Music and laughter fill the air, a stark difference to the sleepy, sombre silence that had filled Terrastella mere days before. There is a prance in everyone's step as they go to and from room to room, place to place. Fires crackle and the air smells of sweets, incense and the unmistakable smell of wood burning on a cold night.
Lilac eyes reflect it all, sparkling with something akin to adoration as the Regent casts his gaze over the Throne Room, nodding his head in a soft dip as eyes also look and meet his own. At last, Terrastella is alive — living and breathing in the World. Just like the spring that threatens to now chase away the tendrils of dark and winter cold. They will thrive, but first, they celebrate.
Here they paint themselves, some out of loyalty, their faces creased in concentration as they paint the Dusk Court's banners onto their skin. Warriors. Sages. The most steadfast of loyalists, they leave with their heads high and their pride worn for all to wear. Others stand huddled together, a muzzle to a soft cheek as paint brushes declare their love on their beloved's flesh. Silent vows which can be viewed, but their meaning never truly understood. It is for them alone, and for others to stand witness too.
Then there are the pious ones, who mutter praise and quiet prayers to their patron God. Vespera's twilight colors splatter them in her loving hues, Calligo's night paints her devoted with dark abandon. Solis' people blaze in his gilded trappings and Oriens bestows quiet wisdom in the colors of dawn.
Isorath is naked in comparison, startlingly so. His pristine white skin would make a crisp canvas, his leather wings a wall on which many murals could be hosted. It appeared he is not the only one to notice, as his gaze drifted outward again, he spied a gathering of foals, excitedly whispering to themselves as they glanced his way and then to the paint they had managed to procure. They look at his wings with a starry-like wonder, until one, who barely scrapes his shoulder comes forward.
"May we paint your wings?" They chirp, an excited outburst that is quickly hushed down with a small start, as if they hadn't realized until too late. "Please?" It came out much meaker, barely above a whisper, but the Regent heard well enough above the throng. The Kirin spared a glance into those blue eyes and then the glossy, starry-eyed ones of the children not too far away.
Why not?
"Come, children." The Regent responded, voice gentle and welcoming, beckoning them forward as his head lowered to their level to better look at them all. They're splattered in paint, their cheeks striped and their hair flecked. A ember of warmth cascades through him and he cannot deny them. How could he deny such sweet faces? Who look at him so, paint pots quivering in their teke as brushes slosh in the twilight paint.
His wings open, spanning across their heads gracefully to envelop them in their embrace. A clean canvas for them to paint, one that they took to with abandon, yet have careful consideration for. Swirls of lilac, blue, deep shades of royal purple soon began to appear in swirls and shapes upon them.
Isorath watched them with an amused expression dancing across his face, occasionally flicking his gaze to take in the rest of the room. "How about a dragon? Or Vespera?" He commented idly, to the smallest of the group who seemed to be stuck on a decision.
It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it had, that look of consternation which had flashed across Reichenbach's face. Aimed at him. The whole thing should of been easy to simply...let go of, yet, it remained. Annoyingly, maddeningly so.
It sank into the marrow of his bones and wrapped it's tendrils around his ribcage. He cannot remove the image of that face, those eyes.
Burning as his insides scoffed with indignation, yet on the outside he appeared serene. As the thief shed his disguise and the actor changed clothing, he had slipped from it as if removing one of his many exquisite cloas. He slinked onward with the lithe grace granted to him by long limbs and careful breeding, illuminated by the fires dotted around the landscape, bathed in a glow given by the candles which floated behind his head on their halo throne.
Around them Terrastella came to life, rearing toward the sky with glittering eyes and hope in their hearts. Voices raised to the heavens and bodies melded together in the flurry of the night, ember lined shapes painted in promises and desires.
"Lysander." He began, peering at the mysterious stallion from underneath a canopy of long, fan-like lashes. "You had questions about Vectaeryn I remember you saying, what is it you would know of us?"
Florentine and Reichenbach may as well have been World's away by now, swallowed by the Night and the revelry. They're a world within a world, something shifts inside him and he slows to something else. No longer is he leading, cloven hooves dance across the grasses near silently as the music seeps into his skin and his blood hums with it. His body itches now, memories of another place, another lifetime bleed out one precious drop at a time.
