There is discord in the Dusk Court, while faces promoted a hopeful future, there is unsurity in their eyes they cannot hide from the winged Kirin. He had seen it too many times before to be immune, or too naive to miss it. The shock of Rannevig's abdication is a fresh wound in their hearts, and he is unsurprised. It is hard and bitter pill to swallow, but such is the way of life. It is cruel, and it is unfair. It raked it's claws on stability, thrust those unprepared into the eye of the storm without armor or wings to lift them to safety. It exalted those who never wished to be hero.
Isorath had left the Grand Hall, a picture of porcelain and gold which floated across the floor as if walking on air. A perfect picture of grace and ethereal wonder. He had said he would provide tea, and so he would. Lord knows that the newly crowned Sovereign would need it. She had said so herself. Once he had been in a similar position to her, thrust into the spotlight of Sovereignty, forced to thrust out his wings to catch himself before he hit the ground. Would she catch herself? Or would she be doomed to spiral until her pale frame met the cold hard ground?
For her sake, Isorath hoped her wings would spread to catch her magnificently. For now, he is focused on one simple thing. Strong tea and a place where they can breath easy. One of the Citadel's Balconies overlooking the cliff's is his chosen spot, fussing with the servants who flittered back and forth to bring a myriad of soft pillows and luxious blankets for them to rest upon. Their words leisurely and light hearted, despite the shake in their voice. Eventually, everything is set. The pristine silverware is seated on the dark wood of the table, along with a small selection of fruits and sweets he had collected from Denocte. The ornate box to the left of them, carved with dragons in various states of flight, housed his spirits of choice.
The air is crisp, but warm despite the sea breeze and it carried the smell of perfume and incense which clung delicately to his frame, and burned from the holder perched on the stone railings. He'd already began to tend to the tea when he'd sent a messenger to request Florentine's presence, the emphasis placed on that the tea would be strong like she'd asked. Smoke wafted from the engraved spout in elegant plumes, until it could no longer cling to tangibility, and evaporated into nothingness.
Ah, would she spread her wings and catch herself? Well, wasn’t that the question upon everyone’s lips, not just Isorath’s? They were also there as a sliver of wondering, a haunting in the dark of the golden girl’s own mind.
Flora arrives at the door, barely feeling the specters of her concerns when the incense begins to lace itself within her mane. The fragrance hangs thick within the air, laying itself upon polished wood and gilding everything as expensively as the gold upon Isorath’s body.
The burning incense pulls Florentine into the common room. From there her amethyst eyes spot the glittering of silver tableware where it bathes, upon the marble balcony, beneath the lazy, afternoon sun.
Beyond the pallid, stone arches of the balcony’s railings, the trees are blended crowns of browns, golds and reds. Sat upon his cushions, Isorath is a compliment to his surroundings. The sun recalls he was a king once and calls his skin to glow in hues of white and gold that gleam and gleam and gleam.
The scent of tea, weak against the overwhelming incense, only just reaches her and the flower girl’s gaze falls to where the teapot’s silver steam spirals into the air.
“I did not think you would truly take me up on my request for tea and something stronger, but I am grateful, Isorath.” The words fall as a murmur past her upturned, grateful lips as Florentine drifts through the gauzy curtains of the doorway. Petals fall to her place upon the cushions and she eyes the furnishings curiously before slowly, carefully, lowering herself upon them. Now was likely not the time to collapse with her usual lack of care and grace…
With slender limbs folded beneath her gilded torso, the young sovereign takes in the older man before her. His eyes are a similar hue to her own, his scales a richer gold than her skin could ever be and his coat was the virgin-white snow of her birth land.
A hummingbird, with fluttering wings, disturbs the flower girl’s thoughts as it flies, with singing wings, about the lavender flowers in her hair. Finally it flits between the sovereign and her sage before hovering over Isorath’s exotic fruits.
Florentine’s gaze lingers upon one, its taste is a heavy and heady memory upon her tongue. “Denocte fruits,” The flower girl observes softly, folding away a memory of Reichenbach giving her one; it was a picture to be opened and recalled another time, but not here, not now.
