⋆·˚ ༘ * ── FROM EDEN !

[vaermina]

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"honey, you're familiar
like my mirror years a
go ! idealism sits in pri
son, chivalry fell on its
sword, innocence died
screaming, honey, ask
me i should know ! i sli
thered here from eden
just to sit outside your
door ! babe, there's so
mething wretched abo
ut this, something so
precious about this !"

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ＷＨＡＴ Ａ ＳＩＮ
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𝑇𝑂 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑆𝑇𝑅𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝐴 𝑃𝐼𝐶𝑁𝐼𝐶 𝑃𝐿𝐴𝑁 𝐹𝑂𝑅 𝑌𝑂𝑈 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝑀𝐸 !

─────── a wasteland au/past timeline thread where house vae can write out past scenarios/historical
events/whatever we want with wasteland characters fr. don't post unless you're apart of house vae.

[vaermina]

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ＦＲＯＭ ＥＤＥＮ
！ ！
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI. REVENANT PRINCESS CALISTA ATHANASIOU.xxxxxxxxxxxI. FUTURE LORD ASCENDANT PRINCE SØREN KOLBECK.

[vaell]

xxxxxＣＡＬＩＳＴＡiiＡＴＨＡＮＡＳＩＯＵ.

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe revenant princess of the eidolon.
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indentthe royal carriage creaked as it rolled toward the city of saint-cloud, the sound of hooves sharp and rhythmic against the cobblestone road.
indentinside, the young princess shifted in her seat, the stiff boning of her gown pressing against her ribs and forcing her to sit upright despite her discomfort. across from her, queen anastasia sat poised, her spine unyielding as steel. the older woman's gaze was fixed out the window, her expression unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line. not once had she looked at calista during the final leg of their trip, and that absence of acknowledgment cut deeper than any scolding. the familiar silence between her and her mother was like a weapon as sharp as any blade─it was the kind anastasia reserved for when her disappointment was too great to put into words. it was a dismissal rather than a reprimand, as though speaking to calista would have been an acknowledgment she wasn't willing to give. calista clenched her jaw at the thought and dropped her gaze to her lap, her fists curling against the soft silk of her skirts. this was maddening. the tension between them wasn't merely a well─rather, it was a fortress, one built brick by brick over years of impossible expectations and mutual resentment. her mother didn't need to say the words aloud—her silence reeked of disappointment, louder than any crowds at the ludus vinculum just a few days prior to their departure from the heartlands. calista just couldn't understand why. what did her mother want from her? the ludus vinculum had been a game, brutal and unforgiving like everything in the colosseum, with gladiators chained to thralls—weak, terrified souls with no hope of survival—expected to protect them while fighting off their opponents. according to tradition, it was meant to be a demonstration of honor, a way to prove one's worth not only in physical prowess but in restraint. the logic of it was almost laughable. protecting the thrall was a shackle in itself, a weakness in a world where strength alone decided victory. what had her mother expected her to do? let herself be dragged down by the girl? lose for the sake of appearances? the thought churned in her mind, and the image resurfaced unbidden: the thrall girl, barely sixteen, trembling as the chains bound them together. her eyes had been wide with fear, her breathing shallow, panicked. truthfully, calista had felt nothing for her. there was no room for pity in the arena, no room for kindness when survival was at stake. yes, she had shoved the girl forward as if she were nothing more than a shield, had severed the chain binding them with a single, decisive strike through her forearm, and had left her behind, bleeding and screaming. and? the crowd had cheered for her ruthlessness. the sand below had drank the thrall's blood, and for it calista ultimately stood victorious. yet, when she looked up at the royal box, searching for the approval she would never dare to admit she craved, she had found only her mother's stony, unflinching stare. there was no place for sentiment in the colosseum, no room for weakness. her mother should have understood that. should have admired it, even. but her mother's gaze had not been that of a proud queen looking upon her daughter. no, her expression instead held something far colder. not shock—she had seen too much of life to be shocked—but something worse. disappointment. disgust. the memory made calista's stomach twist. the cheers of the crowd had suddenly meant nothing to her in that moment, the glory of her triumph tarnished by the cold weight of her mother's judgment. why couldn't she understand? the thrall had been a burden. dead weight. she would have dragged calista down to the sand with her, and for what? a lesson in honor that no one would remember? her mother had not clapped, nor had she risen from her seat to acknowledge her daughter's victory. she only sat there, unmoving, like a judge presiding over a criminal trial. it was like a knife to the gut. her victory meant nothing to her mother─in fact, it was worse than nothing. it was an offense, a failure to live up to some impossible idea. to the outside world, calista's endeavors in the colosseum were seen as signs of strength, of a gladiator who had won her place in the world. but to her mother, what she did was proof—proof that calista was becoming a thing too wild to reign in, too uncontrollable. that's it, isn't it? she realized. calista had to force her hands to relax in her lap, releasing the bundle of fabric between her clenched fingers. truthfully, she didn't belong in silk gowns and golden necklaces; she belonged in leather and steel, with a blade in her hand and blood on her skin. but that certainly wasn't the version of her that her mother wanted the kolbeck family to see. anastasia's refusal to speak was something that always managed to gnaw at her. if her mother had only said something—yelled at her, criticized her, even condemned her outright—calista was sure she could have handled it. this silence, though, was unbearable. it felt like rejection, not of her actions, but of her self. it wasn't as though she'd expected her mother to cheer for her, but she had hoped for something. approval? understanding? calista didn't even know anymore. she knew her mother's displeasure wasn't just about adhering to imperial codes of conduct or the fate of the thrall girl though. no, it was about what calista represented: a chink in the armor of their family's image, a weakness that could be exploited by allies and enemies alike. the young princess stole another glance at the older woman sitting across from her. her mother's gaze remained unchanged, her eyes still fixed on the rolling countryside beyond the carriage window. she observed the way the pale light of