[ Prince Kurth of Grannvale ]

He dared to pry into her lovely eyes, as loneliness was an ailment only cured by company. Kurth could only wish to tell her that whatever ugly emotion left her lips was prone to heartbreak, to the tatters of a worn silk, but never truly poison. Not to him. He was of the notion that she need not be idealized, only cared for, seen, for who she was. It was in these moments he thanked Naga that she un-assumed all the masks of society for him. “I can hardly imagine that under all the masks you must wear, that I should require you to put on another. Let yourself be, dear Cigyun. You are in no wrong, feeling as you do.” Kurth leaned in gently, allowing a quiet breath to be shared between them.

It was a little known fact, but the sheer bitterness of her voice could only be mirrored by the pit in his stomach. It only grew in times like these, when Victor Velthomer knew no pride but the one hanging below his filthy belt. He wanted nothing more than to watch Cigyun, strong as she was, vibrant as she was, to one day tear through the string and watch those pearled stars fall out of place.

Changing strides, as easily as a sea of morning glories, he turns them thrice fold, sifting them in lovely, rounded pivots. Her skirts flounced, ribbons and pearls curling and catching against candle light. His closest friend always did have enough light in her eyes to carry the entire ballroom on her shoulders. She was like a pillar of indominable hope, in a world hardened by the fallible truth, and the infallible lies. “Perhaps I will allow you to speak briefly on my behalf then. You may be able to convince them to allow me just a slight budget. We are not so poor that we should neglect our people’s more gentler inclinations.”

His smile was showing the same gleam he had when he prided himself of a bad joke. But even when it was all in jest, he wondered if something like that would work. Kurth wasn’t a fool, but a strategist after all. “Nevermind that.” The hand pressed to her side, clasped at her hip ever affectionately. It was so effortless to dance as though they knew each other to the very core, and as though their hands knew the ease of familiarity. “Though if it would please you…” Guiding his other hand to turn her towards the center of the floor, where all could witness them. “Perhaps we ought to visit my private garden. I haven’t taken you in quite some time.”

“If you find yourself in need of distraction, you may write to me—that I should return the favor, twofold.” A fond twinkle in his eye never left her sight.

@fillespreferees

Kurth claims she can remove her masks for him and perhaps she can with most of them.  She does not have to play the role of obedient wife or perfect mother or graceful duchess.  He does not expect her to be perfect and even encourages her to let her imperfections shine through.  It breaks her heart that she must continue to hide her biggest secret from her dearest friend.  He is the scion of Saint Heim, the inheritor of the Book of Naga.  Cigyun shudders to think how his opinion of her might change if he ever learned of the dark blood that flows through her own veins.  

Could he still care for her if she bared her soul completely for him?

Cigyun isn’t given much time to consider that.  She is far too distracted by the way Kurth leans in just slightly.  Her heart races and she must fight to keep her breaths steady.  She wonders if he knows just what he does to her.  It would be so easy to give in to base emotion and allow herself to see him as more than just a friend but she is better than that.  She is better than her bastard of a husband.  

“Thank you, Kurth,” she whispers close to his ear lest anyone else hear just how familiar she is with the crown prince of her country.  It’s hardly proper but, with how kind he has always been to her, it is hard not to see him as a friend first and a superior second.  “I do not know how I would manage to suffer through these things without your constant support.  I’d have no dances if it weren’t for you.  Everyone else is far too fearful of Lord Victor’s jealous wrath.”

The prince continues leading their dance and turns them away from her husband and the pretty young thing he’s managed to snare in his net, pulling Cigyun’s eyes from them and allowing her to focus solely on him.  He smiles and, as bitter as her heart has become, she always finds herself able to smile with him.  “If you thought it would work and that your advisors would listen to anything I have to say, I hope you know that I would glady lend my voice to your cause.”

Their dance continues and this time he leads her into the center of the dance floor.  She can feel the eyes of the other attendees on her as she is twirled about but they are not the typical looks of pity.  No, these are curious glances as they undoubtedly wonder why Prince Kurth chooses to dance with a married woman and not any of the eligible young ladies in attendance.  

One particular set of eyes burn with anger hotter than the fires of Valflame as prince smiles effortlessly and invites her to his private gardens. Cigyun might almost enjoy her husband's fury if she did not know all too intimately what it is like to be on the receiving end of his wrath. He is far too cowardly to ever say something to the prince himself but his wife is different. She is his and he knows that she knows it.

