

      Carter gets a brush of icy fingers along the back of his chair, just barely making contact with a shoulder, hand lifting thereafter to trail delicate fingertips over the serpent queen's cheek, jaw cupped in unashamedly frigid benediction. "Power suits you," she murmurs, a flick of a glance including Carter in the statement. "As always."

That tug has Zillah crouching so that she can accept that kiss from Carter, turning her head to return it with a nip to his ear. She shares a whisper with her husband, before she's rising with a grin. Cigar in hand, and a slow pull taken from it. It's difficult to tell exactly where her gaze resides, at any given moment. Those moons do not move with her glances, fixed firmly in the galaxies that reside within her.

The members of the freehold may whisper and gossip, but it's too late for them now - she's already their Queen. And the crown that has sat upon her head for the previous two winters has begun to form once again.

November's gaze is held, and those painted red lips curve into a grin that shows off those pretty fangs. "The Wyrd, and our Freehold, do appear to agree." She seems endlessly amused by this, as she offers the cigar back down to Carter. Freeing up her hand to trace fingers down the Rainbow's arm, before she peels away from the two other powerhouses. Just enough to stand on her own.

"Beloveds," she begins, lifting her voice. "The seasons shift once more, and We thank August for his service as Autumn's King. You'll excuse me for rushing things along this year. I don't think anyone here is particularly eager to clean up the mess should my water break while I wax poetic. I welcome all that would renew their Oath to our Freehold."

"Doesn't it?" Carter's voice is full and rich, as always, and filled with genuine adoration. His hand squeezes Zillah's before releasing her from his grip - though he does trace one clawed fingertip over the skin just under the slit in her dress. "She makes a magnificent monarch," he says, grinning up at his wife. "Born for the crown, and for the adoration. It's her rightful due."

He brings the returned cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, then holds it up in silent offer to November. "And you're looking impressive yourself," he adds, sounding highly amused. "I trust that Dawn is keeping well, even if they are feeling a little worried about the coming two seasons."

He pauses for a moment while Zillah steps forward and makes her speech, then laughs. "I suppose I should renew as well," he says. "Even if I think it's obvious to everyone that it's not all that necessary to prove myself loyal more than I already have."

He grins toothily, and the ring on his hand glitters for a moment in the light. He recites the oath quickly and quietly, almost perfunctorily, before standing and moving to place a hand on Zillah's shoulder. He leans in and presses a kiss behind her ear, then gestures towards the throne. "If they're going to keep you here, love," he whispers, "you may as well take your rightful place. I know standing for long periods can be difficult, in your condition."

      The frost-filigreed Ancient's colours ripple through a subtle shift of warmer hues in echo of the new-old queen's amusement, lingering briefly in rose-gold-blues before resuming their former rainbow in the dark. Bland innocence is belied by subtle streaks of vivid limes and jungle greens trailing throughout her ice, though surely, those are part of her auroral garb. Suuuurely. Then again, how many people 'speak' rainbow to know what they mean in the first place..?

      No effort is made to assist the serpent when she moves apart, though the observant may notice less obvious attention paid, her torso oriented toward the gathered freeholders, yes, but also ever so slightly in Zillah's direction. If for some reason Carter cannot catch his darling queen, she will.

      The offer of the cigar is denied with a small smile, head given a subtle shake made less so by the rippling of ankle length, too-fluid strands drifting about behind her. Good thing faerie logic applies, here, or those would be a ruddy pain in the posterior to deal with on those wings.

      She, too, offers her pledge succinctly and precisely, every word clearly uttered, and in token of said pledge to the freehold's new Monarch, a gentle rush of warm Spring wind sweeps through the mother-to-be, relieving all those aches and pains and sore arches. Meddler has to meddle. In this case, in "good" faerie godmother style.

      The others in the freehold begin to line up to offer their own pledges, though some of the newer or less, ah, Wyrdly members seem uneasy, for SOME strange reason, about approaching the two divinities alongside the Devil there. SOME REASON.

      Ashoka, naturally, states his own pledge with begrudging ill-humour, and departs immediately afterward, spine stiff.

