take a drunk girl home
let her sleep all alone
leave her keys on the counter
your number by the phone
pick up her life she threw on the floor
The air was sweet to the taste. Smoke curling up from applewood, as it lit the world up with the flickering, dancing hues of amber and burgundy. Staring at the flames as they danced, coiling up into the air was bittersweet to her heart, as bittersweet as the knowledge, that if her father was aware she was here; the consequences would be dire. Not just because the 'accident' was out in public, but because the entire situation hummed in her blood with the familiar wildness that her mother had been known for. With her eyes closed, basking in the heat, the glow; of those swirling flames, the pyre could shift to the ones lit in her memory - laughter and joyous voices switching to old melodies as rich as the sands, as desert dancers swirled, and played, and the tribe guided her step by step through the dances of their cultures, as they bedded down within the circle of the caravan wagons. She remembered those days with a sense of bittersweet desire, with a heavy heart of one who had everything and traded it for nothing.
She drew the khaki shawl slightly tighter around her features, shrouding her face, distorting and obscuring her identity as she had been trained to do under Addy's gentle guidance. Ways to give her freedom while avoiding the open palm swing of her father's dominance. Power and wealth had no protection when you were the spare. No, not even the spare. Because the other daughters lived in the manor with precious gems, silk, and satin, women of power and wealth and beauty . . . she was the one that shouldn't be there. A daughter born from the night of passion with a passing gypsy, returning in the wind, long enough to wreck a life. She was her father's greatest regret, the precious treasure tossed aside unless she had political use.
He had barely looked her way until he realized she was now of marrying age - and suddenly she had just enough value as the highest bidder. An auction for who would be her next enslaver, when her heart yearned for the freedoms of those desert nights, existing within the caravan of gypsies, a wildflower growing in the sunshine, warmth, and abundance of love beneath the open sky. Now she was a rare Juliet rose that was grasping for the faintest hint of sunlight as she is trapped under the shade and shadow of her half-siblings, her father. Only Addy provided her with that much-needed attention, ever the attentive older brother who wanted to see her flourish. The only individual she had fighting for her, in her own corner.
But tonight, she wasn't Swahili Atraer. Beneath the stars that lit the sky as if they had been flecked into existence by a painter's bristled brush; she too felt that returned sense of freedom to just be Swahili, as her mother had wanted. Wild, free, exotic. She stood still on the outermost reaches of the bonfire, watching the other dancers, a small smile on her muzzle from the shadows created by the dense population of colorful tents. She'd avoided coming earlier in the day when others were more curious of those around them. Now, later in the evening with wine and alcohol flowing freely, and many individuals already clinging to one another, she felt a little safer to embrace that rare moment of freedom.
And in the darkened shadows of those looming tents, with the glow of the bonfire in the distance, the wildflower felt her limbs step into the familiar movements, delicate ankles following the steps as if she was once more being guided by her mother, and grandmother, aunts, and cousins. She felt their touches upon her skin, phantoms in the night, guiding her through the motions once more, and the bittersweet smile turned to a moment of joy, as she spun, and swirled, like a petal in the wind, a long-stemmed flower in the breeze, and child of desert rain, and temptations. In this rare moment, separated from the world, the figure felt freer than she had been since she showed up on her father's doorstep at the tender age of 6 months old - hearing how she should never show herself in public, how she shouldn't exist.
In this rare moment, she felt she existed, even if she remained in the shadows, never dancing before the flames of life, always obscured from the eyes of the others. A hidden treasure that's been purposely hidden behind shinier, well cared for toys on a child's shelf. An ancient relic, unknown under years of muck and dirt, just waiting for someone to polish her and see her shine. Until that day, however; when the freedom she yearned for was achieved, she didn't mind dancing in the dark, her laugh soft, carefree, igniting upon a few of those ears who stayed to the edge just as she had as they would glance towards her, and smile slightly at the hidden wildflower dancing among the cover of obscurity.
