[P] driftwood, carcass

[Marisol]

THE ARCHIATER.

Darkness and light, and Marisol weaves through the patches like a fish through water. Above her the sky has dimmed to black and purple, gauzy with cloud cover, and all that remains visible is what is touched by torchlight, stamped into the ground at wavering intervals. It dances across her skin in gold smoke, lights the gray of her eyes to silver and ice. Darkness and light. Quiet as ever she makes her way through the festivities, and quiet as ever, she goes unnoticed, head dipped to her chest, black wings folded to fit her ribs. The short bristle of her cropped mane looks hard and angry in the torchlight; she moves quickly, and her efficiency in closing the fields makes her nearly anonymous. She could be anyone - dark-skinned and silky and disinterested. The only real indication of her status is the row of cloth across her feathers, fat slashes of bright-white silk a beacon in the gloom. 

In Marisol’s eyes, this is not a celebration. It is a means to an end. Not a drop of liquor has passed her lips, not a word has been spoken from them, and the Commander does not greet people so much as she watches them, gaze cool and brusque under those long lashes. Music plays lightly from over the hills and comes to rest inside her bones. Around her girls in silks go whirling through the fields, and conversation is mumbled just loud enough to hear, passed from mouth to mouth like something sacred; eyes and teeth glint in the low light, and everyone is falling in love, and Marisol is nothing like everyone. She has to remind herself of the fact constantly. You are not like these people, and the thought goes rolling through her brain and back again, you cannot be like these people, because they do not know their duties. 

A crowd has gathered around a merchant selling mead, and Marisol finds her way into the frayed edges of the group with little resistance. On every side someone is laughing or talking and the noise grates at her soft ears. Under His eye, says someone in greeting as they whiz past, and Marisol gives them a dirty glance before she sends a silent prayer up to her own god. The night is young and dense with heat, and already Marisol feels sweat beading on her skin, half from the warmth and half from her anxiety, the constant fear that follows a girl occupying a position like hers... Her wing shudders involuntarily, just brushing the side of the bright red stallion next to her, and she snaps it back to her side as quick as those bird-bones will allow. She speaks then, and the rasp of her voice makes it obvious that she does not speak often.

Apologies.

@Raymond

[Raymond]

The festival was certainly a means to an end, though the ends might vary from one individual to the next, but Raymond was not the sort to conduct his business with a scarecrow's finesse and all the enthusiasm one could find at a wake. He wore his floral crown - a loop of white lilies with pink and purple gladioli lying like a cascade of petals along the sinewy arch of his neck - at a proud and jaunty angle on his head, and on this particular evening he had taken to sampling an array of locally-brewed beverages on offer.

He spoke with surprising eloquence on the subject, having picked up a diverse palette through years of far-ranging travel. A casual glance would have thought him quite a natural part of the landscape indeed as he flitted smoothly from one interaction to the next, appraising the delicate bouquet of a vintage here or suggesting additives to round out a flavor profile there.

One merchant's mead in particular had caught the red stallion's imagination. He had offered Raymond a sampling of rich, full-bodied honey mead with a pleasantly smooth texture. Raymond gladly told him as much and earned an appreciative nod from the artisan. Free space seemed to be at a premium, but even with the generous flow of drink most horses managed to navigate the throng with relative grace.

Until a pegasus' errant wing brushed along his side.

The red stallion arched a brow and swiveled his head to identify the culprit, the passive arc in his leonine tail tightening ever-so-slightly at the question raised by her contact.

She was black as pitch, her coat striving not quite successfully to dissipate into the night's encroaching shadows, with tightly-furled wings and hair trimmed short in a style Raymond knew well. He had reason to doubt the sincerity of her apology but didn't hesitate to seize an opportunity when he saw one. "You'll have to excuse me - splendid work, truly -" he murmured warmly to the merchant as he telekinetically swept another sample of mead from the display and extricated himself from amongst the throng with relative ease.

