apricity

In endless cycles, she'd not spared a moment to learn. In their war against time, the mortals had no time to grieve their dead. They had never died at all. In the end, all were rewound, time reversed to a point before they existed. In that sense, could you truly call it a ‘death?’

Ironic, she supposes now, leveling the dirt beneath her hands. To say that they had no time, when it was in fact she who robbed them of it. None of them would have been buried like those who rest here. Their destiny was to be unwound, again and again.

Perhaps this is her sorry kind of repentance. In the end, she never wished for them all to meet their ends. Because, in the end...she would be alone. But this is her fate as much as their unmaking was theirs.

At the voice, Kvasir rises, a hand reaching up instinctively to tug the hood so often pulled over her head even lower and shield herself from prying eyes. But it sits around her shoulders now and her hand instead curls around air. It hovers there a beat, then lowers to clutch at it by her neck instead, fingers tangling themselves through the silk.

Pink and gold searches through the night to find the voice's owner, lips pressing into a flat line. The grave she stands at is only halfway righted, dirt still gathered haphazardly around the tombstone. Several others are in similar states. “I...” An exhale. “I only wished to help. Should that, too, be a disturbance, I will take my leave.”

Help, she muses to herself with a scoff. As though she might deign to call it as such when it is entirely self-serving. What kind of goddess seeks to atone? How could she ever, when she is both a world and an eon away from the people she might atone to?

The ghosts she has wronged— they are not here. They are nowhere, save for her memories.

“Yes… I among them,” she admits openly. Forlorn eyes lower to the grave beneath them or what is left of it. Though it is perhaps in this odd state of limbo she finds herself in that she stands before the fallen. Pity, remorse for the unrested dead, empathy, as both heaven and hell spat her out. 

“There are,” she winces and a shiver runs through her spine and out her shoulders, shaking a bit, “souls, if that is what you call it, creatures, more like, that come alive in places like this.”

Wearily, she looks around, as if to check there are none at present. It is not Valentia, so maybe it did not occur here in this new land, she could foolishly wish on. So that being the case, is there a reason she holds for standing before something so terrifying and gruesome to her?

A sad petal floats to the ground.

Rinea holds up the bunch of flowers she had dug up prior. Though she could do nothing for those already gone, laying down some sentiment may lift a little burden off her shoulders. The roots and clumps of dirt still hanging from a couple of them, as if to provide some sort of hope in this gray area. That though the lives here have ended their walk, flowers continue to sprout and grow in their stead. 

“Lord Sigurd,” Rinea follows after him to just beneath the doorway where unbeknownst to her a sprig of holly hangs. “I wanted to thank you for hosting.”

It is all she calls to him for, yet when she sees him up close like this, there is something about him, familiar in a way, that she could not place. She studies him for a moment, virtue and valor beaming through him, or maybe it is something else beneath those threads. She would allow him to leave if he so wishes, but her eyes flicker to the next room where couples whirl around the floor.  

“Wait a moment,” her hand extends to reach forth to catch his, death’s cool touch running through her fingers, reminding her as she feels the contrast of life there in him. She releases it just as quickly, hands dropping to clasp one another in front of her. Be it the atmosphere or the silvery flicks of scars she sees, with the confidence of a Rigelian, an echo of a ghost, dripping in her voice she asks, “...May I have the next dance?”

He didn't know the young lady, not at first glance - a delicate bird of a woman, shy and pale, and sad, as though the weight of the slightest breeze might have carried her off.

Sigurd smiled warmly, welcoming, and bowed at the waist at her address - subdued from his normal energy for her sake, conscious of himself in the face of a stranger who looked as though she'd prefer to bolt.

"It is my pleasure, my lady - please, I bid you enjoy yourself. That is all this is for, is to share my joy with another - so if it means I might see a smile, then it was well worth it."

He turned to leave, inclining his head politely, but she surprised him then, bolder than he expected, taking his rough hand in hers before he could depart entirely. There was a familiar chill to her fingers - perhaps it was merely poor circulation, but he knew something of the body behaving in ways that it mightn't normally - and out of instinct he shifted his hands to cup hers in his entirely.

"A dance? Very well, if you'd like - you shall have to lead," he teased, his eyes sparkling mischief in the face of her sudden confidence, "for I'm told I'm quite hopeless. Ah, and - "

His eyes flicked upward, resting on the sprigs of mistletoe that he and Ethlyn had hung about the place, in all manner of locations. It was such a warm tradition, open and welcoming, the promise of love in all its forms - you are in my home, and I open myself to you.

"Hopeless, you say? If it is leading you are worried about, then I doubt that, you seem confident enough already," she teases back.

If this were in a different life, then perhaps she might think herself charmed or appalled by the seemingly forward gesture. For now, she thinks of it not a moment longer, the song in the next room calling her name, calling her to dance.