"Speech" Thoughts
@For anyone Notes: <3 FIrst Swa post <3 <3
Upon receiving an invitation for the Spring Festival in Delumine, Fever first felt inclined to reject the merriment and fanfare – she didn’t believe in immersing the courts, forcing the common people to mingle with one another, as if jovial banter and exchanging goods could remedy the tensions the hierarchies had created. If up to her – and perhaps it’s a good thing she doesn’t really have a say – she’d follow in Denocte’s footsteps and isolate Solterra from the rest of the world; her people were barbarians, they were savage and cutthroat and she would have them no other way. Yet here, they had been asked to gather and play nice, so she obliged, not out of the non-existent kindness of her heart, but the belief that Solterrians had to show the rest of Novus that they were exceptionally more brilliant, much fiercer, and wildly more glorious than any other court children.
Fever was no exception.
And so, as she agreed to participate, she also volunteered to provide entertainment. She demanded plenty of space around her tent for small pit fires, glittering gold silks to drape in-between banisters, incense pots to sit with cloves and dragons blood perfuming the air she performed in. The atmosphere this viper cultivated was foreign and feral compared to the flower-filled ceremony held across the tents. A sitar from her kingdom had been assigned to one of the child-bards that usually followed Fever around, and he was paid for his time with promise of coins and, unfortunately more important, food and drink.
Bantering during the day, dancing during the night.
Tonight was no different: the strumming of the oriental strings quiet, haunting yet inviting, a few stragglers lay on the outskirts of the firelight, a handful of dark-faced strangers danced while Fever sat in front of her tent, uninclined to join in just yet, content to marvel at the sight. The night air was crisp, a notable sign that while Spring promised sunshine, the cold of winter lingered after the sun descended behind the horizon. The mare’s breath billowed from her nostrils like puffs of tobacco smoke, her black and gilded eyes serpentine as they traveled from one unknown face to another.
She wondered if they were children of Solis like she, or heathens feeling uncomfortable to dance at the clearing of the meadow with the others. Fever naturally attracted outcasts, the strange and beautiful, for while she decorated herself and her space with golds and otherworldly riches, she too was just another street rat. She knew the hungry gnaw of starvation in the pit of an empty stomach, she knew how the caged bird feels wishing to fly free in the light.
Two children had been investigating the length of the tangles in her tail – Fever pretended not to notice. She briefly shot them a glance, not out of hostility, but curiosity; did they know why she kept her hairs so long? Had they been pierced with the bullring or branded like cattle, like she was?
No, they had no markings that would give away their social status.
They weren’t slaves.
With this resolution, the exotic female would turn her head and continue to observe a pale and earth-colored woman just out of reach of the firelight. Fever scrutinized her dancing, an unintelligible expression on her own face underneath a sheer black mask. She would blink slowly, her spider-like lashes kissing each other briefly, unable to decipher whether she was growing bored or bemused. A invisible brow would arch – Why was she dancing by herself?
Perhaps she was afraid of the attention she would bring herself – being beautiful can be a curse. But wallflowers had always irritated Fever. Why not revel in your own power?
Fever had become so enamored with herself, so used to captivating strangers as a means of surviving, that bewitchment had become second nature. And so, as nature would allow, she would rise gracefully, a soft pull of her long tail to gently shoo away the children. With a swift glance to her sitar player, they had rapidly exchanged intentions in a language all their own, and the tune would change – a song that was had dark swelling and breathing, suggestive, seductive.
The garter hugging the mare’s thigh acted as her personal tambourine, keeping time, a chiming cadence to grab the attention of any passerby. Her hips would sinuously dip and sway with the music, able to turn and effortless walk into a work of art as she parted the onlookers, like a sea of uninteresting individuals, she had her sights set. She’d saunter beyond the reach of the fires, their flames reflecting off the metallic sheen of her tri-colored skin, and approach the woman – unafraid and wild like the women before her, coming to show this desert flower to not be afraid of the light; her molten eyes a beckoning invitation, the spice in her voice tantalizing as it drips from her black lips as if raw honey.
