☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood

There's no good in these caves. Life thrives even in the most dark of places, and Abigo is not exception. Once upon a time, skirmishes had been fought in these cave networks, opposed to the scorching and mountainous battlefields of the World above. Going in alone had been near suicide, and those that braved the deep roads had to contend with the knowledge death might come from the shadows. There was no training for that, it was all down to instinct and reflexes. Who was quicker, meaner, more agile.

He'd used the Cave Network in his tenure in the Night Army, he and the Knights had used it initially to get behind the Sun King's lines. He remembered the metallic taste in the air, old blood, the smell of dead flesh. The bodies slung up against the cave walls because no one had the time, nor energy to give them their proper rites. Even now, after what seemed like a life time, he can still smell it. All the flowers and perfumes from fair maids could rid his memory of that particular scent.

The press of his lantern against his shoulder is a comfort, as well as the bags around his barrel. Filled with supplies for this particular ranging, in truth, it's filled with wine and other sweet treats. There are no more lit torches along his way, and he dared not change that. Soldiers using the Caves had long been abandoned, and now it's a hive for Vagabonds and Thieves whom toe the line, trade in secret and chance their luck between the Realms. He's chased more than his fair share back into these pits, he's caught a hell of a lot more before they've slipped into the darkness' embrace. Lashed their legs together and dragged them screaming back toward the Capital for punishment.

Locks of chocolate and smoke draped in messy waves across his neck, down they spiraled, further and further until they caressed his knees. Clutched in the ombre strands are flowers, amaryllis flowers twined against moonflowers, delicate and sweet smelling. The same pale flowers also wrap the locks of his tail around themselves, embedded luxuriously in the curly strands like a jealous lover. Though, he can no longer smell their sweet notes, instead he can smell rushing water, fresh and revitalizing against the damp smell of rock. White painted ears tipped forward in interest, nostrils flared to drink in the freshness.

He'd come this way only once before in his ranging, the Lake is Calligo's mirror. A safe haven for those that need to take a moment and to breath. Or hide out a storm. One or the other. It's a greater place as any to spend the night. The World would keep turning, but it would not miss him much and he the same. The lantern is left propped against some rock, wick extinguished and he steadily moved toward the water. He has no need to be afraid of this darkness, the midnight canvas of the sky illuminated with hundreds of Calligo's diamonds. It was the sky he was born into, and one day, it will be the sky he runs in when his soul ascended to meet with his Goddess. Or so the priests liked to say.

But before he can reveal himself to the cool waters, his moonstone eyes instead caught the familiar glint of silver. Instead, he retreated, as silent as he could be against stone and brush. Obscured by one of the boulders, he peered, cautiously, curiously at the mare. A hawk watching something of interest, a wolf in the grass. She's all bonfire smoke and the fog over the sea after a storm, that mist which reached out and ensnared all when it rolled down the mountainside. Silver veins of ore and silver tresses of the molten metal. Renwick would of called her spellbinding, would of vocalized it at least, but the silver which had caught his eye called to him again. Caused whatever part of him would of spurred him to speak up to wilt.

She was beautiful, but she was cursed. A cursed thing he had seen once before, like a serpent uncoiling and poison in the veins blooming on a canvas of paled skin. The memories surfaced and frothed over his chalice. No longer can he smell fresh water, damp rocks or the cloying scent of something carried by the silent winds. All he can smell is the heat, blood on sand, the acrid dryness of the desert air. He'd seen those twisted metal collars on twisted little things once. He'd been no more than a boy himself, really. A boy battle born and battle bred, trained for warfare.

But he'd been green, ever so green to the reality. He hadn't been a wolf then, he hadn't earned his armor or his title.

Instead of the compliment he had envisioned saying to her, and imagined her deflecting with all the grace of a storm and a mare who knew better. All he uttered was a, "You were one of them." Hooves clacked against the stone as he finally revealed himself, closer and closer to the water while those moonstone eyes of his refused to leave. "One of the child soldiers." He'd never imagined he'd see one alive. Grown up of all things. He'd imagined they'd all died, mindless, crippled in the heat as the vultures and sun took care of the rest. If they hadn't been given a merciful death at the hands of someone who gave a damn.

But there one is. All grown up, mountain mist and ocean fog, silver ore and molten metal. With the collar still clasped around her throat. 

---

TAG; @Seraphina
NOTES; let it begin!

