The fires are out, and the bodies burned with them; the Davke have run back to the sands or hunted down and left for dead. For a breath, the silver thinks, as she stands on the battlements, staring out at the rolling dunes of golden sand stretching out endlessly towards the horizon, the devastation has passed, but it has passed through like a hurricane. The storm is gone, but now she knows that the wake will never be over. The dead will remain dead, and what was destroyed – a hundred year’s history and every tool that enabled her people to survive in a merciless desert that was ravenous for their blood – can never be brought back. She is left like the smell of smoke that still clings to the capitol. She remains. She remains, even though she has never wished more desperately to run away in all her life.
Her troubled dreams taste like blood and death, and, no matter where she looks, she is reminded of her failure, of the people she could not save, the people that deserved far better than this, hunted down and slaughtered in their own homes. Unjust. Merciless. She has never thought herself righteous, and perhaps she is not, but she aches for them. She aches for the children, for the elderly, for the innocent – for those who could not defend themselves, for those who she could not protect. Perhaps it is her soldier’s training at work, the part of her that was beaten and broken into absolute loyalty to her court’s defense. Perhaps it is something more sentimental than that, too, but, if it is, she does not want to let it in. If this has finally been enough to stir the parts of her that she has so carefully buried, she will force them back down; she cannot afford to compromise her logic, least of all now.
She blinks sunlight out of her aching eyes and turns back down the ruined stairways, descending into the cooler depths of the palace. Everywhere she looks, she seems to find shards of glass and broken wood, or dark smudges of ash. She moves through the sun-dappled hallways like clockwork, exhausted limbs propelling her mechanically from one room to the next until she arrives in the mess that was the throne room, though it seems nothing like one now – the throne is blackened, with the symbol of Solis carved out of it, and the beautiful stained glass windows lie in piles against the walls. At least, she thinks, the blood has been cleaned off the floor.
Quick on her heels is a young courier. “The…envoy from Denocte has arrived, my lady. Shall I let him in?” She glances back at him, guising her reluctance with apathy.
She had not accepted Isorath’s request for an audience lightly; in truth, she did not wish to accept it at all. However, in the interest of knowledge, she had begrudgingly agreed. Know thy enemy, she told herself, though Denocte’s intentions seemed to her rather clear based on their treatment of Terrastella and their attack against her citizen. Nevertheless, in spite of her present arrangement with Florentine and her own injury, she prefers to avoid the appearance of outright hostility – she knows that her people cannot withstand another attack, not now. As far as she is concerned, she will be perfectly polite to Reichenbach’s newest paramour – another thing that she fails to understand about the Night King, and the entire situation with Denocte and Terrastella, but interpersonal tangles have never been her interest - and then send him on his way.
She does not wish to do this, but there is work to be done. “…yes.” She makes no attempts to guise the war that brews beneath her skin, barely tempered by restraint; she awaits the dragon statuesque, her white hair tousled free of its braids and her eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights.
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
03-17-2018, 03:46 PM - This post was last modified: 03-19-2018, 12:25 PM by Seraphina
The Sun Capital is in ruins, smoke rose and billowed in mournful plumes against a grey misted sky. Soot and ash coat every lungful of air he breathed, the cloying taste of it stuck even after he swallowed. The golden, gilded glory of Solis' Crown is no more than a broken, twisted thing, shrouded by a thick foreboding pall. He's no stranger to War, he has been spoon fed stories of Conquest and Blood since he was a babe at his mother's foot. Raised by Warriors who have bloodied their blades against barbarian's and sellswords alike. He has fought before, he has played the Great Game more than once in his life. Politics and Warfare come hand in hand with the winged Kirin, there is nary a thing which surprised him anymore.
Yet, it is sobering to see a Place that almost looks like Sunsyia, at least a Sunsyia in it's primordial stages of greatness — laid low. A wounded beast laying in a puddle of it's own blood as it struggled to rise, struggled to breathe. As he weaved through the debris escorted by the remnants of the Guard stationed in the Palace, careful to avoid the glass scattered across the floor and step over statues beheaded for no other reason but carnage. He gazed at everything, from the defaced effigies of Solis, to the broken spears and hastily cleaned splatters of blood.
