While he had flown on ahead of the pack there was certainly no keeping Maxence from watching his flock. With one eye on the landscape unfolding ahead and another on those who followed his trek beneath, the lion king's doubts clawed and scratched their way at his mind. Should these deliberations go south there really was no one to turn to, though there really was no reason why they shouldn't if he was just his usual pleasant self. There should be no reason for the queen of fields and flowers to rescind allegiance.
Most of all it was those who followed him that he wished to keep in good favor. Should he lead anyone astray he'd surely have his own head and allow failure and ridicule to eat at him for all the wars to come. Were they foolish to put their trust in him? Maxence was certain they were all completely mad to chose him, even completely insane at times, but as each day passed the more he found himself at home. They were becoming his comrades, his brethren.
Perhaps that was why the Dusk Queen's opinion and approval mattered so much to the brute; The lion somehow assumed her good wishes would equal approval and a sign that he was doing the right thing by those countrymen who bled in the sand beside him.
The fields came first, then the craggy building of the Dusk Court. A romantic scene, perhaps the loveliest he'd seen since setting foot in this continent, but he hadn't come here to admire architecture. Cirlcing once around the building with wings of an entire hurrcane and beating his hooves once upon the slate roof of the castle's spire, Maxence made his presence known.
Landing with a steady thud in a near-by field, cropped tail and lion's head flopping gently onto his rump with the rest of his uniform, Maxence turned to look across to the horizon to the very edges of the grass sea where he hoped to find those he'd brought with him from Solterra.
"Where is the lady Rannveig?" the commander chanted toward to Dusk Court walls, a scowling frown taking up every inch of his face.
He was by no means angry or in any sort of mood (except save for being terribly exhausted from the flight) - a horrid frown was literally just his resting face. "I await" he boomed finally, taking his strides in a short circled to lace his way away from the court buildings and into the field near by.
It was not uncommon for Maxence to forget formalities, titles and so forth, and it did not pass his mind that nay who looked upon him was unlikely to have any clue who he was. Perhaps the sovereign of Solterra was the last one would pick him as.
Maxence has come to meet Rannveig! He's brought some buddies from the day court I'm assuming, but tagging the regent and emissary who i'd love to see there supporting him! @Avdotya @Seraphina
@Rannveig
It was the drumming of hooves on the mighty building’s roof that first drew Morozko’s ire.
He had just been making his way into the courtyard when he heard it, and paused with narrowed eyes as the shadow of the stallion passed overhead, wings stirring the grasses and bending their heads low. It was not a figure he had seen before; it was certainly one he would remember, even before he spied the lion’s head that adorned the male’s rump. The unicorn paused, neck arched, half in shadow and half in sun from his place in the doorway.
And then the stranger - the trespasser, as far as Morozko knew - hollered for his queen, and the soldier stepped forward with a snort.
As he drew near enough to fully take in the whole of the stallion’s impressive appearance, the main thing he marked was the scowl he wore, one that seemed to mirror the expression of the unfortunate lion. For his part, Morozko kept his expression impassive, though his silver eyes were cool as chips of ice. The scent of the Day Court - of blistering sun and dry sand and wild wind - was unmistakable on the stallion and those with him. The only question was if they posed a threat.
“You may be awaiting a while, if you don’t show the proper respect for a sovereign in her own home.” Morozko shifted his weight, eyes unwavering from the imposing stallion’s features. Luckily for all gathered, he did not add what else lingered on his winter-sharp tongue - namely, wondering whether all the Day Court were such barbarians.
Not that that was a bad thing in all circumstances. He knew of at least one whose ravenous tastes were actually quite enjoyable.
The journey was extensive and Avdotya's mood had long since decayed into a cesspool of virulence. She was no world traveler; the desert had always been her home and to have left it so far behind was something the mare had never done before. Everything now was foreign to her: the feel of lush grass beneath her hooves, the bustle of life all around them... the smiles on faces of passersby. She was not fond of any of this, but still she found herself approaching the Dusk Court's capitol building.
Maxence had already announced their arrival by the time she had pulled up, but her focus strayed to the sights that surrounded them. She watched the flora dance in the breeze and simply drank in the open field, then grimaced. Its beauty paled in comparison to deserts she called home, its residents even more so. Regardless, the sovereign appeared determined to accomplish some good for the court today and she would do her best to hold her tongue.
Until the grey stallion arrived, at least.
She lifted a brow at his words with nothing else to her expression. "And you are?" She asked dryly, the sharp accent of her birth-herd all the more obvious outside of the Day Court. Surely this man was no more important than the fly that sat upon her rump this very moment and her response relayed that thought exactly. Many of the realms had their figureheads set in place now, most of whose appearances Avdotya had caught word of through the drifters that walked Elatus Canyon. This stallion did not possess any details she had heard of, but even if he did hold some kind of relevance, she cared little about it. If he chose to speak with such disregard, she would happily do the same.
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.
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.
