Perhaps it is foolish of them to venture out, a stranger with no knowledge of war or of weapons, but Basil has heard of the god who walks among them now. They have many questions, each of them burning with the fury of daybreak, and if they must endure the frigid blizzards outside the insulating walls of the city to ask them, that is fine. They know a little, snatches of self-defense taught when they were not yet called to court and their playmate was not dragged into the Coliseum, that should help keep them safe. It must be enough; there was no other option.
So Basil wraps themself in a dusky wool shawl — it stinks of cedar and dust — and converges with the sun in the central square of the Day Court. Solis is there, the sun rising from the ashes of yesterday, and Basil is sorely disappointed in their tardiness. There will be no time now to ask the questions that rage inside of them. The sun brings warmth and truth to the world when all light goes out— how can Solis bed down amongst mortals with no explanation for his callous disregard for the hurt suffered under the Old Regime? The Courts were molded around the deities; how could the gods bear to see their equine supplicants desecrate their own culture?
They remain quiet and subdued despite their inquisitive nature, sheltered by the gathering of horses around them— but they are noticeably closer to Seraphina, if only because the Sovereign is someone they recognize. Of the others, they are scarcely more than faces seen in passing— wraiths Basileios saw little and less of when they were naught but the second son of an unremarkable Azhade.
And yet.. Their strange, star-like eyes gaze upon Solis and feel only a curious disconnect betwixt the awe of their peers and the smoldering disbelief that Solis could so willfully ignore the cruelties of the past Regime. Soon, they will ask their questions, and they will scribe a hundred thousand copies so that the answers will not be forgotten.
So Basil wraps themself in a dusky wool shawl — it stinks of cedar and dust — and converges with the sun in the central square of the Day Court. Solis is there, the sun rising from the ashes of yesterday, and Basil is sorely disappointed in their tardiness. There will be no time now to ask the questions that rage inside of them. The sun brings warmth and truth to the world when all light goes out— how can Solis bed down amongst mortals with no explanation for his callous disregard for the hurt suffered under the Old Regime? The Courts were molded around the deities; how could the gods bear to see their equine supplicants desecrate their own culture?
They remain quiet and subdued despite their inquisitive nature, sheltered by the gathering of horses around them— but they are noticeably closer to Seraphina, if only because the Sovereign is someone they recognize. Of the others, they are scarcely more than faces seen in passing— wraiths Basileios saw little and less of when they were naught but the second son of an unremarkable Azhade.
And yet.. Their strange, star-like eyes gaze upon Solis and feel only a curious disconnect betwixt the awe of their peers and the smoldering disbelief that Solis could so willfully ignore the cruelties of the past Regime. Soon, they will ask their questions, and they will scribe a hundred thousand copies so that the answers will not be forgotten.