The girl’s gaze returns to Isorath and she remembers when Rannveig informed her of Isorath’s travels to Denocte. “Tell me of your time in Denocte, Isorath,” the dusk girl asks of him, her eyes curious as she drinks in this boy of gilded words and expensive incense.
“May I have some tea? And then you can tell me of the reasons for your summons.” She wonders what tea percolates within his intricately engraved pot, and the array of exotic teas he has likely amassed within his chambers.
The times ahead would be filled with buffeting winds and unstable rocks, it was unavoidable. Like all the best stories, there were pitfalls and losses, just as much as there were victories carefully recorded in inked pages. Florentine had every Court in the Land's gaze upon her, baited breath as their quills quivered in low candlight.
Unavoidable, but it could wait.
Here in this palace of tea smoke and incense, silk curtains and goose feather cushions, there are no expectations which loomed dangerously overhead, just out of sight like daggers held by a thread. It is a handcrafted sanctuary, one that Isorath resided in as both King and Oracle.
When Florentine arrived, the Sage allowed himself a moment to really look at her. She's honey, caramel and sugar spun together — with eyes that remind him much of his own, same as the flowers tangled bewitchingly in her hair. She would be much at home in a meadow of flowers and babbling brooks as the decadence she now resided in.
Pretty, and there is a tug which pulled within him, but his gaze and countenence reflected nothing of his internal dialogue. He is serene, he radiated calming waves as the ocean did against the sandy shoreline. "If there is one thing you must know about me," he began silkily, a playful glint burned in the lilac of his eyes, "I take the need for strong tea very seriously." Indeed, tea was an excellent excuse for headaches, annoyances or general escapism when you would rather not deal with the days antics. More and more, Isorath found it an appealing and practical source of comfort, for situations such as this.
A King without a Crown, and a Queen who had found hers.
Dutifully, the scrolls are rounded up and stored away for another time, now that his guest has arrived and seated herself, as he languidly stretched out upon his pillows. He is not immune to the gaze he felt upon his porcelain and gilded frame, the idle comment is swallowed before it's allowed to spread it's wings and fly between them. He allowed Florentine to look at him, briefly and silently, Isorath wondered what the girl with flowers in her hair and honey skin saw.
The hummingbird is a sweet relief from his wandering mind, and he watched it with rapt attention. Such delicate creatures often haunted the water gardens of his home, their iridescent bodies a mirage as they fluttered between on sweet flower and the rest.
Denocte Fruits.
The kirin glanced from beneath long snow coloured lashes to the fruit in question, the bird forgotten in the wake of Florentine's delicate voice. "Ah, yes. I have grown rather fond of some of their sweets and fruits in my time there." He confessed with a sighed breath, a smile painted on his sharp features. "Please, help yourself. I'm rather fond of the peaches myself." He offered, his teke lightly pushed the bowl toward her with his words.
When Florentine inquired as to his time in Denocte, the ethereal man allowed himself a moment of silence. A hundred different thoughts whirled like cherry blossoms, settling on the waters of his mind. He had grown fond, perhaps too fond of Denocte and her Court of Smoke and Stars, of those he had met there. "It has been eventful." He settled on with a thoughtful hum. "Their library is vast, I've barely scratched the surface. I spend my time mostly between the library and in the company of the Courtiers, and their Sovereign of course. It's all rather enchanting, as I'm sure you know."
Her request for tea is answered with the sound of poured tea and clinking china, before the prepared cup is offered to her. Isorath's own cup is pulled toward him once he's sure Florentine has hers. "It's honey and oolong, if you'd like something else — you only have to say. The spirits are in the box there." A taloned finger elegantly pointed toward the engraved box. "But, you asked why I summoned you." He asked as he sipped at his own tea. "I wanted to see how you were feeling, first. Being crowned is no easy pill to swallow." A note of care is finely threaded into his words, one that came from experience and perhaps one of the few places within himself which openly cared for others. Florentine is young, thrust into a seat precariously perched. "Secondly, I must ask your opinions on the alliance with Day. Do you intend to honor it?" He's not one for flowering his words when it came to politics and the affairs of the Crown, he is invested and he must know.
