The sky above her is lit wholly in yellow - a mirror image of the sun set within it, which has been, for days, shining relentlessly. Elatus Canyon has baked and cracked under the overwhelming heat of it; when Bexley places her steps, chunks of sand and stone roll from under her feet; the few plants that have ever survived her are now dried, and yellowed, and withered; even worse is the stench of the dead Teryr filling each crevice of the canyon, so that when Bexley’s head swings left, all she breathes in is the sweet, rancid scent of carrion, cooked through like a forest fire turned to ash. She drops her head to her chest and turns right, continuing on her walk with a determination to avoid as much of the foulness as she can.
Her body protests with each stubbornly taken step. Stop walking! Of course, she doesn’t. Who would Bexley be if she always stopped to pay attention to her imminent mortality? Over the past few days, the small bruise on her side has warped to a blackish, purplish spot that stretches from hip to shoulder, and the cut just below her neck has festered, then closed, leaving a thick, scabby line over that previously unscathed golden coat. It’s not the prettiest thing ever, but she’s strangely proud of it. A marker of how she helped her people. And that stupid bravery obviously worked, since Maxence named her champion of community-! Though she’s alone, a bright, genuine smile flashes over her face; they may not like each other, but at least he respects her now.
The smile doesn’t last long - Bexley raises her head to see a black blob a couple hundred yards a way and frowns to herself. Avdotya? No, with a few steps forward, she realizes it’s the one with wings, um… Inkheart. They haven’t talked much, not really, and Bexley has been working on not judging people so quickly, so she takes in a heavy breath and resigns herself to being nice. With a few quick strides she’s within hearing distance and calls out, as prettily as she can manage (working against the heat and the sweat and the pain) - Hey, Inkheart, right?
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
The sun beats down, the rays heating her inked back and making her gold decorations glimmer. She's over-warm, as any dark creature in the summer sun is likely to be, but she's not yet sweating. She stands there in the midst of the wide-open canyon plateau taking a break from her journey toward more comfortable and cooler ground; her head is lowered and orbs half-lidded. Why does she need a break? Oh, just the fractured bone in her foreleg, and the large gash on her shoulder and barrel. She holds her right front leg up, not putting weight on it. The gash along her left side is scabbed over, healing slowly but surely, promising to leave an ugly scar.
It was all a blur - the fight with the Teryr. Even standing here she can smell its rotting carcass, exacerbated by the heat of the summer sun. Even from here, out of sight of the beast, she can hear the cries of the vultures as they descend on their mighty meal. A sigh slips past her chapping lips. Her leg must have broken when she was knocked out by the Teryr's first attack. The gash she remembers better, for she was conscious for that and had she not attempted to avoid its wings she might have been wounded even worse. Pain spreads through her body, a dull ache occasionally interrupted by sharp pangs emanating from her injuries.
A call disrupts the silence that has enveloped her, and her lobes swivel in the direction of the sound. She lifts her crown to see who has called her name. A chestnut mare with flaxen mane and tail approaches, trotting toward me. I recognize her from the meetings that we've had as a herd, and from the fight against the Teryr. "I am. You are... Bexley, correct?" The priestess doesn't know much about the other mare, except for her recurring presence. Her words are nonjudgmental, for in her current state and her lack of knowledge about Bexley, she cannot bring herself to her normal patronizing state.
Bexley surveys the black pegasus with a gaze that belies her low level of interest - half-lidded blue eyes, dark swash of lashes fluttering, her head cocked ever so slightly to the side. With lips pursed, she draws to a slow stop. Under her hooves the ground shifts and turns, blowing up clouds of thin golden dust, lines of coarse sand; whorls of silver hair skim the dirt as she tilts her weight onto a back leg, shoulders slumping downward, her chin and eyes raised to meet Inkheart’s gaze, which hovers a few inches above her own. They are at a standstill, tongues held, judgements still being formed. Bexley will do her best to keep it civil.
Uh huh, she answers distractedly, looking Inkheart up and down. Strong, not too bothered by that gash in her side, but limping to take weight off that front leg, the one Bexley, in a quick glance, saw her land on when thrown around by the Teryr. And she has the marking of Solis - that sputtering, bright-yellow circle, like a sun in the center of her chest. Interesting. Bexley’s never seen that before, not even on other Day Court natives. Her eyes flick over the marking and settle there, a hot curiosity burning through that blue gaze. Got a tattoo, or is that all natural?
It’s half a joke - her voice lilts in amusement, something dry that seeps into each word - but she’s genuinely curious, watching Inkheart with both eyebrows raised in wait of an answer. This could go sideways quickly, but at least it’ll be interesting.
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
Bexley stops not far away from the obsidian fae, examining her up and down. The gold-chestnut mare nods in confirmation of her name, murmuring agreement softly, distracted. Inkheart remains silent as she's examined, feeling neither embarrassment nor shame as Bexley's eyes roam over her. The only things she might be embarrassed by are her current wounds, evidence that perhaps the dark mare isn't completely invincible, not quite protected by the Sun God. That is the bone that Inkheart wishes to pick the most. But, luckily for Bexley, the chestnut mare isn't the one responsible for such tragedies.
