That is the thought that rockets around my skull like a pinball machine as my senses start to function again. The floor - hot, dusty, hard beneath me. The air - stifling, unsatisfying. The sounds - silence, except for maybe some distant chatter. I open my eyes and see I'm in some sort of enclosure. A room.. ramshackle, crumbling, but functional enough to hold me.
Prisoner.
I look up through a foggy daze to see a door guarded by others. My brain can't piece all the details together. They seem familiar but I can't find their names in my mind. Dim light streams in from a few small windows. I don't move except to lift my head. The room is empty, Damaris nowhere to be seen. But I think I feel her presence nearby. Another cell? I'm still struggling to comprehend what has happened. All I remember is the initial struggle.. Damaris being chained, and my own vision growing dark as two Solterrans stood over me.
A prisoner of Solterra.
I lay my head back on the uneven ground with a groan. They have Damaris. Some drug is still in my bloodstream, leaving me groggy and achey. Whatever action I might take will have to wait until I feel better, and I can only hope in the meantime that someone will have noticed my absence, and care enough to come after me.
Fuck diplomacy this shit is gonna go down.
I got bored guys and I'm desperate to post Rosti. So here. Please don't leave him in limbo! Rosti thoughts | Rosti speech | Damaris mindspeak
Something in the pit of his chest has become unsettled. When he sleeps it tries to tear itself from his body, it seeks to answer the question he has not formed with words. He dreams in symbols and numbers, shapes that swell and then burst with seawater. He is drowning, and then he is not drowning. When he wakes, reality lacks the sharp edge of his dreams. It is hard to tell if the horizon ends or not.
(He suspects it does. If he could walk far enough he would reach a dark pane of glass, cool to the touch. A wall reaching as tall and wide as he could see, longer even than the horizon. Darkness on the other side. Darkness, how trite- isn't that how everything ends. He never claimed to have an imagination)
The keep has been full of whispers and shadows lately. Would that he could flick them away like flies. (So this is his life now.) But life is not so kind to him. This world still seems so strange to him, so nuanced. All politics and magic and lies, a thousand times more complicated than the cycles of war that shaped him. It surprises him to find a room he is forbidden entry. More rules, walls spun from words. He hears a groan on the other side-- a wounded man, guarded by walls and secrets.
A familiar distaste settles on his tongue.
When he returns later that evening, it takes nothing more than the puff of a broad, scarred chest and the flattening of his ears to gain entry. He can be imposing, when he wants. He's learned that they are all strangers here, held together by spiderwebs of assumption. And when you are a stranger it is easy to be whomever you wish.
The cell is dark and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. The first thing he notices are the horns, obviously. Then the broad chest and the lion's tail. In the dim light he can barely make out the traces of scars,
The scar-flecked grey carries a water skin on his shoulders, which he lowers to the ground now. A small cloud of dust (sand? dried shit? it is hard to tell) rises, catching the few beams of light that enter the cell.
"Water." He says. He is wary but unafraid of the stranger before him. Fear is no longer in his nature. (You think that is a strength, don't you. You know you're a fool but you don't care.) There is a long pause-- he smells the sweat, and the bitter smell akin to poison (--and-- is that ylang ylang again??). "So what did you do to end up here?" There is almost a warmth to his voice, as though he too were prisoner here. Almost.
- - -
@rostislav woah sorry this is a lot longer than I intended o_o
Sleek as silver.
She moves down to the dungeon with a soft, possibly nervous sway to her steps, tail lashing behind her like a cat about to pounce; in reality, it slashes away flies, eager to linger on her sweat-stained hide. Seraphina has spent the entire morning out in the heat, but she somehow feels like she would be more comfortable burning in the scalding sun than she feels wandering down into the dark, cool depths of the dungeons, set to face her worst nightmare. It’s not Rostislav, – the old drunk might be a warrior, but so is she, and she’s met worse-tempered foes – but, rather, what he represents. A diplomatic crisis, a premonition of conflict, a rash decision that she should have prevented; that she might have prevented, or, at the very least, tried to prevent, had she known beforehand. Had she…
She reasons that it’s because he hadn’t mentioned that he was leaving, but what did they care? What did they care enough to capture the Warden of another Court? He hadn’t been privy to any secrets; this was a power play, a way to figuratively puff out their chest. Seraphina doesn’t know how it will work out in the end, but she can only hope to minimize the damage, and minimizing the damage means getting the Warden out quickly…and hoping that he’s treated with some sense of decency while he’s here.