With time, sweltering heat and endless, red-gold sand gave way to fields of soft, sweet green - a departure from the ordinary that the mare did not deem unwelcome. Solterra was home, but much of her youth had been spent in perpetual motion, chasing wars that would never be won; she imagined that she would never completely shake the wanderlust, an almost implacable (but nevertheless fundamental) desire for distant horizons. If not the horizons, motion. Seraphina did not know how much time she’d spent in the library lately, a far cry from the battlegrounds, flipping through papers that she’d occasionally caught glimpses of in passing but was never allowed to touch. A steady emphasis on devouring everything that she put in front of her managed to stave her desire to return to the dunes of the Mors while she avoided further irritating the injuries she had sustained in the battle with the teryr; she had deemed herself able to join the procession to the Dusk Court, though it was perhaps more out of a sense of duty than most anything else. In spite of her numerous injuries, – significant bruising on her limbs and torso, a mess of gashes (thankfully, covered) that ran the length of her spin, and a gouge in her forehead obscured by bandages wrapped awkwardly about her ears – her movements were fluid, and her expression belied no pain. She was indistinct and distant, perhaps a bit otherworldly; less of flesh and blood and more of ice or carved stone. In the past, the Dusk Court had been an ally, or, at the very least, not an enemy, but it wouldn’t do to appear weak in front of them, if she hoped to be taken seriously in her new role. Seraphina was already unaccustomed to acting the diplomat, and, ominous-looking as her injuries might be, she’d be damned if she passed up the chance for practice.
If by “practice,” one could mean very real diplomatic encounters, anyways.
She arrived in the Dusk Court long moments after her fellows, hampered by her wounds; nonetheless, as she breezed in to take her place at Maxence’s side, mismatched eyes examining the Dusk Courtiers that had already arrived in much the manner of a scientist about to dissect a particularly intriguing specimen, she was composed. The unicorn – she’d seen him before, once, at the ocean. The gauzy little cream-colored girl, with her pretty wings and flowers wreathed in her mane and tail – Seraphina parsed that she met the description of the Emissary, Florentine. (Was it presumptuous to make assumptions?) Then, finally, the woman that could only be the Lady of the Dusk Court herself, Rannveig – her coat plastered with a sea of stars and a wolf pelt astride her back. She was already speaking when Seraphina arrived, a faint smile drawn across her lips. This was a dance, she realized, as she looked her over, eyes cool as ice even as she felt a knot twist in her stomach. She’d never been an especially good dancer; this role was words and histories, perceptions and facades, and she had grown with little more than a knife in her hand to guide her way. (How do you learn to swim, Seraphina? The words in her head come out in Viceroy’s voice. You kick to the surface or you drown.)
For now, she could simply wait.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
09-01-2017, 09:15 PM - This post was last modified: 09-04-2017, 09:14 AM by Seraphina
The first to approach was one who hissed but dare not scratch, and barked but wouldn't bite. It was this stupidity - or was it cowardice? - that left Maxence with a slightly bewildered expression on his fac,e his sights crossing from the source of his amusement, across the sky and to the next who approached. The brute clearly only wished for a reaction from the King, to ruffle some feathers and sink into his skin, and so for such a pathetic comment Maxence wouldn't dare deign to oblige him. Instead the Sun King stepped forth, allowing the regent to regard the ignorant butler (if that's what he was), his shoulder perhaps even brushing upon the silk coloured unicorn with the hissing voice on his way past, greeting Florentine with a courteous nod of his lofty head.
Maxence was prepared to greet the flowery woman as a friend and it was only when she abruptly corrected the regent that he paused in his step, one foot crossing to his left in a subconscious measure of protection over Avdotya; a woman he counted among his few closer friends in this world. Watching, waiting, his eyes cool and radiant as Florentine continued with perfumed words that felt as though they even sought to kiss the insides of his ears. All Maxence heard, though, were false manners and dishonesty - If she could just say what she was thinking and skip the niceties they would all be better off, though perhaps it was just that when he looked at Florentine he saw too many smiles at the wrong moment, leading him to believe she hid every thought and every emotion behind good manners and polite expressions.
In good time the subject of his wearing patience finally appeared, a sea of stars and moons freckling her every inch. He wondered why she dwelt here in the dusk court when she appeared more wintry and terrestrial than any other - perhaps these shores were not her home like many others. It was her own sideways scold that brought the King's perpetual frown to a close, his eyes narrowing for a moment before his jaw dropped to speak.
"We are Solterran. We have to wait for food, wait for water, for rain. There's not a thing you can tell me about patience when things you need not even wish for are at your fingertips" As he spoke this his eyes cast over the vast, luscious fields that he stood upon that would provide an endless amount of food, and then over his shoulder in the direction of a swamp and stream where water was abundant. In the land of the sun it was not uncommon to go days without food and spend all day looking for water.
"But I did not come here to bicker" The lion rumbled, gaze soon flicking to the silken idiot who had sought to challenge him moments ago. "I am Maxence. Avdotya and Seraphina are my advisors. We wish to know where you stand with our court - are you friend or foe to the people of solterra?"
