☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
the moral of the story is // i will gut you if i need to // i will carve my way out //with only my teeth
Seraphina, you called?
The sound of hooves against sandstone. She turns.
“Bexley Briar.”
The name rolls off her tongue easily; it is familiar, like a remnant from a past era; a time before Seraphina was the sun queen, and a time before Bexley Briar was a girl marred by a pair of Denoctian spies. It was easier, then, she thinks. Simpler. Certainly, Maxence’s temper brought them their fair share of trouble, but, in the wake of flames, ancestral violence was quiet. She lets that name hang for a moment, wondering if either of them are still the same people they were at that time, then begins to climb down the stairs in front of the throne, head inclined to consider her. Bexley Briar. Solterra’s golden girl, once – and still their golden girl now, flawlessly beautiful save for the scar that knots her face in two. Seraphina doesn’t care much for beauty, however. In a land like Solterra, where it is ripped away with one wrong step in the desert sands, it matters very little in the grander scheme of things. (She has a feeling that it matters to the girl. It is something in the way she presents herself, like something to be seen – and girl! Bexley is older than she is.) Disheveled as she is, as though she has run to meet her (and she likely has), voice raspy (and wrong for it, too like when she found her broken and bloodied in the cave) and hair tossed out of place, she still moves to hide her rush. When her blue-eyed gaze rises to meet her own, it is calm, and the attention she pays to each and every little detail of herself is somehow admirable to the standoffish and statuesque Sovereign. Her Regime needs to accommodate for her weaknesses, the holes in her defense of Solterra, and who better to do that than this golden girl? She is the glamour and the merrymaking that she cannot quite wrap her mind around, all wrapped up in a burning ribbon of hellfire.
She has no doubt that Bexley Briar is no less dangerous than her last Regent – she remembers that banshee smile that she gave her, all sharp teeth and white fury, when she spoke of payment from Acton and Raum. She wonders if they are still breathing, and she knows she should ask - did they pay for it, Bexley? - if only because of Cynix’s words to her just days ago, but she doesn’t. In truth, she isn’t sure that she cares.
She climbs, still quiet.
As with Eik, she considers her words carefully, and, also as with Eik, she decides against a pretty turn of phrase. “I understand that this is often done with…more formality, or embellishment. I see no need to mince words.” She continues her descent down the stairs until she stands just in front of her, mismatched eyes staring coolly into her own, unreadable – best to make this proposition on even ground. “I want you to become Solterra’s Regent – so long as you are willing, that is.”
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tags | @Bexley
notes | took me long enough to make this official, RIP
the moral of the story is // i will gut you if i need to // i will carve my way out //with only my teeth
Seraphina, you called?
The sound of hooves against sandstone. She turns.
“Bexley Briar.”
The name rolls off her tongue easily; it is familiar, like a remnant from a past era; a time before Seraphina was the sun queen, and a time before Bexley Briar was a girl marred by a pair of Denoctian spies. It was easier, then, she thinks. Simpler. Certainly, Maxence’s temper brought them their fair share of trouble, but, in the wake of flames, ancestral violence was quiet. She lets that name hang for a moment, wondering if either of them are still the same people they were at that time, then begins to climb down the stairs in front of the throne, head inclined to consider her. Bexley Briar. Solterra’s golden girl, once – and still their golden girl now, flawlessly beautiful save for the scar that knots her face in two. Seraphina doesn’t care much for beauty, however. In a land like Solterra, where it is ripped away with one wrong step in the desert sands, it matters very little in the grander scheme of things. (She has a feeling that it matters to the girl. It is something in the way she presents herself, like something to be seen – and girl! Bexley is older than she is.) Disheveled as she is, as though she has run to meet her (and she likely has), voice raspy (and wrong for it, too like when she found her broken and bloodied in the cave) and hair tossed out of place, she still moves to hide her rush. When her blue-eyed gaze rises to meet her own, it is calm, and the attention she pays to each and every little detail of herself is somehow admirable to the standoffish and statuesque Sovereign. Her Regime needs to accommodate for her weaknesses, the holes in her defense of Solterra, and who better to do that than this golden girl? She is the glamour and the merrymaking that she cannot quite wrap her mind around, all wrapped up in a burning ribbon of hellfire.
She has no doubt that Bexley Briar is no less dangerous than her last Regent – she remembers that banshee smile that she gave her, all sharp teeth and white fury, when she spoke of payment from Acton and Raum. She wonders if they are still breathing, and she knows she should ask - did they pay for it, Bexley? - if only because of Cynix’s words to her just days ago, but she doesn’t. In truth, she isn’t sure that she cares.
She climbs, still quiet.
As with Eik, she considers her words carefully, and, also as with Eik, she decides against a pretty turn of phrase. “I understand that this is often done with…more formality, or embellishment. I see no need to mince words.” She continues her descent down the stairs until she stands just in front of her, mismatched eyes staring coolly into her own, unreadable – best to make this proposition on even ground. “I want you to become Solterra’s Regent – so long as you are willing, that is.”
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tags | @
notes | took me long enough to make this official, RIP
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
