#celcstine

He kicks the foot of the chair, just lightly, it barely does anything—he doesn't really want it to, he's just trying to figure out a strategy to best elicit a response, a way to approach; it's a situation which demands compassion and genuine tact, of which Baeksa has none. He could feign it, of course, cover him in sticky, syrupy sweetness and meaningless words to veil the ugly truth, promises which hold no real weight. 'You will recover' when they might not, 'you will rebuild' they might never be able to do, 'all is not lost' it most certainly is. "You still look pretty when you're devastated," he offers instead, which to him was a small comfort—but perhaps to Lathander it was no comfort at all. It's the only truth he can offer; what good would it do to speak those hollow things? His house would still be ashes, the flames would not subside and time would not turn back because he is cradled in someone's arm and told sweet, empty lies that could only provide momentary relief, if that.

It is not the first time that Theano meets Lord Lathander, nor will it be the last if she has anything to say in the matter. Any connection to other houses is a powerful tool, and one she cultivates with great care. A connection with an heir? She guards those with zealously. Theano is not an heir, herself, so she has to make herself known to those who are. Her brother is well known because of his gifts and positions, so she must make herself known by any means necessary. In the case of lord Lathander Tethalune, the way forward is through flattery and gifts. Not quite bribery, for she is not asking for him to do anything but keep her in his thoughts. Not quite bribery, because at the end of the day House Eluwe already benefits from the exchange. All the velkynar from Vallarion are beautiful, so to adorn them with the fruits of House Eluwe’s labor? Well, it is simply just another way to spread the word of their jewelry’s superiority. 

“Thank you for granting me this meeting, my lord,” she says as she straightens from the curtsy she offered in greeting and gestures to the tea table, prepared with care and holding the tea, the refreshments, and an exquisitely carved box. 

“I wanted to present you a gift from House Eluwe, as a thanks for House Tethalune’s generosity in your hosting,” she offers, a pretty smile on her lips as she moves to sit. “It is a design of mine, one that came to mind when I first laid eyes upon you back in Moira, and as such, I hope that it will be to your liking.”

A  wet  hand  slid  over  his  face,  beard  catching  the  droplets  as  he  let  the  water  glisten  over  his  scarred  skin.  Calmness  was  always  found  in  this  place.  In  this  water,  where  the  serenity  was  earned.  Where  the  intent  was  pure.  His  very  frame  was  testimonial  between  the  water  and  the  trees.  The  vallarion stream  was  not   familiar,  but  water was an  companion  who  knew  the  shape  of  his  body  by  heart.  He  felt  the  stream  winding  around  his  legs,  still  gelid  and  biting,  but  still  solacing.  Vaelor  doesn’t  hurry  to  finish.  Instead,  pale  skin  basked  in  the  sun ray,  yet  the  bite  of  the  wind  still  carried  sympathy. 

“  The  water  is  patient  today.  ”  His  gaze  lifts  at  last,  steady  and  familiar  as  a  fondness  passes  through.  And  as  the  muscles  in  his  back  contract,  the  tunic  sticks  to  his  skin  for  them  to  expose  their  shape.  Sword  idly  struck  in  the  bank. His muscles still tense from the intense labour of sword fighting, a practice of daily habit.

He  bends,  rinsing  his  hands  once  more,  watching  how  the  current  carries  everything  away.  “  I  think  the  stream  still  remembers  us. ”   For  once,  he's  unguarded,  layers  of  the  mountains  laid  to  rest,  no  longer  in  perpetual  siege.  A  faint,  almost  haunting  curve  touches  his  mouth.  “  People  change  or  they die.  ”  Calamity.  In  his  mind,  crimson  soaks  through  cloth.  It  wrenches  apart  the  shaky  breaths  that  cages  his  heart.  Vaelor  trembles  only  a  slight,  but  his  stillness  takes  over,  the  toll  of  life  long  warfare.

𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖊.   the  exterior  terrace,  beneath  a  moonlit  sky. 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓.   prey,  @celcstine's  chantara  thanachalerm.

solitude  is  comfortable,  familiar.  ran  would  rather  listen  to  the  sounds  of  revelry  than  be  the  cause  of  them;  his  joys  are  in  things  simpler  ⸻  baser,  some  may  say.  dancing  is  only  as  wondrous  as  one's  partner,  and  he  has  no  intention  of  taking  just  anyone  out  on  a  spin.  he's  been  told  before  by  tutors  that  his  idea  of  leading  is  much  to  strong  to  facilitate  conversation,  like  he's  turned  a  partnership  into  a  competition  and  collaboration  into  domination.  fine  by  him;  it  likely  wouldn't  do  well  to  spread  incorrect  notions  by  spreading  his  attention  among  eligible  ladies.  his  parents  have  washed  their  hands  of  personal  arrangement,  though  they've  made  his  target  clear.  ‘tis  but  another  task  set  before  ran,  no  different  from  cleaving  a  shambling  corpse's  head  from  its  shoulders,  or  teaching  luz  how  to  throw  the  most  effective  right  hook.  if  he  were  to  tell  the  truth  of  it,  dragonriders  have  the  least  of  ran's  esteem  among  their  other  empowered  peers.  reliance  upon  another  beast  (  apex  predator  though  it  may  be  )  to  boast  of  one's  extraordinary  abilities  is  not  so  impressive.  doubly  so  after  the  late  crownbearer  proved  how  laughable  such  partnerships  actually  were.

