#lich queen

The Lich Queen and her Beast

(Prompted Response to a RP - Actual Writing Sample featuring a sneezy Lich Queen)

GIVEN PROMPT

The Regent created the Hopewell Pact, a pact that binds your country and a rival's country together by law. You humbly disagree with the ruling, but the other party wants to be friends with you. How would you respond?

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My Response:

(Placeholder Name: Loviatar)

Loviatar Deianira Vandenberg, the Queen of the Undead, sat at a crystalline dais in the most human form the phylactery can muster. She was beautiful, even by the standards of the Undead. Some even gloat Loviatar was prettier than some of the most endowed vampires in existence.

Even then, the only deficit - Loviatar's large, pointed nose - decided to make itself known to her. Springtime was beautiful in Mytherra's central capitol. Thanks to the properties of the phylactery, being allergic to anything that moved or grew was the downfall of all that beauty.

Her sinuses nipped - no - burned like twin suns in two elongated manholes. Her black curly hair tumbled in waves to her thighs, even though it remained piled in a braided, immaculate French bun. A few errant curls still framed her cheeks, giving Loviatar an elegant look of poise.

In spite of it all, she tried to remain calm... Tried to keep her mouth shut about the balderdash that harried her ears. Stymieing the inevitable sneezing attacks became a daunting task for her, her nose, and the entire communion. No, Lovi didn't fucking ask to be here. She was *fucking summoned*, by none other than her *least favorite maid*.

*Fucking Merlin DuPresse*.

Loviatar couldn't take the agonizing feeling of trying to stifle a sneeze, let alone a feeble yawn. All she wanted was no more than to leave this fucked-up shit show. Loviatar, unfortunately, was one of the main stars of the show.

And the Regent expected her to be angry at what he was about to announce. With a dry clearing of the throat, he looked at a scroll and announced: "I hereby announce, that effective immediately, the Hopewell Pact will go into effect."

*The Hopewell Pact... A fateful, ominous pact with more deception than even her hand.*

"And this humble pact--,"

Humble? The fu--

"Will have Reyes Lanticore, the King of the Fae, ally with Loviatar Vandenberg, the Queen of the Undead."

FUCK!

No! I don't want any of this!

While Loviatar's expression soured, she saw that fucking *tyke of a King* grin. He grinned as if Christmas was today and he got the most gifts.

No, Reyes. Today was a travesty of the highest order. Loviatar *yearned* to be with Rowena, the Queen of the Dragons... Hell, she yearned to be partnered with *her goddamn wife*.

Now, she had to face being in the same room with someone she not only felt horrible with, but she legitimately felt *sick to her stomach* that the people of the humans - of all forces - declared this meddling idiot to be fit for the throne.

Loviatar shifted in her seat with a wriggle of her expressive nose. Her nostrils flared sharply, but not to an oncoming allergy attack.

No - Loviatar was about to vehemently retort - and fiercely at that - about this so-called pact of peace. Fuck that handholding balderdash.

Loviatar's red-painted lips opened in preparation for a rebuttal, or even just to disagree with the Regent's word. Alas, she had to play fair like a kid at a playground, and she needed to *wait*.

Loviatar, unable to contain her discomfort, finally calmed down and slurred: "How provincial of you."

Reyes, who was about to express his kindest thanks to the Regent for choosing Loviatar to be his bestie, turned to face the Undead vixen herself. Sharp, calculating, olive green eyes seemingly gnawed - no - seared through Reyes' feeble expression.

Praise was far from what she was about to give. **"It's quaint to know you'll work with me."** As if to say...

OKAY 😄😄😄😄

Dying is one of the easiest things Miriam has ever done. After a fight with her partner, Nerisa--the only person in her town who had not already written her off as being moody, impulsive, and generally 'difficult'--she left their cottage to lose herself in the woods. She wasn't worried about the snow; between her anger and her shame, she didn't have the space to worry about it. By the time she realized that she needed to find shelter, the blizzard was already starting and her footprints were fading into the freshly-fallen snow. She tried to follow her own path back home--tried to follow Nerisa's voice, which she swore she heard in the wind's every breath--but she had gone too far. She was too lost, and it was too cold. She didn't give up, exactly; she simply realized that she was huddled against a tree, and that she couldn't feel her fingers, and that she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer.

Dying was easy. Coming back was not.

Nerisa had done her best--she'd even sheared away part of her own soul to give to Miriam, when she found herself unable to retrieve Miriam's from beyond the veil. But Miriam's fingertips were still numb and blackened with frostbite; her nose had fallen away entirely. She felt an empty ache in the space between her flesh and her bones, a pull whenever she strayed too far from Nerisa, as though her once-partner had threaded a fish hook through her heart.

Occultism had been Miriam's interest, not Nerisa's.

Nerisa had promised to fix this--fix them. She studied, experimented, sheared off more slivers of soul in exchange for undeath, for more time. She's still trying to fix what she did--to undo the actions of a young woman who sooner learned necromancy than how to let someone go.

Miriam still hasn't told her that the fish hook pull hasn't faded, but has become a reminder more than a demand. She still hasn't strayed from Nerisa's side. Friend. Confidante. Reminder.