☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
but I do wonder how they know
cause they don't die if they don't grow
He approaches her smoothly – nonthreateningly -, those dark lips curling into the barest ghost of a pleasant smile. Seraphina still doesn’t allow herself to relax, not yet; a pretty smile doesn’t guarantee pretty intentions, least of all in Solterra, where ornamental things are apt to die the quickest and most brutal deaths. (She can admire lovely, because lovely makes her think of a sort of gentle touch that her sand-swept, war-torn land deprives its inhabitants, but she doesn’t have much use for it, unless it’s lovely in the way that a well-crafted dagger is lovely.) She eyes him thoughtfully, trying to discern his intentions from the twitches and twists of his features. He doesn’t seem like a threat – yet, but she’s not too terribly concerned if he is – yet.
“Not at all, Madame.” A Solterran with manners; a rare novelty. She arches her brows, very slightly, as she notes his accent – so similar to hers, with just the faintest touch of courtly pleasantries. “Wandering old haunts. Are you haunting the canyon as well?” There is too much intent in that statement. Haunting. Like some queenly ghost. She wants to dismiss it as paranoia, but perhaps he has discerned her identity, which makes him very clever (for pinpointing her so easily), very foolish (for revealing his hand so easily), or very dangerous (for recognizing the truth) – possibly some mixture of the three. And he could work for Raum; he could have been sent to ferret her out.
At any rate, she doesn’t bite – yet.
“I’m just staying out of the way of the new king,” she demurs politely, that odd-eyed gaze unreadable. “If I were you, stranger, I’d probably do the same. Solterra isn’t safe.” Solterra is never safe, for the unwary, but she recognizes his accent as that of a fellow Solterran’s, so he’s probably in no danger of sandwyrms and teryrs – but the nation’s newest Sovereign, while lacking in their brute force, is crafty, volatile, indiscriminately destructive, and capable of defeating her in combat. (But not now, she likes to hope. She imagines dragging her blade along the curve of his pretty, slender little silver throat, on occasion, and immediately disgusts herself in the process, because she has never much liked killing. It has always been a brutal necessity, but it probably isn’t the violence that appeals to her. No, it is the promise that his death will put an end to all of this, that his death will be her freedom; that is what attracts her to the image, not the blood, not the soft pull of flesh as the blade carves it open, not the promise of electric blue eyes gone glossy and discolored.)
“Ah, but I’ve been out of country for some time. The climate’s taken a turn for the worse, wouldn’t you say? If it continues as it is, I don’t think I’ll be here long.” If he is one of Raum’s, this is his attempt to bait her into making some negative remark about Solterra’s beloved Sovereign, comparable to treason; but, if he is one of Raum’s, she suspects she’ll have to kill him anyways. But she doesn’t know if he is or not, yet, and it’s a dangerous thing to make assumptions. (He hasn’t been hostile yet, and, if he went and remarked on the quality of Raum’s rule to the wrong people, he could easily get his throat slit. Perhaps he is an ally – perhaps that is what brought him to the canyon.) “But listen to me, nattering on, I’m Anatoly. What have you taken to calling yourself?”
“Certainly. The sovereign seems bent on this country’s destruction.” She doesn’t bother lying about that – gauging his reaction will give her some idea of his intentions, or so she hopes. “Call me Fia.” That’s not quite a lie, either; she isn’t willing to give away Seraphina so easily, so Fia will have to do, until he proves himself trustworthy. She dips her head politely. “A pleasure to meet you, Anatoly – what brings you back at such a troubled time?”
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tags | @Anatoly
notes | <3 <3 <3
but I do wonder how they know
cause they don't die if they don't grow
He approaches her smoothly – nonthreateningly -, those dark lips curling into the barest ghost of a pleasant smile. Seraphina still doesn’t allow herself to relax, not yet; a pretty smile doesn’t guarantee pretty intentions, least of all in Solterra, where ornamental things are apt to die the quickest and most brutal deaths. (She can admire lovely, because lovely makes her think of a sort of gentle touch that her sand-swept, war-torn land deprives its inhabitants, but she doesn’t have much use for it, unless it’s lovely in the way that a well-crafted dagger is lovely.) She eyes him thoughtfully, trying to discern his intentions from the twitches and twists of his features. He doesn’t seem like a threat – yet, but she’s not too terribly concerned if he is – yet.
“Not at all, Madame.” A Solterran with manners; a rare novelty. She arches her brows, very slightly, as she notes his accent – so similar to hers, with just the faintest touch of courtly pleasantries. “Wandering old haunts. Are you haunting the canyon as well?” There is too much intent in that statement. Haunting. Like some queenly ghost. She wants to dismiss it as paranoia, but perhaps he has discerned her identity, which makes him very clever (for pinpointing her so easily), very foolish (for revealing his hand so easily), or very dangerous (for recognizing the truth) – possibly some mixture of the three. And he could work for Raum; he could have been sent to ferret her out.
At any rate, she doesn’t bite – yet.
“I’m just staying out of the way of the new king,” she demurs politely, that odd-eyed gaze unreadable. “If I were you, stranger, I’d probably do the same. Solterra isn’t safe.” Solterra is never safe, for the unwary, but she recognizes his accent as that of a fellow Solterran’s, so he’s probably in no danger of sandwyrms and teryrs – but the nation’s newest Sovereign, while lacking in their brute force, is crafty, volatile, indiscriminately destructive, and capable of defeating her in combat. (But not now, she likes to hope. She imagines dragging her blade along the curve of his pretty, slender little silver throat, on occasion, and immediately disgusts herself in the process, because she has never much liked killing. It has always been a brutal necessity, but it probably isn’t the violence that appeals to her. No, it is the promise that his death will put an end to all of this, that his death will be her freedom; that is what attracts her to the image, not the blood, not the soft pull of flesh as the blade carves it open, not the promise of electric blue eyes gone glossy and discolored.)
“Ah, but I’ve been out of country for some time. The climate’s taken a turn for the worse, wouldn’t you say? If it continues as it is, I don’t think I’ll be here long.” If he is one of Raum’s, this is his attempt to bait her into making some negative remark about Solterra’s beloved Sovereign, comparable to treason; but, if he is one of Raum’s, she suspects she’ll have to kill him anyways. But she doesn’t know if he is or not, yet, and it’s a dangerous thing to make assumptions. (He hasn’t been hostile yet, and, if he went and remarked on the quality of Raum’s rule to the wrong people, he could easily get his throat slit. Perhaps he is an ally – perhaps that is what brought him to the canyon.) “But listen to me, nattering on, I’m Anatoly. What have you taken to calling yourself?”
“Certainly. The sovereign seems bent on this country’s destruction.” She doesn’t bother lying about that – gauging his reaction will give her some idea of his intentions, or so she hopes. “Call me Fia.” That’s not quite a lie, either; she isn’t willing to give away Seraphina so easily, so Fia will have to do, until he proves himself trustworthy. She dips her head politely. “A pleasure to meet you, Anatoly – what brings you back at such a troubled time?”
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tags | @Anatoly
notes | <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
