☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
When her people make the long journey to the Summit, she stands at their head.
She strides with the same collected confidence she wears when racing across the dunes, chin raised and eyes set on the path ahead of her, but her heart is in her throat and her pulse quickens with each step towards the peak. Her hair is tugged into tight rosettes, her skin painted with streaks of glittering gold – in long slashes under her eyes and on the forehead, a traditional sun design, down the length of her spine. Like the tribe-queens of old, they had said, when they adorned her for this visit, and she does not appreciate it, but Seraphina is a creature with little care for aesthetics. However, she knows that her people need a queen, not a wild-eyed and scraggly guard, so she tolerates the adornment, simple as it is. Perhaps, in a profoundly different time, wearing the paint of her ancestors would have brought her some sense of pride in the land which she represents. Now, it only serves to further irritate the itching, uncertain sensation clawing beneath her skin; she cannot look at her gods or her history or the deserts that she roams in the same way that she did once, and the realization makes her chest hurt, until she looks back at the faces of her people, alongside her at her Regime-
Damn their past, their god, their lands, the entire continent; this was Solterra now. There was nothing she would not do to protect it, regardless of what this Summit might have in store for her.
They arrive in a swarm of sand and desert heat.
The landscape looks wrong, and she thinks, again, of the strange maze she had traversed while searching for the Relic of Tempus. It is not the mountainside she is so accustomed to, and those trees…something about them feels strange, but, then, she spends most of her time in a desert, so she can hardly consider herself an authority on foliage. Perhaps it is only the circumstances that makes them seem so.
There is nothing to do now, save wait for further instructions; she practically hums with anticipation. Her warrior’s training tells her to familiarize herself with the landscape, in case of a fight, and explore each nook and cranny of this strange new gathering-place. Her more diplomatic training demands that she seek out the leadership of the other courts, who seem to be scattered variably across the plateau, and see if they have any further information about what lies in store for them – considering their presence, she can only assume they have received similar, or identical, invitations. (If she can call a demand an invitation.) “Now,” She says, to the citizens still crowded around her, “We wait. Explore as you will, and visit with our fellows – but remember that we tread on sacred ground.” Her voice steels with cold warning, and the look she gives her citizens is practically wrought iron. With that, the crowd of pilgrims begins to disperse, and she steps back, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the spotlight.
She sweeps the faces of her sister courts thoughtfully, contemplating how to proceed, when she becomes aware of eyes on her. This is not unusual; she imagines that she has attracted more than a few curious stares as she arrived with her people. However, something possesses her to turn to meet those eyes – perhaps they feel different than most.
Her gaze comes to a rest on eyes that seem to her to have been carved from the moon goddess herself – pale as Calligo at her fullest, near overflowing. Renwick. The sight of a friendly face is more than a comfort to her frazzled nerves, and, although she can’t say that the circumstances are ideal, Seraphina finds herself genuinely pleased to see him. It has been far too long. She lets her gaze linger on him for a fraction of a second, taking in flower-strewn locks and dark velveteen skin, then turns towards him.
“A friend of mine,” She says, with a glance to her Regime, but she offers little more explanation as she veers aside to approach him. The crowd parts for her to pass, but, in spite of her elevated position, most appear to be too entranced by the changed landscape to pay all too much attention to her. She can’t say that she’s displeased by the distraction.
She comes to a slow halt in front of him, breathing in the oh-so familiar scent of flowers – it accompanies all of his letters, in some capacity, and she wonders if she hasn’t taken to imagining it sometimes. (But that would be foolish.) Seraphina lowers her skull, her posture dipping into a ghost of a bow; a rare show of respect from a Solterran, much less a Queen, particularly towards a citizen from Denocte. (Such formalities were rare in her court, at least.) “Hello,” She murmurs, almost uncertain of how to proceed, and raises her eyes, “Lord-Commander Renwick.” In the past, they’d met in comfortable privacy or over letter – this was far more…public, and now she treaded a line, all too cognizant of her position.