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood

It's more emotion than he ever saw, from those little things, he noted. With their collars wrapped tight around those little necks of theirs, and those dead, dead eyes. Colder than winter's breath. How they'd not even uttered a shriek, as they poured like serpents over sand dunes, erupted from the sand like great sand wyrms his mother had once told him about from distant lands one evening when there was a storm howling off of the coast.

Tales had even reached him, when they had managed to secure a piece of that ill begotten land to rest their heads upon, when the Raven's had managed to find them. How they'd rather choked on their own blood, drowned in it after biting their own tongues and swallowed them for good measure. Taught to kill themselves instead of confessing, what kind of monster trained children that death was the only option? Stole a chance at a future from them? It took a toll on them all too, every day the soldiers became less, and children became more common place. The fire stopped glowing in their eyes, all that spirit sucked out of them as they maneuvered over twisted frames, wet with blood and coarse with the sand stuck to it. No more did they anticipate the fight, but dreaded it instead. They muttered among themselves and wondered if the 'morrow brought more misery to their hooves, more blood splashed upon them that they didn't want.What strategy could you possibly employ against that? It was warfare of another kind. None they had been prepared to wade through.

Renwick remembered the day he had thrown down his spear, left it to be consumed by the sand and made brittle by the arid wind. By that time he'd seen his fair share of the fighting. Gained his fair share of scars and stories to tell around the fire. He couldn't shed tears for the mares and stallion's who crossed swords with him, who traded spears and gnashing teeth with him. But he'd cried that night, for the first time in a long time, they'd found him. It had been a little past the moon at her peak, when Zolin's child soldiers had found them. Poured into their camp and caused chaos from the moment they were spotted. It had ended with him in the sand, desperately scrambling to save the babe who had tried to slice his throat open moments before, before it turned the blade on itself. He remembered tearing at his own cloak, how he'd wrapped it tight around the child as it thrashed and choked, how he'd screamed for a healer for the first time in a long time. The rich green of his cloak had muddied to that dark brown it always did, when blood dyed it. But there had been no healers there with him that night, and all he could do was lay there, until their breathing had become ragged and slow. Then went silent.

He'd marched home after that, declared that he had done his duty to his Sovereign and the Realm. War changed you, good or for ill, and it had left a wound within him which he'd buried deep beneath everything else that was good. Everything that would ease the pang. Now it'd been brought to the surface again, and remembering it was like picking at an old scab. It was strange, to be stood there opposite a piece of his history. The opposite side of the battlefield. He's warm where she is cold. Pine forests and the dunes of the desert. He wondered what kind of scars laid beneath her skin, the ones that others couldn't see. Did her thoughts wander in the late hours, when the candles threatened to burn out and the halls were silent?

What did she make of him? This Knight of Flowers and Shadows. A sworn enemy from long before this current strife.

There is a coldness in her that isn't so glacial as he remembered seeing. It is cold, yes, cold enough that it would sting if he touched it, bite into skin and leave it raw, if it so wanted —  but it will not make him brittle boned and shatter him with her next exhale. Her rattled breath is proof enough of that. But then again, he's reminded she has survived the War, and he is not a foolish man. She's dangerous, she has escaped the wolves and the den of serpents that created her. She's dangerous even if she's as lovely as his poetic words painted her to be. Oh Calligo, it's a whirlwind of something he never thought he'd ever have to wade through.

You…were a soldier?

but her voice, it trembled. Like it's foundations were built on quicksand.


"...I was." The Knight exhaled, letting go of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He dared to tread closer, mindful of the distance as he inched closer toward the water. Yet, he doesn't treat her as a broken thing, to handle with care, she has survived this far and no doubt wears it like armor. He cannot help but respect that, despite the sadness her appearance brought him. To handle her like glass, a bird with a broken wing would be dishonorable. Disastrous. So his steps are strong and sure, one after another, rather than the hesitant and cautious steps of a naive man. "I didn't see out the War though, killing  younglings wasn't what I signed up for. None of us signed up for that." He admitted softly, a note of regret striking the chords like a blacksmith's hammer in a forge.

"Why do you still wear it?" He cannot keep the question to himself, it had burned in the back of his throat and threatened to scald him if he did not say it. Silver orbs dipped to the beaten and weathered collar at her throat, in emphasis. Thoughtfully.

