Solomon & Isolde: Welcome Home

Isolde : || An ornate white filigreed carriage sat outside of Isolde’s cottage, pulled by two robust black stallions. In the daylight, it was brimming with life. Colorful blossoms punctuated the space between the gates and her home, offering a variety of color and texture to the otherwise densely green surrounding forest. A small bridge linked the main route to her drive, crossing over a small river which let into a pond in front of her home. The same small river which she’d managed to float down several times by way of the little wooden craft which presently sat, tied to a well-crafted dock. Her home seemed small, surrounded by bourgeoning plants, but attracted wildlife in droves. Burrowing rabbits, nesting birds and even the occasional fawn nursed their young in and around the garden. Heavily featured were her favorite flowers, peonies. The cottage itself was made from a combination of brick and log, covered with a lattice of creeping ivy. Over the door were hanging blooms of wisteria-c
Isolde : in shades of violet and white. A large set of kitchen windows over looked her back yard, and were often left open. The prim florist had protested the small envoy initially, but now that the footmen were hauling in her trunks, she wasn’t complaining. Her features were weary with fatigue from the trip. While things had gone well with her parents’, they most decidedly had -not- with the DeVries family. After years of repeated attempts at securing Isolde’s hand, she had issued her final refusal. In her youth, Isolde might have happily wedded Linden...but after an adolescence of drunken, gritty behavior, her heart had turned cold. Until the present year, her mother had been insistent that she commit to the betrothal while her father remained supportive of her lasting resistance (and was likely the only reason she felt able to do so.) Her week-long visit with her family accounted for conversation upon conversation between she, her mother and father…and then the DeVries family. -c
Isolde : After years of Isolde's induratizing the collective agreement between the families had been that Linden and Isolde ought to remain apart. All but Linden and her mother seemed satisfied with the arrangement (and perhaps a bit relieved.) Just when everything seemed to have resolved in the following evenings of her stay, Linden had spotted her running errands with her mother and caused a scene in the middle of the market. At last, her mother was witness to his crass, unyielding nature with Isolde. Naturally, he was addled and glum. So his repeated calling of her name over the quiet morning crowd had earned her chagrin. Opting to ignore his attempts at her attention, Isolde and her mother went about their business. Not one to be ignored, Linden gave chase to the pair and eventually forced her attention with a firm, unyielding grasp about one of her thin, delicate wrists. Isolde's knees gave, weight shifting under his guide as she cried out in momentary shock, features drawn with fear-c
Isolde : as he bore down on her darkly. "I was promis'da hand.." he slurred, "N'I have a mind to take one 'nyway." He held her up by her left arm, at which point her mother released an impressive onslaught of cursing. After tense conversation with the drunken Lord, Isolde had managed to pry herself free, and force the two apart to direct her mother home. Years of repeated, polite refusals had amounted to a long week of unpacking the betrothal, drawing to a close with freedom from her familial obligations as a result of Linden’s venomous temper. Demure though she was, Isolde was quietly proud for standing her ground. As Solomon had kindly put it in the weeks past, she was ‘not a conquest’. As she stood in the fading evening light watching her escorts deliver her belongings from carriage to cottage, Isolde breathed easily. The slim nelipot leaned on the rickety wooden fence that gated her front garden, lost in reverie for the moment. While Isolde had never emotionally committed herself to-c
Isolde : Linden, being free from her family’s expectations gave her the freedom to let her mind wander into the pleasant territory of giddy vorfreude. With an elbow propped on a crossing beam of the fence, her chin rested in a delicate hand as she cast lovat hues to the sky. Her laid in long, loose curls around her shoulders, half pulled back. Loose, wispy hairs traced the outlines of her features in a gentle wind. Beneath a fitted sheath of pale blue linen, her frame listed in the breeze. The gentle, sloped svelte lines of her figure visible in brief glimpses as wind chased fabric. Given the unseasonal chill, Isolde was glad to have a reason to wear longer sleeves. Above her wrist hid the amaranthine bruise of Linden’s grip, a mark which had finally earned her mother’s staunch disapproval. The neckline of the frock swooped carefully along her clavicles, cutting a crisp line against freckled, ivory flesh. Her -c