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tags | @Renwick @Random Events theoretically I guess
notes | <3 <3 <3
She strides with the same collected confidence she wears when racing across the dunes, chin raised and eyes set on the path ahead of her, but her heart is in her throat and her pulse quickens with each step towards the peak. Her hair is tugged into tight rosettes, her skin painted with streaks of glittering gold – in long slashes under her eyes and on the forehead, a traditional sun design, down the length of her spine. Like the tribe-queens of old, they had said, when they adorned her for this visit, and she does not appreciate it, but Seraphina is a creature with little care for aesthetics. However, she knows that her people need a queen, not a wild-eyed and scraggly guard, so she tolerates the adornment, simple as it is. Perhaps, in a profoundly different time, wearing the paint of her ancestors would have brought her some sense of pride in the land which she represents. Now, it only serves to further irritate the itching, uncertain sensation clawing beneath her skin; she cannot look at her gods or her history or the deserts that she roams in the same way that she did once, and the realization makes her chest hurt, until she looks back at the faces of her people, alongside her at her Regime-
Damn their past, their god, their lands, the entire continent; this was Solterra now. There was nothing she would not do to protect it, regardless of what this Summit might have in store for her.
They arrive in a swarm of sand and desert heat.
The landscape looks wrong, and she thinks, again, of the strange maze she had traversed while searching for the Relic of Tempus. It is not the mountainside she is so accustomed to, and those trees…something about them feels strange, but, then, she spends most of her time in a desert, so she can hardly consider herself an authority on foliage. Perhaps it is only the circumstances that makes them seem so.
There is nothing to do now, save wait for further instructions; she practically hums with anticipation. Her warrior’s training tells her to familiarize herself with the landscape, in case of a fight, and explore each nook and cranny of this strange new gathering-place. Her more diplomatic training demands that she seek out the leadership of the other courts, who seem to be scattered variably across the plateau, and see if they have any further information about what lies in store for them – considering their presence, she can only assume they have received similar, or identical, invitations. (If she can call a demand an invitation.) “Now,” She says, to the citizens still crowded around her, “We wait. Explore as you will, and visit with our fellows – but remember that we tread on sacred ground.” Her voice steels with cold warning, and the look she gives her citizens is practically wrought iron. With that, the crowd of pilgrims begins to disperse, and she steps back, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the spotlight.
She sweeps the faces of her sister courts thoughtfully, contemplating how to proceed, when she becomes aware of eyes on her. This is not unusual; she imagines that she has attracted more than a few curious stares as she arrived with her people. However, something possesses her to turn to meet those eyes – perhaps they feel different than most.
Her gaze comes to a rest on eyes that seem to her to have been carved from the moon goddess herself – pale as Calligo at her fullest, near overflowing. Renwick. The sight of a friendly face is more than a comfort to her frazzled nerves, and, although she can’t say that the circumstances are ideal, Seraphina finds herself genuinely pleased to see him. It has been far too long. She lets her gaze linger on him for a fraction of a second, taking in flower-strewn locks and dark velveteen skin, then turns towards him.
“A friend of mine,” She says, with a glance to her Regime, but she offers little more explanation as she veers aside to approach him. The crowd parts for her to pass, but, in spite of her elevated position, most appear to be too entranced by the changed landscape to pay all too much attention to her. She can’t say that she’s displeased by the distraction.
She comes to a slow halt in front of him, breathing in the oh-so familiar scent of flowers – it accompanies all of his letters, in some capacity, and she wonders if she hasn’t taken to imagining it sometimes. (But that would be foolish.) Seraphina lowers her skull, her posture dipping into a ghost of a bow; a rare show of respect from a Solterran, much less a Queen, particularly towards a citizen from Denocte. (Such formalities were rare in her court, at least.) “Hello,” She murmurs, almost uncertain of how to proceed, and raises her eyes, “Lord-Commander Renwick.” In the past, they’d met in comfortable privacy or over letter – this was far more…public, and now she treaded a line, all too cognizant of her position.
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tags | @
notes | <3 <3 <3
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
