☼
She doesn’t know what she anticipates, when Denocte burns.
In the days that have follow, she hears nothing of the kingdom of smoke and stars, and the uncertainty is enough to put her on edge; she’s prepared to call her people together, of course. She prepared for that the night of the fire; the inevitable questions, and her lack of answers.
Whatever they have planned, she will try not be caught unaware-
Or so she assumes.
She has been anticipating ravens. (Perhaps even a white one, but she doesn’t want to think too deeply of what that would mean.) She does not anticipate the flutter of great wings outside of her room, on the balcony. As she steps outside, her eyes falling on a great messenger eagle, she at first assumes that the bird has somehow found her way to the wrong destination. As she offers her a leg, however, she sees her name stroked elegantly across the crisp envelope; her eyes sweep down the emerald seal. She takes it, and, before she can open it to discover who in all of Novus seals their letters with emerald, the eagle turns, revealing a bouquet of beautiful flowers.
Ah. She was expecting some word from Night, but…
She takes them carefully, cautiously – it must have taken great care from the messenger to keep them so pristine in her long flight, and even more to pick them, for the color…But she can contemplate that later. For now, an exhausted bird perches on her doorstep, and, for her efforts, she should certainly be rewarded.
“Come inside. You’ve had a long trip.”
It is only after she has sent the messenger on her way that she carefully – oh so carefully - removes the seal and examines the contents of the letter. As she reads, in spite of a prickle of concern - Denocte closed the gates? - and an unexpected jab of disappointment at their delayed meeting, she feels her lips curl gently at the edges. (When she reads his words, she swears that she can hear his voice, even though they’ve only met once. She has a good memory for voices, but perhaps especially his. Renwick is different, somehow, from anyone else she’s met. She doesn’t know what that means, yet, only that, when he looks at her, she knows that he knows exactly what she is, and he does not thing of her as some inextricably broken thing. What does she see when she looks at him?
All the light from the stars on a clear desert night.)
She tells herself, for the time being, not to think too deeply about the flowers or the painstakingly exquisite design of the letter or the she whose silver hair is brighter than the sun, although she does feel her telekinesis, almost self-consciously and entirely unintentionally, twirl through her pale locks at the thought of those words; surely she has more to be concerned about than that, she tells herself, even as her eyes seek them out again. Flattery. Flattery and those courtly manners, she assures herself, and although that is far from the end of her considerations and reassurances, it is the end of them for now, because she so rarely sees flowers in Solterra and, if she does not put them in water, they’ll wilt in the desert heat.
(Of course, they won’t keep forever. She thinks that she might press them, once that short time passes. So rare to see flowers, and even rarer to receive them – especially for creatures like her. Florentine (who wears them perpetually) and Ipomoea, certainly. Cyrene, too; something rich and warm, but she doesn’t know enough about flowers to pick something appropriate. She can think of all of the members of Denocte’s Regime with flowers, and better those than their nauseating crowns – but something violent in their petals, bright red. Eik with something blue, maybe, and pale. Roses, she thinks, would suit Bexley. Bright red, or gold – but maybe the gold would be better for Rhoswen. Flowers certainly suit the man who sent her this bouquet. (When she thinks of him, she can still smell the flowers twisted and twined in his hair, an infectious sweetness that seems to linger in spite of the time that has passed since their last meeting.) Seraphina is all gunsmoke and ash, and flowers don’t grow in desert sands – but there is no mistaking that these are picked, with the same endearing scrutiny that occupied the entirety of the message, for her. She brushes her lips across plush petals, eyes drawing across colors that matched their own. They smell sweet, and it isn’t a sweetness that she minds, like the abrasive perfume that she has come to associate with letters from Denocte.)
She’ll have to respond, of course, but she’s never been good at putting herself on paper. But first…
She goes to dig through her desk drawers. She has a request to make.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is Dusk, some time later, when the hawk alights at Direstone.
She is a brilliant creature, clever eyes as bright as golden flame; her feathers gleam red in the dying light. She perches rather unobtrusively on one of the stone walls of the fortress, her regal posture more than befitting of the woman who she represents. Occasionally, a poor soldier might attempt to take her message. She will lean towards them, sniff, and let out a furious hiss before leaping back several feet, great wings flapping angrily. Whether it is news of a troublesome hawk or pure coincidence that brings the Lord-Commander of the Brotherhood into her presence, she will not relinquish her letter to anyone else, and, even then, she only offers it to him after a good deal of perhaps-unnecessary scrutiny.
Renwick curls across the envelope in neat, golden ink; there is something thoughtful to it in spite of its simplicity, as though she has mulled over the presentation of it. The metallic wax seal, gold as the sun, is unmistakable, if he had any question as to the identity of the sender, but perhaps the faint, familiar scent of flowers hinted at that even before the hawk gave up the letter. (Perhaps she wrote it with the bouquet at her desk.)
A gold-plated medallion accompanies the enclosed letter, thin and shimmering. Make no mistake, however; beneath the thin coat of gold is Solterran steel, guised against all imitations. The sun has been hand-carved into the medallion with excruciating detail and stylized elegance. One who is aware of the significance of the medallion might realize that each design is individualized, and, perhaps, if they look closely, they might realize that is why their gaze might catch on the unmistakable shape of a star in the very center of the sun.