Florentine’s eyes sweep up the curved tines of Isorath’s antlers. They are bone white and gleam in the year-weary sun like rich china. She does not think he will shatter as readily, for there is more to this man than that; the way he carries himself is more regal than Flora could ever be. Had the flower girl known that he was once a king, then maybe his deportment would make sense, or maybe, it would give her hope (and despair) that, one day, she might too become so regal.
Upon such a thought, her eyes fly out, out beyond the canopy of trees that stretch away from their balcony in myriad hues of gold and red and orange. She looks toward the hidden sea, for she knows it glistens beyond these autumnal boughs. It pulls from her a sigh, soft with longing, for the life she now may no longer have. Her renegade heart beats its wings for the need to fly, fly, fly away from this heavy crown and its demands like thorns.
Remembering who, what she is, Florentine claws her heart back into her chest, replaces her soul from where it sought to flee and turns her young, young gaze back upon the sage. Her dusk-warm smile grows when he indicates toward the spirits beside him and her stomach twists nervously. “I have never drunk before.” The flower girl breathes, her voice coloured by intrigue. “Well, as a horse I haven’t,” Flora clarifies lightly. “I did when I was human… I got very drunk.” There is a wariness to her now, wise and careful.
“I will try that.” She nudges a bottle forward, rich with its gold alcohol gleaming within. “I am not sure what it is, though.” The young sovereign blinks, suddenly realizing that picking a bottle based upon its aesthetic may not have been wise…
She returns to her tea, inhaling, letting its fragrance play across her tongue when Isorath refers to Denocte’s courtiers and its sovereign. There is only a brief flutter of her gold-dusted lashes in response to his inflection. It seemed her relationship with Reichenbach was quite the topic of conversation. So many had sought to induce a reaction from the both of them.
“Yes,” Florentine hums as her gaze peers up from between her long, long tendrils of golden hair and entwined petals. “Denocte is a place of dreams. I find the company of their sovereign to be particularly pleasant, as you clearly know.” There is a smile upon her lips, but beneath her melodic voice is a violin strain, heralding a growing frustration.
The golden girl sips at her tea, its flavor strong and floral. It leaves a fragrance within her mouth as much as flavor. “It is not an easy pill to swallow, you are right.” The twilight girl agrees gently, her eyes once again fleeing their lavish balcony to fall upon all the lands that she now ruled. “Thank you for asking. The crown is an odd fit, but I trust it may feel more comfortable with time.”
Isorath steers their conversation promptly, deftly, onto the subject of alliances. As swiftly as the hummingbird had come and gone, so Florentine’s gaze flies back to settle upon the sage’s amethyst gaze. She surveys him, once, twice, a third time and she does not rush her consideration, nor does she blush within his gaze.
Gone was the girl shy of tasting her first sip of alcohol (in this world) and instead an older girl replaces her, a creature on the verge of adulthood; a girl forced to grow up in a moment, in the seconds it took for a queen to bow before her successor.
“There was never an alliance officially agreed.” Florentine begins after those long moments of consideration. “Rannveig went to discuss it, but I believe no agreement was reached.” Her lashes fan across her cheek in a blink before rising to let her gaze find her sage’s once more. “If you must know, I have sent our healers to Solterra out of respect for Maxence. In our past meetings he had made it clear that they possess few healers and little medicinal skill. After a fight that saw an end to his reign I saw fit to honour his memory – whether I liked the man or not. So I extended an air of hospitality.”
The hummingbird returns, stirring Florentine’s hair, oblivious to the gravity of this conversation as it searches for more nectar.
“Moving forward from here, I shall keep Dusk’s position guarded regarding all alliances until I have met with all the sovereigns, including Maxence’s successor.” She continues, her gaze set only upon Isorath, “The political tide may be set to change when Solterra’s new ruler takes to the throne.”
