"I have half of one written already." A wry smile glanced upon Senna's lips when the Commander considered—and did not decline—his offer.
To be sure, he hadn't expected her to accept the proposal with his standard degree of confidence (split neatly between odds of 70 to 30—any more, and that teetered into arrogance; any less, incompetence). But consideration was all he asked for.
He did not bother thinking any deeper about the reasons behind Marisol's decision. A starving man had no right to be picky, he thought darkly, and Solterra had long passed the point of starving.
Instead, he followed behind her as she crossed the lamplit square and began navigating towards what he presumed to be the barracks with a confidence he had never been able to cultivate in his own court. (But perhaps he had never tried.) Lanterns hanging from distant balconies shone through the starry night like the fields of the Steppe in midspring, rife with the glow of lightning bugs.
Everywhere he looked were signs of a court bursting with life. Mothers shouted out doors to call their children to supper. Nightingales crooned from trees laden with glistening purple fruit. Window boxes burst with flowers of every color, their heady scent infusing the air with a soft perfume.
He tore his gaze away from the lights as he listened to the Commander's terms.
"I never take people at their words, so I will not ask the same of you," he began, lengthening his stride to walk quietly besides her. "But I have not maintained a position in the Solterran court through a career of backstabbing, unlike... some of the other lords," he said, repressing a grimace as he thought back to a particularly bloody attempt at a coup launched during the tumultuous months after Zolin's demise. How many good soldiers he, as well as the head of Azhade, had lost quelling it. He had been forced to disband the Hajakha's private army after the ones remaining abandoned their loyalty in a heap at his hooves.
"Treachery is a lazy, unstable method. I understand your obligations to Terrastella, Commander, and I have no intentions on breaking it. Truly," he clipped, glancing up towards the ever watching moon as their hooves tapped a four tempo beat on the cobblestones. "I wish I never have to make use of your troops."
His gaze caught upon the rose stained windows of the citadel as they passed, and darkness flickered across his shadowed face. Is this what Solterra could have looked like, he wondered, if they had trodden down another path?
His gaze hardened beneath the canopy of stars. Sentiment. And here I'd thought myself immune to it. Solterra's path had been scoured deep into the earth decades, centuries, before he had ever set foot upon its golden sands. His fate was not to challenge it.
It was to see it through, to the bitter end. He owed Sol—and Zofia—that much.
They paused at the foot of an entryway leading up to a row of curtained windows. The barracks. At once, looking into the lamplit windows, Senna was reminded of his room back in Scarab. Stationed in the twisting halls of the "little palace", scathingly dubbed to a shoddily constructed row of shingled roofs lashed to a foundation of varnished wood. The only sign of royalty it bore was to be found in the blood of its inhabitants.
The king's discarded princes, provisioned with one servant each and a visit to the inner court once a moon to attend the Lunar Revelry, or whenever summoned. He had never been summoned.
Clenching his jaw, he sealed the memory back into its iron shackled vault. The Terrastellan air was turning his mind to clay.
"I shall send Kite to deliver the contract tomorrow morning." Arranging his features into somewhat of a smile, Senna turned to the young Commander and bowed. A deep, princely bow.
"I shall enjoy this hunt. If you ever journey to Solterra, send a hawk ahead of you and I will extend to you the same hospitality you have shown me."
To be sure, he hadn't expected her to accept the proposal with his standard degree of confidence (split neatly between odds of 70 to 30—any more, and that teetered into arrogance; any less, incompetence). But consideration was all he asked for.
He did not bother thinking any deeper about the reasons behind Marisol's decision. A starving man had no right to be picky, he thought darkly, and Solterra had long passed the point of starving.
Instead, he followed behind her as she crossed the lamplit square and began navigating towards what he presumed to be the barracks with a confidence he had never been able to cultivate in his own court. (But perhaps he had never tried.) Lanterns hanging from distant balconies shone through the starry night like the fields of the Steppe in midspring, rife with the glow of lightning bugs.
Everywhere he looked were signs of a court bursting with life. Mothers shouted out doors to call their children to supper. Nightingales crooned from trees laden with glistening purple fruit. Window boxes burst with flowers of every color, their heady scent infusing the air with a soft perfume.
He tore his gaze away from the lights as he listened to the Commander's terms.
"I never take people at their words, so I will not ask the same of you," he began, lengthening his stride to walk quietly besides her. "But I have not maintained a position in the Solterran court through a career of backstabbing, unlike... some of the other lords," he said, repressing a grimace as he thought back to a particularly bloody attempt at a coup launched during the tumultuous months after Zolin's demise. How many good soldiers he, as well as the head of Azhade, had lost quelling it. He had been forced to disband the Hajakha's private army after the ones remaining abandoned their loyalty in a heap at his hooves.
"Treachery is a lazy, unstable method. I understand your obligations to Terrastella, Commander, and I have no intentions on breaking it. Truly," he clipped, glancing up towards the ever watching moon as their hooves tapped a four tempo beat on the cobblestones. "I wish I never have to make use of your troops."
His gaze caught upon the rose stained windows of the citadel as they passed, and darkness flickered across his shadowed face. Is this what Solterra could have looked like, he wondered, if they had trodden down another path?
His gaze hardened beneath the canopy of stars. Sentiment. And here I'd thought myself immune to it. Solterra's path had been scoured deep into the earth decades, centuries, before he had ever set foot upon its golden sands. His fate was not to challenge it.
It was to see it through, to the bitter end. He owed Sol—and Zofia—that much.
They paused at the foot of an entryway leading up to a row of curtained windows. The barracks. At once, looking into the lamplit windows, Senna was reminded of his room back in Scarab. Stationed in the twisting halls of the "little palace", scathingly dubbed to a shoddily constructed row of shingled roofs lashed to a foundation of varnished wood. The only sign of royalty it bore was to be found in the blood of its inhabitants.
The king's discarded princes, provisioned with one servant each and a visit to the inner court once a moon to attend the Lunar Revelry, or whenever summoned. He had never been summoned.
Clenching his jaw, he sealed the memory back into its iron shackled vault. The Terrastellan air was turning his mind to clay.
"I shall send Kite to deliver the contract tomorrow morning." Arranging his features into somewhat of a smile, Senna turned to the young Commander and bowed. A deep, princely bow.
"I shall enjoy this hunt. If you ever journey to Solterra, send a hawk ahead of you and I will extend to you the same hospitality you have shown me."
@Marisol | "senna" nestor | notes: so sorry for the delay <3 thought it fitting to end this thread here, but I demand more between them in the future!
