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Private  - too early for surrender too late for a prayer

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Played by Offline bruiser [PM] Posts: 4 — Threads: 3
Signos: 45
Dusk Court Soldier
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 9 [Year 495 Spring] // 14.2 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A
#1

GIRL WITH AN ACCENT OF BLOOD
“Queen Marisol, I would like to apologize for interrupting your meeting earlier.” The words burn on her tongue -- humility had never come easily to her -- but her face is a mask lacking any hint of expression, angled so that she might be able to better see the winged mare from her good eye. “Commander Vespir, at your service.” She cannot bear to say ‘former’ just yet, not when she has lost so much already in the span of hours -- except that it hasn’t been just hours, has it? It has been sixty years of time robbed from her, sixty years of everyone she has ever known continuing to live and eventually dying while she had laid asleep in the swamp, sixty years of the Ager rotting away and forgotten.

Sixty years while the Ilati had faded away into obscurity, sixty years since her mother had been informed her daughter had disappeared and had died not knowing what had become of her, hidden away in the swamp they had called home where even the Ilati dared not tread.

Sixty years of grief in the span of a few hours, weighing upon her slender shoulders until she felt like she could drown beneath it.

Cleopatra had been gentle, at least as gentle as Cleo ever could be, but… there was no softening the blow, no way to escape the truth or hide it beneath pleasantries. She had slept while everyone around her had struggled and died, had failed in her mission to find Prudence and restore the Ager.

Just the knowledge of her failure burned.

Vespera, what will become of me now?

@Marisol





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Played by Offline RB [PM] Posts: 174 — Threads: 24
Signos: 395
Dusk Court Sovereign
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 6 [Year 498 Fall] // 16 hh // Hth: 18 — Atk: 22 — Exp: 39 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: Anselm (Ibizian Hound)
#2



I am not led; I lead.


Queen Marisol.

 It sounds strange. It pulls at her like an Atlas-weight. The sound of the court’s murmurs and the knowledge of their sorrow pounds at her heart like a hammer. And though she’s already feeling pretty prickly following the events of that god-forsaken meeting, when she steps down from the center of the meeting and the buckskin moves towards her and introduces herself as Commander Vespir—

Well. Queen Marisol is trying to be sympathetic, but with every word of this stranger’s she’s finding it harder and harder. 

Marisol comes to a clean stop, hooves loud on the cobblestone. Commander Vespir. She wants to chew this woman out for daring to disrespect her, she wants to scream and throw a tantrum and take her out dragged by the hair, anything to get out of here, anything to make this simpler—but that is a barbarian’s solution, and Mari is not a barbarian, at least not anymore—so Queen Marisol grits her teeth and hardens her expression and meets Vespir’s eyes with a gaze that does not sing of anything but steel.

“Thank you,” says Marisol, and her voice is not so rough, a surprise even to her. “Vespir.” (And she says it like this because she knows it is the only way to keep order—not Commander, not even ex-Commander, just Vespir. Her tone does not betray all those years of reading about her and Cleopatra in the Halcyon’s records, or the stories she’d been told. It does not give the impression of belonging to someone who might have looked up to this Commander, once.

Mari tries to force her mouth out of its frown. It half-works. “I imagine,” she continues carefully, “That you have many questions. As do I.”

There is a faint curiosity attached to the end of it, which Mari can’t quite form her throat around. 

"Speaking."
credits





[Image: ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda...jvUop12efQ]

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