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+---- Thread: [Worship] godless (/showthread.php?tid=1790)
godless - Seraphina - 03-11-2018
☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
It has been a week since the Davke had come.
A week since everything she had built had gone up in smoke. A week since she had been reminded in the most vicious and ugly manner imaginable exactly who she was and what she stood against.
A week since, again, she had been forced to ask herself why and found no answer.
As always, Seraphina had put out the fires. As always, she had hunted down the stragglers. As always, she had met bloodlust with blood – as always, she’d collected the bodies. She wondered how long the sandstone roads would stink of burning flesh and smoke. She wondered how long it would take to rebuild, if they could ever rebuild at all. She wondered how long the Davke would be kept at bay, if this vengeance was as fickle and foolish and self-righteous as their motivations – if all the blood she had watched her nation shed was enough to fill their stomachs. She did not care if they were done or not; she merely cared for how long she’d have to devise them into graves they’d dig themselves.
She wants to ache. She wants to ache, to rage, to scream - but her lips can only find the same, tired words, and her chest feels like it is caving in to nothing.
And now she meanders up familiar, worn stone paths under a canopy of patched starlight, content enough in the court’s stability to travel outside of it. There is something that she must do.
In her charcoal lips, she clutches a golden emblem melded into the shape of the sun. It was once situated above her throne; the emblem was, supposedly, a relic from the time of Queen Sol, forged by her blacksmith-lover to proclaim her allegiance to Solis. The edges are slightly rough, chipped by the carving knife she’d used to pry it free from the ancient wood that only miraculously survived the flames. Alongside it, a candle, and an accompanying match. As she reaches the peak, the heavens open above her head, pelting the silver with a cold dusting of rain and wind that knocks her hair from its braids and leaves it streaming rivulets down the sides of her neck. Perhaps, she thinks, it is only right that she does this now, the furthest she can ever be from her god’s light. In the darkness and the haze, she finds herself consumed, another monochromatic smudge against a desolate landscape of mottled stone.
As she takes her final steps up to the shrines, she drinks in the sight of them – beautiful and ancient and untouched by time. As she passes each of them, she pauses, offering a small dip of her head in acknowledgement; no prayers, though. She realizes that, during the Davke attack, during the slaughter, no prayer passed her lips – no prayer even came to mind, not even the soft mantra that she’d repeated through all her years of war. Perhaps, even then, she had known. Perhaps, even before she heard the whispers, even before she saw the Davke come, a halo of gold illuminating the swirl of dust set up against the horizon, she had known. Perhaps she had always known.
She knows now.
She finds her way to Solis’s shrine last and takes some meager cover underneath it, depositing the candle and the emblem on the cold marble. She lights the match with her mind and lifts the tiny flame to the wick, alighting the candle; it flickers red-orange against her bloodshot eyes and stark features, strangely warm in the cold and the rain. With that done, she casts a long glance at the emblem, and then pushes it forward to the golden hooves of the sun god, polished and glimmering like wildfire against the frail light of the candle. She tries to think of prayers to whisper, but the words won’t come – her throat seems to close up whenever she tries to cede to them, as though even a search for finality is too much of a concession to make. She tells herself that there is no need to speak her mind to the sun god. There is nothing on his sands of which he is unaware.
The candle flickers out with a gust of mountain wind, leaving little more than a trail of smoke as ghostly silver as the mare’s coat and a faint recollection of cinnamon.
So why had she come, if not to seek some light in the darkness, if not to ask for aid as she struggles to rebuild what remains of the kingdom of day? She looks up into the hard, unfeeling eyes of the statue and wonders if she is beginning to resemble it – no, she thinks, as she catches the vicious, proud twitch of his brows and the curl of his lips and remembers that there is nothing, nothing, nothing that would spark her features to rage. Her apathy is alien and wrong, but she can’t seem to untangle herself from it, and, in the wake of the slaughter, she is unwilling to try; if nothing else, it will serve her well in the days to come.
She is not chosen by those eyes.