[ Victor Velthomer ]

“Impose? No, no. Cigyun—” The lingering of her name on her tongue is as sweet as dew. “You would never impose upon me,” Victor answered swiftly, too swiftly, after a glance up of the evident curves divulged under her wet attire. His remission was accompanied by foresight, hindsight, and the precious little that veiled her… sincerity. While he doesn’t look away, his gaze rested in sly observation of her wind-swept hair and rose-drawn cheeks, as he decided too easily on his next move. There’s a manner in which he holds himself that commits to pride like it’s his very religion. Even when Victor Velthomer humbled himself, he was, in essence, a proud man sewing prouder seeds. “I would be more than willing to allow you refuge into my home. You are quite fortunate, milady!”

“Given that you are in the company of the one Duke of Velthomer, I must insist that you trouble yourself no longer.” His arrogance would almost be unbecoming if his smirk weren’t so charming, equivocally. He rendered himself a man of duel parts confidence and substance, as he parted ways with his thick, outer coat to clasp over her heart. Resting his clasped hand on her tender torso, he united their efforts by pulling her in to grasp the coat end with him. “Stay warm, miss. I’ve no such conscience to leave you in the rain.”

Letting go, his gesture of warmth reveled in a brush of their knuckles. Whistling, with his thumb cuffed lightly against his lips, Victor signaled to his personal coachman. The poor fellow perked up from the corner he was neatly tucked in, like a wet falcon roosted for the night. In the glimpse of a second, the coach panned towards them, and the doors to her salvation opened without inquiry. Seems as though salvation was accustomed to haphazard, heartrending companionship. Victor offered her his hand to raise her onto the coach.

“Now, won’t you tell me about yourself, my girl? You look as though you’ve been running from ghosts.”

Cigyun cannot believe how fortunate she is.  Her whole life she’s been told that she’s cursed.  Cursed by her blood.  Cursed by her beauty.  So cursed that she cannot ever step foot outside of the forest lest terrible things befall both her and the entire world.  And yet here she is!  The forest is long behind her and her luck is turning around.  Not only is this man offering her shelter but he is a duke!

Her eyes widen as the sound of horse hooves clop closer down wet cobblestones bringing an elegant coach with them.  She’s never seen anything so magnificent.  There had been a handful of times she had been allowed to accompany one of the other women of the Spirit Forest into Marpha for the marketplace but nothing in Marpha was ever as lovely as anything belonging to a duke.

She takes Victor’s offered hand and climbs up into the carriage.  It is even more extravagant on the inside.  Fingertips run softly over the crimson silk velvet cushions of the seats and she wonders if she should truly be allowed to sit.  She has never touched such expensive fabric before and here he is using it for something like cushions!  Her skirts are stained with mud and now drip puddles onto the polished wooden floor.  This man is far above her station yet he treats her like a princess!

He joins her and she does finally sit beside him though she feels terribly guilty at what her presence is doing to the seat cushions.  And then he asks her about herself.  What does she say?  She certainly cannot tell him her truth.  Even as kind as he is, he would surely throw her back into the street should he learn that she carries the Dark God’s blood in her veins.  And that would be if she was lucky!  But she must give him something.  

Prince Kurth, for better or for worse, had always been a considerably stern fellow with a penchant for crossing no lines he could not personally abide by, regardless of the pressures placed upon him by the state. Lines, moral or political all the same, were within his domain. He had the sort of doggedness to his high ground that no man could shake, and he curated an almost stoic, unquestionable air to his manner of decision making. A fair man he must have been, for he commanded respect by being true to his own values—values that, even when crossing the most outspoken of men, could not be condemned. For he was spotless. Frustratingly so. What sentimentalities he had, what gentleness he could provide, was hidden from the Royal Court. (For fairness could only be considered fair if he favored no one and everyone equally, correct?)

“Haha… Then, if I were to play with you, I would take the fall and play out of key.” His eyes gleaned of dancing lights. “My old tutors would be unable to look me in the eye.”

As he found himself in a bout of amused, almost soft-hearted laughter, that reputable, sobering side to him was no where to be seen. This gap in his personality could be caused by none other than the Duchess of Velthomer, his one and only exception. (His very own clause of omission, given her unyielding attachment to the duke of her titular house.) They could share nothing and everything together, and, by the nature of their unshaken loyalty to their own creeds, were spared some of the more scathing scrutiny of high society.

“Surely…” With her dainty hand answering to his, Kurth bowed in response, ushering a fresh wave of gossip in his midst. Her lavender locks rolled over her shoulders in tragic beauty, and he could simply not keep her eyes off of her. “It would please me quite much.” His gloved thumb ran quietly across the back of her hand, so subtle a motion he wondered if she would even notice.