Between the guards which flank him is a number of chests, inside each carry gifts for the silver haired Queen and her people. It is no bribery, no attempt to appease a monarch going through the motions of her land in the aftermath of a siege. Merely something to help soften the blow, ease the aches that he knows Solterra will be feeling.
He knew coming here was a gamble, but neither is he a coward or a cowed politician at the mercy of his King, brow beaten to toeing nervously in the shadows. The three most prominent Courts are in disarray with one another, and he cannot sit by and simply do nothing as banners threaten to line the horizon. He is also no fool, he knows Solterra is a likely ally for Terrastella to turn to. Both nations have been scorned by Denocte's behavior, not raising a voice nor attempting to reach some kind of tolerance would be suicide — he may as well throw himself upon a spear and save a soldier the job. So, he has risen to the tedious, if not perilous job of saving the man and the nation he cares for, with or without their knowledge.
Isorath is no stranger to the knowledge that his reputation will have spread, Reichenbach's certainly spread like wildfire, for good or for ill, he cannot say. It would make sense that his newest paramour would make waves, given the circumstances of which they came to be. He has no qualms with the title, at least. After all, in his homeland he would be tasked to a similar fate — albeit with the absence of the affection and love he bears for his partner.
Aether circled overhead, his rumbled snarling song easily rattled the shattered remains of windows, and provoked the rubble and burned stones to shudder across streaked and stained floors. He does not agree with being here either, each circle over head he grows more and more restless until he comes down. Landing with an unceremonious thud upon the ancient stone walls of the Courtyard, he cannot follow Isorath into the bowels of the Palace — but he can be a silent threat to the servants and guards who quickly scurried out from underneath his shadow, chased by the frost he commanded.
"Your Grace," He announced silkily enough, his accent musical and melodic upon his tongue. It echoed in the ruined throne room as the cracked and splintered doors are opened to him. "Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice." A talon slipped out from beneath the midnight and moonstone flecked cloak he is wrapped in, to idly gesture to where the chests should be placed. "A gift, to show my appreciation. Medicinal supplies for your wounded, as well as bandages and ointments for their aches and pains. There are also notes on how to replicate them, should you require more." The Kirin explained simply, and lapsed into a contemplative if not curious silence. He does not comment on the fact she looks well, given that she has weathered a siege most could not withstand, for he knows there will be claw marks and wounds that do not appear upon her smoke colored visage. A pity, he thought for a moment, to have the first years of a young queen's reign tarnished by barbarian's holding grudges for a King who was long dead.
Lilac eyes casually roamed the expanse of the throne room, taking in each and every little detail that so much as caught his interest. Particularly they landed on the throne, and his face finally broke it's contemplative looks. In slow and precise steps, he moved toward the toppled throne until he stilled at the base of it. They lingered for a moment longer, before finally they rested upon Seraphina. "I assume you have questions, as to why a Denoctian Envoy comes to your doors, considering all that has transpired." Isorath finally acknowledged, a wry smile curled at the corner of his pale maw. "Among other questions I'm sure."
She hears great sandstone walls shaking, and she knows that Isorath and his guards have arrived, accompanied by his dragon; she doesn’t like its presence in her city, particularly given how quickly she’d seen it burned to ashes at her hooves only weeks before, but she can understand his precaution. He has nothing to fear from her, but she cannot say that there are none among her people who wouldn’t like anything better than to take out their rage and frustration on the Night King’s paramour, even though it was the Davke that attacked the capitol. She sent her own guards to meet him; as the kirin enters the room, surrounded by guards with silver chests of what she can only, uncomfortably, assume are gifts, her own flood in behind them, standing stiff at the door. She cannot make out their expressions, from where she stands. She knows not of what her people think of her willingness to accept Denocte’s request. Frankly, she isn’t sure that she cares – if she allows tensions with Denocte to continue to grow without even attempting to intervene, she will see the rest of her kingdom crumble to dust and ashes at her hooves. She will not let her nation’s foolish pride be the death of them all.