Sovereigns were supposed to be chosen by their patron gods, were they not? That is what she has always been told – that was what Zolin claimed whenever his orders were rejected, though she cannot believe that he was chosen by Solis, either. Perhaps she’s every bit as much a sham as her predecessor. Maxence was chosen; he’d slain a teryr, after all. (The same teryr, she thinks, that would have left her dead without his interference – if she ever needed a sign that this crown was not her own, it was that.) Avdotya was fire and rage and ambition, and just as culpable in the creature’s death as Maxence; was it really, then, a shock that the sun god’s favor would go to her, a woman that could take power and vengeance by her own volition, rather than the silver, who’d only ever come into possession of it by chance? She is the Queen of the Day Court, now, but she’d never been the Queen of the Sun. She wants to be angry, or jealous; she wants to be bitter. She wishes she could ask if all of those years of prayer, of screaming, of begging weren’t enough – she wants to say that she tried. She knows that none of those things matter to the sun god. She understands. Nor does she blame the slaughter on him; that belonged to nothing but her own incompetence, her own foolishness. Nevertheless, she knows who he aided that day.
She has spent all her years worshipping a god who demands fire, and all she has ever had to offer is smoke.
Seraphina is not interested in begging for scraps of favor; she is not interested in begging for anything at all. She is done with begging, done with searching for answers, done with searching for some compensation for a past that is nothing but smoke and ashes – if she cannot be volatile and furious as flame (and, when she probes at the space inside of her, darker and darker and deeper and deeper by the day, she knows that she will never have fire), she will be as enduring and creeping as winter ice. She knows what she is; she’ll sooner break than bend.
She takes a deep breath, then exhales white. Her eyes remain on the statue. “The Day Court remains your domain. Its people still look to you for light, beyond the smoke.” One last thing lingers on her tongue, mingled with the taste of blood that she cannot seem to wash out. Seraphina does not hesitate. She is done with hesitation. She is done with being a belonging; she is done with the gods-damned collar around her neck. She will see her people restored – she will see her predecessors’ mistakes fixed – regardless of what it may cost her.
She whispers her final words in quiet defiance – the steady, certain voice of one who’d been crushed beneath the weight of one too many sets of hooves. “But I am no longer yours.”
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
It has been a week since the Davke had come.
A week since everything she had built had gone up in smoke. A week since she had been reminded in the most vicious and ugly manner imaginable exactly who she was and what she stood against.
A week since, again, she had been forced to ask herself why and found no answer.
As always, Seraphina had put out the fires. As always, she had hunted down the stragglers. As always, she had met bloodlust with blood – as always, she’d collected the bodies. She wondered how long the sandstone roads would stink of burning flesh and smoke. She wondered how long it would take to rebuild, if they could ever rebuild at all. She wondered how long the Davke would be kept at bay, if this vengeance was as fickle and foolish and self-righteous as their motivations – if all the blood she had watched her nation shed was enough to fill their stomachs. She did not care if they were done or not; she merely cared for how long she’d have to devise them into graves they’d dig themselves.
She wants to ache. She wants to ache, to rage, to scream - but her lips can only find the same, tired words, and her chest feels like it is caving in to nothing.
And now she meanders up familiar, worn stone paths under a canopy of patched starlight, content enough in the court’s stability to travel outside of it. There is something that she must do.
In her charcoal lips, she clutches a golden emblem melded into the shape of the sun. It was once situated above her throne; the emblem was, supposedly, a relic from the time of Queen Sol, forged by her blacksmith-lover to proclaim her allegiance to Solis. The edges are slightly rough, chipped by the carving knife she’d used to pry it free from the ancient wood that only miraculously survived the flames. Alongside it, a candle, and an accompanying match. As she reaches the peak, the heavens open above her head, pelting the silver with a cold dusting of rain and wind that knocks her hair from its braids and leaves it streaming rivulets down the sides of her neck. Perhaps, she thinks, it is only right that she does this now, the furthest she can ever be from her god’s light. In the darkness and the haze, she finds herself consumed, another monochromatic smudge against a desolate landscape of mottled stone.
As she takes her final steps up to the shrines, she drinks in the sight of them – beautiful and ancient and untouched by time. As she passes each of them, she pauses, offering a small dip of her head in acknowledgement; no prayers, though. She realizes that, during the Davke attack, during the slaughter, no prayer passed her lips – no prayer even came to mind, not even the soft mantra that she’d repeated through all her years of war. Perhaps, even then, she had known. Perhaps, even before she heard the whispers, even before she saw the Davke come, a halo of gold illuminating the swirl of dust set up against the horizon, she had known. Perhaps she had always known.
She knows now.
She finds her way to Solis’s shrine last and takes some meager cover underneath it, depositing the candle and the emblem on the cold marble. She lights the match with her mind and lifts the tiny flame to the wick, alighting the candle; it flickers red-orange against her bloodshot eyes and stark features, strangely warm in the cold and the rain. With that done, she casts a long glance at the emblem, and then pushes it forward to the golden hooves of the sun god, polished and glimmering like wildfire against the frail light of the candle. She tries to think of prayers to whisper, but the words won’t come – her throat seems to close up whenever she tries to cede to them, as though even a search for finality is too much of a concession to make. She tells herself that there is no need to speak her mind to the sun god. There is nothing on his sands of which he is unaware.