the afternoon sun cast faint shadows along her face, sharpening the contours of her features. she looked like a statue of herself, carved from cold marble, unfeeling and impenetrable. calista's eyes narrowed a little. what are you thinking, mother? the question gnawed at her mind like a hungry beast. was she still replaying the events of the ludus vinculum in her head, running through all the ways her daughter had allegedly humiliated their family? was she imagining how calista had once again 'defied' the very ideals she was meant to uphold? or was her focus elsewhere, on the future—on gibraltar's royal family, on the delicate web of diplomacy she so desperately wanted to protect? of course, she thought, bitter. for a brief, fleeting moment, calista wondered if her mother even saw her as a person anymore. over the last few years she had become more like a tool, a piece in a game that she couldn't even understand. or at-least that's how it felt these days. but there was something in the rigidity of her mother's posture, in the tense set of her jaw that made her hesitate. that coldness—was it really ever just about disapproval? no... her silence was rooted in something weaker, something more fragile, she realized.
indentshe's afraid of me.
indentthe thought settled heavily in calista's mind, an uncomfortable truth she had never fully acknowledged before. her mother wasn't just angry with her actions at the ludus vinculum, and she wasn't simply disappointed by her behavior. no, what she feared, what truly terrified her, was what calista might become, wasn't it? when it came to the young athanasiou princess, rumors and whispers in distant courts had spread like wildfire over the last few years. they spoke of calista as if she were destined for madness, just like her grandmother, a woman whose fury had supposedly burned too hot for the world to contain. and though calista had always dismissed these rumors, had never once given them the weight they seemed to carry abroad, she had never expected her own mother to buy into them. but now, sitting in the quietude of the carriage, the truth was almost undeniable. it wasn't the first time calista noticed that look in someone's eyes, but seeing it over and over again in her mother's own hurt in a way she couldn't explain. truthfully, the princess never knew how to make sense of the way her mother treated her, but she had always simply chalked it up to disappointment, to being a reminder of the things her mother could not control. she supposed in some ways she had never known her mother's love the way others might expect a daughter to. there has always been a chasm between them, a gulf that could never be bridged, no matter how hard calista tried. the harder she pushed to show her mother that she was worthy of something—anything—the further her mother seemed to retreat. and at this point, she couldn't tell if she resented her mother for wanting to control her or if she simply longed for her to see her. calista had thought, in some small part of her, that perhaps her mother wanted her to be like her—a warrior, a force to be reckoned with. but now, calista saw the truth. her mother didn't want a warrior. she didn't want a daughter who could assume control, who could command a room with nothing but her presence. no, anastasia wanted a daughter she could control, a daughter who would fit the image she had crafted, who wouldn't threaten the balance of power. the irony of it all hit calista with a painful clarity. her mother, who had been a celebrated gladiator, a warrior queen who had fought tooth and nail for power over the heartlands, was now afraid of the very things she had once championed. strength. survival. defiance. calista felt a tight, restless pressure beginning to simmer beneath the surface of her skin. at first, she couldn't quite place the sensation. it sat there, hot and insistent, like a spark in a dry forest, waiting to catch. for a moment, she thought it might pass, like so many of the fleeting frustrations she'd learned to swallow whole. but this didn't pass.
indentit grew.
indentshe was angry.
indentand for the first time, the anger she felt had a name. it was not just the frustration of never measuring up. it wasn't just the sting of rejection. it was the realization that her mother truly did fear her. that despite everything she had done—fighting in the colosseum, claiming her strength, proving herself to the world just as her foremothers had before her—her mother saw it as a threat. it was jarring at first, but she could feel it now—rage, raw and undeniable, bubbling up from a place she hadn't realized was so close to the surface. the realization stung, but even that wasn't the worst of it. it was the hypocrisy that made her blood boil. of course, it was fine when her mother did what she had to do. it was fine when she bent the world to her will, when she fought and butchered without a second thought to the consequences. but when calista dared to act on the same fierce will, that same ruthless determination, then suddenly it was a problem. suddenly, it was something to be feared. the more calista thought about it, the more her anger grew, expanding, feeding on itself. it was acceptable for her mother to be untamed, wild even. but when calista followed in her footsteps, when she dared to show the same power, to embrace the violence and fire that ran through her veins, it was wrong. it was the sign of a disturbed mind, of someone succumbing to a sort of fated derangement. oh, but her mother didn't just fear what she might become. no, her fear ran deeper. her mother was afraid of being replaced. afraid that the woman calista was becoming would make her own legacy seem insignificant. that was why she had to control her, wasn't it?
indentthe princess' anger hardened inside of her until it was like a stone lodged in her chest, cold and jagged.
indenta sharp jolt rocked their carriage, snapping calista out of her thoughts. she blinked, her focus dragging back to the present as if surfacing from deep water. only now did she realize how far she'd wandered into her own mind. outside the carriage window, the sprawling city of saint-cloud began to come into view. the imposing silhouette of muria palace loomed ahead, rising above the city like some unyielding monument to power. its marble walls gleamed in the afternoon sun, casting long shadows over the streets below. its towers seemed to pierce the sky, spires sharp and unforgiving. the princess stared out the window for a moment, her expression unreadable. normally, calista would have admired the city, but today..? the sight of the palace grated on her nerves. this wasn't home. this wasn't gore bay with its mist-kissed streets and sunlit cliffs, and it certainly wasn't the colosseum where she at-least felt some semblance of control. admittedly, she had fond memories of her time in saint-cloud, but now, as she gazed upon its magnificent edifice, calista felt no awe. instead, it served only as a reminder of the expectations she had no desire to meet.
indentthis time, only a hollow frustration burned in her chest.


