[P] no goodbyes and no time for mourning;

[Seraphina]

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue

When her people make the long journey to the Summit, she stands at their head.

She strides with the same collected confidence she wears when racing across the dunes, chin raised and eyes set on the path ahead of her, but her heart is in her throat and her pulse quickens with each step towards the peak. Her hair is tugged into tight rosettes, her skin painted with streaks of glittering gold – in long slashes under her eyes and on the forehead, a traditional sun design, down the length of her spine. Like the tribe-queens of old, they had said, when they adorned her for this visit, and she does not appreciate it, but Seraphina is a creature with little care for aesthetics. However, she knows that her people need a queen, not a wild-eyed and scraggly guard, so she tolerates the adornment, simple as it is. Perhaps, in a profoundly different time, wearing the paint of her ancestors would have brought her some sense of pride in the land which she represents. Now, it only serves to further irritate the itching, uncertain sensation clawing beneath her skin; she cannot look at her gods or her history or the deserts that she roams in the same way that she did once, and the realization makes her chest hurt, until she looks back at the faces of her people, alongside her at her Regime-

Damn their past, their god, their lands, the entire continent; this was Solterra now. There was nothing she would not do to protect it, regardless of what this Summit might have in store for her.

They arrive in a swarm of sand and desert heat.

The landscape looks wrong, and she thinks, again, of the strange maze she had traversed while searching for the Relic of Tempus. It is not the mountainside she is so accustomed to, and those trees…something about them feels strange, but, then, she spends most of her time in a desert, so she can hardly consider herself an authority on foliage. Perhaps it is only the circumstances that makes them seem so.

There is nothing to do now, save wait for further instructions; she practically hums with anticipation. Her warrior’s training tells her to familiarize herself with the landscape, in case of a fight, and explore each nook and cranny of this strange new gathering-place. Her more diplomatic training demands that she seek out the leadership of the other courts, who seem to be scattered variably across the plateau, and see if they have any further information about what lies in store for them – considering their presence, she can only assume they have received similar, or identical, invitations. (If she can call a demand an invitation.) “Now,” She says, to the citizens still crowded around her, “We wait. Explore as you will, and visit with our fellows – but remember that we tread on sacred ground.” Her voice steels with cold warning, and the look she gives her citizens is practically wrought iron. With that, the crowd of pilgrims begins to disperse, and she steps back, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the spotlight.

She sweeps the faces of her sister courts thoughtfully, contemplating how to proceed, when she becomes aware of eyes on her. This is not unusual; she imagines that she has attracted more than a few curious stares as she arrived with her people. However, something possesses her to turn to meet those eyes – perhaps they feel different than most.

Her gaze comes to a rest on eyes that seem to her to have been carved from the moon goddess herself – pale as Calligo at her fullest, near overflowing. Renwick. The sight of a friendly face is more than a comfort to her frazzled nerves, and, although she can’t say that the circumstances are ideal, Seraphina finds herself genuinely pleased to see him. It has been far too long. She lets her gaze linger on him for a fraction of a second, taking in flower-strewn locks and dark velveteen skin, then turns towards him.

“A friend of mine,” She says, with a glance to her Regime, but she offers little more explanation as she veers aside to approach him. The crowd parts for her to pass, but, in spite of her elevated position, most appear to be too entranced by the changed landscape to pay all too much attention to her. She can’t say that she’s displeased by the distraction.

She comes to a slow halt in front of him, breathing in the oh-so familiar scent of flowers – it accompanies all of his letters, in some capacity, and she wonders if she hasn’t taken to imagining it sometimes. (But that would be foolish.) Seraphina lowers her skull, her posture dipping into a ghost of a bow; a rare show of respect from a Solterran, much less a Queen, particularly towards a citizen from Denocte. (Such formalities were rare in her court, at least.) “Hello,” She murmurs, almost uncertain of how to proceed, and raises her eyes, “Lord-Commander Renwick.” In the past, they’d met in comfortable privacy or over letter – this was far more…public, and now she treaded a line, all too cognizant of her position.


