i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls
Florentine wears many wounds. A scar wove its lazy, disjointed way up a slender limb. It was as stark as lightning and as ugly as misfortune could make. For all her limb glowed, hot and pink, flushed with healing, the Dusk queen stands upon it as if it bore her no pain at all.
In silence she stands before them, atop Praistigia cliffs, with the sea that roared behind them, and the citadel stood sentinel at her left side. It watches the proceedings with bleak grey skin and window-eyes dark with knowing. Though her people were likely gathering (as she had so called them) she does not open her eyes to look at them. Rather, her eyes are shut tight, lashes pressed close where her golden hair snags within them. Florentine is wild up here, with a mane thick and free, untamed by wind, untamed by time. In the darkness of her mind she searches, but all she finds are empty boxes, the spaces where memories might once have been.
Her eyes open, to look upon the gathering faces, there are some she knows, names given to her since her time in the hospital, but the rest are a mere warmth in her chest. They are memories she cannot reach, friendship she thinks she should know but cannot recall.
With a breath, the Dusk Queen (for that is what they say she is) sighs. Her eyes drink in the chaos that the appearance of the gods has brought upon this land. “I thank you all for coming. I understand that, by now, many of you may have known of my accident.” It had been an incident of magic and misfortune – of prehistoric monsters and warriors with skill enough to save her life.
“It has left me wounded physically.” And Florentine might then feel eyes upon her limb, upon her left wing that twists and rises upward like a finger reaching for the stars. It was a graceful thing, but it was not natural.
“Yet it is the wounds we cannot see that have affected me most.” Then she turns for Asterion and the look she gives him is not that of a sister looking upon a beloved brother. It was of a girl at odds with herself, incapable of remembering even those of her blood, her family, her friends. Her gaze is soft, affectionate, but absent.
She takes a breath and says, quite softly, quite simply. “How can I rule when I cannot even remember my family?” A sadness, deep as a lake, opens within her. But it is but a drop compared to the ocean of grief she should have felt – had she not forgotten.
“So, I am stepping down as your queen. You need someone who can lead you, who knows what it is to be themselves and therefore what it means to be a Terrastellan. I am appointing Asterion as your sovereign. Forgive my resignation.”
With that the Dusk girl retreats, her spot vacant as she looks to Asterion once more. “Long live the King.”
@Asterion
((With immediate effect, Asterion is appointed Sovereign of Dusk. I thank you all so much for being so wonderful, time for me is incredibly short right now and I do not wish for Dusk to suffer as a result. It is not fair to any of you. Griff and Asterion have been active and consistent in Dusk and I wish them both the absolute best <3. Love to you all, please keep Dusk as the lovely, wonderful place it is and support Griff and Asterion. Flora and I will still be around here and there when i can manage. Obsi <3))
florentine rocking your pretty flower world
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
08-19-2018, 09:22 AM - This post was last modified: 08-19-2018, 09:23 AM by Florentine
He walked with the weight of the cosmos in easy steps, hooves glittering as he took his route to where the meeting had been called. Among the many in Terrastella, he looked an oddity certainly, somewhat standing out like a sore thumb with broad horns and shimmering scales. Cautiously, he took his steps up to the front as well, with many of the other sages of the court, his ears flicking forward.
He wasn't sure what the meeting was about, but when the announcement came, he felt himself.. shocked. At the same time, a sense of familiarity washed over him, a warmth in his belly that lapped up throughout his body. Sometimes the crown was too heavy to bear, and he did not fault the gilded lady for it, oh no. Florentine was a wonderful woman, wholly loved, and he smiled at her despite his sharper teeth and his head dipped down before lifting up.
"Long live the King!" His agreement went up with many other voices, and he felt himself settle. It was something as old as time, the changing of crowns, the shifting of power. He had seen it many a time, and while many times it could come out horrendous, well.. he knew this time it would be just fine. Flora trusted Asterion, and in turn, he would as well.
So his horned head turned, and he carefully dipped it down toward the other.
Perhaps later, he could have tea with Flora again, and simply talk like old friends would talk. She seemed to need a break.
At last there is a break in the storms. With it has come a pause in the rescuing, in the search for survivors and the care of the injured and frightened and lost. Asterion is not so sure the storms are over, and as he stands on the cliffside just before his sister he is weary, worn-down. He is full of sorrow for Terrastella, for Florentine, for all those who are suffering – but his magic is a quiet tide within him, a whisper to have faith.
