I S O R A T H It is not his place to judge her for looking at the crown in such a light, for shoving the title off into the dark below, where it could wither and rot. Indeed, that seemed to be what Solterra was doing right now, the acrid smell of burned flesh and scorched stone permeated the air and each lungful the winged kirin dared to breathe. Oh, it was not her burden to bear, this blame, this unfortunate series of events which had fallen into place like unjust pieces on an already full board. But, they all are pieces on it, in the end, and they can only navigate the perils and pitfalls until they too, are removed. Until they are nothing more than names in books, their flesh ash in the breeze and their bones beneath the sand. Isorath can only look at her with a mixture of empathy and sadness, not the pitying kind. Not the kind nobles gave beggars on the streets. Isorath had been crowned twice, one for love and one for duty. He had suffered deeply for the former title, and those scars were jagged and deep upon the delicate planes of his heart. The gesture is greatly appreciated, nevertheless. Lilac eyes changed then, their slitted pupils swirled with a maelstrom of thinly veiled irony, the breath that escaped him musical and heavy. A leonine tail flicked idly, a casual and polite dismissal of the thanks. It is uncomfortable for her as it is for him, he has come to her without prompt. He is a stranger in a strange land, under the cloak of shadows and carefully absent notes to a beloved he longed to return to. Isorath had never liked letting the pieces move on the board without his careful gaze, however, and he would loathe to let his new found love blind him. His chest ached, terribly, fondly. An echo of another time he'd rather forget. "It is, isn't it?" He agreed with a quiet hum, his accent thick and syrupy upon his words. "But we are the makers of our own moves upon the game of life, are we not? Now the board is set." He stated after a moment, thoughtful as his head tilted to look at the shattered glass beneath his hooves. To the window which he imagined would of been a work of art, before the fires started. To the Dragon which lingered like a dark shroud just out of clear view. "It is our turn to move our pieces, and I would move them wisely." They're still soft, his words. Featherlight as they escaped, how they wisped from his pale maw and evaporated like vapor in the space between them. He has grown up to do this, it was why he was conceived after all, Vectaeryn had their heir, then there was the spare. The one who would dance these sort of worriesome games as the ruler, ruled. His brother was ever capable, a fine man who would be worth the crown and it's weight. But he had little elegancy for the throne of politics. Hence, Isorath. The child of both the sun and moon, who burned as fiercely as the flames and stood as serenely as the moon on the clearest night. Who understood the duality of the Crown and would never wear it. What transgressions have you been made aware of, and how would you see them resolved? "Firstly, I understand your Warden, has mauled my Regent. Quite severely." Right to it then, it appeared, he does not hide the severity of his tone. The graveness woven in to all the finer points. He is not one for fanfare and dramatics here. Long claws unfurled from their embrace against ivory flesh as his wings braced downward, the gilded talons scraped lightly against the dirtied stone as he leaned his weight upon his wings. "But, I also understand that there was an attempt made upon a mare who calls these lands her own, by some of my countrymen." He shifted then, upon the large wings which propped him up, the leathery appendages shifting like sails in the breeze, the thin membrane near seethrough in the light. "In my homeland such penalties are death by dragonfire. But, we are not in Vectaeryn. I understand there are customs in Solterra, for such things? I would see the Court's enact their justice fairly. Then I wish to put them to bed, forever, and not use them to ignite fires between our nations in future." Reasonable wants, he thought. He does not want to see scrolls upon his table detailing slights between the Sun and Night Courts. Caligo only knew that the past few days had seen the reports file in, in a steady stream from apologetic servants. Dusk Court alone had their own stack upon his desk. He does not want to lay in bed with silver hair entangled in inky black, limbs woven between limbs, sleep so close and yet so far away everytime he reached for it. Lilac eyes fixated on a slip of paper than the face which lay inches from his own. Ah, but he had said there would be consequences for this love of theirs, hadn't he? TAG: @ NOTES: "sunshine dasies butter mellow!" |
