[P] . more than skin deep

[Seraphina]

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

pulled flowers at my feet
lost in the wind

This was the second festival Seraphina had attended in Delumine, and this was the second time that she was sneaking away from the bustle of the crowd for some peace and quiet.

“Quiet” was objective; she did enjoy the music, and she didn’t intend to travel too far from it. (There had been little time for art with the capitol in shambles.) With her eyes trained on the main stage, she edged towards the treeline, lily-crowned head held low. She didn’t expect too much attention, – most eyes were on the performers, and she wasn’t sure how many people would recognize her besides – but it was best to stay alert. She moved through the crowd like a metallic shade, the steely grey of her coat catching in the light, brushing shoulders with passerby and attempting to take in the celebration. Despite the heat of other bodies and the throng of movement, not even a bead of sweat ran down her brow; it was nothing compared to the desert sun. Flowers brush against her limbs. Peace.

She moved beneath the shadows of the trees, and, in the darkness, her eyes alighted on another form.

Under different circumstances, the silver queen might have left the girl to her own devices.

However, looking at her pitiful frame, she heaved a sigh and crept forward across the clearing, the collar around her neck catching in the fractured moonlight filtering through the leaves. She couldn’t be any younger than Seraphina, but she felt quite small and alone, and maybe she would prefer to be that way, in whatever state of misery she was in – she had certainly put forth the effort to avoid the bulk of the crowd. It wasn’t as though she had time to talk to every bleeding heart at the festival, either; she’d passed half a dozen faces that looked to be experiencing crises of their own on her way to the grateful alcove of the trees. Perhaps it was just her instincts as a guard. Unlike the drunken merrymakers, downing bottles of dandelion wine to forget their sorrows, this girl seemed disheveled, her hair tumbling down and her wings splattered with the gory remains of a cake.

She stepped forward in spite of her misgivings, approaching her quietly – carefully. She didn’t want to startle her if she could avoid it, even though the girl looks to be lost in her own head.

“You seem to have much on your mind,” She attempted, her voice as gentle as she could manage, which was not particularly gentle, but certainly lilting. Her odd eyes lingered thoughtfully on the girl’s face. She was a pretty thing – burning red, with dark hair and a pale tail, and lovely wings, eyes of a color she can’t see framed by the longest lashes she could imagine. There’s something of a youthful innocence to her dainty features, and maybe that was what really drew Seraphina towards her. She couldn’t be of a lesser age than she, but she seemed so, so much younger.


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tags | @Moira
notes | poor thing D:

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