. 𝒷𝒾𝓇𝒹𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔

"Go on, try it!" Shez urges with a bright smile. The plate is filled with three pastry buns, filled with berry sauce and cream. A recipe she'd learned from some of her classmates and decided to try out. "I know I usually make savoury food but I think they're pretty good."

Swiping up a little of the sauce smudged on her plate, Shez hums thoughtfully. It's a little tart but that should help cut through the sweetness of the cream.

"What do you think, Rinea?"

Doe eyes widen, round and warm as she is presented with a platter. They're certainly not the most aesthetically pleasing of pastries--a tad lopsided, bright red filling peeking through thinner parts of golden crust--but Rinea pays that no mind.

"I'd be delighted to!" Careful fingers select one from the offered three, and the warm bun is brought to her nose for inspection. Eyes flutter shut with a content sigh. "Oh, they smell wonderful."

( Cranesbills - also known as geranium - a flower associated with happiness and friendship. )

Her teeth sink into the warm pastry and Rinea's eyes reopen almost instantly. Appearances be damned. The lady swallows, shifting what remains of the dessert to one hand so that she may cover her mouth with the other.

carmilla．   giant featherbeds． tightening a corset． moonlit walks． killing for love． cruelty for the sake of love． love is always selfish． romantic tragedy． love to the brink of destruction． nighttime rendezvous． bloody kisses on soft skin． death was the maiden． a very strange agony． claimed by the supernatural． dreaming about your lover． sympathy for the devil． loving me to death． candlesticks lighting up the palm of your hand． a passion that wearies you． killing the one you love．

phantom of the opera． a single red rose laid out to be found． sensual voices singing them to sleep． a familiar shadow attending every recital． love waits on the rooftop in the night． two soulmates holding hands． walking down long corridors． retrieving something lost． devoting one’s craft to them． making them your muse． the horror was for love． painted faces on parade． gentle touches in the dark． revealing your darkest secrets． beauty and the beast． writing messages on the mirror． kindness conquers all． letting your lover go． love never dies．

jane eyre． loving the escape． an impassioned affair． being consumed by love． meeting your soulmate． lace and silk． thirsting for the perfect romance． marrying for passion． losing yourself in the face of your lover． wedding veils and bouquets of pink roses． maddened by love． finding warmth in the cold． calling out for your love． starting at the bottom． the fire cleanses all． hiding your passion． your love will destroy me / my love will destroy you．

the picture of dorian gray． painting a portrait or sketching the face of someone you love． meeting in secret． visions of your lover dying． clutching a lover’s clothes to your chest． love so consuming you kill them． protecting their innocence at all costs． betrayal． polyamory． devotion． flowers for the one you love． remembering the name of your first love． jealousy when you see them with someone else． love so consuming you die for it． visiting the the place where you saw them the first time．

the count of monte cristo． letters to your lover． marrying for love． these bars can’t keep me from you． motivated by love． an avenging angel． scorching jealousy． love reborn． devoted to memory． it was all for you． going your separate ways． commit murder for me． an unstoppable hunger． death comes for us all． the strongest love eventually grows apart．

dracula． the holiest love． girls love wolves． the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb． violence is passion． red lips, sharp teeth． love letters in a diary． unrelenting support． getting lost in the woods． coming home to you． walking backwards into hell． vengeance for my love． even death won’t stop me． we can live forever． love is an open wound． too much love to give． bestowing your favour． a never-ending thirst． beauty even in death． ravenous desire． if only death had a heart to give． a mercy killing． these violent delights have violent ends．

frankenstein． childhood friends to lovers． they were something out of a dream． arranged marriages． learning to love． was it all really worth it? our guilt can know no bounds． vengeance, my love． dismembered body parts． my beating heart in your open palm． your death destroys me． adam and eve． crossing the mountains． an antagonist in mourning． paradise lost． the loss of innocence． abandoning your dream． the tempest on the horizon． humans are the real monsters． my love is wiser than my hate．

No one looks upon her in Fódlan the way they used to in Rigel.

There are no cold gazes cast downward upon the lady of a lower house, made only more cruel by the expectation laid upon her shoulders by her lover's name. Here, she is anyone else. Nobility among nobility, most of whom know little of the hierarchy of kingdoms and empires aside from their own.