The candle flickers out with a gust of mountain wind, leaving little more than a trail of smoke as ghostly silver as the mare’s coat and a faint recollection of cinnamon.
So why had she come, if not to seek some light in the darkness, if not to ask for aid as she struggles to rebuild what remains of the kingdom of day? She looks up into the hard, unfeeling eyes of the statue and wonders if she is beginning to resemble it – no, she thinks, as she catches the vicious, proud twitch of his brows and the curl of his lips and remembers that there is nothing, nothing, nothing that would spark her features to rage. Her apathy is alien and wrong, but she can’t seem to untangle herself from it, and, in the wake of the slaughter, she is unwilling to try; if nothing else, it will serve her well in the days to come.
She is not chosen by those eyes.
Sovereigns were supposed to be chosen by their patron gods, were they not? That is what she has always been told – that was what Zolin claimed whenever his orders were rejected, though she cannot believe that he was chosen by Solis, either. Perhaps she’s every bit as much a sham as her predecessor. Maxence was chosen; he’d slain a teryr, after all. (The same teryr, she thinks, that would have left her dead without his interference – if she ever needed a sign that this crown was not her own, it was that.) Avdotya was fire and rage and ambition, and just as culpable in the creature’s death as Maxence; was it really, then, a shock that the sun god’s favor would go to her, a woman that could take power and vengeance by her own volition, rather than the silver, who’d only ever come into possession of it by chance? She is the Queen of the Day Court, now, but she’d never been the Queen of the Sun. She wants to be angry, or jealous; she wants to be bitter. She wishes she could ask if all of those years of prayer, of screaming, of begging weren’t enough – she wants to say that she tried. She knows that none of those things matter to the sun god. She understands. Nor does she blame the slaughter on him; that belonged to nothing but her own incompetence, her own foolishness. Nevertheless, she knows who he aided that day.
She has spent all her years worshipping a god who demands fire, and all she has ever had to offer is smoke.
Seraphina is not interested in begging for scraps of favor; she is not interested in begging for anything at all. She is done with begging, done with searching for answers, done with searching for some compensation for a past that is nothing but smoke and ashes – if she cannot be volatile and furious as flame (and, when she probes at the space inside of her, darker and darker and deeper and deeper by the day, she knows that she will never have fire), she will be as enduring and creeping as winter ice. She knows what she is; she’ll sooner break than bend.
She takes a deep breath, then exhales white. Her eyes remain on the statue. “The Day Court remains your domain. Its people still look to you for light, beyond the smoke.” One last thing lingers on her tongue, mingled with the taste of blood that she cannot seem to wash out. Seraphina does not hesitate. She is done with hesitation. She is done with being a belonging; she is done with the gods-damned collar around her neck. She will see her people restored – she will see her predecessors’ mistakes fixed – regardless of what it may cost her.
She whispers her final words in quiet defiance – the steady, certain voice of one who’d been crushed beneath the weight of one too many sets of hooves. “But I am no longer yours.”
@Aislinn - <3
RE: godless - Aislinn - 03-17-2018
RE: godless - Seraphina - 03-19-2018
☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
The rustle of motion. Strong words for a scorned queen.
She remembers the pressure of hooves slamming her down in muddy terrain, the sensation of her delicate, youthful bones cracking beneath the weight of some far larger and far older man; you were only a child; she remembers the whirl of magic reverberating like a hurricane of shadow, the visions, the screaming, the taste of blood, darkness creeping, creeping, creeping; she remembers Viceroy rummaging through her head, ripping out what he disliked and twisting what remained – she remembers the excruciating pain, the way her legs tore out from under her against her will and left her crumpled, how tears and screams were greeted with even more pain and more violence until she ran out of tears to shed and learned that her screams were worthless; she remembers lying in the mud days after a battle, her skin caking brown and red, tongue swollen and mouth dry and unable to breathe through her shredded lungs and clogged nostrils; she remembers wishing that she was dead, that the dark hovering at the edges of her vision would just take her once and for all; she remembers breaking time and time again and being cobbled back together hastily and haphazardly so that she could break again in a week. She isn’t sure that the mage’s quick fixes ever quite healed right, but her body has not collapsed in on her yet, so she counts herself lucky.
