I've made an art of
digging shallow holes
digging shallow holes
T
eiran isn’t sure what she is even doing here, in these streets. Since her time in the desert, her patrols have all been filled by soldiers she doesn’t recognize. Again and again she finds herself wondering where all the equines she knew are. Gone. Everyone is gone, gone, gone.Perhaps, the woman relents, it is not only her or the court that has changed. Perhaps both have, irrevocably.
“G’morning,” comes the familiar Solterran hum. Not the voice that’s familiar, mind you, but the accent tells her whoever is speaking has clearly lived here their entire life. Teiran lifts her head from the sand-covered street, sage green eyes landing upon the dark-skinned man with eyes of amber and a head of snakes instead of hair.
The act of raising her head as loosed her hood from around the soldier’s ears, and it begins to slip down her neck, guided by a still-chill morning breeze. The now exposed collar, high upon Teiran’s throat, glints in the wan spring light, as she tries to determine what exactly he could want from talking to her.
“Hello?” her mouth forms the word but she has never been very good at greetings. It comes out more like a question, more like she is asking are you really talking to me? He is adorned in ivory and gold, and she wonders if he is of one of Solterra’s many noble houses. Then again, she too wears the same colors but not for the purposes of finery. Only to protect her from the heat.
She doesn’t realize at first that she has stopped walking, that she is too busy watching the way the early light reflects off what appears to be scales scattered over his skin. Some part of Teiran reaches reflexively for one of the daggers strapped to her sides, but she is still uncertain and unsure.
@