indentafter winding through the narrow streets of the foreign city, their carriage finally came to a halt when they reached the palace gates. through the carriage windows, calista could observe a sprawling dirt pathway beyond the gates. it snaked upward to a stone stairway that climbed the hillside toward muria palace. the distant hum of voices carried faintly down the slope—an audience awaiting them at the base of the hill, made up of chamberlains and other dignitaries ready to extend warm welcomes that meant nothing. it was all hollow, all scripted. they didn't care about her, only the alliance their family's presence symbolized. calista's hands unclenched just enough to smooth the fabric of her gown, a small gesture to steady herself before the doors opened. with a soft sigh of the door hinges, queen anastasia stepped out of the carriage first, her gown sweeping the ground behind her. her movements were fluid, graceful—impervious to the journey's length, a queen accustomed to the weight of eyes on her. after a beat, calista followed, her heels hitting the cobblestones with a sharp, almost jarring click. she nearly winced at the sound but forced herself to lift her chin, her gaze flickering over the assembly before them. the chamberlains waited, bowing deeply as they approached, their faces carved into polite expressions of deference. calista knew what they saw when they looked at her: the gladiator princess of house athanasiou, the supposed heir to her mother's ferocity. but beneath their show of respect, she could feel their suspicion, their judgment. just like everyone else, they saw the rumors given form—the daughter of the revenant queen who might yet become her grandmother's shadow. queen anastasia's eyes briefly flickered to calista as she took her place beside her, but it wasn't a look of recognition, or even approval. it was more like a cold assessment, a glance that told calista everything she needed to know. the princess stood still, though her insides stirred with a familiar unease.
indentmuch unlike the revenant queen, whose navy and deep blue garb exuded authority and commanded respect, calista seemed like an anomaly—her attire too bright and youthful in comparison. in fact, the dissonance between the princess and her own attire grew sharper the longer one observed her.
indentwhile the young princess' dress was certainly a vision of decadence, with crimson silk so rich it seemed to drink the sunlight and radiate it back in a cascade of of fiery hues, something about it seemed off. its intricate embroidery wove golden lionesses mid-pounce, their eyes glinting with tiny ruby threads. the ensemble was designed to exude majesty, to demand attention and respect, yet...on calista, it seemed an ill-fitting attempt to mask her true nature. even her posture betrayed her discomfort. while the princess' natural stance was one of readiness—weight balanced evenly, shoulders slightly forward—the constraints of her outfit forced her into a more rigid bearing. the boning of the bodice pulled her back uncomfortably straight, and her hands, normally used to resting on the hilt of a blade, were instead awkwardly clasped in front of her, fingers twitching as if seeking something to do. the bodice was fitted with an almost punishing precision, tightly laced to draw attention to her form. perhaps on someone else it might have symbolized refinement, but on calista, it almost seemed to fight against the breadth of her shoulders and the subtle curve of her muscles. a cascade of golden embroidery climbed from her waist to her collarbone, intended to frame her face in regal splendor, yet it seemed oddly out of place against the almost defiant tilt of her chin. the sleeves of her dress were long and flowing, with slits that revealed her forearms as she moved—muscular and faintly scarred from years of training at gore bay's imperial school, and utterly at odds with the delicate embellishments stitched into the fabric. the only other reminder of calista's gladiatorial background was the armlet she wore, a narrow band of gold snugly fit around her upper right arm, its surface embossed with motifs of intertwined chains. it was not just an ornament, but a proclamation of her recent triumph in the colosseum, a visible testament to the battles fought in the arena that had earned her respect and a place in the legacy of the ludus vinculum. the dress' off-the-shoulder neckline dipped low, revealing the strong line of her collarbones and the subtle slope of her shoulders. the design might have been intended to highlight her femininity, but it only accentuated the firm musculature beneath her skin. even the golden necklace hanging from her neck, embellished with fine rubies, looked garish on her, like it had been placed upon calista by someone desperate to disguise her true nature. around her waist, a thin belt of hammered gold was fastened with the heraldry of house athanasiou—a rearing lioness with its claws extended—while the gown's train, an elaborate cascade of crimson silk embroidered with golden filigree, spilled out behind her in a display of regal excess. and then there were the shoes, which seemed designed less for walking and more for standing still and looking pretty—a state of being that calista had never been able to master. crafted from leather with gilded pointed toes and heels, they were delicate, impractical things that appeared decorative to the point of absurdity, or at-least calista thought so. the heels themselves added an unfamiliar height to her stride, forcing her into a gait that was uncomfortably slow and deliberate. the dress was indeed a contradiction, a masterpiece meant to elevate her into the realm of untouchable royalty, but instead it only emphasized her refusal to be anything other than what she was. it was reminder to everyone that calista athanasiou was not just a creature of silk and jewels but one of steel and sinew, more at home in the bloodied sands of an arena than in the resplendent halls of a palace. even her hair was a far cry from her usual practical braids. her handmaidens had gathered it back into a low bun at the nape of her neck and encased it in a delicate golden net, an echo of the coiffures traditionally worn by eidolon royalty. a golden diadem shaped like a laurel crown rested atop her head, its delicate leaves glinting in the sunlight. a few loose tendrils of hair had been artfully left to frame her face, an attempt to lend her an air of gentleness, perhaps even docility, yet the updo did nothing but accentuate the tension in her neck. indeed, her entire ensemble seemed like an elaborate cage. it wasn't just that it didn't fit her physically; it didn't align with the person she was. even standing still, she looked like she was ready to rip free of the whole contrivance, her every muscle tense with the effort of holding herself in check. but her mother wanted her to be something else—someone else. the glinting rubies around her neck were a reminder of that, a reminder that this entire courtly masquerade wasn't meant to highlight her strength, but to suppress it. her queen mother's intentions were clear: calista was not to be her grandmother. she would not be a creature of chaos, of blood and battle, unable to sit still at a banquet or keep her temper in check when the pressure of the court grew too great. this was meant to be a display of refinement, a reminder to their eastern neighbors that calista was not just a gladiator but a princess. and yet ironically, her attire only served to amplify the dissonance between who she was and who her mother wanted her to be. calista somehow remained resolutely herself, an untamed force struggling against the gilded trappings of a world that didn't quite know how to hold her. her expression was what managed to complete the picture of discord. attached to her diadem, a delicate latticework of golden metal had been intricately crafted to fit calista's features like a second skin, curving across her forehead and cheeks in a series of slender, interlocking lines that formed a shimmering web of gold over her face. a fine chain hung from the face piece, its gold links catching the light with a subtle, almost hypnotic shimmer. despite the otherworldly elegance it imparted to her, beneath the veil-like hardware calista's jaw was set, her lips curved into the barest semblance of a polite smile. she radiated power, and not the cultivated, ornamental kind meant to awe courtiers, but that of a raw, untamed force. the overall impression she gave was one of rebellion subdued but not extinguished. the gown, the jewelry, the carefully styled hair—they were all attempts to craft an image of grace and civility, to quell the growing whispers about her disorderly state of mind. her dress was meant to smooth over the edges of her unruly reputation, an effort to present calista to their eastern allies as a princess with the elegance and poise required of ancient royalty. it was evident anastasia wanted to mold calista into something softer, more palatable to the world—a reflection of her own fear of judgment from the kolbeck family and the rest of annexed canada. rumors fueled by calista's impulsive behavior have painted her as something unpredictable, even dangerous, and to some, an heir too volatile to govern or inspire confidence. her queen mother feared what might spread beyond the eidolon courts, poisoning diplomatic relationships or weakening already fragile alliances. but the more her mother attempted to shape her into something she was not, the more she reinforced the idea that calista was out of place in this world. the princess was hyperaware of how the dress clung to her form in all the wrong ways—tight where it should have flowed, restrictive where it should have allowed her to move. it was a reminder that her mother's attempts to control her were never going to fit. she was a lioness dressed as a songbird, and the effort to conceal her claws only made their presence more glaring.