take a drunk girl home
let her sleep all alone
leave her keys on the counter
your number by the phone
pick up her life she threw on the floor
Like any blossom forced to bloom beneath the darkness, the shade of something perceived as better, the desert rose had grown to find her freedoms in the shadows. Dancing where no one was watching, avoiding the eyes that may show up, during the event. One look at her speckled pelt, and her father would recognize her, even from a distance. Even just the inkling idea that she was in attendance would see her sisters running to tattle. The unwanted was here, the undesireable is present. The forgotten blossom in a decaying garden of ugly personalities and uglier hearts was daring to reach for the sun. Swahili knew her safety was in shrouding. The khaki shawl draped around her ever so lovingly, the darkness of the shadows that embraced her steps, as the gypsy's daughter closed her eyes. Each movement came with the tender embrace of her fondest memories. The embrace of those from her past she knew she was unlikely to ever see again. Like dandelions in the wind, gypsies go where their hearts guide them. She'd been plucked from the sky and planted so deep, the soil held her with invisible bonds.
Slavery was easy to spot on some, in the form of brandings, or piercings to dictate a lesser. In the way one may dress or present themselves. But there was also the silent slavery - the type that held Swahili trapped to her rooms in the manor. A slave to her father's anger, a slave to her father's cruel dismissal, and any day now, a slave to her father's decisions about her future. She had rules to abide by, places she could go, a list of individuals allowed to see her. Otherwise, she felt more trapped at times than the caged bird. Her feather's clipped as she was presented and paraded like an animal at an auction. Isn't my daughter lovely. She's so quiet and demure. We've kept her isolated from the world. untouched, and innocent. She read enough books behind the gilded walls of her cage, to know that he wasn't praising her, he was dressing her up before the sale. He was drawing attention to ensure the wolves come clawing at the door, eager to tear into her flesh and claim her for their own.
Her hooves miss a step, and she slows; trying to chase those thoughts away. She'd escaped tonight to ignore what was to come. To ignore her future under the hoof of another man, a wedding band shackling her like a collar, further trapping her from the freedom, the wild abandon her heart edged her towards. If she turned, and just ran today, while others would be distracted by this event, how long before her father noticed. How long before he'd come to collect her. Would he strike her? Would he sell her off even faster. Fear kept her in place, kept her returning to her prison. How she ached for those days of old, dancing around campfires, the youthful voices of gypsies chanting in song, as bells are braided into her hair and her grandmother praises her as she masters another dance.
Sound catches her attention, and the desert flower turns, gaze settling on a being approaching her. A saunter to her steps, so unafraid, so wild, so carefree. She sways with an edge that grabs attention far more than the chiming of her steps, but Swahili's blood runs cold as eyes follow this beast that approaches her. Instantly the flower wilts, stepping further into the shadows, pelt muddied, and unrecognizable beneath the darkness of the tent, and even as this being, shining like metal in the sun, head held high, eyes beckoning with an open invitation, the wilted flower clearly hesitates. She's not victim to tantalizing words, to sexualized motions, too young; more importantly too inexperienced to see this temptress as anything more than a friendly dancer. Friendly or not, there is a chill down her spine that she cannot shake. Too many eyes. The wrong eyes could see her. Could recognize the ivory marking upon her brow, the shades of her tresses, the quiver of her limbs. "I shouldn't." The voice is soft, cautious, even as emerald orbs stare out from golden rimmed eyes, long lashes blinking up slowly, "If I am seen in attendance, it would be . . . an unfortunate occurance." The dove admits, unabashed about the situation she is in.
She's known for a long time now, that not all parents love their children; and not all parents keep them close to home out of that parental care. She was trapped under her father's expanse of power, a wealthy man with reaches into every court from his perfume industry. And she would forever be the unwanted mistake that was no more useful to him than a pawn on a chess board. Sacrificial during his climb to power. "I'm sorry."
"Speech" Thoughts
@Fever Notes: Be gentle with the little flower <3
At first, Fever recoiled her neck in a snake-like fashion, eyes narrowing at the mare who receded back into the shadows. The dancer is accustomed to being spit at, turned away, children asked to cover their eyes as if her natural sensuality is a debasement to the Gods. It felt very familiar, and Fever couldn’t help but simmer with an ancient rage – like the concubines who came before her, cursed for existing in their own skin, sentenced to sitting pretty and caged, where even a glance would be interpreted as a leer. Yes, Fever knew the price for being a beautiful creature – every motion she would make was sin, every smile and invitation, though tantalizing and charming, was inherently evil.