He greets her with the polished words of a trained diplomat. “Such formality is unnecessary – you need not address me by any title.” Right now, it left a sour taste in her mouth, a memory of the cruel sovereign who came before her. I will not be like him. She worried often about becoming someone like Zolin, in the earliest days of her reign; those thoughts had hardly subsided in the wake of the Davke attack. There would be no more decadence in her palace halls, and no more nobility – she would brutalize the structures that had held them firm for so many years or go down fighting in the process. She had never worn their gold-leaf crowns before, and she’d be damned before she wore them now. This gesture was as much of a defiance of the courtly politics that had proved the undoing of so many lives as it was a proverbial olive branch. Just Seraphina. There was a certain degree of power in familiarity, after all.
And then…then, he gestures to his guards to bring forth the gifts.
Instinctual shame burns the walls of her throat. She doesn’t want him here like this, and she doesn’t want his pity – she doesn’t want her people to think she can be bought, either. Nevertheless, her people need supplies, and her reputation and pride…she swallows her every instinct down. They aren’t worth a life that those supplies could save. “Your assistance is… greatly appreciated, in such troubled times.” As Isorath’s guards put the chests down, she gestures to her own. “Take the supplies to the healers. The rest of you…guard outside of the door.” They move to accommodate her will – some begrudgingly, though if it is for removing them or for taking the supplies, she is unsure. However, she does not know who she can trust – not yet. In the wake of the attack, she knows that she must keep her secrets close, particularly in regards to Denocte and Terrastella. She knows of what happened to Aislinn, now, and she knows that she needs to speak with Torstein regarding appropriate use of force. This still offers her no resolution about what Reichenbach’s Crows did to Bexley, and, though muffled, she feels the prickle of outrage scraping at the deepest, darkest corners of her chest. She would take accountability for her subordinate’s actions; here she was taking accountability for Zolin’s and Maxence’s, for the gods’ sake. Nothing she knew of Reichenbach convinced her that he wouldn’t just take their attempted murder with a bloody-lipped smirk – nothing she knew of Denocte convinced her that they knew anything about accountability. They couldn’t even handle injuries from fights they picked themselves.
She settles those thoughts, though; she’d be a fool if she let her opinions of what few citizens of Denocte she had spoken to color her opinion of the entire nation, and, much as she dislikes the situation, particularly given what she’s heard from Terrastella, she steels herself to keep an open mind as she speaks with Isorath. If nothing else, she tells herself, she might gain some information that she can use. She regards the snow-white man in front of her, once again taking account of his draconian features – scales as brilliant gold as she remembers them, great, leathery wings, and sharp antlers. There is a small part of her that is put in mind of Viceroy, when she looks at him, of her mentor’s flaming antlers and leonine tail, the scales like silver moons along his spine and cheeks…but no, the wings are all wrong, and his wings were more important than anything else. She watches him from above as he continues, offering a faint nod of her head at his words. “I do, but perhaps you would like to begin with that one. Why have you come?”
Begin with what seems simplest, then delve in deeper.
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
Isorath understood volatility, especially in the wake of disaster. Nothing raises the hackles of a nation like widespread destruction and disorder. He has spied the bodies in the street, the crumbled walls and smouldering buildings. The equines who called Solterra's Capital home are anxious, tense, there are chips on shoulders to rival the arma mountains upon their shoulders — teeth bared and eyes wide. Old gripes can come to the surface in these times, old wounds picked open as nerves fray and blister, begging to be the distraction and outlet for their most recent grief.
An Emissary from Denocte, one of their oldest and most persist foes, would make for an opportune target to vent their frustrations upon. The fact the Emissary is the Night King's paramour? That sweetened the idea like honey glaze over peaches in the summer time, the gentle spray of the sea to beat back the heat of the sun. The Guards were a nessecity, loyal guards, who would think twice — and then a third, before raising their swords and spears. Aether's presence was merely a subtle reminder how much of a bad idea it would be, a monumentally bad idea in fact. Luckily, it appeared that there would be no such ideas entertained and executed this day.
Such formality is unnecessary – you need not address me by any title.
"Very well, Seraphina." It's no skin off of his nose to do away with titles, some fully embraced them, others shirked them. Shed them like they were cursed. Perhaps this one was, all things considered. Zolin had been a blight, or so he'd come to know, and his father hadn't been much better. Lilac eyes wandered once more across the ruined Throne Room, and he wondered what it had been like, before the Davke had smeared their greasy, ruinous fingers over it. Before Seraphina and Maxence. "You do not have to thank me for the supplies, it is the least I can do." He smiled, his attention drawn back to Sera. He knew, in her position, how he might have chafed at the idea. Accepting supplies from another while the ground beneath your hooves felt like quicksand, the idea's it could impliment in others. Commonfolk and nobles alike were fickle, all too easily could they develop opinions based on fantasy. Isorath had not come to buy Seraphina, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind.