Why, then, would she ever break now? What choice had she but strong words, steeled features, necessary brutality? Sobbing and begging never got you anything. Sobbing and begging hadn’t ever saved her, and sobbing and begging hadn’t saved her people while the Davke ripped them limb from limb. Maybe she was scorned. Maybe she was beaten down, brought to her knees by Avdotya’s onslaught, maybe the god she had invested all of her faith in had thrown her on the wayside like she was nothing at all, but she was not done yet.
She wonders, then, if the rest of Novus thinks she has broken in the wake of the siege. All the better for her if they did – underestimation could be a powerful tool.
She would not break again.
And so she watches the woman as she melts from the shadows, gaze coldly impassive as she locks her stare with eyes burning as brilliant blue as the summer sky. She knows her – she knows her lithe frame, the string of stars tossed down the side of her neck, the rich bay of her coat. Aislinn. The Stormsinger – Denocte’s Champion of Battle. As she moves, her eyes never leaving Seraphina’s, she burns. Seraphina has been met with enough contempt to know it when she sees it, though it is laced with a rare wariness; a caution. To her words, she offers no response. The Stormsinger’s stance makes the silver unsure of whether or not her words are intended to provoke her, but, in any case, she will not be rising to the occasion. If she had been standing in the shadows long enough to hear her words, then she has nothing to justify to her, and if she was so quick to accept that the Queen of Solterra was scorned by the God of the Sun, perhaps she already knew.
“I can say I’m surprised you’d dare travel outside of your borders, but here you stand.”
No response to that, either – she simply watches her through bloodshot, empty eyes, expression unreadable. Seraphina knew her advisor, and she had taken account of her numbers. The Davke might have taken what they would of her city, but far more people still resided in the Day Court, and now she would not be caught unaware. Precautions had been taken, and plans were being made. Seraphina might have been fooled, but she was no fool, and she would not be so easily ravaged again.
Of course, she had not left the Capitol lightly - each step she took away from the city burned her. Once she slipped beyond the sight of her homeland’s familiar sands, however, she felt untouched, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had moved with naught but purpose towards her goal. If she was ever to move forward, ever to rebuild her court, ever to defend what remained of her people, she needed to have purpose, and, to have purpose, she needed to make her peace with her god. Was disavowing him really making her peace? Even now, she isn’t sure - something has been flickering inside of her since the attack, like ashes provoked slowly into embers. No flame – no compromise of her integrity, her resolute cold. She can’t deny, however, that in the wake of the emptiness that has spent so many years swallowing her whole in the blank spaces between her ribs, something is growing. (She is not sure if she wants it to reach fruitition.)
I know who you are.
As though she couldn’t tell. At that, however, the silver speaks. “And I know who you are, Stormsinger.” Her words roll off her tongue smoothly; calm, cool – even cordial. Seraphina is nothing if not tactful, and, though her stance is far from welcoming, she avoids outright hostility, retaining a semblance of statuesque restrain. “What would you have of me?” If the woman had approached her, she reasons, she must have some purpose, be it good or ill. She would hear her out, for now; she can practically visualize the questions brewing on her tongue, amidst the resentment. In the wake of such violence, who could blame her?
The Davke were violence and rage, and they were wild as the desert wind; they would not be satisfied with destroying Solterra. With the Capitol in pieces, it seemed reasonable enough that Denocte would bear the blunt of their next attack – they were Solis’s true children, or so they claimed, and they would be all to happy to sink their hungry fangs into the realms of Calligo.
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
The rustle of motion. Strong words for a scorned queen.
She remembers the pressure of hooves slamming her down in muddy terrain, the sensation of her delicate, youthful bones cracking beneath the weight of some far larger and far older man; you were only a child; she remembers the whirl of magic reverberating like a hurricane of shadow, the visions, the screaming, the taste of blood, darkness creeping, creeping, creeping; she remembers Viceroy rummaging through her head, ripping out what he disliked and twisting what remained – she remembers the excruciating pain, the way her legs tore out from under her against her will and left her crumpled, how tears and screams were greeted with even more pain and more violence until she ran out of tears to shed and learned that her screams were worthless; she remembers lying in the mud days after a battle, her skin caking brown and red, tongue swollen and mouth dry and unable to breathe through her shredded lungs and clogged nostrils; she remembers wishing that she was dead, that the dark hovering at the edges of her vision would just take her once and for all; she remembers breaking time and time again and being cobbled back together hastily and haphazardly so that she could break again in a week. She isn’t sure that the mage’s quick fixes ever quite healed right, but her body has not collapsed in on her yet, so she counts herself lucky.
