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All Welcome  - too many symbols, too many saints [noon feast]

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Played by Offline RB [PM] Posts: 89 — Threads: 13
Signos: 185
Day Court Citizen
Female [She/Her/Hers]  |  5 [Year 502 Spring]  |  15.1 hh  |  Hth: 18 — Atk: 22 — Exp: 30  |    Active Magic: Perception Manipulation  |    Bonded: N/A
#1

every angel is terrifying

There is a new king on the throne, and everyone is making bets on his life.

It is just past high noon. O stands on the fringes of the crowd, screwing up her face against the blinding white sunlight; it fractures in her dark eyelashes, frosts her vision with incandescent flakes of light. Heat pours down on the crowd like syrup. O feels it on her face, her shoulders, dripping down her legs; her whole body grows warm, a stone left out in the sun. 

The street rats write down names and collect coins. From the corner of her eye, O watches as a scraggly girl with wild, dark, hair snatches money from the purse of a frumpy-looking nobleman and says acridly, “I’ll write you down, sir.” Her eyes, grass-green and sunken into the dark velvet of her face, are emboldened with bright fire. “Two months it is.”

She flips the money through the air to her partner, who tucks it neatly into a drawstring bag already bursting at the seams with collected bets. They are an interesting pair, the two of them—the crackle of annoyance in the air between them makes her think they must be related. And their business seems to be thriving: the crowd jostles against itself as they try to take their spots and make their bets against the new king’s life.

These are the facts all the gamblers have: he is young. Points given for longevity. He is of noble birth. Points given for privilege. It has been rumored, though there are conflicting reports in the Solterran library, that he is quite ill: points taken, for obvious reasons. O can’t help thinking anyone who bets on him lasting longer than a year is a hopeless optimist.

The gambler languishes the girl with a glare before backing away, and O’s soot-dark lips curl into a faint smile as she watches him stumble back into the crowd.( He is ungainly for a person of his birthright, which is exactly the kind of thing she’s always loved to see.)

Bet after bet is placed; contract after contract is written up; the whole court is alive with the sound of laughter, snapped remarks, hooves clicking on the sandstone. Heat bakes the sound into a tinny little record, playing over—and over—and over. O listens into conversations of the crowd, mildly interested, until the novelty of the eavesdropping wears off. Then she pushes her lean weight off the tentpole and slinks toward the table of food, all its bright metal dishes glinting like the Oasis does from far away, and, dog-focused, follows the smell of dark caramel and crushed pomegranate to a platter at the west end of the feast.

It’s laden with dessert: a hundred or so perfectly round flan, their faces so lacquered in sugar that they catch even the brightest bits of sunlight, freckled with jewel-red pomegranate seeds. 

O stares at them for a long moment; then she reaches out to grab one, and brings it to her mouth. 

“Speaking.”
credits










Played by Offline Sunsides [PM] Posts: 22 — Threads: 2
Signos: 360
Inactive Character
#2





She is a dizzy sort of sobering-up, her head all a-thunder from the exploits of the day. She’s sore from throwing herself at that damned golden lion, she’s pissed off at Gallileo for… being alive, probably, and she’s thirsty as all hell. She’s tired of this god’s damned heat. Not for the first time, Sabrina wishes tracking Delph had led her somewhere cold and frosted in ice, instead of this hellish hotbox.


Not that she was inclined to care, but Solterrans had a bit of a bumpy entanglement with their king. Back in her homeland, the king was a figurehead-- everyone knew the queen was the one with the real power-- but his name still carried weight and he was spoken about with respect. The crown prince, too, was beloved by his people. Until he turned to ash, saving Sabrina’s life. Anyway. The fact was, back home, no one really talked about the king’s survival unless they were planning on making a play on his life (the queen had fed more than one possible assassin to her leopards, it was rumored) but here… here they all gathered around and seemed to be waiting for him to die.


Maybe it was the nature of Solterrans. They’d had so many different across recent history and each of them seemed to be a different sort of demon in disguise. So maybe, taking bets on the king’s life was just… normal. Or maybe it was something they did because they could. Sabrina didn’t imagine a bloodthirsty tyrant would take kindly to coin-flipping over his mortality in the streets, even if it was discreet, which this was… really not.


Still, she didn’t give a fuck. She was tired. She was tender, in more ways than one, though she wouldn’t admit it. She could go for a snack and a nice lie-down somewhere dark and room temperature, if room temperature wasn’t one-hundred and seventy five fucking degrees.


She staggered into some poor soul with golden paint-splattered skin and hair the color of old dirt and snagged a sugary-sweet flan off the table. The pomegranate seeds crunched in her teeth and she grunted. “You know a place someone can take a nap around here?” she asked, knowing the sugar was going to be a very temporary pick me up, and that her mood would continue to crash after the sucrose band-aid was ripped off in the near future.


@Apolonia | sorry











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