#maskend

better a sleeping monster, she thinks grimly as her eyes trace dark turrets staining the pale morning sky, than one awake and ravenous. besides, there is no turning back - not when there is nowhere left to turn back to.

she stills at the threshold of the castle's stairs and allows herself to peer up at vast doors and the dark stone soaring seemingly endlessly above. it stands at the intersection of beauty and dread, this place, and she grits her jaw against the shiver that threatens to creep down her spine. pushing hair messied from the road over her shoulder, her worn boots click softly against the stairs as she ascends towards the doors.

a hand lifts to press to against the door only to pause a hair's breadth away even as the cold of the stone seeks to curl around her wrist. the last village had spoken to her of a golden haired creature inhabiting the castle, something only glimpsed in brief flashes from the corner of one's eyes in the woods and along the river. celine had attributed their tale to the results of a poisoned well or moldy grain but, for the first time, she finds herself considering whether to at least exercise some level of courtesy, however unnecessary.

the courtyard is lit with moonlight by the time she makes her way to his home and the terrace beyond it, the creeping vines and flowers silver-veiled beneath the night sky. it's become a routine, her near-nightly visits, and the mere presence of him beside her is a balm against the stinging, endless frustration that now clouds her days. for that, each moment with him is one treasured and imbued with that new, bright hue that she had first acknowledged following that terrible night.

"you look exhausted," iorweth states simply as she settles in aside him, sharp gaze looking her over.

"surely there is a slightly more gracious way for you to word that," celine scrunches her nose in response before continuing. "but, yes, it's been an exhausting day. i could tell you about the inner workings of the duchal court and the numerous personal grievances stalling any progress, but i wouldn't care for your opinion of my fellow dh'oine to sink any lower. you may think it cannot but," she lifts a finger. "i assure you, it certainly can."

siblings . . . what an odd thing to have and be. some days juno would rather wake up an only child and others he barely just makes it through thanks to diallos by his side. and some other days siblings sit on the marble stairs, leading to an extensively decorated and cared for garden, one wiping the blood of the other with no end in sight. she feels the pressure and chill of a damp cloth against his bare shoulder, but juno barely recognizes the act and motion. only the sting of an exposed wound proves grounding enough to reel his attention in again. eyes, hauntedly so, move over the garden. it's pristine in the way the hedges are cut. not a single flower within it is wilting. every bush is cut into the family's crest animal. the centerpiece of it all, a beautiful fountain and on the first wall of its circle fresh blood. the splat of an impact and streaks of overflow down its side. infront of it lies a body, motionless . . . lifeless . . . a blade, much too small for the body, imbedded into its neck. juno knows the person as a citizen would know the lord of their land. master hoslow lies dead at the fountain, slain by one of his own children.

juno's breaths come heavy, labored with pain and ebbing adrenaline. diallos moves away from the shoulder and she hears the wringing of the cloth just above a bowl of water. shaky hands now press the cool cloth against the side of her neck. a gash, not deep but large, sliced down it. juno winces at a particularly painful rub against the wound and the apology that follows is immediate. she doesn't grace it with a reply. to think that all this happened for the sake of diallos . . . one sharp word from the lord, one moment of weakness from diallos and a thundering hand coming down on her brother was the most it took. it's not the first time this has happened but it would be the last. the final time diallos will have to suffer their father. furious for once in her life but composed enough to remember her upbringing, juno had challenge the master of the house for a duel of succession. it's family tradition. any child of the master may choose to challenge, though if not for her brother's sake, juno would have chosen a day many years later. on this day, juno would have killed or died for her brother. it's unspoken but somehow the air speaks of diallos' knowledge of this, so juno doesn't mention it. instead she stares on.

"spoken like someone all too well acquainted with bad ideas," celine retorts with a roll of dark eyes, though there is no true bite beneath her words. she also makes no effort to counter his point. he is right, after all, iorweth. "tell me does this thing worth doing of your's also include a shoddy plan and require a disproportionate amount of luck?"

it is not lost on the sorceress that her own plans, while uncommon & smaller in scale compared to her more ambitious sisters scattered across the continent, always entail both. perhaps, celine considers distantly, that is why her and the scarred elf have always seemed to work so well alongside each other despite sharing nothing in common save beating pulse.

"you are a terribly poor influence, you know," celine folds her arms over her chest in a failed attempt to ward off the night's chill, the forest surrounding them silent save for the rustling of leaves against the breeze. it all rests somewhere between peaceful and eerie. "at this hour, the only decision before me should be whether to finish my day with a glass of red or white. yet, here i am, in the woods with a notorious elven rebel and a nary a bottle of the sansretour's finest at hand."

shifting her weight from foot to foot as she tugs her cloak around thin shoulders, she settles her gaze on the elf. the cold fire in his eyes that she's become acquainted with cannot fully mask the exhaustion that hovers in the shadows of his handsome features. still, he is alive, and that in itself is no small miracle.

as always, quick & vibrant relief flickers in her for it.

❝ i-i should be saying that to you! ❞ this can't be a real conversation she's having—— maybe her mind has finally given up on her, with all the paranoia and stress and near death experiences. but this—— this is too outlandish. ❝ you—— you died! that's what they all said ... ❞ that's what she read, when her curiosity got the best of her. as if she needed the grim details.

the words jut out at her now, unbidden. an explosion—— no recovery—— grace rubs at her eyes and tries to blot it out from her memory. her pistol feels like dead weight in her hand. ❝ are you one of—— one of them? ❞ why does she ask? does she even think she could shoot him, if it came down to it? a familiar face. a friendly face, once upon a time.

he hears kara approaching long before they even come close to the room, up the inn's ramshackle wooden stairs.  a few thundering strides and then, predictably, the door swings open to allow a human storm in. it doesn't break, at least, but the pitcher of something — cheap ale, most likely — certainly does. it smashes right against the opposite wall, at erik's back.

erik does not flinch.  he doesn't even look up from his work;  he keeps his hands moving, careful with how he drags the whetstone upon the blade. it is kara's sword that he holds over his knee, almost tenderly. he does not have to, they haven't required it of him, but it is habitual, and it soothes him when the hours drag on.

'' trouble? ''   he sets the sword aside and looks at them with the same golden hue to his eyes, measuring, assessing.  at ease, shoulders slightly hunched, he does not worry much;  if there is trouble they can leave the small inn and go back to the road. erik needs but a word from them to spring up and start packing. they don't work together as often as before, when kara was still mentoring him, yet following their lead is a familiar reflex.