Why, then, would she ever break now? What choice had she but strong words, steeled features, necessary brutality? Sobbing and begging never got you anything. Sobbing and begging hadn’t ever saved her, and sobbing and begging hadn’t saved her people while the Davke ripped them limb from limb. Maybe she was scorned. Maybe she was beaten down, brought to her knees by Avdotya’s onslaught, maybe the god she had invested all of her faith in had thrown her on the wayside like she was nothing at all, but she was not done yet.
She wonders, then, if the rest of Novus thinks she has broken in the wake of the siege. All the better for her if they did – underestimation could be a powerful tool.
She would not break again.
And so she watches the woman as she melts from the shadows, gaze coldly impassive as she locks her stare with eyes burning as brilliant blue as the summer sky. She knows her – she knows her lithe frame, the string of stars tossed down the side of her neck, the rich bay of her coat. Aislinn. The Stormsinger – Denocte’s Champion of Battle. As she moves, her eyes never leaving Seraphina’s, she burns. Seraphina has been met with enough contempt to know it when she sees it, though it is laced with a rare wariness; a caution. To her words, she offers no response. The Stormsinger’s stance makes the silver unsure of whether or not her words are intended to provoke her, but, in any case, she will not be rising to the occasion. If she had been standing in the shadows long enough to hear her words, then she has nothing to justify to her, and if she was so quick to accept that the Queen of Solterra was scorned by the God of the Sun, perhaps she already knew.
“I can say I’m surprised you’d dare travel outside of your borders, but here you stand.”
No response to that, either – she simply watches her through bloodshot, empty eyes, expression unreadable. Seraphina knew her advisor, and she had taken account of her numbers. The Davke might have taken what they would of her city, but far more people still resided in the Day Court, and now she would not be caught unaware. Precautions had been taken, and plans were being made. Seraphina might have been fooled, but she was no fool, and she would not be so easily ravaged again.
Of course, she had not left the Capitol lightly - each step she took away from the city burned her. Once she slipped beyond the sight of her homeland’s familiar sands, however, she felt untouched, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had moved with naught but purpose towards her goal. If she was ever to move forward, ever to rebuild her court, ever to defend what remained of her people, she needed to have purpose, and, to have purpose, she needed to make her peace with her god. Was disavowing him really making her peace? Even now, she isn’t sure - something has been flickering inside of her since the attack, like ashes provoked slowly into embers. No flame – no compromise of her integrity, her resolute cold. She can’t deny, however, that in the wake of the emptiness that has spent so many years swallowing her whole in the blank spaces between her ribs, something is growing. (She is not sure if she wants it to reach fruitition.)
I know who you are.
As though she couldn’t tell. At that, however, the silver speaks. “And I know who you are, Stormsinger.” Her words roll off her tongue smoothly; calm, cool – even cordial. Seraphina is nothing if not tactful, and, though her stance is far from welcoming, she avoids outright hostility, retaining a semblance of statuesque restrain. “What would you have of me?” If the woman had approached her, she reasons, she must have some purpose, be it good or ill. She would hear her out, for now; she can practically visualize the questions brewing on her tongue, amidst the resentment. In the wake of such violence, who could blame her?
The Davke were violence and rage, and they were wild as the desert wind; they would not be satisfied with destroying Solterra. With the Capitol in pieces, it seemed reasonable enough that Denocte would bear the blunt of their next attack – they were Solis’s true children, or so they claimed, and they would be all to happy to sink their hungry fangs into the realms of Calligo.
@Aislinn - <3
RE: godless - Aislinn - 04-04-2018
RE: godless - Seraphina - 04-05-2018
☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
She can feel the tension brewing in the air around them like veins of electricity; it crawls beneath her skin like a sea of ants, like a storm rolling in on the distant horizon. The storm, however, is already upon her. Rain dribbles down her slick skin, and lightning herself stands in front of her. “I would like many things from you. Where would you like me to begin?” She can’t see the Stormsinger well; the darkness of her coat blends into the shadows. She doesn’t have to see her, however, to hear the ugly, black loathing in her tone. As the Stormsinger draws forward, she has to resist the urge to draw back – the woman is planning something, she knows, and the bitter fury in her voice tells the silver that it’s nothing good.
The warrior woman cracks her neck, advancing ever closer. “First thing’s first-“
There is no time to move.
