#madamiisms

Carefully, Cassandra reaches for one boot, standing in the doorway of the tent, dumping out the remaining content of sand outside - lest she let more of it in where they intend to sleep. Over her shoulder, she glances towards Vivienne. “Is it wishful thinking to think that maybe, perhaps you have magic that can just... wish it away?”

     “ — There’s a bright yellow flower that grows in the Imperium. One that the magisters are always grinding and brewing into potions or tonics, always threatening one another with.” He thinks it’s related to the marigold; he isn’t sure. That isn’t where the point of this story lies. “When I was nothing but an ankle-biter, I used to whine and paw at my brother’s clothes, looking for explanations for the world around us.” A moment scarcely passes before the warrior corrects himself, under his breath, “Above us,” and moves on, “He told me once, that the reason none of us had a penchant for magic was because our parents never fed us that flower when we were babes. Spent the next week picking the gardens clean of the stupid flower. Made myself sick as rabid dog.”

a slight wrinkle of her nose as vivienne begins speaking that smooths slightly as the words themselves process. sera has never quite gotten along with her ( she claims that it’s only the magic but in truth she’s also slightly intimidated by the masterful way the woman commands every room she inhabits ) so the fact that she, more than most, knows how suffocating power can be hasn’t ever been something she’s considered. she’s gotten far too used to vivienne talking about things sera either doesn’t care about or is actively afraid of, so she’s gotten into the habit of just... not listening. after this realization, she might have to change that --- or listen just a tad more, at the very least. after a moment more than she’d usually give before responding, she says,  ❝ reckon it is, vivvy. guess you’d know better than that lot. ❞  sure, there’s still a bit of disdain in her voice ( after all, vivienne still possessed power ) but if it’s less than normal, well. who’s to say ?

Whoever thought bringing him here tonight was a good idea needed their skull examined, but the woman standing next to him   ?   The Iron Lady, as he affectionately refers to her as -- she was born for this, utterly in  her element with the slight smiles and soft waves, dotting on passersby with an almost upsetting air of ease.   A bitter swig of whatever obnoxious bouquet of wine is in his cup and he murmurs an aside to her,   “  Let’s hope the old proverb about the “ enemy of my enemy ” still holds true.   ”    //  @madamiisms​  ➷’d

“Oh, absolutely! Along with knitting, moonlit strolls on the beach, and drafting friend fiction that puts those shitty two-crown harlequin romances to shame.”

“True, though I find the victors often overestimate the extent of their victory. Even with Gaspard dead, those loyal to him remain. You know more of Orlesian politics than I, what are the chances the chevaliers that followed him will pose a problem for Empress Celene in the years to come?”

      “You seem to know an awful lot more than I do about myself, then.” her tone is dry, her brow raising and the short nails tapping on the worn leather notebook. Her heavy tevene accent taints her words, making her ears twitch under the heavy braids. She hated it, if she could she would not speak common at all but the Children of this age had all but forgotten about the People’s language. Her eyes stay focused on the other for a couple of seconds in silence, lips twisting for a single second before returning to the neutral expression. Her fingers open the book again to the page that she was and her dark eyes go down again, continuing the drawing. She could hardly care less about what a shem thought about how her life had been until that point.