They're in the thick of it now, surrounded by dancers and those under the influence, sweetened and softened by the wine and spirits so easily and willingly shared. Others have been emboldened by it, he can spy with lilac eyes, as they chase and chase, racing the wind and their shouts are not the melody of the night. Incense invades the senses, heady and unfiltered, gifted in honor and praise to the gods whose figures dot the landscape here and there, silent, ever watching and yet so alive. Alive in hearts and minds. Even above them, pegasai dance in the wind, through the smoke and the remnants of flame carried on high. Coming into focus as they dare to dance lower and lower, feathered wings wrapped close as they dive and then gone again in a flurry of fallen feathers as they ascend back into the heady smoke and night sky.
He pivots to face the other suddenly, as wide white wings reach toward the heavens to catch him. His gold and silver finery jingle in the momentum as starlit hair flows and settles like rivers in far away valleys of moonstone and porcelain. He is Regent after all, and these are his people. He would be remiss to not join them, their hoots and hollers at his arrival do not go unheard as they dance around them, around the Bonfire they're beside, and only serve to drive the fervor forward.
"I also remember you wanted to dance?"
TAG: @Lysander
hopefully this is okay <3
isorath talks
Posted by: Vale - 01-23-2018, 12:28 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
It was endless and mesmerizing, a vastness of white and nothing more. With every breath, she was made new by the cold sting of the air and it was familiarity. It was home. There was nothing more for miles but the untouched blanket of snow and she was the only creature to disturb it, a speck in the field of white. There was no sound but the fresh crack and squeal of snow under hoof and that very sound was bliss. Vale ran with the wind, the golden sea of her mane and tail flowed endlessly behind Vale as her now flightless wings were spread wide on either side of her. Oh how she wished to take flight among the falling snow, to have them kiss her skin gently as she silent swept through the soft grey clouds blocking the sun.
Yet that was only a dream now. The precious gift of flight was stolen from her, her large swan-like wings were now just for show.
In a sudden stop the mare kicked up snow around her creating a crystal-like waterfall. Taking in deep breaths she exhaled a foggy cloud that disappeared almost instantly. Simply standing there snowflakes clung to her lashes, her useless wings, and her hair like lifelines where they remained without melting. The crystals hanging from Vale's wings chimed peacefully and in that moment it was as if she was back home...or possibly in a dream. The sand was where she took residence but the snow was her home, and wherever it was Vale was sure to be.
"Oh gods surely you tease me for a reason? This must be what I deserve for my sins..." Vale spoke softly to herself. The crown of dead things upon her head tilted to one side almost as if it were replying. "What a perfect punishment...for here in Novus the snow does not remain year round. Like everyone else, I must be patient now." Vale took a look around her, she must enjoy it while it still remains...
It is quite hard to break a creature of habit, that is for sure. If one is born and raised in a single climate being introduced to another - completely different - climate is extremely difficult. Next to impossible maybe. Yet the body never ceases to amaze and although it seems impossible the vessel will adapt and the spirit will once again be at peace. Until then it doesn't mean you have to like it. The sun shone directly into the mare's eyes giving her a head-splitting headache and the flies were relentless, they hummed violently in her ears and looked for a resting spot on her hide causing her to constantly twitch and jitter. Not only that but she was sweating in places the mare didn't know she could sweat. Life was hell when you were meant for the cold and were driven to the hot.
The hustle and bustle of the court was also something Vale hated. Being raised in a monastery everything was rather silent and peaceful. With all these horses pushing each other and yelling, Vale simply wished to sink her teeth into anyone who got close enough. The mare would roll their coppery blood in her mouth before spitting it in their eye...give them a lesson. Yet she was not one to cause a scene and so she went about her business, ears flattened against her skull and eyes viciously narrowed. Vale prayed no one stepped on her dragging tail and mane.
Containing her grouchiness she browsed the merchants' shops, stopping particularly at the blacksmiths who sold wicked curved things for which people could cut themselves on. Something like an icy cold claw reached from deep inside her brain and squeezed, bleeding dark thoughts into her mind. Thoughts she promised she wouldn't have anymore. "Moving on" the mare cleared her throat and kept walking, her manicured hooves clacking.
