THE ARCHIATER.
Were Marisol a lesser soldier, she might have bristled at the approaching stranger. Puffed up or backed off or started in on the girl angrily. As is, she stifles her suspicions and watches with an expression of, if not friendliness, at least welcoming. The girl that approaches is slender and pale and doesn’t seem to be threat, but Mari does note the wings plastered to her side with a sort of subtle approval, the feathers on her own, much darker pair fluttering in the faint breeze.
She expects the girl to introduce herself, or maybe to ask, in earnest concern, what’s going on and where she landed. (Confusion’s been a common thread in the last few strangers Marisol has intercepted.) But when the girl speaks, soft and sweet, it is not only with knowledge of the Dusk Court but of Halcyon.
Mari blinks.
It might be the most obvious expression of surprise anyone’s ever seen on her. For the most part Marisol is calculated, is cool, is in control; obvious emotion is rare at best. It’s sort of her job to be stoic. But it’s been months, years, maybe, since someone approached her about the unit rather than the other way around, and she can’t help the twinge of surprise in her chest, nor the warmth that follows as she realizes word of the unit must have spread beyond their borders for the first time in a long time. Not even the last commander saw such infamy, and he was supposed to be the best.
Perhaps Mari has succeeded at something.
A rare, bright smile crosses her lips, then disappears as quickly as it came. You’ve found both, Marisol answers, and maybe her voice is a touch warmer than it was initially - but who’s to say. I am Marisol, Commander of the Halcyon Unit… As she speaks, one huge, glossy wing extends outward and sweeps toward the ground, tilted low enough for the girl to see the three broad strokes painted in bright white across her feathers. The marker of Marisol’s status, though the stranger might not know it. And you?