indentcalista glanced over her shoulder when she heard the faint creak of a second carriage coming to a stop, followed by the sound of boots striking the cobblestones. her brother adonis was the first to emerge, oozing with the practiced confidence that made him so infuriating to behold. the navy paludamentum draped over his shoulder billowed in the breeze as he stepped out of the carriage, his expression already molded into a look of mild disinterest as if silently critiquing the splendor before him. the man scanned his surroundings with the casual arrogance of someone who expected admiration. calista watched him for a moment, her jaw tightening at the sight. even here, in a foreign province, he wore his superiority like a second skin─though admittedly, his disdain for gibraltar was nothing new. calista's eyes flickered to her lady aunt cressida when she followed him out of the carriage, her presence just as striking as the amethyst gown she wore. the fabric shimmered in the sunlight, an iridescent cascade of purple and silver threads that seemed to shift with her every movement. the gown's bodice appeared to be adorned with delicate silver detailing depicting interwoven trails of ivy. the hem of her skirt was embroidered with silver foxes darting through winding vines, a subtle nod to the heraldry of her birth house prior to marrying into the royal family. a silver clasp shaped like a fox head secured a lightweight mantle at her shoulders, its gossamer fabric trailing behind her in the light breeze. her long auburn hair had been swept off her shoulders into a loose, intricate twist, with a few small curls framing her sharp features. calista watched as her aunt waited for cybil to join her side. she could spot the warm smile that softened cressida's expression, the kind calista rarely saw on her mother's face. with an almost maternal touch, her aunt reached out to tuck a stray tendril of cybil's hair behind her ear, her hand lingering briefly as if to reassure the girl. calista watched the pair from where she stood, her chest tightening—not with jealousy, but with something more complicated, something tinged with nostalgia, perhaps, or a yearning she couldn't quite name. the feeling came over her all at once, bittersweet and unexpected. she'd spent so much of her childhood under her aunt's watchful care while living in the mainland, and though the years had hardened her, thickening her skin against the cruelties of the real world, her memories of those softer times she spent with cressida remained vivid, like sunlight cutting through a dense canopy. how many times had her aunt done the same for her when she was cybil's age? she could still remember the phantom touch of her aunt's fingers brushing through her hair, untangling knots with endless patience. instead of scolding calista for her unruly state, she would hum softly—half melodies calista never recognized, but that calmed her all the same. she could still remember her time spent in the sudbury mining complex with a certain fondness. the air there had always been tinged with the metallic scent of ore and earth, a sharp contrast to the freshwater breezes rolling off lake huron. she could remember when her aunt had introduced her to the ephedrismos, a silly game where one person was blindfolded and carried on another's back as they tried to aim stones at a target. calista had always begged to be the one carried, clutching tightly to her aunt's shoulders as they laughed together at her poor aim. you'd never make it in the phalanx with throws like that, cressida would tease her. but there had been no malice in her words, only warmth. the game often devolved into fits of laughter, with her aunt pretending to topple over dramatically when calista missed the mark. on those nights, it hadn't mattered that she was a princess. with cressida, she could be a child—a wild, joyful creature with skinned knees and endless curiosity. cressida had even taught her the knucklebones game, astragaloi, played with polished sheep bones or carved stones. the two of them would sit cross-legged, tossing and catching the pieces. her aunt had always let her win in the early rounds, but as the game went on, she would subtly raise the stakes, forcing her to adapt, to learn the strategies that would eventually let her win on her own merit. a good player always thinks two moves ahead, she'd say, nudging calista's hand when she hesitated too long. the gods reward those who are clever, not just lucky. and then there was the festival of pyrphoros—a time not of frivolity, but of grit and resolve. it was less a celebration and more a challenge, a crucible meant to honor the resilience of the sudbury people and their bond with the unforgiving earth. for calista, it had been an obsession. when she was younger, she burned with the need to prove herself—not to her aunt, not to the miners, but to the land itself. the labyrinth was the festival's heart, a sprawling network of abandoned mining tunnels that tested even the most skilled. it was a rite of passage for those who dared. the rules were simple: carry a flame lit from the ceremonial brazier and navigate the labyrinth without letting it extinguish. emerging on the other side meant more than success─it meant respect. no one had pushed calista to enter that year; in fact, cressida had expressly told her not to. you're not ready, her aunt had firmly told her. these tunnels don't care how brave you think you are. but calista, headstrong and eager to prove her mettle, had slipped away during the opening ceremonies. she could still recall the weight of the torch in her hand, the cool dampness of the tunnels, and the way her footsteps echoed in the cavernous dark. at first, it was exhilarating. she ducked under low beams, scrambled over jagged rubble, and followed the faint markings that guided her deeper into the maze. she had been doing it—proving herself. but the labyrinth was not kind. the tunnels grew narrower, its paths twisting and fracturing into impossible choices. the air eventually became thick with the metallic tang of iron and damp stone. then she heard a noise; a low, haunting groan, like the mine itself drawing a breath. the sound had froze her. a tremor rippled beneath her feet, subtle at first, then violent. the groan turned into a thunderous roar as the ground split open behind her. a section of the tunnel had collapsed, sending a cascade of stones and dust into the air. calista had staggered back, coughing and clutching her torch like a lifeline. in that moment, an unforgettable wave of panic clawed at her. she was alone in the labyrinth, and the weight of her impulsiveness pressed on her chest. but she remembered her aunt's voice—steady, clear, and impossible to ignore. cressida had often spoken of the tunnels as if they were alive, not as an enemy to be conquered but a force to be respected. if you lose your way, she'd once said, listen to the mine. it will tell you where to go. and that's when calista saw it─a faint, almost imperceptible mark on the wall ahead, etched into the stone by generations of miners. the tunnel narrowed to a crawlspace, forcing her to drag herself through jagged rock. she eventually emerged into a wider shaft just as the torch's flame gave out, plunging her into complete darkness. calista didn't cry out though. she pressed on, her fingers brushing the cool stone, her mind sharp despite the fatigue. it felt like hours before she finally stumbled into the quarry, her knees giving way as she collapsed into the open air. she could vaguely remember her aunt running over to her, cupping her soot-streaked face, grasping for hands bloodied from digging through debris. the woman had been pale with worry as she held her. you reckless, impossible girl. what were you thinking? but her voice softened as she held calista close, brushing the dust from her hair. you're alive, she'd murmured, her anger fading into relief. you're alive, and that's enough. that night, while bonfires burned in the open pits and the people sang songs of the earth, calista had sat beside her aunt, her exhaustion mingling with a strange, quiet pride. she had defied the labyrinth, not through brute force, but by listening—to the mine, to herself, to the lessons her aunt had quietly instilled in her.
indentas though sensing calista's lingering gaze, cressida caught her eye. the woman offered her a smile—a soft, knowing expression that seemed to say, i remember too. the revenant princess felt the warmth of it settle in her chest, soothing some of the jagged edges left by her mother's spurning. unlike the queen, her aunt had never demanded perfection from her. she encouraged calista to embrace her flaws, to temper her fiery nature without extinguishing it. cressida carried herself with a grace calista admired, not because it was unattainable, but because it was genuine. unlike her mother's unyielding dominance, her aunt's poise came from quiet strength—a calm that drew people in rather than cowing them into submission. she had been the one to teach calista that strength wasn't always loud. that sometimes, it was in the moments of stillness, or in the choice to hold back when striking out seemed easier. it was a lesson calista struggled with even now, but one she could never forget. her instincts were all fire and motion, but her aunt's wisdom was like the ivy embroidered on her gown—subtle but ever-present, quietly grounding her even when the world seemed intent on tearing her apart. calista hesitated for a moment before she looked back to her mother. as the chamberlains moved to guide the royal party to the palace, the older woman shot her an discrete yet expectant look, as if she'd noticed her drifting attention, then proceeded to depart from the palace gates. for a split second, calista glared at the queen's back and remained rooted in place. the urge to defy the older woman surged hot in her veins. for just a moment, she considered staying where she was in a silent act of rebellion. but the weight of duty was as inescapable as the pull of gravity, and calista found herself moving almost reflexively toward her mother.

