[P] [festival] cherry wine

[Seraphina]

FROM THE GODS WHO SIT IN GRANDEUR
grace is somehow violent

--

Soft golden light dappled the mare’s coat as she wove through the flocks of festival-goers, a solitary shape among the masses; the air was so thick with spices that she felt she could drown in the cinnamon and ginger, and the heat was enough to make her head spin. Around her, the sounds of voices and music had dulled to a low hum. She swayed gently to the mingled melodies of festivity, twisting to the heartbeat of the crowd until she finally emerged free of it, slipping away to a grove of trees that bordered the grounds. Fireflies bobbed among the branches, little flickers of light that faded away into the night sky – they caught her eye for a long moment, little specks of life foreign to desert sands. She lingered in the shadows, then, soaking up the quiet and the dark. She had always felt more comfortable in the light than in Caligo’s darkness, but, for the moment, she found the inky blackness a comfort. It was quieter here, secluded from the bustle of the festivities, and, for a moment, she felt at peace; diplomacy and the distant clouds of warfare were far from her mind. (She’d always found Delumine tranquil, soft - Solterra was harsh and worn, unaccustomed to luster and comfort. She wouldn’t be so quick to judge its people for what they had as her contemporaries, however; knowledge and peace, so prized by the residents of the Dawn Court, could become their own menaces with enough time.) The night had dragged on much in that same haze, bleary and distinct from the reality she was so accustomed to – she felt like she was wandering outside of time, outside of her own skin, outside. There was something freeing, she realized, about being outside. Here, she was just another body drifting among a sea of others, lost in the flow.

She’d never liked parties, but maybe there was some virtue in being faceless for a little while.

Her ghostly white hair tumbled down her sides in loose waves, freed of its tight braids; she was softer, perhaps, not caked in a layer of sweat and sand, not rigid and stiff, prepared for disaster – because, in these careful, quiet moments, disaster seemed very far away. (She was alert, of course. Seraphina was never *quite* relaxed, and she remained almost hyperaware of the world around her even in this gentle lull.) She lingered among the trees, gaze turned towards the flickering silhouettes of passerby; her ears pricked forward to catch the lilting melodies of bards and musicians, and she had to resist the urge to hum along to the tune. She told herself that she didn’t know it anyways - the only songs that she’d ever learned were from Viceroy, foreign melodies that she couldn’t understand because she’d always been too scared to ask for translations. (From time to time, her native tongue felt wrong to her; like her name, whatever it was before Seraphina, she felt like he had not-quite ripped it out of her mouth. He’d found his conscience just before he’d torn it out completely. “Seraphina,” She could still hear him whisper at the back of her mind, “It means the same thing...almost.”)

As her eyes skimmed the darkness, she found them lingering on a familiar, inky shape at the edge of the crowds; she’d almost missed him in the black, the long tangles of his hair and the vicious curve of his antlers. One of Caligo’s children, draped in all the night’s shadows - Vasher. She hesitated a moment, considering her movements - relationships between Denocte and Solterra were tense, so perhaps...perhaps it would be to her advantage to appear friendly. With that in mind, she parted the crowds, whisking to approach the man. A ghost of a smile, only somewhat pleasant and not particularly warm - but certainly businesslike - curled across her charcoal lips. “Well,” She murmured, “fancy meeting you here. Is Denocte treating you well?” Her tone was cordially flat, but she couldn’t help but feel a prick of renewed injury at the memory of their last encounter.

She pushed it aside.

@

@Ammon - <3

[Ammon]

I AM THE KING OF LIES

   He had not come to dance, nor to drown his sorrows in the wine that flowed like water. He did not kick up his heels and engage in the sublime courtly dances, did not mingle with the laughing crowd, did not share in the bountiful delicacies and drinks that were displayed extravagantly. Like a shadow he clung to the outskirts, to the dark, moving unseen and unheard among the din of loud voices and distracted eyes. He was in his element, in the perfect position to absorb knowledge as his keen ears attuned themselves to the various speeches, picking out choice tidbits to file away. He was in his element...

   And he had no reason to be.

