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foretelling of ( the resilience of a wayfinder, the cyclical nature of the earth, mountains which one now carries instead of climbs, the virtue of tenderness ) comes LORCAN FALK, hailing from the village of ASCHENWALD in the fallen land of nachtland. will their position as a refugee bring forth fortune or misery to them, when left to Aurea's wicked hands? it is whispered they are fatalistic and impetuous,, and yet honorable and resilient.
✴ — 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 ❜
𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 ⁑ lorcan falk
𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞(𝐬) ⁑ tbd
𝐚𝐠𝐞 ⁑ 25
𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⁑ demiromantic homosexual
𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⁑ refugee
𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 ⁑ none , for they have fallen . a neutral alliance pending with his sponsor .
𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 ⁑ lenyra caelestis
𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ⁑ 6'0"
✴ — 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ❜
Prayer was a simple utterance to Othelia Falk, ushered under sequestered moonlight, whispered into the darkness which surrounded her home. There was naught a prying eye within the remnants of Aschenwald, and through these slivers of moonlight, Othelia was alone; calloused hands, sweat matting her creased brow. Under this cloak of darkness, Othelia did not pray to a god gilded in gold or a deity of which humbleness often abandoned, but to the mountainous valleys which always shepherded her and to the earth which had nurtured her. Through each focused breath, Othelia bears a son; the only remnant of her husband which the rot nor a forsaken could yet take from her.
Lorcan was of a peculiar lineage, thankless jobs and little status, but his stomach was never empty, and his cup was so often filled with gratitude for what community they had. He’d never know his father, but he bore a striking resemblance; ashen skin, wisps of tangled hair which blended into the rich dark of the trees. Aschenborne, valley forged, it didn’t matter which title was placed upon his shoulders, it still wrought the meddling hands of Fate to prime Lorcan for what was to be an inevitable.
Their village could be consider the scraps of a strange legacy; befitted with a leash of pride, those who remained within the miniscule village were those who could not dare to abandon their roots. Many had been lost over the years to Forsaken which had immensely dwindled the great expanse of warriors within. Lorcan latched fluidly to the ideal which was expected of him; a warrior always had their weapon and his was not an axe nor blade, but a bow befitted with hand-carved arrows. It was within this choice, he became one with the peaks and valleys of the Nachtlands which surrounded their village. A small but mighty population, though their pride was indeed their downfall.
Lorcan was a restless spirit, one of the last few born within Aschenwald. He did not share the same sentiments to dig his roots deeper into the failing rot of the land, he vied to move forward, to search for life and prosperity within soils that were not so congested with the blood and rot of those who had fallen prior. Still, his mother, nor any other alliance would not leave, and so Lorcan built his life humbly within; to stand tall, to do what was expected, remain within the box, contain his spirit within the peaks and valleys that shrouded them.
Lorcan fit into the mold of this world exceptionally well, even if the touted bullshit of a once famed legacy weighed heaviest on him. The stories did not romanticize him to his home; the retelling of fables which spoke of their prowess and strength. No, it only made him vie to wander farther. His days were often spent in practice with his bow, foraging for food and supplies; but never wandering too vastly beyond a weeks travel. For Lorcan, the mountainous valleys had always been his masters; the cup of grounding reality which proved a limitless expanse beyond structure, beyond religion, beyond death. They heralded over his village akin to fortresses which wrapped around his ideal of freedom like a noose.
The fragileness of such falsehoods often reared its head, a lowly whisper at first; insistence from the earth and soil to beckon a closer look. It should have been enough to yearn and want, for getting what one has wished for would always be a hollow embrace in the end. Life would always inspire the dreadful hunt of hounds - and it is there which a Forsaken drifted upon them and the remnants of their village came to an end. Slain by steel, the implosion was seen by Lorcan long before he'd ever managed to make it home to the village. Blood, sinew, it stained the dirt of the ashen forest, dusted the bark of ashen trees. What little survivors remained were not one's Lorcan was wholly kindred with. The sky above and the earth below, such was the only tangibility left for Lorcan as he left the Nachtlands behind, a wayfinder with nowhere to turn to and nothing but a bow and a motley of arrows affixed to his back.
the smile and the words themselves make haneul shrug, again, feeling perhaps light-hearted enough to continue entertaining such sentimental conversation by their standards. a hum is accompanied by a small nod, a barely there twitch of their lip. "your compliments to the house of greenspire are noted." they do not take offense from antisociality, finding it a fact rather than an insult, even if it might be meant as one. "though... there are quite a few social houses in braxigar, from what i have seen. even if we are not, won't they be offended by the comparison?" some with their heads in the clouds, albeit their barren land did not bear any fruit or life within it.