indentthe climb to muria palace always seemed long and deliberate, like it were an intentional reminder of the separation between the palace and the rest of the city.
indentthe young princess trailed behind her mother at a distance, periodically glancing down at the fabric of her skirts as if she half-expected her dress to ensnare her entirely. she clutched the material with one hand, struggling to keep it from dragging on the ground. it was almost like wading through water. any sort of movement threatened to trip her, like the dress itself was conspiring to hold her back. even the heel of her shoes forced her to slow, making her feel both small and fragile in a way she was not used to. calista gritted her teeth, silently cursing her circumstances. the fine threads of her dress itched against her skin like a constant, nagging irritation she couldn't escape.
indent"cali?"
indenta woman's voice broke through her thoughts, light but teasing, and unmistakably familiar. "are you planning to stare at your feet the whole way up, or will you at-least spare me a glance?" calista glanced over her shoulder, startled out of her growing vexation. her aunt cressida followed closely behind, her expression warm and mildly amused. a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of calista's mouth. she slowed her pace to allow her aunt to catch up to her. cybil remained glued to her aunt's side, watching their exchange with intrigue. "as if you'd let me ignore you." calista quipped with a snort. her aunt chuckled, the sound low and warm. "i would never dream of allowing such insolence," cressida replied in kind, reaching out to take her hand. her grip was firm but comforting. "look at you, my fierce girl," her aunt gave her hand a slight squeeze. "so beautiful." calista forced another smile, only half-believing the woman's words. she felt more like a dressed up puppet than she did beautiful. her silence only seemed to invite cressida's scrutiny though. her aunt's gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, as though she were trying to decipher something hidden in calista's features. the smile that had softened cressida's face moments before faded, giving way to a slight frown. "you look tired," cressida observed quietly, her tone gentle but careful, as though she were testing the waters. the concern in her voice was unmistakable, but it wasn't intrusive—just enough to let calista know she was paying attention. calista hesitated for a heartbeat, the words she wanted to say catching in her throat. her aunt always had a way of disarming her—not with commands or accusations, but with gentle prodding that left her feeling exposed. her eyes flickered to the ground, unable to hold her gaze. a knot of suppressed emotion was tightening just behind her ribs, begging to be released. "i'm fine," calista managed, though the words felt too thin, too hollow, even as they left her lips. cressida's head tilted slightly. the look in her eyes made calista feel exposed. sometimes it felt like her aunt could peel away layers of her carefully constructed defenses with a mere glance. cressida saw right through her, always had. she'd seen her when she was a child, wild-eyed and reckless, and she'd seen her grow into the warrior she was today. there was softness in cressida's expression, but also the unmistakable glimmer of understanding, the kind of quiet scrutiny that made calista want to run away. she could feel her aunt's questions already—what is it? why do you seem so distant?—hovering in the space between them, waiting for her to offer something real. but fortunately, cressida didn't press her further. not now, while there were so many ears that could listen in. if they had the luxury of privacy, though, calista had a feeling that cressida would have insisted on more. she would have asked what was truly eating at her, drawing honesty from calista even if she didn't want to give it. but for now, she simply squeezed the princess' hand once more, an offer of quiet understanding. the gesture sufficed. "i know, cali," her aunt said gently, her voice a balm on the raw edges of calista's fraying composure. there was something about her aunt's certainty, her unspoken trust in her, that made the young princess feel both comforted and vulnerable at once. calista knew—without needing to be told—that cressida would be there should she need to confide in her. in many ways, cressida was the mother calista had always needed. she never tried to control her, never sought to bend her will to fit some mold. instead, her aunt had nurtured her independence, encouraged her to embrace both the fire and the softness inside her. it was no wonder why calista often felt more at home in cressida's presence than in her own mother's. where anastasia's love had always felt conditional, tethered to the hallowed throne and the duties of royalty, cressida's love had been the opposite, rooted in trust, respect, and the knowledge that calista was enough just as she was.
indentbefore the thought could fully settle in calista's mind, a familiar presence greeted her from behind. calista turned her head when she felt her uncle galen's calloused hand briefly settle on her shoulder. "cali," he greeted her, his voice rough but surprisingly warm for a man of his disposition. the man fell into step on her opposite side. "how are you holding up?" the princess hesitated once again, her gaze flickering up the stairs where her mother headed the procession. for a moment, calista toyed with idea of telling galen how she felt. yet again the words were right on the edge of her tongue, hot and restless, but she bit them back. what's the point? she could feel her frustration resurface once more. if anyone would understand, it would be her uncle, yet the thought of voicing her resentment aloud—to name it—felt like standing too close to an open flame. galen gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, interrupting her train of thought. his eyes had followed her gaze, and without missing a beat, he shifted the focus of their conversation with practiced ease. he knew her well enough to sense where her mind was wandering, and just as effortlessly, he pulled her away from the tension between her and her mother. "ah, i get it now. my apologies, princess. i forget myself. if i want an answer from you, i have to call you the libera vincula now, huh?" he teased, exchanging a look of humor between himself and his lady wife.
indentunsurprisingly, their affectionate moment was rather short-lived.
indent"careful, uncle," adonis drawled from behind them, his voice dripping with thinly veiled disdain. "do you think it wise to praise insolence now?" calista's smile faltered, the weight of his words sinking in with a dull thud. the princess looked over her shoulder with a certain dread. the instant his gaze locked with hers, a familiar wariness settled over her like a heavy cloak. adonis always had a way of making her feel small, of twisting her achievements into something less than they were. the princess paused before taking her next step on the stairway, looking back down at him. "what do you mean..?" she asked carefully. her tone was measured, but there was no mistaking the edge of defensiveness underlying her voice. galen and cressida slowed their pace, their gazes shifting warily to the two siblings. experience had taught them that there was no guarantee the pair would exercise enough restraint to be mindful of their surroundings. adonis advanced up the stairs, stopping just in front of them. "you know what i mean. the ludus vinculum is about honor and discipline, not just brute strength." he said, the sneer in his voice barely concealed. "i saw you at the games. disregarding the tournament's intent isn't something i'd be proud of." calista's lips parted slightly, but she closed her mouth before any words could escape, lest she regret them later. her mother would probably confine her to her guest quarters for the rest of the night if she dared to make a scene right now. not that i'm the one starting any of this, mind you. adonis always knew how to push her buttons in the worst ways. calista wanted to lash out, to remind him that she had fought, and she had earned it. she would've, had they not just arrived in the city of saint-cloud. but his voice, cold and dismissive, cut through her thoughts again. "you don't respect what that title means." the man muttered under his breath callously, slipping past her on the stairway. how dare he? calista turned to watch him. he spoke as if her victory had been nothing more than a fluke, as though she had stolen something that didn't belong to her. he always did this. "and you do?" calista shot back before she could stop herself, a hollow but bitter laugh escaping her lips. adonis paused, looking over his shoulder at her. "all this, coming from someone who didn't even fight this year." she could feel her pulse quicken as she fought to keep her anger in check, trying not to let the heat in her chest rise to the surface. adonis' eyes narrowed, but the smirk on his face didn't disappear. "i don't need to participate to know the difference between a real fighter and someone who's just looking for glory," he retorted, his voice dripping with condescension. "you may have fought, but the way you won wasn't about honor. you think making a spectacle out of everything makes you special?" calista's heart was pounding in her ears, her growing anger fueled by the frustration that had been building for days, weeks even, from the silence her mother had cast upon her. she couldn't help herself anymore. "what do you want from me, adonis?" she demanded, struggling to keep her voice from rising. "do you want me to apologize for winning? for earning something you couldn't?"
indent"i want you to understand that just because you wear the title doesn't mean you earned it in the way it was meant to be earned," he corrected her, his words clipped and deliberate. "the ludus vinculum isn't just some circus to entertain the masses. if you think you've proved anything, then you're only fooling yourself."
indentbefore calista could fire back with a retort of her own, galen's voice cut through the tension like a blade, calm and unyielding. "enough, adonis," he said, his tone calm but firm, the quiet authority in his voice putting an end to their rising confrontation. his hand landed lightly on calista's shoulder again, grounding her in the moment. it was a gentle reminder that she didn't have to continue this fight. adonis, however, had already won in his mind. he regarded calista one last time, that smug expression of his never faltering. the look in his eyes—part triumph, part mocking—infuriated her more than it should have. he didn't just want to have the last word. he needed it. it was almost as though he got some kind of sick satisfaction from his provocation. still, adonis was wise enough to back off, knowing better than to challenge their uncle, at-least not in this moment. with a final sneer that only fueled her anger, adonis turned to resume his ascent up the stairway. she hated how he always did this, putting her on display in front of everyone else like some caged animal to be prodded at, always dragging her into something she didn't want to be part of. he wanted to control the narrative, to paint her as reckless and emotional in front of other people. it was as if humiliating her was a way for him to assert his dominance, to remind everyone, herself included, that he was somehow the superior sibling. his cruel little provocations have never been random, either; they were carefully calculated to twist any conversation until she was the one who appeared out of control. he enjoyed baiting her, just to make her look petty. he used her pride as a weapon, and she despised it.
indentseething, calista hardly spared galen or cressida a second glance as she stormed up the stairway, her glower only barely concealed.


