FIRE-LIT, HALF SILHOUETTE AND HALF MYTH, THE WOLF CIRCLES MY PAST, TREADING THE LEAVES INTO A BED TILL HE SLEEPS, BLACK SNOUT ON EXTENDED PAWS. BLACK SNOUT ON SULPHUR BODY, HE NUDGED HIS WAY INTO MY CONSCIOUSNESS. THERE IS NOTHING THAT WON'T BE LIT UP IN THE DARK TORCH OF HIS EYES.
I was born for something, too. But being born for something does not give you the passion for it. Being born for something does not mean you actually do it, or do it well. Antiope’s words warm him in a way that, in Novus, he is unfamiliar with. They hold understanding and, perhaps, even a little acceptance. As a foreigner who became Sovereign, he has grown more than accustomed to being unaccepted and challenged at every turn. This is as if she knows, however.
Orestes’s smile is a little sad when he answers. “You are very wise, Antiope.” He does not elaborate further; Orestes does not feel as if he needs to. What she says is true, but for him it has always been a duty. He had been raised by it; moulded by it. His duty formed him more fully than any parental figure or real person and he will serve it until it’s finished, until he’s dead.
Keeper of Souls.
That is a very long story, for another day perhaps. Orestes feels as if he will hear that story, another day. He is surprised to discover their eyes are not so different. Orestes does not often feel the need to confess things, but something about the nature of their conversation and their leisurely stroll through his beloved city—well, it makes Orestes want to say more. The urge to confess—and what he is confessing, he does not yet know—nearly overwhelms him. I might have more in common with them than you think, Sir. Orestes laughs. “That may very well be. Perhaps we ended up Sovereigns for the wrong Courts, if that is the case.” Orestes says it lightly enough the joke is clearly marked.
It hits him solidly, and strangely:
He would not trade Solterra for anything.
Even if it meant undoing the past he cannot remember, Orestes no longer thinks he would change anything. His presence here might be his penance; but it is also his new calling. It is only because he is watching her so closely—from the corner of his eyes—as he thinks that he notices her expression linger on the children by the fountain. Before he can help himself he asks, “And do you have children, Antiope?”
Aetherian. The name is as foreign as Oresziah. As Khashran.
And you?
He voices his thoughts; “Oresziah, a place besieged by a century long racial war.” Orestes also says it pragmatically; as a hard fact, neither good nor bad. He is smiling in the next breadth however, walking further into the courtyard; there is a vendor he knows. “I would be a poor host if I don’t treat you to a Solterran novelty. Would you care for prickly pear lemonade?” The heat of the day is just truly beginning to set in; it wafts off the sandstone pathways and into the air, a contrast between the bright sky. “I think we have quite a bit in common, Antiope.”
Orestes approaches the vendor, a dark bay stallion named Elijah. They engaged briefly in conversation, and Orestes walks away holding two glasses in his telekinesis.
@Antiope || “speech”
"THE WOLVES HAVE
BEEN SLAUGHTERED
NOW, A HEDGE OF
SMOKING GUN BARRELS
RINGS MY DAUGHTERS
DREAMS"
BEEN SLAUGHTERED
NOW, A HEDGE OF
SMOKING GUN BARRELS
RINGS MY DAUGHTERS
DREAMS"