Isolde : thoughts lingered on Solomon, feeling orphic and surreal due to their week-long separation. The prim woman realized with a sense of wistfulness that she’d missed him while she was away. Having stumbled through an inability to express her feelings before, Isolde thought on her new-found freedom. Despite her fatigue, the nemophilist felt restless as her thoughts fell to the war-lord. She said a silent prayer that she might never have to witness the side of him that his enemies met, but found herself pleased to know there was safety for her in the same hands that others met their ends in. In truth, it was the combination of his nature which drew her. She knew from her proxy introduction at court that he was fearsome and respected at war. At the same time, the quixotic ways that he handled her were equally natural to him. Her thoughts lingered on the colorless silver of his eyes, trailing down the outlines of his jaw, over his broad shoulders, and into the thicket of scars beneath -c
Isolde : before she was abruptly interrupted by one of the envoys, “Miss? Was there anything inside the carriage?” An incalescent red bled across her cheeks and she pushed herself to a stand, turning her head over a shoulder to offer a polite smile, “No, no. I already took those things in…” she replied quietly, feeling as if she’d been caught in the midst of velleity. Gripping the fence, she leaned her weight back before letting her hands slip off of it, feet already bare in the small grassy patch of her front yard.||

Solomoŋ : With the blessing of longevity, came the a curse. It was the realization that you no longer counted days, weeks, or sometimes months. Time moved on and on in a forward motion ever uncaring of what it had an effect upon in this world. Liken to that Solomon had for so long simply allowed the passage of time to go uncounted, until of course an normally inconsequential amount was brought forward for him to measure. A Week, Isolde had been quite clear that she would be away for a Week, thus Solomon counted days for the first time in ages. Upon those days he was a busy man, making arrangements for the children of Tiamat, and of course allowing his thoughts to drift into what was to be a future for him beyond being a leader of refugees from a kingdom long since forgotten to time and memory. Now upon the seventh day, the Warlord strode upon a finely combed and cleaned War horse named Nepheal he contemplated what he had done over the course of six days and found himself impressed at what +
Solomoŋ : Upon the first day, the which was now as he thought back two days after the pair had spent an evening, and the entirety of a day within the comfort of hidden campgrounds he and his people had made beyond the city of Immortalis. Which of course was directly following the revelation that his feelings for the Gardener had gone beyond mere friendly intention. She by far was no conquest to be one by force or brawn. But truly his greatest challenge in two hundred years, and one that he hoped he would always fail to overcome. For you see, Isolde had created a fear in him, the kind of fear only a woman as gentle and demure as she could bring forth. The Fear of breaking his unspoken oaths. It was this fear, that fueled him and the forward movement of his people. Upon that first day, Sol and his people met in a clearing between the tents where Solomon announced purely It was time for then to Forget the Lion, and swear their fealty to the Deathstalker and his Goddess Queen. For it was the +
Solomoŋ : Solomon's belief that their time as remnants clinging to the paste needed to come to an end. With those words, he tossed his rarely worn crown into the flames of a bonfire and declared the Children of Tiamat to be no more, and in his heart he felt a certain freedom he'd never known before, as he retired to his tent for the night. He sat upon his bed, which by no intention of the Gardeners still smelled of her earthy and floral scents. Leaving his eyes to drift off wishing that it was raining. The next day, the Warlord, watched as tents were pulled down, and people began to make their journeys off into their new world. Some to the North intent for Sovereign City, others to the Valley of Horses and beyond, while the remaining moved into Immortalis and surrounding lands to make their talents known. Meanwhile, his soldiers, trusted men whom had served him for years were given final instructions. To see their people to their new homes, and to live on, and have families, grow fat and die +
Solomoŋ : happy. After all, didn't ever man deserve to live a peaceful life? Solomon, may have been an eater of chaos, but he relished those peaceful moments that came after the day was one. Now, he was contented with the solitude, and when he retired he again wished for rain. The third day, the Warlord didn't know what to do with himself. Training alone, eating alone, watching the day pass him by in silence as he stirred the fire with a stick. On the fourth day, he bathed, and played fetch with Shade, and found that though he was not engaged in conflict, he could find comfort in the simplistic nature of the world. On the Fifth day, the Warlord entered into Immortalis and sought information, names and places where a man of his caliber could be put to use. and enjoyed the company of old Veteran military men and women within the jovial walls of a Purple Pig, on the Sixth day, Solomon visited a tailor, and in a matter of hours found himself clothed in fine vestments for the summer. and on the +
