LYSANDER
He is charmed at once by the festival; it reminds him of a boyhood that lies worlds and lifetimes away.
Never in the riftlands was there a place like this. That kind of feral, godless magic could never conceive of something so civilized. There was no craftsmanship there, just survival, and the only beauty was the beauty of things wild and savage.
Lysander had not minded it, for the most part, but he had missed these things. Music, and fires set and tended to, and drink, and dancing.
Already his veins hum with the promise of living, and he devours the sights around him, lanterns drifting over the sea like errant stars. The drums are in his blood and oh, he wants nothing more than to dance –
But there is time for that yet.
For now, he turns his attention back to Florentine, and marvels again that a girl born to such a place as they’d left could be as at home at playing queen in a kingdom of twilight. Her gold shames the lamplight and the setting sun, and he bows his head close to hear her words. “As long as you’ll have me,” he says, and smiles, though they are both well aware he can hardly leave this world the way he’d come.
He forgets the itch of his antlers, still smeared with blood but finally free of velvet, as they stand there beneath the snowfall, beside the sea. He sees Flora’s attention catch and hold, and follows her with curiosity through the crowd. There can be no one to spark her eye like that but the king she’s told him of, and Lysander is eager to meet him.
Her people part for her, all smiles, but her gaze is an arrow and he follows its path, and what he sees there makes him wonder. Much of his life has been spent giving people what they want (their deepest wants, their secret wants) and he has always read them well. Lysander knows, too, the games men play, particularly when there are crowns involved.
And oh, they are both beautiful – and beauty makes everything worse.
Perhaps this place was as savage as the last world, after all.
The stallion gives away nothing with the evening deep around them, only stands just behind Florentine until she makes his introduction. Only then does he step forward, dark curls and bloodied antlers, a lost god on the longest night of the year.
“How wonderful that inter court relations are so close,” he says, and his smile blooms sweet and secretive on his dark lips. His gaze is the dark green of dappled shadows in a strange old wood as he sweeps it over the kirin, impeccable from his hooves to the shining crown he bore. Lightly he turns his attention to Reichenbach, and dips his muzzle toward his chest. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. Florentine has told me she only accepts the most handsome of suitors, and I can see why she chose you.”
@Florentine @Reichenbach @Isorath
Never in the riftlands was there a place like this. That kind of feral, godless magic could never conceive of something so civilized. There was no craftsmanship there, just survival, and the only beauty was the beauty of things wild and savage.
Lysander had not minded it, for the most part, but he had missed these things. Music, and fires set and tended to, and drink, and dancing.
Already his veins hum with the promise of living, and he devours the sights around him, lanterns drifting over the sea like errant stars. The drums are in his blood and oh, he wants nothing more than to dance –
But there is time for that yet.
For now, he turns his attention back to Florentine, and marvels again that a girl born to such a place as they’d left could be as at home at playing queen in a kingdom of twilight. Her gold shames the lamplight and the setting sun, and he bows his head close to hear her words. “As long as you’ll have me,” he says, and smiles, though they are both well aware he can hardly leave this world the way he’d come.
He forgets the itch of his antlers, still smeared with blood but finally free of velvet, as they stand there beneath the snowfall, beside the sea. He sees Flora’s attention catch and hold, and follows her with curiosity through the crowd. There can be no one to spark her eye like that but the king she’s told him of, and Lysander is eager to meet him.
Her people part for her, all smiles, but her gaze is an arrow and he follows its path, and what he sees there makes him wonder. Much of his life has been spent giving people what they want (their deepest wants, their secret wants) and he has always read them well. Lysander knows, too, the games men play, particularly when there are crowns involved.
And oh, they are both beautiful – and beauty makes everything worse.
Perhaps this place was as savage as the last world, after all.
The stallion gives away nothing with the evening deep around them, only stands just behind Florentine until she makes his introduction. Only then does he step forward, dark curls and bloodied antlers, a lost god on the longest night of the year.
“How wonderful that inter court relations are so close,” he says, and his smile blooms sweet and secretive on his dark lips. His gaze is the dark green of dappled shadows in a strange old wood as he sweeps it over the kirin, impeccable from his hooves to the shining crown he bore. Lightly he turns his attention to Reichenbach, and dips his muzzle toward his chest. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. Florentine has told me she only accepts the most handsome of suitors, and I can see why she chose you.”
@
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down
