gothic vine growing fire in the lobby
lighten up buttercup get a hobby
lighten up buttercup get a hobby
What lives in Bexley’s heart is not fear.
It is an end of some sort. An animal, living and growing and scratching, teeth and claws, at the inside of her ribs. What lives in her heart is wild, lovely, terrifying anticipation, and as much as Bexley fears whatever is on the other side of those slowly opening doors, some part of her still lusts for the excitement it’s bound to bring. Still yearns for the lurch in her stomach. The iron smell of fear.
Seraphina steps through the doorway, and Bexley follows.
Brief light flickers overhead, sifting through the obfuscating darkness; a warm wind blows from deep within the cavern. Trees dance quietly overhead, their leaves a shuddering maelstrom against the blue-blackness of the sky, and bend to press in on the regime as they pass through, the flora whispering secrets in bright-cool breezes. There is something like magic in the air, though the Solterran is loathe to give it such a common name.
Something divine, then.
Bexley’s eyes are moons in the black. For such a special occasion, those clouds of white hair have been bound back in thin braids; her necklace shines loud-gold in the dim light; the scent of sandalwood ripples, thick enough to touch, from her skin. She prowls nearly shoulder-to-shoulder between Eik and Seraphina. Her steps are near-soundless in the dirt, and they match the rest of the regime’s exactly. Their strides are even and exact, their gazes an inner-storm calm. There is nothing but cool confidence on the faces of Solterra.
Gold, silver, and white, the three of them. How strange and lovely.
In the corner of her eye, familiarity flashes: Florentine, Reichenbach, Ipomoea. Her heart stirs, and she quiets it. They are not here for each other, but for the will of Tempus, for the summoning of the gods. They would all do well to remember that. Bex is razor-focused as she steps up to the central table, and she does not even flinch, not really, when the statue blinks at her: nothing seems strange in this magic moment, not the light that flickers off its necklaces, not the rocks floating at its base, or the warmth coming off of it in waves.
She dips her head at the figure, lashes lowered, gaze calm, but says nothing. For a brief half-second, she presses her shoulder to Seraphina’s, an unexpected moment of human weakness desiring contact, offering support - then she catches herself and moves away an inch or so, regaining the space that lies between them.
No greeting passes her lips. Let the gods come to her.
