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painting the roses red - Cyrene - 02-04-2018
CYRENE
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
The wax-sealed envelope had arrived in the night like a heaven-sent harbinger. Its origins remained a mystery—it had simply been there when Cyrene woke, where it had not been before. How the discerning-eared nymph had failed to be roused by its placing, was a troubling thought she would entertain later—the imposing letter begged to be opened. Gingerly, she pried open the imperial seal like it was a yapping dog waiting to snap off her fingers for dinner.
Brisk, direct. Cyrene traced the curving calligraphy over and over again, in hopes of gleaning something more from within its stark letters. Yet the smooth black ink dared not bleed even a hair’s breadth from its inception upon the creamy parchment, and staunchly revealed nothing more. A tremor of nerves snaked through the girl’s slender frame as she folded the summons back into its gilded wrappings, the solemn seal restored to its duty of guarding flowering secrets from prying eyes.
Surely she had not caused so much trouble, as to attract the attention of the Sovereign herself? Many moons had waxed and waned since her breathless arrival to the shores of Terrastella. Unsurprisingly, though, Cyrene had not stayed confined to the lavender skies of Dusk. Upon swift hooves, she had graced each court she journeyed to with starling eyes and ebullient smiles. Every one—save for the scorching sands of Solterra.
Eyes of burning, carnal aurum bloomed like butter yellow magnolias in her mind. She wiped them away quickly; yet gold lingered still in the autumn girl’s fevered palms. I wonder... how he is. Despite the airs she put off like perfume, her time in the other kingdoms was not spent in foolish cajolery—no, secrets and rambling gossip had slipped, purring, into her soft lap. Studiously, Cyrene had pieced together the scraps until a picture of the strained (and that was putting it too lightly) affairs formed hazy and blemished. Simply put, Solterra was not a place for sun-blessed reunions. Would it ever be?
Still, she had not bothered too much over such stifling politics—instead, she had settled happily as a caretaker among the ranks of Terrastella’s revered healers. Which brought Cyrene back to her current predicament—what had the Queen seen in a common healer like herself? I shall not hope for the best, she sighed. Cursed she would always be to flub potions and singe feathers. Mamá is probably creasing her brow at me as I speak.
Puzzled as she was, the spritely nymph waved her worries away. Florentine was hailed as the Golden Queen—just, kind, merciful. The pride of Terrastella. And as her citizen, Cyrene delighted to at last meet her amethyst crowned ruler. So when the sun dragged itself lazily across the flaming horizon, the bright-eyed caretaker set off on swift hooves towards the ivory citadel. Before Dusk had settled cozily into her lavender throne, Cyrene's featherlight steps echoed along the winding path that ushered her through the keep's kaleidoscope gardens. The flowering scents filled her lungs, and draped her pelt in swathes of pastel finery. "Florentine rules over a kingdom of beauty," she murmured, as soft as silken petals.
@Florentine
ack this took me some time to put up ^^; but I'm so excited ♡
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
The wax-sealed envelope had arrived in the night like a heaven-sent harbinger. Its origins remained a mystery—it had simply been there when Cyrene woke, where it had not been before. How the discerning-eared nymph had failed to be roused by its placing, was a troubling thought she would entertain later—the imposing letter begged to be opened. Gingerly, she pried open the imperial seal like it was a yapping dog waiting to snap off her fingers for dinner.
Caretaker Cyrene Ioannou —
Your presence has been requested by Her Majesty Florentine for Dusk this evening, within the glass awning of the Royal Gardens.
Brisk, direct. Cyrene traced the curving calligraphy over and over again, in hopes of gleaning something more from within its stark letters. Yet the smooth black ink dared not bleed even a hair’s breadth from its inception upon the creamy parchment, and staunchly revealed nothing more. A tremor of nerves snaked through the girl’s slender frame as she folded the summons back into its gilded wrappings, the solemn seal restored to its duty of guarding flowering secrets from prying eyes.
Surely she had not caused so much trouble, as to attract the attention of the Sovereign herself? Many moons had waxed and waned since her breathless arrival to the shores of Terrastella. Unsurprisingly, though, Cyrene had not stayed confined to the lavender skies of Dusk. Upon swift hooves, she had graced each court she journeyed to with starling eyes and ebullient smiles. Every one—save for the scorching sands of Solterra.
Eyes of burning, carnal aurum bloomed like butter yellow magnolias in her mind. She wiped them away quickly; yet gold lingered still in the autumn girl’s fevered palms. I wonder... how he is. Despite the airs she put off like perfume, her time in the other kingdoms was not spent in foolish cajolery—no, secrets and rambling gossip had slipped, purring, into her soft lap. Studiously, Cyrene had pieced together the scraps until a picture of the strained (and that was putting it too lightly) affairs formed hazy and blemished. Simply put, Solterra was not a place for sun-blessed reunions. Would it ever be?
