When Bexley sees the snow coming down from overhead, she has to laugh.
Of course. Gods on the earth, ice in the desert - bad omen after bad omen, nothing in its place. Even Acton coming to visit, something that had brought her as much excitement as it did suspicion, is starting to feel like another disaster, rampant in following on every other disaster’s heels. The disbelief, the sheer strangeness of everything, is overwhelming.Watching the first flakes whip through the air through a stained-glass window in the citadel, Bexley has to laugh, and she does, loudly: but her moment of indignation passes as quickly as it came, and, remembering her station, zips down the stairs and into the heart of the Court.
Hordes of Solterrans are standing at the edge of the deset. The expression on every face seems to be that of shock - many of them very well may have never seen such a thing in their life, and even those that have are, of course, appalled by the sight of the flurry. It’s coming down in clumps now, not just flakes but ice and hail, so quick and heavy that the cracked sandstone buildings of the far-away court and the golden sand under their feet is already disappearing, swallowed in white, drowned by the frenzy of the storm overhead. A wall of cold air slams into the Regent and sets her jaw to chattering; already frost has collected in a thin stripe through her hair.
Still no one moves. They are equal parts entranced and horrified.
Dumbasses, Bexley mutters under her breath, and finally she slams a shoulder against the nearest civilian, wakes them from their reverie, and snarls in their ear, Get inside, now. The affronted colt takes one glance other and turns to scurry toward the nearest building, and then she’s off, winding a path through the crowd, roaring warnings to whoever will listen and forcibly jostling those who won’t in a well-intentioned (if violent) effort to get everyone to shelter before they freeze to death outside.
Already the snow under her feet is inches thick, the frigid wind whipped into a frenzy. Fear rises like bile in her throat as she attempts to clear the crowd, nauseating and adrenaline-inspiring, but in the glare of the storm it is, thankfully, hard to see.
Of course. Gods on the earth, ice in the desert - bad omen after bad omen, nothing in its place. Even Acton coming to visit, something that had brought her as much excitement as it did suspicion, is starting to feel like another disaster, rampant in following on every other disaster’s heels. The disbelief, the sheer strangeness of everything, is overwhelming.Watching the first flakes whip through the air through a stained-glass window in the citadel, Bexley has to laugh, and she does, loudly: but her moment of indignation passes as quickly as it came, and, remembering her station, zips down the stairs and into the heart of the Court.
Hordes of Solterrans are standing at the edge of the deset. The expression on every face seems to be that of shock - many of them very well may have never seen such a thing in their life, and even those that have are, of course, appalled by the sight of the flurry. It’s coming down in clumps now, not just flakes but ice and hail, so quick and heavy that the cracked sandstone buildings of the far-away court and the golden sand under their feet is already disappearing, swallowed in white, drowned by the frenzy of the storm overhead. A wall of cold air slams into the Regent and sets her jaw to chattering; already frost has collected in a thin stripe through her hair.
Still no one moves. They are equal parts entranced and horrified.
Dumbasses, Bexley mutters under her breath, and finally she slams a shoulder against the nearest civilian, wakes them from their reverie, and snarls in their ear, Get inside, now. The affronted colt takes one glance other and turns to scurry toward the nearest building, and then she’s off, winding a path through the crowd, roaring warnings to whoever will listen and forcibly jostling those who won’t in a well-intentioned (if violent) effort to get everyone to shelter before they freeze to death outside.
Already the snow under her feet is inches thick, the frigid wind whipped into a frenzy. Fear rises like bile in her throat as she attempts to clear the crowd, nauseating and adrenaline-inspiring, but in the glare of the storm it is, thankfully, hard to see.
Bexley
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
@Random Events
