THE ARCHIATER.
Darkness and light, and Marisol weaves through the patches like a fish through water. Above her the sky has dimmed to black and purple, gauzy with cloud cover, and all that remains visible is what is touched by torchlight, stamped into the ground at wavering intervals. It dances across her skin in gold smoke, lights the gray of her eyes to silver and ice. Darkness and light. Quiet as ever she makes her way through the festivities, and quiet as ever, she goes unnoticed, head dipped to her chest, black wings folded to fit her ribs. The short bristle of her cropped mane looks hard and angry in the torchlight; she moves quickly, and her efficiency in closing the fields makes her nearly anonymous. She could be anyone - dark-skinned and silky and disinterested. The only real indication of her status is the row of cloth across her feathers, fat slashes of bright-white silk a beacon in the gloom.
In Marisol’s eyes, this is not a celebration. It is a means to an end. Not a drop of liquor has passed her lips, not a word has been spoken from them, and the Commander does not greet people so much as she watches them, gaze cool and brusque under those long lashes. Music plays lightly from over the hills and comes to rest inside her bones. Around her girls in silks go whirling through the fields, and conversation is mumbled just loud enough to hear, passed from mouth to mouth like something sacred; eyes and teeth glint in the low light, and everyone is falling in love, and Marisol is nothing like everyone. She has to remind herself of the fact constantly. You are not like these people, and the thought goes rolling through her brain and back again, you cannot be like these people, because they do not know their duties.
A crowd has gathered around a merchant selling mead, and Marisol finds her way into the frayed edges of the group with little resistance. On every side someone is laughing or talking and the noise grates at her soft ears. Under His eye, says someone in greeting as they whiz past, and Marisol gives them a dirty glance before she sends a silent prayer up to her own god. The night is young and dense with heat, and already Marisol feels sweat beading on her skin, half from the warmth and half from her anxiety, the constant fear that follows a girl occupying a position like hers... Her wing shudders involuntarily, just brushing the side of the bright red stallion next to her, and she snaps it back to her side as quick as those bird-bones will allow. She speaks then, and the rasp of her voice makes it obvious that she does not speak often.
Apologies.