Now clearly nerved Vale sought to escape the crowd and found herself alone by a fountain made of sandstone. Using the reflection of the water she checked her appearance for any loose strands of hair, Vale wanted to keep herself looking presentable. Returning to society was a truly difficult thing.
and who cares if i'm coming back alive
so what, at least i had the strength to fight
too much, too much, too much, too much
is never enough
Far far below her, Dusk breathes to life; a sleeping dragon that awoke from the slumber of grey winter, under the fading light of the sun above. She soars through the icy winds that were chased along the waves of the sea; each swoop of her wings cocooning her in snowfall and clouds. The sky was an uncommon riot of color with the promise of spring, all deep umber and violet and shocks of red as bright as the blood in her veins. She revels in the heavens as she flies; the tickle of frost on her feathers a most welcome bite of cold, and the kiss of sea spray on her legs cool against her burning skin. The stormsinger whirls, tucking her wings in close, as if she can paint the skies herself with the paintbrush of her mane, before her wingspan snaps open and she ascends the great cliff face of Terrastella.
Bonfires flicker to life along the edge of the world, reaching skywards in licks of flame and woodsmoke and cinnamon. Her nostrils flare with each hidden undertone that fills her lungs as she circles the revelry below. Spices and sugar and drink, and the sweet perfume of pine and snow. The strong salt and brine wind from the sea at her back. Each inhale brings with it a new sensation, and with it, a twist of emotion akin to hurricanes. This land is not as foreign to her now as she once believed. For these cliffs, these hidden alabaster stones beneath the snow.. they have tasted her tears, her sorrow, her anguish. They are no stranger to her own regrets, her nightmares, her betrayal.
And once again, she has returned to these same stones. No matter how hard she tries.. she cannot stay away. A ribbon has been tied around her heart, tugging, relentless — a pull that draws her here. Again and again.
Her hooves dance along the earth as she lands in a flurry of snow that swirls around her legs and tosses the fine threads of her mane. Crystals cling to her as she stills — a breathing star map beneath the discord of colors staining the sky above her. Under the setting sun, she is so so alive. For every second that her heart still beats, the darkness of her goddess grows. A gathering of shadows and stardust and ink that steadily claim the heavens in splotches, like a spilled pot of paint over a canvas. And with it.. the waking of stars.
Too long had she been away from her kingdom of stars and smoke; but also, not away long enough. She is a gypsy, after all; a wandering heart, a nomadic soul. Unbound by physical boundaries and forever a tempest to the breeze that calls her next adventure. But she did not leave her homeland for mere adventure or whim; but something that struck a seed of darkness far inside her. A pain that gnawed and cleaved her open. A raw kind of agony who wears a crown of stars and writhes in shadows and smoke. A man who's skin is kissed by the very same darkness she holds dear; no matter the havoc that has been caused in its wake.
The Rahilah Maiden, and stormsinger to the Court of Dreams, did not run from her kingdom because a phantom wind sang to her in lullabies. The storm in her has taken root; a monster slowly clawing at her insides, threatening, more prevalent with each passing day. In her time away, she realized that the demon might have a name; but she dared not breath life to such things, although the thought never left her. Once upon a time, each breath that graced her lips was his name; each heartbeat was the whisper of his kiss on her wing. She believed that there was a string of fate that tied them together; for she had seen all the signs. She had left for a reason; the linger of her broken heart still kindling deep in her chest. A ghostly pain that shattered with the beats of the organ, like a sword of starlight twisting in between the curves of her ribs. And suddenly, she realized that maybe her demons were all one and the same.
Her pain is a manifested beast; a shadow that not even her beloved goddess could make clear. At the earth's edge, she hangs over the balance of falling into the sea, like she had once done many moons ago. The rush is her escape, a temporary release that fights the darkness rooted in her core. Instead of tumbling, she waits, her gaze on the ascension of the moon as darkness falls. As the stars begin to glimmer, Calligo holds her stormchild close; wrapping her in a blanket of shadows as stardust begins to fall, clinging to her skin. The deep ebony of her coat brings out the gauze of silver that twinkles along her lithe frame, and suddenly, she has become a breathing night sky. A true Child of the Night, and daughter of darkness. And only when the stardust follows her, bringing with it a comfort of her goddess's blessing — despite her faults — does Aislinn melt into the festival.
Her legs pull her elsewhere, through the crowds of party goers that pulse at her sides and lounge on the pillows overlooking the sea. Heat sends shivers along her spine where she walks too close to the pyres, only to glaze over with frost as she steps further from light's embrace. The night sings to her, calls to her, in a way that the sun could never touch. Aislinn is too much a mistress of war, too much a tempest of the secrets that come out to play when Calligo takes over the skies. She thinks of this comfort as she moves like a wraith, until her gaze falls on a familiar figure. A man who embodies the stars and shadows and smoke that felled their skies.
She did not come back entirely empty handed.