"I'm looking forward to slithering again, instead of waddling," Zillah admits quietly to Carter, leaning back against the Devil for a brief moment. "As much as pregnancy suits me." Another flash of a grin, as she takes those few steps, starting towards the throne. Heels may not have been the best choice for the evening, but when that rush of Spring healing goes through her, her stride evens back out. The Moon Queen is nothing if not a vain, proud woman. And she holds her head high as she sinks into the throne. Devil on one side, and Trickster near the other. A nod as they both offer their pledge, starting to cement her rule.

Rocco is the first of her Court to offer his pledge, still high out of his mind and certainly relieved that the crown didn't stumble upon his head instead. When Ashoka gives his, she leans in, settling the full weight of her gaze on the Sun. Intense. But oh, that grin, it's a beautiful thing. "I'll call on you soon, Ashoka," she calls after him, oh so sweetly, "Don't you worry." Kip is there as well, of course, to give his oath. He may try to stab Carter with his mind, or try to try, but fails.

Zillah holds a hand out for Carter's, kissing the back of his hand briefly. And then continues to take pledges, until the last one of the evening was going. "Eat, drink, get high as fuck and then fuck," she calls out.

"Oh, I do love to watch you move," Carter murmurs in Zillah's ear, as she lowers herself onto the throne. "Pregnant or not. Each is delightful in its own way." And he laughs again, fire kindling behind his eyes as he takes another drag on his cigar.

Whatever it is, it's strong stuff. It's sweet and alluring to smell, but it's the kind of sweetness that comes with good moonshine - no bite, but more than a distant taste will undoubtedly knock you flat. Carter, though, smokes it as lightly as though it were mortal weed.

He stands just to the side of the throne, his left hand holding Zillah's right as the rest of the freehold make their pledges. He is immensely patient, unmoving, his eyes flat and uninterested as he surveys the crowd, only coming to life when he lets himself glance back to Zillah or November. But he restrains himself, despite his obvious boredom, and says nothing until the room has begun to clear.

"An excellent plan, love," he says, grinning again, as Zillah makes her final pronouncement. "On that note, I believe the hobs are now honor-bound to supply you with whatever celebratory substances you might like from the stores. What's power for, if not abuse?" And he laughs, winking towards November.

      Ashoka, naturally, pointedly ignores the vile, vile serpent's taunting words, beyond a slight tightening of his grip upon his sword. Those nearest the Knight can hear the quiet creak of leather on leather before the man is through the door and gone, gone, gone.

      For their part, the Council members pledge as promptly as anyone else, though once the gathering begins to break up, they, too, start rising from their seats. In some cases, congratulations are offered. In others, the Councillor simply departs without comment. Sun, notably, is one of these.

      November, unlike Carter, retains an expression of smooth interest and authority throughout, as still as the statue she so colourfully resembles -- absent the ever-drifting hair and glowing auroras, of course. Boring mortal statues can't compare. With her heels, she and Carter are a matched pair in height, a studied contrast in winged, frosty finesse and heated hedonism.

      It isn't until the Devil begins to move again that the rainbow herself does, a ripple of musical, colourfully alien laughter teasing the ear with vivid teal-green-golds. "I expect there will be stockpiles from last year's tenure," she muses aloud, slanted gaze alight with fey mischief. "When do you expect the child's birth?"

      A glance is cast toward the hob attendants, speculative.

There's a sly look given to Carter, as he comments on watching Zillah move. "That's because, my Morningstar, you're responsible for the way that I'm moving right now. Wicked man. Of course you enjoy it." The Serpent gives his knuckles another kiss, before holding his hand simply. It is a sweet picture, the open adoration between husband and wife. Even if it is the Devil and Serpent involved.

Those Council members that she's friendly with, Zillah does spare a moment for. As much as she may be a vile creature, she *has* successfully ruled her season more than once. The Freehold is still standing. It's more than many would expect of a Moon Monarch.

"Mm. We're going to need healing fruits," she murmurs. "I don't have the time to be laid up in recovery. And then something to make up for the fact that I've been remarkably well behaved for the past several months." Her free hand traces the curve of her belly - impressive, like the rest of her - as she chuckles lowly. "Tonight, I hope. Tomorrow at the latest."

(We faded for bed time!)