Seraphina is ruthless at the core, but she’s not foolish – it’s not efficient to quarrel over Rostislav, and all she cares for is efficiency. (It’s hardly the supposed injustice of the situation that bothers her. Wrong and right are empty, personal words, and it’s never been her job to be personal. Rational, distant, detached, alien: that is who she is supposed to be.)
She brushes by the strange dog first, and, a bit offhandedly tosses a dead snake through the bars. The creature is awake, though still apparently woozy, kept sealed in one of the upper cells; she’d snuck it bits of whatever she could capture in the desert for days, if only because she knows how dear bonded creatures are to their soulmates. (The pain of losing one is something that she would never wish on anyone; a fractured soul is agonized, senseless, useless.)
She hadn’t the words to speak to Rostislav, and therefore hadn’t met with him yet – as she made her way further into the quiet darkness, she felt tension ball up in her throat, but swallowed it down vehemently. Perhaps it is a stroke of fortune that another is already at his cell when she arrives, a monochromatic man that she recognizes as one of the warriors. (It was Eik, wasn’t it? She saw him at the gathering.) She eyes Rostislav evenly as she leans up against one of the cool dungeon walls, though her gaze fluctuates between the scarred man and the Warrior at his side. (She thinks to tell him that he should not be down here, but she heard his question – she won’t do anything to compromise the situation yet, nothing to violate his trust or make him think that they are hiding things.) “Your…companion,” She says, after a moment’s eerie silence, “She’s recovering.” What should she tell him? That she’s sorry he’s down here? (Not for the reason he’d hope.) That she’s as surprised to see him here as he is? (True, but not something she should say aloud.) So she waits in silence, gaze cold as winter ice.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
09-20-2017, 08:39 PM - This post was last modified: 10-01-2017, 10:48 PM by Seraphina
It doesn't take long for someone to notice the caged monkey, eh? At first I remain still, not bothering to look as I hear footsteps approaching, then the sound of my guards moving out of the way to allow the stranger entrance. I don't recognize the scent of the stranger except to note that it may have wandered past the cell earlier - maybe? It's hard for me to tell since I've been so in and out of everything. But when the stranger crosses the threshold into the cell, I lift my head and eye him warily. It's not one of the ones who came for me, so at least there's that. He doesn't say much except to drop a skin in front of me, by his words full of water. I reach for it with the little energy I've stored up and tip it back so the water dribbles past my lips and down my parched throat.
So parched, in the land of the sun. Even in a cell I can't escape the heat, the sand. As I continue to drink, I hear the question asked of me. 'What did you do to land here?' I finish drinking, having nearly emptied the skin. I set it back down and offer an expression that is a strange mixture of apologetic and thankful. My silver eyes taken him in - the pale stallion, dappled and scarred. I meet his dark gaze, wondering at the emotion that lies within.
My words are hateful, laced with bubbling, indignant rage. "I have done nothing!" I hiss as well as I can: my throat is still rather dry. "I lived here for a brief time and left when Maxence started to boss everyone around. I didn't want to be apart of it, so I left." I snort at the thought that such an action might have started.. whatever this is. The snort rocks my muscles in a not good way, and I let out a groan as a follow-up. It's then as I'm distracted that I notice the figure standing in the doorway.
I don't remember her name, but I recognize her. She was there at the beginning, fawning over Maxence. I shoot a raw, burning glare in her direction, thinking that she must have something to do with this. But there's no malice in her stance, her gaze, nor the words she offers to me. Damaris is recovering. I feel a knot in my stomach loosen slightly, allowing some of the tension in the rest of my body to ebb as well. I think that perhaps I'll get up, take advantage of the stillness to blow through them and make a run for it. Even thinking about it exhausts me, and I don't even try to lift myself from the ground. Instead.... Are you there Damaris? Tell me you're okay. I reach out across our connection, hoping that somehow, she'd hear me and respond. I'm here. Her voice is weak, but not in pain. Maybe it's the walls between us, some magic or some part of the venom through both of us. It's just enough though to calm part of me into remaining still.
