“And at night, when the whole world belongs to them,”
There is a fire blooming in her soul, an ache, a root of molten golden sinking deeper than bone and marrow. Each of them brings a petal falling feather-light and gentle across the flame. And when Fable stops humming of the sea, when the bells stop ringing, the air feels bloated with potential. Isra breathes it in like ink, and paper, and old worn leather. This is what stories are made of-- women meeting in a moonlight garden with fireflies hanging down their hair like diamonds and life blazing a vicious brightness in their eyes.
Isra steps to meet each of them and her smile becomes an almost-fierce, almost-motherly, almost-godly slash of white across her black, black lips. At first she isn't sure what to say before all their passion and dedication. She thinks maybe a queen would only look at them with a regal, elegant dip of her head and dole out tasks like rewards. But she doesn't want to be just a queen, or just a mother.
She wants to be feral and as dirt stained as all the root reaching out beneath their hooves. She wants to be a dragon sipping at cloud-wine. She wants to be ink, and paper, and things that burn for every reason in the world.
Isra wants to be everything, and to be a queen feels like just a thing. So she lets them all speak and she lets their words toss kindling to the fire (and roots, and twins, and the last of her war-drum heart). And when they are done she moves between them to brush her shoulder against each of them. This reminds her of home, of the tribe of mares all looking at evil from behind silk (and chain) and promising that someday they will devour it all up like the sea devours the shore. For each of them she has private words, because this is is future of their home. Denocte is not made for proclamations.
Denocte is made for love, and family, and passion. Denocte is made for changing the world.
First she walks towards Kassandra, with her youthful passion and determination. Something in it makes Isra's heart ache to remember how alike and different they all are. “Ever since I came to Denocte I have heard of horses who are touched by the stars and fate. I have ever believed in the moon and how it's silver and innocence that can truly see the truth of the world. Sometimes it feels like I will never be innocent again and I must be reminded how. Kassandra, I name you Champion of Wisdom.” She pauses to look fondly at the hound beside her. Before she moves on she brushes a gentle touch to the mare's cheek, a promise that later she'll need to be reminded over and over again that there is no war to fight.
When she approaches Boudika, and blinks, it's with the lingering image of a broken, wicked, lost boy leaning hopelessly against a broken table. Isra can taste soot on her tongue and feel the glare of a flame pressing bright and hot against the backs of her eyes. It does not fill her with sorrow, only fierceness. Isra hopes Boudkia will understand the way her eyes spark and smolder with unsaid promises when she looks at her. “You are a dancer as much as I am a queen. To us it's no more than a title, a thing we might try to hide between because it's easier than facing the rest of ourselves when the day comes looking. But it will take someone who is just a dancer to pull this city of orphans, criminals, stars and dreams together. It will take you, the Champion of Community.” She does not smile, or do anything more than brush their sides together like wolves passing in the tall-trees when she walks onward.
Morrighan finally brings a bright smile to her face and a soft laugh to her lips. There is always something in the warrior's brashness that makes her feel like everything is going to work out. Maybe it's the way the mare worries so much more than she does (a feat, although when you have a dragon and deadly, wonderful magic what is there to fear? Certainly not evil men or war). “You will be a wonderful Warden. There is no one more ready to protect this place than you.” Isra almost adds, even when it makes you mad. Instead she only pauses and tries so very hard not to look at the mare as if they are sisters (in war, in fierceness, in everything that burns). “Between you and our Champion of Battle there is nothing that will surprise us again. Perhaps another spar to celebrate when the twins are born?” She pauses only long enough to heart Morrighan's answer before moving on to the last mare with fire and enough, enough, enough in her eyes.
“Antiope.” The name on her tongue is not broken, or fat with sorrow, or full of anything but predator footfalls in the jungle. It's quiet and silent like a promise of everything that is going to die beneath the weight of them. On his turret Fable lifts his head, awake with the new weight in the air. A bell rings a low, tolling sound (like a warning perhaps). “I hope you will do what you believe in, even if it's not what I asked of you. I trust you do remind me that not everything needs a war, a queen or a dragon.” The moonstone around them becomes marble made of ice and wood. It shines in the lamplight and the silver moonlight. It shines like potential, like wonder, like fierceness between two hearts. “I would have you lay claim to the title of Regent.” Isra brushes their cheek together before turning back to her castle made of glass, and gemstone, and dream-stuff.
At the top of the stairs she pauses and looks back at the new leaders of the future waiting in the moonlight garden with pearls of fireflies hanging in their hair. “Follow me, and the future will be brighter than any full moon.” Isra disappears into the dark doorway and Fable roars something that sounds like hurry.
Isra and the future is waiting; there is work to be done.
@Morrighan @Antiope @Kassandra @Boudika // <3
