She had descended Veneror Peak whilst the moon still hung high in the sky, casting all the world below in a luminous haze of milky silver; now, as she strode into the ancient fortress that served as the capitol of the Day Court, the first blush of Oriens’ dawn hung gentle and pink on the distant, golden horizon, heralding the slow passage of Solis’s light across the sky. The scent of incense and honey-like primrose still hung thick to her coat as she drifted through the weathered sandstone archways, eyes cast out to linger on the shape of a great pyre built up in the center of the courtyard, crowned by bones that she could only imagine belonged to her fallen sovereign – retrieved by the hot-headed ambition and warlike loyalty of her people from the teryr’s dead offspring, then meticulously cleaned in preparation for the funeral rites. (Viceroy would have carved them with words, even prayers, but she imagined that the Solterrans unfamiliar with his customs would have found that insulting, to further tamper with the remains.) Seraphina stood, gazing up at the great monolith of wood and bone with a sense that something was pricking in her chest. Dead and gone, she’d told herself, on her way back – like tracks in the dunes will disappear overnight.
She reached for the right words in preparation for what was to come, but she didn’t think that there were any. She was no master of sentimental storytelling, no great wordsmith that could spin poetry out of thin air; no, she was simpler than that, and guided by something else entirely. Nor did she really know what she felt, staring up at the jagged tips of branches and the sharp spurs of bone. She wished that Maxence was still alive. That would have to be enough.
Her mind, normally so composed and structured by rigid discipline, found itself tangled into knots, trapped like some wild beast in a hunter’s net. She grasped for words – grasped for something, anything that felt right, but nothing did, and nothing would. (And perhaps there was a prick of guilt, for she knew what would come soon after the funeral. It was only natural, and yet…it felt wrong, like a vulture feasting on raw carrion. There were no words for that, either.) She ran circles around herself, questioning, questioning, questioning; she found the stark white of her sovereign’s – quietly, reluctantly, her friend’s - bones and stared into them, as though she would find the answer that she sought somewhere in their marrow.
None came. Gods could be cruel, she supposed – crueler than most anything else.
Those bones were all of them, the last of him, and they gleamed like the milky fog she remembered on dead eyes (turned up to stare at a sky they couldn’t see) in her childhood. For a moment, when she’d watched the teryr drag Maxence away, Seraphina had clung to the foolish, frantic hope that he would somehow wrestle free of its grasp and return to them, whip crackling like the flames that were soon to consume all that remained of him. For a moment, she had forgotten the taste of death, bitter in her mouth. For a moment, she had thought that they were more, that they existed somewhere outside of its reach, that a moment of progress would mean a necessary continuation. Now, those foolish delusions shattered, she could only recount regrets – and those were just as useless.
She wished that he was still alive.
She remembered, as her eyes finally turned from the pyre to creep along the hazy, rose-tinted outline of dawn, her sharp words on his arrival; she remembered the way he screamed her name when the teryr, the first damned teryr threw her to the ground, a concern that she’d never experienced before in her life; she remembered the way her stomach had lurched into knots when he’d announced her his Emissary; she remembered their last conversation alone, the ghost of a smile on his lips, the sense that they were accomplishing something, that there was finally a meaning to her; she remembered his call from within the library, the way her hooves had felt against the sand, the flurry of motion, the blinding light, the blinding light, the way a scream caught up in her throat-
It had all happened so fast.
It had all happened so fast, and Seraphina was left unsure of how she felt, because she expected to feel empty.
Her gaze, finally, fell back to the pyre. (He’d died a glorious death, a warrior’s death, or so she’d been told; but it was all just death to her, empty and grey as the ocean in a storm.) At her side laid all the tools that she would need to set it ablaze, to burn it white-hot and bright as Solis himself. She only needed a moment, only needed those damned words – but they’d fallen out of her grasp again. She was starting to wonder if they always would.
Seraphina stood in front of the pyre much like someone might stand between worlds, awaiting anyone who might have come to pay their respects – past and present twined, waiting for a spark.
open to anyone, regardless of court <3
mildly confusing and extremely rambly because sera is sorta having a weird crisis, so summary : After spending some time at Veneror thinking about things (thread forthcoming), Seraphina arrives at Maxence's funeral pyre, made primarily of wood and crowned by the bones, presumed to belong to Maxence, that will be discovered in this thread. She's basically just waiting around for the others to show up so that she can burn it.