Her words trail off, their silence filled with the song of birds and the rustle of falling leaves. The Dusk sovereign quietly takes another sip of her tea, her gaze still riveted upon her courtier.
@Isorath
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
Perhaps it would beguile, or disenchant her more if she knew his history. Not of the crown which lay shattered and gathering dust upon stone stairs he'd rather forget, or the heart within his chest wrapped in ice and thorns — but the history of his flesh and blood. That one he was gold where he was white, with fire and light burning behind him in a glorious halo. Before this there had been just a stallion, a simpler time where he was rough around the edges desperate to detach himself from the life he had been raised to.
A breath is exhaled, not quite a sigh, and the glint in his eye turned thoughtful for a moment. Then it is gone, like a cherry blossom on the wind. It was all too easy to get wrapped up in thoughts, the what ifs and what could bes. When a heart is placed in a position which caged it from the one thing it so desired, or the many things it so wished to have before the cage closed around it, it was hard not to stay the scissors.
He'd flown once. Look where it'd left him.
"There's a first time for everything." He responded with a smile, though his eyes glittered with mirth and mischief in their pale pools. "Worry not, I will not allow us to get too merry." The Sage assured with a small tilt of his head. He'd long come to have a tolerance for spirits, but those were mostly Taeryn in original, Dhossen fire water had been a particular favorite, with Sour Wines from the Bay and then the Veiled Brandy from the Mountainous East. Luckily, those were in another case, smartly for his own consumption, or reserved for those who came to him weary and tearful.
"Arbor." Or perhaps not, the glittering gold liquid drew his gaze as quickly as Florentine's words had. "It is brewed in my homeland, I managed to track it down in the Night Markets." Isorath hummed, just a touch of nostalgia painting his words. "It is rare to find it outside of my home, it's mild don't worry. Sweet on the tongue, and it goes well with tea." The sage explained further, as if it might alleviate the Sovereign's worries.
His words are only stopped by sips of his own tea, enjoying the warmth which flooded him. Court was an interesting game, a grand chess board where everything was up for gaining, and losing. It was not the only game however, for in the shadows of the black and white board games too were also played. Secrets and information bartered like gold coins and blood. Many often passed the days between moves with frivolous gossip and conversation, and Florentine & Reichenbach were no exception. Their story was intriguing, where it had been the Night King and the Dusk Emissary, it was now the Night King and the Dusk Queen.
Crowns had an affinity for making love stories just that more interesting.
Violet met Lilac as Florentine acknowledge the wonder of Denocte, and the company of it's Sovereign. Isorath is a watcher, an observer. Such as his duty demanded before ink and paper, once more his head tipped, the silver strands coiling elegantly around sharp cheekbones. "I trust all is well between you and Reichenbach?"
The Kirin shifted slightly on his pillows as his wings unfurled a fraction from his sides, lightly stretching to seek out more of the warmth of the sun which filtered through. "It may never get truly comfortable, but one would argue that the crown is never meant to be." He hummed thoughtfully. "But, putting it on will get easier, even if it does not sit comfortably."
Maybe it is harsh, to steer the conversation so abruptly, but politics and the good of the realm was never smooth sailing. It is not the first time Isorath has peered at a Queen and commanded answers, his gaze unwavering as he looked for even the smallest sign of hesitance. A lie instead of a truth. A slip that would determine the future of the Sovereign.
He's inwardly pleased that she does not slip. There is no rush to supply him with an answer she hoped he would deem acceptable.
"A kind and wise move. It will make Solterra more amiable and appear more warm, their position is not the greatest, considering the actions of their former Sovereign." He nodded, though the Sage's mind is more focused on the fact that an Alliance was not agreed, the pieces on the board are becoming more and more visible now. "It matters little now, the opinions of the incapacitated or deceased, whatever fate the Teyr had in mind for Maxence." He stated with a roll of one elegantly scaled shoulder.
