☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
The rustle of motion. Strong words for a scorned queen.
She remembers the pressure of hooves slamming her down in muddy terrain, the sensation of her delicate, youthful bones cracking beneath the weight of some far larger and far older man; you were only a child; she remembers the whirl of magic reverberating like a hurricane of shadow, the visions, the screaming, the taste of blood, darkness creeping, creeping, creeping; she remembers Viceroy rummaging through her head, ripping out what he disliked and twisting what remained – she remembers the excruciating pain, the way her legs tore out from under her against her will and left her crumpled, how tears and screams were greeted with even more pain and more violence until she ran out of tears to shed and learned that her screams were worthless; she remembers lying in the mud days after a battle, her skin caking brown and red, tongue swollen and mouth dry and unable to breathe through her shredded lungs and clogged nostrils; she remembers wishing that she was dead, that the dark hovering at the edges of her vision would just take her once and for all; she remembers breaking time and time again and being cobbled back together hastily and haphazardly so that she could break again in a week. She isn’t sure that the mage’s quick fixes ever quite healed right, but her body has not collapsed in on her yet, so she counts herself lucky.
Why, then, would she ever break now? What choice had she but strong words, steeled features, necessary brutality? Sobbing and begging never got you anything. Sobbing and begging hadn’t ever saved her, and sobbing and begging hadn’t saved her people while the Davke ripped them limb from limb. Maybe she was scorned. Maybe she was beaten down, brought to her knees by Avdotya’s onslaught, maybe the god she had invested all of her faith in had thrown her on the wayside like she was nothing at all, but she was not done yet.
She wonders, then, if the rest of Novus thinks she has broken in the wake of the siege. All the better for her if they did – underestimation could be a powerful tool.
She would not break again.
And so she watches the woman as she melts from the shadows, gaze coldly impassive as she locks her stare with eyes burning as brilliant blue as the summer sky. She knows her – she knows her lithe frame, the string of stars tossed down the side of her neck, the rich bay of her coat. Aislinn. The Stormsinger – Denocte’s Champion of Battle. As she moves, her eyes never leaving Seraphina’s, she burns. Seraphina has been met with enough contempt to know it when she sees it, though it is laced with a rare wariness; a caution. To her words, she offers no response. The Stormsinger’s stance makes the silver unsure of whether or not her words are intended to provoke her, but, in any case, she will not be rising to the occasion. If she had been standing in the shadows long enough to hear her words, then she has nothing to justify to her, and if she was so quick to accept that the Queen of Solterra was scorned by the God of the Sun, perhaps she already knew.
“I can say I’m surprised you’d dare travel outside of your borders, but here you stand.”
No response to that, either – she simply watches her through bloodshot, empty eyes, expression unreadable. Seraphina knew her advisor, and she had taken account of her numbers. The Davke might have taken what they would of her city, but far more people still resided in the Day Court, and now she would not be caught unaware. Precautions had been taken, and plans were being made. Seraphina might have been fooled, but she was no fool, and she would not be so easily ravaged again.
Of course, she had not left the Capitol lightly - each step she took away from the city burned her. Once she slipped beyond the sight of her homeland’s familiar sands, however, she felt untouched, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had moved with naught but purpose towards her goal. If she was ever to move forward, ever to rebuild her court, ever to defend what remained of her people, she needed to have purpose, and, to have purpose, she needed to make her peace with her god. Was disavowing him really making her peace? Even now, she isn’t sure - something has been flickering inside of her since the attack, like ashes provoked slowly into embers. No flame – no compromise of her integrity, her resolute cold. She can’t deny, however, that in the wake of the emptiness that has spent so many years swallowing her whole in the blank spaces between her ribs, something is growing. (She is not sure if she wants it to reach fruitition.)
I know who you are.
As though she couldn’t tell. At that, however, the silver speaks. “And I know who you are, Stormsinger.” Her words roll off her tongue smoothly; calm, cool – even cordial. Seraphina is nothing if not tactful, and, though her stance is far from welcoming, she avoids outright hostility, retaining a semblance of statuesque restrain. “What would you have of me?” If the woman had approached her, she reasons, she must have some purpose, be it good or ill. She would hear her out, for now; she can practically visualize the questions brewing on her tongue, amidst the resentment. In the wake of such violence, who could blame her?
The Davke were violence and rage, and they were wild as the desert wind; they would not be satisfied with destroying Solterra. With the Capitol in pieces, it seemed reasonable enough that Denocte would bear the blunt of their next attack – they were Solis’s true children, or so they claimed, and they would be all to happy to sink their hungry fangs into the realms of Calligo.
