#voxdaemonica

"My Princess, we are far from home.” The Royal Advisor proclaims, an all-too-amused laugh resonating from his underbelly. The Pearl City boasted many fantastic feats; scrumptious cuisine, a penchant for politics, and beaches that could rival the Golden City’s. But the camaraderie (and almost painful spirit) of the Autumn Court’s residents was almost alien to the Summer fae. Ashir watched with amused fascination, lulled into a sense of calm. The residents were singing, loud and off-key, as they waved their flags in glee. It was a humorous sight, yet Ashir could not help but feel his chest gnaw all the same. It was a reminder of the sense of community that their homeland lacked. Yet all he can do is smile, drunk off the copious pitchers of ale. After accompanying the Liu’s to their quarters, he had nudged the Princess along for some much-needed calm. The loud and brash nature of celebration was far from her likeness. He knew Arabella enough, to know that regression to her books would be her immediate action. But he had advised, as all good mentors do, to take in the warm surroundings.

“I am certain that he will fall off.” Ashir comments, a clap to his knee as he watched a local competitor attempt to climb a nearby rock. As if his ability to fly, was something he had long forgotten. He places his elbow against the plush seat, passing a curious glance at Arabella. He knew the intricacies of her temperament well. But the past few days revealed a side to her, quite unlike the rest. Ashir waited, respectfully, for Arabella’s confidence. She had never kept secrets from Ashir before, why would she begin now? He sighs wistfully, turning away pointedly. “You have not been yourself lately, your highness.” Ashir comments, his tone light and airy. “What has made you so blue?”

‘Why am I doing this?’ The question ran through Luciana’s head countless times as she silently snuck around the castle of the summer court. There were obviously spies that the court could use, but for some reason one of the princesses asked Luciana to go. Considering her job, Luciana was not in a position to say no. Her normal attire was changed out for clothes that would be far less suspicious. The last thing she needed was for her clothes to be the thing that gave her away. 

It was a new day in Astralis. And with each new day, came a renewed task. After the events that unraveled in the intimate quarters of the underworld, Santiago took to the unpaved roads of other courts. A distraction, of course, from the events of the past few months. But more importantly, it was a necessity. After the Resistance’s declaration of war, a light dust had settled over the matter. Silence, Santiago knew, was almost always a precursor to a reckoning. The fae hardly seemed content to let such a disgrace roll of their backs. Better he knew their dispositions, than be at the receiving end of it.

He began his journey in the Pearl City. Dressed in laborer’s wears, with nothing but a knife hidden on his person. This was no violent endeavor, but rather, an opportunity to learn more about the Summer Court. A most frightening yet impressive court, with a High Lady so terrifying that milk seemed to curdle at the sound of her name. What began as a simple theatrics of a tired laborer, using his sore back to ignite conversation with merchants, got away from him. It was not long before the heiress herself, Princess Arabella, separated from her legion of guards and came to his side. The soft-spoken Princess asked, nay, insisted that he recover in the hot springs within her castle grounds. An act of benevolence, it appeared.

Despite the trepidation of entering a fae’s guarded castle, Santiago recognized the rarity of the opportunity. A private audience with the heiress herself, and a glimpse into the fortress. The knowledge alone promised nothing but advantage for the Resistance. With a blight smile, he agreed and was shepherded into the Summer Court’s most esteemed castle. After resting in the hot springs, he surveys the luxuries that surrounded him, only promptly looking up when the Princess herself set foot into the gardens.

“Tell me, princess, do you make a habit out of inviting strange men into your quarters?”

"And what, pray tell, are you doing in here, Bella?” The seemingly-staunch and stern tonality to Ashir’s voice was dismantled by the smile upon his face. Like most of his smiles, it was performative. One spurred by the liquor in hand, or the battles of wits on the ballroom floor. But anyone paying attention could see the vacancy in the dark pools of his eyes. Princess Arabella, especially. The heir of the Summer Court presented herself as a strategic gold mine, many moons ago. The young girl was the final piece of the puzzle in his long-con against the High Lady, Liling. Her rise would equate to the lady’s fall. A fitting end, to a grotesque ruler. Perhaps there was a time when he relished in the High Lady’s cruelty, but it was long forgotten when she spilled his daughter’s blood in the Summer Court’s floors. His tutelage of Princess Arabella was meant to be his way to enact revenge. But in the twenty-or-so years that he’s come to know her, his attitude changed. Quite the feat, for a man who did not bend to ‘attitude’ alone. Between her curious mind and precociousness, Arabella might be the first in centuries to be worthy of her title.

Ashir was a fae for whom, believing in anything was a falsity waiting to reveal itself. For all of his impossibly high standards and cynicism, he believed in her. His displays of obscenity were his to own. But he tried his best to shield her of it. In some ways, he needed her faith just as much as she needed his tutelage. The nuptials were in full swing, with fae of all walks of life joining together to witness the unholy union. But Princess Arabella had drifted from the energetic ballroom, to the depths of the Night Court’s library. Likely, to peruse the selection of works not privy to those outside their walls. “I do not blame you.” Ashir reconciles, the bottle of rum in his hand abandoned on a nearby desk. He comes to her side, his soft hands brushing along the spines of the French literature. “These Gothic faes keep everything under a lock and key. So much to be enjoyed, trapped in this foresaken mountain top.” Shrugging, he pauses at Les Miserables, pulling it from the shelf. “And anyway, the Winter can boast far more impressive literary feats like Dostoevsky or Tolstoy.“ As he flips through the page, he finally asks; “Shall I ask what you are doing in here, instead of out there? Festivities like these are crucial to your rule.”

