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07-16-2016, 02:53 PM
A mare came first, and if Ultima was anxious then, it was nothing compared to little Mbwene when she bobbled forwards, small and inexplicably foreign.
Ultima stared openly for half a minute before remembering her manners, Minerva’s voice resounding in her brain like a strong slap to the cheek. But then Tembovu arrived like a young earthquake, and she couldn’t help the tiny startled squawk, or the feathers rising sharply on her withers. King. A King. ‘Oh Dear God, My God,’ She kept her wings pinned to her back, diverting the rest of her frenzied energy to breathing properly. If you could have unwound her thoughts like a spool of thread, they would have circled the globe five times, hundreds of iterations of the Wild God’s (and may He Dream forever) Prayer laid end to end to end. She gathered herself from the syllables like a bouquet, and after another start – “Tilney!” “Arah!” – set it at the King’s feet.
“Your Majesty, ladies,” she said, gut tight with concentration. Her knees remembered the formal bow perfectly, her wings extended like a downward butterfly; after a steady diet of fear and not much else, however, there was a tremble to the gesture that she couldn’t wholly suppress. ‘Keep going,’ she thought, steadily as she could, ‘Don’t think about it, don’t fall. Just finish it off. One movement into another. Come on.’ The tassels on her headpiece wobbled as she came to rights again, her posture square. Glancing at the boy – Tilney, from what the silver girl said – and then Glasgow, and then the King, she gave what explanation she could. “I found him on the seashore. He said he’d been looking for a special sort of algae or other, and had been swept off by the current.” Her voice grew a little quieter, her pulse deafening. “He made it back all on his own. I only happened to be there.”
“Oh,” she said a third time, blinking once, twice – she’d nearly forgotten. “My name is Ultima. Of the Wood.” (So strange to introduce herself. She supposed she’d never grow accustomed to the idea of people not knowing her name, her face. It was a sad thought; she tucked it away.) “Of— the Rift,” she corrected, her mind flying back through the months, to the desert sand and the strangers fleeing across the Flats’ glass. They’d all said the same – we come from the Rift. “If it wouldn’t too much trouble to you, sire, I … haven’t anywhere else to go.”
Ultima stared openly for half a minute before remembering her manners, Minerva’s voice resounding in her brain like a strong slap to the cheek. But then Tembovu arrived like a young earthquake, and she couldn’t help the tiny startled squawk, or the feathers rising sharply on her withers. King. A King. ‘Oh Dear God, My God,’ She kept her wings pinned to her back, diverting the rest of her frenzied energy to breathing properly. If you could have unwound her thoughts like a spool of thread, they would have circled the globe five times, hundreds of iterations of the Wild God’s (and may He Dream forever) Prayer laid end to end to end. She gathered herself from the syllables like a bouquet, and after another start – “Tilney!” “Arah!” – set it at the King’s feet.
“Your Majesty, ladies,” she said, gut tight with concentration. Her knees remembered the formal bow perfectly, her wings extended like a downward butterfly; after a steady diet of fear and not much else, however, there was a tremble to the gesture that she couldn’t wholly suppress. ‘Keep going,’ she thought, steadily as she could, ‘Don’t think about it, don’t fall. Just finish it off. One movement into another. Come on.’ The tassels on her headpiece wobbled as she came to rights again, her posture square. Glancing at the boy – Tilney, from what the silver girl said – and then Glasgow, and then the King, she gave what explanation she could. “I found him on the seashore. He said he’d been looking for a special sort of algae or other, and had been swept off by the current.” Her voice grew a little quieter, her pulse deafening. “He made it back all on his own. I only happened to be there.”
“Oh,” she said a third time, blinking once, twice – she’d nearly forgotten. “My name is Ultima. Of the Wood.” (So strange to introduce herself. She supposed she’d never grow accustomed to the idea of people not knowing her name, her face. It was a sad thought; she tucked it away.) “Of— the Rift,” she corrected, her mind flying back through the months, to the desert sand and the strangers fleeing across the Flats’ glass. They’d all said the same – we come from the Rift. “If it wouldn’t too much trouble to you, sire, I … haven’t anywhere else to go.”
and babylon don't love you!
@Glasgow yikes sorry for the wait!!!
 | please tag ultima in all posts! force/magic a-ok, shy of killing/maiming her! |