"No harm done," he said, this time to Marisol.

It had taken but a brief moment for Raymond to disengage. He cut a rather odd figure, the sharpness of his features contrasting impressively with the confident looseness of his stance and the incongruous halo of flowers about his brow. Without waiting to see how she would react, he offered her the sample. "Mead?"

Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around

@Marisol

[Marisol]

THE ARCHIATER.

The crowd around her shifts and reforms, and Marisol turns a blind eye to it: the necessary apology extricated, she returns to feigned ignorance with a hard blink of those gray eyes and a strategic shift to face away from the object of her accidental brush. She is closed-minded, hard-headed. Blood rushes in her ears, loud and hot, and she pulses her jaw in an attempt to stifle the ocean-sound that overwhelms her, although the ocean is miles and miles away. So inordinate is her focus that she does not acknowledge the movement of the man beside her until he speaks - until not acknowledging him would become sheer idiocy, stubbornness without a cause. Mead? Then she glances over her shoulder at him and turns.

Regretfully, no. The cold gray of her eyes is sleety in the dim light. Marisol gazes at the festival-goer with intensity and without shame, taking in the easiness with which he stands, the flower crown tilted at a jaunty angle over his head, the sharp, convex blade at the end of his tail, tensing slightly as they turn to face each other. A strange yin-yang they make - black and copper, dark and light, and yet strangely similar - centered, muscular, that close-cropped hair a mirror of militaristic upbringings, though Marisol can’t help noticing that the cut of her mane is cleaner than his. 

He smells of Terrastella, and yet they’ve never crossed paths. Perhaps Marisol’s seclusion is a detriment, she muses now, if she cannot recognize those of her own court, the men and women she’s meant to protect, by anything other than scent and the barest touch of passing-by recognition. Perhaps there is something to be said for socialization, at least in the name of duty. But even the thought makes her uncomfortable; as Marisol opens her mouth she struggles for something to say, or even the motivation to say it, and the more she struggles the more the tension in her muscles is heightened, the more the pulse in her jaw grows, the more her eyes flicker back and forth, sharp and carnivorous.

Incense blooms in her nostrils. Hail Vespera, she murmurs coolly. It is almost-amused, but even as she speaks, she can’t help hoping her instinct hasn’t steered her wrong.

The sky is dark and fragrant. Marisol tilts her head at him and they stew in their silence, the warm night an impending ruination.

@Raymond

[Raymond]

"Regret's supposed to kick in after the party," he replied with a sage grin. Goodness knows the mare looked like she could use the loosening up as she appraised him like a hog at a county faire - specifically one that wasn't listed on her entry sheet. Raymond didn't mind. Her critical eye merely gave him leave to measure her, though he did so in a less obvious manner that mainly appeared as though he was waiting for her to respond.

The red stallion recognized her as a denizen of Terrastella much the same way that she did him, though she had been there long enough for the scents of the swamp, plains, and court life to congeal and seep into her very skin where it clung to him like morning dew. She had the mannerisms, too, of citizens of the court, and had he actually called the place home for any length of time he would have questioned how he could go so long without running into her before. Alas, nearly every face he spotted was a strange one, and he did not begrudge anyone their solitude if that was their preference.

What she said next took him a bit off-guard.

Raymond was not what you would call 'religious' by any stretch of the imagination, though he had gotten a surface-scraping run-down of of things before coming to the festival. His were a people of long memories and rigid tradition, who counted their ancestry in particularly high esteem, but there was no grace to be measured that could not be afforded through hard work and solid preparation. If that were not enough, he had grown quite fond of his autonomy and I daresay arrogant about what he could accomplish purely under his own power. Faith, in his eyes, was a crutch - or a vulnerability.

That was why, in Ravos, he had sided with the heretics even when the gods had faces and walked among them as mortals do. That was why, when Marisol invoked Vespera's name as though to push back the encroaching Oriens-ness of this particular shindig, he found himself quickly rifling through his options. He did not wish to offend, but he had absolutely no desire to talk religion with a stranger.

