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+---- Thread: [P] I remember fields of flowers -- (/showthread.php?tid=4377)
I remember fields of flowers -- - Seraphina - 12-09-2019
☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼
It’s midnight in my head & she binds her reckless throat.
It is midnight, and the moon is full. It is never really winter in the desert, not in the way that winter comes to all other places – but there is the barest hint of a chill, a little lick of pale, cold fire that shivers up her spine when the wind blows in just the right direction from the sea. It is midnight, and the moon is full, and she is as silver as her blade in the pale light. The sand does not crunch beneath her hooves when she runs. She hovers just above it, perfectly silent save for the click of her sword at her hip, the shifting of the thick fabric of her scarf, the rare creak of leather. It is midnight, and the moon is full, and she is cold in a way that cannot be explained by the wind, and the cold will not go away. It makes her teeth chatter and her skin crawl. It is always winter inside of her sometimes, winter where she is dead on the ground and there are flowers all around, snow white except for those places where they are splashed bright red. Those corpse eaters. She still smells them sometimes; she wakes at night smelling them, jerks upright to something sickeningly-sweet with a copper aftertaste.
She is restless tonight.
Ereshkigal senses it, and Seraphina can feel her laughing; not aloud, but somewhere inside, somewhere deep in her chest. She always stokes her higher, fiercer, wants to see her burn. The vulture is a poor influence, she knows, and one that she must always work to temper. She is too cruel to live here, in these mortal lands, and, if she lets her dig in too far, her talons sink too deep – if she ever does that, she will be too cruel for this place, too. She does not want to be cruel anymore. But she doesn’t want to find herself in that field of flowers ever again, and she has the marks to show for it.
The tips of Ereshkigal’s feathers brush against her cheek, right at the scar. Seraphina dances away from her touch, allowing her eyes to roll over to linger on her dark form, a silent warning; Ereshkigal makes a hissing sound, deep in the back of her throat.
Somewhere in the desert they stumble upon a sandwyrm. It is between two dunes that she could probably discern if she were thinking, but she is not thinking, or she is thinking out of her own control – her mind is running too fast, and her thoughts feel like they are crumbling out of her control. One moment, she is rearing back, her hooves dipping into the sand and kicking up a spray; the next, the sandwyrm is dead in front of her, tongue lolling out of its bloody jaws, and there is an arrow in its skull, right between the eyes. She is standing in front of it, her shoulders slumped, her head slumped, her eyes glazed.
The scent of blood snaps her out of it, and she jerks upright, taking a step back. Yes, that is her arrow – right there, right between the eyes, the tip buried somewhere in the animal’s brain. Yes, she did that. She must have done that. There was no one else to do it. She barely remembers. She barely thought of it – and it was done. She barely thought of it, and she is not sure if that is a curse or a blessing.
She blinks at the arrow, and she reaches the tentative grasp of her mind around the hilt; she has to wriggle it a bit to pull it from the sandwyrm’s skull, and she is left with the memory of a meaty squelch ringing between her ears and the arrow suspended in front of her, dripping fleshy bits of red onto the sand.
tags | @Vendetta
notes | a strange little exercise, I guess.
"speech"
It’s midnight in my head & she binds her reckless throat.
It is midnight, and the moon is full. It is never really winter in the desert, not in the way that winter comes to all other places – but there is the barest hint of a chill, a little lick of pale, cold fire that shivers up her spine when the wind blows in just the right direction from the sea. It is midnight, and the moon is full, and she is as silver as her blade in the pale light. The sand does not crunch beneath her hooves when she runs. She hovers just above it, perfectly silent save for the click of her sword at her hip, the shifting of the thick fabric of her scarf, the rare creak of leather. It is midnight, and the moon is full, and she is cold in a way that cannot be explained by the wind, and the cold will not go away. It makes her teeth chatter and her skin crawl. It is always winter inside of her sometimes, winter where she is dead on the ground and there are flowers all around, snow white except for those places where they are splashed bright red. Those corpse eaters. She still smells them sometimes; she wakes at night smelling them, jerks upright to something sickeningly-sweet with a copper aftertaste.
She is restless tonight.