Solomoŋ : seventh day, well it was obvious, the Warlord had left Immortalis, dressed in comfortable cotton, a leather jerkin, and the likes, his sword polished, and even sheathed in a fine leather sheath, but not upon his back as it had been a thousand times before. But rather hanging from the hip of his horse. Now he was anxious, and excited, like being hot and cold at the same time. A week! it had only been a week! any other week would have passed by unnoticed and now, as the rooftop of the simple cottage came into view. Solomon could not contain himself, and with little urging his horse was urged into a canter, until he could see that which he longed to see, Isolde, and by the looks of it, he was fortunate to have arrived just as she did. Shade in his ever exuberance lept from Solomon's shoulder, and with its butterfly wings swooped over until it landed gracefully on the wooden railing of that little fence just before Isolde, giving a little trill of excitement. -end-

Isolde
|| The setting of the florist’s family homestead was nestled in the bucolic outskirts of Cardea. As the sun closed in on the horizon, sending long pillars of amber light through the tall pines, the demure nelipot spied a homecoming surprise. Shade, who proceeded Solomon, landed beside her on the fence and she grinned instantly as he trilled merrily at her. Leaning in to touch her forehead to the fae dragon’s, one finger curled beneath his chin with an affectionate scratching. “Hello, there…” she murmured gently as the envoys stared in plain confusion at the passing interaction. Notoriously faint-hearted, Isolde had a reputation of shying away from even the least fearsome of insects so her comfort with the small dragon was nothing short of shocking. Isolde, entirely distracted by what Shade’s appearance meant, shifted a lovat gaze in the direction the dragon had come from. Anticipation gripped her by the chest and stomach, making her legs tingle with unyielding desire to run to him. Reservation made it difficult to spring on the impulse, but she did collect Shade between both arms and begin to round the fence in order to walk toward him. “Miss…” one of the envoys called in warning, though it fell on deaf ears. The redolent scent of the surrounding blooms carried thinly on the air, an undertone to the overwhelming scent of sun-warmed grass and the fire started in her hearth. She curled Shade up, who likely milked her affection for all it was worth, head scooping beneath her chin and coming to a restful prop over her shoulder. The nemophilist’s gaze was soft with longing, pace increasing with anticipation as the two drew nearer to one another. Cicadas sang their funerary hymn as the daytime grew to a close, a compliment to the susurrous passing of wind through tall grasses and oak leaves. The week-long separation had made her gaze less chaste, but the inclination for reservation kept her features from betraying her thoughts. Distance, indeed, made the heart fonder. Close enough to trace the outlines of his features, she did so greedily, as if seeing him for the first time. The ingénue felt the heat of imbued affection cross the landscape of her face and trail down the length of her neck. Feeling emboldened by her recent emotional freedom and no longer able to walk at a reasonable pace, her feet paced with hurried steps toward the horsed warlord. Sensing the impending embrace and the gentle unfolding of her arms, Shade took off from her grasp. She let him go willingly into the air above as the magnetic pull between the pair became more insistent with proximity. The lissome step became a slow giddy lope as she reached him, admiration for him clear on her features. Loose hair blew around her head, a dulcet grin lifting her expression while the breeze tugged at the diaphanous fabric of her blouse, filling it with a cool breeze. When she finally reached him she slowed to pause beside the stallion, one hand gently grazing its nose, jaw, cheek, and neck as she drew nearer to her personal caim. “You’re here.” she said breathlessly, as if she felt she were dreaming. From afar, the cautious glances of the envoys lingered after her, defensive and warning of the unknown man. They spoke amongst themselves in hushed tones, briefly debating the connection between the pair. As a figure they’d been essentially hired to deliver safely, they weren’t outstepping their bounds by worrying so after her. But she seemed nonchalant about their concern, focus clearly wrapped up in the man before her. ||

Solomon
Solomoŋ : Never before, had the warlord seen anything so beautiful in his life. Painting the image in his mind of the woman whom held a yet unknown portion of his heart within the palm of her hand, and the beautifully painted black fey dragon embracing one one another in such a friendly fashion. How many years had he known Shade to shy away from strangers and creatures simply because they were unknown? It was clear that the Dragon imprinted itself upon Sol, and thus as Sol's own heart opened to Isolde, so did Shades. Nepheal's reigns would be pulled gently to slow the horse to a stop, and no sooner had Solomon decided to descend from his mount did Isolde come swiftly over to him. He found reason to simply watch, and enjoy the moment. As she drew ever closer to him. Soon she was close enough that he could take in the beautiful scent of her hair, and hear the tenor of her voice, and like an arrow to the heart it was all over. Every moment of that long week away from her came crashing down upon +
