Seraphina watches dawn rise over the Elatus with red-rimmed, shadowed eyes. Her hair has fallen from its braids, or she didn’t put it up yesterday; she doesn’t remember. Her scarf whips around her, buffeted by the winter wind, – which holds just the barest hint of a chill – and she doesn’t feel it. It is a red dawn, a sailor’s warning. She wonders what that means for a desert creature. (She can barely call herself a girl, anymore.) Above her, Ereshkigal flies in slow spirals, a speck of darkness against the otherwise bloody sunrise. (Bloody, bloody, bloody, why can’t she think of any other descriptor for red?) She used to see hope in the sunrise. She used to see god in the sunrise, making his slow arc across the sky. And where was her god now?
She’d been abandoned again – by everything. By everyone. It was the loneliness that was the worst of it, punctuated by the sporadic appearances of her agents. But friends were gone. People were gone. What she thought she’d built – that was all gone. There is no one who remains, not for long, and, the moment that they leave, she cannot be sure that they will return, for one reason or another. (No one is trustworthy. No one is immortal.) There is only Seraphina and the dark, drifting, inevitable figure of Ereshkigal, watching the dawn.
Where is Solis now? She doesn’t know. Off, out there, doing something more important while his people suffer all over again, just as he had when Zolin ruled; swanning about on high. She can’t believe she forgave him. She can’t believe she trusted him. (He’s hardly the only person she can say that about – which only leaves Seraphina to ask herself when will she learn her lesson? She’s been taken for a fool again. And again. And again.)
She wonders if any of this is worth it – the nightmares, the blood, the hurt. She wishes that she could stop. “You could stop, little girly-girly-girl,” Ereshkigal whispers, the lilt of her voice bordering on a hum. “I can take your soul, you just have to let me pull it out…It won’t even hurtmuch, I promise.”
She does not respond.
The vulture swoops down, her movements unnaturally swift, and lands on her back; she is grateful for her armor, though she can still feel her curling talons through the thick leather. Her great wings remain outstretched and then, abruptly, tuck in at her sides with a sharp, sharp snap. She laughs, harsh and raucous, and it is not in Seraphina’s head this time. The sound echoes through the canyon, distorting in waves until it barely sounds like a laugh at all – rather, it resembles the brittle swish of wind through the sands, like a swarm of locusts or a serpent’s hiss. “She says that she wants it over,” the vulture observes, her voice fluttering as though she is struggling to hold in another laugh, “but the little girly-girly-girl won’t let it end, will she? Willshe? No, no, no - the little girly-girly-whirly-girly likes to hurt.” “I don’t like it,” Seraphina says, finally, baited into speech, “and you don’t want to leave this realm yet, anyways.” Ereshkigal moves forward, her talons catching in Seraphina’s scarf, and moves to bend, peering down into Seraphina’s eyes. The bird tilts her head at an odd angle. Seraphina frowns. “Strangeling little mortals,” she agrees, finally. “They writhe. Littlewormthings. I like to watch them.” Seraphina narrows her eyes at the vulture, who stares at her innocently. “I see deadlings, onlydeadlings. Nothing can be done with them, so they aren’t fun.” She smiles, then, her beak pulling open to reveal rows of sharp, sharklike teeth. “But the little girly-curly-whirly-girly-girl is wrong. Doesn’t she ask herself what she will do if she doesn’t hurt? She knows, little-girly, that she will not be anything without her hurt to drag around-“ “I have a name. You could use it.” Seraphina interjects blandly. “Mortal,” Ereshkigal snipes back.
Seraphina sighs, and, with the vulture still perched between her shoulders, steps back into the cave. “I have a job for you,” she says, although she regrets that she has to send her. Ereshkigal giggles. “Stop laughing. I want you to go to Delumine and deliver this letter to Somnus, the king – and, if possible, do it politely, then bring back his reply.” She pulls the letter out from the mess of tattered blankets that she has made her bedplace; she does not sleep much lately anyways. Ereshkigal swoops off her back and onto the ground, her talons leaving long scratches in the sandstone.