The storm in her cracks and sizzles; lightning lacing in her blood and the bright blue of her eyes are gemstones that shine in the dark. Each step draws her closer and closer, until all at once, she stops, the coins at her neck tinkling softly at the movement. Inhaling, she raises her chin, as her lips form the name that has haunted her for too long. The same name that also brings with it a salvation that she cannot begin to understand. Her voice is a whisper of thunder and words left unsaid as she remembers to breathe.
"Reichenbach."
@reichenbach -screams- ahhh i'm too excited omg here you go babe ♡ ps. this turned into a book, I wasn't planning on this imsosorryitssolongpleaseforgiveme D: "Aislinn speech."
Liquid glass was the only description that seemed to fit the massive pool nestled into a set of hills. The hills became the guardians to this precious entity, a lake so still that a single glance quieted her turbulent soul. The longer she stared, the more rising tides of emotion quieted. They ceased to sway from one point of extremity to another. Noctiilucent found herself so easily fascinated by this new world she'd found herself in, with great curiosity for it. She still worried that she'd be tricked by one of the Gods, or somehow earn their scorn and contempt once more. The dappled golden maiden approached the still lake, drawing as close as she dared to prevent herself from disturbing the still waters. The chill of winter was not absent, and sheets of ice that did not connect to the land drifted on the surface. Noctii couldn't get over this strange sensation of quiet she'd found here, it was unshakeable. It bent to no whim, especially not her own. Days prior she'd met a perplexing, and enchanting stag that reminded her of Solomnus. Now she found herself in a domain known as Denocte. Noctiilucent did not wish to stray from this domain, it was pleasant and she was selfishly desperate to hang ono this still feeling. After having such a tumultuous life, it was a rarity she was enjoying. It was only a matter of time before life crept up on her again and stole her serenity away from her. Noctii would soon be forced to chase after it's fleeting touch.
The mare hastily snapped her crown towards the right side of her body in annoyance. Her existence was hedonistic and often felt within herself a craving to stir discord. The rebellious nature of her youth was still firmly rooted deep in her mind, it had never left simply been devoured by guilt. It had burned like fire and never allowed relief to flood her veins. Noctii worried that this solace was destined to be short-lived, and couldn't help embracing her sybaritic desires. Now here she stood on the shores of a quiet lake, so endless that she could dive into the depths forever. It would swallow her whole, and covet her, hide her away from the prying eyes and hooves. Noctii was a frightened child at heart, and she tried to hide it, for it brought her such great shame. The golden and alabaster maiden heaved a sigh from her lips. Her lids fluttered, separating her lashes as they parted. A new scent had floated to her nares, and had her on the alert. The moments of quiet had passed, at least that's what she assumed the universe was telling her. It had endless plans to launch countless conditions at her. Surely another soul would be drifting to this lake of clarity, and serenity. Had she any other name for it, that is what she would call it. To her, this was simply the lake of contemplation. A physical manifestation of all the thoughts swimming in her head constantly.
"Speech"
Notes: Sorry for the wait !
Tags: @Lyra
Words: 511
The storm managed to drive its way into the castle, no matter how heavily they barred their doors.
In some places, it whistled through the cracks in the walls and sung eerie songs in the dead of the night. It was not the storm that was so unbearable, but the constant screeching of the wind ripping through their walls was almost enough to drive anyone mad. Almost.
She had taken to wandering the halls under the guise of patrolling. It did not bother the others to see her walking aimlessly with a mass of dancing shadows trailing behind her. What people didn’t know was that she was planting eyes all over the castle. Small eyes that were mostly unseen. They faded out of view when someone looked directly at them, but to turn away they caught the strangest glimpse of their figures in the corners of their eyes.
Some would have sworn that the castle was haunted at this point, and there had been the occasional murmur of ghosts. Usually, when she overheard such rumors, she would smile and continue on her way. Lavinia was not an expert thief for nothing, she had outside allies as well as within the crows.
The eyes were just there to watch, and tell her who came and went.
And in case they spotted problems for the Night King.
Today, wandering the halls, she grows bored and wonders where her twin might be around this time. So in her wandering she started to hum a sweet tune, mainly to keep her occupied as she entered one of the many rooms here. It was a smaller library of some sort, most likely for those that wanted privacy to study or work. She glanced around with mild interest, she had never been one for much reading. She much preferred dancing and games.
@Reichenbach <3 little crow and king crow thread is a goo
"this here is your speech colour!
