☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
She can feel the tension brewing in the air around them like veins of electricity; it crawls beneath her skin like a sea of ants, like a storm rolling in on the distant horizon. The storm, however, is already upon her. Rain dribbles down her slick skin, and lightning herself stands in front of her. “I would like many things from you. Where would you like me to begin?” She can’t see the Stormsinger well; the darkness of her coat blends into the shadows. She doesn’t have to see her, however, to hear the ugly, black loathing in her tone. As the Stormsinger draws forward, she has to resist the urge to draw back – the woman is planning something, she knows, and the bitter fury in her voice tells the silver that it’s nothing good.
The warrior woman cracks her neck, advancing ever closer. “First thing’s first-“
There is no time to move.
Her wing resounds against the silver’s cheek with a violent, nauseating crack that is more the result of the small fractures that likely line every bone in her body than the strength contained in the Stormsinger’s assault.
“-that is for your warden breaking my fucking wing.”
Seraphina does not shift. She does not wince, or flinch, though her head snaps to the side with the force of the blow. As she looks back at the Stormsinger, however, her expression has shifted; if there was anything welcoming within it before, there is nothing at all left behind. Her eyes are impassive and dead, like river-rocks or marbles or little chips of ice. There is no anger or injury or humiliation in her statuesque features. Her lips do not curve. Her muscles do not tighten. Seraphina stares the Stormsinger down with empty, bloodshot eyes, refusing her the satisfaction of any reaction, refusing her anything at all.
In the very depths of her being, Seraphina can feel a quiet, white-hot flicker of outrage and indignity; it is the same that she feels when she thinks of the Davke or the Crows or her own god. They know, she thinks, that there is nothing she can do to retaliate. They know that they have forced her back against the wall, chained her up, collared her and constricted her to quiet, passive compliance. She bears offence and injury after offence and injury, watches her people die, sheds blood for crimes that were never her own, and all that she can do is let them hit her, let them kick her, let them hurt her and think that it is better that she is hurt than any more of her people. All she can do is sit still and act pleasant and take it, because otherwise she risks bringing more violence down on the heads of those that she is sworn to protect.
All that she can do now is refuse to play along.
The Stormsinger holds herself high, chin raised and tone imposing. “Now let’s talk.” Then she did want something from the silver. Well, she won’t be quick to give it to her, if she is willing to give anything at all – she won’t let her control the conversation. Cornered as she is by forces outside of her control, Seraphina refuses to let herself be rendered passive. Did this woman think that she had the right to treat her so, as though she is something broken and discarded, all for her advisor’s betrayal and the betrayal of the sun god above? As though there will never be consequence, as though there is no fight left within her? There was more to being forsaken, she thinks, than that.
If the sun god and his chosen one could not bring the silver queen to her knees, what hope had anyone else?
She straightens, then, raising her chin; her cheek is already swelling, and she makes no move to hide it. Seraphina watches her in frigid silence, muscles tensed in preparation – she stands in the path of a storm, and all it would take was one wrong move to bring her fury crashing down upon her head, electric and burning. “Not unless you intend to explain yourself.” Her voice remains eerily cold, impassive; any anger she feels is buried so deep within her as to be unrecognizable. “What occurred with my Warden?” If, she thinks, she can call Torstein that at all; he treads on paper-thin ice, whether he knows it or not, for his irreverent disregard for her people’s suffering. Where had he been while her kingdom had burned? Certainly not enforcing the law that should have been his job.
Snakes, she thinks, the lot of them.
There would be time for that when she is off this peak, however, and away from the Stormsinger’s searing, mocking blue eyes that seem to her no less unpleasant than the impassive eyes of the god she once worshipped, laughing down at her from above.
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tags | @Aislinn
notes | aislinn now has the dubious honor of actually making sera angry, even though sera's not showing it.ignore all of her projection.
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
She can feel the tension brewing in the air around them like veins of electricity; it crawls beneath her skin like a sea of ants, like a storm rolling in on the distant horizon. The storm, however, is already upon her. Rain dribbles down her slick skin, and lightning herself stands in front of her. “I would like many things from you. Where would you like me to begin?” She can’t see the Stormsinger well; the darkness of her coat blends into the shadows. She doesn’t have to see her, however, to hear the ugly, black loathing in her tone. As the Stormsinger draws forward, she has to resist the urge to draw back – the woman is planning something, she knows, and the bitter fury in her voice tells the silver that it’s nothing good.
The warrior woman cracks her neck, advancing ever closer. “First thing’s first-“
There is no time to move.
Her wing resounds against the silver’s cheek with a violent, nauseating crack that is more the result of the small fractures that likely line every bone in her body than the strength contained in the Stormsinger’s assault.
“-that is for your warden breaking my fucking wing.”
Seraphina does not shift. She does not wince, or flinch, though her head snaps to the side with the force of the blow. As she looks back at the Stormsinger, however, her expression has shifted; if there was anything welcoming within it before, there is nothing at all left behind. Her eyes are impassive and dead, like river-rocks or marbles or little chips of ice. There is no anger or injury or humiliation in her statuesque features. Her lips do not curve. Her muscles do not tighten. Seraphina stares the Stormsinger down with empty, bloodshot eyes, refusing her the satisfaction of any reaction, refusing her anything at all.
In the very depths of her being, Seraphina can feel a quiet, white-hot flicker of outrage and indignity; it is the same that she feels when she thinks of the Davke or the Crows or her own god. They know, she thinks, that there is nothing she can do to retaliate. They know that they have forced her back against the wall, chained her up, collared her and constricted her to quiet, passive compliance. She bears offence and injury after offence and injury, watches her people die, sheds blood for crimes that were never her own, and all that she can do is let them hit her, let them kick her, let them hurt her and think that it is better that she is hurt than any more of her people. All she can do is sit still and act pleasant and take it, because otherwise she risks bringing more violence down on the heads of those that she is sworn to protect.
All that she can do now is refuse to play along.
The Stormsinger holds herself high, chin raised and tone imposing. “Now let’s talk.” Then she did want something from the silver. Well, she won’t be quick to give it to her, if she is willing to give anything at all – she won’t let her control the conversation. Cornered as she is by forces outside of her control, Seraphina refuses to let herself be rendered passive. Did this woman think that she had the right to treat her so, as though she is something broken and discarded, all for her advisor’s betrayal and the betrayal of the sun god above? As though there will never be consequence, as though there is no fight left within her? There was more to being forsaken, she thinks, than that.
If the sun god and his chosen one could not bring the silver queen to her knees, what hope had anyone else?
She straightens, then, raising her chin; her cheek is already swelling, and she makes no move to hide it. Seraphina watches her in frigid silence, muscles tensed in preparation – she stands in the path of a storm, and all it would take was one wrong move to bring her fury crashing down upon her head, electric and burning. “Not unless you intend to explain yourself.” Her voice remains eerily cold, impassive; any anger she feels is buried so deep within her as to be unrecognizable. “What occurred with my Warden?” If, she thinks, she can call Torstein that at all; he treads on paper-thin ice, whether he knows it or not, for his irreverent disregard for her people’s suffering. Where had he been while her kingdom had burned? Certainly not enforcing the law that should have been his job.
Snakes, she thinks, the lot of them.
There would be time for that when she is off this peak, however, and away from the Stormsinger’s searing, mocking blue eyes that seem to her no less unpleasant than the impassive eyes of the god she once worshipped, laughing down at her from above.
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tags | @Aislinn
notes | aislinn now has the dubious honor of actually making sera angry, even though sera's not showing it.
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
