BETWEEN MY HANDS REST FIFTY-TWO PLAIN OLD PLAYING CARDS
and I trapped god somewhere between the trump and the king of hearts--
She crept from the thick sandstone confines of the fortress and out into the open desert before the sun dared to rise above the great, golden expanse of Solterra.
Seraphina was flying, skidding, hooves a flurry of soft gold and ash that danced like wings against the gentle, sloped rise and fall of the dunes; sand clung to her silver coat in a thin, pale layer, dyeing even the darkest, charcoal parts of her with a faint, ghostly glow of pearl as the first fragments of dawn’s light began to pry above the distant horizon. She relished the sensation of sand and sweat caked against her skin, the uncertain shift and sway of the sand beneath her hooves. There was great fascination to be found in the seemingly-endless scrolls of history and lore to be found in the library, but Seraphina was accustomed to playing a far more physical role in Solterran society. She thought that she liked the adjustment, but she couldn’t help but feel that her work was aimless, that all those hours spent pouring over scrolls were for naught – it was harder, she’d learn, to feel purpose when you couldn’t see the fruits of your labor, and that which she was currently cultivating was entirely intangible.
The Oasis stretched out as crystalline blue against the gentle gold of desert sands, encased by a thick circling of impossibly verdant green; for a moment, the desert descended into the wildness that she would expect of Delumine, and then it was desert again, dead and featureless. She made her way to the bank, slipping beneath drooping green fronds of palms and brushing against the thick vines and brittle leaves of thorny brush; the invasive scent of sand was replaced by greenery and crisp, clean water, though the sensation was dull by comparison to the natural lushness of the neighboring regions.
It was then that she caught sight of the familiar shape of a stallion; her mismatched gaze darted along his frame, attempting to place him. One of the few that had showed up to build the arena, she thought – that was it. He was ice and snow and stars, dreadfully out-of-place in the rich warmth of the desert; a spangling of blues. No, the Mors didn’t suit him at all, but there he was anyways, soaking in the cool, gentle embrace of the Oasis. His eyes lingered on her for what felt like an exceptionally long time, but she stood still and quiet, unwilling to break the silence between them.
At his greeting, she nodded stiffly - but, then, she was always rigid and stiff, never fluid, never flowing like the water against the soft sands of the bank.“Ah…hello,” She offers, blinking sand from her snowy lashes, or perhaps blinking in confusion. “I am Seraphina – well met, Voltaire. Have you been in Solterra long?” She doubted it – Seraphina generally made it her business to know the court inside and out, and she knew next to nothing of this Voltaire, save for his presence on the day they’d built the arena.
Seraphina was flying, skidding, hooves a flurry of soft gold and ash that danced like wings against the gentle, sloped rise and fall of the dunes; sand clung to her silver coat in a thin, pale layer, dyeing even the darkest, charcoal parts of her with a faint, ghostly glow of pearl as the first fragments of dawn’s light began to pry above the distant horizon. She relished the sensation of sand and sweat caked against her skin, the uncertain shift and sway of the sand beneath her hooves. There was great fascination to be found in the seemingly-endless scrolls of history and lore to be found in the library, but Seraphina was accustomed to playing a far more physical role in Solterran society. She thought that she liked the adjustment, but she couldn’t help but feel that her work was aimless, that all those hours spent pouring over scrolls were for naught – it was harder, she’d learn, to feel purpose when you couldn’t see the fruits of your labor, and that which she was currently cultivating was entirely intangible.
The Oasis stretched out as crystalline blue against the gentle gold of desert sands, encased by a thick circling of impossibly verdant green; for a moment, the desert descended into the wildness that she would expect of Delumine, and then it was desert again, dead and featureless. She made her way to the bank, slipping beneath drooping green fronds of palms and brushing against the thick vines and brittle leaves of thorny brush; the invasive scent of sand was replaced by greenery and crisp, clean water, though the sensation was dull by comparison to the natural lushness of the neighboring regions.
It was then that she caught sight of the familiar shape of a stallion; her mismatched gaze darted along his frame, attempting to place him. One of the few that had showed up to build the arena, she thought – that was it. He was ice and snow and stars, dreadfully out-of-place in the rich warmth of the desert; a spangling of blues. No, the Mors didn’t suit him at all, but there he was anyways, soaking in the cool, gentle embrace of the Oasis. His eyes lingered on her for what felt like an exceptionally long time, but she stood still and quiet, unwilling to break the silence between them.
At his greeting, she nodded stiffly - but, then, she was always rigid and stiff, never fluid, never flowing like the water against the soft sands of the bank.“Ah…hello,” She offers, blinking sand from her snowy lashes, or perhaps blinking in confusion. “I am Seraphina – well met, Voltaire. Have you been in Solterra long?” She doubted it – Seraphina generally made it her business to know the court inside and out, and she knew next to nothing of this Voltaire, save for his presence on the day they’d built the arena.
@Voltaire - so sorry for the wait! <3
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
