#weavesouls

@weavesouls | 𝐈𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞

𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠…

The Peoples of Camavor rejoice! A young King newly thrust upon the ancient throne, who possessed neither the inclination nor the aptitude for rulership, suddenly found himself crowned. Far too young to reign. An ordinary young man, with modest ability, and little imagination. Foolish and brash and inexperienced. And yet in the Sanctum of Judgement, the Argent Crown had chosen him still, that which burden and weight had now been placed upon his brow.

With an expression akin to that of a condemned prisoner about to face his execution, Viego waved to his subjects as he is paraded and presented. A stiff smile upon his handsome lips. The people would celebrate now. But how long will it take for them to learn he is but an imposter to his father's reign?

With a sigh, he he keeps his grip upon his horse's reins, wondering when this procession of pomp and circumstance would end. It was then however, that a face in the crowd had caught his eye...

" Who is that? " breathless, the prince— no, the King would ask one of his entourage riders. It was as if he had been caught in a spell. Perhaps it had been cupid's bow that would seal the fate and folly of a great nation...

It was easy to tell when someone was in trouble. Especially when they looked so very lost. When the unfamiliar woman reaches out to her, Elaine smiles warmly and takes her hand to try and help her up.

"Oh but I have, Queen of Ruin."

The ghostly facade coalesces into his new form as the fire reveals flesh above the skeletal visage. His grin tightens into a rictus still getting used to the feeling of it after a millennium without it.

"It's so much more freeing this way I think. To go back to the root of everything that Erlok Grael was. To think I missed this. Though I guess it is fitting to be king now that your beloved has disappeared. Aren't you glad I kept a piece of you within my lantern for so long?"

Random headcanon meme!

☼ : Does your muse like daytime or nighttime more?

— Qiyana prefers the nighttime, as it is a little quieter. Not that she ever knows silence. She can hear the melody of the howl in the nocturne air, the fiery drums of smoke from hearths, the untouched flow of the river's song as boats stop tearing through its surface. It is easier to handle than the day. Less people grating her ears with the sound of their sweat and the dirt under their nails and oxygen wasted to utter useless words.