She comes like a thief in the dark of the night, under the light of a silvery moon only flashes of gray and glittering whites reveal her. A wraith, a shade, a woman wronged and confused, ravaged by unjust lies spread from poisonous tongues. The sins of others ate at her until hollow ribs show through, but black side, ink-stained sides, hide the depth of those shadows. Only the haunting tales are left to be seen in the hollows of her cheeks and the hollows of eyes swathed in layer upon layer of holly and sage.

More feral avian than equine, her resemblance to that of a magpie is striking - one might think one of her biological parents could have been just that. White splashes the edges of her mouth, her brow, trickles flirtatiously onto the left side, lets through great swaths unto the right. A compilation of yin and yang, balance and chaos, the shades war over her back and rounded hips. The monotony of this battle is broken upon her head, her neck and her chest by titillating plummet gray interruptions. Proud is her stance, held aloft by feet covered in more blue than white or black. Large, curled ears are as expressive as large, expressive eyes whispering tales that only shadows know how to speak.

At last, at last! The woman keeps her hair pulled back, braided and bunned, to see anything (to know everything) that comes close. Unbound is her tail, dripping like a dark cape behind whenever Dalmatia takes to the sky.

callous ; untrusting ; suspicious ; irritable
honest ; clear-headed ; disciplined ; observant

She is a calloused midnight girl of once-starsong and lost hope. A sea of pains carried her into an ocean of untruths and horrid lies. It ate at her weary soul, her striving soul, until a creature unlike that which went into prison caves came out. A Commander brought her back to the moonlight, to the dusk-lit court, but her heart is still in shadow.

Dalmatia is thoughtful and more reflective now, she is chalked full of theories and anger and unease with the previous regime and her unjust imprisonment. Before taking action, before moving her chess pieces on the board, she walks through every possible scenario she can imagine. And imagine she does - what is the worst that could come of it? Most things could not be worse than her three years in prison; her life rotting away, her body becoming thin, becoming atrophying muscles and skeletal sinews barely held together.

When she speaks it is a hoarse whisper, but her words are laced with thinly veiled poison, with her frayed nerves that show through in the darting of green eyes and lowering of brows. Despite her nervousness in the world, despite her general distrust of any and all who dare come near now, who look at her too long, the once-Vicarious is disciplined and honest. She aims to see all so that when the knives come, when the other boot drops, she will be ready and she will not be captured again. Fogs are pushed from her busy mind, meditation keeps her grounded, unclouded in times when she should panic, should flee, should take flight and never be seen again.

But she will not be deterred. There is a fire of determination licking at her belly, demanding justice for all that has been done, demanding that the wrongs are righted. A woman scorned, Dalmatia has come back more determined with years of planning to execute her carefully constructed schemes.

Years 1-3 [ the becoming ]

When she closes her eyes, all she sees is blood. His blood. Her blood. Their blood. Churning together, swallowed by drains, pooling on temple floors.

Her life started with blood.
Would it end with that too?

Dalmatia was born to a woman that wanted only peace, prosperity and to see their tumultuous nation find serenity with themselves and with the other courts. She was strong willed and verbose, a woman with a backbone ready to fight for what she believed, ready to die for what she believed.

But these are only stories handed to an abandoned daughter.

Because her mother died in childbirth. Her brother died then, too.

A twin too weak to make it. Her father told her that she ate him - consumed his energy in the womb. Vespera had chosen only one to survive, that the chosen was Her. He raised her on stories of her brilliant and bold mother, making a star-struck girl believe she was descended from the most wonderful of creatures. A pious woman, a caring woman, a priestess of Vespera heavily religious, fighting the good fight for what was right not just for her family, but for all of Terrastella.

Dalmatia was the sole surviving heir of her family’s short Dynasty.
The girl who would bring it all toppling down.

But in her youth she didn’t know that. She was her father’s shadow as he worked within the Halcyon unit. A lesser soldier in a troubled time, trying to just get by and raise a girl who wore britches too big for her size. As a foal, she’d idolized her parents, had idolized the Unit even more.

