Despite Bexley’s initial hesitance to talk to the priestess, she finds herself surprisingly comfortable, confident: it’s a refreshing change to speak to someone who doesn’t speak to her like a child or a doll, like anything easily broken. They are, strangely, like-minded. Solterra was made for desert girls like these, and perched at the edge of the canyon Bexley’s body hums with contentment, at home in the desert, the sun, the wind, with another strong woman at her side.
A temple, Bexley repeats, only slightly surprised. Her head turns to meet Inkheart’s gaze: within her blue eyes is a sudden, deep respect. That’s ambitious. A project with months, if not years worth of work to be done. The fact that Inkheart is taking it on by herself is admirable, and it shows just how much she cares for Solis, for Solterra, for her own self-respect, that she’s taking such a huge undertaking into her own hands. That’s impressive. Zeal is something Bexley’s always admired.
I’ll visit, she agrees, the smile that crosses her face genuine this time, bright in the sun. I can help build, too. It’s an honest offer: Bexley may not be the strongest, but she’s hard-headed and hard-working, and it looks like Inkheart could use the assistance.
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
Her gaze is still fixed on the distant horizon, seeing only what her imagination paints. A temple rising to the sky: large, brightly lit by windows all around. Bricks made from the soul of Solterra and decorated with gems and Glass from around Novus. The dream is still in infancy, just blueprints to lay out before her and fiddle with. Change after change until it is just.. right. It takes her a moment to process hat Bexley has replied, and she thinks, processing the words so as to not make a fool of herself in response. Impressive? It is impressive, but Inkheart does not think of it that way. It's a mission, a task set before her. Not by Solis or Maxence but by herself, and she knows deep in her heart that it is right - for her glory and for the Sun God, but also... "It shall be a beacon of light and hope for our people." Our people. She's claimed them as her own. A responsibility she will have to learn to carry proudly and respectfully - justly.
Her gaze returns to meet Bexley's blue ones. "I would like your help." She says honestly. It would take more than the effort of a young priestess to achieve her goal. There will be much to do and it will take a long time to complete. The smile is offers is the warmest she's offered in a long time, she thinks.
It’s intriguing to stand next to someone so obviously different: Bexley a heretic where Inkheart is vehement, a feeler where she is a thinker, too slight, too golden, too bitchy to match. Yet in some way, Bex is comforted it by it. They can’t judge each other, can’t have any friendly spats, can’t fight over similarities. The only thing they can do with any semblance of comfort is talk like this, calm and uncentered, of dreams that span for years and all the way across the desert.
In silence at Inkheart’s side, Bexley attempts to envision a building of grandeur enough to match the priestess’ devotion, huge and spun-glass to let the light in, bricks of sand and stone, diamonds, emeralds, all green and lightning in the sun - and she smiles, mostly to herself, humoured but almost genuine, an uncharacteristic show of interest that sounds over her lips as a murmur would sound in the stagnant air. Though Bexley is not the strongest nor the most devoted, Inkheart’s unabashed faithfulness is so endearing, so wonderfully strange, that the golden girl cannot help feeling somewhat attached to her already. At the priestess’ response Bexley flicks a calm ear and raises an eyebrow - Well, send a letter when you start - and with that turns away from the edge of the canyon and back toward the Court, glittering, almost plasticine, under the sun.
She continues to watch the more delicate female with what one might call an unnerving intensity. She doesn't intend it that way of course; it's simply her nature. An intensity that cannot be held back, stalled. It's funny, really, because she had never thought she would like the sunshine-colored mare. She had always seemed so childish, naive, and wanting for attention. But that was in the presence of the King. Perhaps they were all a little stupid around their leader. (Though she liked to think that it was untrue for her.) Having some sort of friend, an ally, in this great desert land would be something to treasure. Since Morozko's departure, she has been devoid of friendships. It's a lonely life to lead, that of the priestess in charge of her flock. Or whatever flock would be willing to follow her, at least. She's momentarily lost in thought, then Bexley responds. Not with outrage or mockery, but with calm understanding. 'Send a letter when you can.' She tilts her crown, flowing locks dancing over her brow, as she watches the sunny mare depart. "Until then."
