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Rhoswen ►
Twenty-four hours ago, a lifetime ago, the candles of Denocte had crackled in her peripheral earshot - hymns and fireside tales humming gently just out of sight as she had rested with her brother in the cool spring eve. Twenty-four hours ago she had been entombed, still, within an ignorance she'd chosen to embrace in hope that the worst of her fears would shrivel, crack and disintegrate like burnt parchment. As they walk Rhoswen asked herself over and over again why? Ever since that first wretched day in that wretched ballroom of gold this unease had been present, lingering always in the back of her mind so as to hold her ever accountable for her passivity. Back then, under Maxence's astringent rule, Raum's very life might have been at stake had she revealed his surreptitious truth - and despite her anger, her bitterness, something rooted deep into the woodwork of her heart refused to sentence him to such a fate. After the Commander had met his own demise, whilst his emissary took up an unlikely dominion, the circumstances changed - but so had everything, by then.
“I would suggest you save your apologies for Bexley Briar.”
Red, burning red blood ran cold. "Bex..." Rhos faltered in her already precarious step to shoot a look that was painted with shock at the warrior-queen, her lips parting in a silent prayer that fell on deaf ears and uncaring eyes. Solis, no, not Bexley. "Is she going to be okay?" Her avian limbs moved on only to keep pace with Seraphina, though her mind was quite suddenly numb with a cyclonic gale of emotion: fear, guilt, horror and finally rage. As the sovereign spoke of Acton and Raum and their violation against a girl she had called a friend, Rhoswen found her skin set alight with a sensation she had not felt in a long time: raw, virginal fury. How could he have done this? She had trusted Raum; Raum and those fucking blue eyes of deceit. She had forsaken her court for that Ghost, allowed him to dwell in their midst for longer she had originally agreed, and this is how he repaid her? More to the point, this is how she had repaid a nation that had - with all intents and purposes - welcomed her with open arms. Rhoswen was a hurricane, a vortex of emotion that careered and thundered in silent destruction. She had let this happen -- but on the bible of every God, she would never let it happen again.
Seraphina did not quell her tongue, nor her cold impatience, and Rhoswen could only look out across the dull horizon as she listened - still bolstered by the emotion flooding the planes of her body. Your people. The phrase lived on into the night and hung like a noose around her throat, oh so inescapable, and this time it is by her own design. For the Solterran queen is not wrong: Denocte is chaos and violence and guile. Denocte is the wolf at her heels, slavering to ensnare her heart still in its caliginous jaws, and it seems she had not run fast enough. All her life it had haunted every waking moment and every hallowed dream: the abstract feeling that she did not belong in that den of gypsy and shadow, and she had bent the universe back to break free from Calligo's shackles and surge forth into the arms of Solis. But as she walked, her feet sinking and rising against endless, endless sand, Rhoswen knew a sure truth: you may relinquish your blood, but your blood will never relinquish you. She shook her head, confusion clouding her gaze and exhaustion weighing heavier than ever. She had always been so sure of her allegiance to Solis, until now - until Seraphina had lain the ugliness of her betrayal bare. Rhoswen would not summon the cheek to utter the words she had declared for so long - they are not my people - not tonight, not now.
"I never imagined it would come to this, but my history with Denocte blinded me. You are right, and I have been a fool," the auburn girl murmurs, her voice cracked and dry, "no longer." She glanced at her queen, steadily now, "Surely Night have not attacked the city, too?" Confusion laces her words, recalling Sera's reluctance to guide them home. What possible reason would Reich have to besiege Solterra, truly? And why keep it from her?
@Seraphina crappy crappy ending i'm sorry but i ran out of time <3
“I would suggest you save your apologies for Bexley Briar.”
Red, burning red blood ran cold. "Bex..." Rhos faltered in her already precarious step to shoot a look that was painted with shock at the warrior-queen, her lips parting in a silent prayer that fell on deaf ears and uncaring eyes. Solis, no, not Bexley. "Is she going to be okay?" Her avian limbs moved on only to keep pace with Seraphina, though her mind was quite suddenly numb with a cyclonic gale of emotion: fear, guilt, horror and finally rage. As the sovereign spoke of Acton and Raum and their violation against a girl she had called a friend, Rhoswen found her skin set alight with a sensation she had not felt in a long time: raw, virginal fury. How could he have done this? She had trusted Raum; Raum and those fucking blue eyes of deceit. She had forsaken her court for that Ghost, allowed him to dwell in their midst for longer she had originally agreed, and this is how he repaid her? More to the point, this is how she had repaid a nation that had - with all intents and purposes - welcomed her with open arms. Rhoswen was a hurricane, a vortex of emotion that careered and thundered in silent destruction. She had let this happen -- but on the bible of every God, she would never let it happen again.
Seraphina did not quell her tongue, nor her cold impatience, and Rhoswen could only look out across the dull horizon as she listened - still bolstered by the emotion flooding the planes of her body. Your people. The phrase lived on into the night and hung like a noose around her throat, oh so inescapable, and this time it is by her own design. For the Solterran queen is not wrong: Denocte is chaos and violence and guile. Denocte is the wolf at her heels, slavering to ensnare her heart still in its caliginous jaws, and it seems she had not run fast enough. All her life it had haunted every waking moment and every hallowed dream: the abstract feeling that she did not belong in that den of gypsy and shadow, and she had bent the universe back to break free from Calligo's shackles and surge forth into the arms of Solis. But as she walked, her feet sinking and rising against endless, endless sand, Rhoswen knew a sure truth: you may relinquish your blood, but your blood will never relinquish you. She shook her head, confusion clouding her gaze and exhaustion weighing heavier than ever. She had always been so sure of her allegiance to Solis, until now - until Seraphina had lain the ugliness of her betrayal bare. Rhoswen would not summon the cheek to utter the words she had declared for so long - they are not my people - not tonight, not now.
"I never imagined it would come to this, but my history with Denocte blinded me. You are right, and I have been a fool," the auburn girl murmurs, her voice cracked and dry, "no longer." She glanced at her queen, steadily now, "Surely Night have not attacked the city, too?" Confusion laces her words, recalling Sera's reluctance to guide them home. What possible reason would Reich have to besiege Solterra, truly? And why keep it from her?
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