Her wing resounds against the silver’s cheek with a violent, nauseating crack that is more the result of the small fractures that likely line every bone in her body than the strength contained in the Stormsinger’s assault.
“-that is for your warden breaking my fucking wing.”
Seraphina does not shift. She does not wince, or flinch, though her head snaps to the side with the force of the blow. As she looks back at the Stormsinger, however, her expression has shifted; if there was anything welcoming within it before, there is nothing at all left behind. Her eyes are impassive and dead, like river-rocks or marbles or little chips of ice. There is no anger or injury or humiliation in her statuesque features. Her lips do not curve. Her muscles do not tighten. Seraphina stares the Stormsinger down with empty, bloodshot eyes, refusing her the satisfaction of any reaction, refusing her anything at all.
In the very depths of her being, Seraphina can feel a quiet, white-hot flicker of outrage and indignity; it is the same that she feels when she thinks of the Davke or the Crows or her own god. They know, she thinks, that there is nothing she can do to retaliate. They know that they have forced her back against the wall, chained her up, collared her and constricted her to quiet, passive compliance. She bears offence and injury after offence and injury, watches her people die, sheds blood for crimes that were never her own, and all that she can do is let them hit her, let them kick her, let them hurt her and think that it is better that she is hurt than any more of her people. All she can do is sit still and act pleasant and take it, because otherwise she risks bringing more violence down on the heads of those that she is sworn to protect.
All that she can do now is refuse to play along.
The Stormsinger holds herself high, chin raised and tone imposing. “Now let’s talk.” Then she did want something from the silver. Well, she won’t be quick to give it to her, if she is willing to give anything at all – she won’t let her control the conversation. Cornered as she is by forces outside of her control, Seraphina refuses to let herself be rendered passive. Did this woman think that she had the right to treat her so, as though she is something broken and discarded, all for her advisor’s betrayal and the betrayal of the sun god above? As though there will never be consequence, as though there is no fight left within her? There was more to being forsaken, she thinks, than that.
If the sun god and his chosen one could not bring the silver queen to her knees, what hope had anyone else?
She straightens, then, raising her chin; her cheek is already swelling, and she makes no move to hide it. Seraphina watches her in frigid silence, muscles tensed in preparation – she stands in the path of a storm, and all it would take was one wrong move to bring her fury crashing down upon her head, electric and burning. “Not unless you intend to explain yourself.” Her voice remains eerily cold, impassive; any anger she feels is buried so deep within her as to be unrecognizable. “What occurred with my Warden?” If, she thinks, she can call Torstein that at all; he treads on paper-thin ice, whether he knows it or not, for his irreverent disregard for her people’s suffering. Where had he been while her kingdom had burned? Certainly not enforcing the law that should have been his job.
Snakes, she thinks, the lot of them.
There would be time for that when she is off this peak, however, and away from the Stormsinger’s searing, mocking blue eyes that seem to her no less unpleasant than the impassive eyes of the god she once worshipped, laughing down at her from above.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @Aislinn
notes | aislinn now has the dubious honor of actually making sera angry, even though sera's not showing it.ignore all of her projection.
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
She can feel the tension brewing in the air around them like veins of electricity; it crawls beneath her skin like a sea of ants, like a storm rolling in on the distant horizon. The storm, however, is already upon her. Rain dribbles down her slick skin, and lightning herself stands in front of her. “I would like many things from you. Where would you like me to begin?” She can’t see the Stormsinger well; the darkness of her coat blends into the shadows. She doesn’t have to see her, however, to hear the ugly, black loathing in her tone. As the Stormsinger draws forward, she has to resist the urge to draw back – the woman is planning something, she knows, and the bitter fury in her voice tells the silver that it’s nothing good.
The warrior woman cracks her neck, advancing ever closer. “First thing’s first-“
There is no time to move.
Her wing resounds against the silver’s cheek with a violent, nauseating crack that is more the result of the small fractures that likely line every bone in her body than the strength contained in the Stormsinger’s assault.
“-that is for your warden breaking my fucking wing.”
Seraphina does not shift. She does not wince, or flinch, though her head snaps to the side with the force of the blow. As she looks back at the Stormsinger, however, her expression has shifted; if there was anything welcoming within it before, there is nothing at all left behind. Her eyes are impassive and dead, like river-rocks or marbles or little chips of ice. There is no anger or injury or humiliation in her statuesque features. Her lips do not curve. Her muscles do not tighten. Seraphina stares the Stormsinger down with empty, bloodshot eyes, refusing her the satisfaction of any reaction, refusing her anything at all.