The late Katerina Castillo bequeathed her son many things before her untimely passing. His expressive brown eyes and formidable skill with a sword, for example. But one quirk his late mother passed on, was a strange affinity to flowers. As a young boy, he walked the perimeter of the underworld and collected flowers of different meanings. She would speak intricately of what each one represented. Even in the decades following her death, Santiago retained the memories close to his heart. After a brief run around the underworld’s perimeter, he caught sight of daffodils in full bloom. With a thoughtful shrug, he collected a bundle for the forlorn blond of the resistance. The untimely loss of the nymph, Sophia, still rocked the resistance. But what most did not recognize, was the circumstances behind it. Santiago saw the heartache that danced in his close friend’s blue eyes. Just as he sensed her need to preserve it, lest more suspicion be drawn. 

The rebel leader makes haste through the path, stopping only when the familiar blond was in his preview. Standing by a nearby stream of water, her back turned to him. With an empathetic sigh, he slows his step, approaching purposefully so that his footsteps were known to her. Humans of their nature learned to be adaptable, but cautious. Always listening for the next dragon, hellhound, or vile fae on their tracks. “Celine,” Santiago bellows, catching her eye before extending the bundle of daffodils. “For you,” he smiles. “They represent new beginnings.” Is that not what they were looking for now? A new beginning? A way to put the nymph behind them, and continue on with the task at hand? Even as he says it; however, his eyes flicker downwards. A moment of hesitation, as memories of the tender nymph plagued him. Santiago’s kinship towards her was not the love he presumed Celine to have. But an intimacy that he shared with very few. Still, he keeps his hand extended, determined to be strong. She was gone. And now, he and Celine need only bury her memory and keep their secret.

Lucy could feel the slight ache in her feet as she went outside to the balcony. With a soft sigh, she took a seat on a nearby bench, taking in the sights of the area as she relaxed. After dancing for a solid half hour, Luciana could feel the pain from her high heels shooting through her, causing her to go take a seat outside to recover. Lucy was silent as she admired what she could see of the stars, Her mind wandered a bit until she caught onto a sound near her. 

Looking up, Lucy spotted someone who seemed to be coming out to the balcony. The dark haired woman carefully moved to free up the area next to her. “It’s a pretty night. Starting to think twice about going out to stargaze.” The lady in waiting spoke up, trying her best to strike up a conversation. Sure, she was probably being too friendly, but she wanted to learn about the courts she hardly interacted with. “Oh, I’m Luciana, by the way.”

His existence was once abundant in hope and prosperity, akin to the flowery meadows of his home court. The Golden Child, with nowhere to go but up. He was never a cynic, or ruthless for the sake of being ruthless. But when such hope was seized from him, by his family no less, he set his sights upon the allied North. The frosted land, inhospitable and vicious in its appearance, was just right for the fallen son of the Korkmaz brigade. It echoed what he felt on the inside; a brewing storm, hidden in the depths of his heart. A newfound hatred and resentment, that coaxed through his cold form. Hazar spent his entire life playing fair, and doing what needed to be done. And life, by all accounts, punished him for it. What was left now, but to secure his own advancement? Earning the trust of the reigning Valentina’s was not easy, but the alliance between Spring and Winter certainly paved the way. It was not; however, the reigning Tsar’s trust he had gained -- but the one who longed to claw his way atop the heap. Theirs was an unlikely triumvirate; the tsesarivich, the prized courtesan, and the dark knight. But it worked, allowing them a foothold into the protective quarters of the reigning Valentina’s.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the observant gaze of Viktor Valentina himself. The freshly-minted High Lord of the Winter Court, who could brood and guffaw in equal measure. Prior to his defining incident, Hazar might have aligned himself to the likes of Viktor. He was certainly a fae that, by Hazar’s standards, fit the mold for a leader. Judicious, fair, and kind (as kind as a man who ruled over a Frosted Land could be). Circumstances change; however, and so did Hazar. He balances the weight of his sword, moving it easily in his grasp. The sparring sessions, underneath the never-ending flurry, part of his regular routine. Never mind that his body was not conditioned for such a landscape, Hazar adapted. Recent events all but prompted an increased training regimen. The reality of war, looming closer with each rise and fall of the sun. Hazar offers the High Lord a nod of acknowledgement, completing his footwork dutifully. The lag of his prosthetic, barely hindering his speed at this point. Once the soldier surrenders, his attention turns to him pointedly. A secondary nod of formality, upon his approach. “My Lord.” He utters with formality, before the golden smile (hinting at a smirk) formed upon his features. “Have you come for a match? Or did you wish to see the state of your army?” He wouldn’t past Viktor to do both, one answering for the other.

But he fills in the blanks, leaning his sword against a nearby post. “We are as indisputable as ever, my lord. The Trials left some injury to our men and women, but it was a fast recovery.”