The hawk will not linger long; her mistress has need of her, after all, and she is a dutiful, stubborn creature.
Renwick,
I hope that you are well.
I assume that you have returned from the capitol – if not, I apologize preemptively, for Sarie will not relinquish this letter to anyone but you, and she will not return until she has delivered her message. She’s a menace, but she is also my most loyal messenger, and I would wish for none other to bring this correspondence.
I saw the fires, the night that the pass was set aflame, but I had not yet heard that the Raven Gates had been closed. I will admit, I assumed the worst when I saw embers in the wind; in truth, I still do, but I am in no position to believe otherwise. I hope that your kingdom is well. I know that Denocte is a land of free spirits, and to hinder that freedom (newfound though it may be) would certainly cause unrest. It seems that the winds are shifting again, and I can only hope that it works out in all of our favor. The gates were opened only a year ago, but, in spite of all Denocte’s years of isolation, I never truly expected to see them close again, much less to hear that travel has been restricted. Do you know of a woman named Rhoswen? She has a young daughter. She lived in Solterra, once, and I have wondered after her condition since her departure.
I am quite sorry to hear that you will have to postpone your visit to Solterra. I will admit that I was looking forward to seeing you again. However, it will give me more time to prepare for your arrival – you might expect a lengthy and comprehensive itinerary. (I think that I miss being a guard, from time to time. There is a certain thrill in showing the city to a newcomer.)
I have enclosed one of my favors. Whenever you are able to make the journey to Solterra, show it to the guards, and they will alert me to your presence.
It is quiet in Solterra – quiet as it can be, anyways. The Davke have not returned for us, and we are beginning to rebuild. It will take time, but I salvaged the oldest blueprints of the capitol, and I intend to use them. Our city was built to withstand a siege, and, with so much of the grandeur stripped away and destroyed by flames, I believe that we can rebuild it as it has always been intended. It is no secret to say that we are vulnerable, but I do not expect that to be the case for long, and, even as the world outside of our borders seems to shift with each change of the wind, it puts my mind at ease. We have been stagnant for far too long, and the movement is a relief.
I think that you would have to work far harder to come across as anything less than the image of courtly charm and command, but I digress. If these are your thoughts, I would certainly like to hear more of them. If we cannot meet, perhaps we might continue this correspondence?
The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.
Yours,
Sera
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @Renwick
notes | we'll probably want to space these out because of other IC developmentsbut I have a lot of feelings. also, I wasn't sure if you wanted like...a thread of letters or separate threads, but this one's easy to split up if you prefer the latter.
In the days that have follow, she hears nothing of the kingdom of smoke and stars, and the uncertainty is enough to put her on edge; she’s prepared to call her people together, of course. She prepared for that the night of the fire; the inevitable questions, and her lack of answers.
Whatever they have planned, she will try not be caught unaware-
Or so she assumes.
She has been anticipating ravens. (Perhaps even a white one, but she doesn’t want to think too deeply of what that would mean.) She does not anticipate the flutter of great wings outside of her room, on the balcony. As she steps outside, her eyes falling on a great messenger eagle, she at first assumes that the bird has somehow found her way to the wrong destination. As she offers her a leg, however, she sees her name stroked elegantly across the crisp envelope; her eyes sweep down the emerald seal. She takes it, and, before she can open it to discover who in all of Novus seals their letters with emerald, the eagle turns, revealing a bouquet of beautiful flowers.
Ah. She was expecting some word from Night, but…
She takes them carefully, cautiously – it must have taken great care from the messenger to keep them so pristine in her long flight, and even more to pick them, for the color…But she can contemplate that later. For now, an exhausted bird perches on her doorstep, and, for her efforts, she should certainly be rewarded.
“Come inside. You’ve had a long trip.”
It is only after she has sent the messenger on her way that she carefully – oh so carefully - removes the seal and examines the contents of the letter. As she reads, in spite of a prickle of concern - Denocte closed the gates? - and an unexpected jab of disappointment at their delayed meeting, she feels her lips curl gently at the edges. (When she reads his words, she swears that she can hear his voice, even though they’ve only met once. She has a good memory for voices, but perhaps especially his. Renwick is different, somehow, from anyone else she’s met. She doesn’t know what that means, yet, only that, when he looks at her, she knows that he knows exactly what she is, and he does not thing of her as some inextricably broken thing. What does she see when she looks at him?
All the light from the stars on a clear desert night.)
She tells herself, for the time being, not to think too deeply about the flowers or the painstakingly exquisite design of the letter or the she whose silver hair is brighter than the sun, although she does feel her telekinesis, almost self-consciously and entirely unintentionally, twirl through her pale locks at the thought of those words; surely she has more to be concerned about than that, she tells herself, even as her eyes seek them out again. Flattery. Flattery and those courtly manners, she assures herself, and although that is far from the end of her considerations and reassurances, it is the end of them for now, because she so rarely sees flowers in Solterra and, if she does not put them in water, they’ll wilt in the desert heat.