while the image of blood watering the soil is dreary, they do not feel frightened or intimidated by it. a morbid curiosity settles instead, a smidge of desire to visit the closed-off hollow once in their lifetime. to figure out if the writers are particularly pessimistic, or if it is the entire truth that it is a dark and unforgiving land. "do you prefer it still?" they turn the question back to taemris, inquisitive eyes set on his youthful countenance. "the scant life of home, or the trees of heliophra?" they pick at one of the leaves that have dried, about to fall of its branch. it lies in their palm, only the barest hints of green, the rest of it having turned a hue of orange. "would you want there to be life back in braxigar? if there could?"
✧˚ · . ─── Ensnared again, so easily, into the tedious remarks of quotidian thought. He was not meant to be a thinker, nor a dreamer; simply one who followed orders and did not question the pursuit or intent. How far he'd fallen from such principle and the frustration at his own cyclical demeanor, marred by life's cruel simplicities, aggravated the Morvaen all the more. His jaw tensed, the double-edged sword of Haneul's questions something he silently contemplated despite the ire they imbued him with. " And who would you place upon such fruitless pedestal ? " It was not within his own character to answer a question with a question, but he found the very idea of a social Braxigarian to be entirely absurd in spite of the natural anomalies one could find in each hollow and home.
Taemris can offer a shake of his head at their next question, his expression scrunched as though something sour and acrid had graced his tongue. " What one knows and what one dares to imagine are very different things , " for he could never truly envision himself situated within the golden embrace of Heliophra for long. Dark eyes flickered to Haneul, some strange wisp of solidarity within his next comment, " The golden shades of Heliophra's trees would burn me long before they ever embraced me . Such would be the same if you followed a similar pursuit , hm ? " Solitary figures, those not known for their socialness, he wondered what life looked like in Morkhul and within Greenspire as a whole. " Am I to follow you all back to Greenspire when all is through or am I to stand outside it's walls and keep the bogeyman from trespassing within ? " He did have his curiosities as to where the lines of this contract ceased and blurred, but Taemris also figured Haneul had not a genuine clue about them either.
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he scoffed at the insult. even if he did not want to sit upon the throne, it did not mean he liked knowing other felt he was not capable of such a seat. of course, she seemed to be willing to bet on him until he turned her down. "what i proved was that i have no interest in being a puppet. and if you are willing to be one in order to earn a title, then perhaps you do belong amongst the other contenders." they had not spoken in such a way before. he had traded verbals blows and raised his voice in the company of her sister, but thus far varyn had tried to be nothing but respectful to the ruling lady of graveholt. but this desperation for power and acceptance was not going to benefit him, nor did it align with what amarei wanted. so he speak up for her in this moment.
"have you considered that you do not get to decide what is enough for her? your decisions are rooted in selfishness, and you do not get to choose power and then claim it is for the good of your sister. especially when she is vehemently opposing such a decision." he shook his head, his eyes hard and dark and full of disgust. how blinded has she become? or is she willing to break every tie she has, even that of her sister, in order to achieve what she deems what she is owed? "it is truly worth gaining a title if it means losing everyone along the way?"
✧˚ · . ─── She was not violent by instinct but something within the rise of his voice and the flippant way Varyn treated her pursuit had Efigenia vying to lob his head off and dance within the river of blood which followed. " You believe I do this for reverence ? For spoils and a crown which sparkles like no other ? " The rage within was barely restrained and Efigenia was certain she would strangle him if not for the tether between he and her sister. " No one will celebrate me , but they will obey . It is the least that can be done for each crime presented against my name and home . We can bring the council to its knees , Lord Varyn , how could you not wish for that , too ? " She knew nothing of their past, only that her name continued to wear the shackles of a name forgotten in time, of a crime which could not be found in history nor literature. But still the effects of it persisted. She could not withstand it's weight any longer.
" There is enough of a lifetime which separates she and I - all I do is for her , if not for me . You resist simply because I never etched you into the canvas of my plans . " Groomed brows narrowed as she glared at him, though they softened ever slightly as though this was their necessary solution, as if this was the only reason Amarei, too, resisted, " There is room for you yet , do not fret . "
✧˚ · . ─── Rumors were rife with beads of truth, scintillating pearls amidst rotting oysters. Things which were once very much alive, that which was wrenched from their utmost comfort into the hideous veracity of their world. Such was a similar wavelength of love and love lost; she delighted in the serene pain of being a little love-struck, it was how Idalia waltzed towards many things. Enraptured by her own honeyed delusion, sticking her hands into places forbidden. Would she figure Lady Amarei to be of such prohibition? A woman deeply woven into something she once adored, one who had a far more voracious appetite than Idalia when it came to ambition.