He lapsed into contemplative silence as Florentine elaborated on more of her plans, teke reaching out to uncork the gold liquid and add some to his own tea. "You may just find your wings after all," Isorath commented with a small smile, gilded liquid once more placed upon the table, "most would make the mistake of rushing to secure alliances. Stretching yourself thin is unwise, and pandering to other monarchs rather than protecting your own people is the folly of many new rulers."
Another sip of tea, this time laced with the sweet taste of arbor, Isorath's eyes moved to watch the hummingbird with a small note of interest. "I would suggest that you reinforce your own council, a strong Court will help you when going into peace talks with the other Sovereigns." His eyes softened a fraction, setting his cup down as the misty hue of his teke dissipated around it. "Politics are not kind, they do not consider your emotions or your feelings. Having a good and loyal set of advisors behind you will be invaluable."
She watches the lazy plume of steam rise from her cup and fade in the cool, cool air. Florentine wonders what it would be to disappear in such a manner, to fade into nothingness – become something other. It makes the traveller girl ache for her powers, her dagger, so still, so silent was mostly forgotten nowadays. Too often it has become just a weight about her neck, an ornament at her breast.
Isorath counsels her. His words are wise and so full of merit and, as he bathes her in such wisdom, the words fall off the flower girl like sloughing water. Her eyes stray beyond the balcony, following the hummingbird as it wings its way into the distance. Trees reach up with their branches like crowns and the bird soars above their straining boughs. It carries the Dusk girl’s soul upon its beating wings. She returns to Isorath’s company only in time to hear him acknowledge the weight of her crown.
Desire, hot and scolding and so frivolous, rises bright and blazing within her. Oh what would it be to toss down her crown, throw herself from the balcony and chase the bird into nothingness! If she could not cut her way out from this world then maybe she could fly away? Fly until she found her magic, fly until all was left behind. Her heart strains as Isorath continues and, is it coincidence or fate, that he asks after her relationship with Reichenbach when her heart aches so?
Florentine’s eyes find his, glimmering beneath his snow-white lashes. “Do you ask how things are with him for the kingdom’s sake or out of personal curiosity?” The flower girl asks softly, her eyes falling from the beautiful boy to the hot cups before them. She is quiet a moment, contemplative before she asks another question as her mind still lingers in Denocte with her star-hewn lover. “Do you wish to leave Terrastella for Denocte?” Her gaze lifts to Isorath’s and this time it does not sway. Not to the clouds that call her, or the tea that still tastes bitter and sweet upon her tongue.
The queen wonders what his answer will be. Her court was a quiet, sleeping thing with empty spaces and she has in mind a place for him, should he choose to stay. Yet this boy’s love of Denocte is one she knows, one Flora feels deep within her chest and she put her court first. Florentine would not blame him to do otherwise – she knows what it is to love another with a restless heart.
You may just find your wings after all. Her head tilts at his words, her gaze heavy and steady as she regards him. “Do you doubt I will?” Flora asks quietly, her feelings veiled behind those soft, soft words. There is something about the dusk girl that becomes hard lines and angles, even as she lies with her soft curves upon the plush cushion.
“You are right. I do intend to build up the court. It is too quiet now, I shall be looking to see who remains loyal to Dusk. It is time the court ascends.”
He's not surprised that the Dusk Queen questions his intentions. It would be foolish not too, he supposed, and expected. A Kingdom's worries or personal curiosity. Fools and lovers have lost all their cards on such simple slips. It's his turn to divert his attention, focused with practiced quietness at the steam which curled from the expensive, exquisite cups. The gilded shimmer of enchanted arbor laced in the silver smoke.
For a moment he wished for his dragons, he wished for the warmth of his magic swelling in his breast to set him afire.
