There is a brief moment in the tumult where O rakes her eyes over the strangers and thinks she sees Seraphina.
It is the worst kind of surprise, it is a bullet to the chest. It almost knocks her off her feet. Seraphina is dead. Her heart breaks and breaks and breaks. O has never been the emotional type, but she had felt something upon news of Seraphina’s death, something between horror and sympathy, and she feels it twice as deep now, looking at the girl-who-isn’t-Seraphina. Looking at the shadows that line her face under an ochre hood. Looking at her strange, terrible eyes, yellow and blue.
She wants to kill the girl-who-isn’t-Seraphina, for getting her hopes up, that she might still be alive.
Anyway it brings a black ringing inside her ears, and she misses (partially) not-Seraphina’s speech, and her cackling bird, and the soft, somber voice of Dusk’s boy-king. (O is not sure what possesses her to call him boy-king except that he looks too soft to have lived past three — she wants to smile at the darkness of his eyes, the twilight freckles on his hips, but doesn’t.) And then it turns into an argument. The whole group, oscillating back and forth between go in groups, don’t, be careful, don’t.
All the while there are birds singing overhead, ripe and dark; O’s heart is still pounding in her chest as she stands small against the crowd and tries not to look so weak. It is the first time she can ever remember worrying about weakness. Always she has been the warrior, the axe-girl, who could be weak with Bexley Briar for a mother—? But Solis himself took Bexley’s magic away, once, and there is a scar on her face that speaks of weakness only just scabbed over. O sets her jaw and tries to breathe. Tries not to break. If that girl is Seraphina (it’s not) then everything is different, anyway, and weakness is only a construct, O tries to remind herself, only a mirror of what does not think it can be killed. Her ears flicker as Isra speaks: it is not us who should be afraid. Oh, isn’t that a pleasant thought—that for once the gods should tremble, and not them?
A pleasant one, but not entirely realistic. (Although none of this is particularly realistic, O thinks bitterly, as she watches the obsidian of the statue turn to oxidized copper.) Still she is silent. She holds the promise of a threat or a complaint in the back of her mouth, heavy as a rock, salted like the ocean. The island is dangerous enough without the threat of anarchy, and no amount of griping will make its magic any less evil.
What good is a little girl in a situation like this? Even if she is a little girl with an axe.
The Dusk king and the girl-who-is-not-Seraphina congregate. They are a funny sight against the vibrancy of the island in their perfect, muted colors, almost a comfort that something has not totally changed. And O wants to say something. Wants to come close. Wants to participate, to offer something of worth, because she can see the worried movement of their lips and knows that even kings and queens are not all powerful. The longer she looks at them, the more she thinks that even if this girl is not Seraphina (and she isn’t) there must be something she knows that O doesn’t, something that the rest of them need.
She wants to say something, feels it in every line of her body and every screaming muscle, but there are too many people around, too many eyes. (Some of them, she thinks, are still in hiding yet.) So it has to be something… subtle. Something only for not-Seraphina.
A phantom bird comes swerving through the trees, oddly bland in comparison to its siblings. It is dressed only in brown with perfect black eyes. It hovers in the air for a second, then darts down to rest in Seraphina’s white hair, just behind her ear, and says into that ear in a voice that sounds just like O’s —
Tell Seraphina we still love her.
Then disappears in a burst of smoke.
Across the clearing O’s eyes are burning with effort.
she was powerful not because she wasn't scared,
but because she went on strongly despite her fear.
Some of those that lingered around Maerys were hungry for excitement; they longed to right what had been wronged and see a felicitous end to whatever mysteries this island produced. Some jostled for a better position, offering their opinions where it was feasible no one cared for them and simply just hoped others would agree. This statue was put here by some elite, whether it was one of the gods or Tempus himself, perhaps to stave off the insurrection that boiled and bubbled like thick lava in the heart of Novus.
Or was it a distraction from it all?
Maerys believed herself to be moving of her own free will now, one of many yet still her own. To the rest, however, she was no more than a part of the group, one with predictable behavior when viewed as a whole. They moved like a shoal of fish as they breezed through different possibilities about the statue and note, eliminating some perspectives and agreeing with others as one single entity. As she listened with quiet breath and a steady demeanor, she realized that she may indeed have become one of many, feeding off of the impulses of those around her to inform her decisions. When a new thought was brought into the conversation, she waited to see what others had to say before she decided on how she felt. Maerys could only wonder what it took to think like an individual in the heart of a crowd - it seemed none of the others were objecting the general consensus the group had formed. Was it possible?
