☼ fia the crownless ☼
in the absence of everything
abstain from fear
Even at night, the Mors are hot.
It is a different heat than the one that haunts the landscape during the day. The heat of the night is not suffocating, and it does not taste like sweat and grit dripping down along your lips, catching in clumps your eyelashes. It does not strangle. It floats, enveloping the wayward traveler like a warm blanket or a crackling fireplace. Seraphina has always liked desert nights. Out in the middle of the Mors, you can see the sky unobstructed for miles; it is a particular sort of irony that the Kingdom of Day is perhaps the best place for stargazing in Novus. When she was queen, and her soul was troubled (and it was often troubled), she would abandon the high city walls for the desert, lose herself among the rolling dunes and the rhythm of her hooves in the sands. She can remember them stained red, during the war with Denocte, but, even as the tumult of political overthrow engulfed the capitol and its citizens, the desert was mercifully quiet, mercifully stable.
It has not changed, in the precious little time she was away, but Seraphina has.
She lingers in the shadows of the rocky crags that build up the waterfall, as dark and still as one of the stones; the sunny gold of her scarf is stained pale and sandy in the moonlight, and the silver-and-brown of her scabbard and armor are obscured altogether by the darkness that engulfs her from the overhang above. A fine mist of cold water dribbles down her coat in small streaks, a welcome relief from the sweat and sand that built up on her coat throughout the day. She watches the horizon. She waits.
And there is her quarry.
She watches patiently as he follows her trail, noting, with a hint of relief, that he seems to have come alone; the distance was necessary, on the off chance that she’d set herself up for an ambush. He is a handsome creature, or a beautiful one – black as ink and limber, with sleek waves of dark hair that appeared painstakingly organized even from a distance. Two pairs of dark wings adorn his back, and she marvels, momentarily, at the sight of them; she doesn’t think that she’s ever encountered a horse with four wings. He approaches the waterfall, and she stands, hooves clattering against the wet stones.
“A raven has come to call.”
She pulls her hood forward, obscuring her features, and steps into view.
She draws down the waterfall with practiced ease, her movements as slinking as a prowling tiger. “And what a raven you are,” she remarks, her voice lilted with the foggiest hint of amusement; a strange bird, certainly. Her hooves hit the sand with a soft thud, and, though she lingers at the foot of the waterfall for a moment, she is quick to bridge the distance between them. Perhaps some sort of hesitance would be wise, under the circumstances, but Seraphina tires of hesitating – her strides are long and unhindered, in possession of the cool confidence that comes with an absence of fear.
If it becomes necessary, she can always drive an arrow into his skull.
As she draws closer to the raven, she notes the unmistakable marks of distress drawn into his skin. The shadows cling to his silver eyes unnaturally, and she thinks that she sees the certain delirium that she associates with an excess of thought in their glossy depths. (She wonders how long it has been since he has slept. She wonders why he is so troubled by this turn of events – what is his stake in all of this? She doesn’t know. She wonders, too, at that dark marking on his forehead. A natural pattern? A tattoo? A brand? She doesn’t recognize the symbols.) Her lips curl up in the wry echo of a smile, because that look is so familiar that it is almost painful.
She brushes by him, and she thinks that she smells blood. Her gaze turns towards the horizon.
“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” There is a certain, conversational warmth to her tone, a strangely soothing and gentle fondness. “When I was still a guard, and most of my job seemed to consist of escorting wayward travelers across Solterra, I always tried to bring them here at night. They often found the deserts barren and lifeless, but I’ve always thought them the most breathtaking place in Novus. There are so many easily lovely places, but the desert requires you to search for its beauty.” She lets her eyes linger on the glittering, star-filled pool for a moment longer, and then she turns to observe her contact again. Perhaps, even under the shadows of her hood, when he is standing so close to her, he can make out the vague outline of what lies beneath it: those odd eyes, gold as fire and pale as ice, and the outline of the gnarled scars carved into the right half of her face.
“Forgive me. I’m getting ahead of myself.” Something in her voice darkens; those silky, lilting tones take on a venomous blush of rage. “Thank you for coming. I won’t leave you in suspense – my name is Fia, and I intend to kill our king.”