Oh, but it is difficult. Maybe the gods have abandoned them (is that any worse than the thought that this is their test?) and his sister has all but forgotten him. Florentine’s body is broken and their trust has again made them fools. And some of their people are missing, washed away by the ceaseless rain.
And now this. Asterion watches them gather, watches the way his sister stands with her eyes shut tight as the wind whips her hair, taking purple petals for itself. His companion is perched on a lichen-mottled rock not far away, nothing but another gull to those than don’t know better. And as for himself, knowing what is to come -
Not ready, his heart whispers, not worthy-
You’re not a boy any longer, Asterion. Cirrus’s voice in his mind is rough as the breakers and firm as the cliffs along the coast, but there is a warmth to it, too, sure as sunshine on the face of the sea. You haven’t been for some time. You are a king. These are your people, and you are theirs. It is as much rebuke as it is reassurance, and the bay twists an ear toward her, and straightens where he stands.
He says nothing as the queen speaks, only watching her with sorrow heavy in his heart. If she does not remember her love for him, he will have to love enough for both of them. Cirrus is right – his shoulders are stronger, now. He can carry the weight.
For a moment after she finishes his gaze lingers on Florentine, the ways her injuries have remade her, seen and unseen. And then he swallows, and faces those gathered, and speaks. “I am as grateful now for our healers as I have ever been. I am only sorry that there has been so much work for them of late.” Dark clouds still rim the horizon, silent threats despite the way the sun breaks through the sky above them. Even now, he knows, all manner of creatures are making their way to the hospital for treatment, and its beds have not been empty.
“And the work for all of us is not yet done. We’ve had no shortage of trials recently, have we? But if we continue to stand together, we will weather these storms – both the literal and the less so – as we have every other.” His dark-eyed gaze passes over all of them, known and unknown, but it is the faces of his friends he draws strength from, and tries to offer it back in measure. Marisol, Cyrene, Israfel, and those he is only growing to know – Felwood, Theodosia, Fiona – all of them he lingers on, all of them he is thankful for.
And then, briefly, he casts his gaze to the citadel, and inhales the scent of salt and brine swept in from the sea, of winter grass and brittle sunshine.
“This has been my home for two years now – the only true home I’ve ever known. I want it to be what it has been for me to anyone who seeks a place to belong. But I need your help – each of you – likely far more than you need me.” At the last his dark mouth twists into a wry smile, and he drips his head in a nod as he once more watches those gathered. “Please, do not hesitate approach me with your wants and your worries and your wishes. I will do with each of them the best I can.”
And then there is silence, but for the constant, soothing sound of the waves.
ooc: YA'LL ARE STUCK WITH ME NOW. jk. Florentine and Obsi have been so wonderful and I'm sorry to see Flora step down, though I know she deserves a break. Please, don't hesitate to PM me your ideas and thoughts - I have a few of my own I'd like to implement over the coming weeks, especially post SWP once we know where everything stands.
I'd also like to place an emphasis on filling the champion positions - more on this later - and encouraging them to be active roles. To that end, I will reply to this thread again in 10+ days - if you currently hold a position of power or are interested in one, I'd gently recommend you reply. <3 you all, and look forward to raising Terrastella up further!
What a strange thing, to be called in to a meeting after so long, to finally lay eyes on the entire regime. She had done so much wandering that she had lost track of the court she called home. Now she gazed upon them all, blinking golden eyes as she listened, as she heard the breaths of the crowd and the voice of their Sovereign and then...? And then the call for change. The announcement of a change of power. It was sudden, and strange, but there was no uneasiness about it. Perhaps it was something that was coming for a little bit now, she would not know.
Valkyr spared a glance around the crowd as they spoke to one another, as there were cries of acceptance, and she could not see her mother or father. Perhaps they had other business somewhere, or perhaps they were caught up in something. Black tipped ears went back as she gazed up at the regime, and her head bowed slightly while she listened.
Asterion. She would have to remember that, and perhaps speak to him.
Her age now allowed her to become a warrior, a fighter, to properly take her place in the court. There is silence for a moment, before she finally stepped up, pushing through the crowd with sure steps, coming to a halt near the edge. "I am Valkyr, daughter of Rannveig and Máni. I humbly request for the position of Warrior, Asterion, so I may train and become one of your finest, and help Terrastella where I can."
So long had the lion-boy hung in the shadows, nary peeking from his hiding spots to glimpse the world outside.
He had heard things, many things.
How could he not?
War in the desert, dragons torching mountains, gods descending from the skies.