He wished to comfort her in some way… and the crinkles by his eyes as he smiled hinted of more than sympathy. To him, this exception— this extraordinary connection of theirs— was valued so deeply, he wanted her to be seen for more than a mere object of pity. As the candlelight danced in their wake, every pair of eyes were on them for just a moment, to remind Grannvale that she was no mere faint flame. Pressing her hand into the nook of his arm, he lead her onto the dance floor and settled into the limelight with an accustomed assurance to his poise.

“And how has my fair confidant been faring?” Poor word play, but he did not have any formal training in good humor, did he? He laughed quietly, entertained by his own sorry sense. As the violinists began their swell and tremblings, Kurth rested his hand gracefully on her side and pulled her respectfully close. He pressed their palms together, raising them up to turn in sweeping circles. “I, for one, have been getting no headway against my advisors so far.”

As the bass reached a lull, he closed the distance between them, capturing her glittering gaze and the pearls that spilled off her hair. Between just the two of them, he murmured brightly. “Though, I suppose the state has no time for flower gardens, does it? What a shame. I was hoping that my suggestions for preservation sites would be better received.”

A tinge of pink dusts across Cigyun’s face as she imagines playing a duet with Kurth.  They’d sit together, laughing as their hands continue to bump into each other.  Ah, she’d like that very much.  Perhaps she will hold him to such a promise another time when there are less prying eyes and less jealous husbands about.

She sucks in a breath as the prince’s thumb rubs against her hand.  It’s rather bold of him but she quite likes it.  Kurth has a certain charm to him that Victor could never dream to emulate.  Everything he does is so genuine. From the way he looks at her to the way he inquires about her thoughts. Victor drew her to him with honeyed words and empty promises. Kurth only needs to smile.

But she cannot be drawn to him at all!

And yet she still allows herself to be tempted as she is led onto the dance floor. It could easily be mistaken for something innocent by an onlooker if they did not know the secrets her heart keeps. It is simply a kind man taking pity on a lonely woman who has not had a dance all evening. But she smiles brighter for him than she has in ages and she laughs at his attempt at humor. When was the last time she laughed like this? And as the distance between two friends closes, she wishes he would pull her closer still.

[ Victor Velthomer — Husband, almost. (Trust him, won’t you?) ]

To be honest, it’s almost unfair how bottomless desire is, like an ache that snakes down the length of his soul only to never find a foothold. It aches, it yearns, it writhes in emptiness, and yet it finds comfort in simple pleasures in place of substantial ones. Victor never needed to prove to the world he was full. Twenty-six and full of vigor, he just needed to prove his smirk could still charm (empty as it was) and his fingers could still wrap around the little notch of a woman’s wrist (as starved as they were.) He wants because he is as he is. He is because he wants as he wants.

And the moment her soft cherub skin and slender neck let off a pale light under the torches, he felt renewed. What a bastard he was, Victor thought, with a smirk striking his lips. He craved company. But more than that, he suffered the grand affliction of human desire. Hell— (he whistled as he crossed the street, twirling his walking stick)—maybe he was in the mood for love.

The rain anchored on in silence.

Clicking his tongue, even a bold-faced lie like that was enough for him to roll his eyes. Right. Even he couldn’t believe that. Now… where had she gone? Victor had never seen the likes of her around these parts, and he had pressed his hands into every notch he could manage. So it could only mean one thing—she did not know her worth quite yet. Sad, pretty little pair of eyes she was. As he spotted tufts of her lavender locks disappear into Wolfbane’s Swill, he quickened his pace to make sure she wasn’t snared by the usual riff-raff around these parts. She couldn’t be eaten alive like that—not when his desire was infinitely more refined than the likes of incorrigible trash.

Now… what was it? Should he give her ten more seconds? Counting down right in front of the establishment’s doors, he endeavored to stay back just long enough for trouble to brew. In fact, he took off his cap and held the sopping thing out from under the roof. (Three… two…) Pushing the doors open with relative ease, Victor sighed at the ever predictable lack of wit that was shared by the trash around these parts. And he pressed his walking stick into the blundering fool’s shoulder. “What’s a woman got to keep warm with, when you don’t have half a wit to light even a candle?”

