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Private  - the last flower [midwinter festival]

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Played by Offline Katherine [PM] Posts: 53 — Threads: 7
Signos: 5
Dusk Court Champion of Community
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 9 [Year 495 Fall] // 15.2 hh // Hth: 15 — Atk: 5 — Exp: 27 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A

Tell me where it hurts
I just want to build you up, build you up
'Til you're good as new

The parcel is displayed unassumingly, leaning there upon the door of the barracks that is commonly known to belong to Marisol, Queen and Commander. It is a simple rectangle shape, wrapped in brown paper with perfect folded corners. Tied about the package is a thin red cord, and delicately held within its bow is a single flower stem, red blooms somehow bright and alive despite the chill to the air.

The gift inside, however, is much less modest.

A portrait of Marisol—done in charcoals—looks out from warm parchment paper. Her head is framed by clouds disappearing into a deep midnight sky with flecks of distant stars fading down into cresting waves which wreath the bottom of the piece. Although there is no color to the artwork, its almost possible to see the storms and steel in the warm discernment of her eyes. They are loyal eyes, eyes that have held back tears in favor of strength. Brave eyes that honor child-like wonder and integrity.

Beneath the waves in fine script there reads: “Fluctuat nec mergitur.” There is no signature upon the piece, at least that one can find, and no note to accompany the parcel as it sits there awaiting its intended recipient to find it. And there, just beyond in the shadows, waits a lavender girl with soft and gentle eyes, because the gift is not her only purpose for being here tonight.

credits | @Marisol <3

[Image: 13772706_D0f7QJjLtyXb1qw.png]
with the lovely
flowers in her hair


Played by Offline RB [PM] Posts: 184 — Threads: 26
Signos: 445
Dusk Court Sovereign
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 6 [Year 498 Fall] // 16 hh // Hth: 18 — Atk: 22 — Exp: 42 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: Anselm (Ibizian Hound)

it was lovely
it was awful
it was that
kind of feeling.
Marisol knows who the parcel is from as soon as she opens it. Partially she is relieved: she will not owe the sender a gift, and gift-giving is a field which the Commander has never had reason to study.

And partially she wonders—worries—if it is a warning, a premature apology for an unnamed thing still waiting to pounce.

A girl stares back at her from the paper. A girl with charcoal-dark skin and a tiny snip of white on the nose. A girl with short, dark hair that bleeds into the sky, where stars have become pinpricks and begun to melt into the sea. Her eyes are strong, but not cold; the fine, swirling script underneath relays a line of Latin which Marisol recognizes after only a moment of scrutiny, and which makes her heart squeeze in her chest as if pained. The next breath she takes in hurts more than it should.

She closes her eyes. Winter has come rushing in. The wind is cold and brusque with sharp teeth, the air itself is scented with pine and spice and alcohol. Behind her, the barracks are dark and empty. For once the cadets have been released from their duties to celebrate the solstice. The only sign of life is the muted sound of parties from over the hill and the lights of the city, wink-wink-winking in the dark. 

Marisol does not know what kind of flower it is that accompanies the package. But she tucks it it into the cuff around her back leg, and makes a note to herself to ask Corrdelia what kind it is.

Finding Fiona takes much less effort than she thought it would. the Commander is ready and willing to trek out to the Champion’s home, Anselm at her side, the portrait now safely tucked away in her office. But Mari hardly makes it around the corner before spotting her, the soft purple of her coat its own kind of dusk against the darkness of the streets.

“Fiona.” Her voice is calm, but not without a twinge of faint surprise. “Were you waiting for me?”


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


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