   He could be among the throng, sharing in their revelry and laughter without consequence, for he did not need to slink like a hellish specter on the edge of society. He did not need to glean information from gossip. He did so because it was familiar, because otherwise he would remain in Denocte haunting the Night Court keep. This purposelessness, this aimlessness... he was adrift in a sea of helplessness and he knew not how to recover. The Sovereign whom had taken the raven in had done nothing to set him on his wings, had not recognized that the rook needed orders and guidance, an arrow in the quiver that was forgotten. It chafed and infuriated him, the lack of action. So he struck out for the fesitval in Dawn, unsure of whether or not he would return to the roost or seek his shadowed wings rest elsewhere.

   He was not, however, left to his own devices long when he began to slink about the festivities. His ghoulish eyes caught sight of a familiar Emissary in almost the same heartbeat her own locked onto him, and for a brief moment there was a shared look of recognition before she began to make her way over. He turned away, slipping deeper into the night, into the shadows, until the music of the festival was a faint melody in the night air, almost wholly drowned out by the cricket-song and nightjar calls.

   Ammon turned to face Seraphina, the pair draped in nothing but starlight and moonbeams, and the curling, buisness-like smile on her face was shadowed by a fainter, polite curl of his own lips. Her words pierce the silence, faintly edged for all it's flatness, and for a long moment he mulled over his answer. "Mine treatment wouldst depend on what thine definition of 'well' pertains." To a normal equine, was he being treated well? Yes. He was given sanctuary, a place to lay his head, warmth and food and drink all in safety and comfort. But for the raven and his needs? No... no, Denocte, for a land of spies and thieves and shadows, was not giving the raven what he needed. What he desired. "I take it thou art here on behalf of thine Sovereign? Or, mayhap, art thou here for thine own entertainment, thine own purpose?" He recalled her offer all too well, her insistence in pursuing him even after taking serious injury, all to try and sway him to her cause.

   It amused him.

@Seraphina

[Seraphina]

FROM THE GODS WHO SIT IN GRANDEUR
grace is somehow violent

--

As soon as she made to approach him, he was gone, a wisp of ebony folding in upon itself; not especially discouraged by this development, she followed him away from the festivities, darting over gnarled roots and twining around trees with the grace of a creature that was not quite in her element. (The forests of Delumine were quite different than the vast expanses of the Mors – everything felt different to her, even the way the ground stood so stable and harsh beneath her hooves.) She followed him until, in the distance, she could only just make out the low hum of merrymaking, the flush of golden light; but with each step she had taken, she fell further away from the atmosphere of it, descending into the shadows like the sun to the horizon at the day’s end. Cinnamon and sandalwood still cling to the inside of her lungs in a persistent – but not unpleasant - warmth, even as the crisp night air began to banish the scents of the festival. As the Dawn Court was stripped away from her, the forest arose to take its place - fireflies and starlight to illuminate her path and the lulling whispers of birdsong to replace the melodies. In truth, it didn’t take her long to catch up with him, her odd eyes trailing up his frame to find the unnerving, ghostly white of his own, but, in the forest, things seemed to disappear more quickly than they did on the sands. (She lingered close enough to him to notice how the moonlight caught on the threads of gold marbled along his antlers; desaturated as they were in the soft silver light, they still gleamed like precious stones. She caught that ghost of a smile, too, even if there was no warmth to it – all courtesy, like her own.)

Charcoal ears twitched upright to catch his words – his tone implied apathy, but she thought that she sensed a hint of a bite to it. When combined with his words, Seraphina found herself reasonably sure that, whatever Vasher sought, he had not found it in Denocte. (Though perhaps that was just what she wanted to hear.) She considered her words for only a fraction of a second before, with the slightest incline of her skull, she found herself asking, “And just what is your standard of well, then?” If he was discontent among Caligo’s children, perhaps he hadn’t slipped out of her grasp yet.

At his next question, a hint of something like a shade of amusement momentarily flickered across her features. “Maxence? Hardly.” As far as she knew, her sovereign was not even aware of her brief engagement with Vasher. She knew that it would do little good for her attempts to decrease tension between the nation to admit that her injuries, temporary (and consented to) as they were, had been given to her by anyone who intended to align his lot with Denocte. ”I’m here of my own accord – call it persistence. I still haven’t given up on convincing you to come to Solterra.” Seraphina was not entirely sure why she was so invested in this particular stallion, so intent on bringing him to the Day Court. He was useful, of course, and their battle had left her with the impression that there was considerably more to him than he might like to be believed. Perhaps that was it; she had the distinct feeling that there was quite a bit of him to unravel, and, in a way, that intrigued her.