He finds it hard to sleep in the walled court. He sees why most prefer it- the large stones keep him dry when it rains, warm when the temperatures drop, and cool (to a certain extent) when the sun is out. He supposes they should make him feel safe, but they don't. If anything, they have the opposite effect. He's too familiar with the open sky and the horizon, long and flat on all sides. He's too enamored with the edge where they meet, and the way it softens at the beginning and the end of the day.
He cannot see the horizon now, but at least there is a window to let in the afternoon light and a light breeze. How tantalizing that breeze must feel to any beast trapped here. The prisoner speaks, spins a short and sorry tale. Eik listens intently with the tilt of a head. The man sounds earnest enough, although the grey has misread others before and certainly shall again. "I see."
He hears the soft clip of hooves approaching and defensively shifts his weight back. He does not fear repercussion of being where he probably should not be, but he is wary by nature. It is the emissary who joins them, smooth and collected as the stones that tower above them. He cannot pretend to know her-- the few times he's seen her she has been hard to pin down, as though even when looking directly at her, she manages to continually slip into his periphery. He has no physical explanation for it, that is simply the way things seem. And aren't things what they seem, even when they aren't?
(your thoughts echo your thoughts. you wander the halls of your mind and they fold upon themselves, and you exit where you entered. and you wonder if your thoughts are yours, and if they are not then where do they come from? and where do they go? and wh--)
So there is another kept here? A woman? He gives a half shake of his head. "What do you know of this." He asks the woman, calm as the surface of a deep river. The current quickens below.
He is surprised by how bothered he is by the idea of a prisoner-- why should he even care? The man is probably a liar, has probably committed some heinous act. We suppose it comes down to morals. Simply put, it strikes him as wrong to keep a man behind walls. Sentence a man to death or punishment, that is the way they used to do it. Keep things quick, simple. Honorable.
(You're a part of the New World now, and this is how it works, and this is the price you pay)
Despite Rostislav’s insistence that he had done nothing wrong, it is Seraphina to whom Eik turns for affirmation. Her eyes do not linger on the ghost-white warrior’s frame; rather, they meet the Warden’s hateful gaze, cold and apathetic as chips of glass. Her ears twitch to catch Eik’s words, but she waits a long moment before she replies, mulling over her next words carefully. Her own opinion of the situation doesn’t matter, but she hasn’t spoken to Maxence to know what he intends, either – she’s barely been able to catch heads or tails of him, even though they both live in the keep. (This sends another prick of annoyance running up her spine, but it doesn’t show on her face. Nothing ever seems to show on Seraphina’s face.)
“Very little,” She admits, finally. “I was given no notice prior to his arrival, and, unfortunately, I have been unable to discuss his presence with Maxence.” She pauses, turning her head to stare back at Eik. “I do not know Maxence’s mind, and I will not put words in his mouth. However, if I had to guess, I would say that he is imprisoned because he left Solterra for Denocte – a court that has been our enemy for many years – without saying a word of his departure. Maxence likely thinks him a spy.” If the silver woman agrees or disagrees with this assumption, it is not especially obvious from her tone, which is entirely void of conviction one way or the other.
Seraphina has never had the luxury of caring about justice, after all.
It doesn’t stir her that Rostislav is being kept behind bars – it only annoys her because it is going to be her mess to deal with. (She would have sooner had him killed, the blame laid at someone else’s hooves; assassins were quiet. Denocte would never have had to know.) This feels more like a show of power than anything else, but it wasn’t one that would work in their favor. Denocte has the upper hand, with more bodies and more resources to throw into a war, and this is the sort of situation that sends nations to war. She’s been trying to work out a way to make Maxence let him go, before matters can get any worse, but any plans she might have are up in the air until she can get his attention long enough to speak to him.
More than anything, she wishes that Viceroy were here. He could just reach inside of Rostislav’s head and alter his perception of events, work his magic to make it seem like Solterra had been framed…but Viceroy is dead, and she is left alone with her wiles.
She suspects that the warden will have some sort of response to her comments, and, eyes darting back to him, seems to anticipate it.