She needn't know the other to know this; appetites recognized one another, even if they operated on different frequencies of sound, the song was still familiar. Angelic hues eclipsed by a tenebrous dark, a marble nymph warmed with faint amber tones, Amarei was something resplendent, even if her name could not carry a similar radiance.
Idalia, however, cared not for the blemishes a name could carry, for often hers was a privilege which granted freedom unbound. She related to more of a magpie, a scavenger of things both lustrous and polished. She walked to Amarei with intention, beaming with the radiance of a comet approaching its perihelion.
He leans towards him first, as if he had not heard, one hand still around the reins and keeping him astride the mare that Taemris had named. Traces the wound on his cheek, near his eye, with a covered knuckle. Gloves of dark leather hide the skin of his hands and are fastened around the wrist—but a smattering of blue and purple remains uncovered due to the folding of his sleeves, if only for someone with sharp eyes to see. “It is deeper than I thought.” Cian mumbles, Taemris still able to hear, and yet speaking only to himself.
And Cian had thought of him, if only fleetingly. An amusement of a thought, truly, after what had come to pass. It is good not to think, and what little Cian lingers on that had mattered and smarted now feels like nothing. Seeing Taemris, something attempts to carve its way out, slowly and struggling—even as Cian starts to smother it, non-chalant.
Cian tilts his head, curious. “Have you brought new omens, lord Morvaen? What do you herald now?” He leans back. “But alas, I do not have it with me.” It is almost apologetic. Almost. “I keep it under my pillow, as I sleep. In case there is any need of it—Something you surely understand. Plus a weapon forfeited is a weapon that now belongs to me… And I like it.” He shrugs. Likes the way his fingertip catches on the edges of the bone, the way it feels as if the skin will break, if he so pressed. “But I can be lenient and give it back to you—provided the payment is fair.”
✧˚ · . ─── Normally a harbinger of death's hands, his face twisted contemptuously as Cian dared to mock with each word. " I must remind you that your confidence merely stems from the luck of approaching me astride , " as if he were to pounce like an untrained dog upon the other once more. They were not in Braxigar any longer, however, their secrets out in the open; even places which the rays of Heliophran sun could not fully touch. Crueler still, was the reminder that he would not actually harm Cian. An instinct of ragged passion had led to his attack on the other, but he ensured himself that such would not happen again.
He was to face Cian's decision, no matter how fatal a choice it was to himself, a scaled creature eating their own tail. " The payment , " he'd laugh if such a sound did not seem so hollow and discordant coming from a Morvaen, shaking his head at the petulance which was only returned to his own tenfold.
Stalking closer, a slow trek as though not to spook Daystar, his head shifts to the side, studying Cian. If he were to move, lightning fast, he'd likely spook Cian more than the horse. And that alone worried him, for he'd recalled the other as steadfast instead of skittish. " And what lump sum had you paid for those ? " The question seems cruel as blood red eyes glance slowly towards shades of blue and purple, that which was barely hidden by cloth.
The wind tussles with his hair, black as midnight, black as an empty sky. There is a small crack in his usual steeliness, a slight slouch to the always rigid, impeccable posture of the Nuwa. There is this voice in him, tired and weary, that begs him to go back into the privacy of his chambers, turn around, forget her, forget all this—for whatever reason, though, he cannot compel his feet to move.
The lord offers her a nod, curt, a faint acknowledgement that it was him—despite everything, still him. Less and less, every day, but he still felt a flicker of himself there, lurking in the hollowed depths of this rotting shell. "They can't afford me." he answers, deadpan, speaking with all the unwavering ego of someone who had never been bested or humbled. Even in the pits of despair, his skill had never been cast into doubt—no man or beast could best a Nuwa. Except for maybe a certain e tiny brat whose name he's making an effort not to dwell on least it drives him further into this well of madness, the depths of which none could possibly fathom.
He watches the beetles, lovely and free, the flutter of their wings—and he is envious. They are not teetered by fear, or pride; they could fly away at any time, freedom just at their fingertips. His head tilts, sunken eyes moving to her once more, looking unamused. "Well," he starts, pointing at the balcony with an air of nonchalance. "I was gonna jump... but you got here first, so..." It's mostly jest. Mostly. Though perhaps there was some truth behind the sentiment, and the clawing hopelessness that spread through him like dust.
