[P] [festival] cherry wine

[Seraphina]

FROM THE GODS WHO SIT IN GRANDEUR
grace is somehow violent

--

Soft golden light dappled the mare’s coat as she wove through the flocks of festival-goers, a solitary shape among the masses; the air was so thick with spices that she felt she could drown in the cinnamon and ginger, and the heat was enough to make her head spin. Around her, the sounds of voices and music had dulled to a low hum. She swayed gently to the mingled melodies of festivity, twisting to the heartbeat of the crowd until she finally emerged free of it, slipping away to a grove of trees that bordered the grounds. Fireflies bobbed among the branches, little flickers of light that faded away into the night sky – they caught her eye for a long moment, little specks of life foreign to desert sands. She lingered in the shadows, then, soaking up the quiet and the dark. She had always felt more comfortable in the light than in Caligo’s darkness, but, for the moment, she found the inky blackness a comfort. It was quieter here, secluded from the bustle of the festivities, and, for a moment, she felt at peace; diplomacy and the distant clouds of warfare were far from her mind. (She’d always found Delumine tranquil, soft - Solterra was harsh and worn, unaccustomed to luster and comfort. She wouldn’t be so quick to judge its people for what they had as her contemporaries, however; knowledge and peace, so prized by the residents of the Dawn Court, could become their own menaces with enough time.) The night had dragged on much in that same haze, bleary and distinct from the reality she was so accustomed to – she felt like she was wandering outside of time, outside of her own skin, outside. There was something freeing, she realized, about being outside. Here, she was just another body drifting among a sea of others, lost in the flow.

She’d never liked parties, but maybe there was some virtue in being faceless for a little while.

Her ghostly white hair tumbled down her sides in loose waves, freed of its tight braids; she was softer, perhaps, not caked in a layer of sweat and sand, not rigid and stiff, prepared for disaster – because, in these careful, quiet moments, disaster seemed very far away. (She was alert, of course. Seraphina was never *quite* relaxed, and she remained almost hyperaware of the world around her even in this gentle lull.) She lingered among the trees, gaze turned towards the flickering silhouettes of passerby; her ears pricked forward to catch the lilting melodies of bards and musicians, and she had to resist the urge to hum along to the tune. She told herself that she didn’t know it anyways - the only songs that she’d ever learned were from Viceroy, foreign melodies that she couldn’t understand because she’d always been too scared to ask for translations. (From time to time, her native tongue felt wrong to her; like her name, whatever it was before Seraphina, she felt like he had not-quite ripped it out of her mouth. He’d found his conscience just before he’d torn it out completely. “Seraphina,” She could still hear him whisper at the back of her mind, “It means the same thing...almost.”)

As her eyes skimmed the darkness, she found them lingering on a familiar, inky shape at the edge of the crowds; she’d almost missed him in the black, the long tangles of his hair and the vicious curve of his antlers. One of Caligo’s children, draped in all the night’s shadows - Vasher. She hesitated a moment, considering her movements - relationships between Denocte and Solterra were tense, so perhaps...perhaps it would be to her advantage to appear friendly. With that in mind, she parted the crowds, whisking to approach the man. A ghost of a smile, only somewhat pleasant and not particularly warm - but certainly businesslike - curled across her charcoal lips. “Well,” She murmured, “fancy meeting you here. Is Denocte treating you well?” Her tone was cordially flat, but she couldn’t help but feel a prick of renewed injury at the memory of their last encounter.

She pushed it aside.

@

@Ammon - <3