indentwhen the athanasiou family finally arrived at the summit, the palace's courtyard came into full view before them, framed by the slender marble arches and open columns that made up muria's distinct silhouette. the courtyard was bathed in the soft, golden light of the late afternoon, the sun casting long shadows that stretched lazily across the polished stone. there, the kolbeck family awaited them. despite the privacy of their reception, the whole scene already felt like a performance—a well-rehearsed dance that calista didn't care enough to watch. while her mother stepped forward in greeting, the young princess hung back slightly. she wasn't interested in the political theater unfolding before her. in fact, there was only one person whose face she cared enough to seek out among the crowd.
indentsøren.
indentthe moment she laid eyes on him, a sharp pang of recognition seized her chest. for a split second, the noise of the courtyard—the soft murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet—seemed to fade into nothing. there was only him standing among the gathered group, looking different yet unmistakably the same. without thinking, a small smile tugged at her lips, but she immediately caught herself. the smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and she steadied herself, forcing her features into a mask of neutrality. by the gods, was she this transparent? maybe, but even worse... do i look as ridiculous as i feel? a stray thought crossed her mind—did søren notice how out of place she looked? did he notice how uncomfortable she was? did everyone? a sudden, spiraling awareness of her attire crept over her. her hands twitched slightly as she clasped them behind her back, betraying the restlessness she couldn't suppress. the dress she wore—too tight, too gaudy—seemed more suffocating than ever. its stiff boning forced her into an unnaturally rigid posture, while the off-the-shoulder neckline made her feel strangely exposed. even the feeling of the metallic handiwork on her face felt mildly uncomfortable now. why was she so worried about looking foolish in front of him, though? calista, who prided herself on being untouchable and never needing anyone's approval, found her heart racing with the singular thought of one young man. it was never just about impressing him though. no, there was something more complicated about this feeling she associated with him. it was the way he made her feel seen in a way no one else had. he had always known her, truly known her—beyond her imperial birthright, beyond the façade—and that made him the one person who could see through her so completely. she forced her gaze away from him, silently chastising herself. why did she care so much about looking the part in front of him? she'd known søren since childhood, but now, at eighteen, the feeling that twisted in her stomach when she saw him was new, different from what it had been when they were children. it wasn't the innocent crush of a young girl anymore—it was deeper, layered with time and everything they had both become since those days, and it was something that she didn't dare label. over the years, the playful spark that used to be in their exchanges had turned into something more complicated. the teasing, the banter—it had a weight now, a tension that was impossible to ignore. she adored him, more than she cared to admit. he had the kind of quiet strength that drew people in without him even trying, a presence that left her feeling both safe and far too vulnerable all at once. the way the edges of their friendship sharpened into something else made her feel exposed, though, as if everyone else could immediately sense the way she brightened upon seeing him. it was ridiculous, really. she didn't need to feel this way. not now. not with everything else going on, with what expectations were pressing down on her from every side. but there he was, only a few paces in front of her, and it was impossible to ignore the pull he had on her. she hadn't thought about it until now, but when it came to søren, what she longed for was the sort of connection she had never sought from others. and not just casual exchanges or friendly teasing but something deeper, something honest that existed outside of their childhood games. she had never cared for anyone's perception about her before, not like this. the weight of it struck her, then—this was new. maybe she just wasn't used to caring like this to begin with. she certainly wasn't used to wanting to impress someone, to want to be something more in their eyes. søren's presence forced her to acknowledge that there were parts of her she had kept hidden, even from herself. and while it both terrified and exhilarated her, it was also deeply humbling. calista forced herself to lift her chin, scanning the courtyard with an air of detachment she didn't feel, her eyes straying back to søren despite herself. truth be told, søren didn't need to know any of this. he didn't need to see the way her feelings for him had shifted, how the lighthearted camaraderie they had once shared had evolved into something more complex. seeing him here at-least made the weight of her mother's scrutiny feel a little easier to bear though. and while she didn't dare let her smile return, the thought of reuniting with him was enough, a quiet reprieve from the chaos that has been engulfing her. in fact, the only thing that had kept her from losing her mind entirely in the last few days was the knowledge that she would see him again. he was something familiar in the face of all this artifice. and yet, the more she thought about it, the more she realized the depth of her feelings. she needed him here. he was the only good thing about this entire situation. no one else could make her feel this way, like there was something worth being here for, something worth pretending for. the endless strings of expectations, the constant dance of courtly politics, the insidious pressure to be something she wasn't—it was all bearable, almost tolerable, when she thought of him. no one else could make her heart catch in her chest with a simple glance, or send the world spinning into focus with nothing more than their presence like he did. with søren, things were different. he was the anchor she hadn't realized she needed amidst this relentless pageant of courtly life, the spark of something real in a world that was becoming increasingly artificial with every passing moment.
indentthe way calista felt never really translated into shyness, though.
indentwithout a second thought, the young princess had abandoned her position at the periphery of her family when it became clear her mother was not going to call upon her, instinctually gravitating toward søren and his sister. the decision felt almost automatic, as though there was no question where she wanted to be. within a few strides, she had crossed the courtyard and closed the distance between them, her hand reaching for theirs in an unspoken, familiar gesture. it was small, but it meant something to her—this bond between them, built over years of shared moments, both lighthearted and somber. "máirín," she greeted warmly, her eyes flickering between the two siblings, "søren." though she held mairín's gaze for a heartbeat, when her attention turned to søren, the weight of her feelings seemed to press lightly against her chest. for a small, fleeting moment, it felt as if all the frustration and tension from earlier—the stifling weight of her mother's judgment, the humiliations adonis had dragged her through—were already beginning to ebb away. seeing søren again was the only thing that could make this entire ordeal bearable. his presence was like a beacon in the middle of an endless storm, a silent promise that, despite all the grand performances and political machinations surrounding them, something real and unpretentious still existed between them. the weight of those thoughts lingered for a moment, grounding her in a brief, peaceful respite, but that moment was interrupted by a familiar, soft, high-pitched chitter—a sound she immediately recognized. calista instinctually glanced over her shoulder, her eyes landing on an eidolon attendant arriving at the outskirts of the courtyard with a regal birdcage. her heart skipped at the sight of the peregrine falcon inside. talos was young, but he was still an impressive sight to behold. perched with quiet dignity inside of the cage, his sharp, intelligent eyes seemed to be observing their surroundings keenly. his gaze was calculating, aware—unmistakably the eyes of a hunter, even in his youth. talos flexed his talons, his long, curved claws scraping lightly against the metal bars of the cage. he was no longer the delicate, fluffy fledging he'd once been, but he was not yet a fully matured bird of prey yet either. the feathers along his back had darkened over the past year, the subtle streaks of adult plumage staring to emerge, though his soft underbelly was still a pale ivory. calista's lips curled into a slight smile at the sight of the bird. turning her attention back to the siblings, calista cleared her throat as if to shake off the brief moment of distraction. "i hope you don't mind me stealing your brother away," she said with a teasing smile, her eyes flickering to máirín before returning to søren. there was something almost mischievous in her expression, a glint in her eye that suggested she had an agenda. "come," she coaxed, linking her arm with his in an effort to gently guide him away from his sister's side. the gesture seemed effortless, almost too casual, but perfectly natural between them. "you must see how talos has grown since you've last seen him." calista continued, her voice light. though she spoke of the falcon, her true intentions were clear. she wanted to catch up with søren, and, with any luck, find a moment alone with him eventually, away from the watchful eyes of their families. the idea of spending even a few moments in his company filled her with a sense of quiet excitement. it was an opportunity she was not about to squander. with her free hand, calista motioned for the attendant to release talos from his cage as she led søren toward the bird. with a nod of acknowledgement, the bird's handler unlatched the cage door. talos shifted immediately, ruffling his feathers with a shake. he hesitated for only a moment before leaping forward, wings unfurling in a graceful arc that sent a rush of air brushing past her face. calista's smile deepened as she watched him take flight, her chest swelling with pride. "watch this," she whispered, nudging søren with her elbow. calista raised her opposite forearm, expecting talos to return and perch obediently as they had practiced countless times. instead of descending toward her, though, the young falcon only soared higher, banking sharply in the open air above the courtyard. he circled once, and then—with what could only be described as deliberate defiance—he alighted atop one of the slender marble archways framing the courtyard. there, perched above them, talos puffed out his chest with an air of triumph, tilting his head to peer down at them. he let out a small cry that echoed across the courtyard, a sound that somehow carried a note of playful mockery. calista's cheeks flushed immediately. she dropped her arm back to her side, her fingers curling slightly in frustration. "talos!" she hissed, trying her best to infuse her voice with authority, though the falcon remained unimpressed. he merely shifted his weight on his talons and let out another call, his head tilting as though he were studying the pair. calista forced down her embarrassment, though the frustration was plain on her face. "he's still learning," she admitted with an irritated mumble, turning her gaze back up to the bird, which seemed to be preening proudly atop his chosen perch. calista's arm was still linked with søren's, as if she hadn't given a second thought to their prolonged closeness. "but i don't know. sometimes, i think he just enjoys making me look ridiculous."