Some thought of the statue as a gift, others thought it was a trap. The horses that circled Maerys debated if they should travel alone or in groups and what it would mean if they did so. It seemed most had contributed to the conversation in some way, whether that be in agreement or not, with a short and sweet speech that boomed over the gathering crowd. Palpable worry buzzed through the air as they all shared one common goal: safety. It seemed that the end of the meeting was near, and with that, the silver-haired girl and her dragon turned and slowly left, their departure as wordless as their arrival.
M A E R Y S
maerys doesn't know wtf is goin on or how to help :x
He nods mutely at the hooded woman’s low response, and opens up a little more space between them. Of course she is right; now is not the time, but something in him is awake now, stretching out, wanting.
Before his words of warning can fade like foam, as the sea resumes its rhythm, they begin to bicker already. It is expected, in any group more than two, but it makes him want to shake his head all the same. There is a part of him that is still surprised to find himself in charge of a people, for there is a part of him that will always long to be alone, adventuring, hungering after the next shoreline, the next night sky. Asterion has never cared for crowds.
But there is no escaping this one, not yet. A strange, vivid stallion - one with markings as bright as any bird on the island - contests his advice, and a more familiar face follows. He watches Below Zero impassively, flicking an ear as she reaches a similar conclusion - that nothing here is to be trusted. Before he can clarify his own remarks, or respond to theirs, another stranger speaks. She, too, looks like something crafted from the island, minuscule and almost more deer than horse; but when she speaks there is nothing small about her words. The king does not get the chance to answer her, save for greeting her by the name she’d given. Seraphina does instead, and he can only nod; that was before his time, anyway, if only barely.
Isra arrives and her eyes flash with death, like the sunlight had flashed on the black clouds of the volcano before all that sulfur and debris had swallowed up the light. Her smile feels like a physical thing, pressed to Asterion’s throat; he is relieved when it turns away, and he watches such stillness as she transforms the unicorn that it might be he that is the statue, save for the wind that touches his hair. When the sea trembles and foams in a way he can sense in his bones, he turns to watch Fable rise from it like a benediction. The bay does not greet either of them vocally, only with a gaze as dark and unfathomable as the depths of the sea, as the space between stars. He wonders if whatever waits in the jungle knows to shudder beneath the shadow of the dragon’s wings.
A paint mare speaks up then, and the breath he huffs at her blunt words is not quite a laugh. She is not very diplomatic, but neither is she wrong. Around them, some horses begin to leave; he can taste the undercurrent of chaos, of excitement and worry, of rage. He can feel the pull of the island, and the pull of the mainland, and both of them say away, away.
Before he obeys - before he steps away with the silver mare with strange eyes, or into that dark arch of trees, he looks again to Isra. “We can keep a small contingent here - shifts with a healer, maybe, and any warriors or Halcyon that volunteer. ”Just in case swift action is needed, he does not say. “If anyone is injured, or learns anything of importance, they can return to the beach and find help.” It is the best he can think to do, for a people he has no real control over - not here, where the land belongs only to the wild magic, or perhaps the gods.
i am the fire
i am burning brighter
roaring like a storm
Morrighan looked around, her two-colored eyes squinting at the gathering of mostly strangers while everyone else spoke. She was skeptical of all of them, but especially the hooded woman. The feeling wasn't lessened when she went into a lecture about the island, almost as if she had lived here her whole life. What more did she know? It was imperative that Morr pulled this woman aside and asked more questions. Everything about her was suspicious.
As some began to leave, the hooded woman stayed with the bay stallion and Isra. For a moment, she considered staying as well to see what might be discussed, but she was growing impatient. There really was nothing left to be said and nothing new happening here. There was a full island waiting to be explored out there and the start of a hunt for this supposed relic. The grullo mare didn't feel like wasting anymore time, even if her queen was here. She'd have to figure out another time to pull the hooded woman aside. With all her knowledge of this place, perhaps it would happen soon enough.
"Well this has been fun, truly," Morrighan chimed in sarcastically with a yawn at the end. "But I'm going to head off and see if there's anything useful on this godforsaken island." She did not bother to ask for anyone to join her because, quite frankly, she didn't feel like having any company. The words of warning did not phase her very much and she felt confident in relying on her instincts. Besides, she was not one to rely on others. Rarely was anyone trustworthy or smart enough.