The stranger reared around with his fists tight, only to meet a soaking wet cap to the face. A slip of fingers rolled around the pretty, little wrist of a woman who did not know her worth quite yet. “Run, dear girl! Run!” The first shared glance they had was one where he couldn’t help but grin instead of scowl—in retrospect, her gemstone eyes had his greed acting shamelessly. He scoffed in amusement, pulling her away from a mere fool’s grasp into his and forcing her to follow him out the doors.

“Hungry as you are, you can’t enter a wolves’ den, you know!” Shooting her an entertained look over his shoulder, he rushed both of them under one roof to the next. They scattered like coins, catching the sprinkling rain on the ends of their coats and low-hanging skirts. It was a curse to be winded after just a little run (pathetic, really), but he hadn’t had this kind of rush in such a long time. He supposed it was worth it.

“The name is Victor.” He managed to introduce himself, winded as he was. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he rolled his hand into hers and squeezed it to his gold threaded tunic. “And what of you, my pearl?”

“If you’re tired from your travels, I could take you to my home. It’s better than being eaten alive.”

@fillespreferees

The door creaks open and what happens next almost feels scripted. A well dressed stranger enters just in time to interrupt the man from pulling her onto his lap. A full and busy tavern and not a soul even spares a glance in her direction until this kind stranger.

It’s not how she was told the outside world would treat her.

It doesn’t take much effort on his part to send the handsy drunkard stumbling backward and free Cigyun from his grasp.  She feels like the damsel in a story rescued at the exact perfect moment.  She looks up to meet with eyes that burn with a fiery desire and she can feel her cheeks grow hot as butterflies dance in her stomach.

A new hand finds her wrist but this one is warmer, gentler.  He tells her to run and she does, following obediently behind him.  Cigyun is glad for the guidance and direction.  As much as she had been warned and forbidden against even speaking with men, she was never taught what to do should she ever meet one.  

Out of the tavern and safe, they stop for breath.  She had not realized just how cold her fingers were until the warmth of his hand wraps around hers.  For the first time since she fled her forest, Cigyun feels safe and at ease.

“Cigyun, milord,” she answers for he must be a lord now that she is able to spare more than a fleeting glance at her rescuer.  She has never seen anyone dressed in such fine clothes before.  Is this what the damsel feels after the prince in her story slays monsters for her?  It’s an excitement like she’s never quite experienced.  She doesn’t know exactly how to put words to it but she does know she doesn’t want him to let her go.

“I do not want to impose on your kindness anymore than I already have.  I have nothing to offer in return but I have nowhere else to go.”  She is painfully aware, now, of how soaked to the bone she is.  Her gown clings uncomfortably to cold, pale skin and silver curls stick to her cheeks.

Growing up in the Spirit Forest Village had never been simple but, as Cigyun grew into adulthood, it became impossible.  With only her caretakers for company, she’s grown restless.  The air began to suffocate and the treeline began to close in until there was only one thing she could think to do to remedy her situation and, on the night of her eighteenth birthday, Cigyun ran away.

She knew the risks.  She’d been told her whole life about the curse of her blood.  She knew what would be done to her if her Loptyrian heritage was discovered.  But she could be careful!  She could keep it hidden!  And truly, she had been willing to risk it all for a taste of the freedom denied to her by the circumstances of her birth.

It was still an impulsive choice.  A moment of teenage rebellion without planning.  And now Cigyun finds herself cold, hungry, lost, and alone.  It is not the glamorous and exciting life she had imagined for herself.  She is free to see the world and live as she pleases but she had not considered what she would need to take care of herself.

After days of travel, she happens upon a tavern and inn.  It’s clearly been established to give travelers a place to rest off the main road.  As night rolls in, the skies open up and rain begins to pour down.  She cannot imagine spending another night out under the open sky in weather like this and her belly does grumble loudly.  Drawn by the lights inside and the smell of cooking food, Cigyun ventures inside.

She avoids eye contact as she enters and pretends she does not notice the way men stare as she approaches the innkeeper at the bar.  “Please sir, I only have a few gold pieces but I can cook and clean.  I just need a place to stay tonight.  It doesn’t even have to be a bed!”

A stranger leans in with a wicked grin and takes hold of her by the arm.  “No worries love.  Keep your gold and come share a bed with me!  I’ll keep you warm all night long.”

Early life thots

Grew up in the spirit forest duh

But like I don't think it was as you cannot ever leave ever as it was with Dee 

Like maybe she goes into town sometimes to get supplies 

She's a weird forest girl who hangs out with birds and little creatures though 

Running away with Victor

I wouldn't be surprised if the lopt cult has something to do with luring her out of the forest. Like they know about her clearly and it's to their benefit that she dips

She's free spirited, lonely, bored, etc

I think he's charming at first. Sweeps her off her feet kind of thing. She falls hard and fast and ignores any red flags but he probably is hiding them too. 