@
@Rostislav @Eik - sorry this took so long. and that it's terrible.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
10-01-2017, 05:15 PM - This post was last modified: 10-01-2017, 05:15 PM by Seraphina
Strength begins to return to me, both in spirit and limb. I want to stretch and run, to make sure that my body still works. But in a prison cell there's not much that can be done, and I don't feel like trying to get into a scrape with these two Solterrans. As irritated (understatement of the year amirite?) as I might be, I don't figure that I'll survive a second against the pair and honestly I don't feel up to the challenge yet. Damaris remains quiet in the cell next to mine, probably recovering at the same rate I am. I don't ask her any more questions, wishing instead for her to recover as best she can. Instead, I stay focused on the stallion and the mare. The pale stallion doesn't seem to believe my story. Sure you could say I'm lying because I'm locked away and I'll say anything to engender sympathy or get myself released.
There's no way to convince this stranger of the truth. Give me a damn lie detector test if that'll help! (Horses don't have lie detector tests, Rosti.) He turns to ask the mare of her opinion, her knowledge. I narrow my eyes, suspecting that she will only hurt my case, not help it. She only says what she knows (or what she suspects, I guess). Figuring out what goes on in Maxence's head seems to be difficult to more than just me. As she finishes her explanation, I find myself staring, mouth agape in surprise. I snort in disbelief.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" I bark out a laugh and rise to my feet then, unable to lie still. My tail smacks my side. "A spy! Do I look like a gods damned spy to you?" I spit, not thinking about how such an outburst will affect my captivity. "I left before Maxence was even fucking sovereign, and I left because I didn't want to hang out with you asshats. Y'all were a bunch of stuck-up jarheads. Excuse me if I didn't like the idea of blindly following orders." I end with a snarl and turn to face the high window that lets in those precious few rays of light.
Of course I'm sure the pair won't take kindly to my raging, and of course all my claims will be denied. I sigh and take a deep breath to calm my nerves. (Or attempt at such.) "I went to Denocte to start over, try again. I found I had many friends there, and chose to stay." Finally my voice is calm, but the insult I've felt still colors the response. Who ARE these people?!
He is not a stupid man, but he does not understand the lines they draw in the sand. He cannot see the silver strings that tie them together and cannot fathom why it is they choose to live in these spiderwebs. How absurd that the flies in the web would have the illusion of power because they are bound together. What he learns is that leaving this place, when the time comes, would not be as simple as he once thought. The idea settles like a pebble in his chest and he knows he will come back to it, ponder it until it is smooth as a river rock.
Eik does not reply to the man's outburst, although a rare, boyish grin bursts across his face. Stuck-up jarheads... so this man is familiar with the Solterrans, at least as familiar as Eik is. Perhaps moreso, though he hopes not.
(There is always, always something beneath the surface. He tells himself there has to be, or else we'd all be made of paper)
But the situation hasn't changed. What can he do? He can't give the man his freedom, as much as it strings his morals. He is not used to feeling powerless. It is as unfamiliar and unwelcome as the four walls around him. Again claustrophobia dulls the edge of his mind-- he is keenly aware that he will wither away in this place, if he stayed long enough. He supposes that is what the desert does to everything, given enough time.
In the midst of his thoughts he focuses again on the man before him. The prisoner.
"I'm sorry." He is, to the deepest part of his bones, but he does not let the sorrow (the anger? How can you tell the difference when pure feeling seizes you?) flood his voice. He eyes the prison, taking stock of the man's needs. The water skin is at least a quarter full. Maybe more, maybe less. Eik will do what he can. "You will have enough food and water while you're here." He does not speak of the value of that, here in the desert. The thought does not even cross his mind.
"But none of my Solterran secrets." His eyes briefly crinkle in amusement-- a joke, of sorts. (We forgive you for not laughing.) He looks to the woman of stone, a world of questions blooming in his mind. He breathes in. Everything in its time and place.
He nods and then he is gone, steps ringing behind him on the stone floors.
Only trust the story.