(Of course, they won’t keep forever. She thinks that she might press them, once that short time passes. So rare to see flowers, and even rarer to receive them – especially for creatures like her. Florentine (who wears them perpetually) and Ipomoea, certainly. Cyrene, too; something rich and warm, but she doesn’t know enough about flowers to pick something appropriate. She can think of all of the members of Denocte’s Regime with flowers, and better those than their nauseating crowns – but something violent in their petals, bright red. Eik with something blue, maybe, and pale. Roses, she thinks, would suit Bexley. Bright red, or gold – but maybe the gold would be better for Rhoswen. Flowers certainly suit the man who sent her this bouquet. (When she thinks of him, she can still smell the flowers twisted and twined in his hair, an infectious sweetness that seems to linger in spite of the time that has passed since their last meeting.) Seraphina is all gunsmoke and ash, and flowers don’t grow in desert sands – but there is no mistaking that these are picked, with the same endearing scrutiny that occupied the entirety of the message, for her. She brushes her lips across plush petals, eyes drawing across colors that matched their own. They smell sweet, and it isn’t a sweetness that she minds, like the abrasive perfume that she has come to associate with letters from Denocte.)
She’ll have to respond, of course, but she’s never been good at putting herself on paper. But first…
She goes to dig through her desk drawers. She has a request to make.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is Dusk, some time later, when the hawk alights at Direstone.
She is a brilliant creature, clever eyes as bright as golden flame; her feathers gleam red in the dying light. She perches rather unobtrusively on one of the stone walls of the fortress, her regal posture more than befitting of the woman who she represents. Occasionally, a poor soldier might attempt to take her message. She will lean towards them, sniff, and let out a furious hiss before leaping back several feet, great wings flapping angrily. Whether it is news of a troublesome hawk or pure coincidence that brings the Lord-Commander of the Brotherhood into her presence, she will not relinquish her letter to anyone else, and, even then, she only offers it to him after a good deal of perhaps-unnecessary scrutiny.
Renwick curls across the envelope in neat, golden ink; there is something thoughtful to it in spite of its simplicity, as though she has mulled over the presentation of it. The metallic wax seal, gold as the sun, is unmistakable, if he had any question as to the identity of the sender, but perhaps the faint, familiar scent of flowers hinted at that even before the hawk gave up the letter. (Perhaps she wrote it with the bouquet at her desk.)
A gold-plated medallion accompanies the enclosed letter, thin and shimmering. Make no mistake, however; beneath the thin coat of gold is Solterran steel, guised against all imitations. The sun has been hand-carved into the medallion with excruciating detail and stylized elegance. One who is aware of the significance of the medallion might realize that each design is individualized, and, perhaps, if they look closely, they might realize that is why their gaze might catch on the unmistakable shape of a star in the very center of the sun.
The hawk will not linger long; her mistress has need of her, after all, and she is a dutiful, stubborn creature.
Renwick,
I hope that you are well.
I assume that you have returned from the capitol – if not, I apologize preemptively, for Sarie will not relinquish this letter to anyone but you, and she will not return until she has delivered her message. She’s a menace, but she is also my most loyal messenger, and I would wish for none other to bring this correspondence.
I saw the fires, the night that the pass was set aflame, but I had not yet heard that the Raven Gates had been closed. I will admit, I assumed the worst when I saw embers in the wind; in truth, I still do, but I am in no position to believe otherwise. I hope that your kingdom is well. I know that Denocte is a land of free spirits, and to hinder that freedom (newfound though it may be) would certainly cause unrest. It seems that the winds are shifting again, and I can only hope that it works out in all of our favor. The gates were opened only a year ago, but, in spite of all Denocte’s years of isolation, I never truly expected to see them close again, much less to hear that travel has been restricted. Do you know of a woman named Rhoswen? She has a young daughter. She lived in Solterra, once, and I have wondered after her condition since her departure.
I am quite sorry to hear that you will have to postpone your visit to Solterra. I will admit that I was looking forward to seeing you again. However, it will give me more time to prepare for your arrival – you might expect a lengthy and comprehensive itinerary. (I think that I miss being a guard, from time to time. There is a certain thrill in showing the city to a newcomer.)
I have enclosed one of my favors. Whenever you are able to make the journey to Solterra, show it to the guards, and they will alert me to your presence.
It is quiet in Solterra – quiet as it can be, anyways. The Davke have not returned for us, and we are beginning to rebuild. It will take time, but I salvaged the oldest blueprints of the capitol, and I intend to use them. Our city was built to withstand a siege, and, with so much of the grandeur stripped away and destroyed by flames, I believe that we can rebuild it as it has always been intended. It is no secret to say that we are vulnerable, but I do not expect that to be the case for long, and, even as the world outside of our borders seems to shift with each change of the wind, it puts my mind at ease. We have been stagnant for far too long, and the movement is a relief.
I think that you would have to work far harder to come across as anything less than the image of courtly charm and command, but I digress. If these are your thoughts, I would certainly like to hear more of them. If we cannot meet, perhaps we might continue this correspondence?
The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.
Yours,
Sera
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @
notes | we'll probably want to space these out because of other IC developments
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