[vaermina]

ＳØＲＥＮ ＫＯＬＢＥＣＫxxx
I.xtribal affiliationsx II. a prince of house kolbeck


indentthe sweet stench of crushed petals mingled with the earthy tang of mulch. the rich scent of blooming verdure vaguely tickled the young prince's senses as he stared out the open window of his mother's bed-chamber. he tried to ignore princess aoibheann's scathing voice. "─ere you will expand your palette of learned diplomacy, etiquette, and alliances that will shape your future. you are a royal princess, not the daughter of some penniless farmer tied to a patch of barren land! you and your brother belong where your duties take you─where you are needed, not where you want to be. that is the reality of your birth, máirín, the reality of your very existence! you would not be standing here drawing breath if it were not for duty."
indent"then maybe you should have married a commoner if you wanted children who could stomach your reality!" his sister responded with her own incensed retort. "i don't know, mother, i think you would have been much more delightful company if you had decided to wed a tiller."
indentsøren looked away from the open window so he could observe his reflection in the dated floor mirror. he has long grown accustomed to the endless squabbles between his temperamental mother and his equally capricious sister, both of whom shared the same unyielding spirit and hardheaded determination. their clashes were rarely born out of anything meaningful. for years, he has observed their outbursts with an almost practiced indifference. though exhausting to those caught in the crossfire, søren found their bickering oddly reassuring—a familiar rhythm of home that he could not imagine life without. he never worried over the possibility that their quarrels might spiral beyond repair. their arguments, though hardly of consequence, flared with the same intensity as a battlefield skirmish—two equally fiery spirits unwilling to yield an inch of their claimed territories. his mother has passed down her stubborn streak like a treasured heirloom to his sister, who wore it just as proudly and often just as loudly. their arguments often ignited over the most trivial matters—a misplaced brooch, a judgmental comment about attire, or a perceived vernal slight—through their shared pertinacity. to an outsider, their exchanges appeared volcanic, voices rising, faces flushed, and hands gesturing wildly, but søren knew better. it was just the way they were. neither mother nor daughter were willing to concede ground, even when the stakes were laughably low. the royal tailors did not appear disturbed by their incessant caterwauling either. they silently fluttered about the bed-chamber with folded outfits in hand, eyes fixed forward as to not appear like they were soundlessly rubbernecking their superiors. two elderly needlewomen with subtle manners of general imperceptibility tended to søren's appearance. rays of noonday sunlight filtered through the open window, dappling the boy's pomaded hair in golden light. garbed in a striking ensemble inspired by the ostentatious elegance of gothic culture, søren stood out like a sore thumb amidst the chamber's emerald palette. half noble authority and half regal sophistication, he was dressed in the proper assemblance expected of any royal prince. his high-collared tunic, tailored from supple leather and dyed a deep black, was richly embroidered with intricate golden thread along the cuffs and collar. like most of his garments, the front of the tunic depicted an epic religious saga twined in reflective saffron—the legendary battle between five-headed dragon lord phaedra and treacherous drake demandred aybara as they fought over the fate of furenehlheim. the lightning bolt wielded by the dragon lord was dazzled in tourmaline, and the flames spat by the drake were embroided in tangerine wire. his fitted trousers were dyed a warm burnt orange, and they were tucked into knee-high leather boots polished to a near-mirror shine and reinforced with subtle golden studs at the seams. a wide belt of tooled leather encircled his waist, adorned with geometric embossing and a heavy gold buckle etched with sun motifs. the prince's cloak, clasped at the shoulder with a gilded brooch of his house sigil, was a rich dosser of incandescent hues—ebony fading into pale crimson and dark marigold, bordered with gilded tassels that glimmered in the light. on his hands he wore gloves of soft lambskin, each finger capped with golden filigree reminiscent of gothic jewelry, and around his neck rested a torc of twisted gold. on his left ear he wore a single gold teardrop earring with a polished carnelian gemstone inside. the cerise ornament matched the topaz lining his resplendent diadem. upon his head sat a golden circlet gleaming with an opulent luster, its band crafted from finely hammered gold and polished to perfection. it was adorned with rare imperial topaz gemstones, their fiery marmalade-ginger hues radiating an inner warmth as if lit by an eternal sunset. each gem, meticulously cut into the style of heart briolette, was set in ornate bezels subtly engraved with delicate scrollwork. the circlet itself was gelderarian craftsmanship, its invaluable jewels pillaged from a foreign land. the princeling's outfit was tempered by a youthful dynamism and a practical reverence for his heritage. crafted from the finest materials on this side of the saguenay, his attire struck a precarious balance between tribal practicality and aristocratic grandeur. there was not a single piece of attire that looked out of place—even the strip bandage placed along the bottom right portion of his cheek and jawbone had been painted a light gold upon request from his mother, as if she were embarrassed to present him to outsiders with a ritualistic gash. one of the tailors applied fabric paint to the bandage's surface earlier, all while forced to ignore the fact they were potentially compromising its medical functionality to please princess aoibheann.
indent"if only," his mother's tone was icy, clearly agitated by his sister's aspersion. "perhaps if i had wed a farmhand i would have given birth to modest and docile children who would have not been spoiled rotten on account of their stations."
indentsøren frowned. why was he being dragged into their altercation? he could not see them from where he stood in front of the mirror; they were currently quarreling in the bed-chamber's adjoining room.
indent"oh, yes, we've heard this sob story before. anyone want some tea before we become sucked into another one of the princess's maudlin pleas?" máirín snapped. "do tell, mother, what exactly is the proper etiquette for despising your title while sipping imported wine from a jeweled goblet that could single-handedly pay off a commoner's lifetime of debt? shall i take notes, or is hypocrisy just something i'll learn with age?"
indent"how hateful you have become! does it bring you joy to act so spiteful and malicious? do you feel glee when you decide to act so impossibly vindictive? i have worked hard to preserve gibraltar's honor over the years so that this province may follow in the good steps of your royal grandparents. how selfish can you be to act so ill-disposed on the very eve of your fosterage?" there was a momentary pause. "do not be foolish and allow yourself to listen to whatever false comforts your father offers you. he would let his pride dictate his decisions, and we cannot afford that! with how gibraltar's climate is shifting, we need our allies more than ever. don't you understand that?!"