Still, she had not bothered too much over such stifling politics—instead, she had settled happily as a caretaker among the ranks of Terrastella’s revered healers. Which brought Cyrene back to her current predicament—what had the Queen seen in a common healer like herself? I shall not hope for the best, she sighed. Cursed she would always be to flub potions and singe feathers. Mamá is probably creasing her brow at me as I speak.
Puzzled as she was, the spritely nymph waved her worries away. Florentine was hailed as the Golden Queen—just, kind, merciful. The pride of Terrastella. And as her citizen, Cyrene delighted to at last meet her amethyst crowned ruler. So when the sun dragged itself lazily across the flaming horizon, the bright-eyed caretaker set off on swift hooves towards the ivory citadel. Before Dusk had settled cozily into her lavender throne, Cyrene's featherlight steps echoed along the winding path that ushered her through the keep's kaleidoscope gardens. The flowering scents filled her lungs, and draped her pelt in swathes of pastel finery. "Florentine rules over a kingdom of beauty," she murmured, as soft as silken petals.
@
ack this took me some time to put up ^^; but I'm so excited ♡
RE: painting the roses red - Florentine - 02-17-2018
Flowers cascade down the bank towards the trees. The garden, illuminated by a red and purple sky, succumb to the shadows of a dawning night. Yet, even with Calligo’s shadows creeping in, their vibrant bodies gleam in protest. They were her heart, the flower-girl thinks, a heart that longs for Night’s shadows to creep away. They lingered like smoke over the ruins of her heart which had all too soon been returned to her, in pieces.
An ear twists, between flowers and hair of twisted gold. It catches a sound, the clip of slight feet, the brush and sigh of leaves that reach and stroke at passing limbs. A girl moves past the queen, hiding as she was in a dense thicket of flowers. She heads for the awning, its glass roof pouring glass toward the ground like crystal water.
The dusk night, opening up beyond the glass, welcomes the girls as Florentine steps from her hideaway of petals and green. “Thank you.” Flora answers softly. Her amethyst eyes sway towards the young caretaker, a smile curling her lips. “But it is for us all to share and care for together.” She moves beside the girl whose skin was the richest wine-red. There is something silken about this girl: her smile, her skin, her voice. They are all as rich as her skin, all as ethereal as her wings that tuck close to her sides.
They are so similar, the flower girl and her intoxicating protégé. Golden lashes settle over her cheeks as Flora takes a deep breath, her chest tightening as her thoughts drift beyond the night and to the boy so terribly injured by the Night King and his band of Crows. “You must already know that Lysander has been attacked by Reichenbach and his Crows. He is fighting for his life in the healing rooms... I will not tolerate my people being attacked, and that is why I called you here tonight, Cyrene.”
Florentine’s lips lower to a flower, if only to draw her thoughts from their dark turn. Not even the beauty of the flower can lure her away from her shadowed considerations. “Forgive me that I have not met with you yet, but I have heard a lot about you. You remind me of how I was when I first came to Terrastella… I was restless and so keen to travel. Home was never a set place for me and I never wished it to be. I made friends, and lovers, in other courts.” She says carefully, her eyes glittering as they turn again to regard Cyrene. Whilst the Winter’s End Festival had been a terrible thing for its host, Florentine had heard the talesof how it had treated others too... Velorca and Cyrene. The flowergirl knew the boy, snide, silken, serpentine. His distaste for her and her court had never been a secret. His tongue was as sharp as a blade.
“There is going to be much to discuss between the Courts. Dusk needs to find its alliances. It has never been a pertinent issue to me before, but things have changed.” So much, too much. “I therefore want to ask you if you will be my Emissary? I need someone with connections in other courts; someone who has no fear of making friends with those so unlike them. Could that be you, Cyrene?”
her eyes trail over the red, red silk of Cyrene’s slight body, “I shall be going to speak to Seraphina in Day soon, if you wish to take the emissary position, will you accompany me?”
@Cyrene - I am so sorry this took me so long. It's not great, its been a craaaazy few weeks! Pop up on the updates forum that Cy has been appointed as Emissary and you will need to use this post as evidence ;) <3
RE: painting the roses red - Cyrene - 02-26-2018
CYRENE
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
A ripple along the glass—the quaver of a spring leaf, the shaking of a carmine blossom—drew Cyrene’s gaze away from the rosebushes and to a girl of diaphanous, sunkissed gold. Florentine.
As the dazzling queen approached on soft hooves, eyes of glowing amber lingered for a fraction too long on her unlined face, her dulcet smile, her fluttering amethyst petals. Cyrene had heard the rumors—how young Florentine had been when she had accepted the throne from the previous sovereign, Rannveig, the Winter Wolf. Her tragic love story with the King of Night, a boy-king who had loved Florentine so much, so much—and then, golden scales for golden curls—not enough. Yet to see her, to meet her in the flesh… Cyrene did not think Florentine even a year older than she. How heavy the crown must weigh upon her head. The slim-ankled nymph could not imagine it.