Great way to ruin parties.

"Thats the goddess of Terrastella, right?" he asked, passing off the brief delay as a newcomer's ignorance (which was a completely honest choice, as he'd hardly been there long enough to wipe his hooves, let alone recite any religious epithets or the history of the region). "Did you take an oath on her name not to enjoy yourself at festivals?"


Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around

@Marisol - Oh my god I'm sorry he's a sassy boi

[Marisol]

THE ARCHIATER.

There is no shame in the calculated way she looks him over, no self-consciousness in the cool gray of her eyes. The Commander meets his gaze easily but perhaps not kindly, and as much as she wishes she could take the mead offered, act like a damn fool, dance as much as she wants to with whomever she wants to, it’s simply not the world that Marisol lives in, and so she is stubborn in her refusal, takes his teasing with an easy flick of the air and a drawling near-smile. Good for him, that he should ever feel so relaxed. Does he know the pain she’s suffered to keep him safe? The many nights she’s stayed awake by torchlight, stalking the borders of the Dusk Court like a predator? Does he know the fear tattooed in her chest like a heartbeat?

Of course he doesn’t. Of course not. She envies him for it.

The surprise that crosses his face when she speaks is off-putting.  It’s a casual thing from out of Marisol’s mouth, the word well-worn against her tongue, familiar and even, sometimes, warm.  Yet it does not seem to be the same for him. This man is a denizen of Terrastella, is he not? Should he not be comforted hearing Vespera’s name, instead of shying away from it like a colt from a snake? Strange. Suspicious, even. Mari tilts her head at him in unchecked curiosity. Of course she does not ask about it - in fact, does not even bother opening her mouth - but she does not hide her interest, either. Hiding is not something she does very often.

Thats the goddess of Terrastella, right?

The Commander blinks. The surprise that washes over her is so strong it’s unsettling. Right? Right? How could he not know? For the first time she thinks he might be an immigrant, that being the reason they’ve never crossed paths. Recent, too, if he doesn’t know the patron god of his own damn hometown. She relaxes slightly. As infuriating as their differences might be, the distinction between a heretic and an uneducated newcomer is huge and fundamental, and the idea that he is simply not initiated yet, rather than choosing to spit in the face of the gods, comforts her slightly. Marisol nods in confirmation. Did you take an oath in her name not to enjoy yourself at a festival?

And, as if by magic, a smile tugs at her lips, turns her eyes bright-warm, subtle and real. 

There’s no way for Raymond to know how rare the sight of it is. If he did, Mari is sure he would be absurdly proud of himself.

You jest, but yes, I have. Smile already fading, she halfway unfurls her right wing. As it extends, the ripple of white silk stacked in three perfect stripes appears, fluorescent against layers of dense, shining mahogany feathers. Oath of the Halcyon commander.

@Raymond

[Raymond]

Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crown
when the man comes around

Somehow, he had managed to pull the right combination of levers in just the right order to avoid pissing the dark mare off. While he would have been lying to say he was worried about it - with so many horses milling about, one would be hard-pressed to start a brawl even if the drink had a firm hold, and a pretty strong hunch suggested that such shenanigans were beneath this particular horse - he preferred to walk paths that weren't littered with landmines when he had the option.

Thus the relief Raymond felt when Marisol smiled possessed a distinct flavor of triumph, as one might feel upon solving a particularly challenging puzzle. He didn't have to know how rare it was to feel a sense of accomplishment. A blind groundhog could have spotted the tension building in her jaw in the moments prior.

The pegasus continued, flaring her wing enough to display the marks of her station. Among his kind, such symbols were called Laudi; Raymond, being surprisingly old-fashioned even as a young stallion, had never been particularly interested in wearing them himself - but he'd also never been a Commander.

