#vainglcriousx

It has been hours since Isolde settled upon the ground and began weeding, and it is only the awareness that dawn approaches that stops her from continuing further. A sigh is held tenderly on her chest as she moves to stand, and she carefully brushes the dirt clinging at her skirt. The physical exertion had helped her well, yet for all that she is now far more relaxed than she had been when she started, she remains without a good solution to her troubles. The danger they are to face is not yet named, the perpetrators of the fire not yet known. There is no possible way for her to be fully prepared to protect her family, when the answers she seeks are half-given. 

Another sigh leaves her, and she turns to exit the garden, when her eyes fall upon a figure that is not quite familiar yet not quite known. She knows of Bain Solkarith, if only because she is aware of his house’s pact with House Athlyan. The arranged marriage is such an old piece of gossip, most do not bother mentioning it often, yet it is the sort of gossip that she carefully pays attention to for she is to judge whether such a union is worthy of her house’s fruits or not. Yet for all that Isolde avoids politics, she is also aware that denying House Athlyan and House Solkarith of an appropriate festivity would be foolish. 

“Lord Solkarith,” she greets with a curtsy. “Enjoying the last few hours before dawn?”

It fills her with displeasure to make her way towards the Elarion’s quarters without her sketchbook at hand. Theano prided herself on the cleverness of her designs, as she always found herself filled with ideas when looking at a particular gemstone or another. Yet, all the ideas in the world could do nothing when her wrist is still too tender for proper sketching. Yes, she could force her hand and draw through the pain, but for all that her pain tolerance is relatively high, she does prefer not to subject herself to unnecessary pain if she can. That, and forcing it could irreparably damage her hand, and that would definitively be an issue.

Her current reputation had been built on her ability and her willingness to design intricate and exquisite pieces for all those who sought her out to commission her, and further, she had grown her usefulness through her sketching abilities as offered to the Malaric heir. To suddenly lose the very ability that had allowed her to make a name for herself— Theano could not bear it. She is already forgettable enough when out of sight, she could not afford to be out of people’s minds as well. 

All of it leads her to — metaphorically — drag her feet as she heads to the Elarion quarters to inform Lord Evandris that his commission would take longer than she had originally said. She almost regrets provoking Lord Nuwa, for the sense of shame that will follow her admission to the Elarion heir will stay for her for a while. Almost. Luckily for the man, his reaction had been too damn entertaining to mind all too much. 

As she turns the last corner before arriving at the quarters assigned to the ruling family of Morkhul, Theano blinks in surprise as she sees the very same person she is seeking walking in her direction. 

The Kelindorr are beholden to the Elarion, and as long as they rule fairly, that will remain so. Isolde has no desire to rock the boat or change tradition, so she flows along the river path accordingly, falling into courtesies as she must and performing her role appropriately, but never seeking her ruling house (or any ruling house for that matter) without a reason. The Kelindorr have no need for that, not when their house stands strong by their commitment to velkynar’s love. 

With said thought in mind, Isolde finds herself before the door of the Elarion quarters, a carefully preserved bouquet in her hands. Nodding at the maid accompanying her, she watches through lidded eyes as she reaches forward and opens the door after someone inside the room had called for them to enter. 

“Good evening,” she says, voice calm and near monotone as her eyes fall on the heir apparent to the house. “Heir Elarion,” she acknowledges properly, a smooth curtsy following, unencumbered by the bouquet on her hand. “Is the ruling lord here? I wished to pay my respects before we got caught up in the events and the ritual.”