@

@Ammon - <3

[Ammon]

I AM THE KING OF LIES

 Those haunting eyes crinkled in faint amusement, his head inclining at her cleverness in piercing through his words. "Alive." He answered, though after a pause he truly answered her question. "Mine standard of well is not what Denocte seems to offer." He spoke honestly, without pause. He knew what she wanted, she knew that he knew. There was little need in dancing around, or so he believed. At her words, he chuckled low, shaking his head. "Thou art the epitome of persistence, what man might resist thine determination?" He moved towards her, ears flicking back. "Although, one might question thine reason for such insistence."

   He eyed her for a long, silent moment, sizing her up silently in his mind. Aside from the spar and their meeting thereafter, she knew nothing of him. Knew not what he was, what he wanted, what he was bred and designed for. Yet... so too did the Night King not take advantage of that knowledge, and it left Ammon in quite the conundrum. His eyes regarded her, dressed in moonlight and gleaming with possibility. "Yet thou hath still, for all thine determination, offered me naught for mine loyalty." He mulled over a thought, an idea, and amusement flickered through him as he moved into an elegant court bow. "Dance with me, and I shalt consider thine proposal... provided thou know how to dance, that is."

   He was curious to see what lengths the silver mare would go through to recruit him, whether the fierce warrior could move with even better grace outside of battle.

@Seraphina - so sorry this sucks ;;

[Seraphina]

FROM THE GODS WHO SIT IN GRANDEUR
grace is somehow violent

--

She was unable to hide a hint of satisfaction that flickered to life in her gaze at his response to her query. Despite the affirmation, however, he had not quite given her the answer she was hoping for, so she ventured to press him further. How was she to convince him that Solterra would offer him what he sought if she didn’t know what it was? “I’m not sure that’s an answer,” Her voice was smooth, her tone not quite a question; she left it open, but prying, making no efforts to disguise her curiosity.  At his next comment, Seraphina offered an amused – or bemused - snort, eyeing him. What man might resist her determination? Her response was dry. “You tell me.” As a man who was resisting her determination, clearly he was more qualified to answer that question than her. When he spoke again, she inclined her head, ears twitching forward. “Are you questioning the reasons for my persistence?” Seraphina wasn’t inclined to just offer her rationale up, particularly considering how foreign it remained to her, but she supposed that she might be more persuasive if she explained herself. (How would she explain it, though? Pragmatism? Curiosity? A bit of both? She wasn’t sure what that meant, either.)

She replied to what he said next almost immediately. “You have yet to tell me what you desire.” If she knew anything about diplomacy, and she was starting to, it was that, in order to make an effective proposal, one had to know what their opposition desired. He remained enigmatic, and, for all her perceptiveness, Seraphina couldn’t find it within herself to untangle what it was he desired from their (admittedly scarce) interactions. His words, then, caught her off guard, and, for fraction of a second, she did little more than stare at him. After her surprise faded, quickly shoved down below her persistent mask of apathy again, she managed, “That’s…” In the distance, she could still make out the low hum of music from the festival. A moment of consideration, quickly dismissed – she had been raised in the upper echelons of Solterran society, in a sense. Of course she knew how to dance, though it had been a while since she’d actually had a partner. If that was what it took to for him to consider her offer, so be it. “…an interesting proposal, though one might question the reason why it is your request.” With that, she took a step closer to him, just brushing against his side. The physical contact – so rare for the mare, outside of battle, as to be foreign – left her skin prickling, as though she had been burned.  “Shall we?”  

@

@Ammon - <3

[Ammon]

I AM THE KING OF LIES

   Perhaps it was her skill as a warrior that had first drew his attention. Perhaps it was her hair, ribbon of moonlight in the night(he was still a man, after all), or perhaps it was the wit which with she danced with him. Words with words behind them, sounds with meanings unspoken, the lifeblood and air the raven lived and breathed. She was, admittedly, clumsier than he, but she showed a cleverness that held promise, that held more than his brief conversation with Reichenbach had bore and what was more... she showed him interest. She had pursued him with tenacity, persisted in attempts to weedle him from Denocte, had shown him glimpses of something he hungered for even if she knew not that she had shown him. He knew not what had possessed him to offer a dance in turn for his ear, perhaps it was his neglect or perhaps it was his own insatiable curiosity, but he was as surprising as it was, a man of his word. "I would'st be a fool to nary question thine determination, just as thou doth not question mine evasion." If she knew why he skirted her, it would both give her hope and despair in equal measure, for he held no love nor loyalty now to Denocte... but neither did he wish to see himself under the yoke of another ruler who would claim to use him well.