He expressed the appropriate amount of appreciation for what the rank must have meant to denizens of Terrastella and what it obviously meant to the mare in front of him. Pursing his lips, he nodded, "I see. A noble sacrifice indeed, Commander. All the same, I have taken no such oath and wouldn't want such a masterpiece to go to waste."

The red stallion drained the mead, its full-bodied warmth seeping into his bloodstream. Fortunately for him, he had an iron constitution and a jovially shrewd demeanor that seemed to defy - or at least conceal, if one were to be overly critical - inebration.

"The name's Raymond." Grinning, he tipped his blade toward Marisol. "What dangers are there here, that a commander can't even be allowed a night of light-hearted frivolity?"

@Marisol

[Marisol]

THE ARCHIATER.

A noble sacrifice indeed, Commander -  

For all her practiced stoicism, some part of her still recoils at the statement. As seemingly innocuous as it may be, Marisol is too sensitive, too fine-tuned, not to notice the weight behind such a phrase, the ease with which it could mean something entirely its opposite if spoken in the right tone: still she manages to stifle whatever part of her wants to take offense. It would be utterly plebian of her to be angry in advance. Thus she takes the sharp-edged compliment with only a cool blink and a delicate shifting of her weight across her feet, wings drawn slowly back to their resting places.

Clouds veil the moon overhead, and Marisol turns her gaze upward to follow their smoke-lined path. The red man speaks again, and she watches him over the sharp rise of her cheekbones, ear swiveled out to catch the low timbre of his voice, but does not respond for a long moment: Mari is nothing if not concise, and she will not waste words not carefully planned.  Her company drains his mead, and still she watches soundlessly, heartbeat tattooed quietly to the inside of her chest. Not a name has passed between them, not a phrase of any value. Some part of her laments that. Another part is almost grateful for it.

My name is Marisol, she introduces herself finally, lowering her gaze again to meet his. In the dim light something almost warm lives in that gaze - something human and vulnerable. Nice to meet you. The crowd has grown around them, blooming in size, and the hairs on the back of her neck start to prickle. Whispers and low conversation fill the air around her; people slip by, sometimes brushing against her in moments of brief, uncomfortable contact; mostly Marisol tries to filter out the disorder by keeping her limbs tucked close and her gaze from wandering.

Military disposition doesn’t leave easy.

She pauses again, and answers, Everything is dangerous in the right context. A cool, biting half-smile twists at her lips, then disappears, already anticipating a sarcastic response to her own bitter answer. Novus is a cesspool, the Commander continues near-wistfully. Her eyes glitter in the darkness. The bigger the numbers, the more mildewed the pool. I, for one, will not be falling in.

@Raymond

[Raymond]

Like Marisol, Raymond also did not waste his words. He never said more than he intended to say, exactly as he intended to say it, and the perception of wastefulness in his unfettered tongue became the very aid to disguise how little he actually gave away.

He could see her edgy stiffness at the growing press of unfamiliar bodies around them - likely less trained eyes than his could, so intensely had she focused on the act of centering herself inside an imaginary space meant for a housecat - but he didn't act on the private amusement it offered him. He wasn't there to make her self-conscious over a bit of a crowd, but maybe she'd show just how much pressure it took to truly crack her careful composure.

And anyway, the interaction was engaging. Raymond wasn't about to walk away from that just yet, especially when she brought up how everything was dangerous in the right context. Truer words perhaps had never been spoken, and he laughed heartily enough to turn the head of a passerby whose fleeting glance seemed envious of the quality of their conversation.

What she said next puzzled him, mainly because in his life and his work he had learned pretty quickly that not everyone worth taking out wore a curly mustache and a 'kick me' sign on their back. Some of them looked like everyone else; some of them were liked. But all could be laid bare by crawling like a cockroach into the right crevices of society. The red stallion put all illusions of dignity behind him and had not bothered going back to collect them. He would do anything, rub shoulders with anyone, if it got him closer to his goal.