Solomoŋ : a very unprepared heart. He missed her, missed every nuance of her being and found himself suddenly dumbfounded with the emotions that were swelling in his chest. But as her hand came to Neph's muzzle, and her voice sounded tenderly about his arrival, Solomon found his voice " Of course, I'm beginning to find life entirely dull when you're not around " His smile softened and his form slipped from the back of the war horse so that he could greet her properly, which with present company was no doubt much more a reason for uncertainty or perhaps more hushed whispers. That calloused hand came upward to tenderly stroke across the length of her cheek, gently resting his palm upon it, before he stepped in closer and brought his lips to the top of her forehead. Providing him with ample excuse to take in a good breath of her scent. " Welcome home Isolde, I've honestly been lost without you " Then he would draw back a step, allowing space to gaze upon her, and that Myriad of confusing but +
Solomoŋ : blissful emotions once more surfaced, relief, adoration, a touch of desire mingled into one rather turbulent yet exciting sea of feeling. He drew his hand softly from her cheek and gave a soft clearing of his throat in realization that there were eyes upon them. " I umm " he cleared throat a second time attempting to collect himself now, his cheeks reddening with the realization " what kind of man would hang on to a woman's clothing! " He said suddenly bringing his hand to his satchel and producing the folded (and cleaned) slip that had been left in his tent from their night in the rain. -end-
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Isolde
|| Isolde stepped all too willingly into the circle of his arms, frame lilting pleasantly as she closed into him. Her arms went without hesitation around the broad chest of the towering man, hands resting gently on his back as his chin fell down toward her, speaking in hushed, affectionate tones. Her head tilted, cheek resting in his palm with an unanticipated need for his touch. As his lips met her forehead, she closed her eyes and sighed despite her best efforts to restrain herself. Lucent with the cast of the setting sun and the glow of efflorescent romance, she searched his expression after he spoke, finding nothing but warmth. She offered a demure smile then, breathing in the cloying scent of Solomon. As he  stepped back, her arms loosed  from their semi-circle around him, one catching his as it fell from her. The prim florist took one backward step, actions coaxing him to come in toward the nestled bungalow beyond her. She saw the distinct shift from ardent to chagrin pass his features, she glanced back over her shoulder at the now conspiratorial glances of her parent’s paid help. “Shoot…” she said under her breath, having entirely forgotten their presence. When he cleared his throat, she turned to glance at him. Solomon fumbled with his satchel and presented her slip, washed and folded and she immediately reddened with social horror. “Oh…shit.” she slipped, momentarily distracted by the presentation of the symbol of an innocent night in his camp. Immediately realizing the slip of language, her hand flew to her mouth , opposing one dropping his hand to snatch the gossamer frock from him. Holding it to her chest defensively, she hid her face with the other hand and felt the sting of embarrassment prickle across the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even know what to say…” she admitted with a furtive glance over her fingertips. The simultaneous slip of the tongue and literal presentation of the slip had her a bit unraveled. Mortified by her use of language, and also the implications that she was -sure- would make it back home to her parents, she drew a consolatory breath and pressed her lips together in momentary thought. There was no getting past it now, and given that she was recently free of her family’s honor-bound commitment to Linden, she may as well let them think what they would. Reaching out for his hand, she stood in the breeze with an outstretched palm, wanting nothing more than to escape into the privacy of her home with Solomon and send the envoys on their way. “Would you like some supper?” she asked, clutching the slip to her chest as she fought to breathe evenly. Her parents would surely beleaguer her with interrogation in less than a few days’ time. But she hadn’t yet told them of Solomon, so as much was to be expected. To have said anything to them might have been presumptuous. While the romance was still incipient, it was no dalliance. At least, she prayed it wasn’t. Decidedly, the envoys would become harbingers to her parents, who’d only just worked their way out of one imbroglio and would soon find themselves in another. Isolde felt resolute in the fact that -they- had instigated the first, and this was entirely her choice. Once his had was in hers, she’d wait only long enough for him to collect the reins of his steed, falling into close step with him as the pair walked toward the home. With a discerning glance in the direction of the envoys, the nelipot smiled sheepishly and let her chin tilt in the direction of Solomon. “Neveros, Vincent… this is Solomon.” she added with as much nonchalance as she could manage. “Solomon, my parents’ envoys, Neveros and Vincent.” Vincent was the obviously more skeptical of the pair, while Neveros was younger and less inclined to judgement. After introductions were made, the pair were sent on their way, and Isolde brought Solomon into the cozy cottage with blithe, effervescent comfort. ||