☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
behold a pale horse in my gaze
high upon it, death in a rage
Answers.
It’s answers that her people want, or some form of consolation – someone to tell them oh no it will all be fine or nothing is wrong. Seraphina is many things, but she is no liar, and she makes no effort to disguise her uncertainty – or a stark, journalistic account of the events that occurred at the Summit – when she addresses them, even as she sees their expressions darken; their chatter grows morose, the hum of voices dulling to a whisper, and they do not meet her eyes. She wonders, somewhat bitterly, if they think her scorned, just as they did after the Davke attack – but she thinks that it is more likely the dark, winding path the meeting laid out in front of them. All of her - their - plans, however carefully-laid, felt stumbling in the face of the unknown.
When she and her Regime are finished, she is as desperate for solitude as a dying man in the desert for water. It is easy enough for her to disappear into a sea of bodies, as notorious as she has become to the residents of Novus, and it is not long before she has broken from the crowd and made her way to the fringes of the area that Tempus cleared, towards the comfort of the forest that extended beyond it. (Though, she thinks that she is far more comfortable with the open sky, even when it is painted in all the colors of Calligo’s night.) In disquieting times, painted with holy wrath, distance is the last thing that it feels like many of Novus’s residents desire – they cling to their friends and families like lifeboats, and that is how they hang on. Few of them have made their way to the forest, and it seems her best bet at disappearing for a while, left alone to make sense of the tumult of her thoughts.
But Solterra is full of assassins and two-faced snakes, and monsters beyond imagination lurk in the shadow of the sands; she knows the sensation of being hunted, and she does not miss the glint of silver, struck metallic in the moonlight, even as it weaves and creeps between the trees. She knows that silver like a bad dream - it leaves the taste of blood and collapse to burn bitter on her tongue, smells like copper-tang and sand, and it laughs, laughs like banshee girls and lying, smiling boys. It is not a silver she has ever confronted, either. Acton is napalm, and hunting him in the frothing crowd of Delumine’s festival was easy, but he was no spy among her sands. Raum was, and his offense is more personal, if tempered by the presence of Rhoswen.
Her steps slow to a halt as she strides between great, gnarled tree after great, gnarled tree, stopping amidst a small grove of ancient Oak and Ash. She trains her eyes on the leaf-strewn forest floor in front of her, expressionless.
She licks her still-trembling lips. They taste like ash and loss.
“Come out,” She says, and her voice is deathly quiet, “Crow.”
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notes | sorry for the wait <3
tag | @Raum
behold a pale horse in my gaze
high upon it, death in a rage
Answers.
It’s answers that her people want, or some form of consolation – someone to tell them oh no it will all be fine or nothing is wrong. Seraphina is many things, but she is no liar, and she makes no effort to disguise her uncertainty – or a stark, journalistic account of the events that occurred at the Summit – when she addresses them, even as she sees their expressions darken; their chatter grows morose, the hum of voices dulling to a whisper, and they do not meet her eyes. She wonders, somewhat bitterly, if they think her scorned, just as they did after the Davke attack – but she thinks that it is more likely the dark, winding path the meeting laid out in front of them. All of her - their - plans, however carefully-laid, felt stumbling in the face of the unknown.
When she and her Regime are finished, she is as desperate for solitude as a dying man in the desert for water. It is easy enough for her to disappear into a sea of bodies, as notorious as she has become to the residents of Novus, and it is not long before she has broken from the crowd and made her way to the fringes of the area that Tempus cleared, towards the comfort of the forest that extended beyond it. (Though, she thinks that she is far more comfortable with the open sky, even when it is painted in all the colors of Calligo’s night.) In disquieting times, painted with holy wrath, distance is the last thing that it feels like many of Novus’s residents desire – they cling to their friends and families like lifeboats, and that is how they hang on. Few of them have made their way to the forest, and it seems her best bet at disappearing for a while, left alone to make sense of the tumult of her thoughts.
But Solterra is full of assassins and two-faced snakes, and monsters beyond imagination lurk in the shadow of the sands; she knows the sensation of being hunted, and she does not miss the glint of silver, struck metallic in the moonlight, even as it weaves and creeps between the trees. She knows that silver like a bad dream - it leaves the taste of blood and collapse to burn bitter on her tongue, smells like copper-tang and sand, and it laughs, laughs like banshee girls and lying, smiling boys. It is not a silver she has ever confronted, either. Acton is napalm, and hunting him in the frothing crowd of Delumine’s festival was easy, but he was no spy among her sands. Raum was, and his offense is more personal, if tempered by the presence of Rhoswen.
Her steps slow to a halt as she strides between great, gnarled tree after great, gnarled tree, stopping amidst a small grove of ancient Oak and Ash. She trains her eyes on the leaf-strewn forest floor in front of her, expressionless.
She licks her still-trembling lips. They taste like ash and loss.
“Come out,” She says, and her voice is deathly quiet, “Crow.”
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notes | sorry for the wait <3
tag | @Raum
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