still,  he  is  a  soldier,  and  he  has  his  marching  orders.  the  intention  to  corner  cannot  be  cloaked  with  mere  smiles;  ran's  gait  has  always  been  that  of  a  hunter  ⸻  long,  loping  strides  covering  as  much  ground  as  possible  while  remaining  as  silent  as  possible.  he  allows  the  balls  of  his  feet  to  catch  on  a  stone  as  warning,  so  that  the  woman  does  not  jump  out  of  her  skin  at  his  approach.  “  refreshing,  is  it  not  ?  ”  he  means  the  breeze,  fluttering  softly  through  lustrous  locks,  and  not  quite  the  refreshments  held  in  both  hands,  one  extended  in  offering  as  his  head  dips  in  a  near-mockery  of  deference.  “  the  heat  in  the  ballroom  is  oppressive,  but  the  night's  chill  always  feels  best  after  a  swelter.  ”  he  takes  a  sip  from  his  goblet,  proof  against  poison.  “  your  company  makes  it  all  the  sweeter.  ”  sycophancy  in  text,  derisive jest  in  tone.

Vaelor  had  slipped  away  for  just  a  second.  Hauling  another  book  from  the  library,  clasped  tightly  between  fingers  as  he  trudged  back  into  the  study.  Where  he had resided  for the night was  dim,  lit  only  by  the  low  licking  burn  of  the  hearth  and  candlelight.  Soft  pinpricks  of  liquid  daylight  gliding  sweetly  into  the  room.  It  takes  only  a  moment  for  the  heir  of  draegor  to  see  him,  half  shadowed  among  the  shelves.  A  familiarity  in  Vaelor  tightens,  his  solemn  cutting  a  sharp  path.   “  I  didn’t  think  this  corner  of  the  study  was  still  a  place  you  cared  to  visit.  ”   Posture  deflates  only  a  gentle  smidge.  His  words  are  quiescent,  but  carry  the  heaviness  of  recognition  rather  than  surprise.

Here,  deep  in  the  belly  of  the  woods,  hung  the  verdant  leaves  of  the  ancient  oak  trees.  All  glistening  like  glass,  slightly  dewy,  each  one  burdened  by  the  tear  like  beads  that  gathered  along  their  edges,  bowing  them  all  earthward  under  their  weight.  By  now,  as  Diya  walked,  she  could  feel  the  muscles  in  her  thighs  burning,  the  ache  born  of  exceeding  her  longheld  endurance.  Still,  she  was  grateful  for  the  gentle  shadow  of  the  moss  like  sage,  where  they  were  all  sheltered  beneath,  the  woodland  breathing  in  a  cooling  murmur  as  the  leaves  stirred  with  the  wind. 

Woven  sacks  were  carried,  each  one  of  them  all  bundled  up;  one  with  flasks  of  sweet  wine,  bread  and  hardened  cheese  and  fruit.  Even  a  few  goose  eggs  that  Diya  had  to  politely  beg  the  kitchen  maid  of  Elaris  Keep.  It  took  her  two  days  of  heavy  pleading  before  they  relented.  The  other  sack,  carrying  their  ancient  lore,  its  spine  bound  with  heavy  thread,  the  pages  filled  with  tales  of  all  knightly  Tripathis.  At  early  rise,  she  had  dressed  not  fully  plated,  though  silver  still  adorned  her  frame;  around  the  curve  of  her  shins,  the  softness  of  her  midriff,  and  the  bones  of  her  shoulder.  On  the  rest  of  her  limbs,  she’s  hidden  by  silver  chainmail. 

And  so  came  to  be  the  youngest,  full  of  spirit  and  newfound  zest,  the  attribute  of  a  dreaming  swan.  " I  believe  this  spot  of  green  should  do  nicely  for  our  fire! "  Voice  high  with  excitement,  for  she  wore  joy  as  one  would  glory.  Diya  puts  down  her  sack,  a  spring  in  her  step.   " I’ll  see  what  dry  wood  I  can  find  nearby. "

"Oi!" the small, pale sylph-like spirit beckons from its perch, standing high atop the stone balcony, the moon a halo behind his skull, the milky white of his gown rustling against a playful breeze as he hurries to wave Lathander over with those dainty fingers, tiptoeing closer to the center, and bending himself awkwardly to peek at him through the doorway. "You—where do you think you're going?" he's all saccharine as he calls, despite all, heavy-lidded and too relaxed for a proper scolding. "I'll take your apology in cursive," he informs. "I like... long loops and hearts dotting the i's..." a pause, and as he leans, his lips to stretch mischievously. "But I suppose if you insist I will consider letting you suck me off."