[P] the man in the moon

[Cyrene]

Cyrene

your skin smells like light
I think you are the moon

Seraphina.

A silver streak through a tangle of limbs, white hair like starlight in a sea of bobbing heads.

A crown of white lilies atop her head.

With a soft leap, dark curls flying, Cyrene crossed the glade of trampled grass as fleet footed as a deer. She was certain; her eyes, honed sharp after a life of daring excursions, had never deceived her. Hooves clicked a two-beat rhythm as grass gave way to stone, the path leading to the pavilion an onerous jungle of fabrics and legs and revelry.

Not an issue, not an issue, Cyrene hummed in agitation as she stretched her neck high to scan for a flash of starlight hair. Solterra’s Queen was here, a startling appearance after months of sand dusted correspondence sent by hawk (and dove, in Terrastella’s case), and she was not going to let the chance simply waltz away on silver legs. Not when they’d barely gotten past greetings the last time — the first time — they’d met.

Expelling a soft breath, the Emissary tucked her wings tightly behind her and dove headfirst into the belly of the beast.

There was a performance going on, and from the cheers exploding like fireworks around her, it was going tremendously well. A sliver of curiosity inched into her thumping heart — curiosity had always been her downfall, she supposed — and Cyrene slowed her relentless charge just a tad to spare a quick glance.

And almost laughed in surprise. She now knew why the crowd was almost exclusively female. The musicians, foreign perhaps?, were good looking lads, their marble-hewn cheekbones flashing under the light of the lanterns. With a sly smile, she turned away.

She knew someone prettier than them. Shame he wasn’t here.

The crown of white lilies was moving farther and farther away as she lingered, and with a gasp she twisted her shoulders and slipped like an eel through the last bits of the crowd.

“Seraphina!” She paused for breath when she caught the silver queen at last, a bright grin tugging the corners of her lips skywards. “I knew I hadn’t imagined it.” Crimson wings settled like a downy cloak along her sides as she idly tucked a curl back into her braid.

“The festival has gathered all the kingdoms under one banner, if only for a night — I am glad of it, as transient as it is,” she said, amber gaze flicking idly towards the crowd. And then, like a lantern extinguished, her eyes dimmed as her voice turned solemn. “Have your wounded recovered well?”



-- ♥︎ --
@Seraphina | "speaks" | -wipes sweat off brow- now that I plopped this up, have a much more upbeat cy!

[Seraphina]

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

pulled flowers at my feet
lost in the wind

Seraphina drifts amicably among the crowds, dark and unseen – or so she thinks – as a shadow. Though her mind was scarcely ever at rest, much less when the Davke threatened and her capitol city stood in shambles, she took some comfort in the distant hum of music and the eager ebb and flow of the crowd; life moved forward as it should, here, and it was a comfort to be reminded of it. Under the stagnating heat of Solterra’s sun, the world seemed to have slowed to a stop; the overwhelming warmth and suffocating dryness choked and choked and choked until you couldn’t breathe at all, much less move. (But she was still trying.)

At the sound of gasping breaths behind her, Seraphina turns fractionally, her gaze coming to a rest on a familiar, red form, crowned by roses. Cyrene. She’d known that Dusk’s Regime was in attendance, – she’d already encountered Asterion, after all – but it is still a surprise to see the girl, who is a vaguely familiar figure at best. They hadn’t exactly had much time to speak when last they’d met. However, Seraphina was thankful for the assistance that Dusk had provided after the attack, and she was sure that, as the head of foreign policy, the Emissary was to blame for that. “Hello, Cyrene,” She greets softly, dipping her head. Cyrene speaks brightly of the rare quiet that this night provides, with a smile enough to outshine the stars, and Seraphina agrees. “It is a comfort to see our peoples at such peace – it is a rare thing, in my experience.” She is unfortunately cynical compared to the rose-colored girl in front of her, she knows, although Cyrene looks older than she. However, in spite of the darker edge to her words, Seraphina agrees wholeheartedly with her comment; she was, after all, an Emissary long before she became Sovereign, and she remembers the trials of a diplomat quite well. It was no easy task, in a land with such an old and war-torn history, and any moments of levity and cooperation were a blessing.

Cyrene asks after her wounded, and she lets out a soft sigh, turning her gaze out to the crowd without really looking at it – what she sees is infinitely further away, in a desert that she has left behind temporarily for a crown of lilies and the sweet sound of music and dancing, the murmur of a crowd that does not know the pain of a city besieged. “They are…recovering, but there are…many bodies to burn. We have begun to rebuild.” They are making progress, but it seems horribly slow; of course, that is the unknown, the anticipation. She does not know what the Davke have planned, but she does know that it is not over yet, and she has a ruined city to protect. Seraphina doesn’t linger on the topic, however. “How have you been settling into your duties as Emissary? I know that it is quite an adjustment.” And doesn’t she – she suspects that Cyrene is having an easier time than she did, however. She seems far better-suited to the role.



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tags | @Cyrene
notes | sorry for the wait <3

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