"Come on," he is not a gentle man, with a gentle mouth, with gentle hands to coax her out of whatever this is—he wishes he were; a better man, a better person. Alas, he cannot be anything but himself—this skulking shadow, looming over the deliriums of her troubled mind. "Away from the ledge, now." though cushioned in the softness of a request, it is unmistakably a demand; his voice softens where his eyes do not, wounded, and haunted—that violent, blood red shade of his ancestors that did not allow him to deny his nature—he pulls her at once, without hesitation—fingers gripping tightly, tugging hard but not painfully, bringing her to him, then—lifts that body with ease, as though she were a feather of a woman. There was barely time for protest as he plucked her from the ground and unceremoniously placed her before him, his body a wall, unmoving, framed against the night, standing before her and the abyss below. "If I can't do it, you can't do it." Said with all the pettiness of a child. He knows, he knows... a very unfair creature, he is. To crave oblivion and deny her in the very same breath.
✧˚ · . ─── Within the rotten pith of his humor there was candid truth, a substantial horror which was hard to accept. Damn you to hell for getting here first - words which had not been uttered, but words she had imagined, carved between each syllable he had spoken, and that was enough for Efigenia. Her blood had been aflame with passion, a cruel identity crisis which led to foul displacement. Amarei's rejection of who they once were set her completely ablaze, a sickness of house which had taken flight only in such rebuff. If her sister could not accept her damning aspirations then what, pray tell, had all of this been for? Whatever prophetic visions had draped themselves over her name . . . it had been her damning need to fulfil them.
But here she sat, spilling over the balcony as if she could truly take flight. No longer did she desire justice delivered to her name, no, she wished to make them kneel to her visions, cower under the truth of her blood. Her name had been cast, however, and none of the council so much as quivered at the idea. It only inspired her rage further, potent and unsightly, but her rage had moved little in the hearts of others.
Lord Sheng pulled at her, the woman of Graveholt truly weightless for a moment under the strength of Braxigar hoisting her from imminent quietus. She could have laughed again had her heart not caught in her throat. There'd never been any belief he'd toss her over, but her heart had plummeted all the same; the cruel reminder that her baseless chaos was ceased for the time being.
" You are already considered unsightly . You would never submit yourself to their truths by letting them crowd around your broken corpse . " This was not a challenge of his claims just a sad reminder of his alienation for simply being of a Braxigarian home. Even a Nuwa, with all their former loyalties to crownwearer, was a hideous thing to other hollows simply for his blood. She quieted for a moment, brushing the imaginary dust from her clothes as though he had stained them, her eyes panning up to focus on Sheng's visage; an angular moon cutting through the dark of night. " If I am not to win , you will have deep regrets for not allowing me to careen myself from the ledge sooner . " She could joke too no matter how inappropriate the material, the truth of her own joke eclipsing such harrowing subject. If she could not obtain the crown, what had this all been for ? What could all this be mustered up to save for futile sacrifice ?
one breath, then two. quietly she breathed while she listened to efigenia. she wasn’t wrong. he had been a pawn in a game that no one should have been forced to play. denma knew this. even if she has done her best to say nothing. there were lines she could not cross. lines she had to be careful of if she was to remain dutiful. neutrality was of the utmost importance for her family. even with the whispers of the dead. the fear of a rising, the fukuyama heir had done her best to remain steady while the rest of the world shook under turmoil.
a storm must be weathered. but how can one weather it when being faced by it on all sides? when a friend could easily turn into a foe? she listened as the other woman continued. her words gaining more strength and dare she say, rage. a venom lingering in the air after each syllable. so much so that whatever ire in her had been building in reaction to it all began to die. it was quickly replaced by worry.
in a flash and twinkling of bells, denma moved to place her hands on the sides of efigenia’s face. carefully, gently making sure her dark gaze moved to her and did her best to stop it from darting anywhere else. “look at me, my friend.” she whispered softly, bringing her forehead to the other’s hoping to breathe in something akin to peace between them. “listen to me. please,” she followed just as gently, a hand stroking the other woman’s cheek. hoping to still the madness filled beast that had always been lurking but in the current moment seemed impossible to conquer.
“this world has always been unkind. has always toyed with us –,” paused to breathe in a steadying breath. “you are not wrong.” it was the first thing she needed her long-time friend to know. to understand. what she was seeing wasn’t a lie. nor a trick being played in her mind. there were those that would use them all as pawns if possible. “but to burn is to destroy and there is nothing left to rule under that rubble. there is only ash that will give you no comfort. no joy. it will only be there to choke you. with no one else left to mourn you or feel victory with you.”
