Err upon a gentle chide, she is not so forsaken as to balk in the presence of a Prince ; an obdurate boy who would become King. Not today, however, and certainly not tomorrow. She had not been asked for advice in a city once laden along water’s edge, but an argument between comrades had pricked her ears, the shuffle and scuffle of petty grievances and difficult tidings. Flutter of ebony cloth and he stands close, perhaps picking the wrong place to be alone . Her voice comes in no particular direction, posture languid and relaxed seated upon a chair and when she speaks to him, she does not look at him. No, that’s too bold for such wayward advice, hearing the petulant mumbling and heckling of a boy-King off to the side, ❛ Your path is unbeaten and it’s all up hill, ❜ Or sunken beneath the waves, a cataclysm system that developed to swallow the world whole ; prosperity died with hope, drowned in anguished defeat. Bones crack as she stands, dusting off filaments. ❛ — and you can meet it, but you never will. ❜
❛ Not unless you start acting like the King you’ll become. And don’t act so surprised, Prince Noctis, ❜ a soft chuckle and the barest, one-eyed glance is spared to the boy she towers over by a mere few inches. ❛ you and your caravan are not so subtle. Apologies for your loss, though . All of them. ❜
@filiislucis
