[P] we shovel all the ashes out;

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* She greets him, polite and distant, and Asterion flicks an ear at the sound of the syllables of his name rolling off her tongue. He is still growing used to the slight accents and little geological quirks of Novus. Eik is the only man he’d met from Day, and he is no more native than Asterion; but the queen’s voice makes him think of rounded slopes of endless dunes, the barren beauty of the desert at night. He drifts a step nearer, and his gaze touches on her again before drifting back over the party, a dark dragonfly that refuses to settle.   “I meant no insult. You wear your flowers terribly regally,” he says, and the corner of his dark mouth quirks up. His words, though joking (a rare thing for him, of late) are true enough: where Flora wears her flowers, natural or woven, in a careless, wild tumble, Seraphina’s perform a strange sort of magic: though they soften her, adding color, it is not difficult to imagine them a different sort of crown. It is nothing to do with her comfort in wearing them, and everything to do with the way she carries herself. The queen is a soldier at parade rest, a blade in scabbard but never far from hand. He is surprised by her question, despite how he’d offered his own unease openly. It wasn’t pity he’d sought in coming to her, or even understanding. Asterion isn’t sure what it is he’s looking for, or what he hopes to find. Likely this makes him a poor politician, indeed, but that is nothing new. “Every party I’ve attended has ended with someone hurt,” he says, and it feels strangely like a confession. Even so he twists his lips in a soft, self-deprecating smile, and moves his gaze back to hers. “I almost think I’m cursed.” @Seraphina   blerg post