[P] when the sun sets we're both the same

[Fever]

Summer is dying - though the heat is still enjoyable in the desert, there is a shift in the gales that snake through the streets of Day Court. Cooler weather is on the cusp, though Solterra is not one for changes in the colors of the foliage or the intensity of the sun, but the days would begin to waste away and chasing daylight would become sport. 

This evening, as the sun begins its descent beyond the horizon, the last rays of light are staining the adobe courtyard of Solterra blood-red. Children are playing games in the long, ominous shadows cast by the clay homes of commoners. Elderly are sipping water like fine wine, some of them fanning themselves, while a guard or two stands post on every few street corners. 

A bleeding sunset reflects light of the metallic skin of a paint mare as she sinuously creeps through the streets. The jingling of bells on her thigh would always announce her arrival amongst her people. She forgets that she doesn't have to hide in the dark any longer, though the sight of citadel police would always cause her heart to climb into her throat. She can recall her days sneaking through the shadows, like a thief in the night, tip-toeing her way past nobles who lay in the streets drunk. And although she is still wary, still paranoid of the wrong people finding her, Fever sashays with a confidence as she moves amongst her kingdom. 

This is her kingdom. Her people. Her livelihood. 

Carefully, she makes her way into the alleys in an attempt to reach one of her favorite spots to watch the sunset. Once she is sure she is alone, her guard slips, and she takes a brief moment to rest against the cool clay of a building. Her shoulders are still blighted by the wounds she received while sparring in the colosseum. Though the scraping on the left shoulder-blade has begun to scab over, yet the bruising on her right side has blossomed into ghastly purple and blue shapes. It was painful to the touch, and whenever she wasn't fighting it, she would have an obvious limp. 

Fever sighs softly, in a bit of a blissful lull as she remembers fighting the stallion, craving that special breed of excitement that sparring brings. She wonders if Solis is pleased with who she has become: from house slave to battle-ready, from dragging chains to dancing and singing for her people, from ragged and emaciated to sharing her wealth with the children in the streets. 

Something suddenly catches her attention, and she is to believe she is no longer alone in the alleys. She pushes herself off the wall as to hide her weakness, put on a guise of attentiveness, and cranes her swan-like neck in curiosity - her golden and black eyes hungry to meet whoever has stumbled across her. 

@Swahili redemption thread <3

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[Swahili]

s w a h i l i

take a drunk girl home
let her sleep all alone
leave her keys on the counter
your number by the phone
pick up her life she threw on the floor

There is enough of summer left, that the sun that warmed the cream, brown and ivory body was a soothing and familiar heat. It soaked into her bones, warming her through and through. Fall was certainly coming, it was noticeable in the way they night grew cooler, earlier, but for now, the young mare was happy for what ever heat she could get. Thankfully it wasn't yet yet late enough in the evening, nor in the fall of summer that had the evening too cool. There was enough light remaining to kiss the pelt, enough light for foals to play by, for elders to relax in. It was enough of a drawn out sunset to cast impossibly long shadows, more shades to dance through.

And it was in these shades that the lithe form moved, practically dancing from dark patch to dark patch as she hummed to her own beat, less from a need to hide; and more from a comfort in being able to be over looked, ignored. It was a familiar place to be - the one no one noticed. She wasn't noticed in her own home - her father forgetting about her existence more often than not - at least until she'd done something punishment worthy - or someone had inquired about her [she feared the day someone would inquire about her for marriage].

But at least out here among the streets, among the people, she found comforts - this was no truer than when she spent her time into the alley, spiriting away through the shadowed entrance, and as soon as she slipped in to the familiar winding back streets, she was emerging from the shadows to be herself among the populace of the forgotten and unknown. Familiar greets called out to her and she smiles playful at ragged street rat foals running around her limbs, and she tossed each a few coins as they pass, gently using her muzzle to pause the youngest briefly to press a package of bread into the foal's embrace before it skirted off to follow the rest of the hoodlems.

Only then did she veer towards the stall that the half blind crone ran, eyes grey with age - unseeing, but magic proving far more adept as the knitting needles worked in the air, a lovely lace pattern emerging, Yer out late, girl. The gruff voice that left the crone was disapproving, but Swahili merely giggled, twirling in amusement around the shawl, steps light and prancing, "It's alright, No one saw me sneak away from my chambers at the manor. I was sneaky, very sneaky. I don't think the guards even noticed, so my father won't find out. And besides, after being around stuck up, pampered princesses, I needed a bit of the freedom my mother's bloodlines demand I escape into. I hear there's supposed to be some energy around here soon?"

The crone snorted, Na' fer 'nother night, yer a day early, girl. Bonfire be out ju' beyon' the oasis, same a'lway. Sure ye'll fin' yer way tom'ra. The crone grumbled, and Swahili smiled before pressing a loaf of bread and a bag of fruit to the stall table before spinning away again, "See you later!" She called before heading deeper into the alley, gaze curious at all those around her, before startling at a familiar form against the wall.

A chimera pelt, much like her own, but in far flashier of a design and colors. The last time she had seen it was when the snake who wore those colors had dismissed her so abruptly at the Spring Festival. Swahili paused, eyes almost gold in the setting sun as she stares upon the odd mare, not sure if she should acknowledge her - or keep walking. She had been quick to dismiss Swa all those moons ago after all.

Finally though, Swahili approached with slow, measured steps, "Not sure I've seen you among the alleys before. Passing ships, perhaps." The desert rose commented, her tone light, casual, neutral. But her gaze was cautious, watching for any movement that could be an attack. She just didn't know what to make of the vipress, after all.

"Speech"
Thoughts
@Fever
Notes: :D

Lineart © Vizseryn @ DA; Character/Design © Dyzzie