The shorter blue-eyed gal eyes the marking of Solis, seemingly barely able to tear her eyes away from Inkheart's chest. The look under the long eyelashes intensifies. Her question is almost snide but manages to stay on the side of genuine curiosity. "Au naturale." After all, if it was a tattoo, wouldn't everyone have one? It was better to keep that thought to herself rather than say it, for she couldn't guarantee that the answer to the rhetorical question would be one she'd want to hear. Inkheart looks over the other female, noticing very few blemishes or markings. "You look like you escaped the Teryr with little damage?" It's a straight observation, but has a hint of disdain to color her tone - a bit of resentment that Bexley could escape the terrible beast unscathed.
You look like you escaped the Teryr with little damage… Bexley raises an eyebrow. There’s something judgmental under Inkheart’s tongue, her voice lilting with a stiff, subsurface question, one more complicated and important than the one she’s presenting out loud. It must be hard for Inkheart to see her so unscathed - maybe she’s jealous of how well Bexley came out of it, so delicately made, so inexperienced, and yet, for the most part, still beautiful and still mostly strong. For the most part, Bex answers calmly, her gaze narrowing with a flutter of suspicion.
Keeping her eyes on the pegasus, Bexley takes a few short steps forward, scraping up sand with each touch of those blond hoves; she turns so the bruise on her side, in all its purple-and-black glory, is exposed completely to Inkheart. This, though - Bex’s head turns over her shoulder to run her lips over the edge of the marking, a frown crossing her face. Hurts like a bitch. A smile glows suddenly across her face. Lit with amusement, those dark-blue eyes flash to meet Inkheart’s, shiny-metallic with some suppressed emotion, as she speaks again to test the waters, voice low with a dare - Nothing compared to that break, though. Missed your cue or something, huh?
She nods lazily at the leg Inkheart has lifted off the ground. Curls swaying around those sharp-edged cheeks, she smirks, tilts her delicate head at Inkheart, wondering if the calm her company is exhibiting is calculated or really indicitive of her personality. It’s hard to imagine any Solterran so calm, a Day Court member who won’t react to Bexley pushing their buttons.
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
She remains still, not moving as Bexley approaches her, examines her. Her skull lifts, orbs burning with intrigue. Her nares flare, taking in the scent of the female, learning her. Sand swirls delicately around Bexley's hooves, dust remaining in the air to float gently back to earth. The delicate woman turns to expose a horrible looking bruise, coloring a large part of her ribcage. The edge is just barely within her reach, her velvets just touching it. Hurts like a bitch. Inkheart offers a grim smile, acknowledging that such a contusion must be terribly painful. Perhaps it will begin to itch as it heals, much like a scab or an inflamed muscle.
But Bexley's frown turns upside down, a broad grin lighting her visage. Something playful dances in her sapphire eyes, and Inkheart's glow in return. The chestnut's next words are clearly a jest, but like a rose with thorns, it risks damaging her pride. All depending on how Inkheart chooses to receive it. Sympathy and mockery rolled up in one. The ends of her lips curl up, but her lips remain tight. "It would seem so... I guess bravery in charging the beast was not to be rewarded." She twists the truth as she peels the thorns from the rose's stem. Of course, she had not charged the beast, but nor had she shrunk from it. Instead, she had been taken by surprise, hit harder than others without a chance to even perceive what was happening. That doesn't mean the priestess needs to reveal that she could possibly be anything less than a courageous soldier.
She steers the budding conversation onward, maintaining the same topic. "Tell me, what is your calling? Surely you must be a grand warrior..." The end of the sentence has a lilt almost like a question, with sarcasm cradling the adjective. Another tease, of course. The inked mare doesn't know anything about Bexley, and although she's testy in her inquiry, her interest is genuine.
At the mention of her rank, Bexley stops short, calculating. Day Court is filled with warriors, and Inkheart might well be one of them, especially since she’s already proven herself to be touchy and overconfident, following perfectly in the footsteps of the other fighters of her court. Will she lose points for not carrying a spear? For wielding words more harshly than he does her own body? Her eyes, in a sideways cast, catch Inkheart’s and flicker sharply.
Vicious for sure, but not a warrior. She raises an eyebrow drily. Her Day-Court conversations have started to feel repetitive; have not tens of strangers assumed she was a warrior, acted out in surprise when she said no, leaving her stranded, uncomfortable, knowing that there’s so much expected of her she’ll never be able to live up to. What warrior stands as short and as slight as she does? With a snort of disgust, just barely audible through the stiff summer air, she shakes her head and attempts to fit into her own skin again. And what are you? Maxence obviously appreciates it, whatever it is.