In the very depths of her being, Seraphina can feel a quiet, white-hot flicker of outrage and indignity; it is the same that she feels when she thinks of the Davke or the Crows or her own god. They know, she thinks, that there is nothing she can do to retaliate. They know that they have forced her back against the wall, chained her up, collared her and constricted her to quiet, passive compliance. She bears offence and injury after offence and injury, watches her people die, sheds blood for crimes that were never her own, and all that she can do is let them hit her, let them kick her, let them hurt her and think that it is better that she is hurt than any more of her people. All she can do is sit still and act pleasant and take it, because otherwise she risks bringing more violence down on the heads of those that she is sworn to protect.
All that she can do now is refuse to play along.
The Stormsinger holds herself high, chin raised and tone imposing. “Now let’s talk.” Then she did want something from the silver. Well, she won’t be quick to give it to her, if she is willing to give anything at all – she won’t let her control the conversation. Cornered as she is by forces outside of her control, Seraphina refuses to let herself be rendered passive. Did this woman think that she had the right to treat her so, as though she is something broken and discarded, all for her advisor’s betrayal and the betrayal of the sun god above? As though there will never be consequence, as though there is no fight left within her? There was more to being forsaken, she thinks, than that.
If the sun god and his chosen one could not bring the silver queen to her knees, what hope had anyone else?
She straightens, then, raising her chin; her cheek is already swelling, and she makes no move to hide it. Seraphina watches her in frigid silence, muscles tensed in preparation – she stands in the path of a storm, and all it would take was one wrong move to bring her fury crashing down upon her head, electric and burning. “Not unless you intend to explain yourself.” Her voice remains eerily cold, impassive; any anger she feels is buried so deep within her as to be unrecognizable. “What occurred with my Warden?” If, she thinks, she can call Torstein that at all; he treads on paper-thin ice, whether he knows it or not, for his irreverent disregard for her people’s suffering. Where had he been while her kingdom had burned? Certainly not enforcing the law that should have been his job.
Snakes, she thinks, the lot of them.
There would be time for that when she is off this peak, however, and away from the Stormsinger’s searing, mocking blue eyes that seem to her no less unpleasant than the impassive eyes of the god she once worshipped, laughing down at her from above.
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tags | @Aislinn
notes | aislinn now has the dubious honor of actually making sera angry, even though sera's not showing it.
RE: godless - Aislinn - 05-05-2018
RE: godless - Seraphina - 06-30-2018
☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
She watches her and that taunting smirk – she tries to keep herself impassive and cold, even though she knows that some part of her is breaking apart and the Stormsinger knows it, like a shark out for blood. What does the woman standing in front of her know of Solterra, really? She lives in a nation where she is beloved, where the king she serves is beloved; what does she know of what it means to be despised, to be surrounded by those who wish for your destruction? She should know. The Stormsinger is not wrong. She should know; she should have stopped the Davke; she should have done something, somehow. Her mind keeps ticking back to the months that came before the attack, to the time when she could have done something. Perhaps she is a failure. To her nation, to her people, to everything she is meant to stand for. She is no prodigal daughter, after all. No noble blood runs through her veins, and no people really call her their own. Solterra would rather forget that she existed than stare at her crown every day and be reminded of what they had done to their own children. They didn’t want her as queen. There were people in the capitol that didn’t even want her alive, to say nothing of the Davke.
Perhaps, she thinks, she is a failure.
Fine, she is a failure. If her training taught her anything, it was that failure was inevitable – now began the process of dragging herself back up. For now, that meant tolerating Denocte’s Reagent. Fine. She wouldn’t fight her; let her sink her teeth in and take what she wanted, if that would cool her temper. Her eyes linger on the scrap of metal sprawling across her forehead, and, for a moment, disgust is palpable in her icy stare, before apathy washes into it once more. Another woman with another filthy fucking crown.
She goes on in scorn – although her fury is less palpable, Seraphina senses it twitching beneath her skin. There is a part of her that wants to see if she can unravel it, to coerce her into snapping. Gods know that it would be easier than being forced to stand back and take it. She listens to her words with a slightly quirked brow, her eyes narrowing. Was she meant to be intimidated by her tone? By her words? By the way she strolled in and out of her goddess’s shadows, illuminated only by the occasional crack of lightning in the distant sky? Seraphina has looked far more frightening creatures in the eye than a pretty crowned woman with a grudge – it was all she could do to avoid rolling her eyes at the posturing.