Ereshkigal examines it, tilting her head this way and that. “I will take the letter to the kingy-wingy,” she decides, smiling again. “I have seen many kingy-singy-wingys. I have not seen this one. But they did. They thought of the kingy-singy-wingy-dingy before they went red. The kingy-singy-wingy-dingy-ringy and other faces, other names. A sister. A child. A mother.” She tilts her head again. “I did not condemn them, but they were not happy. I don’t understand it.” “They didn’t want to die,” Seraphina says. Ereshkigal turns to stare at her, bloodred eyes dull and thoughtless. “Pointless,”, she says, with a chatter of her teeth.
Seraphina is quiet, for a moment. “Would you condemn me, Ereshkigal?”
Ereshkigal considers her, bouncing from one talon to another. Her head bobs, and her eyes dart. She snickers, then laughs, uproariously. It soon descends into a raucous howling, and it takes her a long moment to regain control of herself, before she looks at the silver woman, completely serious. “No,” she decides, with a wicked smile curving the very edges of her beak, “not yet. But maybe, maybe…”
She snatches the letter and then, abruptly, sweeps out of the room.
Seraphina watches her go, and perhaps she sighs.
Ereshkigal likes this place in winter. It reminds her of the realms of the dead – the meadows are withered and covered in frost. She does not think that she would like it in spring. It would be too green, and she does not like the green. Better the gold of desert sands or the white of winter, but never the green.
(Some realms are, of course, green, because the mortals like it so, but she is not from those realms. She is from chalk-white and ink-black, a realm leeched of all color. There are only two roads out. She thinks that is right.)
She likes the court itself much less. It is stone, which is always preferable to flowers, but it is brighter, especially with the sun setting, and she does not like that. She circles the palace lazily, the letter clutched neatly in her talons. It had not wrinkled much, and she was pleased with herself for it. If it had, the message might have been obscured, and she would not want to have had to make this trip twice.
She circles low, swooping past the windows. Occasionally, she lights on one and peers inside; passerby scatter at the sight of her, and it makes her laugh. This only seems to upset them further, the strange little mortalthings. They weren’t meant for a beast, were they? (But there was one on the doorstep, and one with a crown. It was poetic. The thought made her snicker.)
Night falls before she finds him.
She lands on a window. A golden man is inside, and Ereshkigal decides that he – with his great wings and spiraling horn – looks right. The window is just cracked open, so she shoves it the rest of the way and swoops into the room, wings tucked at odd angles to allow her to fit through the frame. She drops the letter on the ground in front of her, and then she lands with a resounding click, tilting her head at the man. “Are you the kingy-wingy?” she inquires, with a voice that is odd and discordant, as though it creaks, bloodred eyes twitching to stare directly into his; they are pretty jewelgreen, and Ereshkigal decides that she would like to keep him.
Her beak pries open in the faintest, pulling the facsimile of a smile. Below its sharp curves, her teeth are barely visible, like little knife-rows.
@Somnus|| ereshkigal sure is a,,, gem, isn't she | "okay, ophelia," jeannine hall gailey "Speech!" || "Ereshkigal!"
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
Night had fallen, the skies going dark on another day, and yet Somnus could not sleep. It was late; perhaps past midnight, but when one was as troubled as he and lost in the maze of their own mind, time held little meaning. Eulalie had already retired for the evening in their bed and the children were sleeping peacefully in theirs, and he had lingered enough to press a kiss to each of their brows before heading for his study.
There was so much to be done and his mind simply could not rest.
With the departure of Pavetta and Ipomoea, the Dawn King felt troubled and exposed. Without an Emissary and a Regent at his side during such dangerous times, Delumine faced a tumultuous road ahead. He would need to remain vigilant and steadfast, and perhaps linger as close to home as possible in order to see this land protected. Kasil had entrusted it to him, and Oriens had placed his faith upon the golden man’s shoulders. He could not, would not let them down.
Between the usurper to the east, the unrest in the south, and the unaccounted murderer within their very own sector, danger lurked within every shadow. The information that he had on all fronts was rather abysmal, much to his humiliation and eternal regret. Even his visit to Terrastella and his council with Asterion earlier in the season had revealed very little, for the Dusk King himself seemed to share Somnus’ sentiments. It was better to avoid the heart of this boiling altercation, this whisper of war that loomed on the horizon, when the sources at their disposal were so very thin.
