Other than the island (which she doesn’t count, as it still feels like nothing so much as a collective fever-dream the whole of Novus shares) Elif has never seen anything so green.
From above, below the clouds but above the trees, the fields unroll like an emerald map, a stream like a blue thread winding through. But from the ground - oh! It is a wealth of color, almost too much to look at, a candy so sweet it hurts. Giant swallowtails drift past, more graceful on the breeze than she could ever hope to be, and she follows them as long as she can, rapt and wondrous at the bright yellow, the heartbreak blue, the black lines barring each. She has never seen a butterfly before.
Elif wants to linger, wants to roll in the long and waving grass and then graze until her slat-ribs are sleek and round and her hunger is a bad memory. If only, she thinks, all the people of Solterra could come here -
but that is why she came. There were rumors of an object, something powerful, something that would lend strength to the finder. And Elif needs strength. Her appeal to Raum had done nothing - she has failed to find others to form a resistance - and no one, she has decided, was coming to save them.
So she will try whatever she must. Even rumors in strange lands.
The thought sobers her, turning her attention from the beauty and richness of Terrastella. Now she scans the field as a hawk might, looking for a prey she doesn’t know - but the group of horses at the bottom of a gentle slope seems a good start.
Tucking her wings along her sides, shaking her narrow head like ridding herself of nerves is as easy as dissuading flies, she steps toward them.
Rats are scavengers. They have a keen sense of smell, and hundreds of generations worth of practice squeezing in places they’re not supposed to be. On top of that they have an inbred penchant for sifting through what’s valuable and what’s not—there’s a reason bakery walls need more strongholds than those of a florist.
Prudence is valuable. Beyond valuable. And the Commander’s disgust alone is not nearly enough to drive away the rats that come slinking into Terrastella with its name on their lips. Droves of them, and not all strangers. (She thinks of Senna and her lip curls a little.) Every day more of them come in, from all corners of Novus, and every day Mari’s teeth are set a little more on edge by the knowledge that she and her cadets are not the only ones on the hunt.
But it won’t matter. As long as the Halcyon find it first.
A small group of them are patrolling Susurro. It’s beautiful today, especially beautiful under the warm glint of the sun and the slow spring breeze that ruffles the sea of grass. Butterflies flap their lace wings overhead. Marisol wishes she could relax, wishes she could soak it in, but now is not the time (is it ever?). All the cadet’s noses are to the ground, their ears swiveling, eyes watchful: she counts herself among them, stalking in circles around torn-up graves, scattered headstones and stacks of clues and maps.
Everyone is on high alert, which is why she notices the stranger so instantaneously.
The girl is still yards away when Mari hears her. She snaps her head over her shoulder and turns—the cadet’s eyes flicker up to watch the disruption, but she dismisses them from participating with a nod and steps forward, alone, to greet her. Scrawny and smelling of sand. The Commander’s gaze is somewhere between cold and enticing. Rat.
By her Hand, she says instead, with the mildness of a criminal or a politician. Do you need something?
i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls
The Fields were full, the Halcyon’s sweeping its every inch. They scoured around headstones and tombs. They picked over weeds and grasses grown into tangles to hide the earth beneath. There is no part of the grassland they were not surveying. For a moment Florentine stands upon the treeline, surprised, merely watching. She wasn’t expecting Susurro to be so busy. When she awoke that morning, haggard and exhausted, she fed the children and then, by a quiet stroke of genius whispered lightly, “Daddy’s waiting for you in the bedroom, he has lots of fun plans for you today. Go find out!” And as the twins burst into the room where Lysander still slept, Florentine fled.
Susurro had been her destination, some quiet downtime her goal – yet.. the Halcyon Unit was out in force. The flower girl huffs softly, eyes watching the teeming meadow with burgeoning disappointment. Yet, her love, her connection with Terrastella and its people ran deep. It pressed itself into her soul as the crown was first pressed upon her head. She could not leave until she knew the cause of their urgency and anxiety.
