to the stars that burn both cold & bright

Orias knows the Moon, one would be forgiven for assuming by the gilt upon their neck and the sweeping curvature of their crown, the Sun is their deliverance. If not for that, then for the Solar Banners they wreathe themselves in, the Court of the Sun's stamp upon the leather of the tome they keep close. But the first to gaze upon them, eyes bright and burning only in the intensity of their blistering celestial blues, was the moon. She glitters, emphemereal and transcendent, winking in the reflection of the orb nestled in gold curves. Unknowable as her darker facets, and he stands in awe of her, always. Beneath her watchful gaze is where his most ardent words are committed to ink and parchment. Tonight however, it's a moonlight stroll, something quaint to alleviate the days troubles. Sundown often brings strange fellows from their dark nooks, strangers who eyes glint with a thousand untold stories that are just waiting to be told.

Forests are just a nice little change of scenery, rather than sun scorched sands and blistering whipping winds nipping at pink skin and delicate dispositions. In his homeland, drakes the colour of earthen emeralds glide from old oaks, bask upon ancient barrows of long forgotten warriors. There are rocs whose wings eclipse the sun sing their nightsong wine sweet. Melodic and haunting, as if the skies could never know melancholy other than novemeber rainfall against weathered stone. Before the Great Dragons and the Greater Unification, there had been those ancient and noble birds, Orias wonders then — considers what Novus might have in it's repertoire. What great beasts does it's beastiary hold, what noble and vicious creatures lurk both the dark and the deeps and their correlation to mythologies whispered high and low.

Stories, it's always about the stories these days. No longer a babe, and but not some wizened scholar with arthritis in his bones, supping poppy wine while skin wrinkles as well-worn clothing oft does before wash and repairs. They yearn for everything and nothing at once, conflicted on the state of their desires and what might quench them.

The Kirin looks starward, hair free of their daily binds, dressed down but never vulnerable. It would be a sound bet to declare it longer than their father's now, liquid moonlight tempered by starlight, curling and coiling as though exhaled from smoke. They breathe deeply, hold and then exhales. Speckled moonlight wrapped in gold flakes. Beaten bronze inlaid with earthen delights and ivory boned, stiller than ancient statues in druid glades. Reclaimed with each passing of the seasons. It isn't until there's commotion, that Orias' odd eyed gaze dares turn from it's posting to the celestial. Mildly curious, curiously mild — upon a maid who reminds him of sunsets in spring, impish pinks cresting clear waves. Once, what seems an awful long time ago, someone had said his odd eyes were the most beguiling feature of them all.

Royal purples of House Solaris' most noble burned line, of Galahalt's surest and determined mark upon their child. Kharos' golden burning gaze in the other. A remnant of yesteryears and the first steps towards greatness. Orias is the past and the future blended together, perfect in their father's eyes. How lucky, how virtuous, how blessed.

As they observe the lilac and cherry marvel, determine her most remarkable features from ones that would slip into oblivion in comparison, they drift closer. Her eyes and her tattoo strike out the most, for those who may have cared to know. Let their cloven hoovies dip into the shallows, enough that the water wets the tips of their white hairs, begins to draw the long tendrils of their mane out into the river current.

"Nice night." They intone, mild, testing. Back in Sunsyia, their tongue would be pressed firmly against their cheek as they said it. But sour lemons do not make for pleasant company, and you catch more delights with honey. If they're to get anything worth writing about, it pays to be kind. "Your tattoo, I don't think I've seen one quite like it. So many go for spirals, painted lines, suns and moons — rather boring, but a serpent. It is a warning or a meaning?"

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"dialogue"
@euryale — I'm so rusty so I hope this is okay.