"If you don't mind me asking," he replied in a tone that plainly suggested he personally didn't care if she minded him asking but still somehow managed not to be a complete ass in the delivery, "How do you expect to spot any vipers without walking through some tall grass?"

Raymond.
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."

@Marisol

[Marisol]

THE ARCHIATER.

In the dim yellow gleam of the low-slung lanterns, they are flame and soot, fire and ash; Marisol is her own black cloud opposite to Raymond’s red burning, cool and dark in the glimmering light. For all her practiced suspicion, she still doesn’t quite distrust Raymond. Something about the faint twist of his smile or the smart-sharpness in his eyes. They are warped mirror images of each other, double-edged swords sharpened on the same stone: only where Mari has rusted, Raymond glows, socially adept and unafraid and okay in a way she hasn’t ever quite been able to grasp.

Harp floats through the air, and over it comes, again, the sound of the stallion’s voice. It’s almost comforting now - the way they have shuttered off the outside world, contained absolutely in their own conversation. How do you expect to spot any vipers without walking through some tall grass? Amusement flares in Marisol’s gray eyes,

and a brief huff of air, the ghost of a laugh, escapes her lip: I have, comes her easy reply, delivered with the loosest, barest edge of silvered humor, and her gaze glimmers sharply in the near-darkness. My whole life, Raymond.

His name, in her mouth, is strangely sacred. She’s careful to handle it without too much force. Despite all Marisol’s bluntness, her boyish force of will, still she knows there is something magic inlaid with every word, that language is more powerful than even the knife usually strapped to her leg, more powerful than the hard black beat of her wings in high air. If only she could wield them better: often she finds herself envious of Florentine, of Asterion, so collected, so diplomatic and easily liked.

Since the very first moment Mari stepped into her training clothes, she’s been hated. The company bitch. The hard-ass little girl. Her body all sharp knives and hard teeth - the black whorl of hair in the center of her forehead an invitation to dark matter. Exhausted by that omnipresent worry, the Commander pushes it toward the back of her brain and, at a loss for something else to say, bursts out brazenly - Your blade. Impressive.

She jerks her chin toward the tail that swishes behind him, laced with slate and danger, and the curiosity in her eyes is less morbid than it is childish, entranced. 

@Raymond

[Raymond]

Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around

Raymond learned by virtue of others' mistakes never to assume anything about anyone. A blushing beauty could as easily put a blade between your ribs as any battlescarred brute - more easily, perhaps, if that blushing beauty happens to be your flavor. A brutal warlord could be a powerful ally with the right words, and the most peaceful sovereign can doom everyone to suffering and death. To survive in this wonderful, mad, hideous world one had to keep a keen eye and an open mind.

And that was how he presented himself to others: accepting, attentive, confident in a way that put others at ease, because the consequences of your actions cannot scare you if you believe completely in your ability to overcome or weather them.

Marisol seemed to be wrestling with something deeper than crowd density, and her curt choice of words hinted as much. Where the red stallion walked the crowded festival and saw a porous mesh of opportunities, she saw bristling pikes and hidden daggers - hypervigilant, anticipating danger rather than simply preparing for it.

There was probably a story there, but now did not seem the time to ask it about it.

The pegasus's attention moved on to his tail blade, confirming his assumption, and he swept it forward between them as though beckoning a serpent to dance. "It suits its purpose," he replied thoughtfully, examining its wicked edge. It was the first time he had done so in any capacity but maintenance in a very long time. Even though it had been years since he'd seen another of his ilk, most days it simply did not occur to him that the average horse he passed was not used to seeing such an implement. "Not as impressive as being able to defy gravity, or nearly as versatile." He smiled and let the blade fall back into its languid arc.

"Your business here is likely far more important than mine," Raymond said after a brief lull. "Perhaps we should reconvene in Terrastella after the festival and compare notes."

@Marisol - figure since this thread is beginning to get dated by the SWP we could wrap this up and pick up again in a new thread!