ULRIC
A single breath passes from his lips, and suddenly the two of them are swarmed.
Strangely enough, one of the first ones he lays eyes upon is a familiar face of honeydew tresses with eyes of brilliant amethyst peering out from beneath them. Ulric recalls their adventure through the maze with fondness; he and Somnus both had made quick friends with Florentine, and it was a pleasure to see that she had made the trek to Delumine in order to celebrate with them. Accompanying her is a rather anxious looking bay, and as they make the briefest of eye contact, the roan offers the Dusk man a polite nod of his head to acknowledge him. He speaks to Aislinn, proclaiming that Florentine is his sister, and as gilded eyes shift back to the golden mare in question, Ulric watches as the mirth drains from the mare’s eyes entirely. Dark brows furrow with concern, but before he can speak, he’s beaten to it, and even more seem to pour in around them.
And he is far from prepared for the tense air that instantly begins to form around them.
A young colt splashed with scales of vibrant emerald joins next, all childish bewilderment as he looks between their Dusk visitors. By his words alone does it become obvious that he knows Florentine, and Ulric only stands in silence as he soaks everything in – the tension, the subtle cues of discomfort, the way that yet another slipped into sight just within his peripheral vision. As Florentine shifts close to him, Ulric can’t begin to fathom what history has been shared between her and the painted Champion of the Night. Craning his head to the side, he presses a velveteen muzzle briefly against her neck, a silent promise that he was there and had no intentions of leaving.
Again Aislinn speaks, but this time, the words are strained, hurt. She stands trembling and ready to flee, and Ulric finds himself nonplussed. ’What am I supposed to do?’ His mind races as he struggles to find a fix to the situation, a way to keep them all afloat as it becomes increasingly clear that the two girls are beginning to drown right before his very eyes. “Please,” he speaks at last, hoping his voice to be a gentle balm again the chaos that seems so imminent if he doesn’t try something. “No apologies. This festival is meant to bring everyone together, if only for a short while.”
The warrior aims to say more, but before he can, a towering man of mahogany steps into their circle and occupies the empty space at Florentine’s side opposite of him. Ulric knows him not, but his scent is reminiscent of Aislinn’s own. Night Court? Breathing easy, the roan is thankful for the warmth which flows from the stranger’s voice and radiates from his entire being. The tension remains, but the warrior’s hope is that a dash of normalcy will help to ease it all.
“The festival is only as excellent as those that come to enjoy it,” the roan offers with an upwards quirk of his dark lips, eyes of gold shifting to roam over each who have gathered around them. “Delumine is pleased to welcome you all with open arms.”
Strangely enough, one of the first ones he lays eyes upon is a familiar face of honeydew tresses with eyes of brilliant amethyst peering out from beneath them. Ulric recalls their adventure through the maze with fondness; he and Somnus both had made quick friends with Florentine, and it was a pleasure to see that she had made the trek to Delumine in order to celebrate with them. Accompanying her is a rather anxious looking bay, and as they make the briefest of eye contact, the roan offers the Dusk man a polite nod of his head to acknowledge him. He speaks to Aislinn, proclaiming that Florentine is his sister, and as gilded eyes shift back to the golden mare in question, Ulric watches as the mirth drains from the mare’s eyes entirely. Dark brows furrow with concern, but before he can speak, he’s beaten to it, and even more seem to pour in around them.
And he is far from prepared for the tense air that instantly begins to form around them.
A young colt splashed with scales of vibrant emerald joins next, all childish bewilderment as he looks between their Dusk visitors. By his words alone does it become obvious that he knows Florentine, and Ulric only stands in silence as he soaks everything in – the tension, the subtle cues of discomfort, the way that yet another slipped into sight just within his peripheral vision. As Florentine shifts close to him, Ulric can’t begin to fathom what history has been shared between her and the painted Champion of the Night. Craning his head to the side, he presses a velveteen muzzle briefly against her neck, a silent promise that he was there and had no intentions of leaving.
Again Aislinn speaks, but this time, the words are strained, hurt. She stands trembling and ready to flee, and Ulric finds himself nonplussed. ’What am I supposed to do?’ His mind races as he struggles to find a fix to the situation, a way to keep them all afloat as it becomes increasingly clear that the two girls are beginning to drown right before his very eyes. “Please,” he speaks at last, hoping his voice to be a gentle balm again the chaos that seems so imminent if he doesn’t try something. “No apologies. This festival is meant to bring everyone together, if only for a short while.”
The warrior aims to say more, but before he can, a towering man of mahogany steps into their circle and occupies the empty space at Florentine’s side opposite of him. Ulric knows him not, but his scent is reminiscent of Aislinn’s own. Night Court? Breathing easy, the roan is thankful for the warmth which flows from the stranger’s voice and radiates from his entire being. The tension remains, but the warrior’s hope is that a dash of normalcy will help to ease it all.
“The festival is only as excellent as those that come to enjoy it,” the roan offers with an upwards quirk of his dark lips, eyes of gold shifting to roam over each who have gathered around them. “Delumine is pleased to welcome you all with open arms.”
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