[P] collarbone country

[Marisol]

THE ARCHIATER.

In the peachy-purple gloaming something like unrest stirs in Terrastella, and Marisol takes it in calm stride, just as she has learned to take everything else.

With animal intensity her stony gray eyes remain fixed on the horizon, where, hundreds of miles away, she knows the Summit is in session. The craggy silhouette of Veneror is its own heartbeat in the far darkness. As much as she is loathe to admit it (to herself, much less to others), something like fear has been beating quick in her chest since the moment Dusk’s regime left: in their absence it seems that she has the whole of Terrastella’s fate balanced on her shoulders, and it makes her aware of how alone she is, how truly alone, no Ard, no Erd, no cadets trailing her.

Just her. Slim-hipped and violent, well-versed in cracking her own bones. A commander sans shield - who is she then?

Swallowed mostly  by the pearlescent grass that grows weed-fast in the fields, Marisol stands with her head raised to the setting sen and wings folded to her side. She is a smoothly built silhouette against the impending dusk. Despite the calm scene around her - brief breeze, a warm sunset, the quiet song of crickets - still something inside her is wound up tightly, and still she stands militaristic, shoulders set, legs squared, ears flickering in lazy patrol for any impending strangers. Please bring them home safe, comes her silent prayer, near-childish for the intensity with which she speaks it. The want is so incredibly loud. By Her hand, let all the regimes escape unscathed, and let our Courts be better for it.

When the footsteps come, Mari’s head turns toward them only slightly. They smell of Dusk, not of danger, and her vigil has made her already too tired to look for conflict where there is none (never mind that it might be her first instinct). Cool as always - Hail Vespera, she murmurs to the stranger.

 It is all, in her eyes, that needs to be said.

@indra

[Indra]

life's but a walking shadow

Indra has been learning and re-learning the contours of Terrastella, her iron hooves trailing prints along the cliffs and beaches, across the meadows, between the trees. She has not dared, yet, to venture up into the swamplands. She knows too well how much they will have changed, and the knowing bites deep, even as she steels herself against it.

So it is among the fields that the unicorn finds herself this evening, the twilit sky casting her silver sides with a violet glow and deepening the wine of her mane to an inky mulberry. Nightfall has always whispered to her in lonely, private way, and for the moment she is glad of the quiet that has cloaked the court of late. During the day the empty hallways of the keep echo eerily with her hoofsteps; the deserted streets feel like a depressing mockery of their usual bustle and noise. Come dusk, though, Indra is always grateful for the silence, and the peace, and the chance to collect her thoughts.

She is adjusting, slowly, to the world outside the riftlands. The Ilati of her childhood are gone, centuries gone, but a few of their descendants yet remain, and that is a comfort, even as she senses that her place is no longer among them. It is a different shared history that holds more sway for her now—the kinship of those who have walked her homelands, known her people, escaped the rift. There is something that binds them, that calls to all of them, even those she has never known except by passing recognition.

And there are those that she does know: the wild, painted mare of the ghost-plain; the time-walking young queen of Terrastella. Furious as she is with Florentine, Indra cannot deny the relief she felt to discover the flower girl had lived. She does not yet understand what has brought them all together, here, in Novus, but she can feel it, like pressure building on the distant horizon, and she is ready for the storm to break.

So lost is she in thought that Indra does not notice the stranger until the other mare has spoken. Hail Vespera, the pegasus greets her—a favorite salutation among these parts. Indra, never having been much of the religious sort, merely dips her horn in response. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she offers. “I’m Indra.” She takes in the stranger’s stern posture, the flicker of weariness in her eyes. “You look like you’ve had a long day.”

i n d r a

@Marisol <3

[Marisol]

i opened my mouth and the night poured in-

The woman that approaches is beautiful in an almost eerie way. Mari watches her with cool gray eyes, and her gaze may not be warm in the one would expect of a friendly stranger, but at least it is not as piercing as it usually is, her usual fierceness muted slightly by those dark fluttering lashes and the low, warm light that surrounds them. Dimmed by the dusk, the stranger is pale-silver, her hair awash in a pigment of wine; Marisol notes the horn spiraling from her forehead with muted interest and does not remark upon it.

She doubts they’ve crossed paths before. The way Mari’s heart picks up speed briefly in her chest, and the sheer individuality of the woman in front of her, makes her think she would’ve remembered their meeting before. The Commander’s memory is as sharp as her tongue, especially when it comes to the Terrastellans she’s meant to protect; what sort of warrior would she be if she did not know what she fought for, and what sort of Halcyon leader would she be were she not to devoted to every soul within the Dusk Court’s border? It is with this in mind that she nods briefly at Indra’s introduction, then responds, raspy but cordial: I’m Marisol. Nice to meet you. The rough scrape of her voice makes it obvious that the Commander is not usually talkative - out of practice, even, in hospitable conversation - but it’s still worth an attempt, she thinks, regardless of the embarrassment.