He let out a sigh. The parchments scattered upon his desk did not soothe him, nor did the books placed in precarious stacks on one corner of the tabletop bring him any sort of solace. Nothing held the answer, and Somnus was frightened that he would never find it. Yet he had to admit that it was difficult to find the answer to a question he did not even know, and so in the end, the golden stallion simply stood at his desk and lost himself to thought. It was not the first time he had simply mingled, ruminating on the developments of the land both old and new.
It was, however, the first time that his ruminating had been interrupted by the sudden squeal of his study window being thrust open, the sound snapping him from his thoughts. The Dawn King whirled about, his hip bumping into his desk and nearly sending the stack of books scattering to the floor. They swayed dangerously before growing still, but Somnus’ wide, verdant eyes were not on them. No, they were locked upon the crooked shape crawling in through the window, its wings bent at odd, sharp angles to pull it’s rather large body through.
His heart raced as he watched the large avian, -a vulture?- finish forcing its way into his study, and then he was face to face with it. It straightened but did not yet land, its beady crimson eyes staring at him as though staring through him, and he could not help but shudder, feeling oddly exposed beneath its predatory, hungry gaze. Perhaps it was the open window letting in the cold winter air, perhaps it was the very ambiance of this unsettling beast itself, but the air suddenly felt as though he were breathing ice, an unnatural sort of chill filling the space of the room.
Alba abandoned her perch in the corner of the room, letting out a shrill scream as she immediately dived down to Somnus’ side. The barn owl, so small in comparison to this, appeared both fierce and terrified. She popped her beak towards the strange creature, black eyes narrowed in as furious and threatening expression as she could manage.
A letter fluttered to the floor, released from the vulture’s sharp talons. Somnus had not noticed it before, not until it hit the ground, but even then he hardly gave it a glance. It was as though he couldn’t look away from her ruby red irises, emerald meeting crimson in a challenge that he had no hope of winning. It was only when she moved, her mouth parting to reveal rows of sharp teeth, that he seemed to be able to control himself once more. She spoke, a discordant, eerie sort of voice echoing through the hollow room of his study, and Somnus felt another shiver course down his spine.
’Are you the kingy-wingy?’
He paused. What? Lips parting, the dunalino struggled to find the words. It was as though every single word he knew had escaped his mind with this sudden and unsettling arrival.
Alba clacked her beak towards the creature once more, screeching loudly as she flapped her wings in blatant displeasure. Jumping from her place upon the desk to his group, the barn owl let out a deep, huffing breath that could have passed for a growl. ’Don’t trust her, Somnus.’
Her? His frown deepened and his expression grew dark, but he decided to take a risk.
”... Some call me that, yes.” Even as he spoke to answer, Somnus could not help but feel judged beneath the weight of this vulture’s blood red stare. Was it a vulture? It certainly did not seem like one. Forcing through his uncertainty and distrust, the Dawn King steeled his will to the best of his ability and went on, the elegant clip of his accent wavering only slightly. “I must admit that I am not accustomed to receiving guests through the window, especially after dark.”
But the maybe-vulture had brought him a letter, and despite what he often thought, Somnus was not a fool. Foolish at times, yes, but he was not a fool.
Verdant eyes glanced towards the letter. He took a step forward, nodding his head towards it. “Thank you.” Reaching out with his telekinesis, Somnus scooped up the letter. Taking a glance towards the vulture once more, his stare lingered for only a few uncomfortable seconds before focusing on the parchment in his grasp. Opening it, he began to read, trying to calm the beat of his racing heart.
Ereshkigal delights in his fear.
Or maybe she doesn’t delight, exactly; she is not that kind of demon. There are the torturers, but they are common folk, and she is anything but common. (A fact that she will proudly, insistently remind people of, should they be foolish enough to imply that she is – or, worse, a simple vulture.) But it does amuse her. He reminds her a bit of a newborn soul, just fallen into the afterlife, still fledgling and confused. They do not understand that they are dead, and then they do, and then, only then, does she begin to find them interesting; they react so differently. Many of them sob, but some are quiet. Many of them beg, but some accept, and some threaten – all white fire and fury. (She wonders, sometime, what the little soul to whom she is bonded would have done, if she had died.) He is fumbling a bit, clearly startled by her presence, and that little ball of tan-and-white feathers at his side has flown into a fury at her presence, shooting, with an ear-piercing screech (it makes Ereshkigal giggle, especially as her feathers poof out), to linger alongside her bonded.