She slips from the treeline, stepping out into the spring sun’s glow. Marisol stands bright and brilliant at its heart, a girl beside her, slim and lithe. Slowly Florentine approaches, she is nothing like them. These two are honed for fighting, for survival. Whilst Florentine has survive many things, only the dagger at her breast is any sign that she is sharper than the abundant flowers that grow, tangled in her mane.
One girl smells of dust and labour, the other sky and order and the last lavender and baby milk. Florentine knew who the less glamorous girl was and it was neither of the other two. Slowly she smiles, tiredness slipping away from the shadows of her face as she greets Marisol and the stranger. “I need more sleep.” Florentine chirps, knowing full well the question was not directed at her. The unease stirs in her belly yet she smiles on, “I was planning a snooze under that tree.” A wing extends, pointing to a particularly large gathering of Halycon Pilots, “Yet,” her nose crinkles, “I don’t think I am going to get it.” For a moment she peers longingly at her favourite tree before returning her gaze to the two.
Her humour slips from her like a veil pulled free in an unsettled wind. “Commander Marisol,” Her skull dips, honouring the soldier, “May I ask what is happening – is there anything we need to be concerned about?”
Switching her gaze briefly to the stranger Florentine smiles, “I am Flora by the way. Are you from Solterra?” Her eyes trail over the dust that clings to the girl’s coat and the smell of a scorching sun that she recognizes upon any Solterran.
@Marisol @Elif - I don't even know what this post is.
he had prepared to meet them, thought about what she might say. My name is Elif and my country needs help. Or Please, whatever it is, I’ll return it when I’m done and Raum is dead and things are as they were. Or even What is this, exactly, so I know I’m not wasting my time?
But Elif has never been good at acting how she ought, and so as soon as the woman turns toward her with her eyes flashing steel and her mouth curled like something smells terrible (which it doesn’t, everything is lovely here, smelling of rich black dirt and salt-sea and wildflowers) all her intentions fall out of her head.
Her spine goes straight, her dark ears flick uncertainly, and her neck arches like a marble statue of a girl. Elif wishes her green eyes were a fiercer color, something that flashed with heat. “By His light,” she returns, less mildly (oh, she has never been able to manage her tongue). Before she can decide how to answer the mare’s question - or decide what her tone means - they are joined by another, and the bay is a little relieved and a little irritated and a little intrigued. First there is the dagger, bright silver around her golden neck; but then there are the curls (a bit frazzled, not that Elif was one to judge with her woefully abbreviated hair) and the flowers that tumbled like a bower along her neck.
Somehow, with words alone, she manages to soften the situation (or at least Elif’s perspective of it). The droning of the bees becomes more musical, the sunshine less glaring, the mass of military pegasus (oh, what use they could be to Solterra!) less menacing.
Still she says nothing, suddenly shy and entirely out of her element. When the golden mare names the other, Elif’s green eyes turn to her with new and sharp interest. She has never before met a Commander of anything; she tries to be subtle, now, as she runs her gaze over the dark woman. She’s as interested in an answer to the flower-girl’s question as the asker herself - enough that it startles her to be addressed.
Curling her muzzle toward her chest, Elif shuffles her wings and shifts her gaze to Flora. Both of them are much taller than her; she tells herself but I am faster and hopes it is true.
“I am.” A beat; how much to say, how much to plead? “My name is Elif. I heard there was…something powerful gone missing here, something for battle. I thought if I could find it - ” As she searches for words, she takes in the field of soldiers, combing the grasses and the sky, all the holes dug in good soil. It seems ridiculous to think she might be the one to do anything, but she squares her shoulders and grits her teeth and turns her gaze back to both of them. “If I find it I could help Solterra.”
By His light, the girl says, and oh, Marisol smiles.
Even on her, whose face is not meant for such pretty things, it cannot be mistaken for anything but pure, pleased approval. She lets out a little huff of a breath. Feathers flicker and shift over her wings. Her eyes shine bright, her lips curl up: she finds it hard to talk around the weight of the thing, strange as it feels against her mouth, but somehow she manages. “You are unusual,” she says, “For someone from here, at least, in speaking of your god so quickly. I admire it.”
