☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
you are the blood in my song
see me spill over when it's sung
This day shouldn’t be so pleasant.
It is hot, but not suffocating, a relative rarity in Solterra; the warmth is pleasant, like stepping into a steaming bath, and it is disturbed only by a faint breeze that is soothing rather than offensive. The market bustles restlessly, and citizens wander about their business in the alleyways. Chatter hangs heavy in the air, and the rhythm of city life – hooves on cobbled stone, the clink of metal and rustle of fabric, the whisk of the wind through the streets. It is almost a pleasant, beautiful day, and, if you squint and keep your eyes turned away from the shadows, you might be able to lie to yourself and believe that it is.
But - but! - if your eyes stray just an inch from this illusion, this lovely façade, you will see tension wound tight as a notched bow, curled up in the brow of most every citizen you might pass on the street. You will see darting eyes, and, within them, the disturbing twitch that comes with fear, fear, fear - fear everywhere, because you don’t know who you can trust, and will your neighbors turn you in? And there are guards on the streets, flying banners that still seem like they are the wrong color. In time, perhaps the old ones will be forgotten, but, for now – the absence of the old is like fresh blood, and it spills out into every nook and cranny in the sandstone city, every little crack in the walls-
The letter slithers its way through the passerby like a serpent, its bobbing and weaving simple enough to be mistaken for the flow of the wind, on first glance; however, if one stares at it for any particular amount of time, it becomes somewhat apparent that someone is tugging it along. But who? In such a crowded square, with so many telepaths about, it is rather impossible to discern the sender.
It hovers, for a moment, in front of Bexley Briar, giving her just enough time to snatch it out of thin air. It is folded neatly, but the paper is crumpled, and, an examination of the letters makes it evident that the message has been whited out and erased several times before settling on the final draft, though the handwriting is neat and deliberate and perhaps very familiar to Bexley. It is simple, but the blank spaces – and the remnants of past scrawling on the paper – speak volumes of words left unstated.
Bexley,
I need to speak with you. The city isn’t safe – meet me at the entrance to the canyons.
Please.
Sera
If Bexley goes, she will find her there – waiting like revenant and reaper, the thick gold of her scarf billowing like a trail of smoke in the wind, and perhaps the ghost will turn her head to watch her approach with gemstone-bright eyes so full of something dark and devastating and the words I’m sorry that they seem on the verge of overflowing.
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tags | @Bexley
notes | letter thread for you <3 <3 <3
you are the blood in my song
see me spill over when it's sung
This day shouldn’t be so pleasant.
It is hot, but not suffocating, a relative rarity in Solterra; the warmth is pleasant, like stepping into a steaming bath, and it is disturbed only by a faint breeze that is soothing rather than offensive. The market bustles restlessly, and citizens wander about their business in the alleyways. Chatter hangs heavy in the air, and the rhythm of city life – hooves on cobbled stone, the clink of metal and rustle of fabric, the whisk of the wind through the streets. It is almost a pleasant, beautiful day, and, if you squint and keep your eyes turned away from the shadows, you might be able to lie to yourself and believe that it is.
But - but! - if your eyes stray just an inch from this illusion, this lovely façade, you will see tension wound tight as a notched bow, curled up in the brow of most every citizen you might pass on the street. You will see darting eyes, and, within them, the disturbing twitch that comes with fear, fear, fear - fear everywhere, because you don’t know who you can trust, and will your neighbors turn you in? And there are guards on the streets, flying banners that still seem like they are the wrong color. In time, perhaps the old ones will be forgotten, but, for now – the absence of the old is like fresh blood, and it spills out into every nook and cranny in the sandstone city, every little crack in the walls-
The letter slithers its way through the passerby like a serpent, its bobbing and weaving simple enough to be mistaken for the flow of the wind, on first glance; however, if one stares at it for any particular amount of time, it becomes somewhat apparent that someone is tugging it along. But who? In such a crowded square, with so many telepaths about, it is rather impossible to discern the sender.
It hovers, for a moment, in front of Bexley Briar, giving her just enough time to snatch it out of thin air. It is folded neatly, but the paper is crumpled, and, an examination of the letters makes it evident that the message has been whited out and erased several times before settling on the final draft, though the handwriting is neat and deliberate and perhaps very familiar to Bexley. It is simple, but the blank spaces – and the remnants of past scrawling on the paper – speak volumes of words left unstated.
Bexley,
I need to speak with you. The city isn’t safe – meet me at the entrance to the canyons.
Please.
Sera
If Bexley goes, she will find her there – waiting like revenant and reaper, the thick gold of her scarf billowing like a trail of smoke in the wind, and perhaps the ghost will turn her head to watch her approach with gemstone-bright eyes so full of something dark and devastating and the words I’m sorry that they seem on the verge of overflowing.
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tags | @
notes | letter thread for you <3 <3 <3
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
