I've been singing to the tune of / a worn down symphony,
Atlas, as a rule, did not like castles; but out of all of those he had the displeasure of exploring, Delumine’s made him the least uncomfortable. Sweet pea vines threading through the cobblestone walls bloomed rouge and indigo, thick-sweet in the summer air; their delicate flowers and spiraling tendrils were a benign facade to encase the poison within them. Sunlight streamed in through gaps in the ceiling where wooden support beams bent disturbingly low, and dark brown shingles had been worn away to make escape routes for bats traveling to and fro through the distant night sky.
He had lived, by the silver skin of his friendships, through rebellions that left the leading class dead and bloodied on the floor. What happened here, in Delumine, was not the righteous, rising kind of rebellion-- it was, instead, a softening, a saddening, a slipping of season into season; how one feels the first brunt of chill fall winds and looks back over their shoulder into the comfort and warmth of summer.
There was a churning, now, amongst the well-learned minds of the people of Dawn, and though Atlas called another court his home, he had never felt more at home but here, where the emotions ran freely and discovery and discussions were shared-- shouted, even-- between the populace. On everyone’s tongues was the vacancy in leadership and the mystery of where the court was to go from here.
Atlas was more than happy to be a bystander in these discussions; he hoped for nothing more but the best for his adopted court; still, he was searching, scheming, for something, something he could not place a feeling on. He rounded a corner, examining a once-intricate depiction of Oriens’ raising the sun with the simple motion of his eyelids; in his distraction, he almost blundered straight into some silver-colored fae. He caught her dove-hued countenance in his peripherals at the last second and froze, not taking into consideration her forward motion possibly still bringing them together.
He had lived, by the silver skin of his friendships, through rebellions that left the leading class dead and bloodied on the floor. What happened here, in Delumine, was not the righteous, rising kind of rebellion-- it was, instead, a softening, a saddening, a slipping of season into season; how one feels the first brunt of chill fall winds and looks back over their shoulder into the comfort and warmth of summer.
There was a churning, now, amongst the well-learned minds of the people of Dawn, and though Atlas called another court his home, he had never felt more at home but here, where the emotions ran freely and discovery and discussions were shared-- shouted, even-- between the populace. On everyone’s tongues was the vacancy in leadership and the mystery of where the court was to go from here.
Atlas was more than happy to be a bystander in these discussions; he hoped for nothing more but the best for his adopted court; still, he was searching, scheming, for something, something he could not place a feeling on. He rounded a corner, examining a once-intricate depiction of Oriens’ raising the sun with the simple motion of his eyelids; in his distraction, he almost blundered straight into some silver-colored fae. He caught her dove-hued countenance in his peripherals at the last second and froze, not taking into consideration her forward motion possibly still bringing them together.
@Maerys ! "Speech."