Duo-toned ears pivot against the back of her head, clearly irritated that she had wasted her time coming over and asking the stranger to dance, to come into the light, to throw back her head and feel the wind in her hair, to be unapologetically a woman.
For here she stood, meek now, unable to meet her gaze, a flower trampled by the weight of the wind. No better than the nobles that turned their noses up – not only had she been not worth the time, but she made Fever look like a fool.
Fever had mistaken her for someone wishing to be free from the confines of the shadows. Each hushed word that managed to crawl from the brown muzzle of the stranger was strained, paranoid and cautious, as if she was certain someone would be here watching her.
An unemotional, blank slate settled on the abstract mare’s face. She reminded her of her mother, Temper, who had always been too afraid to climb the wall with her. They were similar in demeanor: quiet, weak, too afraid to do anything about the shit predicaments they were in. She grimaced internally, remembered the way she had to beg her own mama to try and escape the slave holdings, desperate to save herself and Temper from their fate.
But Temper always chose the shadows. Always chose safety. Would never risk anything because she could never manifest the reward.
Not Fever.
She’d never succumb to suffering while all the other Solterran children got to play in the sun.
Not me.
Fever was a fighter. Always will be.
“You’re not sorry.” She says, aloof and dry in comparison to the warmth she previously showed. “Don’t apologize for protecting yourself.”
She assumes that with the tone of her voice and choice of words, she will only cause the flower to wilt more. Figures. A piece of advise on how to be stronger, to be more confident, would be twisted and deciphered as hostile.
She turns her body away from the woman, preparing to depart, and she hesitates slightly, a whisper of a reminder, her mothers soft kisses on her temple, the sight of leaving her slave-mates behind as they all cowered, too afraid to ever leave. She was reminded of how she murdered her masters, how she finally gave them freedom, and who even knows if they had the gall to pursue it.
Fever moves her chin over her shoulder, a flutter of lashes framing her intense stare as she looks back to the other, regarding her words: "If I am seen in attendance, it would be an unfortunate occurrence." The dancer wonders, briefly, if she is enslaved in Solterra. If she should be gentler with her words.
“You won’t ever be free from whomever you're avoiding if you continue to dig your grave in the shadows.” Her mouth is soft, yet her eyes are knives and her words are blunt. Fever didn’t have a mothering bone in her body, tenderness wasn’t her strong suit, but she was generous with her enlightenment, and she would have taken each of her slave-mates by the hand and escorted them into the sun that they were promised if they were simply brave enough to take a chance.
But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. If she wished to be obedient, so be it.
take a drunk girl home
let her sleep all alone
leave her keys on the counter
your number by the phone
pick up her life she threw on the floor
When you grow a plant in shaded areas, the stems grow longer, desperate to reach the sun just out of reach, to open their petals to the light. But too much light can be a bad thing - bleaching out their colors, browning their leaves, and leaving them scorched and exposed. Had this desert rose been nurtured in the open sun, exposed to the elements, she would be a wild, chaotic creature of exquisite beauty - much like the mare before her. Sharp thorns masquerading behind unfurling petals of rich ambers, a sonnet on her tongue, and the devil in her eye. But instead, Swahili had been raised in the shade, always shrouded. And now, with the sun standing before her, urging her; the fear of being burnt remains.
The other mare reacts instantly when Swa retreats, neck-snapping back, eyes narrowing and Swahili bottles down the desire to wince, to make herself smaller. Her father always narrowed his eyes like that when he was judging her and finding her unfit. Had this being decided she was unfit to. Did she regret approaching? It was an instant flash of desire in the desert dancer's heart, wanting to reach out, to cling to the mare that parted the crowds as if they were under her thrall. To borrow that power, that courage, that self-confidence that had been belittled from her. But this desert rose was clipped of thorns, reshaped into a daisy as her petals were snipped into a different mold, not nearly as wild as she once was. Forced into a quiet, subdued mare who avoided igniting her father's ire.
She wondered briefly on what it must feel like to be able to freely demand from those around her. To walk through the crowds and not fear who may see her. But Swahili was no woman, she was a girl trying on her mother's dress and finding it unflattering and lacking as she stared into the mirror. This mare had approached her, but when it came down to it, Swahili preferred the shadows where she didn't have to feel on display, where she could sink into memories and just exist in the past. Out of touch of reality, out of sight of a father who would hunt her down.