And with that, Morrighan took her leave with a flick of her tail.
he arrives as they are discussing death, revenge. his ears tick at the words, his blood sings from flightless heels and a budding black heart, teemed with all manner of unsolicited violence. his flesh is riled with it. it moves with it. heat rises from him like smoke, like fog over the forests in the summer eve – as he rises, just lightly. just tenderly, so ethereal to consider a beast like him. a name catches him in the dark and he merely listens, hovering just beyond their reach, patient and willingly silent. the not-moonlight licks the dew from his hide, jaded emeralds scattering their shade across his wraith flesh; virile, smooth, accentuated with predatory angles that sharpen as he waits. raum, they say. death, they say. a glimmer of execution gleams in one's eye, vengeance storms the proceeding like the hum that fills his mind.
disgust suddenly settles at the pit of his stomach.
they speak of the denocte villain – the solterran king – as if he is their prize, their objective. some bloody head on a silver platter their hungry jaws savor in memory. erasmus casts his gaze upon the starfaded male, his resolute expression, his valiance. how handsome, how brave, how – his tongue curls back in his mouth,a sneer rippling across his lips as he recounts his brief time in the day court. raum had secured his successions through blood and strife – was this not the way of the world? were the crimes committed not fair acts of war? did this commune consider themselves judge and jury, to seek out the throats of those they deem unfit to rule? erasmus twitched a fly from his shoulder, the beetle-wing buzz still a tone in his ear. the not-moonlight shifts behind him as a breeze weaves through the trees and feels like static sparking.
a voice rings from their congregation and he recognizes it like a familiar sting – it is pure wealth, a hidden power, too like the rush of ocean waves on a shore of scuttling diamonds. sharp, hungry, and virtuous. the tinge of famishment is something he can finally associate with, but he is set apart from its intentions. his eyes raze the crowd for the lofty horn of the denoctian sovereign, narrowing over golden rinds of speculative glow. his lips grew rigid, tightening over fangs that grazed the flesh with trepidation. she comes to their center like the leader of a pack, a ward of vindictive cruelty that swarms and eats at her craving for peace. erasmus loathes the combination. he is smothered by the ironic air of her fury. at once he feels like speaking, like screaming – the roar scrapes and rattles up and down his throat like a drum, but he bites it back as the sea parts for dragon wings.
erasmus is disenchanted by the moment. he is jaded, exhausted, as he looks over the crowd, each face blurring with the next. some disperse in groups, others fading into the darkness of the jungle they do not know. there are the flutter of bird feathers, of dragon wings, of damp hoofbeats that wither to nothing, washed by the waves that crash against the bridge. and the hum, the low tone that fills his ears still – quieter here but true and full, taking residence in his bones. all fade but the stark eyes of a villainous vulture – looming precariously over a cloaked figure that stands at the brink of their group. he pays no mind to the mare but to the bird, to the raptor, to whatever it is, those cold cruel eyes that watch and laugh with a violent mirth.
the starlight stallion speaks again – and the venom at the pit of his throat churns once more, his sneer remembering its place, taking precedence over the grin that met the vulture. he speaks with diplomacy and assurance – as if they were at threat of the wilds that persisted the jungle dark. as if they were at the threat of raum. and perhaps they were, as curiosity meets vicious ends too often, perhaps they had a reason to fear him. erasmus turned his eyes to isra again, seeing how she swelled with a valiant and decided perseverence. a woman and a sword. a woman and her dragon. he did not care if she saw him lingering in the dark of the forest thickets, the viridescent shadows glimmering over his marbled silhouette in waves.
07-15-2019, 10:28 AM
Played by
Jeanne [PM] Posts: 399 — Threads: 81 Signos: 100
What do you call it when girls keep dying, what do you call it when your body is a zeppelin? How do you become something other than wounds?
She is silent.
Seraphina is no queen, now. She is still reminding herself what it means to be crownless, and, with it, returned to her prior insignificance. In a sea of unfamiliar faces, spotted with a few people who know who she used to be, she has no measure of command or authority. She would be lying if she said it didn’t sting. It is impossible not to think of herself as a girl, or as a guard, or as whatever she had been before she was an Emissary or a Queen; it is impossible not to think of herself as fodder for the Solterra of her girlhood’s war machine, one of those ghost-children who served no purpose but to be wiped off the face of the map and forgotten in defense of more powerful, important figures.
(At least there is no collar around her neck, now. At least her shame is something hidden - her worth with it.)
(It still seems so wrong, so horrifically wrong, that so many people have died because of her failures. It still seems – so, so wrong – that she survived when they are dead, when she is the one who committed a crime. Oh, she loves Solterra, and her intentions were so good. She wanted to protect her people. She wanted so desperately to be better, to build a land with life and love instead of blood and flame, but she has been no less a devastating force than her predecessors. The eyes of history would never view her fondly.)
Of course she is no queen now. What queen walks like a broken thing, with a doom-whispering demon perched on her shoulders? What queen holds her head so low, her shoulders so slumped? She is not sure what she is, now, but she is no queen.
