☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
Seraphina feels lost.
In a metaphorical sense, more than a literal one – festivals and parties have always been foreign to the warrior woman. She knows basic etiquette, of course, but that does not make her comfortable. She prefers isolation, and the open, clear sky, not a throng of moving bodies and a haze of smoke. This is – even with all of the music and art, the beauty, the open sky, the lush meadows – suffocating. She is wrong here, but she is always wrong in Delumine (a dash of sandpaper against rolling silk); this is a different kind of wrong.
Everywhere she looks, she notices absence. She cannot say that the void of jasmine and woodsmoke and glittering, clinking coins is entirely unwelcome – it is not as though her own relationship with Denocte is pleasant, in spite of a correspondence she has been keeping. However, the closing of the gates looms ominous above her head, particularly when she thinks of the words of young Cynix…that it was somehow her fault, or at least the fault of her nation. (And the actions of her nation were as good as her own.) She wonders if others blame her people for it, too, in spite of her talks with Isorath; she wonders if she only imagines the eyes that seem to follow her in the crowd. It would not require any strong stretch of the imagination to say that she has become paranoid; used to being watched, like something up on public display. It was bound to happen eventually, she’s told herself time and time again, but she still misses the comfort of being anonymous, just another face in a bubbling, frothing crowd; she has missed wearing her own name and being unrecognizable, rather than resorting to (often useless) disguises and aliases for a moment of peace.
She is not in disguise tonight, however, and it is no surprise when a foreign dignitary approaches her – she recognizes him as the Dusk Court’s Reagent, the brother of Florentine. He is star-struck bay, a bit older than she but younger in every way but physical, in spite of the weight that seems to rest, uncomfortable and disconcerting, across his pretty features. She dips her head to him in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Asterion,” Seraphina greets, her tone as coolly pleasant as ever. She considers his opening remark for a moment, then adds, “And I suspect that I do look…misplaced. I have never felt comfortable at celebrations.” Pleasant as this one is, with its wildflower crowns, she can never quite seem to shake the rotting taste of Zolin from her mouth. (He is always there, just over her shoulder, but gone when she blinks. Perfume again, in his absence – the soft scent of the lilies that rest gentle as laurels on her forehead, a crown that she had never expected to wear.) “But what troubles you, Asterion? You seem to have much on your mind.” She sees no harm in asking – perhaps he needs someone to ask, and Seraphina is never one to turn down information besides.
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tags | @Asterion
notes | this took forever, but, anyhow - excite! <3
In a metaphorical sense, more than a literal one – festivals and parties have always been foreign to the warrior woman. She knows basic etiquette, of course, but that does not make her comfortable. She prefers isolation, and the open, clear sky, not a throng of moving bodies and a haze of smoke. This is – even with all of the music and art, the beauty, the open sky, the lush meadows – suffocating. She is wrong here, but she is always wrong in Delumine (a dash of sandpaper against rolling silk); this is a different kind of wrong.
Everywhere she looks, she notices absence. She cannot say that the void of jasmine and woodsmoke and glittering, clinking coins is entirely unwelcome – it is not as though her own relationship with Denocte is pleasant, in spite of a correspondence she has been keeping. However, the closing of the gates looms ominous above her head, particularly when she thinks of the words of young Cynix…that it was somehow her fault, or at least the fault of her nation. (And the actions of her nation were as good as her own.) She wonders if others blame her people for it, too, in spite of her talks with Isorath; she wonders if she only imagines the eyes that seem to follow her in the crowd. It would not require any strong stretch of the imagination to say that she has become paranoid; used to being watched, like something up on public display. It was bound to happen eventually, she’s told herself time and time again, but she still misses the comfort of being anonymous, just another face in a bubbling, frothing crowd; she has missed wearing her own name and being unrecognizable, rather than resorting to (often useless) disguises and aliases for a moment of peace.
She is not in disguise tonight, however, and it is no surprise when a foreign dignitary approaches her – she recognizes him as the Dusk Court’s Reagent, the brother of Florentine. He is star-struck bay, a bit older than she but younger in every way but physical, in spite of the weight that seems to rest, uncomfortable and disconcerting, across his pretty features. She dips her head to him in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Asterion,” Seraphina greets, her tone as coolly pleasant as ever. She considers his opening remark for a moment, then adds, “And I suspect that I do look…misplaced. I have never felt comfortable at celebrations.” Pleasant as this one is, with its wildflower crowns, she can never quite seem to shake the rotting taste of Zolin from her mouth. (He is always there, just over her shoulder, but gone when she blinks. Perfume again, in his absence – the soft scent of the lilies that rest gentle as laurels on her forehead, a crown that she had never expected to wear.) “But what troubles you, Asterion? You seem to have much on your mind.” She sees no harm in asking – perhaps he needs someone to ask, and Seraphina is never one to turn down information besides.
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tags | @Asterion
notes | this took forever, but, anyhow - excite! <3
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