Obviously.
Marisol sizes the girl up, though not unkindly (the light in her eyes has still not quite dimmed). Scrawny, her ribs showing like floorboards. Coat a little dull. (She thinks of Solterra and the unsaid name. A flicker of sympathy comes into her blood-dark heart.) Her wings are impressive, though, all soot and ruby, and the Commander is particularly entranced by the spring green of her eyes, how they shine out of the darkness of her face like gemstones. Often as a child, Marisol had wished to be less plain—had wished for a gaze of seaglass or grass. Pretty. Exotic and dangerous.
Seeing such eyes in person, now, only makes her more jealous.
The girl smells like sun, like the beach Mari never has time to visit. Suddenly her mouth is watering. The scent of blood is moving through the air. It stirs something in Marisol that she does not like to think of anymore, something with teeth, something so dark—her heart palpitates, pulses too-loud in her chest, and she has to fight hard against the teeth and claws to swallow back the lust that coats her throat like sand. (Don’t do it. Don’t say it.)
(Don’t even think about it. And of course she has to think about it. It. Marisol has lost her edge. Now she cannot quite tell if she wants for blood or for roses, a kill or a kiss.)
Her lips part, as if she’s about to say something—what exactly her brain hasn’t quite decided—when she hears the second voice, chiming in like a bell to answer her question.
“Florentine.” Marisol’s voice is pleased, lighter than usual, and she nods to the ex-queen with the faintest of smiles. They have never spent much time together, but the Commander trusts her—trusts her like she would trust Asterion. A girl like this, all flowers and curls and giggles, cannot mean too much trouble for their side. “Good morning.”
Stature noticeably relaxed, her cool gray eyes turn back toward the Solterran. And when the girl speaks, ridiculous as it is, Marisol does not laugh or scowl or mock: she sees the desperation in the green eyes and her heart pangs, as she thinks of how much she would hurt to see Terrastella destroyed. Fate is cruel, she thinks dazedly, and men still crueler. But philosophy does not solve crimes and pity does not stop wars.
“When Halcyon was killed, it was in a set of armor blessed by Vespera. It has been the Unit’s birthright for centuries, traditionally worn by the Viacrius to protect their commander. It went missing, sixty years ago—“ And here her eyes darken, a little sad, a little feverish. She meets Flora’s gaze somberly, and then Elif’s, a little less serious. Her tail swishes. “And a clue has just been dug up that presumes it could be found now.”
She does not say anything of Elif’s plea to help Solterra, nor of the presumption that Marisol would ever hand it off to her. That is something to be discussed another time. Something to be discussed when luck is more on their side.
Terrastella sleeps through the days of turmoil without a complaint--not a raincloud or the faintest thrum of an earthquake to testify that its dark, holy places are being dug up. The earth is calm and silent. Even as Susurro becomes pockmarked and scarred with more and more caverns, not much has come to show for it: everything the cadets and the strangers have turned up so far seems to be a red herring.
Until just the right stone is turned.
Some hoof knocks over a small grave marker. On the bottom plane, the granite is filthy with eons of dirt and overgrown moss. Underneath the grime it is inscribed with words and a design carved by a strange, careful hand. The art is simple: an empty, stylistic wave, from the froth of which rises a single link of chains with a cuff at the end.
The inscription underneath is somewhat harder to understand.
Just like Juliet it’s morning again. And lovers leap from the ward Which keeps them from each other, Just as it divides sea and city.
A pair of green eyes watch from the edge of the field.
Please PM me (RB) here or on Discord if you’ve got any questions! <3
![[Image: ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda...jvUop12efQ]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/c175b84a-409b-40aa-8b86-49ed65b989ee/ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda550e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2MxNzViODRhLTQwOWItNDBhYS04Yjg2LTQ5ZWQ2NWI5ODllZVwvZGRnNnF1eS05ZDE1ZGFiNS0zMzljLTRiMDktOGI1Ny0yMGE5OWZkYTU1MGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.j-t9RuUsmMyaVL-O1rvZqbyyPYdOvtjHLjvUop12efQ)
