![[Image: rhosbyspace2_by_outofthefurnace-dbkwvw7.png]](https://orig15.deviantart.net/7f0b/f/2017/234/b/6/rhosbyspace2_by_outofthefurnace-dbkwvw7.png)
It was birdsong that woke her from a heavy, dreamless slumber; their chorus saccharine and aerial, tending to her ears like medication - needed, cardinal. On this day she had not risen with the sun, ignoring Solis' call and following that of the colourful escape one could find only within sleep. Fatigue, too, had been worn heavily around her neck, for the nights preceding her return had been sleepless, the darkness raided by foreboding. This was her first morning waking once more in the small bedchamber she chosen all those months ago, the crisp sunlight streaming warmly through dusty windows; home. She was yet to seek out the new sovereign, yet to beg pardon for her absence; the thought left an unpleasant, metallic taste on her tongue, not dissimilar to spilt blood. The girl sighed, breathing in the scent of the great stone walls, listening to the indistinct bustle of her comrades.
Untold red curls bounced about Rhoswen's finely-spun shoulders as she slipped out into the hallway, glancing over her shoulder fervently - a walk, surely, would calm the violent anarchy in her blood - and so briskly she swept onward and out into the midday sun from a side entrance. It felt good to be outside, away from the ominous walls looming in on her, away from him. Rhos knew once she had spoken to Seraphina this sense of uncertainty would fade; this dread could not last forever. The sand danced beneath her dainty hooves, welcoming her with its golden embrace. It was good to be back.
As she looked up and out toward the dune-filled horizon a figure, tall and winged, came to her attention. Rhos paused, ashen eyes studying the boy from afar, taking a moment to consider him, for his was not a face she could recall. Many weeks she had been absent, it would not be strange to return to new members of the court, but something about this stranger's expression, his posture, struck her as odd. Was he lost? Squaring her sharp shoulders, the avian girl crossed the space between them easily, approaching quietly, confidently. The muted colour of his coat reminded her of a winter sky, his young boyish features striking against the backdrop of the desert, but his scent was entirely foreign; Solterra had not touched him before. He was no constituent of the court, no follower of Day.
"Lost?" Her voice is low, formless, but fierce - the crackle of a newly lit fire. Rhos waits, gazing up at him from beneath clustered spiderleg lashes the colour of ink, a smile threatening to strike like a match across her sanguine lips.
Untold red curls bounced about Rhoswen's finely-spun shoulders as she slipped out into the hallway, glancing over her shoulder fervently - a walk, surely, would calm the violent anarchy in her blood - and so briskly she swept onward and out into the midday sun from a side entrance. It felt good to be outside, away from the ominous walls looming in on her, away from him. Rhos knew once she had spoken to Seraphina this sense of uncertainty would fade; this dread could not last forever. The sand danced beneath her dainty hooves, welcoming her with its golden embrace. It was good to be back.
As she looked up and out toward the dune-filled horizon a figure, tall and winged, came to her attention. Rhos paused, ashen eyes studying the boy from afar, taking a moment to consider him, for his was not a face she could recall. Many weeks she had been absent, it would not be strange to return to new members of the court, but something about this stranger's expression, his posture, struck her as odd. Was he lost? Squaring her sharp shoulders, the avian girl crossed the space between them easily, approaching quietly, confidently. The muted colour of his coat reminded her of a winter sky, his young boyish features striking against the backdrop of the desert, but his scent was entirely foreign; Solterra had not touched him before. He was no constituent of the court, no follower of Day.
"Lost?" Her voice is low, formless, but fierce - the crackle of a newly lit fire. Rhos waits, gazing up at him from beneath clustered spiderleg lashes the colour of ink, a smile threatening to strike like a match across her sanguine lips.
@Saoirse sorry this isn't a great post but hey!!