The snow was just beginning to fall, bringing with it an immediate drop in temperature. It felt good, soothing even; soothing the aches and sores from sleeping on uneven ground with a single caress. Aion was used to the cold. In times like these, he even craved it.
It gave him something to fight against.
And that rejuvenated him, as though bringing him back to the living after a deep, deep slumber. The sting of a frosty wind biting into his cheek was akin to a slap bringing him back to his senses, refocusing him. Giving him a new pain to focus on, one of his body and not of his heart.
A soft cough coming from the side brought him back to the present, his musings on the winter weather forgotten. The artist was finished. Aion craned his head back to study the intricate pattens painted across his skin, sweeping across his back and down his withers to his right leg. He’d never had as good an eye for art as Eros; but the lines were straight and symmetrical, and they looked good to him. He thanked the painter, but didn’t smile; without caring to stop and see any of the other designs being inked onto the bodies of the partygoers, he left the painting area.
Equines breezed past him in twos and threes, their voices and laughter carrying high on the wind. But Aion walked alone, without a companion twined against him like the other couples. He didn’t stop to interact with the other guests, hardly gave any of them a glance. There was not a single person on this entire continent that he’d want to take the time for, and he was no longer in the business of pretending there was.
He came to a stop outside the confines of the party, the soft sounds of music coming dully to him on the wind. ’Why am I even still here?’ He had debated leaving; he’d left his note already, but Aion wasn’t interested in some of the other traditions the Terrastellan festival offered. Not even the stargazing going on in the fields had tempted him; he was afraid it would hurt too much, like it was a betrayal to go without his partner.
He crushed the snow with one dark hoof, slowly, deliberately, as if stalling for time. As little as he wanted to be here tonight, he didn’t exactly have anywhere else to be.
i'm feeling my way through the darkness
guided by a beating heart
It was a rare thing, for Ipomoea to seek peace and quiet. Perhaps it was the wild streets of Denocte that had finally driven him to solitude, the dancing gypsies with their flashing coins and high-pitched songs seeming to set the entire marketplace on fire. It had been packed and bustling, equines this way and that way all pushing to get to where they wanted to go. There had been the merchants themselves, calling him closer, closer so that he might gaze upon their wares and walk away with far less cash than what he’d arrived with. And let’s not forget the citizens who recognized him for what he was: the Emissary of Dawn Court, a foreigner, something new and exciting. Voices were raised, everyone talking at once, clamoring to be heard over the other, so that Po was engaged in not just one, but many conversations at once. It was confusing and overwhelming, even for one who usually thrived in the spotlight!
It was no wonder Kasil stayed in the keep so much.
Denocte truly was a wild thing, perhaps even wilder than her Night King. And while Ipomoea was not quite put off from it—he found he didn’t mind solitude quite so much as he once thought.
He wondered distantly if the King would mind that he had ventured into his castle for reprieve; but then again, had he not been instructed to make himself at home? Emissaries were supposed to immerse themselves in the different Courts, to be knowledgeable of every culture and tradition. Surely there was something here in the capitol building that he could learn about—without the hustle and bustle of the market awaiting him outside.
In fact, the room he found himself in now boasted a number of intricate tapestries, each boasting a different scene in a different style. He wandered closer, not yet daring to touch, but pressing his nose up nearly so close to study the fine paint strokes of one particular piece, the seemingly center of the room.
A mix of blacks and blues were sloshed heavily across the painting, creating a texture similar to the folds in a silk garment. White dotted the space unevenly, colors strewn in a heavy band through the middle of the night sky backdrop. It was beautiful, but also cold; the sky felt so impersonal, like a watcher of Denocte who had seen too much, but couldn’t look away. A small voice at the back of Ipomoea’s mind wondered at the people who made such artwork, at what had inspired them and made them so worthy to hang on a wall in the Night King’s home.
With a soft snort, he backed away to take in the whole picture again, thoughts churning silently through his mind, threatening to burst aloud unbidden. But it would not do for the Emissary of another Court to be seen rambling to himself, speaking to the paintings as if hopeful they would answer back. No, it was better to keep his thoughts, his questions, to himself.
For now.
@open to anyone! come look at paintings w Po <3
tagging @reichenbach in case you'd like a new thread with him~
so darling, darling stand by me
ohh stand by me, stand by me
Winter's kiss lays a shroud of gauze around her soul, her heart; wrapping it in frost and bruising her in ice that coats the lining of her veins. She burns despite the cold, as her muscles ache with earning and the breath that fills her lungs shreds her open, like tiny glass shards. Each step, each swoop of her wings, every fell of oxygen in her throat.. she grows. Like a bloom defiant against the hard won battle of spring; blossoming in a blanket of snow in a shock of color and beauty. Chaos written in nature's grasp.