✧˚ · . ─── The silence was a deafening echo chamber; a reminder of her endless pursuit, this steep ascension to the madness of her home, what she had cast away with each step towards it. Hungry hands, wanting mouth; Efigenia had destroyed everything so effortlessly, with little remorse to the cause. Denma spoke to a calloused husk of whatever softness was once rooted within her. Graveholt was an empty, wanting pit, avarice abound; the castle would not obey to the neutralities of others. All they could do, even Efigenia herself, was look back upon the monstrous wave that had grown behind her and hope to survive the impact. An insistence which she had caused, something bridled with decay with which was still insatiable.
But then - her friend's hands were upon her cheekbones, pleading and fragile soft. Their foreheads were touched together and it felt like a curse, some cruel reckoning and the devastating reminder of all which she refused to hold in her own hands. Love had not nurtured her towards the shape of the woman she currently resembled. No, it had been love which abandoned her all those years alone under her growing ambitions. Rage and sickness of her house and name only saddled her further with rot. Love had not been apart of this story. But here it was still desperately trying to weasel itself into the cracks of her determination.
" Denma , " the name is choked out, a line which teetered between further anger and a similar plea. She could not falter when already she had gained such lethal momentum; it would split her in two if she were to pause and look at the path of devastation behind her. It would be a pyrrhic victory and she would let it be as such, so long as the crown rested atop her head. " I do not wish to be celebrated , nor do I vie to be mourned , " stubbornness was one of her greatest sins but she spoke these words neutrally, a reminder that this was her desire, her ruin. She had absolved Amarei of this sinking ship and thus so absolved Denma of it currently despite having pleaded for her vote moments ago.
" I have burrowed so deep , so long unto the gravesake of my house , there is little else to turn back towards than the soil which has fallen upon me . There is no turning back . I must see this all to the other side , " acrid anguish is on her tongue for she does not have regrets but she does have apologies for the friend who simply wishes for her to abandon everything. " One day you will understand . "
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Peace was profoundly underrated in such crowded spaces. Say what you would about the unorthodox reclusive nature of Nithiri Keep, at the least they could boast the ability to find plentiful space for one to be alone to their thoughts and innermost feelings. Cihan had been a new face to crowded grand halls and tea rooms, and, while his visage appeared to be a kind one, he was noticeably weary the longer he was in the presence of the court. Elaris Keep, while large and mighty, was not entirely meant to house such a multitude of velkynar, and her nearby city was practically bursting at the seams with bodies. The heat that rolled around was unbearable, sinking beneath the ornate green, gold and black doublet and robes that hung from his broad shoulders. He found himself often tugging at his collar, as if he could free the heat and welcome in the cool evening desert air. But this had done little to stave off the warmth which seemed to radiate off the sands and her people.
Wandering down wide corridors flanked by pillars and marble statues, Cihan ignored most of the splendor wrapped around him in favor of seeking an escape route, one that was not already occupied by others. He had already stumbled awkwardly into lovers holding clandestine meetings in sky gardens, or among those with sharp gazes and tongues theorizing what lay ahead in hushed tones. Their glances held a modicum of curiosity when the youngest Dagdelen passed by — a house shrouded in equal parts mystery and grief after what the recent moons had taken from them. Cihan did not show either his pain at having lost a brother, or how he felt of the other following along the same death strewn path. His expression remained devoid of much emotion, simply green-brown eyes seeking some respite.
When he had found that path, it was seemingly the most isolated avenue within the keep’s grounds, no sign of another upon the trail. He hadn’t even listened for the thud of knife upon wood, a howling desert wind that had carried sand fogging both his sight and hearing. He had also had his gaze aimed downwards upon the yellowed pages of a tome who's cloth binding was frayed, the gold embossed title practically rubbed off the spine. Treatise Of The Astrolabe had been written with bold script on the title page, and Cihan thumbed eagerly through the book as he walked down the narrow path. He had been curious about their astronomical measurements, after looking over some of the star charts within Elaris Keep’s library. He had thought their calculations looked a bit off, and finding a manual describing how the Heliophran astrolabe was made and used seemed like a good starting point for his sudden fixation with their shortcomings in this particular field. At least, it created a good distraction while they waited for the council to end the mystery and pageantry and tell them who was to wear the crown. The sooner such announcements were out of the way, the sooner he could return to his workbench and many unfinished studies and projects.
‘ Thyn Astrolabie hath a ring to putten on the thombe of thi right hond in taking the height of thinges. And tak kep, for from henes forthward —‘
Thump.