"I loved a Queen once." Nonchalance draped heavily on the words as he turned to watch the birds in their palaces of bark and leaves. It's said so suddenly, which shatters the illusion, as if blurted and hastily masked to hide the wound on his heart. "I loved her deeply, terribly. With everything I had. Everything I was." A breath is exhaled with a fleeting smile. "She was sunshine, wisteria flowers and fairy tales spun in shades of gold. Summer given flesh with a songbird's voice. I made the gardens bloom in winter for her, just to see her smile. Love is uncomplicated when there is nothing threatening to sheer those delicate threads." Momentarily his gaze flicked back to Florentine's own, studying the crystal hues of violet with veiled ones of his own. Slitted pupils remained misted with melancholy nostalgia, warmth tinged with sadness as his great, soft leathery wings shifted in place against his sides. "I miss her on occasion. I hear she is well these days." Isorath added as a fond after thought, and slipped into silence to sip his tea.
"I ask for both reasons, I suppose. As a member of the Court concerned for the future of the Kingdom which he calls home, and as a man who burned for love. A King who was willing to send his Kingdom to war for that love." The last part picks at the wound that had healed delicately, picking at the corner until it wept red rivulets over porcelain. The Dusk Queen's next question provoked a scaled brow to lift, a smudge of surprise striking across his ethereal features. It's quickly masked over with cool contemplation.
He had thrown himself against the jagged rocks once for love, he'd given himself up to the fire to be reborn from it's ashes. Isorath knows the pain, love is a fickle and dangerous thing, when the heart's delicate threads were laced with the weight of a Crown. He'd scorched his bones to be rid of it and yet...
no, he thinks to himself. The resolution which echoed in his hallowed halls only speared him upon his sword again, the wound opens up further and the halls stain red. It stings, down to the marrow of his bones and threatens to well in his eyes. "My place is here, even if my search for secrets and histories take me near and far. Terrastella is my home." He responded, slow and diligent in the control he exerted over his words.
'Do you doubt I will?'
"Do not take it as an insult, your highness." All charm and taeyrn lilt, his smile is soft but firm on his sharp face. "I said similar to my love, when I first came to her Court and I was but a stranger from a strange land. I muttered the same to myself when I was crowned not once, but twice. It gives us a fire in here." A golden talon tapped at his chest with a huff of a laugh. "Such words keep us focused and driven, if our ears are filled with praises and constant approval, it can veil our vision of the true picture. Others may use it to gain positions of value, and further their own gains." He paused long enough to set the delicate tea pot up to brew more cups. "I will never be such, I have little time for compliments and assurances that are not true. My observations, councils and opinions may be sharp, my Queen, but I do so to make sure that the realm is secure. That your picture is clear."
At her decision to build her Court, an ascension into the Grand Game, he can only smile. It is one long coming, if one cast an eye at the other Courts. Day and Night currently dominated the board, it felt only right that now a third player entered. "I take it you already have idea's as to whom you would like to uplift to your council?"
Florentine listens to his story of love, gilded in gold and fallen from snow-driven lips. It is a story that ensnares her heart, and childish whimsy has her smiling, her heart warming.
“She sounds lovely…” Florentine pauses, her mind still tangled in a place of wisteria flowers and the warm sunshine of love. It is slow awareness that pulls her back to the past tense, and melancholy nostalgia that shapes his eyes. “Why are you two no longer together?”
It is a curious question from a girl so immersed within her first love; a love she has never considered ending. It is a breath, an inhale of tea-infused smoke and snow-dressed trees, and an exhale of winter cold breath.
There is a wisdom to this boy, a manner of charm and politics sings from his every pore. She cannot help but think he was made to bear a crown of gilded gold, where as she would be content to merely string a crown of meadow daisies together and call herself a queen of fancy.
“You are a man of experience and wisdom far beyond my years.” Flora says softly, peering at him from beneath her thick lashes of gold and lilac petals. “I have plans for my council and, now I know you plan to stay with us, will you consider being my Regent, Isorath?”
The twilight girl lets the question linger, hovering and twining between the sensuous curl of steam. “If so, mid winter approaches, and I have plans for a festival. The first thing I ask of you, should you chose the position, is to invite the Dawn Court to our festival.”