It’s simple, though somewhat ominous. Bexley’s voice is soft and high-pitched, lilting with the dangerous end of a question. Her eyes shine in the harsh noon light, pits of shining deep blue, pupils thinning as she glances up against the weight of the sun above her head.
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
Inkheart would never have predicted that she would have such an interesting conversation with this mare. Simply because she had viewed the pretty lass as something of a prissy, pompous little lady. Perhaps it was the golden curls, the sparkling eyes. The sharp glance she receives, the unamused reply tells Inkheart that this is something she's had to repeatedly tell others, perhaps something she's even had to defend. Amusement dances in her golden orbs and for a moment, it might seem like Inkheart is about to haughtily denounce Bexley for her lack of might and status, dismiss her as an unworthy peasant. That's the face that Inkheart makes....
Until she offers a conspiratorial grin. It widens even further when the palomino suggests that the favor she has received might have been gained in an indecent manner. Indecent.. favors. Although Inkheart is not above such means, the idea amuses her greatly. "How kind of you to notice his favor! But I am no great warrior either." What she doesn't say is that, even with that truth, she will never back down from a fight, and will use what ever violent, twisted means necessary to rid the world of evil incarnate. But her smile does not reveal this secret. "I am a sage, a priestess more like, for our most blessed Solis, praise his name."
She glances skyward toward the sun to indicate the glowing orb. Upon returning her gaze to Bexley, she narrows her eyes ever so slightly. "Of course I'm sure you're an ardent worshiper of our patron god?"
Sun glancing off the sharp rise of Bexley’s cheekbones, she stares down at the canyon with lazy interest, oceanic eyes skating the rocks, the sand, and far away the corpse of the Teryr, melting back into the nothingness from whence it came. Piles of bones, of flesh and reptilian skin. She looks upon it with satisfaction that builds like a storm inside her chest, tingling up and down each limb, each clump of muscle, until a small, unbidden smile races across her lips only to disappear as fast it came.
It’s interesting that they’re getting along so well: Bexley has never thought of herself as one to make friends, especially not with this type of woman, the one who was just showing off in front of Maxence, who studies, who prays, who is so fervently religious. What would she say if she knew Bexley had worshipped a wholly separate entity just last summer? The image of Una, her bones made of trees, her skin of leaves, her eyes of ocean, goes careening through Bexley’s head, a holy vision, and briefly she closes her eyes and says thank you, even under the glare of Solis directly overhead. Then she stills. Bex is hardly self-conscious about it, but in the eyes of a priestess it might be damning.
An ardent worshipper… a look of amusement turns Bexley’s blue eyes to glass, and, pushing curls away from her face with a slender shoulder, she lets out a good-natured snort. What else would you expect? She turns to face Inkheart and offers a facetious batting of her lashes, a toothy smirk, everything on her body speaking of a sardonic, overconfident humor. She’s not afraid of judgement or of offending Solis, and the peppy spring that causes her hips to waggle and eyes to go bright in the sun as she dares, Not until recently, I’m sorry to say, but, yes - devoted enough, I would guess. Probably not enough for your tastes.
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
She is silent as she watches the golden girl, but her gaze is fixed on that of the smaller female, golden eyes intent and carefully observant. She isn't one to slaughter fellow Solterrans for their lack of faith, but that doesn't mean that she won't look down on them, perhaps even loathe them. She does not follow the Bexley's gaze that dances past Inkheart. Her eyes stay trained, not missing the smile that glances across the pale lips. Inkheart's head cocks ever so slightly, the sun beating down upon her dark hide, heating her. She basks in it, as if Solis is penetrating her skin and filling her throughout. It would be appropriate, given the turn in the conversation.
The snort that emanates tells enough before Bexley can form the words. Ardent worshiper she is not. Perhaps, Inkheart suspects, she does not even worship Solis. A dangerous thing to utter, even think in the land of the Sun God. But the sun-decorated lady does not admit what secrets may lie beneath, instead answering the question with a question. A diversion. The sarcastic humor that lights those blue eyes, flows through those bouncing curls, is impossible to miss. Inkheart's jaw tightens, but her gaze is still light. "..devoted enough. But probably not enough for your tastes." It's hard to find anyone with devotion enough to match her own.
Florentine, the flowery mare from the Dusk Court, was probably the only one to match the fervor with which she worships the Gods, considers them. She is not sure that anyone in Solterra can match the intellect with which she questions, examines, and accepts the will of Solis. "Better late than never." She says cooly in her deep velvety voice. "Everyone maintains their faith in their own way. As long as they are followers, all will be well." She smiles, warmer than her previous words. "Should you choose to visit, I have intentions to build a shrine to Solis, near the Court." Golden eyes glance north, seeing past the Teryr in the canyon, to the Court in the distance. It's obvious that she is envisioning the shrine, the temple that she intends to build, plans she has yet to reveal to anyone else.
![[Image: 500_by_memuii-dbfxt60.png]](http://orig02.deviantart.net/75f6/f/2017/192/d/5/500_by_memuii-dbfxt60.png)
