[P] you flee my dream come the morning

[Jahin]

J A H I N - - - He moves quietly in the dark, naught but a mere whisper to suggest his passing. Beggars and thieves thrive at this hour, crawling, swarming the back allies of the black city—he is most comfortable among the rotten, the forgotten. After all, if he is not one of the forgotten, then what is he? He navigates the winding maze easily, familiarly—a friend to the shadows that linger and to the dank places where not even the Solterra sun hits. He remembers a time when he was once a noble creature, a stallion of sunlight, a warrior of the dunes and the desert. Now he slinks the musty alleys like a sewer rat. But if he was not here, wading among the sewer and the filth, he would be rotting in prison; a sad, pitiful death by any standard, not just the Davke standard. And so he continues with ease, with grace. His movements are fluid and elegant. There are guards at the sewer entrance, but he knows them well and they let him pass beyond the small gates without incident, a mere nod that does not quite meet the eye. Those who know, they see him as Davke. A savage. Unpredictable and wild. It works to his benefit and he does nothing to dissuade them from their beliefs. He winds through the sewers, navigating blindly. He is as practiced as any rat in the maze beneath the city. Firelight does not guide him through the dripping tunnels—only memory and instinct. He soon arrives at another gated entranceway, and these guards too, let him pass. One is a female guard and he feels her gaze linger a moment too long on his skin, his scars. His indigo eyes do not meet hers. He continues on, now in the belly of the castle. He takes the servant passageways, where they scuttle out of his path with dipped heads. He winds ever upward, staircase after staircase, until he is in their lonely tower. The tower where his new life began. The windows are glassless—he can see the stars, the moon, can feel the cold night air on his face. Two maidens are there, and they wash him down briefly, removing the stink of the sewers and back alley until he is gleaming for his audience with the queen.  He does not feel himself—will he ever again? But it does feel good to be clean, to be washed of the streets filth until he is only Jahin…scars and red skin and hair of fire. They braid his flame-touched hair, carefully, because they know he prefers it out of the way when things get…messy. And then they leave him, hurriedly they exit the tower.  And he waits, as he always does, for his queen.  these scars long have yearned for your tender caress to bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own ---

@Seraphina

[Seraphina]

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

we begin in the dark
and birth is the death of us

Night drags her fingers along the distant curve of the horizon when a messenger informs Seraphina that one of her Ifrisol has arrived.

As she winds through darkened hallways, the torchlight casting odd shadows onto her metallic skin, she runs through a list of each of her agents in an effort to discern who might be awaiting her in the inner quarters of the palace. Only the head – the Songbird - was currently off-duty; all of the rest had assignments, which meant that either something had gone wrong and forced them to evacuate early or they had completed their objectives and required relocation. Either way, they had more than enough work to do in reserve.

She makes her way to the far tower, a shadow within her own palace; though easily-recognized, she is quick and quiet, and her coloration lends itself easily to the darkness. Cool night air wafts through the high, small windows situated haphazardly on each ascending floor, but, though it is less stifling than the heat of the Day, the dryness still tickles her throat. The clatter of her hooves against the sandstone stairs echoes behind her, the only sound to interrupt the quiet of the night, save for the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

She reaches the highest floor of the tower.

Inside, her eyes come to a rest upon the familiar form of Jahin. It is a dangerous thing, she thinks, to trust the Davke, after Avdotya - any Davke, or, more broadly, anyone. Yet here she stands with one among her Ifrisol, those that she must trust above all others to be her eyes and ears among the sands; any of them could so easily lead her astray. (Though, she supposes that is why she has more than one of them.) However, for the time being, Jahin has proven himself loyal to her cause, and, given how utterly unstable her reign has been thus far, she isn’t in a position to discriminate against capable help.

(And, she thinks, she still remembers him as he was during the rebellion – caged up in a dark, damp cell, left to rot by her predecessors. Seraphina didn’t spend much time in a cage as a girl, but she knew the stranglehold of captivity well; at the thought of it, the collar around her neck seems to tighten. She trusts him. For now. That will have to be enough.)

She regards him with her mismatched eyes – her stare is as cold and impassive as ever, though not uninviting. “Jahin,” She says, simply, and her voice is as clear and sharp as the ring of a bell. “Are you well?” He has a report to give her from his last assignment, or he’s come in search of a new one; this much she can guess. However, she has time enough for a moment’s pleasantries before they dive into work, and it is as important to know her own eyes as it is to discuss the work they have at hand.



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tags | @Jahin
notes | <3 <3 <3

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