Maybe they even get to be happy for a lil wouldn't that be nice I want that for her very badly

So she runs away

Or maybe like she runs away first because she's you know a hormonal and rebellious teenager

Naive forest girl on her own is a terrible idea

So maybe Victor finds and rescues a beautiful mysterious girl like his son does in the future 

Life with Victor

It's a big fucking change going from forest hobo to duchess of Velthomer but she's so lovely she seems suited to it

When Arvis is born he becomes her whole entire world

She can't leave for multiple reasons (I don't think she has any idea how to even get home, husband is a powerful man, etc) but Arvis is what's keeping her heart there

Azelle's mom is her best bestie and they're like super tight and it's very important to me

Spoils the fuck outta Arvis!

But like there's a very obvious sadness that's always in her eyes just a melancholy air about her

She tries to hide it around Arvis but he's a smart kid I can't imagine he wouldn't pick up on it even at such a young age :(

There's part of her that likes being bougie too I think for sure

Running away from Victor

Prince Kurth is actually nice to her! Like really legitimately nice! Of course she likes him!

I want them to start out as friends

They don't rush into it probably because she's afraid of Vicky 

But like eventually shit happens

And by shit I mean Deirdre 

That one speculation that they work together to murder Victor is so spicy and I love it but like it's also fun if he's just a selfish jerk ya know

She finds out she's pregante and oh fuck that's bad she knows why she can't have kids she's gotta get bad to the forest fuck

Maybe Kurth helps her flee? She'd need money and shit

Or maybe she can't bring herself to face him and tell him the truth about her stinky blood so she sneaks away from him

She gets back to the forest and is like I'm sorry I fucked up help me birth this kid

Dies in childbirth because she's so fucking depressed and stressed 

"Your highness...! I apologize. It is- improper of me to have run into you here."

//melady at guinivere

The holidays aren't easy for Guinivere. Where most people are filled with joy and spending time with their families and loved ones, it only serves as a reminder to her of what she's lost. The weight on her heart has never felt heavier. It is not an easy burden she bears.

She has not paid much attention to the festive decorations hanging about in an attempt to force herself into thinking of it as just another day. But Melady draws focus to the mistletoe now hanging over their heads and the flustered look on the other woman's face manages to curl the edges of Guinivere's mouth into a smile. She leans in to press a simple kiss to her dear friend's cheek.

Altena doesn’t answer.  Not right away at least.  Of course her mother would say something like this but daughter wonders if her feelings would remain the same if she knew everything.  Umber eyes refuse to meet pink.  This is easier than it would be if she was meeting Prince Quan--no, her father.  But it doesn’t make it any easier.

Would her mother still feel the same way and cherish each moment if she knew how much her daughter wishes he was here too?  The man who raised her.  The man rescued a crying little girl out of the desert.  The man who was the reason for those tears in the first place.

Would Ethlyn still smile at her?  Love her?

There are a surprising number of people Tina’s own age recruited into Leif’s army but they’re all just so.  Dull.  Or responsible.  She supposes she should be pretty used to it by now.  Lady Linoan is her age but, even before the occupation of Tahra, she shared much more of her temperament with Tina’s older sister than with Tina herself.  But still, if she pushed hard enough, Tina could sometimes convince Linoan to join in on some of her less intense antics.  Braggi knows the duchess needs it!  She works way too hard!

Linoan would never condone the particular mischief Tina has up her sleeve today though.  And worse, she’d probably tell Safy about it!

The cleric turned thief has another idea, though.  That weird girl, the new one--Sara she thinks her name is.  She’s...odd, sure but the mischievous glint in her eye is undeniable and Tina could use a partner and a friend.  She’s pretty sure Sara could use the same.

"Aw, come on Sig! You know I'm tougher than I look!" Ethlyn reaches out to give her dear brother a playful punch bunch winces before her fist can connect with his shoulder. Edain warned her against too much physical activity but she didn't think she was hurt that bad. Her arm slides back to her side and she pouts.

"And don't even say it, alright. I know I was reckless but I'm alive, aren't I? And that enemy is not going to hurt anyone else ever again. So just drop it."

She's supposed to be the responsible one. The one who keeps Sigurd and their father in line and from being too impulsive. But she saw an opening and she had to take it! If she hadn't risked herself, someone else might have gotten hurt worse.