But while her mannerisms were quiet, assuming it was for weakness . . . Swahili was merely a quiet girl. Her eyes instantly narrow at the aloof words, the dry retort - calling her out for not being sorry, to not apologize for protecting herself. Swahili grew up in the shadows yes, but there was a reason she escaped to room. There was a reason she preferred to exist in the shadows where she didn't have to interact with others. Where she would be unseen by her father's aggression, unnoticed by those bidding in the war for the title of her husband. "I do not apologize for protecting myself. Merely for disappoint you. She replies simply, her voice the same softness that was her defining nature.
"And I enjoy the shadows just as much as I wish to avoid the sight of my father." The dove adds quietly. She moves slowly among the shades, her gaze watching this stranger who seemed to judge if one did not conform to her wildness. "I do not like attention, I was not raised in an environment that allowed me much freedom to be social. The light burns those of us who do not enjoy the attention." The rose admits. "Some of us wilt under it, where others blossom." There's a moment of true regret in her words, wondering what it would be like, to be allowed to bloom before the fire, dancing freely with others, as she once had.
But, her quiet nature, her peaceful attitude was never weakness. Sometimes, it just required a little flint and steel to spark her back. The other goes to turn away, to leave, and Swahili shifts to stand tall, unafraid of the other's departure, unafraid to be left in the dark again, but then the mare turns back briefly, and Swahili tilts her head, before her smile is slow, but it's edges with a light, "You're mistaken, I do not dig my grave in the shadows . . . I dig the tunnel of freedom." Swahili answers simply, meeting those dagger eyes with her own stead fast. "It's always . . . startling, what is over looked for the prettier pictures. Do not assume I am a being trapped by the dark. I'm merely using it as a shroud, until the moment where the stars align, to illuminate the path." The little dove responds, her shoulders relaxing as she observes this woman who embraces the light with the edge of a knife, letting it glint for all those who watch her toy with it. "But I appreciate the concern, regardless. But you don't need to save me. I intend to save myself."
Until then, she'll happily dance with the lights off, and the memories of the past warming her heart.
"Speech" Thoughts
@Fever Notes: Be gentle with the little flower <3
This is what you get for trying to extend your kindness, Fever.
Languidly, she would blink her speckled eyelids, molten irises briefly capturing the gaze of the opposite's jade green. But the woman had retreated further into the shadows of the tents, and so most details of her expression and posture were concealed by the shadows that she wished to make her den in.
So, Fever could only analyze her voice: the cadence of her timbre, the words the stranger cherry picked from her mind and placed on her tongue to be digested by Fever's eager eardrums.
And yet, the longer Swahili spoke, the swifter apathy begins to settle on Fever's face, a familiar bitterness in the slight downturn of her lips, her body rigid as she listened to the dark-dweller's tirade.
Never once had Fever mentioned saving her - at least, aloud - yet she appreciated her concern, announcing it like Fever had heroism strapped to her like a cape. Prattling about prettier pictures -
It felt like a self-righteous lecture.
Which made Fever's freckled skin tickle with anger.
"Keep your sorry. The only thing I'm disappointed in is myself for assuming we were cut from the same cloth." She was curt - how quickly the honey of her voice had changed into the swarm of wasps protecting it.
"My mistake."
There was something primal in the way Swahili had danced when she knew no one was watching, and initially, Fever had believed in kinship - the ways of her women and people passing down the knowledge of their artful movements, or how she was taught to braid her hair so that it would hold her secrets, or secrets like the slaves that would crush and milk limestone into a salve that would take away your scars; perhaps it was a longing for that commodity that briefly blinded her, convinced her to step down from her pyre in the first place.
What she did know, was that whatever could have been forged and nurtured was now set on fire and hastily abandoned.
"Enjoy your digging"
The minx doesn't spare another moment of her warmth or time, she does not dip her head in departure or give Swahili a lingering gaze that suggests fair tidings, she snakes her way back to the circle of light - back to the sitar player, the spice of incense, and the comforts of her tent.
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