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
The rustle of motion. Strong words for a scorned queen.
She remembers the pressure of hooves slamming her down in muddy terrain, the sensation of her delicate, youthful bones cracking beneath the weight of some far larger and far older man; you were only a child; she remembers the whirl of magic reverberating like a hurricane of shadow, the visions, the screaming, the taste of blood, darkness creeping, creeping, creeping; she remembers Viceroy rummaging through her head, ripping out what he disliked and twisting what remained – she remembers the excruciating pain, the way her legs tore out from under her against her will and left her crumpled, how tears and screams were greeted with even more pain and more violence until she ran out of tears to shed and learned that her screams were worthless; she remembers lying in the mud days after a battle, her skin caking brown and red, tongue swollen and mouth dry and unable to breathe through her shredded lungs and clogged nostrils; she remembers wishing that she was dead, that the dark hovering at the edges of her vision would just take her once and for all; she remembers breaking time and time again and being cobbled back together hastily and haphazardly so that she could break again in a week. She isn’t sure that the mage’s quick fixes ever quite healed right, but her body has not collapsed in on her yet, so she counts herself lucky.
Why, then, would she ever break now? What choice had she but strong words, steeled features, necessary brutality? Sobbing and begging never got you anything. Sobbing and begging hadn’t ever saved her, and sobbing and begging hadn’t saved her people while the Davke ripped them limb from limb. Maybe she was scorned. Maybe she was beaten down, brought to her knees by Avdotya’s onslaught, maybe the god she had invested all of her faith in had thrown her on the wayside like she was nothing at all, but she was not done yet.
She wonders, then, if the rest of Novus thinks she has broken in the wake of the siege. All the better for her if they did – underestimation could be a powerful tool.
She would not break again.
And so she watches the woman as she melts from the shadows, gaze coldly impassive as she locks her stare with eyes burning as brilliant blue as the summer sky. She knows her – she knows her lithe frame, the string of stars tossed down the side of her neck, the rich bay of her coat. Aislinn. The Stormsinger – Denocte’s Champion of Battle. As she moves, her eyes never leaving Seraphina’s, she burns. Seraphina has been met with enough contempt to know it when she sees it, though it is laced with a rare wariness; a caution. To her words, she offers no response. The Stormsinger’s stance makes the silver unsure of whether or not her words are intended to provoke her, but, in any case, she will not be rising to the occasion. If she had been standing in the shadows long enough to hear her words, then she has nothing to justify to her, and if she was so quick to accept that the Queen of Solterra was scorned by the God of the Sun, perhaps she already knew.
“I can say I’m surprised you’d dare travel outside of your borders, but here you stand.”
No response to that, either – she simply watches her through bloodshot, empty eyes, expression unreadable. Seraphina knew her advisor, and she had taken account of her numbers. The Davke might have taken what they would of her city, but far more people still resided in the Day Court, and now she would not be caught unaware. Precautions had been taken, and plans were being made. Seraphina might have been fooled, but she was no fool, and she would not be so easily ravaged again.
Of course, she had not left the Capitol lightly - each step she took away from the city burned her. Once she slipped beyond the sight of her homeland’s familiar sands, however, she felt untouched, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had moved with naught but purpose towards her goal. If she was ever to move forward, ever to rebuild her court, ever to defend what remained of her people, she needed to have purpose, and, to have purpose, she needed to make her peace with her god. Was disavowing him really making her peace? Even now, she isn’t sure - something has been flickering inside of her since the attack, like ashes provoked slowly into embers. No flame – no compromise of her integrity, her resolute cold. She can’t deny, however, that in the wake of the emptiness that has spent so many years swallowing her whole in the blank spaces between her ribs, something is growing. (She is not sure if she wants it to reach fruitition.)
I know who you are.
As though she couldn’t tell. At that, however, the silver speaks. “And I know who you are, Stormsinger.” Her words roll off her tongue smoothly; calm, cool – even cordial. Seraphina is nothing if not tactful, and, though her stance is far from welcoming, she avoids outright hostility, retaining a semblance of statuesque restrain. “What would you have of me?” If the woman had approached her, she reasons, she must have some purpose, be it good or ill. She would hear her out, for now; she can practically visualize the questions brewing on her tongue, amidst the resentment. In the wake of such violence, who could blame her?
The Davke were violence and rage, and they were wild as the desert wind; they would not be satisfied with destroying Solterra. With the Capitol in pieces, it seemed reasonable enough that Denocte would bear the blunt of their next attack – they were Solis’s true children, or so they claimed, and they would be all to happy to sink their hungry fangs into the realms of Calligo.
@Aislinn - <3
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
