BEXLEY BRIAR
Bexley shivers as she steps -
Solterra is still warm despite the throttling grasp of winter, and she is unused to the chill of the lands that Solis does not watch over: to the icy graze of snow across the bottom of her feet, the cold, silent wind that bites deep into her skin. The world is utterly immobile. Birdsong floats through the air, then breaks off a moment later. Trees shed snow and bend in the wind, but the river is frozen to stillness, and Bexley’s is the only body she notices moving in the moonscape. Her mane, gathered today into a loose braid, is frosted with snowflakes that melt into the white of her hair without resistance. In the overwhelming blankness of the creek, Bexley can’t help standing out - her skin pearlescent in the watery light, gold glinting around the hollow of her throat, and dusting the smell of sand where sand should never be - but she is used to that, to the world taking notice of her, and traipses parallel to the icy creek with not half a thought given to what an easy target she makes here.
Perhaps she should have, though.
Entranced by the planet she’s stepped onto, Bexley dismisses the sound of footsteps in snow as too far away to matter, too light to be anyone of threat. Instead her blue eyes skate the landscape with suspicious fascination. Of all the lands in Novus, this is the one she knows least about: Amare is only ever mentioned in whispers or teases, something too sacred to talk about, or otherwise inappropriate to be discussed in most company. Naturally, she’s too curious for her own good. Carmine lashes shedding snowflakes, narrow hooves slicing open the snow, she winds through the dying forest with purposeful steps, and, ears flickering back and forth, catches again the sound of something moving ahead of her. Now she stops, and freezes. Another statue in the icy garden of the gods.
Bexley.
One word, and the Solterran feels her heart skip a quick beat inside her chest, blood pulsing with uncalled-for force just under her skin. Surely Solis is punishing her for something. That voice of flowers and honey does not belong in such a barren place -
Then again, neither does Bexley.
Steeling herself, she takes two laborious strides forward, so that most of her body emerges from the trees and into the light. In the bright white light of winter, her eyes are ocean glass, watching Florentine with a mixture of awe and suspicion; she tilts her head at the Terrastellan, so that white curls waterfall all the one side of her neck, and a faint, unreadable smile tugs at her lips. The air between them crackles. Florentine looks just the same as she did months ago. Shedding flowers and sunlight, glowing with some irrepressible, innocent power. It’s infuriating. Looking at her reminds Bexley of all her failures, all her moments of weakness - everything that she’s let go of, but not without leaving claw marks on. Though Bex’s expression remains quietly smug, her brain churns with desperation as she tries to gain a grip on the emotions that are bubbling deep within her chest.
Ah, she says finally, for lack of anything better - her voice is low and silvery, unlike her, but at least it does not waver. The queen of Terrastella, hm? Congratulations.
With that she descends into a fluid bow, and it is almost sincere.
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