The golden daughter carried herself like royalty, an echo of the nobility that she had once enjoyed in the way that her limbs extended in a confident strut that was filled with purpose. Her stride crushed the wet frost that covered the ground, the warning of the winter to come -- autumn just beginning to take his hold upon the land. Her head was lifted, poised as though she wore an invisible crown, covered with a shroud that could not quite hide the ambitious glint in those gunmetal grey eyes.
The ivory fabric that covered her was of the finest quality, delicate gold beads lining the seams in patterns and suns. If she were to meet a god, she wanted to look like her truest self -- not the meek maid that she had been forced to become in Delumine. No, she was an aristocrat -- born into the heights of society, and her attire reflected it.
Dawn was just beginning to claw its way across the land, the still of the night giving way to the symphony of colors. She had arrived the day before, along with several others from the citadel, but forced herself to wait until the regime had entered into the sacred place. She could feel the own gnashing of her teeth as they had disappeared behind the large wooden doors, the rising urge to chase after them -- but the instructs had been very clear. Only the Sovereigns and their regime could be permitted.
A snort rumbled out of her nares, the blonde rolling her eyes in annoyance as she paced the summit grounds. She had witnessed the arrival of her people, Solterrans, who had come in a great caravan with the queen at their head. Her gaze had been greedy as she looked upon them, the strange pangs of homesickness slapping against her like ocean waves. She had looked for her parents among them, even though she knew that they would not be there. They were long dead and cold, though she had never seen them buried.
She would go home with them, she had decided -- her heart giving a squeeze of terror at the thought. But it was more than time to go home, and seek the justice she so desperately deserved.
The mare clenched her teeth at the thought, bringing her mind back to the present before her. The emptiness and yet fullness of this place, the air electrified with tense anticipation as they all waited for the meaning of all of this. She yanked the hood from her head, listening to the gentle clattering of beads as she unveiled her head, her blonde hair a mess yet held in place with her signature gold butterfly pin.
She glanced again at the wooden doors that their governing bodies had disappeared behind. A prayer twisted on her tongue, though it was not for them.
“Solis, give me the strength.” She murmured to herself, hoping her prayer to the warrior god did not fall on deaf ears, turning her gaze the sky as it swirled from the black of night into the pink of morning.
The Lord Commander isn't sure how he feels, when those heavy wooden doors close. He knows he should be feeling some kind of relief, but the emotions currently running through his veins are a paltry attempt at it, if that's what they're trying to portray. For all his reckless youth and in-one-ear-out-the-other attitude he'd had to the stories his mother told him at dawn and dusk, there is one that managed to stick. It has been centuries since the regimes had stood side by side, all four Sovereigns looking at one another in the flesh, rather than sneering at letters written at their behest.
Renwick knows better than to hope for a good outcome, so he hopes for a mediocre outcome instead. One where war isn't on the breeze, he's lived through one war and bled for it, and he'd rather not endure another wrought by Gods and their idea's of a better tomorrow.
Pale eyes had continue to watch them long after the echoes of the regime's hooves were no more than a memory. A breath in the breeze, and his own sigh leaves him heavy and wanting. His outfit is as heavy as it was the day he arrived on the summit, the leather straps constrict around him in a phantom touch, while the embroidered cloak weighs him against the floor like an anchor slung across his back.
Alavin would know what to do, Renwick had never been good at simply waiting around. He would be with their people, inspiring confidence and making the best of a bad situation and it's unknown variables. Not stood anxiously outside god-touched doors as the powers of the World raged within. Hoping, praying to Calligo and Solis both that when they opened again they would be alright.
That she would be alright.
Foolish perhaps, to be so worried, but Renwick had never claimed to be anything but.
Dawn painted the world in pastel shades of hope and new cycles, pinks and purples carded with soft blues and lilacs. His painted head tilted upwards as eyes slip closed and for a singular moment he allows himself to be. To catch on the breeze and drift far from here. For his thoughts to swirl and drift, dance and settle like the ocean waves against the shore.
Solis, give me the strength.
The appearance of another, or had she already been there? He had been rather caught up in the door after all. Wrapped within the confines of his own mind to not really see anything else. Moon eyes glance over to the source of the voice, honey gold and white haired. Solis' name spoken from a woman who looked like she belonged to the desert sands. Seraphina had been the first Solterran he had seen in an age, and she was every ounce a Desert Queen, solterran steel and white holy fire. The flashes of war in the back of his mind paint him similar equines who looked like they had come from Solis' divine fire, were they all so?
"You might want to ask the other Gods for strength too." Renwick mutters with good humor, composing himself into something that he hopes looks commanderly. Rather than the worried mess he'd been prior, adjusting the cloak on his back with a brush of his teke and flipping the large braid of his mane over his withers. "Might need them by the end of this."
HE'S A BEAUTIFUL BOY WITH EYELASHES DRIPPING STARDUST
Solis give me the strength. And gods does the woman-child know that she needs it. Her eyes drift closed as she takes a slow breath, reaching out with her mind to feel the sensation of it. She used it to ground herself to the earth beneath her feet, rather than the swirls of madness that threatened to lift her off into the sky.
It was a practice she had learned from the sages, surprisingly enough. Perhaps that was why they seemed to carry such a strange patience, a peculiar stillness to them -- years of grounding themselves. Devout to their books, she could not see how they did it, the endless hours of silence. A discipline to marvel at, certainly.
Perhaps, if it were not for the crowds of expectant court-goers who had all gathered at the summit to await the outcome of this unforeseen summoning, the woman would have been surprised to find that she was not alone. Instead, the rumbling baritone of another merely causes a slender ear to flick in his direction, followed by a storm-colored gaze. What she is startled by is the color of his eyes, bright and pal all at once -- their color echoing the fading light of the silver moon overhead. She is not sure why her eyes avert quickly, choosing instead to look down at her feet for a moment -- but they do.
It is as though those eyes bring along with them a flash of memory, and she is not quite sure if it is a pleasant one. An awkward silence fills the air for just a second too long before she lifts her eyes again, letting a smile begin to quirk up on her features.
”That’s true.” She agreed quietly, noting his appearance. In dawn’s light, the man is bathed in hues of apricot and peach -- though she is not sure why she thinks of summer’s bearings in the throes of fall. He is dressed finely, a cloak of the richest shades of emerald and sun draped across him, the thick pelt of an animal at it’s collar. Rich, dark straps of leather hold a breast-plate and harness against his cognac skin. She could not help but wonder of his status, his affiliation, his loyalty.
”Do you expect the worst then?” She asked, the question flowing from her lips like liquid honey, smooth and golden. ”Or do you know something that the rest of us should be aware of?”
She keeps her place, no desire to come any closer, running her teke through her hair to assure herself of the butterfly pin’s place; a precious keepsake. And she found that she still could not meet his eyes again, hoping that the fact was hidden well enough from the stranger.
@Renwick
This was written in spurts over the course of a day, so hopefully it all reads ok c’x