Stopping in his tracks, Cihan glanced away from the passage he had been skimming momentarily to look below and found a knife rooted in the earth between his boots. With one arched dark brow, he glanced upwards to see the figure perched in the low branch. He did not see a friendly face in the moonlight, but kept his expression mild as he carefully side stepped the blade. If the other velkynar would not voice his intention, then Cihan chose to do the same, merely moving forward into the small clearing and finding a spot against a tree (unmarked by throwing knife) to lean upon while looking up at the stars between reading. Unless this liege was of House Altinsoy (which seemed unlikely), he chose to remain calm and still, not allowing the knife toss to offend him. It was not the other’s place to claim, after all.
✧˚ · . ─── Frayed nerves and unsure ambitions housed his inner conscious; where Taemris seemed to vie to jump outside of his own skin, the assassin of Helia Bastion instead chose to coop himself up far away from the madness which he was certain would ensue. None such event of the velkynar had gone successfully since this pursuit of crown had began and though he had once half-relished in the destruction - for he found each house and hollow selfish and damning - Taemris had quickly grown tired of these useless charades which continued on. Death had not often been so substantial to be reckoned with at every gathering, but now it seemed a gift of fates, an unavoidable transaction which was enacted through each gathering for crown.
As Taemris thought of this, he channeled each throw as though he could certainly cut through each rope and band within the tree. Even with the Braxigarian strength of old, such did not slice through the tree, which only roused his discontent further. The staggering warmth of Heliophra was simply another wound to complain about. In an effort to silence his complaints, Taemris had found a clearing within the gardens which seemed less traveled by. There had been hushed whispers through each pocket and clearing, but none such seemed likely to wish upon wasting their steps towards this very corner of the garden. He was certain the lack of canopy overhead was to blame; no thick guard of branches to protect them if they lost themselves to whatever secrets the garden left them to.
He had enjoyed this, within his coiling ire, a useless emotion with nothing to pour the foul sentiment towards. He'd played this cyclical game - tossing several daggers, slipping from the branch to procure them, repeat - for a few hours until this one crept forth.
A book in hand, a faraway and dreamlike look cast within the reflection of their eyes. It was part of why Taemris had thrown the dagger between his feet, something of a spiteful volley from the assassin, petulant and silly considering they were mere and perfect strangers. Taemris wished to scowl, a rebuttal readied upon his tongue, yet the other said nothing, merely skirting out of the way of what had been driven into the dirt between his feet.
Well, that was odd. Taemris blinked, his head cocked to the side, wholly perplexed. So often these velkynar of other hollows and homes needed to reply, to shout, to impose themselves as the center of the universe. This one's silence was strange. Somewhat dumbfounded, he slipped hastily from the tree branch - an effortless descent considering his strengths - before collecting his dagger from the ground, staring at it within his own palm. He lingered on this as the other made himself quite comfortable, minutes passing, as silence further shrouded them within the sanctuary of the clearing. This would not do.
As such - thump. Taemris expertly tossed the dagger to soar through the air, the blade digging into the soft wood next to the other's shoulder. A miniscule spray of bark was barely an annoyance, but if he wished to communicate this way, Taemris had no trouble with obliging; the assassin had never been proficient with his words.
𝖜𝖍𝖔: idalia eluwe && @moonvcils. (seren)
𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊: probably the library? hehe
𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖓: current timeline
✧˚ · . ─── She noticed the warmth of her first, the flickering vestige of a honeyed candle and the faint remnant of the flame. Such was locked behind a simple braid and the most unassuming garment. Oh this would not do. A Tenelith, one curated from the eternal beguilement of Vallarion it would be a great injustice to let her fall behind the spectacles of knowledge, to let her beauty fade into the powdery scent of moths and woven pages.
A thick canopy of garnet, brilliant shades of red or green to hold her; that would suit the lady of Vynetwist, and Idalia, for all of her passions and color theories, would be very insistent upon this. She should be a a vibrant fern, housed under the unfurling hint of morning sun. Yes, Idalia could tweak this exceptionally for she had brought a dozen suitcases despite practically being a neighbor to Elaris Keep.
Perhaps too peculiar, too whimsical for this dark world, Lady Idalia wasted no time in introducing herself, a curtsey offered in greeting, " My lady , do you fear the spell you may strike others into if you were to lavish yourself in glitter and gold ? " Already, her mind spun with what shades could reflect in the endless mirror of Seren's gaze and what magic could spill forth if the other simply allowed her to begin.
