THE ARCHIATER.
Marisol has dealt with fear, of course, in other people. The Halcyon unit is a painful, terrifying cause to be devoted to, and she is no stranger to the pressure it lays on people’s shoulders, the fear that is palpable in everyone’s eyes when it comes right down to the gritty bones of war, when blood starts gushing, the world goes dark - and somehow, although they are standing still and unattacked, these strangers are in the midst of battle, and they are scared. The way they lean against each other for support, the distrust that is eminent in those perfectly matched turquoise eyes. Slowly she folds her wings in to fit against her ribs; militarism in the face of refugees seems crass.
The breeze above them still blows cool and sharp. Marisol makes an effort to steel herself against the bite of it and manages, mostly, to suppress her shivers. The storm has thrown her off-guard. This is Terrastella’s first cold weather in months, and of course her pelts are at home, her knives, everything but the empty lace fleece on her back leg, which she feels as loudly as an extra appendage. An ear flicks forward to catch the twins’ subtle introduction. I’m Erd… this is Ard. Something disbelieving crosses her face. Ard and Erd -strange names for strange boys. She forces her brow to still, pushing it back from its involuntary raise, and dips her head to them in a calculated greeting, those gray eyes never leaving the strangers in front of her. They might seem harmless, but Marisol is not quite stupid enough to take them at face value; never mind their background, she thinks, or the fact that they look utterly helpless. Danger still lurks here, in the simple fact that they are still strangers.
We, uh… where are we?
The dreaded question. Marisol rolls it over her tongue for a moment. What to say. She’s never seen anything else, so how can she tell them the comparatives, what differs in their culture, what dangers are imminent that they have not seen before? And what words are revelant, what words will not be a waste - even Marisol, her speech usually so cool, so economic, is at a loss.
Thunder cracks overhead, and her wing jerks slightly. Mari raises her head back to its usual height. Seeking shelter seems wise. Her voice, that low, raspy mumble, is all but drowned by the quiet hum of rain building overhead and the wind that rushes by them, baleful and insistent. They don’t have reason to trust her, she knows, but they also don’t have much of a choice except to sit out the impending storm if they turn her down. Boom - again. She takes a quick step toward the pair, short and efficient, just to help her voice carry. You are in Novus, in the Dusk Court, Terrastella. The words will mean nothing to them. Marisol is fully aware, but what else can she say, how can she explain it - none of it will make sense, not for a long while, she’s guessing.
Some part of her feels almost guilty for being so bad at this. Marisol hitches her breath on an inhale and holds it. Gods help them both, she thinks, and shutters her silence.