- E I K
Eik gets sad and leaves :( I'd love to have him interact with @Rostislav and @Seraphina in the future! -scurries away-
His fury provokes no reaction from the silver mare, who watches him with cold, dead eyes as he bellows obscenities, insults her court, insults her lands, insults her; it is as though she doesn’t hear his words at all. (Perhaps they are insignificant because Rostislav is not particularly significant to her as anything more than a concept – she cares nothing for his thoughts or feelings at all. Perhaps it doesn’t matter to her if he is right about Solterra, her nation, right or wrong.) She doesn’t offer any sharp rejoinder or venom because there is no violence in Seraphina, no fire in her for the scars one might feel just beneath the surface of her coat or the chinks and scratches on the collar fixed like a noose around her throat; she lives, breathes, exists, but she does not fight. Seraphina is an entity that simply is.
She watches the ghostly warrior – Eik – offer his condolences to Rostislav. His tone is dull, but she senses from his words that he has been moved by the apparent injustice of the situation, like several others that she’d spoken with in the court. (Seraphina doesn’t understand it; the sympathy seems as foreign to her as Rostislav’s own motivations. Bonds of friendship and thought felt temporary, fleeting, ephemeral. Best to be on no one’s side but your own.) She watches him depart in stark silence, knowing that any attempts to offer a rejoinder to Rostislav’s outburst will be met with nothing but disappointment. She watches silent, predatory, waiting; the shadows flicker ominously across her silver features, absence of light drawing out the charcoal of her coat.
“I,” comes her soft voice, once Eik is long gone, “never said that you were a spy.” She allows her words to hang in the silence for what feels like a long moment, those glass-like eyes fixed on Rostislav – or the wall behind him, at the fragment of sunlight cast down from the window. It’s hard to tell. “I don’t believe you are a spy, even without your…explanation. Now, I do believe that Denocte may have a spy in the court, or they would not be aware of your presence…” She stalks by the bars of his cell, a cat about to pounce, “…but, clearly, that is not you. And, even if you were, you wouldn’t be worth provoking the Night Court. I am attempting to make a bid for your freedom.” The word freedom sounds out-of-place in her mouth; it dissolves on her tongue, loses all meaning. “Throw obscenities at me as you wish, but I’d suggest you learn to hold your tongue around the rest of the court – they are not all so measured, and a fight would be counterproductive to my efforts.” She is flat, greyscale – and she waits, still. Then :
"Tell me of the events leading up to your departure. Tell me what made you leave."
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
10-04-2017, 11:41 PM - This post was last modified: 10-06-2017, 02:23 PM by Seraphina
I can't help the outburst, and to be fair I don't think I should be held at fault for it. How would you keep your cool being held prisoner unjustly? Of course it isn't diplomatic, but it's not like I'm getting some sort of unbiased trial here. The scarred warrior seems somewhat moved, and offers his condolences that I'm imprisoned. Nothing he says is of much comfort except to know that maybe there are some in Solterran that aren't rotten apples. (Not that I have any evidence that any of them are particularly rotten, but first impressions are everything.) He departs, and I look over my shoulder to stare at the doorway he disappears through, maintaining my own silence while the mare keeps hers.
Finally the dust settles, and the female voice catches my attention, and I turn around to face her direction. She is the stonier of the two, and I can't help but be a little wary with her. She claims to never have believed I am a spy, but that she believes there is some sort of spy in Denocte. I tilt my head ever so slightly, pondering the thought. I should have knowledge of it, but I don't. I suppose it's completely possible that there might be a spy. I'm sure there are spies in Denocte as well (much to my chagrin).
'I am attempting to make a bid for your freedom.'
I chuckle, amused at the idea. First, that a Solterran such as she would even bother, and second that Maxence might be persuaded. Though he's not an insane bastard, just annoying. Perhaps he could be persuaded. I shrug without noticing, a little curve to my lips revealing my amusement. "The first time the herd gathered, I gathered with them. Before Maxence was made sovereign." Disdain tints my voice almost imperceptibly. "When I got a feeling for my someday herd members, I thought perhaps I would leave and find somewhere else to live. I left almost immediately after that without waiting to hear more at that meeting." It's the truth, and I trust her to believe it, if she will.
Though Damaris is silent in the other cell, I can sense her presence more than before and I am comforted by the attachment. Even without active communication, feeling her in my mind is a balm to angst and worry. I hope that she is being treated well, and receiving adequate food and water. A warm feeling encircles my mind as Damaris silently assures me she is fine.