𝖜𝖍𝖔: idalia eluwe && @graeclings. (silas)
𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊: eluwe chambers in elaris keep
𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖓: current timeline
✧˚ · . ─── He'd changed so drastically since the latest pursuit of crown. From gypsum to diamond, he'd hardened as though in dire need of protection towards what was to come. Self preservation was always rife with sacrifice and already she yearned for the dreamer her brother was often so inspired to be. This was not something met with grievances, however, Idalia rife with her own inspirations and dreams, the youngest of the Eluwe holding out a royal blue shawl coated so heavily with sapphire gems it likely took her several weeks and months to put it together in all its glittering glory.
" This is for when you ascend , Sy . " A devouring shade of blue, star-inspired and opalescent, Idalia smiled as though becoming crownwearer would not be a permanent affliction which would eclipse all else, " You or our dearest sibling for it can easily be regifted . " She had to tease and affix her rose-colored glasses for she would not let the feud of Silas and the middle born destroy their bond and house.
𝖜𝖍𝖔: idalia eluwe && @prodigxlis. (ruoxi)
𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊: somewhere deep in the gardens
𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖓: current timeline
✧˚ · . ─── Delicate and demure, like flowers sprouting atop a grave, it was not within Lady Idalia's wheelhouse to possess anything which could wound or maim. She stared at the weaponry, finding this simple, albeit lethal, molding of silver to be uninspiring, but she smiled wildly down upon it as though a dozen vivid images of how she could make it beautiful sprung to mind. " My lady , this weaponry insults you . "
Beauty carved of marble, polished like an incandescent pearl, Idalia shook her head at the sword which seemed so plain compared to the vivid robes and jewels the Heliophran knight of Dawnmyre often seemed so spun up within. Idalia knew if she were to clench her palms around the blade, her blood would spill like glittering rubies, the hues of an eternal sunrise spilling from her veins. She refrained though her fingers flexed, hovering over the sharpness of the blade, entirely inept when it came to swordsmanship.
" If you have brought me here to spar , you will wound me so and with great ease , " her smile was vividly sweet, wisps of honey smothering a glinting jewel.
𝖜𝖍𝖔: idalia eluwe && @celcstine. (kali)
𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊: within one of their private chambers
𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖓: not long after the most recent announcement
✧˚ · . ─── Moonlights and orchids, she was the prime example of such radiance in the dark. Idalia could feel the instability and inquietude of everyone else and seemed to work in overtime to convert such energy into something good; nothing rotten or wretched should ever be given a chance to prosper. An adamant dreamer she'd lost track of time, plucking the most lustrous and gleaming of flowers from the gardens of Elaris Keep before half-sprinting back to her dearest friend who was certainly expecting her.
The flowers were nearly spilling over from her arms, deposits of splendid, butter yellow and striking ivory blue. With haste, she nearly burst through the door of the bed chambers, smiling wide at Lady Kali, " Oh , you must forgive me , Kali , " breathless and smiling wide, " I had been nearly on the way when I saw these forget-me-nots and morning glories just bursting in the gardens . They were begging to come back with me . "
She glanced down, scanning for a perfect bloom amidst the bountiful harvest Idalia had granted as her own to take and craft into something beautiful; another crux of fashion amidst pearls and gold. " This one pleaded most earnestly to be yours , " the morning glory would be striking against Kali's complexion.
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"I know a semblance of peace shall be restored by the forthcoming declaration of the new crownwearer. But do you too, feel a sense of disquiet creeping in at the prospect? We are to have a new champion, supposedly; but I have little faith in the idea of change." It is with Brannon, that Elowen can speak so freely --- it is not merely the years of friendship they have shared, but a sacred vow cast within their hollow. Brannon is at least, spared the threat of ascendency; though Elowen privately held the belief the next crownwearer would find their position precarious, and hard to maintain.
The sun above them has been sweltering, and has blossomed into an oppressive influence -- Elowen did not crave the dark, but its rays were traitorous illuminating her features and their every micro expression. Seated in a small garden, she is at least comforted by a degree of privacy; they have only the demure bubbling of a fountain beside their bench as notable company. Having paused enough to afford a degree of reflection, words brew in her throat once more; some force has compelled her to speak. "Dear Rhyaenna has made a mighty choice -- how do you feel about such a thing, as her ascending to the crown? I would be delighted, in a sense; but I care for her too much to pretend it is not a frightening thing."