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tags | @Renwick @Random Events theoretically I guess
notes | <3 <3 <3

@

[Renwick]

R E N W I C K the wolf with the rose in his jaws The trek to the summit was one filled with anticipation. The sort which settled deep in the bones and sang, melodic and deep, like a voice in the caverns. It wasn't unlike the twist in his gut before a fight, serpents slithering over rock and stone. The breath before the joust, to the cry of the crowd. Winds changing and howling, dark clouds and the crackle of electricity in the air. The calm before the storm.   While his Regime glittered and smouldered, shadows, stars and the spun silver of the moon. Renwick trudged a ways behind, his pace militaristic and measured, garbed in the robes who crowned him Lord-Commander. Before they had departed for the summit, Renwick had stared at his reflection and mourned, for what seemed like days crammed into a matter of insignificant moments. Alavin had stood here once, bedecked in a similar design, with a fire in his eyes Renwick could only ever dream to possess. Alavin should of been the one standing here now. He remembered the first time he had seen the ceremonial outfit, the first time it'd slid across his flesh and settled like a deadweight on his back. He'd been numb when they had come to take his measurements, numb to the tailors understanding smile and the thin-lipped expressions of his fellow Knights. Melancholy hung heavy in the air that day. Emerald and gold, where Alavin's had been sapphire and silver. A too-large wolf-pelt collar where Alavin's had been a dazzling array of roc feathers. The embroidery was the same, and that proved to be too much. Emerald covered in intricate golden stitching depicting the constellations and stars which glittered and glimmered in Calligo's eternal realm. So were the burnished leather straps and breast-plate which kept it in place. The similarities are enough to pull at him like mud in the monsoon, down and down until he's consumed by it. But, there was one piece that was so very different. Something precious, and that is the gold medallion taking pride of place around his neck, thudding softly against his chest with each monotone step. Such thoughts persisted for much of the journey, warmed and soothed by the glittering gold of Solterra's Queen against his breast. Keeping him from being consumed by the mud completely. The summit is alive, and so strikingly out of place the Lord-Commander is forced to tear himself from his inner reflections and look. Equines from all corners of Novus have come, not that they had much choice, and their expressions range from awe-struck to defeated. Wariness and devotion are carved on every face, and Renwick cannot blame them. The Gods had long grown silent, too different to continue their song, if the stories are to be believed. Now, here they are. Answering them as if they had never turned their back on them. He wonders if others have similar thoughts, if their lips turn up at the corners in grim-amusement, if the frowns they wear are there because the irony isn't lost on them either. He doesn't quite understand how he knows where to look, among the sea of faces with no names or titles that he knows, to find her. Pulled as if lassoed, moon eyes rest upon the gilded visage of Solterra's Queen and for the first time since talks of the summit reached his ears, he smiled. The night in the caves still lingers freshly in his mind, as does the letters they have shared, but they do not compare to seeing her in the flesh again. Radiant and fierce, the paint which marks her divine does not detract from the dangerous nature of her, does not make her any less a warrior. Her displeasure at her title lingers in his mind, and he wonders with no small amount of amusement if those gathered have made the mistake of thinking of her as just a Queen, and not something more. "Keep an eye on the Regime for me." He murmurs to the Knight at his side, as he stepped forward to meet her half-way. She bows, bringing with her the smell of the desert, it's warmth and something else that he can only describe as her. Solterra and Denocte have never been on the best of terms, to be afforded such a boon, in public no less, is something not to be taken lightly. "My Queen." He replied as smoothly as he can, his smile deepening on one side as he bowed low in return. Nerves skitter across his spine and down his limbs as he rights himself, meetings those sun and sky eyes that haunt him in the best of ways when the hours grow late. "You look radiant." He blurted, fortunately it's quiet enough for only them to hear. He's usually more put together than this, and internally he scolds himselff for the slip, before he smoothes his expression into something more fitting. "I feel like an overdressed peacock." Silver eyes trace the golden lines which paint her, and then he gestures toward himself and the outfit he wears with a huffed laugh. "How have you been?"  TAG: @Seraphina NOTES: he's a dork. "sunshine dasies butter mellow!"

