| Hers are a people of peace and prosperity, of love and unions so pure that the bonds between each individual shines more brightly and intricately than the individual soul. The Priestesses of Vespera teach love and devotion just as the heart teaches itself to beat; they gather round and share their bodies at night, they reach for another's warmth just as much as they reach for their smile. Juniper was taught to love far before she was taught to hate. Orphans are not so lucky as her, not so free as the girl who looks like pale light streaming into a darkened room, who moves like liquid silk over midnight skin, who laughs and loves as deeply and desperately as the last man on earth. Maybe they are the same in the way they wonder, and briefly Juniper thinks that the winds might talk to their souls, too. She is here for the winds, but also the art. Without her sisters, her lovers, her caretakers to dance and twin about, without the swamp trees to brush against her wings and soak her in as water upon a sponge, she feels empty. Rumors say that Denocte is the home of art and stories. Jun could use a story now. Crowds seem a commonplace thing between Terrastella and Denocte, something that ruffles her feathers. Still, she's too small to see everything unless in the sky, and right now her feet are firmly on the ground. Pale liquid silver gaze slides from being to being, running along lengthy spines and short ones, brushing upon birds that eye her as though she's kin (so she throws a feral smile, an avian tilt to her head), and the woman from the swamps at last settles on a great beast of black and gold. Stress runs through his every muscle, muscles that are pulled tighter than the strings Sinafay coaxes melodies from. That avian smile turns absolutely terrifying, absolutely predatory, and she stalks forward as a storm. Long, skinny legs are quick to dart between moving obstacles, and before he can blink again she's brushing along El Rey's stomach, gently soothing the tension from him with a sweet stroke of phantom hands along his neck, down his spine, and at last she's beside his face. Juniper smiles as sunlight breaks through clouds, smiles as though it's the only thing she knows how to do and she does it damn well. She is not meek nor mild, she is as wild as a summer storm and looks as devastatingly stunning as one with those long lashes fluttering down, that grin curving upon dark lips. "Breathe," she offers as a whisper, a prayer. "I don't like them either, the crowds. Up there," an upward glance to the floating clouds and glimpses of expansive blue, "none of this matters. Not you, not me. Only the sky and the breeze and her songs." |