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
11-08-2017, 12:13 AM - This post was last modified: 11-08-2017, 12:27 AM by Seraphina
The words had struck him like a hammer striking iron. He had scarcely believed the rumors at first, pouring throughout the desert like an unexpected rain. It seemed unlikely with the way that the painted beast could fight, but the more it said--the more it seemed to become true. The Solterran King had fallen...and he could only think to what he had said before; It would be as it always had been -- someone else would come to take the mantel away from the painted brute and things would change again. Always shifting, like the sands on the dunes.
The metalsmith had come to pay his respects to the fallen king, traveling in the night from his home near the oasis towards the wind-worn walls of the Solterra stronghold. He had been fortunate, the full moon had illuminated his way, and Oriens was just beginning to bring the sun’s light over the horizon. He had dressed finely for the occasion, an intricate work of strappings and adornments that he had made himself -- something he rarely dragged out or wore as it was mostly inappropriate for everyday use.
He could not explain the feeling that had coiled around his heart like a sand-viper, some mixture of relief and anxiety. Simo had avoided the warrior king at all costs, choosing to keep to his work rather than seek any audience with the sharp-eyed male. He supposed he worried that someone like Maxence would see right through him -- and the outcasting that would have followed. The stallion had been something of a slave driver, his ideals and mannerisms too strong for the likes of Simo. It was already bad enough that he had disappointed his father by failing to join the warrior ranks.
He stood in one of the sand-worn doorways, the innards of the capitol as bland as the outside -- and the eerie quiet made it ever more uncomfortable. He kept his wings tucked close behind his head, though the hairstyle he wore today would not allow them to remain unseen. He appeared for everything in the world as though he belonged, even though he had never felt like more of an outsider.
He was glad that Maxence was dead. Which felt wrong in all manner of ways.
Perhaps now there could be some relief, the tensions between his home and the outside world becoming wound so tightly that he could not breathe. First, the gypsies and then the librarians -- Maxence had wasted no time in taking what he wanted from both of them, or at least trying. Perhaps he was hoping that with an end to the warrior king, that some semblance of peace might come to them -- but it would depend on who was left to lead them and that was what he had come to find out.
It was not difficult to find the pile of wood nestled into the heart of the court, a pile of gleaming bones heralding at the peak. His lips turned down in displeasure, the images of death always seeming to creep up upon him when it was that which he detested most. Between him and the pyre stood Seraphina, the emissary to his home. He felt a ripple of guilt at the sight of her. How was she handling the effective snuffing of the light of the Sovereign? He could not help but ponder, wondering if he might offer a kind word or if he should stay where he stood. He barely knew her, opting to bide his time just yet. The grey and white stallion took his time looking at the pyre, the sky blue of his gaze holding steady upon it all -- more for the benefit of anyone who was looking rather than for himself. He would not let himself appear weak here, not when there were so many eyes in the shadows.
He moved quietly, stepping up to the pile of wood and bone just to the left of Seraphina. His freckled lips gently brushed the jagged edge of the pile, his neck fully stretched to afford him that. ”May Solis guide you to his side.” He murmured, taking longer to mutter out a prayer. He had always been particularly religious. ”May you bask in his light until the day your are destined to return to this world.” Reincarnation was one of his strongest beliefs.
He pulled away at last, and reached out slowly towards the silvery female. He could only offer his condolences, because it seemed the proper thing to do. ”My condolences to you.” He said softly. ”It is never an easy thing, death.”
Leviathan moved with an easy sort of step, though weighted. His shoulders were heavy and his hide was flecked with new wounds that had come with the battle in the Teryr nest, to retrieve the bones. He had been the only one at first to take lead in at least retrieving their Sovereign, to properly honor him and his remains in a true warrior way. There had been others that had joined him after his initial hot outburst, and now he trekked his way to the pyre that was built.
The wounds glistened from the use of aloe on them, keeping them from at least being infected, and his ears swiveled as he came up to what would be a glorious monument to Maxence. A good way to honor his passing and to properly mourn. Death was every bit a part of living as life was, it happened, though when it came to a great warrior falling, a leader, it was always a shock to many. Leviathan seemed to carry it in a way that he knew best; a mourning that did not gut him because he refused to let it do so. To be gutted and fall apart would mean more work to build back up once more. You had to accept death, and it was something he had long accepted.
The titan stepped up, his hooves coming to a halt as his head turned, his ruby eye focusing on Seraphina for a moment and a breath whisking out of his mouth, slipping between his lips as he did. "This pyre will burn bright and long, and allow all that see it to know our mourning," he uttered, and he felt his weight shift on his heavy hooves again.