They were what Family should be. Not these false Kings and Queens whose rule lead to ruination over and over.

At two, still gangly and unseemly in her own body, Dalmatia opted to join the ranks of the Halcyon.

By three, she was fast friends with Eustace, a promising Flight Leader who had shown favor on her.

Years 3-11 [ the reckoning ]

Before, she was unaware of just how much a mess the previous Commander and Vicarious had left for those to come after them in the Unit. They sewed distrust and unease among cadets, they put up a great wall between the Halcyon and the regime, they damned them all with their damnable immortality making egos larger and larger.

With lifetimes to scheme, they’d nearly wiped the Halcyon away completely by the time of their trial.

Eustace was quickly ushered into the spot of Commander.
Dalmatia was so proud of her friend.

She wore the biggest smile when he took the helm. And then, he had made her the offer of becoming his Vicarious.

Her father was ecstatic, and the young girl could do nothing less than accept.

So she rose beside her friend onto the crumbled throne of generations past. Dalmatia was to be the golden fist to carry out any and all orders, to help lead the people she was just finishing her introductions with, and she was determined to succeed no matter the cost.

In her younger years here, she was much more muchy. Vivacious, loud, thoughtful, and ready to face the world. Like all children, she thought she was invincible. They began their rule confidently even if there were troubles threatening to weigh them down. All the bridges burned under Cicero and Seneca were in need of repair, and who better than a lively young thing with a ready smile and readier hand to mete out rewards and less savory things as necessary?

The two worked side by side to restore the name of the Halcyon, for years entertaining careful Politiks and nurturing budding relations. It seemed things would go well if only they could keep this up. The Halcyon were welcomed back in Court at least, they were allowed their grounds to train. Nothing could take away their iron will to go on. There were still those dedicated to the cause and willing to give their lives.

It was sometime during the next three years that Dalmatia saw her father die. On a mission into the swamps from which he would never return, out to destroy a Kelpie who had been wreaking havoc on the hospital. They came in the middle of the night and took patient after patient. Corpses and Kelpies would arise of once friends, some even cadets who were healing up from training injuries.

The kelpie took her father’s life.
Or so she’d been told.

Mourning followed alongside a change in the once-bright girl. She was still strong and capable, still just as willing and ready beside Eustace to follow where he led. But she was harder than before, throwing herself into drills, pushing cadets harder and harder year after year. Kelpies became something she dreaded, a topic she would avoid for it only led to unreasonable bouts of anger, of sorrow. Dalmatia still had yet to truly mourn the loss of her Father - the one who introduced her to the life she now lived.

In the following years, Eustace became more insistent upon finding Prudence. Group after group of Halcyon units were sent out in search of this legend, this beautiful myth. Many returned empty handed, some didn’t return at all. It only increased her agitation; they’d been arguing more and more lately. They didn’t see eye to eye on how things should be done anymore.

On the side, in private conversations over a drink when her best friend suggested she needs to let her hair down and relax, he’d suggested less than noble ways of finding Prudence. Even then, Dalmatia was loyal. She shut him down time after time, trusting him to do what was right.

Finally, everything came to a furious boil. Too quickly, too quickly now. Dalmatia was at the prime of her life, Eustace was at his, and they were seasoned in fighting and dancing their dance only they knew. She discovered a clandestine meeting, a secret he’d kept from her that he never should have engaged in to begin with.

She went into a fit of rage. Something unspeakable happened in Vespera’s temple. Under the all-seeing eyes of her Goddess, it is said she committed unmentionable crimes for which she was punished and demanded she pay.

Years 11-14 [ the repentance ]

The court case was quick, and the Vicarious, now sullied beyond all repair, was sent to the Prison hidden in the cliffs. For the next three years, she would only see the shadowy form of Marisol coming and going, making sure the tenants were kept alive to suffer eternally.

Then, one day the lock on her cell clicked and light filtered in. It had been years since she saw True Light, and it burned as she never remembered it having burned before.

Marisol brought Dalmatia from the dungeons, but still she must ask: why?

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Not Earned. Coming Sometime.

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