[P] we shovel all the ashes out;

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* It is lovely, here, the air heavy with the heady smell of blossoms and colored with drifting laughter, and Asterion should feel at peace.   But there are memories of other festivals nipping at his heels, and their teeth are sharp. In the music he recalls the last time he was in Delumine, when the world was hazy with scents of woodsmoke and cider, and Asterion stood with Reichenbach beside him, watching Aislinn flee. In the quiet chatter of passerby, flowers wound in their hair, he thinks only of the Winter’s End festival, of exploring with the gypsy girl at his side – how happy he had been, as Florentine’s heart and trust were rent and Lysander was beaten.   He had not wanted to come to this one, but Flora had coaxed him as his sister, and commanded him as his queen.   Now he stands at the edge of the festivities as afternoon slips to golden evening. He wears a ribbon of wildflowers, courtesy of Cyrene, but they do not look as at home as the blooms that Florentine wears. The glimpses he gets of Calliope, or Flora, or Raymond should do more to comfort him, but it is still worry that whispers against his spine along with the breeze.   It is a bittersweet comfort that there is no sign of Aislinn, or of any from Denocte. Each time he is caught by the scent of drifting smoke, he thinks only of the burning pass, and of hard words spoken softly against a lullaby sea. Asterion hopes they are happy, tucked behind their gate, separated by ashes of things that once grew.   By chance alone he catches sight of the grey woman, a void of color in a meadow bursting with it – save her eyes, brilliant in the evening light. She, too, is set a little apart (though he knows there are those watching her, surely as there are those watching his own queen). He only hesitates a moment before moving toward her, and he wonders, as he nears, what demons dog her here. The Day Court leader has far more reason for the guarded expression she wears than him.   He stops before he draws too near, more from respect than caution; there is little about him that could be considered a threat. He is only a drifter, a dreamer, a boy of stars and sea.   “You look the way I feel,” he says softly, but there is a hint of a smile in his voice and in his eyes, too, as they linger on her. Asterion dips his head toward the Day queen, respectful as a knight. “I am Asterion, of the Dusk Court, and I am glad to finally meet you, Seraphina.” @Seraphina