It is a breath of relief to know the eyes that brush past her are unbiased by her name or her title--a freeing feeling to be away from such expectation. The monastery is not her orchard, but it is the closest she has felt to its solace in anything but Berkut's company.

Here, she may allow herself to do something as embarrassing as twirl across the floor of an empty classroom, a book clutched in one hand and the other held out before her as though to an invisible partner.

( Not that it isn't still embarrassing, of course, but the fear of being caught is considerably less. Really, how likely is it that some passerby may have the urge to poke their head into a classroom so long after hours? )

She does not hear the door open, does not see the pair of eyes that await her. Her own are closed, opening only as her feet stop and her skirts fall still once more. Rinea bends at the waist, humming as eyes flit over title upon title and- ah! The book in her hands is slotted back into its rightful spot.

Her posture is righted and a single step is taken, right back into that dreamy waltz of only a moment ago, towards the pile of books still remaining to be sorted. Only her eyes just so happen to drift over the doorway for long enough to catch a glimpse of auburn. Oh dear.

Pink blooms over pale cheeks as Rinea stands, frozen mid dance, gaze caught in amber.

"That was you singing, wasn't it? Encore, oh, encore! A little word of advice though: lower the volume. Low enough so that nobody can hear it."

Rinea's head turns quickly, abandoning the books she had been organizing upon her desk. She hadn't heard the door open, and yet within its frame stands quite the jarring figure.

Hues of crimson spit poison masked in kindness and Rinea blinks twice, lips slightly parted. How is one meant to respond to such a thing?

( Tigridia -- a spotted flower often of striking color, meant to symbolize cruelty. )

Lady Rinea...it cannot be. Forsyth had last seen her wreathed in flame, transformed into an unearthly horror as a sacrifice to Duma by the wretch who she trusted as her partner. But here she is, clad in the familiar garb of a Garreg Mach student, wandering across the hall from him. Forsyth knows many strange things happen here, people torn from different times and even wrenched from death, but it is still astounding to see.

"Ho! Lady Rinea!" Forsyth waves, hoping to catch her attention; perhaps not the brightest move, but she does seem a little lost. He knows very little about her, aside from the fact that she was the fiancée of that dastard Berkut (who he, perhaps selfishly, hopes has not followed in her stead), and that she is a quiet, reserved individual from some high-ranking Rigelian nobility.

The call of her name comes as a surprise, turning her head towards its source. A knight, she figures, judging by his lack of uniform or dress befitting of church staff.

"Yes?" Her feet change directions, dancing around a passing group of students so that she may cross the hallway towards the man. He seems friendly, and his call had not seemed harsh in a way that leads her to anticipate being scolded for anything.

But then, he knew her name. Had they met during her interview? No... that doesn't seem right.

"Is something the matter?" There is a strange familiarity to his appearance. His is not a face she recognizes, no, but the arch of his brow... the slope of his nose... Zofian? Perhaps.

A hand shelters the pale light of her candle from harsh winter winds. She herself pays little mind to the cold, but the feeling of warmth that dances at her fingertips is a welcome one.

It isn't terribly early to be awake, but sunrise is still not due for another few hours yet as is typical of this time of year. The monastery's grounds are still swathed in darkness, and so Rinea lights her own path towards the greenhouse.

Normally, the feeling of a gaze on her back would be no cause for alarm. She is to be the empress of Rigel, after all, so she has learned well how to ignore eyes that linger for uncomfortable amounts of time.

But at such an hour, it is certainly a jarring sensation.

Rinea's pace lags, head turning to survey her surroundings. At first glance there is nothing, but her eyes snag on a flicker of lilac on the second.

Eyes meet. There is something to the gaze of this stranger that holds her there--some depth stirring within those pale irises that knits her brows.