The man seems to collect himself. He frowns, and she wonders if the owl said something to him, expression darkening; she likes it somewhat less. “…some call me that, yes,” he says, in a tone that implies that she is the only one who has called him that. (It would have made Ereshkigal laugh, but she is listening.) “I must admit that I am not accustomed to receiving guests through the window, especially after dark.” Doesn’t get many letters? She wonders. (But maybe he wouldn’t consider an average bird a visitor.)
He notices the fallen letter, and, with a wisp of what she can only assume is his telekinesis, picks it up. “Thank you,” he says. It pleases Ereshkigal, who settles, her talons clinking against the stone floor; her feathers fluff out, very slightly, as she gets herself comfortable. “Good, good,” she says, bobbing her head in a gesture that is only almost a nod. “He’s a pleasant one, isn’t he? Very polite. He would do well, if I tried him.” Ereshkigal does not feel the need to elaborate any further; instead, she looks past Somnus, towards Alba. “Did I upset the little birdling?” Her voice comes out as a soft, maternal croon, and she leans towards the owl, unblinking; her head tilts unnervingly, red eyes never leaving Alba’s feathered form. “I don’t want his soul, or yours, birdy-birdy – I’m not here for you. Only for the letter.” Her pink, wormlike tongue squirms out from her beak, dragging along the edges – along sharp knives of teeth. “I am hunting worse things.”
But – she does not say more. Not yet. Let him read.
The letter, when unrolled, says : King Somnus of Delumine,
I hope, sincerely, that this message finds you and your people well. I apologize for my choice in messenger, but Ereshkigal is one of the few creatures I trust to avoid interception – no simple messenger hawk or dove would do, in such troubled times. I am sure that she will try to upset you, and I’m sorry for that. She is a demon, and a judge of the dead; she understands little of the mortal realms, and I think that she enjoys unnerving people. However, it is not in her nature to do anything more than trouble you with her words.
I am sure that, under the circumstances, this message will seem unrealistic. I am sure that you have heard the news of my “death” – that Raum challenged Seraphina of Solterra and killed her, left her body to rot on the Bellum Steppe. Raum did challenge me, and he tore me apart with his claws, but he did not kill me. He is too cruel for that; instead, he left me to bleed out, where I was found by Isra of Denocte. She saved my life, but Raum has Solterra, and he has embedded himself in its heart like a tick to blood. My people are suffering; he has restricted food and water, and he refuses to give it to those who will not bend the knee. Open rebellion is met with torture, if not execution. Children are starving in the streets. Everything that I did has been undone – it is as though we have returned to the times of Zolin.
He told me that he wants to bring Solterra to her knees, and I know that he will not stop with us.
I am organizing a rebellion against him, but the odds are against me, within Solterra – if your kingdom could offer any aid, I would be in your debt. I am not so presumptuous as to make such a request over a letter, however. If I may, I would request an audience, to further discuss the current situation in Solterra; I have heard rumors that there is a monster killing your citizens, as well, and I would offer whatever aid I may to the effort to hunt the beast while I am in Delumine. In Solterra, we often hunt teryrs and sandwyrms. I have little experience with other beasts, but perhaps it will be of some help to your current plight.
Best,
Seraphina of Solterra
When Somnus has finished reading, he will find Ereshkigal staring at him intently, those bead-red eyes boring into his own, emerald green ones. She will tilt her head, and she will smile, all teeth. “Worse things,” she repeats, like an echo, but her voice has changed - it is no longer off-key and screeching, like an unoiled hinge, but, instead, it is low and silky and rolling, childish demeanor cast aside momentarily in favor of – something – else. “Do you understand why I am here now, Somnus of Delumine?”
She watches. She waits.
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