@Isorath - just a quicky to lay the foundations for everything :)
It was strange, like walking down winding hall ways you used to remember, in a place that had once felt like home. It had been so much brighter. There wasn't a thin film of dust, paintings covered by fabric desperately trying to maintain their colors, gemstones glittering with cracked luster. Even the fires seemed to be devoid of true light. Yet, there is warmth there, despite the sadness.
Cherished memories carefully maintained, to be peered at when his heart yearned to know even an echo of something.
"She was." He agreed easily. "I have a feeling the two of you would of made fast friends, if she was here." Isorath added after a moment, he could see it, crowns of flowers and the sweet scent of floral perfume. Hummingbirds and sunshine. At the inquiry of what happened, the careful illusion fractured, another piece falling away and shattering into naught but slivers. "She was kidnapped by a rival king, in response, I summoned a War Council to be answered by the remaining Courts. They answered, all of them, and we were to march our best into the King's Colosseum and bring him down. It was either that or our armies marched. Though that never came to happen, he released her, suddenly. Perhaps it was because he sensed his rule was in jeoprady. We thought it was over, but he poisoned her. She never recovered, and eventually, one night she disappeared." He had never understood that, how she had just left like a blossom on the breeze. It had sundered him, made him bitter. Made him angry and yet now...he could not hate her for it.
Love stories would always be whimsical, beautiful at the start, a sonnet for the ages. It had been, until it wasn't. Some were fortunate to never have their song end, but Isorath hadn't been so blessed. What was a Crown, when you had no one to share it with? With ash in your mouth and a hole in your heart?
So he had hardened himself, remade himself in the fire.
"Whether it is good wisdom, is up to interpretation." He laughed, a glint in his eye that wasn't there before. "But, wisdom and experience will come to you too, in time. The Crown will get easier to bear, and so will the affairs of the Heart and Mind. I have faith in you." Isorath concluded with a gentle tilt of his scaled face, strands of spun moonlight sliding across his face to curl over his cheekbones.
I have plans for my council and, now I know you plan to stay with us, will you consider being my Regent, Isorath?
It was not what he had expected. A champion, perhaps. An Emissary at best, he had been building ties to Denocte, and had plans to move to Day and Dawn in pursuit of knowledge — why not politics instead? But Regent..."You honor me." Is his first response, surprised and delighted. "I will happily be your Regent, I hope I will live up to your plans and expectations."
The twilight queen is quick to unveil the first of her plans, once the question had been allowed to linger. Isorath listened intently, as he moved to refresh their cups and settle back upon the plush cushions. "A festival? A good way to celibrate your crowning, as well as celebrate the winter. Also good for broaching relations with the other courts more steadily, you have sent aid to Solterra already, which is a critical first step. I'll make arrangements to leave to Delumine shortly."
The tea remains warm beneath the Spring sun and in spite of the wind. Florentine watches as its steam rises, hypnotic and beautiful into the air. It fades into nothingness and is gone – like so many things.
Her heart is a tremble in her chest, the crown heavy upon her head. She thinks of how it feels and how she would like to cast it down and never pick it up again. A crown felt an unnatural thing upon her head – too constrictive, too rigid. Florentine was like a river running through a valley – carving her own path, running free. One day she would be wild and the next serene.
Her gaze lifts to him. Amethyst to lilac; so similar, so close. Upon her cushions she shifts, awkward beneath his praise but pleased nonetheless.
“Thank you.” She hums softly and it is for just more than one thing. It is gratitude for being her Regent, gratitude for his faith. Her golden lashes fan the curve of her cheek and she sighs softly, softly.
“Then I had better go and leave you to your packing, Isorath.” Her lips tip into a smile. “I hear festivals take much planning indeed.” Gracefully the flower girl rises from the cushion, petals falling as she ascends. “Thank you for the tea, I might call upon you another day for another cup.”
With that Florentine departs, stepping up upon the sculpted rail, her wings flaring as she steps off the sandstone rail.
@Isorath - ah well this is a surprise but I haven't claimed signos in 6 months and wanted to wrap stuff up nicely so this can be archived. I do hope that is okay? <3 <3