But it was not the time nor the place for such stifling, nagging thoughts. As the watercolor sky shifted from cottony lilac to hazy gold, Cyrene smiled tender and bright at Dusk’s gentle queen. "Your Majesty,” she breathed, curls of sable red brushing the tops of her cheeks as she bowed lightly to her amethyst-eyed Sovereign.
With effortless grace did Florentine return her smile; and just like that, a wave of ease settled like a lace shawl around Cyrene’s slim shoulders. Unbeknownst to the girls wrapped in dusk's softest silk, an invisible hand had entwined the strings of their fates together under the twinkling gaze of the rose-and-crystal veranda.
As Florentine spoke, Cyrene could do little but nod in the spaces between one sentence and the next. Leaping lion’s eyes settled into a muted, solemn bronze as she listened quietly to the queen’s muted words. Lysander. Lysander. The name tore at her memory, until viscous, crimson blood dripped like a gruesome river across her eyes. It belonged to the boy she had found on the threshold of death, the midnight bells echoing like an omen through the vacant festival grounds. So much blood had flowed from the near-fatal wounds that littered his dark pelt—the scene came back to her vividly, and Cyrene could still feel the faint pulse that had nearly stopped beneath her fevered, soaked palms.
"I was the one who had found him—I did everything I could, but he was in a horrendous state. I cannot believe,” and carefully, delicately, her amber eyes caught Florentine’s own, "anyone would do that to him,” she finished, voice almost a whisper. She would not speak the Night King’s name, would not mention his Crows—she refused to push the knife ever deeper into Florentine’s bleeding heart. Was that the reason she had been summoned? For his sake, she hoped Lysander had awoken; so close had he come to the blades of Death’s cruel scythe.
But before she could ask, Florentine’s next words unraveled like a crinkling parchment before her. Before she had fully processed it, the true reason the young healer had been summoned was revealed.
“Could that be you, Cyrene?”
It was like something had grasped her chest and squeezed, until all the air in her lungs had been pushed out with a flourish. What… had Florentine said? The Emissary? Me?
"I—" she started, before her mouth closed again in shock. All her life, Cyrene had skillfully ran from her duties—frivolous and uncaring, she had brushed Máma’s scoldings and the healers’ collective sighs from her hands like mildly suffocating pollen. And when she had finally dipped her toes—and when that had not been enough, plunged herself—to her healing, she had not been able to control the cascading effect of her scrambling decisions. She had not been able to save them, not even my own sister. Would she ever be able to? Could she?
Yet as she stared, wavering and lost, Florentine’s sorrow crashed like thundering waves upon her worries. The young queen had tried her hardest to conceal it—but so had Cyrene with her own, for much too long. She could see the pain lining amethyst eyes as clearly as if it had been painted across her skin. In a way, it had been. And may the gods curse her for eternity, if she abandoned Florentine to the storm that had swallowed them both.
Cyrene looked away, briefly, towards the sky. She found her answer among the clouds. "I shall. I shall be your Emissary.” Wordlessly, she walked closer to the Sovereign, to the girl draped in tumbling, lavender petals. "And if you will let me, I shall be your strength.” May Vespera bless us with her protection.
"Then I will go and pack my belongings immediately. I’ve never visited the deserts of Solterra, so I admit I am quite curious for the journey,” she spoke brightly, a fluttering smile nestling back into its rightful place upon her lips.
Emissary. I hope I wear it well.
@Florentine
loong but flora x cy = power pair
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
A ripple along the glass—the quaver of a spring leaf, the shaking of a carmine blossom—drew Cyrene’s gaze away from the rosebushes and to a girl of diaphanous, sunkissed gold. Florentine.
As the dazzling queen approached on soft hooves, eyes of glowing amber lingered for a fraction too long on her unlined face, her dulcet smile, her fluttering amethyst petals. Cyrene had heard the rumors—how young Florentine had been when she had accepted the throne from the previous sovereign, Rannveig, the Winter Wolf. Her tragic love story with the King of Night, a boy-king who had loved Florentine so much, so much—and then, golden scales for golden curls—not enough. Yet to see her, to meet her in the flesh… Cyrene did not think Florentine even a year older than she. How heavy the crown must weigh upon her head. The slim-ankled nymph could not imagine it.
But it was not the time nor the place for such stifling, nagging thoughts. As the watercolor sky shifted from cottony lilac to hazy gold, Cyrene smiled tender and bright at Dusk’s gentle queen. "Your Majesty,” she breathed, curls of sable red brushing the tops of her cheeks as she bowed lightly to her amethyst-eyed Sovereign.
