[AW] Staring down the barrel

[Seraphina]

forget the horror here
IT'S FUTURE RUST & IT'S FUTURE DUST

--

Salt and brine clung to the mare in a thin, sloppy layer, dripping down her limbs and sides with the steady assault of rain. It was strange, perhaps, to catch the queen of a desert realm emerging from the arms of the sea, the silver of her coat blending in with the churning grey of the waves as they broke against the shore, pummeled by rain; in spite of her camouflage, she was an aberration, an aftertaste of burning heat and gold. Nevertheless, there she was, slipping onto the chalky grey of the shoreline like some sort of unexplained mirage, a trick of the light.

What drew Seraphina to the shore? What, furthermore, possessed her to swim out into the sea until the tips of her charcoal hooves no longer scraped the ocean floor, tearing up silt and sand and disturbing all the little creatures that dwelled within? As she washed up with the tide, white hair trailing down her skin in rivulets, she could only recall the horrible sensation of the maze, the taste of the black water, like ink, swarming into her eyes and her mouth and her nose, the choking sensation of her chest collapsing when she drowned, the soft ache and heave of her sides as she pulled herself up on the shore, shaking and gelatinous…for the first time in a very long time, she had felt something like fear, though perhaps it was more of an inadequacy in hindsight.

After that, she taught herself to swim. Not for any necessity, she imagined – she did not often encounter mazes full of terrible monsters and endless, depthless black rivers, particularly considering the arid state of her homeland. Seraphina simply found a weakness, targeted it, and found a way to overcome it.

(For weeks after that, her stomach had knotted even as she stared at the pristine surface of the Oasis, and she swore she tasted that inky water in her mouth whenever she dipped her head to drink.)

As she drew onto the shoreline, her gaze caught on a familiar silhouette. Rostislav. She had no desire to see the Warden of Denocte, particularly after their last meeting…but he stood between her and the path leading up to the safety of the cliffs above, so she started towards him, any misgivings buried beneath her effortlessly cold, stiff visage. She took in the sight of him warily; the old warrior slumped miserably in the shallows, feathers stirred by the flush of the tide. Whether it was his alcohol or something more sentimental that plagued him she did not know – she was not sure if she cared. It was, after all, no business of hers. Further inland, she thought she caught sight of the glowing green eyes of his hellbeast of a companion, though she remained largely obscured by the rain. She could be a problem.

Surveying them both evenly, she offered a somewhat reluctant greeting, over the tranquil downpour. "Rostislav.” Seraphina considered his condition, briefly. A more sentimental creature might have inquired to its cause, but, for now, she simply waited to gauge his reaction. No reason to chance provoking him just yet – those old horns could still gouge a pretty hole in her, if he had the inclination.

@

@Rostislav - <3