Long and stressful, she answers, something almost like a laugh seeping into her voice. On Mari, anything like a smile looks foreign, feels wrong, but she accepts the tease with an awkward sort of grace, as graceful as she can manage, and she blinks at Indra warmly. The Summit worries me.

Her voice trails off, and Marisol tilts her chin to the scene behind them. Miles and miles away, the peak of Veneror is just visible, shrouded in icy fog and the blur that comes with far distance, a monument that looms overhead with seemingly titan importance; her gaze is even as she watches it, but for the millionth time today, something like anxiety thrills through her nerves as she wonders what is going on up there and whether the regimes are truly God-protected. They can only hope.

@indra

[Indra]

life's but a walking shadow

In the gathering dusk, it is difficult to read the other mare’s expression (or perhaps she is simply in the habit of schooling her expression to neutrality), but her words are friendly enough as she volunteers her name in exchange for Indra’s own. “And you as well, Marisol,” the unicorn replies, trying the name on her tongue, liking the way it feels as it rolls from her mouth. It’s a warm name, somehow, even if its owner isn’t—and pretty, and strong, which its owner seems to be. Sturdy, but nimble. Melodic.

“These are stressful days, it seems,” she murmurs in agreement, a wry smile unfurling across her lips. Indra does not know this mare’s role in the scheme of things, but she would not be surprised to learn it was important; most people she’s met, of late, seem to hold positions of power here, with decisions to make and responsibilities to tend to. It’s an odd realization, when she herself has so little direction, so few ties to any place or any thing, and for a moment she is disconcerted by the thought.

But Marisol is speaking of the Summit, drawing her attention toward the distant silhouette of Veneror, just barely visible against the violet of the evening sky. Indra had missed most of the furor over the goose’s arrival, but she had heard in the days that followed about the message Tempus had sent, summoning the regime to a mountain meeting. “Because of the gods?” she asks. “Or the rival courts?” Indra knew which she would find more worrying. Gods, in her experience, seldom troubled themselves with mortal concerns (if they even existed at all). But men? Indra had seen her share of grief and destruction, and most of it had been dealt by others of her kind.

There is a flash of white in the gloom—the underside of a wing. It is no more than a glimpse, a shifting of weight, but Indra glances away quickly, almost startled, feeling as if she has seen something private, something not meant for her. “I was thinking of going,” she says, a little awkwardly, bringing herself back to the conversation at hand. “To the Summit, I mean. But surely they will keep each other safe.” It is only Florentine and her regime, really, that Indra is thinking of; she does not know enough yet of the rest of Terrastella’s community to consider them in the way that Marisol must. But she eyes the pegasus, noting again the vigilance with which she stands, even now. “Are you charged with keeping watch while the sovereign is away?”

i n d r a

@Marisol

[Marisol]

i opened my mouth and the night poured in-

Marisol is almost relieved to find the other mare in agreement when it comes to the stress of the climate. It’s not just her, then, overworried as always - not just her exhaustive need to militarize the surrounding world, to categorize it into the weapons and victims she knows so well, is wont to categorize everything into. It makes her feel saner. And for Mari, the feeling of saneness is a hard, hard thing to come by.

Indra is a silver-lined figure in the near darkness, built lean and white and red with the savage kind of beauty Marisol has come to appreciate in the women that surround her. She watches the girl with a  quiet appreciation; femininity is something Mari herself has never quite possessed. Sometimes she wishes she did. Sometimes, she longs to fit into the category expected of her. Wonders what it would be like to be a real girl, soft instead of sharp, collecting flowers instead of bones.

But of all Marisol’s dreams, this one seems by far the least accessible.

Both, I suppose. As much power as the gods hold, as violent is their omnipresence, as many years as Marisol has been coached and trained to fear them, she knows, truly and deeply, that they are not half as volatile as are the fickle hearts of men. That for all their snake-like watching, they are only half as likely to strike as a Court-king scorned.  And no - not technically - something like a smile, though really it’s an expression of embarrassment, crosses Mari’s face like a stone skipping water. Protecting where I can still feels… like a duty. 

That is the only way she can put it into words. Underneath that simple phrase lives every piece of work Marisol has ever put into herself or into the Halcyon unit - every silvering bruise, every drop of blood spilled, every broken bone, every hour wasted, every mile exhaustively traversed. It is years and years’ worth of trying and training and watching.

But - thankfully - there’s no way for Indra to know that.

@indra