“They all sound the same to me,” She says, finally, “and I don’t think that I want to hear any of them.” Retribution. Revenge. Vengeance. Who does she sound like? (Seraphina wonders if she knows – knows that there is a viper lurking in the desert that likes to think of the same things.) Well, she doesn’t care much for retribution and vengeance and revenge; they all sounded very pretty and noble, full of high ideals, until you looked a bit closer and realized that all of those lofty excuses and pretty words meant nothing at all. What does she care to hear her stories? What does she care to hear her motivations, or her injuries? There are certainly more unbiased parties to refer to – it isn’t as though everyone in Denocte was so aggressive. No, the Stormsinger can’t tell her anything that she can’t find out through other means – though, for approaching her in the first place and demanding that they speak, she must have something that she wants from her.
The faintest of dark, dark smiles curls at the corners of her lips, and she turns.
“Enjoy the company of your goddess, Stormsinger.” There is something oddly cordial to her tone, abnormally and pleasantly amicable – especially for the circumstances. She casts one long stare at Solis’s statue, over her shoulder, and looks towards those eyes.
They don’t look back.
She is gone, then, down the mountainside and towards her desert home, away from constricting darkness and lightning – she has a city to rebuild.
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tags | @
notes | finishing this.
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
She watches her and that taunting smirk – she tries to keep herself impassive and cold, even though she knows that some part of her is breaking apart and the Stormsinger knows it, like a shark out for blood. What does the woman standing in front of her know of Solterra, really? She lives in a nation where she is beloved, where the king she serves is beloved; what does she know of what it means to be despised, to be surrounded by those who wish for your destruction? She should know. The Stormsinger is not wrong. She should know; she should have stopped the Davke; she should have done something, somehow. Her mind keeps ticking back to the months that came before the attack, to the time when she could have done something. Perhaps she is a failure. To her nation, to her people, to everything she is meant to stand for. She is no prodigal daughter, after all. No noble blood runs through her veins, and no people really call her their own. Solterra would rather forget that she existed than stare at her crown every day and be reminded of what they had done to their own children. They didn’t want her as queen. There were people in the capitol that didn’t even want her alive, to say nothing of the Davke.
Perhaps, she thinks, she is a failure.
Fine, she is a failure. If her training taught her anything, it was that failure was inevitable – now began the process of dragging herself back up. For now, that meant tolerating Denocte’s Reagent. Fine. She wouldn’t fight her; let her sink her teeth in and take what she wanted, if that would cool her temper. Her eyes linger on the scrap of metal sprawling across her forehead, and, for a moment, disgust is palpable in her icy stare, before apathy washes into it once more. Another woman with another filthy fucking crown.
She goes on in scorn – although her fury is less palpable, Seraphina senses it twitching beneath her skin. There is a part of her that wants to see if she can unravel it, to coerce her into snapping. Gods know that it would be easier than being forced to stand back and take it. She listens to her words with a slightly quirked brow, her eyes narrowing. Was she meant to be intimidated by her tone? By her words? By the way she strolled in and out of her goddess’s shadows, illuminated only by the occasional crack of lightning in the distant sky? Seraphina has looked far more frightening creatures in the eye than a pretty crowned woman with a grudge – it was all she could do to avoid rolling her eyes at the posturing.
“They all sound the same to me,” She says, finally, “and I don’t think that I want to hear any of them.” Retribution. Revenge. Vengeance. Who does she sound like? (Seraphina wonders if she knows – knows that there is a viper lurking in the desert that likes to think of the same things.) Well, she doesn’t care much for retribution and vengeance and revenge; they all sounded very pretty and noble, full of high ideals, until you looked a bit closer and realized that all of those lofty excuses and pretty words meant nothing at all. What does she care to hear her stories? What does she care to hear her motivations, or her injuries? There are certainly more unbiased parties to refer to – it isn’t as though everyone in Denocte was so aggressive. No, the Stormsinger can’t tell her anything that she can’t find out through other means – though, for approaching her in the first place and demanding that they speak, she must have something that she wants from her.
The faintest of dark, dark smiles curls at the corners of her lips, and she turns.
“Enjoy the company of your goddess, Stormsinger.” There is something oddly cordial to her tone, abnormally and pleasantly amicable – especially for the circumstances. She casts one long stare at Solis’s statue, over her shoulder, and looks towards those eyes.
They don’t look back.
She is gone, then, down the mountainside and towards her desert home, away from constricting darkness and lightning – she has a city to rebuild.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @
notes | finishing this.