The Kirin lapsed into a comfortable silence, at least, until the Guards were stationed outside. Punctuated by the sound of a battered door sliding back into place, only then did he speak as he drew himself further into the room.
I do, but perhaps you would like to begin with that one. Why have you come?
"To stop more fires from starting, and put a few out." Isorath replied easily enough. "I've never been one for buying my enemies, neither will I buy my friends. Be assured that my visit today is not to ply you with sweet words and gifts so that you may be inclined to listen to me, Seraphina. Your people deserve better than that, and they deserve to have the supplies to treat their wounds." The Emissary paused, at least momentarily before he continued.
"I've been made aware of certain...transgressions, between Denocte and Solterra, and I would see them amiably settled before they escalate. Among other things, but one thing at a time."
He eases into her name, and she relaxes, slightly, with the informality. Now of all times, she wishes that her title lay on someone else’s head – someone far more worthy of it than she, sun-scorned and girlish in the face of all the experience she once imagined was hers. There was no accountability in her childhood. All of that blood wasn’t really on her hands; she kept her distance from all the broken bodies, and she told herself day in and day out that it wasn’t what she wanted or what she willed. She did what she must. There was no such comfort now; all the weight in the world seemed to beat down on her shoulders.
He tells her that no thanks are needed, but her stubborn politeness insists. “The gesture is…greatly appreciated nevertheless,” As much as it stings to take charity from a kingdom whose intentions she cannot truly discern, Seraphina is being honest; it is not as though her people had many supplies, even before the Davke attacked. “I know that the relationship between our nations is tense, at the moment.”
Isorath is silent until the guards leave the room, and then, advancing, declares that he has no intention to buy her. “Thank you,” She says, as something of an afterthought. That is not to say her tone is especially grateful; it remains cool as ice. As though she could ever be bought in the first place. Seraphina had grown up in a land of nobles swollen on the suffering of others, and, though a part of her wonders if she is still a queen at all in the wake of such a monumental failure, she knows - knows - that she will not make the same mistakes. Nevertheless, she appreciates the sentiment, if only because it offers a hint of sympathy – or empathy – for her people. Perhaps it is a cynical notion, but she is sure that many of his fellows have laughed while her nation crumbles to its knees.
At least he still believes they deserve anything at all.
A pause, and then an explanation of his intentions. She could have guessed them; he is an emissary, and she knows that it is an emissary’s job to put out fires. Seraphina wasn’t aware that Denocte had any interest in smoothing over their relationship with Solterra, however. Their nations had spent so much time at war that she suspected it would feel more unnatural if they weren’t at each other’s throats, much as she’d rather their relationship be otherwise. “What transgressions have you been made aware of, and how would you see them resolved?” Her eyes linger intently on his white-and-gold frame; she makes little attempt to disguise her wariness, though her tone is nothing if not cordial. She remembers her own time spent as Maxence’s Emissary, and she remembers how she had regarded his decisions on foreign policy. (For a moment, memories of Rostislav and his hellhound come bubbling to the surface, but she is quick to dismiss them again.) Seraphina knows, then, that she cannot necessarily consider the Emissary’s thoughts to parallel his Sovereign’s. A part of her would rather be speaking with Reichenbach himself, rather than a proxy, but she has the creeping feeling that she doesn’t need the man in front of her to know exactly what his stance is on her nation.
She remembers Reichenbach, though it feels like she met him lifetimes ago; a charming creature, really, with a disarmingly pleasant smile. (In light of more recent events, the thought makes her stomach turn knots.) She knows of his temper, and she knows of the temper of his Stormsinger. (There is no part of her that is unconvinced that the woman wouldn’t like to see each and every Solterran reduced to ashes by their own flames; for a moment, she hears a vicious, ugly crack.) She knows what he did to Florentine. If that was how he treated a lover, even if he had fallen out of love with her, how could she ever trust his good will?