Even to his ears, the news reached, overheard in conversations as the swamp child lurked in the shadows, not wanting to give his presence away, not wanting to be seen or even known to be there.
He hid, sequestered himself away, because that was what he knew best.
Life left him distressed, so he did his very best to avoid it at all costs; munching on fruits and swamp leaves, hiding in the murky waters he knew so well now, and taking no action to do more than he must. Even in flood waters, he could find a way, he knew the safe zones from the rains that had come before, and he knew the trees that he could count on to hold him steady when all else failed.
But even still, he came when he heard the call. He came when he was summoned.
He owed those who governed this land that much at least.
He still hung to the back, never daring to step forward if he could avoid it. Copper eyes glanced over faces, some familiar, others not, but in the end, what difference did it make?
He still spoke not a word to any of them.
But that didn't mean that words didn't lurk under the surface, wanting to come forth, but never daring.
His heart ached as he saw the flower-girl's confusion and signs of pain. Something in him could not help but watch as another stepped forward, reminiscent of the wolf queen and speaking her name, proclaiming her lineage and the strength in her bones to the defense of the Court.
Something in him wanted to step forward with her, to toss his head back and stand as a lion on the battlefield, not a meek child.
But he didn't.
The only reaction the thin boy had at all (for even after all this time, he still wasn't a man) was to lift one foreleg when the King took his place, slipping the other forward so as to dip his forebody to the ground, and to bow his head with closed eyes.
He didn't speak, he couldn't find the strength, but the words hummed in the back of his mind nonetheless. Sang a distant song in the far-reaching corners of his mind as he turned to slink away back to the shadows, to be unseen, and hopefully, forgotten.
Long live the King.
08-19-2018, 05:52 PM
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bruiser [PM] Posts: 99 — Threads: 13 Signos: 1,000
It seems like the entire world is falling apart around them, and there is nothing she can do, in all of her mortal power, to stop it. Terrastella is under attack by driving rains and deluging floods, and even when the storms die out for afternoons and stolen moments, there is still the axe hanging above their necks -- they count their wounded, count their dead, and carry on with baited breath before the next storm falls.
She has heard whispers of Florentine’s condition, of the massive creature and the red-haired man that had struck her from the sky, but this is the first time she has seen their monarch face-to-face. The moment is bittersweet, the handing of the crown over to Asterion, and her pale lavender eyes find the freshly-crowned king with a sort of steely regard that the recent events have drilled into her.
“Long live the king,” She echoes the crowd with a dip of her head, her mane plastered against her neck and she wonders --
you looked at death in a tarot card and you saw what you had to do -
It was easy, until then, to pretend that nothing had changed.
But for the flooding and the sinkholes and the always-darkening sky (and, in all honesty, this was the physical kind of pain that could be easily overlooked) Terrastella remained as it had been since Mari’s childhood. Still she could traverse the streets without even looking at the signs, and still the citadel was its own kind of god, a black dog against a silver sky. For the most part Mari still knew who she was and where she belonged and what kind of god she was made to worship.
Again: until now.
Now she stands against the raging sea and watches the Queen she has known all her life step down with all the grace of a flightless bird. Now she watches and wonders and her heart aches, in sympathetic hatred, at the blankness she sees in Florentine’s eyes. This is not the Sovereign she has served, not the girl she has offered her own blood and bone and brains. No, this is someone else entirely - shredded to pieces, silvered with scarred, nothing but an empty, echoing sort of mockery of the fierce girl who used to rule Terrastella.
Marisol is not surprised when Asterion steps forward. Neither is she impressed, or at least no one would think so from watching her. She listens to his speech wearing an oak-dark mask of impassivity, and when he finishes speaking, his voice its own kind of song against the dark clouds overhead, she offers him only the slightest of smiles and a dip of her head, close-cropped hair bristling against the new curve of her neck.
When she speaks it is so quiet Asterion might not even hear it, over the ceaseless beating of the waves and the whine of the salty air. By Her hand, rule bold but faithful.May tomorrow be ours.
For a long moment there is only stillness, as the ripples of his words and Florentine’s revelation echo across those gathered, changing their expressions like wind on water. He reads many expressions, all of which make his heart tighten even as it beats, beats, beats against his ribs like the waves against the rock. There is a tide coming in and he wonders if it will bear them all away.
The king’s gaze falls to the first to step forward, and she so favors her parents that no surprise registers on his face when she names them. He had been new to Novus when Rannveig abdicated, but he remembered the day well, for it was his first in the capital. Asterion nods at her, and the expression he wears is near enough to a smile.