( Ornithogalum -- a star shaped flower, known for their charm and representative of hope, trust, innocence, and death. )

@nagaficat​ asked: [ eat ] for your muse to offer mine food

"I am so delighted that you were able to join me, my lady!"  Deirdre beams as she pours a cup of tea for each of them.  Almyran Pine Needle.  She finds the smell comfortingly nostalgic, reminding her of the thick trees surrounding and protecting the Spirit Forest village.  "I hope you do not think I am too nosy, but I could not help being excited when I learned you, too, will be named empress one day.  I hoped that perhaps such a commonality between us might lead to a blossoming friendship!"

The woman before her glitters with something ethereal, a kindness radiating from her that Rinea welcomes with one of her own. 

( Lavender ; a flower to symbolize devotion and purity. )

“I am honored to have been invited.” Fingers enclose around her teacup, bringing it to her lips and inhaling slowly. Steam warms her nose -- pine with notes of citrus and mint, a delightful combination. Rinea hums, eyes fluttering shut as she takes a sip.

A breath of laughter like nightingale song as her cup is settled back upon the table. “I do not find you nosy at all. In fact, I am quite interested to speak with someone in a similar position to myself.” 

It was a reflex from wars since past. Jakob surprised himself with the move to stand between a stranger and an incoming strike, but what followed was even more natural. A curt swing of a knife, sending it airborne and then into their adversary finished the skirmish. 

“Don’t get so close to the frontlines. There won’t always be someone to save you.”

Rinea is no soldier. Even despite her desire to pull her weight upon the battlefield, it is simply not her place of familiarity. Perhaps, were she to close her eyes, she could envision the world around her as a ballroom, but the song of war is not one that inspires dance.

A sword is her punishment for her own poor positioning. There is only a mere moment to recognize the attack as it comes, and even less to counter it.  Magic cannot warm her fingertips fast enough, and the instinct to duck has yet to become second nature.

Silver blurs her vision before pain can, and Rinea watches with wide eyes as her hero throws a blade of his own. Metal glints as it soars through the air, striking true. 

 ( Gladiolus ; named for its blade-like petals, a flower to symbolize faithfulness, strength. )

The feet of a dancer follow any melody, even those meant to go unheard. 

A gentle hum pulls Rinea’s attention--guiding her steps towards the sound. It is a quiet tune, but a lovely one, and the rhythm of her own footsteps cannot help but mirror it. 

Ah! A head of hair like the petals of a daffodil (  flowers to represent rebirth -- often viewed as a sign of hope -- known for their resilience ) proves to be the source of song. Rinea allows that music to pull her closer still, studying the woman from which it comes. She is beautiful--the image of a princess, even in her academy uniform.

A frown worries delicate features, pale brows knitted together as Rinea considers the dilemma before her. 

It is no one’s fault but her own—she had chosen the option of heavier skirts. Of course, had she known her day would put her in this position, she would have done no such thing. It makes sense, now, why the academy's recommended uniforms lack in petticoats.

Her thumb smooths over the supple leather of her stallion’s reins, and with a resigned sigh, Rinea’s free hand moves to lift her skirts enough to allow the toe of her boot to catch on a stirrup. Riding side-saddle will be no issue. Getting into the position to do so, however…

Fingers reach for the horn of her saddle, prepared to make a fool of herself should the weight of her underskirt win this fight, when another hand stops hers in its tracks. 

Rinea blinks, surprised, watching as her palm is enveloped in one much larger. Eyes track over a wrist, a forearm, landing finally at the umber gaze of the hand's owner.

"Ah, was my struggle truly so visible?"  An abashed little laugh, soft and musical. With the presence of a body behind her to promise a much kinder fall than the ground, Rinea pulls herself upward.

Settling atop her mount is a matter of little difficulty, handled with the grace of any noblewoman accustomed to such things. One hand finds reins once more, looping the leather around her palm once, and the other -

Her savior's touch moves to retreat, but Rinea's fingers tighten around his before it can. Sapphire finds umber again, the smile upon her features meant to express nothing but gratitude.

Heels click against tile, echoing a cheerful tempo against the stone and glass of the greenhouse in which she stands. There is a rhythm to her step even as she walks—intentional and dreamlike, with all the grace and elegance of a swan atop crystal waters. 

Beautiful, these flowers—swaths of pale yellow and soft lavender, brilliant red and delicate white and - ah!

he didnt mean it !

like seriously, cmon

he could have done 

worse!