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tags | @Caine
notes | hello I love you and your poor, suffering son
in the absence of everything
abstain from fear
Even at night, the Mors are hot.
It is a different heat than the one that haunts the landscape during the day. The heat of the night is not suffocating, and it does not taste like sweat and grit dripping down along your lips, catching in clumps your eyelashes. It does not strangle. It floats, enveloping the wayward traveler like a warm blanket or a crackling fireplace. Seraphina has always liked desert nights. Out in the middle of the Mors, you can see the sky unobstructed for miles; it is a particular sort of irony that the Kingdom of Day is perhaps the best place for stargazing in Novus. When she was queen, and her soul was troubled (and it was often troubled), she would abandon the high city walls for the desert, lose herself among the rolling dunes and the rhythm of her hooves in the sands. She can remember them stained red, during the war with Denocte, but, even as the tumult of political overthrow engulfed the capitol and its citizens, the desert was mercifully quiet, mercifully stable.
It has not changed, in the precious little time she was away, but Seraphina has.
She lingers in the shadows of the rocky crags that build up the waterfall, as dark and still as one of the stones; the sunny gold of her scarf is stained pale and sandy in the moonlight, and the silver-and-brown of her scabbard and armor are obscured altogether by the darkness that engulfs her from the overhang above. A fine mist of cold water dribbles down her coat in small streaks, a welcome relief from the sweat and sand that built up on her coat throughout the day. She watches the horizon. She waits.
And there is her quarry.
She watches patiently as he follows her trail, noting, with a hint of relief, that he seems to have come alone; the distance was necessary, on the off chance that she’d set herself up for an ambush. He is a handsome creature, or a beautiful one – black as ink and limber, with sleek waves of dark hair that appeared painstakingly organized even from a distance. Two pairs of dark wings adorn his back, and she marvels, momentarily, at the sight of them; she doesn’t think that she’s ever encountered a horse with four wings. He approaches the waterfall, and she stands, hooves clattering against the wet stones.
“A raven has come to call.”
She pulls her hood forward, obscuring her features, and steps into view.
She draws down the waterfall with practiced ease, her movements as slinking as a prowling tiger. “And what a raven you are,” she remarks, her voice lilted with the foggiest hint of amusement; a strange bird, certainly. Her hooves hit the sand with a soft thud, and, though she lingers at the foot of the waterfall for a moment, she is quick to bridge the distance between them. Perhaps some sort of hesitance would be wise, under the circumstances, but Seraphina tires of hesitating – her strides are long and unhindered, in possession of the cool confidence that comes with an absence of fear.
If it becomes necessary, she can always drive an arrow into his skull.
As she draws closer to the raven, she notes the unmistakable marks of distress drawn into his skin. The shadows cling to his silver eyes unnaturally, and she thinks that she sees the certain delirium that she associates with an excess of thought in their glossy depths. (She wonders how long it has been since he has slept. She wonders why he is so troubled by this turn of events – what is his stake in all of this? She doesn’t know. She wonders, too, at that dark marking on his forehead. A natural pattern? A tattoo? A brand? She doesn’t recognize the symbols.) Her lips curl up in the wry echo of a smile, because that look is so familiar that it is almost painful.
She brushes by him, and she thinks that she smells blood. Her gaze turns towards the horizon.
“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” There is a certain, conversational warmth to her tone, a strangely soothing and gentle fondness. “When I was still a guard, and most of my job seemed to consist of escorting wayward travelers across Solterra, I always tried to bring them here at night. They often found the deserts barren and lifeless, but I’ve always thought them the most breathtaking place in Novus. There are so many easily lovely places, but the desert requires you to search for its beauty.” She lets her eyes linger on the glittering, star-filled pool for a moment longer, and then she turns to observe her contact again. Perhaps, even under the shadows of her hood, when he is standing so close to her, he can make out the vague outline of what lies beneath it: those odd eyes, gold as fire and pale as ice, and the outline of the gnarled scars carved into the right half of her face.
“Forgive me. I’m getting ahead of myself.” Something in her voice darkens; those silky, lilting tones take on a venomous blush of rage. “Thank you for coming. I won’t leave you in suspense – my name is Fia, and I intend to kill our king.”
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tags | @Caine
notes | hello I love you and your poor, suffering son
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
