[AW] child of dawn, born in the dark

[Savera]

let me kiss you in the pouring rain Another step down another road, leading, languid, to another land. It is a path well traveled, the trail oft trod, and the ghostlike girl who graces it today little more than another creature, another stranger on another journey, aimless and arrogant in her sense of self-importance. The court does not still at her entrance, the light does not change; nobody seems particularly perturbed by the granddaughter of the moon, who flutters and floats across frosty stone. Why should we care? the walls that stand sentinel seem to whisper, their ancient stone silent as she passes by, unimpressed and underwhelmed by the strange girl, her youth, her ivory and spun silk mane. We have seen prettier, cleverer, bolder - why should we shudder and still for you? Ancient and indifferent, the court cannot care for every mortal to pass beneath its arches. And thus another set of walls does not welcome her, another cloudy sky does not part to illuminate her. Savera prefers it this way. To the walls she is but another child; to the girl it is but another stone. It is not the first path, nor the last, to pass beneath the girl's feet, and though she steps with purposeful ease, her hooves leave little imprint on the indifferent ground. It is her third winter, and her fourth new land - born in one kingdom, raised in another, cast out into a third, the girl is eager to learn as much and leave as little as possible within this, Novus, the transient's latest conquest on her quest to understand the world. The world is not Savera's home - the morning star sees herself as a tourist of sorts, a refugee cast out of her home in the skies, left now to roam until the inevitability of death. She treats it as one may treat a book, studying and following the preordained course, keen to find the clues and meet the characters without altering the course ordained by authors grander than she.  Quiet, curious, the girl carries on, wings pulled tight around her narrow chest, breath blooming in clouds of displaced frost, hazel eyes wide as she peers into the flickering shadows, the sea of strangers that populates this palace yet leaves her feeling utterly alone. She is dulled by the dim light, her coat a cold steel; she is a thief, a shade, a casual observer, comfortable keeping her distance wile watching widely, entranced and afraid by the dancing figures, the baubles and bling. From stall to stall the girl wanders, never stopping long enough for chatter, always just far enough to eavesdrop, to spy. Soon, she knows, if she wishes to stay here she will have to emerge, but for now she is content to watch and wait, settling back into a quiet nook, thoughtful, patient, and unafraid. Will another stranger greet here, another invitation for shelter extended? Will she find herself in another hostel, surrounded by another herd? It is her third winter, and she has learned by now that it is an unpleasant time to spend wandering. Soon there will be another summer, and Savera will find herself on another road- -but for now she will winter in this lively, dark place, silently soaking in the secrets it offers, waiting for welcome and learning all she can.  cause you and I, we were born to die

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idk what i'm doing, please be patient with me x3

[Lothaire]

CHILD OF THE COSMOS AND RULER OF THE SKIES

 
Winter was a most torpid affliction to a serpent such as the Night Court emissary, and yet despite this brazen fact Lothaire did not abstain from admiring the white savage beauty all around him. In the ice and the bitterness he found there was something bewitching to be acknowledged; how could a season claim so much life? Stealing it away with freezing tapered fingers to bury it beneath six feet of earth turned to stone. The world was brought to a standstill at her command, as though hanging on her last word, waiting for her to relinquish that ruthless grip to Spring at last. As he stood idle against the stone wall of Denocte's keep, overseeing the bustling twilight market, Lothaire recalled a particular night during his first winter with disconcerting clarity, one forever etched onto the awnings raised in his hallowed head. For among the seclusion and long dim days there had been moments of respite - he could still resurrect that memory of his grandfather's hunched silhouette against the fireplace, the woodsmoke permeating the skin of both boy and man, seeping into their lungs and their blood - but, in the brief absence of his mother, there had been silent peace in that little room, in that little house. Their existence was meagre, but somehow beside those hot crackling embers a sense of modest contentment prevailed. 

His life was, now, countless worlds away from that little house; now he walked the lavish halls of a castle - watching the constellations not from a bed with damp broken slats but from high in the east wing of the emissary's chamber. Often Lothaire caught himself glancing in the looming panes of glass hung throughout the citadel, and wondered just who he had become? That dark-eyed voiceless child turned politician, delegate, for a kingdom he had known for what seemed like a mere fraction of eternity. There was a time when he had wished, quite simply, to become a part of the night sky - another star to decorate the perpetual, amaranthine black. What now?

The sound of laughter and music jolted the winged man into the present once more, clearing his throat as he turned languidly toward the sound. A lightless gaze surveyed the jovial scene and despite his stirring apathy, Lothaire could not deny the fascination he held for the court's ancient culture and tradition. It seemed, however, that he was not the only spectator tonight - for his cold eye cinched to the face of a girl he did not recognise. She was made from a kiss of gold and cream, with glittering eyes and a pair of wings set high upon her fine shoulders, and she moved with a sense of purpose that pricked his muted interest. Had Lothaire been a mere commoner of the court he would have been more than content to simply observe this smooth she-wolf, but, alas, he supposed it was about time he enacted the very duties he had promised the King he would uphold. Silently he drifted towards her, his face a wide formless mask of aloof detachment before coming to a halt. With a slight upward tilt of his head Lothaire announced his presence, and he took a moment to search for words of greeting only to find the empty vacuum of nothing; so, instead, he stared and he waited indifferently - for her to speak, or leave; he did not care which. 

@savera rushed ending sos and ye he's weird c; !