#firebranded

Really, Dion knows that he shouldn't be wandering around the castle at such odd hours, but he can't seem to settle down. This is the first time he's ever really been away from Oriflamme for an extended period, and maybe he's a little more anxious about it than he cared to admit. After tossing and turning for hours, he had the bright idea to try and find Joshua's quarters...promptly getting himself turned around.

The palace in Oriflamme is much bigger than this, but he doesn't know this castle at all. There are twists and turns that he wasn't expecting, and now he is certainly lost.

Was too tired to make a post lastnight thanking @firexfvalisthea, @fire-branded, and @pocketfulofgalaxies for helping me get to floor 50 of the Palace of the Dead after idk how many years.

Thank you lovely friends (and new friend)! Now I can try to level up in Heaven on High<3

Bonus of the aftermath after unlocking Heaven on High:

"The human condition." Rhys shrugged, resting his cheek in one hand. A painted nail tapped against his cheekbone, pale eyes regarding the man.

"Why is it you've come to me, then? Are you wanting me to divine something for you? Are you wishing for a message from the holiest ancestors of Rosaria?"

He leaned forward to squint at him.

"Or do you want confirmation that the fire of the Phoenix still burns brightly in your house?"

Making demands || Accepting

“Oh, what could I possibly say, Bena? Saying that I told you so would be impossibly cruel, and yet…”

Sleipnir trails off and smirks, tilting their head. They know they have no reason to be jealous when Barnabas sets his eyes on another, for it'll only be a matter of time before he returns to Sleipnir's waiting arms. It's inevitable, connected as they are, and while they certainly care for Benedikta, they can't help but rub it in. Just a little bit.

“Don't take it personally. You know how fickle His Majesty is. Besides, you're quite the lovely girl.” They grin, playfully nudging their hips together. “Don't give me that look! You didn't listen to me, so now, maybe you'll listen to me next time.”

The Rosaria Corporation's commendable efforts were many, according to the glossy and elegantly designed leaflet in Melissa's hands: humanitarian aid for those living in conflict-stricken zones; assistance with affordable housing for those within the country; support in relation to fees for litigation cases for those from low income households; a healthcare program originally developed for their own employees which also extended to those living in any city where Rosaria did business.

The brunette had to turn the piece of paper over to finish reading about everything - it was quite surprising that someone spearheading a corporation did so many charitable endeavors with so little publicity. To be perfectly honest, Melissa had been mingling with the powerful and successful for a while given her career (a specialist in providing extremely selective people with pleasant company - in other words, a very high-class worker of the oldest profession in the world) and yet it was the first time she had been hired to meet up with someone that Melissa didn't feel really needed her services.

There was a little picture of the man sitting at the very top of that corporate pyramid at the bottom of the last page: Elwin Rosfield. Rater than at the forefront and in a heavily edited portrait, the face of the current CEO occupied the equivalent of a footnote, with the emphasis of the materials being on the specific causes they had provided aid to, as well as offering anyone the chance to audit the details if they wished. Closing the leaflet and using it to gentley fan herself, Melissa navigated the busy crowd of that party to track and find her target.

The brunette thought that a man with his name attached to the board of the company footing the bill for that evening would be busy - but the information from Rodney Murdoch, the individual actually paying Melissa for her time, proved to be accurate. Elwin was indeed alone, seemingly distracted with the variety of appetizers offered at one of the most secluded tables of the room, and without his looks suggesting any frustration or annoyance at being supposedly ignored by the masses who readily flocked to the many pleasures offered at his expense.

Interesting - why would a man with so many qualities be so lonely? Melissa found herself questioning the underlying reason for that stint with his best friend (or so Rodney proclaimed), enough to have a sex worker hired to pose as an innocent guest with genuine interest in Elwin. Closer to the designated client of the night, the prostitute could see it was definitely not in the looks that her mark boasted - Elwin Rosfield had striking features, with beautiful dark hair, an elegant body posture and the organic, imposing aura of one used to power.

From Melissa's perspective, it wouldn't be a bad evening at all.

The woman who approached Elwin then was dressed in a way that had been thoughtfully planned in advance - the brunette was dressed in a beautiful mermaid gown that showcased a very classic and timeless silhouette, the strapless dress made of silk mikado and further highlighting the bare shoulders and the elegance of her neck. The color (a vibrant shade of red) and the flower appliqués over the fabric to the right side of her figure were the true homage - a not so subtle nod to the Rosaria Corporation's trademark, but which could be easily confused as a generic preference for crimson roses.

"What would you recommend from all these delightful options?" Melissa queried instead of approaching with a standard introduction, craning her head to look at Elwin and make sure he had realized he was the one she was directing the words to. A smile followed, pleasing but not overly eager - just the perfect opening to allow for further conversation, "I would imagine that as the one ultimately paying for the feast, you would have a favorite. Wouldn't you, Mr. Rosfield?"

Nightmares. Nightmares of death and fire and screaming and drowning, drowning, drowning. These are the things that keep Conall awake at night, unable to sleep, even years later. Yet when he tries to remember that fateful night, he can't. It's like trying to look through a thick fog, through muddied water. He doesn't remember anything past his mother desperately trying to sneak him out of the castle.

His mother...his father...he's started to forget what they looked like, sounded like. Memories are precious things, but that part of his life feels like a whole other world entirely.

His inability to sleep is what brought him out to the balcony, staring out into the horizon as if he could will himself to go back in time and redo it all. His kingdom used to be just beyond that horizon. Now it's nothing but a lake full of rubble. How quickly things change.

He's considering himself lucky that Byron was never that mischievous.

Call me a sinner || Accepting

Sleipnir snorts, absently stirring their tea around as they look out the window. “No, I suppose it doesn't,” they muse, glancing back over at Benedikta with an amused expression. “Which is why His Majesty wants to spread the word of the Lord so quickly. The more we take under his wing, the stronger we become.” Even if Sleipnir doesn't sound entirely enthused. For them, Barnabas is their god, nothing else, but they can play the game for his sake.

A beat of silence, and then…"Benna, if I could have a moment of honesty with you, I do worry about him." It's not like Sleipnir to be vulnerable, to come clean about any emotions they might be feeling. It's hard for them to put words to it, still learning about just what being human means. “I understand religious fervor, of course, and I would follow him to the ends of the world. I would do as he says until he could ask no more of me, but…it feels odd, doesn't it? Or perhaps I am thinking too hard, hm? Maybe it's nothing, after all."