---

TAG; @Seraphina
NOTES; <3

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood

Renwick had always expected a hundred different things, when he packed for his ranging trips. Thieves, travelers, the damned and the fortunate. There were a hundred different paths this trip could of taken him, but none of them in his wildest imaginings would of lead him to this moment. There is something profound about this chance encounter, he wouldn't be surprised if it was the divine will of something higher than made sure the Knight met the Silver Queen. He cannot say, if it is a good thing. Not yet. Later perhaps, maybe after the conversation has flowed between these two remnants, or maybe when he's safely back in the confines of four walls, wrapped in blankets with the crackle of the fire in his ears.

For now, he's focused on the mare in front of him, who is every ounce the warrior he is. Who would not hesitate to lunge at him if he so much as stepped over the fragile line between them. A challenge it would be, but he hoped, some small part of him, that it would not come to that. That he would not have to trade blows with this wraith of silver and smoke. A cream colored hoof touched the water, and it's not the relief he had expected to feel, when he had first spied the starry lake.

There's something strangely cathartic in this. There is a chance here at understanding, if War and the games of Sovereign's were ever to be understood. Some weren't. He doubted he would ever understand using children as warriors, other than to rob the future from them, and rob the enemy of their sanity. Renwick had seen the effects they'd had one the rest of the mares and stallions who had also marched on Rhen's orders, rose to the occasion for glory and duty. How many eyes, scattered across Denocte, no longer burned with the same ferocity they once did? All those fires, so bright, so hopeful, so ambitious. Extinguished.

It's uncomfortable, to hear the mare apologize for her own fate, a fate she had no choice in, just like all the others who had winked out of existence at the behest of the power hungry and cruel. Jarring to hear the sympathy which poured over that simple word that held so much weight. She is not the one that should be apologizing, but then again, the ones who should be are dead. You can't pry apologies from the dead, and he's sure their ghosts would of refused, stubborn and terrible even in death. "You do not have to apologize." Silence lingered, if only for a moment, before a strained smile appeared on his maw.  "It is Zolin's fault, it is his enabler's fault." He stated, venom laced around every syllable. Oh the smile might have been there, however fickle and weak, but his eyes remained cold. There is not a hint of warmth to be found there.

I can’t.

A cream dipped ear flicked back at the answer. Confusion is met by confusion, his smile replaced by a thin line and a quirked bow. Why wouldn't she of taken it off? He only knew himself, what he would of done in that position as he is now. He would of wrenched the damned thing from his neck, chucked the blasted thing into the fires and watched it melt. He does not know the meaning behind such a collar, the deep rooted necessity embedded within, set forth by the cruel. Momentarily, he is distracted by the waves of molten silver which fell and curled when she inclined her head, there are few things he's ever found so lovely. It is a small reprieve from the reality that is them. Their winding, weaving paths that have crossed. In that moment between each breath, each grain in the sand. He can forget the sum of what she is. What he is.

Do you know how they trained us?

"No." The moment ended with a harsher reality. He does not know how they turned children into killers. How they conditioned them to fight with such cold determination. He understood then, as she elaborated, why she had never tried to remove it. Why it hung there, grim and smug, after those responsible had tasted death. It hit him like a punch in the gut, a wash of freezing water to the unprepared senses, a cruel taste of steel in the dead of night. "We had heard rumors...well...the soldiers guessed really...but...we never found out." There was no one to ask, no one with the answers, and the ones who had them chose death. Nausea is a familiar thing. He's sparred with it before, too much ale, too much over indulgence, too many dead little eyes. Too many bad memories from the war which chased him in dreams. The one time he'd boarded a ship in the port thinking it was a good idea, when the storms had blown in off the terminus sea.

Renwick wanted to know the truth, more than the guess work, the idle musings of downtrodden soldiers looking for answers to justify what they saw. But he is not the one who lived through it, not the one who experienced what it was like to be unmade and reforged like that. He does not want to tread where it might still be opened wounds for her, even if he's never been one to hold back questions before. Though those kind of questions had never been anything like this.

…but sometimes I think there might be more to it than that.

"How so?" He latched onto that instead, the hesitant little add on. Moved on from the questioning look which swirled in his misty colored eyes, turning them into a storm at sea, channeled the curiosity of his prior wandering into that instead. His hoof removed itself from the water's edge, the lake abandoned in favor of this creature who has captivated him so, for good or for ill.