She desires to be like that flower; the first sight of growth in late winter. Much like the lavender blossoms that trickle in the breeze and follow a goddess-made-queen. A woman she had thrown herself over the same cliffs of this land for; her heart broken and beaten and torn. The woman who was blessed by gold and milk and honey and spring triumphant. The woman who held the heart of the man she had once come to love, once upon a time. A woman who she had trusted, then betrayed her, only to offer a branch of peace in the coming of snow and frost and winter wonderlands.
The memory tugs, but still she walks. Firelight dances across her skin as she meanders past the bonfires lining the cliff face, the crowds falling away at her sides. The stormsinger breathes in the wood smoke and exhales ash, the music fading away from her, when once, the drums would beat against her like a second heart. Her gut tightens with each step, the festival sparking a kaleidoscope of emotions from the bottom of her soul and to her lungs; choking her of reason and oxygen.
She inhales, exhaling. Again and again until her racing heart slows, thinking of that one, beautiful flower that blossoms in the dead of winter. Despite all of the odds.
Aislinn will become rebirth; she is healing. She will be remade. And the months she had parted from her home, her king, her Court, her Calligo, have made her so. Her shoulders are near weightless from their burdens, her wings spread wide to welcome the twinkling stars and a kingdom foreign to her. But there is a shadow that grows, taking root far inside her. A gathering dark that gnaws, like a monster clawing at the inside of her ribs and dripping in ichor. She is not free, not yet. So she walks, like a ghost made thunder and storm and blizzards, to the edge of a place she never thought she would return to once more.
Now, amidst the same cliffs that tore her open, cleaving her in two when she was already broken pieces, the stormsinger stands. The violet petals that float in the flurries of snow the path she follows to the edge of the world. Where the earth ends and the sea begins, Aislinn stops. Her hooves gracing the white stone beneath her; her lungs filled with ice and salt and brine of an angry sea. But she is not angry.. no, not at all. Her heart weighs heavier than most; a mending thing sewn with strings the color of dusk brushing the sky before the coming of night.
Like the stars above her, Calligo murmurs to her stormchild. Her divine sister's watercolors splotch across the expanse of sky in riddles of spring and muted cold. The sun slumbers, sinking below the horizon, and the moon will soon slowly rise. Ink descends over the heavens as she looks up up up. One hoof poised, delicate, she bows her crown to those skies, and what gods lay hidden among the stars. Her goddess among them; bless her, for despite her wanderings.. Calligo never forgot her. For Aislinn would do well not to forget her too, as she rises, a gaze born of brightest blue flames a pyre of wonder in the night. She is a beacon of the darkness eternal, as shatters of stardust fall from above and cling to her skin. A breathing star-map and a true embodiment of the place she calls her forever home.
A phantom smile pulls the corners of her lips at the very thought, as the shadow seedling in her claws and claws and claws. She has a purpose, she knows, and now she must wait. Her home, her kingdom, her Court.. they call to her. But she is not done yet; for a question lingers on the edge of her mouth, unspoken. Aislinn has never asked for help before.
And now she must ask the love of her king, for a kindness she prayed the new Queen would bear. Forgive me, Calligo, for I will sin.
At her side, stands the opposite of her coin. Where she was once the warrior shrouded in hell and shadows and stars, Florentine is the kind whisper of a spring breeze that heals without the use of words. A stormsinger and a flower girl, atop the cliffs once more. She feels like she is awake in a dream, but she knows it is not so. For once, nightmares did not plague her as her gaze fell upon the woman at her side. Her stomach did not drop, nor roil, and a dagger did not pierce the center of her chest. Instead, she remembers her comforting touch, and the whispers of a lullaby on the edge of her memory, like a nearly forgotten dream.
She remembers the olive branch, and instead of lightning sizzling across her skin in anger, Aislinn smiles softly. Her breath courageously even, despite the shadow that threatens to drown her. "Blessed evening, Queen," she begins, her question toying with her lips as gooseflesh rises on her legs. "I do hope I am not intruding."
@Florentine eeeep -boops the snoot- ♡ THIS IS SO RUSTY I'M SO SORRY -hides-
"Aislinn speech."
