☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼
be an outcast / qualified to live among your dead
She knows the petals without seeing them – all it requires is a gentle breeze. They smell sugary to her, almost candied, but perhaps she is simply not accustomed to the smell of sweet things. (The flowers that bloom in the desert are rare, and she can’t remember the last time she stopped to look at them. She can’t remember the last time that she paused to take a – good, careful - look at anything.) Still, she notices the way they drift at her hooves, catching in the long strands of sharp green grass – skewered on the tips.
Florentine appears behind her, somehow all the same and different from how she remembers her. She watches in silence as her magic heals the rift they walked through. She has seen plenty of Florentine’s work recently, but there is still something about it that makes her feel a way she struggles to put words to. It isn’t inadequate, exactly – but her magic is like a god. Like Tempus. Nearly divine. It feels like home, Florentine says, and, although she doesn’t smile, like a kinder (or more sociable) creature might, she offers a nod, which nevertheless appears solemn.
“I’m glad,” Seraphina says, and wishes that she could still feel the same way. Regardless: she means it. (She might mean it all the more because she longs for something to return to, for her home to feel like home again, not some half-waking nightmare.) Florentine offers her warm drinks and furs, and, although her stubborn pride would not usually allow her to admit that she is cold (or to any other perceived weakness), she dips her head, slightly; there is little use in trying to hide the way that she is shivering. “Thank you.”
Ereshkigal catches the bird in her talons in a spray of red and white. Seraphina can hear her laughing venomously, but, at the very least, the demon has manners enough to contain her laughter to their mental link; and all the better for it. She doesn’t want to subject Florentine to her many-voiced hacking, the way that each venomous chuckle rakes the inside of her ears like a blade against a whetstone.
“She never listens,” she says, with a grimace. She’s sure that Florentine has realized that by now, but it bears repeating – Ereshkigal is exactly as troublesome as she is useful, and their bond has always been frayed, at best. (At worst, it has been a violent tug-of-war, a battle between their conflicting wills. “It will keep her occupied for a while, regardless.” What Seraphina means is that it will keep Ereshkigal from bothering them for a while. It is a mixed blessing.
It seems to occur to Florentine, then, that her home might no longer be vacant. Seraphina listens to her in silence, mostly expressionless; though a hint of something lighter, possibly softer, seems to flicker in her stare when she hears the fond way that Florentine speaks of her lover.
“You have been gone a while – but we’ll hope that it’s still empty.” She has no such problem, anymore. When she was still queen, she made her home in the palace, as she was meant to; she had lived there since she held the position of Emissary. (It still feels strange to look at it, sometimes, from a distance – sprawled out above the sands. She is no longer brave enough to enter the city.) “Spiders don't bother me at all.” Seraphina is, faintly amused. She has spent months alone in the desert, with little company save Ereshkigal and scorpions and snakes and tarantulas. “I can help you clean, if you’d like.” Her telekinetic magic is far from awe-inspiring, but it is functional, and she supposes that she will have to be content with that.
At any rate: if she can wield multiple weapons, she can certainly handle multiple broomsticks.
tags | @Florentine
notes | I really appreciate the tonal difference between them, lmao
"speech"
be an outcast / qualified to live among your dead
She knows the petals without seeing them – all it requires is a gentle breeze. They smell sugary to her, almost candied, but perhaps she is simply not accustomed to the smell of sweet things. (The flowers that bloom in the desert are rare, and she can’t remember the last time she stopped to look at them. She can’t remember the last time that she paused to take a – good, careful - look at anything.) Still, she notices the way they drift at her hooves, catching in the long strands of sharp green grass – skewered on the tips.
Florentine appears behind her, somehow all the same and different from how she remembers her. She watches in silence as her magic heals the rift they walked through. She has seen plenty of Florentine’s work recently, but there is still something about it that makes her feel a way she struggles to put words to. It isn’t inadequate, exactly – but her magic is like a god. Like Tempus. Nearly divine. It feels like home, Florentine says, and, although she doesn’t smile, like a kinder (or more sociable) creature might, she offers a nod, which nevertheless appears solemn.
“I’m glad,” Seraphina says, and wishes that she could still feel the same way. Regardless: she means it. (She might mean it all the more because she longs for something to return to, for her home to feel like home again, not some half-waking nightmare.) Florentine offers her warm drinks and furs, and, although her stubborn pride would not usually allow her to admit that she is cold (or to any other perceived weakness), she dips her head, slightly; there is little use in trying to hide the way that she is shivering. “Thank you.”
Ereshkigal catches the bird in her talons in a spray of red and white. Seraphina can hear her laughing venomously, but, at the very least, the demon has manners enough to contain her laughter to their mental link; and all the better for it. She doesn’t want to subject Florentine to her many-voiced hacking, the way that each venomous chuckle rakes the inside of her ears like a blade against a whetstone.
“She never listens,” she says, with a grimace. She’s sure that Florentine has realized that by now, but it bears repeating – Ereshkigal is exactly as troublesome as she is useful, and their bond has always been frayed, at best. (At worst, it has been a violent tug-of-war, a battle between their conflicting wills. “It will keep her occupied for a while, regardless.” What Seraphina means is that it will keep Ereshkigal from bothering them for a while. It is a mixed blessing.
It seems to occur to Florentine, then, that her home might no longer be vacant. Seraphina listens to her in silence, mostly expressionless; though a hint of something lighter, possibly softer, seems to flicker in her stare when she hears the fond way that Florentine speaks of her lover.
“You have been gone a while – but we’ll hope that it’s still empty.” She has no such problem, anymore. When she was still queen, she made her home in the palace, as she was meant to; she had lived there since she held the position of Emissary. (It still feels strange to look at it, sometimes, from a distance – sprawled out above the sands. She is no longer brave enough to enter the city.) “Spiders don't bother me at all.” Seraphina is, faintly amused. She has spent months alone in the desert, with little company save Ereshkigal and scorpions and snakes and tarantulas. “I can help you clean, if you’d like.” Her telekinetic magic is far from awe-inspiring, but it is functional, and she supposes that she will have to be content with that.
At any rate: if she can wield multiple weapons, she can certainly handle multiple broomsticks.
tags | @
notes | I really appreciate the tonal difference between them, lmao
"speech"
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