Asterion draws away from her, as she intended, and she feels his absence palpably. It is necessary, when they seek to hunt a king, and they cannot possibly know who favors him, but she nevertheless feels a pang whenever she loses an ally, even for a moment. (It makes her stomach knot. She has always been a solitary, standoffish creature, and she is not so sure that her good intentions have ever shown.) The empty space that Raum carved out has been replaced by a persistent itch for something, for any kind of company or any kind of solidarity, and she does not know what to do with what is left.
Her gaze lingers a moment on Maerys, who, she thinks, likely wishes to help but has no idea how to; brave girl, she thinks. Brave girl, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing – she knows it from experience. (Of course, now she is as good as paralyzed by fear. Her nightmares make a trap of her.) Asterion trains his stare on Isra, and he makes some frankly clever suggestions about shifts, and Halycon, and healers. (If her people weren’t scattered, and primarily still in Solterra, she might have sent some of them to help. As they were…)
That is before he turns and disappears, a shadow beneath the trees; and she will follow, in a moment. (In fact, she whispers to Ereshkigal to follow Asterion, and very nearly misses how her red-eyed stare is trained on a dark man, relegated to the fringes of the clearing, who is staring at Isra with a look of disdain. Her jaw opens, revealing her rows and rows of carnivorous teeth, and perhaps she smiles. He looks at her once, before leaving.
She laughs, soft and menacing, and her face is nothing but teeth.)
Ereshkigal springs off her back to follow Asterion, and Seraphina looks at the remaining figures. The painted mare leaves, with about as much grace as she has come to expect from her, and Seraphina considers following suit, but then-
Then she hears the beat of wings, right by her ear. A bird, strange and plain, not at all like those on the island, is lingering right by her ear. It opens its slender point of a beak, and, in a voice that seems almost-familiar, it whispers (in a voice that she is sure is inaudible to most any of the other gathered figures) we still love you.
Seraphina blinks. She feels eyes. We still love you. Her gaze turns, rolls across the clearing – comes to a long, slow rest on O, who is bent double, her two-tone eyes strained with the effort of upholding the illusion. (Bexley’s daughter, or Acton’s daughter – no, both. Who else did she expect?) She lets her stare rest upon her, gaze knowing – grateful, in that way that she has always struggled to express, and needing, in that way that she has never been able to put to words – but lips unmoved. There is no smile. There is no response.
(Sometimes, there are things too fragile to speak.) I’m sorry, her stare whispers, and she is. I’m sorry - I couldn’t avenge your father, or protect your mother, or protect you.I’m sorry - that you are growing up in the face of a war, like I did.
(Wasn’t that what she wanted, when she took the throne? Protect Solterra’s children. Make them different from me. But this girl is still raised with a weapon in her hand; she has not been granted toothlessness, or two parents, or a childhood free of corpses.)
@/everyone @Apolonia for the extended mention || *aaaa* "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
the woods are lovely, dark and deep but I have promises to keep.
Through it all, Aion had listened silently.
New, fresher faces had made themselves heard, and he had turned into the ghost he once claimed himself to be, settling at the back of the crowd as they came forward. Like dogs, he thought to himself, listening to them all critically. Who howls the loudest?
He had lost his taste for politics - and leadership - long ago.
Kings and queens, princes and princess, all claiming dominion over this island.
He should want to fly away, should want to return home to Eros. There was nothing here on this island for him; Aion was not young and adventurous, and he had never claimed to be a hero. No, he would let the more daring hearts explore, let the younger souls unravel whatever secrets the god of time had left here for them.
He turns to go, his pale wings brightening and flaring - but he can’t bring himself to leave. His eyes search the horizon for home even as his ears tilt backwards to listen. For a moment he’s caught in his own indecision, equal parts the rabbit and the wolf.
As the sunlight spills across his back and his wings fill themselves with light, inviting him to take to the air, he hesitates. And then, slowly, he tucks his wings back to his sides, forcing the sunlight out of them. They turn pale and ghostly, shimmering insubstantially at his sides.
And then he turns, back to the island, back to the group that is beginning to disperse. He can hear the Dusk King talking and planning as all kings do. And something inside of him shifts.
“I’m a doctor from Delumine,” he says softly, and it’s moreso to remind himself than to inform anyone else. “I’ll stay here.” In case anyone is hurt, he tells himself, but also in case I can do something good. Here on the beach, here on a foreign land besides a strange statue with an unknown meaning.
He did not expect the island to reveal anything to him, did not expect it to open his frozen heart to something new and exciting. But still, there was a small piece of hope that cried out lonesomely, holding out for exactly that.
