The clatter of hooves upon slate is the scrape of claws upon a mountainside. A dragon it is, that curls its way about the rugged peak and creates hurricanes with its pounding wings.
 
About the girl’s feet, dragon fire leaps from parchment to parchment, armies falling beneath its onslaught. Its maker is an ugly thing of jagged, black brush strokes and wild, fierce eyes.
 
Upon the page it is so still, but in her dreams it is alive to terrorise the mountain with the song of Maxence’s demanding feet.
 
It is not a draconic roar that rouses the girl of flowers, but a king’s demand that pushes its way to every corner of the castle. It is a voice she knows. It is the roar of a lion from a canyon ledge.
 
With books as her pillow and parchment as her blanket, the girl had dosed in blissful quiet, exhausted by duty and adventure. Yet now she awakens with a start, petals tumbling to brighten old parchment with vibrant amethyst. Upon her cheek, spines of books have drawn a web of whimsical tales and droll, droll histories.
 
It had been the first time the library books had ever met the girl of flowers and her swift, swift fall to slumber had made them sure they would not see her again soon. She was made for more than the quiet whispers of library books…
 
Leaving feathers and petals upon her bed of tomes and scrolls, the girl drifts to gaze through a thinly slit window. A flash of leonine teeth and a glimpse of golden trim is all that is needed to tangle her stomach into knots. A huff of irritation has the girl swirling from the window.
 
“Morozko.” Florentine answers the stranger, Avdotya, as she tumbles, sleep rumpled, from the shadow of the citadel. Sunlight paints her gilded gold, alighting upon ember flecks that burn within the amethyst of her eyes. “His name is Morozko.” She affirms in a voice as soft as twilight light.
 
Garish scars, livid and broad, summon Flora’s attention as she gazes over the slender warrior girl. Sun-kissed skin shivers for what it may be like to live through the trauma of such battle scars – the girl of flowers would not know, she had not survived her own. A ribcage of broken bones and lungs full of blood were unforgiving injuries to bear.
 
The ghost of blood upon her tongue has Florentine’s eyes fleeing from Avdotya’s lithe, battle-worn body to settle upon the Lion King. “Maxence,” The twilight girl purrs with a voice of silk and words to play like needles down his spine, “it is a pleasure to see you using your wings. I had begun to think they were just ornamental.” The smile that curls her lips casts away the final vestiges of sleep. It is a sunbaked canyon, tall and red, that plays upon her mind as her eyes trail, the line of feathers as his side.
 
Across the meadow, vibrant flowers shiver in the breeze, trembling as the tension draws tight between the warriors. There is no mistake the young emissary is the anomaly, yet she seems not to notice as her eyes map the frown lines that darken the Sun King’s face.
 
“Our Queen Rannveig will come to see you when she is ready, it should not be too long now.” Slender body turns as she slips in place beside Morozko, nose ghosting against his shoulder, a wing against his side. A gesture to ease the tension from his ice-hewn skin.
 
It is with something akin to regret, that her gaze frees itself from the fire of Maxence’s skin, to settle upon the slim warrior girl once more. “You must be Avdotya.” The twilight girl hums gently, for such scars could only belong to the Sun king’s regent.
 
“I am Florentine,” It was an introduction, as light and warm as a summer breeze, “forgive me if I do not curtsey, my legs are still a little sore from the canyon your king made me climb.” And ended with a wicked curl of lips.

@Maxence @Morozko @Avdotya

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

Break me down and build me up

'Cause I love the adrenaline in my veins

For as much as she stayed well within the borders of her Dusk kingdom--the quiet tranquility the only song she knew the lyrics to--many gathered before she was even aware of their presence. She was lost in the ways of their simple lives and how everything seemed to move around them. The cliff held the sea at bay, the swamp bore life in murky waters; the fields cradled them all and nursed the quiet-hearted. She was as enchanted by their delicate livelihood as she had been the previous year--the passage of time could not diminish their beauty. And she had spent that year learning all she could of the Terrastella lands, its bodies worn thin under the fine caresses of her fingertips.

Maybe lingering around the walls of the Dusk Court had made her soft, a lackadaisical girl who wished only to dream. The tenderness of the grasses and gentle brush of passing winds. But maybe she had always been that way, the rough-ravaged warrior of a snowy land the fortress she built around herself. She was a child-princess at heart; she had never really left that part of her behind once she submitted herself to Jarl.

The summer heat pushed her into the confines of the Court's tower, lighted torches bouncing flames off walls and the tapestries they held. The stairs that spiraled upward had claimed her weight more than once in the few passing moments as she moved from floor to floor. The empty rooms stared back at her through their wide entrance eyes and gaping mouths that held a myriad of purposes; one, resting gently but floors above her, holding the sleeping Florentine in its arm. And though one had dared to rattle the foundation of the stone tower, his weight meant nothing to the breathing rock beneath his hooves and mighty wings. The ancient castle merely sighed against the kiss of his hooves as he set off to find a different kind of purchase--there was no give, no sign of submission from the heart of their court.

And so with his announcement she made way down the stairs and through the parts of the tower she had previously paced. Such an introduction could not be for one who held himself of little importance, and the choice to rouse instead of wait reminded her of the warriors in Jarl. Her comrades in the frostbitten camp knew nothing of meek-mindedness; through weak knees and battle-torn skin they pressed themselves into the snow and never bent under the will of complacency.

Perhaps Solis had found his warrior after all.

The sun shone harsh against her creams and fell a lover into her starry blues, a body bold yet traced with delicate strokes. She emerged from the tower's entrance to find those of her own with strangers--particularly that stranger that she had assumed held much spirit. There was no mention of the Day Court but she could clearly place the boy and his partner as coming from the sand-claimed lands. Conversation was dying off as she waded through the soft grasses around them, approaching from behind her Emissary and Warden with gentle touches of her muzzle against their hindquarters in greeting. The sharp faces of her visitors did not concern her as they had Morozko; she stood slightly abreast of them and held neutral features while bowing her head in welcome. "Your call has been heard." Heavily accented words slipped into the spaces between the two sovereigns and rested softly there. Sea-green eyes moved from him to the 'Avdotya' once. "At times, waiting is best form of strategy." And a smile crossed her lips.

With them, with lion and wolf, perhaps one could only wait to see who would strike first.