With effortless grace did Florentine return her smile; and just like that, a wave of ease settled like a lace shawl around Cyrene’s slim shoulders. Unbeknownst to the girls wrapped in dusk's softest silk, an invisible hand had entwined the strings of their fates together under the twinkling gaze of the rose-and-crystal veranda.
As Florentine spoke, Cyrene could do little but nod in the spaces between one sentence and the next. Leaping lion’s eyes settled into a muted, solemn bronze as she listened quietly to the queen’s muted words. Lysander. Lysander. The name tore at her memory, until viscous, crimson blood dripped like a gruesome river across her eyes. It belonged to the boy she had found on the threshold of death, the midnight bells echoing like an omen through the vacant festival grounds. So much blood had flowed from the near-fatal wounds that littered his dark pelt—the scene came back to her vividly, and Cyrene could still feel the faint pulse that had nearly stopped beneath her fevered, soaked palms.
"I was the one who had found him—I did everything I could, but he was in a horrendous state. I cannot believe,” and carefully, delicately, her amber eyes caught Florentine’s own, "anyone would do that to him,” she finished, voice almost a whisper. She would not speak the Night King’s name, would not mention his Crows—she refused to push the knife ever deeper into Florentine’s bleeding heart. Was that the reason she had been summoned? For his sake, she hoped Lysander had awoken; so close had he come to the blades of Death’s cruel scythe.
But before she could ask, Florentine’s next words unraveled like a crinkling parchment before her. Before she had fully processed it, the true reason the young healer had been summoned was revealed.
“Could that be you, Cyrene?”
It was like something had grasped her chest and squeezed, until all the air in her lungs had been pushed out with a flourish. What… had Florentine said? The Emissary? Me?
"I—" she started, before her mouth closed again in shock. All her life, Cyrene had skillfully ran from her duties—frivolous and uncaring, she had brushed Máma’s scoldings and the healers’ collective sighs from her hands like mildly suffocating pollen. And when she had finally dipped her toes—and when that had not been enough, plunged herself—to her healing, she had not been able to control the cascading effect of her scrambling decisions. She had not been able to save them, not even my own sister. Would she ever be able to? Could she?
Yet as she stared, wavering and lost, Florentine’s sorrow crashed like thundering waves upon her worries. The young queen had tried her hardest to conceal it—but so had Cyrene with her own, for much too long. She could see the pain lining amethyst eyes as clearly as if it had been painted across her skin. In a way, it had been. And may the gods curse her for eternity, if she abandoned Florentine to the storm that had swallowed them both.
Cyrene looked away, briefly, towards the sky. She found her answer among the clouds. "I shall. I shall be your Emissary.” Wordlessly, she walked closer to the Sovereign, to the girl draped in tumbling, lavender petals. "And if you will let me, I shall be your strength.” May Vespera bless us with her protection.
"Then I will go and pack my belongings immediately. I’ve never visited the deserts of Solterra, so I admit I am quite curious for the journey,” she spoke brightly, a fluttering smile nestling back into its rightful place upon her lips.
Emissary. I hope I wear it well.
@
loong but flora x cy = power pair
RE: painting the roses red - Florentine - 03-01-2018
Flora watches as Cyrene’s body relaxes in her presence. It was a welcome thing to see. But then she sweeps into a bow and Flora sighs softly, a breath that disturbs the flowers between them. “You do not need to bow to me, Cyrene.”
Her smile is small and gentle and it lingers until Cyrene talks of finding Lysander. Oh the tremble in the girl’s voice. Cyrene’s are not the only eyes that close, for Florentine hides behind her own. Their memories are terrible and haunting and what is worse was to think that Reichenbach had committed the crime. It seemed there was a great deal Reich and she did not know about each other. His anger was a wild and savage thing, she was glad to be free of it. But… how much should the Dusk girl make him suffer?
Slowly amethyst eyes open and meet the red, red wine of Cyrene’s own. “Thank you. What you did for Lysander… to bring him back and get him seen so soon. I think, had you not found him, he might not be with us still.” Her voice trails off, lost to memories of blood, broken antlers and stab wounds that just refused to stop bleeding. Oh, her oldest friend was near death and her heart broke itself over him.
The flowers sway, pressing against her limbs. Did they feel her pain? The way her heart was shattering in two? She had not though it could break more, but oh it could and it does.
But the sun rises after the storm as Cyrene accepts her offer. The dusk girl smiles, at once renewed in her endeavours. “Then let us go to Solterra, Cyrene. We have much to discuss and I am sure the desert sands will welcome you.” And there is a smile so full of secrets playing across her lips as Flora turns to also make ready for their journey.
@Cyrene - onto Solterra I say ;). I shall tag you in the new thread when I start it with Seaphina.