She says nothing, of course – merely waits. Seraphina had learned not to put her cards on the table until she knew what game her opponent was playing, if she could call the man in front of her an opponent at all. If it was truly peace he sought, or, if nothing else, restitution, then they were on the same side.
(But, of course, memory of Avdotya’s betrayal runs hot, like fresh blood. She tells herself that she won’t be so quick to take anyone at their word ever again.)
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
It is not his place to judge her for looking at the crown in such a light, for shoving the title off into the dark below, where it could wither and rot. Indeed, that seemed to be what Solterra was doing right now, the acrid smell of burned flesh and scorched stone permeated the air and each lungful the winged kirin dared to breathe. Oh, it was not her burden to bear, this blame, this unfortunate series of events which had fallen into place like unjust pieces on an already full board. But, they all are pieces on it, in the end, and they can only navigate the perils and pitfalls until they too, are removed. Until they are nothing more than names in books, their flesh ash in the breeze and their bones beneath the sand. Isorath can only look at her with a mixture of empathy and sadness, not the pitying kind. Not the kind nobles gave beggars on the streets. Isorath had been crowned twice, one for love and one for duty. He had suffered deeply for the former title, and those scars were jagged and deep upon the delicate planes of his heart.
The gesture is greatly appreciated, nevertheless.
Lilac eyes changed then, their slitted pupils swirled with a maelstrom of thinly veiled irony, the breath that escaped him musical and heavy. A leonine tail flicked idly, a casual and polite dismissal of the thanks. It is uncomfortable for her as it is for him, he has come to her without prompt. He is a stranger in a strange land, under the cloak of shadows and carefully absent notes to a beloved he longed to return to. Isorath had never liked letting the pieces move on the board without his careful gaze, however, and he would loathe to let his new found love blind him. His chest ached, terribly, fondly. An echo of another time he'd rather forget. "It is, isn't it?" He agreed with a quiet hum, his accent thick and syrupy upon his words.
"But we are the makers of our own moves upon the game of life, are we not? Now the board is set." He stated after a moment, thoughtful as his head tilted to look at the shattered glass beneath his hooves. To the window which he imagined would of been a work of art, before the fires started. To the Dragon which lingered like a dark shroud just out of clear view. "It is our turn to move our pieces, and I would move them wisely." They're still soft, his words. Featherlight as they escaped, how they wisped from his pale maw and evaporated like vapor in the space between them. He has grown up to do this, it was why he was conceived after all, Vectaeryn had their heir, then there was the spare. The one who would dance these sort of worriesome games as the ruler, ruled. His brother was ever capable, a fine man who would be worth the crown and it's weight. But he had little elegancy for the throne of politics. Hence, Isorath. The child of both the sun and moon, who burned as fiercely as the flames and stood as serenely as the moon on the clearest night. Who understood the duality of the Crown and would never wear it.
What transgressions have you been made aware of, and how would you see them resolved?
"Firstly, I understand your Warden, has mauled my Regent. Quite severely." Right to it then, it appeared, he does not hide the severity of his tone. The graveness woven in to all the finer points. He is not one for fanfare and dramatics here. Long claws unfurled from their embrace against ivory flesh as his wings braced downward, the gilded talons scraped lightly against the dirtied stone as he leaned his weight upon his wings. "But, I also understand that there was an attempt made upon a mare who calls these lands her own, by some of my countrymen." He shifted then, upon the large wings which propped him up, the leathery appendages shifting like sails in the breeze, the thin membrane near seethrough in the light. "In my homeland such penalties are death by dragonfire. But, we are not in Vectaeryn. I understand there are customs in Solterra, for such things? I would see the Court's enact their justice fairly. Then I wish to put them to bed, forever, and not use them to ignite fires between our nations in future."
Reasonable wants, he thought. He does not want to see scrolls upon his table detailing slights between the Sun and Night Courts. Caligo only knew that the past few days had seen the reports file in, in a steady stream from apologetic servants. Dusk Court alone had their own stack upon his desk. He does not want to lay in bed with silver hair entangled in inky black, limbs woven between limbs, sleep so close and yet so far away everytime he reached for it. Lilac eyes fixated on a slip of paper than the face which lay inches from his own.
Ah, but he had said there would be consequences for this love of theirs, hadn't he?