✧˚ · . ─── Destiny and doom felt so inextricable from one another; daunting concepts which became stronger as the decision for crownwearer grew heavier around them. The blaze near the great oak still perplexed him, this curiosity marred and piqued only by pure rage, a sentiment not normally found within the Caldrithen. Anger - a useless emotion he'd often find, but one he felt so strongly as each day passed. Rhyaenna casting her name for crown only intensified this, though it was a clear reminder that anger was only the close relation of fear misguided. He frowned as Elowen spoke, for he knew this topic was coming. Both trusted one another to speak candidly but that often did not make this any easier for him to discuss.
" It is a fool's mission , " noted bitterly and with some tangible pit of remorse tacked to the statement. " Even if one with no ties is to win , plucked from the dark and posited for this crown , there will always be one who is unhappy . One who demands further change , " the truth of this felt like acid on his tongue, " The crown is double-edged , it will cut the wearer just as easily as it will cut those on the other side of it . " Already, it felt as if he was in mourning for his niece. " Tell me , Elowen , you will not vote for her . " He did not wish to take the agency of his closest friend's decision but he spoke in earnest when it came to ensuring Rhyaenna would not ascend to this.
They can see the shift to her eyes, but can do nothing for it. Just weather the storm, feel the wind lash at their skin with the same force of the whip of her words. Ásta does not flinch, but still they cringe, shoulders rising towards their ears. Were they stronger, the hand still on the lyre would make the wood creak—as it is, all it does is tremble, cowed as their fears are given form through her words. “That's—That is—You’re speaking treason!” The words are appalled and distressed both, Ásta looking aghast. “My vote belongs to my house, not yours!”
“Plus, you—you—you know there is no way the Council will ever choose you.” Ásta is scrambling now, and wisdom escapes them in front of Efigenia’s sharpness. There is laughter in their voice, not cruel but nervous disbelief. “They’ll choose one of those tamer ones, likes the ones from Morkhul.” Vaelor and Efigenia were both too tough, like Drakathar's miles of stone, and the Council enjoyed its malleable softness. It is the only relief whenever they considered the others in the race, each one less notable than the one that came before.
Ásta looks away, then, at the floor with eyes wide in pain. Any mention, any allusion of Ivar made them sick. And now, they feared even more at the implications of what she spoke. Ásta had promised to stay at Draegor if Vaelor called for it, but could they? They had not, not ever since or before death had taken Ivar away, spent long alone in its halls, bereft of their brothers’ company. No, but the rattle of dragon wings would be enough, surely, to make them stay, but, but.
“Stop, I do not know what you mean with your words.” They lie, hoping that will make her think them too dumb, make her turn away. They look uncomfortable in their own skin, shifting in place, their gaze rooted to the dirt. “You should be careful. She cares for you, I’m sure and—and would not wish for you to throw your life away for something as this. Who wants such an accursed thing?”
✧˚ · . ─── A laugh, leeched with tenebrous inflections, fell from her lips at the mention of treason. So far, were they, beyond this sentiment, Nocturnia's embrace long polluting each house and hollow before this very moment. " You are a Malaric , " Efigenia seethed, eyes akin to serpentine daggers, " Act like it . Where is your spine , Ásta ? Have you lost in on your journey home ? " Her eyes were cast upon them as though she were an orbweaver and they had come to be ensnared into the silk of her web.
Even within vengeance tainted by madness, Efigenia manages her wit as though tailored for this very cause. Avarice drips into her tone, a fierce wanton for something she could never have, but the Lady of the grave seethes and yearns still. Her house would be more than this long forgotten keep, draped in cobwebs and fine lines of dust. It would be substantial, it would be horrific. She had been but a small creature when the house had taken her in it's embrace, still young, still yearning, ever ambitious. But even now, it had been as though Graveholt had grown around her and each twitch or movement could be felt so keenly by the monstrous nature of the house that Efigenia was simply bewitched by it still.
If not for her, all was for Graveholt. " You find that those in Morkhul are tame ?! " she grinned then, uncanny nearly, mostly for what she'd come to know of Ophelia stirring in her mind. She did not find anything about that woman tame and such was a compliment. She could see the wide eyed absurdity in their reaction, the wanton to simply turn and run from this conversation. It only made Efigenia all the more hellbent in her pursuit, though she was certain they would never understand even if she cried it from atop the rooftops in rage.
" We all have such foibles , but Amarei's care for me is not large enough to destroy herself , " these words were laced with intention, staggering from the precipice of her own hurt when it came to their last conversation as sisters. " Accursed thing , " Efigenia refrained from laughing once more , though her lips curved into a smile like a scythe, " Vaelor wants it . Is that not enough for you to get up and do something other than tune your insipid lyre ? "
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