Outside, there is chatter just a few paces north. So others also had the intention of stepping away from the air of the dining room. Curious, Rinea's footsteps lead her toward the sound until they come to a halt.

Frozen and stiff despite the heat emanating from the flame. Flickers of candlelight are hardly noteworthy now, but when it is engulfing the air in large blazes, she feels tension in the air once again. The call of fire, the chanting at the altar, muscles ceasing until nothing at all is felt—

No, she turns her gaze, she must at least act normal. Or perhaps the inside of the dining hall is the safest place to be.

Her gaze catches that of a man beside her, perhaps she has seen him around the grounds, but no name is coming to her. She makes the first move despite herself, if only to distract herself from the scorching pit steps away from her. Still a bit stilted and shaken, she asks, "...Do you dance?"

Baldr's Bounty!

By the light of the bonfire, he stretches muscles gone stiff from sitting and eating like a king. Funny, how he could only dream of an event like this as a child, and now he's seeking a break from it all.

A piece of wood cracks. Sparks flare high, hanging in the air like mini stars before disappearing. He watches them go with a gentle smile, lacing his fingers together over his head and leaning slowly to the right. He repeats the motion on the other side, feeling a gratifying pop in his spine.

Only when he stands normally again does he notice the woman watching him. She's pretty, in a soft-spoken way, firelight reflecting merrily on her cheeks.

"Oh, hel-lo there! What gave it away?" One corner of his mouth quirks up. He wonders if that initial jolt of panic when someone asks him about dancing will ever fade. No longer does he hide his talents, nor does he proclaim them.

They are simply a fact about him, like swordsmanship or his love for sweets.

"Laslow," she repeats, rolling the syllables off her tongue, sweet and soft like a song from a bird's beak. Though she is sure she has never met the man, she is almost certain she's heard the name before, even outside of Fódlan.

A small smile slips from her as she tilts her head slightly, observing him. Somehow the name suits him and doesn't all at once. It is an easy and sweet-sounding name with a melodious ring to it as it leaves her lips, though the meaning behind it holds its own weight in authority and power.

If she believed in destiny or fate, then she may not be so surprised when she enters the kitchen. Initially, she had done so to set her items down when she sees carnelian hair and eyes to match. Though she has never faced the other, especially not like this, she of course knew of her existence. Brief that she heard mention before the last moments of her life flickered out.

"Princess Anthiese…" She greets with neither malice nor affability to color her inflection. Neutral and blunt for the opposing country, as she has always felt. Though, perhaps she has wondered if the flowers did bloom brighter on the other side from time to time.

What are you doing here, she means to ask, but bites it back. Her gaze is wavering, unpredictable as the tides of storm. What shall she say to her? Silence hangs in the air for longer than she is comfortable with as she wrings her hands together.

"So… you are… alive then." Though it is one of the worse options she could start a conversation with, she forces it out to avoid being under the other's fiery gaze a moment longer, but she almost wishes she had said nothing at all.

After finding her seat—delightfully placed next to Alm's—Celica headed to the kitchen to warm her food. Cheese fondue may not have been the most convenient choice of dish, but she couldn't help but want to share the delight of a rich cheese dip with the others. A delicacy in Zofia, to be sure.

With most of the ovens occupied, Valentia's queen has to resort to warming her bowl of fondue with her hands. Just a bit of magic energy channeled into her palms, and her hands became rather convenient, portable heater.

Returned to its smooth, rich consistency, Celica hums as she takes a toothpick and plucks up one the meatballs she brought, dipping it into the cheese. It would be improper to eat before the food was served... but a little sample—a little taste test—wouldn't hurt, would it?

Surely not. Mother Mila would want her to enjoy this bounty, and ensure that it was safe and delicious for the others.

The entire meatball goes into her mouth with a pleased hum, and at that moment, a new voice greets her. Not with her current name, but her former one.

At that, Celica blinks in surprise, head turning to face the blue-haired woman staring at her, as Zofia's former princess is left with a mouth stuffed full of food.

She chews. And chews. Chews quite thoroughly, and then swallows. "...Pardon my manners. But, erm... who am I speaking to?"

“Oh…” she trails off, it would have been wise to introduce herself first. She looks to the princess, queen she supposed now, stuffing her face with another treat. It seems she has distracted her from an important mission. “Forgive me. Rinea, I hail from Rigel, perhaps…"

She grows silent once more, wondering if she should mention Berkut to spark some relevance between them.…A reconsideration. She need not further any tension that may or may not be there already. She had been lost to the fire and though she clung to the fibers of her old being, she could let go of this one, for now.

