I S O R A T H The Sun Capital is in ruins, smoke rose and billowed in mournful plumes against a grey misted sky. Soot and ash coat every lungful of air he breathed, the cloying taste of it stuck even after he swallowed. The golden, gilded glory of Solis' Crown is no more than a broken, twisted thing, shrouded by a thick foreboding pall. He's no stranger to War, he has been spoon fed stories of Conquest and Blood since he was a babe at his mother's foot. Raised by Warriors who have bloodied their blades against barbarian's and sellswords alike. He has fought before, he has played the Great Game more than once in his life. Politics and Warfare come hand in hand with the winged Kirin, there is nary a thing which surprised him anymore. Yet, it is sobering to see a Place that almost looks like Sunsyia, at least a Sunsyia in it's primordial stages of greatness — laid low. A wounded beast laying in a puddle of it's own blood as it struggled to rise, struggled to breathe. As he weaved through the debris escorted by the remnants of the Guard stationed in the Palace, careful to avoid the glass scattered across the floor and step over statues beheaded for no other reason but carnage. He gazed at everything, from the defaced effigies of Solis, to the broken spears and hastily cleaned splatters of blood. Between the guards which flank him is a number of chests, inside each carry gifts for the silver haired Queen and her people. It is no bribery, no attempt to appease a monarch going through the motions of her land in the aftermath of a siege. Merely something to help soften the blow, ease the aches that he knows Solterra will be feeling. He knew coming here was a gamble, but neither is he a coward or a cowed politician at the mercy of his King, brow beaten to toeing nervously in the shadows. The three most prominent Courts are in disarray with one another, and he cannot sit by and simply do nothing as banners threaten to line the horizon. He is also no fool, he knows Solterra is a likely ally for Terrastella to turn to. Both nations have been scorned by Denocte's behavior, not raising a voice nor attempting to reach some kind of tolerance would be suicide — he may as well throw himself upon a spear and save a soldier the job. So, he has risen to the tedious, if not perilous job of saving the man and the nation he cares for, with or without their knowledge. Isorath is no stranger to the knowledge that his reputation will have spread, Reichenbach's certainly spread like wildfire, for good or for ill, he cannot say. It would make sense that his newest paramour would make waves, given the circumstances of which they came to be. He has no qualms with the title, at least. After all, in his homeland he would be tasked to a similar fate — albeit with the absence of the affection and love he bears for his partner. Aether circled overhead, his rumbled snarling song easily rattled the shattered remains of windows, and provoked the rubble and burned stones to shudder across streaked and stained floors. He does not agree with being here either, each circle over head he grows more and more restless until he comes down. Landing with an unceremonious thud upon the ancient stone walls of the Courtyard, he cannot follow Isorath into the bowels of the Palace — but he can be a silent threat to the servants and guards who quickly scurried out from underneath his shadow, chased by the frost he commanded. "Your Grace," He announced silkily enough, his accent musical and melodic upon his tongue. It echoed in the ruined throne room as the cracked and splintered doors are opened to him. "Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice." A talon slipped out from beneath the midnight and moonstone flecked cloak he is wrapped in, to idly gesture to where the chests should be placed. "A gift, to show my appreciation. Medicinal supplies for your wounded, as well as bandages and ointments for their aches and pains. There are also notes on how to replicate them, should you require more." The Kirin explained simply, and lapsed into a contemplative if not curious silence. He does not comment on the fact she looks well, given that she has weathered a siege most could not withstand, for he knows there will be claw marks and wounds that do not appear upon her smoke colored visage. A pity, he thought for a moment, to have the first years of a young queen's reign tarnished by barbarian's holding grudges for a King who was long dead. Lilac eyes casually roamed the expanse of the throne room, taking in each and every little detail that so much as caught his interest. Particularly they landed on the throne, and his face finally broke it's contemplative looks. In slow and precise steps, he moved toward the toppled throne until he stilled at the base of it. They lingered for a moment longer, before finally they rested upon Seraphina. "I assume you have questions, as to why a Denoctian Envoy comes to your doors, considering all that has transpired." Isorath finally acknowledged, a wry smile curled at the corner of his pale maw. "Among other questions I'm sure." TAG: @ NOTES: "sunshine dasies butter mellow!" |