Ereshkigal senses it, and Seraphina can feel her laughing; not aloud, but somewhere inside, somewhere deep in her chest. She always stokes her higher, fiercer, wants to see her burn. The vulture is a poor influence, she knows, and one that she must always work to temper. She is too cruel to live here, in these mortal lands, and, if she lets her dig in too far, her talons sink too deep – if she ever does that, she will be too cruel for this place, too. She does not want to be cruel anymore. But she doesn’t want to find herself in that field of flowers ever again, and she has the marks to show for it.
The tips of Ereshkigal’s feathers brush against her cheek, right at the scar. Seraphina dances away from her touch, allowing her eyes to roll over to linger on her dark form, a silent warning; Ereshkigal makes a hissing sound, deep in the back of her throat.
Somewhere in the desert they stumble upon a sandwyrm. It is between two dunes that she could probably discern if she were thinking, but she is not thinking, or she is thinking out of her own control – her mind is running too fast, and her thoughts feel like they are crumbling out of her control. One moment, she is rearing back, her hooves dipping into the sand and kicking up a spray; the next, the sandwyrm is dead in front of her, tongue lolling out of its bloody jaws, and there is an arrow in its skull, right between the eyes. She is standing in front of it, her shoulders slumped, her head slumped, her eyes glazed.
The scent of blood snaps her out of it, and she jerks upright, taking a step back. Yes, that is her arrow – right there, right between the eyes, the tip buried somewhere in the animal’s brain. Yes, she did that. She must have done that. There was no one else to do it. She barely remembers. She barely thought of it – and it was done. She barely thought of it, and she is not sure if that is a curse or a blessing.
She blinks at the arrow, and she reaches the tentative grasp of her mind around the hilt; she has to wriggle it a bit to pull it from the sandwyrm’s skull, and she is left with the memory of a meaty squelch ringing between her ears and the arrow suspended in front of her, dripping fleshy bits of red onto the sand.
tags | @Vendetta
notes | a strange little exercise, I guess.
"speech"
RE: I remember fields of flowers -- - Vendetta - 01-14-2020
this is my domain
you're stepping on my ground
you're stepping on my ground
T
here’s no real reason that Vendetta is awake at midnight, on a typical Solterran winter eve. The sand is still slightly warm underhoof, the air bites just the right way as it brushes across her every curve, and her skirt leaves strange markings on the dunes as it floats across it with every step she takes.
The court is often quiet at night; they are a court of sun, of course. But the streets are no longer dead, no longer empty, like the eyes of some imprisoned beast. Perhaps that is why Vendetta finds herself among the endless sands of the Mors, with the moon turning them from burning gold to chilling silver. The quiet, she has always thrived in the silence. In the void between breaths, when others are too busy thinking about their next word, or meal.
Vendetta crests the rise of a dune and pauses at the great shape of what can only be a sandwyrm in the distance, and below it, like a speck against the desert, is the shadow of a rearing equine. She expects them to be disposed of, quickly.
That is not what happens, and the Mistress cannot stop herself from getting closer. Who is this mysterious equine, who disposes of desert giants as if they are nothing more than market vermin?
Whoever they are, they don’t seem to notice her approach. Vendetta takes a good long look at the dead sandwyrm, perhaps the cause of even more interest than the equine who caused its demise. It’s not as though she’s ever had the occasion to be this close to one before.
She still standing there, silently, when the other equine seems to snap out of whatever state they were in. They pull an arrow from between the beast’s eyes and grasp it, dripping blood and gore upon the sand at their feet, and that is when she sees the scars. Vendetta knows exactly who she is looking at, and her interest is far more piqued than it was before.
“Resurrection certainly… becomes you,” the unicorn says at last from where she stands behind the other mare, “Seraphina.” Vendetta looks keenly at the previous Solterran Sovereign, ruby eyes somehow sharper in the moonlight, curled horns glinting. Stories of Raum’s end had traveled the court like the fires that have consumed it, more than once.
But more than that, were the pieces of information of who had been there. Oh, certainly much of it has been glorified, many times over. Vendetta just so happens to have the proper ears to listen to what is true, and that truth is standing in front of her right now.
@