---

TAG; @Seraphina
NOTES; <3

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood

The worst monsters were those who had no excuses. No other reason to be cruel and wicked because they could be, born blackened and rotten to the core. Given power and allowed it to fester, spread it deep into the ground around them and watched it consume. Zolin was a product of greed and over indulgence, he'd been given more yes' in his life than nos. But he had a choice, or so Renwick believed, a duty to protect his citizens — when they had come for their foals, to finally say enough. There should of been a chord within him that was struck with the force of a spear through the heart. Yet he hadn't, all that pride had made him blind, left a hole where that something should of been.

It had never sat right, made his skin itch and his blood boil.  

When he'd trudged home after the War, Rhen had left the Knights alone. They had limped home with their dead in tow. They buried there dead with words that didn't bring them any comfort, stood in the cold and wet, their cloaks stuck to their bandaged and bruised skin. They'd rebuilt. Slowly the ranks had filled out again, with faces who looked nothing like their predecessors. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that he was Lord Commander, not when Alester had been there before. All his spitfire energy and righteous fury.

…it’s kinder, not knowing.

"Perhaps so." Renwick agreed, thoughtfully, slowly. As much as he wanted to put those ghosts to bed, give answers to the questions they'd all had. It had been enough of a surprise, or rather a shock, to have even stepped into this chance encounter. Tempus' hourglass and timeways were at work here, weaved ever so specifically to allow him and her to meet in a lake in abigo caves, of all places. "A story for another place." Another time, if there was another time after this, where their threads would happen across one another. He would ask.

Perhaps.

…We have not been properly introduced, have we?

That was not the answer he'd been expecting. A question asked with a question, asking for a name no less. Though he supposed that they had spent enough time in each other's company, they have weathered the first of what could of been an otherwise bloody scene. Two warriors on the opposite side of the board once again stepping onto it's surface. If there was any time to test the waters with names, it was now. But names were power, a piece of yourself given to the other, if he decided to reply. Many went through life never knowing the mares or stallions they stood beside, only a face which they were familiar with. A name gave someone an entry way. It's why they used ravens and spies, wasn't it, to learn the names of their enemies.

My name is Seraphina.

Seraphina. It's a tidal wave of icy water doused on his frame. The name sank in like a knife through supple flesh. Or the reality of whom the name belonged, at least. In front of him stands the very Sovereign of the Day Court. He's sure his stiffness is visible, the rod which had replaced his back makes him stand like he used to. Like a solider on the front lines. Stiff, alert. Surprise pants his face like the splotches of cream on his ears, the star on his face and his withers. Flecked carelessly across handsome lines before they shifted to something that might help mask it. He's not sure it worked.

A child soldier, the Queen of Solterra. There's something poetic in that, he thought. Something good in it. Zolin and his monsters had made them to slaughter soldiers from Calligo's lands, who threatened their pride and dressed it up as a nessecity.

Now one ruled, sat upon the throne Zolin had once sat his gluttonous frame on, while he and his enablers were ash in the wind. He's supposed to treat her like the enemy, he supposed, in some far off part of his mind. He's not deaf and blind to the current happenings between Denocte and Solterra. They're treading the thin line and he will be called to action, or they will try and call him to action. Maybe even ask for his opinion, if he's oh so very lucky.

But he cannot see her as the enemy, as he stood there, unmoving with his eyes transfixed upon her the way a wolf might.

If she had introduced herself sooner, before they had shared words, if he hadn't seen the collar. There might have been a different outcome, or maybe there wouldn't have been. He cannot see her as a Queen, even though she fits the image of one. Long haired, fair of face and beautiful, and oh so very deadly. A warrior. The kind of Monarch Solterra deserved, at the very least. Not some pompous oaf with more gold than sense.

He hadn't come here with the intention to be a threat either. There will be no aggression from him this night.

So, he exhaled again, forced the steel from his bones in a breathless laugh. Allowed the irony to ignite his blood in a different way. The Knight hoped that she also saw the irony of it, the way fate had decided to write the pages in it's ancient tome. "Renwick, Commander of the Brotherhood." His frame dipped low into a bow, one leg tucked beneath his barrel while his hair flowed in messy waves over his neck, suspended inches from the ground with their flowers clung fast to the ombre stands.

