#support:fernand

Perhaps that is why he is seeing her now, her form restored as if it'd never been touched by the power of a mad god. Fernand makes little attempt to disguise his approach, a breeze stirring as boots come to a halt in golden sands. "...Lady Rinea. I hadn't thought you would be here as well." (2/2)

     How long would this dream last? She didn’t want to complain and favored a life of routine, but day after day felt the same, monotonous and dull. Rinea would step out to watch the waves that seemed to bring in the same washed up shells as yesterday and the day before that. Unless this was her purgatory before passing into the afterlife. People from the past had been cropping up, but none to haunt her, if anything, it seemed she was the one doing the haunting.

    When she wishes for a new tide to turn over, the island had a funny way of granting her wish. A voice calls out to her and she freezes. Her head turns slowly.

    “Ferna—Sir Fernand... I...” Was he alive? Or was it smoke and mirrors? Smoke, its tendrils were caught in her lungs, choking her of words from the inside out. She takes a step back, then another. 

    It was to no fault of his, but Fernand’s horrified face was the last conscious memory she had that night. She remembers that much all too well. Her soul was stolen as she was forced into nothing more than a weapon, a sacrifice to quell a mad god’s insatiable hunger.

Task board: For the Crabolution | Grants Swords +1 | @bluebloodedpride

    Daylight was beginning to dwindle as dusk begins to settle in, only leaving the subtle golden glow of candle’s light strung in chandeliers above each table in the mess hall. There was to be a great seafood feast; crabs, prawns, and bread were all to be placed along the lengths of tables on a bed of lettuce. The students and professors were to gather and enjoy a warm and refreshing meal before curfew strikes and everyone retreats to their respective places.

    The smell of various spices and steam rolls through the room, the chairs, dinner rolls, and prawns were all set in place for the evening. The only thing missing was the hungry mouths and—

    The crabs were missing? And the utensils as well?

    A quick look over the tables would confirm this, but soft clicking of claws would suggest otherwise. 

    Sometimes, Rinea wonders if this was all another dream. Crabs, big and small, held utensils between their claws and scurrying amok across the floor when they were meant to be plated on the table.

    ...Right, perhaps this is one she should sit out on, walk out as if she hadn’t witnessed any of it. On her way out, however, she is stopped by one of the crustaceans holding a fork. It clicks its other claw at her. She kneels down and blinks owlishly. Was it trying to tell her something? 

    As she entertains this thought, a familiar head of blond from that strange purgatory dream, passes by. He looked as if he wanted to tell her something back then. If she could have a moment to ask him, or a suggestion as to what to do about these crawling crustaceans.