[AW] Peace in the Sea of Grass

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

“You’re a soldier?” Marisol can’t quite contain the surprise in her force or the vague raise of her eyebrows. Not based on her appearance—no, the Commander knows better than any that the scrappiest warriors often fight the hardest, the smallest and the slimmest often abide by the least rules. This girl’s bright colors and soft smile mean nothing of her ability, but the muscle that lines her shoulders and her height do; she can see that they would be well-matched in a fight. (And perhaps more importantly that she would fit well into the Halcyon.) “I’m disappointed we haven’t crossed paths yet.”

Some part of her is wracked with guilt. What kind of Commander is she that can’t keep track of her own court’s soldiers? When a war is looming on the horizon, no less? Marisol’s lips press together into a soft line, but if she feels any disappointment at all, her face hides it well. She has plenty of practice steeling herself for the worst, anyway. When Uzuri begins to speak of her ostracization from the rest of Terrastella, Marisol’s expression softens a little, and the hardness of her face turns into a look of warm understanding.

“Some fit in easier than others,” she says, not unkindly. “It took me, too, a… considerable amount of time to fit in completely. Worry not.” Mari smiles then—just barely, a sharp suggestion of a grin—and dances backwards a few strides with an ease and practice that suggests years of such movement. The ground is damp with last night’s rain, but not too slippery; she dips her head and twists her wings out to nearly their full length, meeting Uzuri’s eyes as if in a dare.

“You would do well in the Halcyon.” Her brows raise. “We are simply Terrastella’s air unit—flying soldiers, which I assume you know plenty about.” The humor on her face intensifies, and her smile deepens. Dawn is spreading its rosy fingers all over Terrastella now. Marisol’s haunches wriggle like a cat about to pounce,  and perhaps on the steppe, or in battle, the way her muscles tense would be threatening. But she tosses her spear easily to the side as a show of good will, as a way of taking the teeth of her obvious invitation to spar.

There is a playful gleam in her eyes (terribly unlike her) that shines extra brightly in the day’s new light.

credits