“I would be honored to have you as a warrior, Valkyr,” he says solemnly, and his gaze lingers on the bright amber of her eyes until the movement of another catches his attention.
Auru. Even after years he isn’t sure he’s ever spoken to the man, but he remembers him. Novus may be a world of wings and horns and fanciful things, but even so the maned stallion is distinct among them, and Asterion only stands as he bows, humbled. Humbled and glad that Auru was still here, and came forth for this. The bay tries, before he goes, to catch that leonine gaze with the dark, still water of his own, and convey his thanks however he can – but oh, his heart aches to see the thin figure go again.
He knows what it’s like, to feel safest in the shadows.
It is almost a relief to draw his gaze then to Theodosia, who had risen through the storm to shoulder any burdens asked of her as few others had. She is pale as salt-spray, pale as mist over flooded fields, but no less alive for that, and he draws strength from the iron in her gaze even as his heart flinches to hear the words the crowd murmurs.
What is it he looks for in the darkness of Marisol’s face? If it is approval, if it is reassurance, if it is an echo of what she had told him the last time they stood at the edge of the waves, he isn’t sure he finds it. But his gaze is still unwavering as it meets hers, and when he dips his dark muzzle the gesture is almost wry.
They are so very few.
He had had the thought before, but in the chaos of the storms, in the business of his own position, in the aftermath of the summit – there had been no time to think. But now he looks over them, his dwindling Court, and as the waves rush like his own heartbeat he wonders that he could ever hope to keep them safe.
Already the world is crumbling around them. Already their stores are low, their herbs and medicines diminished, their fields turned to mud and holes that vanished too deep to see the bottom of. It seems improbable that they will see spring, and he wonders, oh, he wonders –
“Vespera keep us all,” he says softly, and already the words feel something like pretend.
Fiona came slowly and with shadows in her eyes, but she came. She did not come alone, thankfully, but with a welcome companion at her side. Atreus, who her lilac eyes rested on more than once in their travels. Yet when her gaze finally alighted on Florentine she felt equal parts worry and relief. Relief that she was healing, doing better. Worry because this was not the celebration they were hoping for. The queen they all knew, and the one that knew them, was gone. Perhaps forever. Fiona had heard the whispered words nobody seemed willing to admit aloud, but she had hoped. Oh, had she hoped.
The lavender girl stood silently in the gathered crowd, listening to each word fall like raindrops to the ground. This was not a flood they could recover from as quickly, she thought. Things, possessions, homes, those could be replaced, but friendships could not. She thought of who had been lost, and who perhaps had not been well enough to make the journey out of the hospital or the castle, and Fiona found she had no words even had she been able to speak them. Instead there was only the broken truth: she had never felt so helpless in her life. Even as a child when her mother decided she no longer wanted Fiona and left. Even when her father, the one constant in her life until then, had died. Something in the flower girl was inexplicably different.
It is not the small scars and nicks covering her face and legs, healing and healed. It is not the bandage wrapped around her middle, protecting the dressings over the deep wound on her side. It is something inside her, something unseen, yet unlike Florentine she remembered all too well. A shiver passed over her skin like a breeze, unbidden, and Fiona stepped closer to the man at her side without thought other than she found comfort in his presence. She thought she might not have made it if Atreus hadn't been standing outside her house that day. If he hadn't come for her as he had. She could never repay him for the gift he had given her: her life.
Then, Flora stepped down and Fiona thought, would things ever be the same? And a quiet voice in her whispered no. Perhaps, then, she needed to accept that more things were different, that more people had changed in the wake of the storm. Asterion, she knew, thought sh did not know him well, would make a fine King or their people. He had stood by the court longer than some, and even longer by Florentine's side. In his hands she was sure they would make their way through and out on the other side of this. Still, Fiona could not help but wonder, would she ever reach the other side where she could smile and rejoice again?
![[Image: ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda...jvUop12efQ]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/c175b84a-409b-40aa-8b86-49ed65b989ee/ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda550e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2MxNzViODRhLTQwOWItNDBhYS04Yjg2LTQ5ZWQ2NWI5ODllZVwvZGRnNnF1eS05ZDE1ZGFiNS0zMzljLTRiMDktOGI1Ny0yMGE5OWZkYTU1MGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.j-t9RuUsmMyaVL-O1rvZqbyyPYdOvtjHLjvUop12efQ)