"So now that we know one another's names, who we are, must we draw swords? call each other by our titles?" He asked, his tone settled into something akin to amusement laced between the questioning note, his head tipped to the side so he could glance across her smoke colored features. "I didn't imagine I would meet the Queen of Solterra on this ranging. A few stray criminals and thieves, maybe. I would rather not fight her, if I can help it." He admitted with a hint of a smile pressed against the corner of his lips.

---

TAG; @Seraphina
NOTES; <3

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood

Maybe so.

"I hope so." He countered with a smile which is far more genuine than the one he'd offered at her apology, it had a sliver of his usual charm in there. But is said a little too quickly, a little too hopeful for it to be a casual thing passed between two. He'd always prided himself on being charming, and in control of his words. Life is a fickle thing, and rarely did it give something good without taking something in return. It's seen to give him something here, however small. It's not so much about the answer he may or may not find, entangled in the path of this warrioress with silver for her hair. He prayed that fate would not take payment in the form of letting their next meeting be over the clash of steel.

Renwick had never relied too heavily on fate, it seemed to weighty a word to excuse the actions of the ill-equipped or just too lucky. But, in her, perhaps it was fate. To see her rise and wear a crown, how heavily it sat upon her forehead, how awkwardly it might have. While his station is not as lordly, at least in responsibility, he had never wanted titles. Glory? Remembrance? Sure, he had not wanted to fade into the history books as some little footnote in a sad tale, or another's expense. He imagined if he wore a crown such as she did, he would not know what to do with himself. Warrior's might have made for good Rulers in history books, but they rarely so detailed what went on beneath their skin. Crowns were heavy, but on those who had seen the bitter grief of War, they sat heavier.

He wanted to ask her how it felt, did it worry the flesh as he imagined it did? Did stepping away from it have the same relief slipping away for untold hours did? Or was it just a constant sensation, present no matter where you went.

Such is their way, there is no ill will from him as he fell onto his Courtly graces. That was one part of being a Knight. The Gods knew he had been swatted enough times as a rugged little colt who had barely donned his squire banners, for forgetting that one must uphold all tenants of their creed. If anything, she is more deserving than most. He respected her, well before he knew she was a Queen. One warrior to another, one survivor of hardship to another. Perhaps two of the few still left who understood the burdens that a soul can carry.

A courtly one, aren’t you?

He can't help the grin which appeared on his features then, whether in response to the comment, or what he detected as amusement in her tone. Both maybe. It's a luminous thing, if not embroidered with wolfish mischief. "One of the first things you learn in the brotherhood, manners. Next to how to hold a sword properly that is. It'd be bad manners to forget them now. My mentor might come back to swat me one last time."

There is a faint line of surprise which ran the length of his spine, when the air remained amiable. He had been testing the waters, he knew where he stood and as much as he liked to guess where the Silver haired Queen stood, he could not truly know. He hoped she found his company at least tolerable, that she had enjoyed his presence — however bitter and painful it might be to have someone of your past suddenly appear.

"There is no harm at playing others at their own games." Renwick agreed, the smile on his face changed to one more of a smirking nature. "Cannot say they are rather good thieves and vagabonds, if they have lead you to their doors, though." The knight added with a ghost of a laugh. "In any case, I hope I'm not a disappointing alternative, to what you had hoped to find here." It certainly is better than what he'd been expecting, he' expected to trudge through the dank and dark caverns, chasing the tell tale trail of recent tracks. Hid in the winding tunnels and listened for any hushed whispers and cautious muttering. To find himself here? It is a blessing, a welcome one, even if it started with tensions high and emotions rattled.

"Seraphina. It suits you, your name, you know." Renwick commented, softly, as she insisted to call her only that. While every ounce of that training of his chafed at casting formality to the wind, he embraced it. What was better than escaping, just for a night? To abandon duties and training, all those lordly airs and responsibilities. Seeing that the time for tension had passed, any battle or fight to be had, had drifted off into the breeze, the Knight retreated for a moment. Back toward where he'd left his bags and his lantern, in order to move them close to the water. Closer to her. Slowly, he lowered himself into the brush and dirt, legs tucked up against his earthy toned barrel, his gaze illuminated in the light of the moon and stars. A silent invitation for her to join him, if she so wished.

"Tonight we'll just be Seraphina and Renwick, then, and do whatever they wish to do. The Queen and Lord Commander can worry about their troubles another day."

---

TAG; @Seraphina
NOTES; <3