MADE A GRAVEYARD FROM THE BONE-WHITE AFTERNOON.
At the apex of the world there is little left to breathe.
Bexley stands off to the side from the rest of her regime and shivers as she’s bathed in the cold, biting winds of the mountaintop, winds that tug at and pull apart her tight braids, that sting as she pulls them into her lungs in a futile attempt to breathe deeply. The crowd around her - regimes from all courts, too-curious citizens trailing behind like children - talks in whispers and gossips energetically, but Bexley, along with the rest of her group, stands in obstinate silence. Despite all her stubbornness, she trembles slightly. Whether it’s from cold or fear no one else could ever know.
From under thick lashes she watches the scene unfolding, crowds moving in and out, new (and somehow full-grown) trees swaying overhead, a storm brewing in silky gray crowds, and all the while Bexley’s gaze remains icy and vigilant, turning bright-blue circles over the expanse of the Summit. Tensions are running higher and higher, electric waves through the high-altitude air. The chain around her neck contracts in the cold until it’s biting at her soft gold throat. As much as she’d like to whine and complain, it’s not the way she was brought up - more importantly, it’s not what Seraphina’s expecting of her. (Somehow, this has started to matter a lot.) So she doesn’t. She bites her tongue.
Silence is something she’s become almost too good at, especially for a girl known for her loud-mouthed brand of violence.
When the oppressive grayness of the Summit becomes too much and the utter quiet becomes simply cruel, Bexley excuses herself from the Day Court’s circle of representatives and moves off toward the edge of the clearing. Her hoof steps cut moons into the dirt; the scent of sun and sandalwood follows her in a clear, stentorian cloud. Something about loneliness clears the dust from her lungs. All at once she can see again, her bright-blue gaze regaining its clarity, and she sees the girl wandering among the crowd - rose-tinged and dangerous, just Bexley’s type.
Just as she steps forward to follow, someone else bursts in, short and clothed in dark stripes and a white-bleached skull. For a moment Bexley pauses, thinks of turning back, of leaving them alone.
Of course, she doesn't, In the loose gray light her gaze glows like a lantern, and the steps she takes toward the strangers are casual and confident, her presence offered with lazy inconsequentialism. Congrats, on finding this special little keyhole-look into hell. Seems like you’re about as excited as I am. A smile breaks open Bexley’s lips, something wolfish and self-confident.
@pavetta @kauri hope you don't mind me jumping in!! <3