“Ah, I lost my train of thought,” she casually lies. What she does not know will not hurt her. Besides, what relevance does he possess to them now, six feet under? Eyes search for a distraction when they land on her own baked treat.

Luminary Trail: Just outside of the party is a path lit by luminaries. It's a perfect place to get some fresh air or escape from the hustle and bustle for a moment. Make sure to watch where you are walking. Those paper bags look pretty flammable! (( dm said be evil aka put them by the bonfire but I am not that evil )) It is underneath the scattered stars that she sees him face to face for the first time. His name is nothing foreign to her, drifting through castle halls and outside of them like a breeze. Jade hues deepen into the shade of the leaves of an oak tree when crowned by candlelight. "Alm..." The name uttered to her first by her lover full of scorn and rage now comes to her own voice as small and hesitant. "Forgive me, Emperor Alm, that... is your proper title, is it not?" It is not with sarcasm that she asks this, but she cannot help but feel the irony of it all. If she had not met him head on here tonight, she wonders if she would have spoken to him at all.

his gaze focuses on the young woman. she sounds oh-so-timid when his peers wouldn't have trouble approaching him. or at least alm doesn't think they would.

"er, king alm, actually." it's more of an off-hand remark; a correction without any offense taken at the incorrect title.   &   besides, calling him 'emperor' wouldn't have been wrong at one point. but what alm focuses on is the familiarity.

the brow furrowing, alm takes a step closer.

it doesn't take a second longer for his green eyes to widen in realization.

If she were any more uncouth, she would shrug casually and perhaps excuse herself and make her leave. But she is held there underneath his gaze and it is as if the coldness of her being finally has frozen over, marking her still. Not a twitch of muscle or so much as a blink as realization slowly clicks in his voice.

It should not come as a surprise, but when the mention of Berkut falls from his lips, she flinches, sadness briefly flicks across her eyes like a stone skipping across water. Nothing more than a ripple now.

Death is not dictated by oral eulogies or ritual prayers in Rigel. It passes, is cleared away, and nothing past that, in her experience. Graveyards terrify her, she may have been to one once in her lifetime.

Once being a part of the dead herself, the scene before her gives her all the more reason to be placed on edge. Rinea has flowers she has cut from a nearby garden, for what reason she does not know. Perhaps she pities those underground to have their rest disturbed. Searching for something, she speculates, virtue, conscience, regret maybe. Would you have knelt there? Or would I be forgotten too? Flowers have no use when they are brown and crumpled.

Just then, a shudder in the desolate burial grounds.

“What was that?” she whispers to no one but herself. Her hand curls to a fist closely guarding where her heart should be. Fear constricts her senses; skin clamps the hair on her arms and back of her neck and her heart hammers against her ribcage desperate to leap out.

Terrors and necro creatures were no foreign concept to her. This knowledge only serves to escalate her fears. On her hip rests a gardener’s knife in a leather scabbard. Her fingers brush against it as she imagines the heavy weight against her fingers and its cool blade diving into whatever monster may lie ahead. Bile crawls up her throat. She hopes it is just some forest animal so she may not have to unsheathe it at all.

Rinea does not wield it nor any weapon for now and begins toward the sound. Quiet is her footfall and careful are her actions as she hides behind whatever provides more shade.

It is neither creature of the night nor woodland animal, but another girl. Thank goodness. She exhales with hardly a sound, returning to her normal, calm self. Though the girl does not get a pass just because she has turned out to be not a skeleton or grimy thing. Brows furrow as she watches from behind the girl's back, trying to decipher what is going on that she cannot see.

As a part of daily life, tasks are assigned to those who inhibit the monastery. For nobles and common folk alike she could see its benefits. A school that prided itself on preparing nobles to rule and commoners a sense of duty. Though she did not fall in with the former nor did she have any compelling reason to accept, she does so anyway. Two villages at odds with each other, quarreling over resources necessary for survival, the problem is all too familiar.

When Rinea arrives on the scene, she is given a tour and a more thorough rundown of its history. From looks alone, the land was nearly barren, dry land and hardly any lush foliage to be found. There are wooden buckets and small puddles sure, but as far as the eye could see, the water in them is non-potable and the color of a dingy brown. 

The head of the village explains to her they had been storing the newly sourced water in ceramic pots and how their goddess must have finally smiled down upon them. They draw nearer toward the border where the two villages meet before one of the children approaches them. 

“‘Scuse me miss?” A small boy covered in dirt and rags tugs on her skirt. A cough then. “We haven’t ‘ad water like this in forever. Pa said Ma might make it to see another day, blessed be.”

Rinea kneels down to the child’s height and gives him a pat on the head with a kind smile. How dreadful to be as young as he is and worry if he and his family would live to see another day. “That’s wonderful. I hope with this newfound blessing the rest of your village sees the same.”