The question on his tongue was not one to utter right now; perhaps later, when they could convene properly. What would become of their council, the regime? Certainly Avdotya would not accept the crown, she did not seem the type to hold it. Would that leave Seraphina with it? Even more so, what would come of the Champions and then the vacant spots there? They were all things to consider, but for now, he only puffed out a breath. While he would have offered his own name for position of Sovereign, he would not fight for it.
So the titan stood in silence, his heavy head dropping a little before he brushed his horns against one of the many bones that he had personally gone to retrieve from the nest, closing his eyes as he breathed slow, allowing the silence to lapse over him.
gonna assume he probably has various wounds from the little teryrs so don't mind me ~
Voltaire was tired. They all were. Battle worn and weary, he had taken to his role as a healer – the only healer in Solterra. He’d depleted his stock of yucca, wrapping wounds tightly to stem the bleeding. He’d used aloe vera to stem swelling and scarring, and had ground the remains of his bee balm into a healing salve for smaller wounds. Making a note to begin the expedition that Maxence had requested of him, to learn more about the plants of Solterra and gather enough healing herbs to replenish their stores, he found his way to the funeral pyre.
The stallion is quiet, somber and respectful as mourners gather to say goodbye to the late king. Though he had to wonder if the painted stallion were truly dead or just transported to another place, Voltaire was a practical sort of beast. He knew that death was inevitable, and a part of life that he had to deal with. Through the ‘death’ of their leader, those in Solterra would grow stronger together. They had to. In a land such as this, there was little room for mourning and living in the past. If they did not march forward as one, the nation would simply fall into nothingness. They owed their fallen sovereign resiliency, if nothing else.
He takes his place beside the others, bowing to the funeral pyre, his eyes cast upon the sandy earth as he prays to Solis for Maxence’s soul. It was the least he could do, for the land which so believed in the god that kept them. Today, their god had betrayed them, and still, they paid their deference. He has no words to speak to the group, but allows the others to speak for him, showing instead his solidarity with his presence. The quiet cries of those around him are enough of a reminder of the fragility of life, and the healer can do little more than agree with his deference.
What would come to pass had yet to reveal itself… but Voltaire knew they would have to roll with whatever Solis cast upon them. There was no other choice than to move forward, and he would continue to be a good soldier for Solterra, following whatever the fates would cast for them.
lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
Ipomoea had not planned to return to Solterra so soon. He remembers the desert, remembers hating the way the sun burned and the san scratched at his delicate skin, the heat drying his mouth. He had not adapted to the desert—he wondered if he had even been born here, or simply left to suffer its elements.
He doesn’t like to think about why he might have been left.
The dawn boy follows the rising sun, his usual crown of flowers replaced with an arrangement of only the darkest hues he could find. With nearly every step, a petal or two seems to cascade down around him: a funeral veil, as he mourns with the citizens of Solterra.
As he looks up at the stacked pyre, he doesn’t see the bones: he sees Maxence’s face, a memory from the unofficial meeting he’d had with the Solterran King along the rivers of the Rapax. He remembers how fierce the painted man had been, how sure and confident—if also brash and hotheaded. Ipomoea had been so embarrassed watching the King fly off, having not recognized him until after his name had been spoken. He’d made plans to arrange a meeting between his King and Maxence, perhaps take a visit to this garden he claimed to be building.
But he’d waited too long.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he gets in line behind the huddled equines, allowing any who wish to move past him. This isn’t his King, despite his being born in the desert—it seemed only proper that true Solterrans should be the first to bless the stallion into his afterlife. He shuffles along at the back of the line, patiently waiting for his turn, reciting lines all the while. ’Oriens blesses you—no, Solis blesses you…’
He doesn’t feel ready when it becomes his turn at the altar; as he takes each step, slow and deliberate, he can’t help but become aware of young and inexperienced he feels. For a moment he wishes Kasil had come with him; he could have watched, but now he is expected to speak, to make some sort of move that would represent Dawn? Words fail him, and he doesn’t want to disappoint his Court—or worse, misrepresent the people of Delumine.
Stalling for time, he looks to Seraphina: a woman he knows only by name, the Emissary of Day Court, and for a moment he is ashamed that he has not yet met her. He tries to catch her eye, if only briefly, to offer a smile or some other sort of encouragement, but time continues to pass. As his stellar’s jay of a companion alights at his withers, Ipomoea bows his head low to the funeral pyre, unsure what he is meant to say but finding words leaving his mouth anyway. “Commander Maxence, may you spar and jest with Solis in the heavens.”
His voice drops to barely a whisper as he lowers his head further, his next words meant only for the King: “Oriens be with you.”
With a nod to Seraphina, he leaves the altar and takes his place back among the crowd for the burning.
