#ormir

Queendom Text Posts 1 / ?

They could not have been gone for less than a month, and every part of Freydis wanted to find the most familiar face to her at camp immediately, but her forethought and sense of duty delayed her slightly. Once she felt Arros would receive proper care for the blight that had stricken her, Freydis rushed to make herself presentable. The journey had left her much changed, and she pondered this staring at herself in the small hand mirror examining the scar that crept down the side of her face, the red handprint--Hrimthur’s Heart–seared against her skin, as well as the clouds of bruises up and down each arm, some fresher than others. Each of these would be easy to cover up or explain away under the guise of a trophy from a prior battle. 

Suspicion concerning the smell of cinnamon and clove that wafted from her skin would be harder to explain away, and so, even though it pained her, she took the extra time to clean herself up. Perhaps, for more than one reason she felt relief after scrubbing at her skin and clearing the dried blood and grime from her face. She could barely believe the amount of ash and grime that discolored the water of the washing basin she had used to clean her hair. She lifted her arms, tired from the trials of battle, to carefully braid her hair, but thought better of it. It was best to leave it down, to obscure the dark cord of scar that extended from her temple to the high point of her cheek–the relic of an injury she had never actually sustained. Besides, it wasn’t worth the wasted seconds it would consume between that moment and finding Ormir.

If she were lucky, he would have already met with Aytaç and actually have time for her. Gaining access to the area of the camp where the royal family and their court would be resting wasn’t difficult–by now she was easily recognized as holding the favor of the princess and as a pupil of Ormir’s masterful strategy. She stalked the space between tents and peered into the dimly lit makeshift rooms with a hurried fervor that was unlike her; as if one of them might disappear again if she didn’t find him quickly enough.

Once she spotted him, mercifully on his own, all decorum escaped her. Freydis swallowed hard, biting the inside of her cheek to try and maintain any modicum of composure. There was so much to tell him, to ask him, to beg for his wisdom and opinion on,  but the second he was within an arms reach it all fell away and language in its entirety escaped her. She reached for him, embracing him and having to remind herself of her strength. Her head fell forward, buried in the fabric of the tunic he wore, and she let out one, singular noise that could only be described as something between a laugh and a sob. To her, to stand there connected to him held the gravity and comfort of lying between two familiar graves.

WIP - Ormir, medusa rouge/bard

When he'd put on his best cloak, his best everything, he should've known that somehow, fate would get the last laugh. Here they were, in chains, a magical collar around their neck now signifying that they were prisoners and cut off from magic. He idly wondered if this was how Ormir had felt before, or what magic lied in the other's veins that would make it as such.

Veseniya had not immediately recognized the man beside her as Ormir, the very same Ormir who she had lacked the context to realize held such a high station in Iskaran court when she had originally met him some months prior. The missive they had been given had ended in a critical failure, but it seemed Eterna had managed to narrowly evade a complete disaster. Despite the fact she likely could have gleaned many important lessons from the points of success and failure in the matter, she avoided thinking of the pursuit as much as she could. Progress Day, despite the fact that crowds and commotion were unattractive to the woman, was at the very least a worthy distraction from the memory. The celebration marked its fiftieth year of festivities–Veseniya had only recently emerged from the Arches she had entered from a secluded stretch of desert only to wander for twice as long as Eterna boasted its progress. Any and all technology was new to her, and with so much to observe she hoped Ormir might excuse her lack of immediate recognition.  “This aetherium seems strange to me,” she stated quietly in the place of a greeting when she seemed to notice him. Her voice was hushed as a squire–or something like that–pontificating on the miracle that the substance had proven to be from a large stage on risers not far ahead of them. Many things seemed strange to Veseniya. Her community had been regressive and simple. Even the commonplace tools and materials of the present day and age had been something her cult had struggled to supply themselves with. For a cult that worshipped a god of wisdom, they certainly welcomed needless strife and suffering. The spores druid ignored the over-animated, performative display meant to titillate the crowd and build tension before some mysterious invention was to be revealed. “What do you make of this miracle material?” Veseniya, given her personal history, did not believe in miracles, only darkly twisted arcana that those in power insisted were miracles to advance their own agendas. She did not know if Eterna and its queen were the same. But might Ormir have formed an opinion on the matter?

It had only taken him a few days in Lysara for Mikhael to have the bright and startling realization that he had fucked up by getting to know the old man at the bonfire and after. The conversation had been a respite during the arduous journey, and he had enjoyed it enough to seek him out through the journey, but nothing had grown beyond a few amicable conversations. As fellow warriors, keeping the conversation going without delving too much into the despair surrounding them had been bolstering, so he had not made efforts to keep a distance from the Iskaran. Now that they were in Lysara and he had seen the human next to the Princess and who he assumed to be the Prince — and yes, Mikhael will be ignoring the fact that the Iskaran Prince is a Changeling until his dying days to avoid that specific brand of drama — greeting the Lysaran officials, he is regretting his choice. He already found himself drawn to Aytaç, he didn’t mean to involve himself any further with the same group that would have killed him if they had known of his status as a cambion. 

It’s hard to avoid someone when they are both stuck in the same area, though, so he isn’t surprised when he runs into the nobleman a few weeks after the realization of his possible status.