A silent and purposeful journey was the kind Maxence preferred, and while he did opt for the occasional comment about the scenery (like the Teryr's sinking corpse) or how splendidly the recovery of the old day court fort was coming along, he remained for the most part quite hushed in his endeavour to reach the court before sundown was upon them. They both could have easily flown there in no time, though again Maxence much prefered to walk - if he spent all his time flying short distances rather than walking he would surely not be the pinnacle of physical prowess.
Thinking on what Florentine had said upon her exit of the canyon, Maxence finally gave his response. "In regards to Rannveig-" he began, pace slowing in order for his companion to catch up or step beside him. It was wise not to talk so loud in the Day Court where patriot ears hid around every corner. "No, she is not my lady just as I am not your King. She surely is a strong leader, but a strong defender? I do not know. Of course this does not mean I do not respect her. Lions do not tremble at sheep, but they do for other lions. It is this mutual respect that Day and Dusk must foster"
It was as he spoke these words that his hooves took him up the sand swept steps to the courtyard, the fortifications and towers of the Day Court rising around him. Glancing from each wall of the court and he plants that thrived upon it, Maxence then took his sights back to Florentine with his perpetual forwn relaxed for the time being. "Welcome to the Day Court"
@Florentine ! and any from the day court who might like to say hello
He heard the Commanders voice long before the winged man came into view, rolling his long lashed eyes as he lay in the sun within the courtyard, propped up by lush cushions and light silk. Everyone was doing their best to follow Max's work orders - most sweating profusely as they delivered supplies or trained in the hot sun. Lorca was doing no such thing. He was a sage, not a fucking gardener. He watched and he learned, many a supple secret tipping his barbed tongue, those lazy golden eyes subtly taking everything in, storing information within his treasure trove to be pored over later. The forgotten whore, lazing in the sun, un-important, too self-involved to listen. These hard-worn warriors had forgotten the threat of intelligence.
So when Maxence came striding around the corner, regal and powerful, Lorca watched him through cold, calculating eyes. Those same eyes flicked to the girl accompanying him, Florentine. The Dusk Court Emissary. Lorca sat up a little, focused on the flower girl with an intensity that promised violence. She was a pretty thing, a breakable little thing. She did not belong in Solterra - Dusk didn't belong here. They were gentle, weak, not even ruled by a Terrastellan. Lorca snorted then, looking at Maxence. Fucking foreigners.
"Rannveig isn't a lion."
He drawled, gracefully standing with a slight shake of his silken hair. Stepping closer to the pair, Lorca eyed Florentine, unimpressed and dismissive. What was she going to do here, stab him with that pretty little dagger? He almost loosed a serpentine laugh at that - perhaps Solterra's troops came in handy after all.
"She's a fucking wolf. A wolf of winter." Lorca paused, his full lips twisting into an arrogant sneer as he asked Florentine "Isn't that right?"
Maxence was one thing, but a Queen from fucking Veteris? Velorca knew about Veteris, how cruel and strict they were, how manipulative and strategic. Novus was a ripe country, ready to be seized by those who were older, wickeder. Perhaps Rannveig wasn't the only winter wolf making her way across their borders.
Florentine walks beside Maxence; a flower to his lion’s tooth. The sun watches each step they take from where it hangs, large and heavy, in the sky. Hot, hot light dogs their every step casting shadows to stretch languidly ahead of them. The darkness mirrors their walk and pouring across the dusty ground. They dance before the predator king, a nimble thing, sleek and ready for battle.
He talks of lions and Flora’s amethyst gaze flits to the snarling lion that lies upon his spine. Its gaze is empty, and yet as fixed as any predator upon the hunt. Those eyes, glassy, yet savage, follow her every stride as she walks past the Sun king. With canyon dust still lingering upon the feathers of her wings, with her heart still beating from the ire he inspires of it, she lets the tip of a wing smooth over the ancient citadel stone.
It is warm to her touch, heating beneath her wings like skin beneath her fingertips. Up and up she gazes, to reach its highest peak and the sun that frames it - like it once crowned its king upon the canyon.
The Dusk girl is still contemplating the Lion king’s words when a creature, gunmetal grey and gilded in sunlight, slinks towards them. His voice is the first thing to draw her attention. It drawls like a lazy fingertip along the spine, designed to inspire, to arouse. The girl of bruised skies watches him beneath her lashes, her emotions secreted away for this creature was a blade, sharp and beautiful, designed to cut, and he had already set his sights upon her skin.
He directs his question to Florentine, his insult a snake’s bite upon the air. The girl does not flinch, nor even sway when baits her. What was there to deny? Rannveig was the Winter Wolf, forged from ice, relentless and enduring. She was the stranger queen.
“Of course she is.” The twilight girl affirms as she holds this stranger’s gaze. Did he not think to contemplate that dusk was the only thing that could pull the sun from the sky? Her bruise purple eyes drink in the gold of his, consuming, drowning.
“But where the lion rules the hot savanna, the wolves rule the winter lands. Like a lion wolves will work together, to bring down prey so much bigger than they.” There is no mischievous smile upon the Dusk girl’s lips, no shy blush despite the beauty of this land, the warrior and his sleek compatriot. It is unclear when the girl had shed her innocent dress of flowers and frivolous adventures, but here she is, quite suddenly old beyond her years, resplendent in the ornate garb of politics.
Dusk’s Emissary steps slowly from the stone wall of the Solterra keep, her slender legs making an idle walk towards Maxence’ compatriot. “It just depends whether you wish to pit pride against pack and see whose strategy is the most victorious, or, to find alliance with creatures capable of bringing down a creature even bigger than a lion.” From beneath her fringe of wild flowers and snarls of golden hair, she watches him as she passes on toward Velorca’s king.
Her eyes flit to Maxence then, though her words are still for them both. “I believe your king may be hoping for the latter? What we may lack in power or weapons, we more than make up for with collaboration and intelligence. A lion may not tremble before a wolf, but it will before a pack.”
When he heard that voice, Maxence's feet ceased to work. They stopped with a cold crunch in the gravel beneath, his jowls twisting and teeth grinding as the heaviest of sigh's erupted from his nares. 'please, Solis, not now.'
Slowly the lion's head turned to face the silver snake and the voice which he could only compare to a hyenas, and slowly his eyes drew closed as if he couldn't physically bare to view the man any longer. What on earth did he want? Disturbing a meeting with a dusk emissary? What did that gain him?
"Velorca-" The king began, looking to Florentine with little more than an astonished and sorry gaze. It was the that he realised just what the snake had said, and immediately his tone had changed. "You know her?" He asked the silver stag, eyebrows hardening with each second. Velorca knew Rannveig somehow and yet had never though to mention it? The longer he spent in this puzzling man's company the more questions he dug up and the heavier his headache grew.
With a shake of his head and his lofty mane, Maxence then continued his footfalls until he had walked further into the paved courtyard and looked to the emissary as she spoke. Her words sounded laced with poetry and far to intelligent for this simple military man, though the way he had interpreted them they sounded not so different from an idle thread. He did not fear Rannveig, nor the Dusk courts army. The Day Court likely had twice the number of capable warriors and every other in the other ranks could still fight well - even Bexley had struck some astonishing blows against the Teryr. It seemed the flute players greatly underestimated the Solterrans, though Maxence wouldn't chance losing first impressions by ridiculing her. "An alliance would do us both well, Florentine. We have an unstoppable force, as you saw in the canyon, but we do not have the means for healing or feeding them. Perhaps the court of Suns could provide training to your warriors and come to Rannveig's aid when requested in exchange for a monthly share of vital herbs and food"