   The raven had seen his wings torn asunder by a sovereign, had seen another hoist them on a shelf and leave them to dust, and had become wary of this mare who would see him oath-bound to another sovereign who he knew naught of. Experience warred with desire, memory with hunger, mind with heart as she stepped closer to him, her side brushing his in such a faint caress that, in combination with her words, almost wholly disarmed the black stag as he barked out what was, to him, a loud laugh(in truth it was more a soft breath of laughter). "Fool be he who doth not hold nary a question and whom think the world holds naught for intrigue." He quoted softly, straightening fluidly from his bow even as the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement he earnestly felt. "Art thou certain thine leg can withstand such vigor?" He hummed low, just loud enough for her ears to catch even as his own picked up the faint trails of music wafting through the trees.

   The tune was unfamiliar, words sung of a land foreign to him in a tongue nearly estranged from his own, but the sway of the drums and ringing of the guitar was timeless, and sharp was his mine. Slowly he moved on light feet, his gaze leaving hers to regard her body as a whole, to match his movements to her and allow her to lead their dance, a silent test and quirked brow of question all she received from him as guidance.

@Seraphina

[Seraphina]

FROM THE GODS WHO SIT IN GRANDEUR
grace is somehow violent

--

A noncommittal hum of response to his words, trailed by a hint of a smile at the faintest expression of amusement on his features; if he planned to be evasive with his desires, with what he truly wanted in exchange for his loyalty, – because she was sure that a simple dance would not suffice – then Seraphina would reply with ambiguity in kind, at least until she knew he was willing to consider her proposition. For now, she supposed, she had to dance. (How long had it been since she’d last done so, much less with a partner? Months? A year? She pushed those thoughts aside – dance was simply another kind of battle, another exercise in grace and motion and attentiveness, and Seraphina was nothing if not perceptive. Even now, strangely relaxed, she watched his every motion, familiarizing herself with the way he moved. She would need to know, lest this dance be an embarrassingly clumsy affair.)

“I’m here, am I not?” She fixed him with a long, even stare. If she had made the trek from the deserts of Solterra to the fields of Delumine, she could certainly handle a short dance. With that, she brushed up against his side, inviting him to follow her movements.

She felt the song like the thrumming of her own blood, twisting and writhing within her veins like fire, like some ancestral memory; it felt like her homelands, stung like sand and grit and heat in her mouth. (And then it was the vast, endless sprawl of green that was Delumine, the roar of the oceans as they beat against the cliffs of Terrastella, rampant and untamed, the clear surface of the massive lake in Denocte, like a vast mirror to reflect the sky.) In its beat, she heard the clap of hooves against worn paths, songs sung by untrained tongues as they struggled for morale and purpose in the march towards a war that meant nothing – and, for a moment, she heard the foreign whispers of Viceroy, the sweet arias of her mother, little more than a haze of memories, like smoke after a flame, anymore. This song was not Solterran, but the combination of its parts somehow still rung familiar in her frame. She moved as freely as the wind on the sands, steps fluid and light to the slow, lilting beat, snakelike; her frame, usually only so unrestrained and graceful on the battlefield, swayed in time with the music. She led him forward without a hint of hesitation, and, were it not for the persistent heat transferred between their frames with each motion, she might have forgotten that he was there at all.

(Perhaps, she considered, for a breath, that his presence simply felt natural at her side, strangely natural. This was immediately dismissed – he was a good dancer, and nothing more. She would not have expected less of a warrior.)

As the music slowed to a halt, she slowed with it, until finally she stood motionless; her odd eyes, fire and ice, came to rest on his own. “Will that suffice?” Perhaps now he would lend her his ear.

(Diplomacy, she decided, was a strange affair.)

@

@Ammon - <3