☀︎

[Seraphina]

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue

Cordial as ever; he returns her bow with a deep one of his own. "My Queen." Not really, a part of her thinks, not at all. After all, she is the day and he is the night, and there isn’t anything that can shake that. However, she doesn’t mind it when he says it, even if she hears the hint of nerves in his voice, in the gentle curve of his smile, genuine as it is. They are in public, after all, and this is no moment to let down their guards – not when the gods loom over them, not when the regimes loom over them, not when the entire world seems to be tottering on the brink of crashing right down upon all of their heads. Uncertainty swims in her chest, but she can push it aside in favor of concentrating on the moment. It’s one she’s been looking forward to.

“You look radiant.” Sudden and abrupt, but low enough to go unheard. She straightens, slightly, gold-lined eyes widening fractionally; Seraphina is hardly accustomed to compliments, much less on her physique. There’s something genuine to the way his comment comes stumbling out, to the expression that he wears while saying it, and she doesn’t know how to interpret it, or exactly how it makes her feel, though she knows that it isn’t unpleasant in the least.

“I’ve been told that was what the artists were going for…” A hint of dry amusement, to smooth over her own uncertainty – radiant, like the sun she was meant to follow. (But she did not, and she wondered why she even let herself be called the sun queen anymore. She wondered if the god of day awaited her in the space between the trees; she wondered what he would have to say to her if he were. Nothing good, she imagined. Nothing at all, even more likely.)  Certainly a task for the painters, but they were accustomed to it; there were only a few in the court that still practiced the traditional art, but they were dedicated to their craft. Glowing, light, flame - burning one. She dips her head, though, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and her tone was warm when she added a soft, “Thank you.”

He spoke, then, of his own displeasure with his adornments. Seraphina had never actually seen a peacock for comparison, but she had read more than one account of Zolin that described him as such. Renwick, she decided, looked nothing like Zolin, in more ways than one; his overall physique, was, of course, the polar opposite, but the outfit itself had none of the ridiculous embellishment that Zolin so adored. (She had only personally seen the former Sovereign once, at Viceroy’s behest. However, his vanity was far from the least of his sins, and he was quite happy to commission portrait after portrait of himself, though, in her own experience, their similarity to him was often debatable, at best.) With a quirk of her brow, she offered a thoughtful, “If that’s what you think, I should show you a painting of Zolin someday.” Most of them hadn’t survived the rebellion after Zolin’s death, much less the Davke attack; a few, small ones, however, still remained, ornaments to be kept in lockets on one’s person, though why anyone but Zolin himself would want them is beyond her limits of comprehension. “I think you look quite regal, personally.” That’s a good word for it, she decides. Like a proper knight, clad in rich greens and golds – she thinks that he could have stepped out of one of the curling, ornate illustrations in the scrolls in the library, the ones illuminated with a delicate hand and a brush tipped with liquid gold. (There’s a significant part of Renwick that she still can’t quite believe exists. The desert is harsh.)

But there isn’t time to linger on the fact that she is still vaguely convinced that Renwick wandered out of a child’s storybook and into Novus; he asks after her condition. “Not significantly different than when last I spoke to you,” She admits – the cycle of rebuilding and regrowing is always slow, “until now.” She pauses, turning her gaze from him to stare at what she can only assume is the meeting-place, letting out a soft sigh. “I’ll admit, I thought that very little could shake me, after the Davke attack…but I did not anticipate the gods revealing themselves again, after…so many years of silence.” She did not question that it was the gods; some part of her, buried deep inside, was utterly, devastatingly certain. And why? They had been quiet for so long, through so much. There was nothing about the moment that they lived in now that made it more valuable than moments past, but, then, she supposed that you rarely knew that history was being made as you lived it. She doesn’t contemplate that for too long, however – she isn’t sure that she wants to. Tilting her head, she turns the question back on him. “And you?”



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tags | @Renwick @Random Events theoretically I guess
notes | hi I love you and I'm sorry this took forever <3 <3 <3

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