Hands flat with fingers locked on the table, Irelia sits motionless and stares. Staring, specifically-- she might be too tired to glare, too stern to glance, so her gaze is as even as the edge on one of Master Lito's blades. Only the quiet tingling of the onus unsteadies the silence before Irelia speaks. "Syndra." The onus flashes yellow, then wrinkles into electric blue. "I hope you know that I left my title of Elder at your castle's entrance."
“It’s hardly a castle, Irelia. I am no ruler.”
She might have the same greed for power as your average monarch or elder, but Syndra hardly cared for anything bigger than that - no love for her people or her country, that’s for certain.
The rigidness that anchors Irelia’s fingers to the table crawls up her spine, forcing Syndra to hold her back painfully straight. Outwardly she hopes it appears as confident posturing and a superior glare down her nose. Tension does not befit one who is in complete control of the situation.
Which Syndra was beginning to think was never really the case when it came to Irelia.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” she asks, quite softly but terribly laced with malice. The weight Irelia claims to have shed stills hangs over them - it always has, always will.
“You forsake them by coming here, and you forsake me by returning to them. Does spurning every manner of vow you have ever made never get tiring, Captain?”
She poises it as a real question, but an impatient wave of Syndra’s hand cuts off any chance Irelia had at a response. She matches Irelia’s stiff pose, fingers splayed flat across the table she now leans over, her spheres hovering behind her shoulders, reminiscent to Master Lito’s blades.
“You cannot keep this up forever,” she hisses. “Pick a side, Irelia.”
Syndra will never be rightfully regal, but she was born to be commanding.
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