indent"and you'd let your fears dictate yours! do you think we don't see it, mother? you're scared of him—you, amma, afi, everyone! you sit here in your imported silks and lick the residue off queen anastasia's boots as father does whatever he wants. so what if afi sent him to fermont? he's not going to stay there forever! you saw what he did before he was sent to the border. you know how he acts, and what do you do? nothing. absolutely nothing! and if father comes hunting for us when we're in the heartlands? what will you do then? oh, yeah... nothing! because you'll be far more busy hawking jewelry from the next eidolon chump that wanders along looking for your approval. do us a favor, though? when you're scoping out your next future husband in the heartlands after the annulment, please make sure his dead wife left behind a sizeable collection of jewelry. you know, the bracelets and necklaces with the massive gemstone beads? his new stepchildren might need to wear a few pieces as flimsy protection in-case our father exercises his favorite pastime by slicing us open." his sister sighed in false reflection. "i hope that's not a deal-breaker." søren winced at the disparagement in máirín's tone. he was glad they were arguing in the other room. he did not want to be apart of their feud, especially with how vile they were acting. unlike his sister's vitriolic demeanor, søren's comportment was much more assuasive. they could not be any more different. in fact, he was not nearly as sardonic or mercurial as his twin sibling. máirín thrived on self-autonomy and bristled at its perceived interferences while the prince yearned for genuine connection and lasting approval. they handled the unique circumstances of their echelon in wildly antithetic ways. their personalities were distinctly fractured, and it would be nigh impossible to tell they once shared legroom in the womb if not for their physical appearances. princess aoibheann has always struggled to control her daughter's irascible impulses. máirín was belligerent, adversarial, and ornery when confronted by authority. confrontation was her comfort zone; she thrived in verbal duels and relished in proving others wrong by escalating disputes to simply assert her own dominance. she cared little for manners and even less for proper etiquette and decorum. her pugnacious demeanor was fueled by a fierce sense of pride and an unshakable belief in her own integrity, making her quick to challenge the status quo or any perceived slights against her self-image. she was a turbulent force of nature, and he has never met anyone so quick to embody perversity as she—save for perhaps the revenant princess herself. máirín was quick to anger and slow to forgive. her testy nature could easily alienate those unprepared for her unrelenting candor, but søren has grown accustomed to her feistiness. her sudden ideas of reckless abandon and bouts of ill-considered energy did not trouble him, for they rarely bickered to begin with. their differences did not divide them. while máirín preferred to charge into every challenge headfirst, søren lingered behind to patch the wounds—both literal and figurative—that her temerity left in its wake. his sister's savage disposition marked her as a dissenter in the cultivated wilds of the mythic dawn's royal court, but her love for adventure made her a vibrant companion. what she lacked in formalities and diplomatic conduct she made up for in daring escapades and schismatic plans. truthfully, máirín's forthrightness merely hid the more tasteful elements of her personality. while her boisterous and rebellious attitude could easily disenchant curious strangers, her love for authenticity and the unknown made her a festive companion. fear was not a part of her vocabulary. spunky humor and gutsy resolve formed the backbone of her constitution, and she was sharp-witted and perceptive when her temper was not clouding her judgment. one might think that her cravings for independence would make her apathetic and opportunistic, but søren has always thought of her as fiercely loyal towards those she thought worthy of her company. she never hesitated to defend not only herself but those she held affection for, and there have been plenty of instances where máirín has brutally barged into søren's affairs over what she perceived as injustices towards his character. in some way, her loyalty to him made her aggression far less aimless. her impulsivity was driven by dedication, and her aggression in and of itself had a fiery and magnetic presence. her personality has always been a vibrant whirlwind of assertiveness and unrelenting passion. her rage always had a purpose. contrary to their aunt's accusations, máirín had not nearly gouged their cousin halvor's eyes out with her thumbs and ripped a chunk of flesh out of his shoulder with her bare teeth for nothing. she had been defending søren and their cousin roskva during a physical skirmish, and she had been determined to use what little assets she had in forcing the larger kolbeck into submission. in their mother's eyes, máirín's resistance to leadership and tradition was not a quirk of adolescent superiority; it was a willful and deliberate performance from a young girl who knew little beyond what lay inside her own ignorant world. máirín cared little for their mother's opinion. she loathed the older woman's false courtliness, and she despised the way she adulated their western neighbors. it was true that princess aoibheann put a lot of value on the mythic dawn's relationship with the fallen eidolon. their mother has developed something of a kinship with the eidolon's upper-class, and she openly scorned the isolationist policies championed by the unprogressive and reactionary factions of the mythic dawn's royal court. she did not hesitate to ridicule their rhetoric as regressive and ultimately harmful towards bloodborn progression—an easy play for someone like his mother, who often utilized her sharp wit and mastery of rhetoric to expose the narrow-mindedness of opposing arguments. she has always been far more adept at wordplay than swordplay when it came to butting heads with her political opponents, but máirín was right about their mother's materialism. aoibheann has always enjoyed the finer things in life, and that included rare gemstones or precious ornaments conjured by eidolon artisans.
indenthe could almost picture princess aoibheann's expression. "you will not drag your father into this. you think i don't know what has been said about prince brynjar, what utter catastrophe his exploits promise to bring to gibraltar? i have endured the whispers of the court—their disdain—with each session your grandfather has called. but you know what? i stayed. i have endured, because i know it is for the greater good. fostering amicable relations with the eidolon is the only path forward. we would not be entrusting house athanasiou with your care if we did not think so. i have not taught you to be so dull-witted as to reject that possibility. you are a child playing at importance, máirín. the gods' favor does not excuse you from responsibility! your life belongs to this family and its legacy. a terribly trivial legacy in your eyes, i'm sure, but that is the truth of the matter. your grandmother may tolerate your theatrical hysterics, but you will find no such clemency from me. i will not stoop down to your level of petty insults because you cannot handle my attention being elsewhere. when you have seen what i've seen, when you have learned to truly bear the weight of obligation, you'll understand. until then, you will obey me. you will go to gore bay." another pause. "master borde!" she called out to the master tailor currently fixing søren's stubborn cuffs. "if you would be so kind as to assist my daughter's needlework in its final preparations, i would be much obliged. we must not dawdle." there was the sound of heavy footsteps and an ebullition of protests before the door slammed shut. his mother emerged from the adjoining bed-chamber with an expression of obvious agitation. garbed in an opulent ensemble that easily challenged the more gaudy displays of feminine expression in annexed canada, the princess's gown was a tasteful composition of refinement and grace. a long, flowing silhouette crafted in luxurious ivory and champagne-toned fabrics, the gown's bodice was structured with golden satin panels and accented by ornate green and gold trim that extended vertically along the front of the dress. the sleeves were voluminous and made of a sheer, floral-embroidered fabric; both were gathered at the wrists with delicate emerald ties. her bodice was cinched under the bust with a gentle empire waist, framed by intricate embroidery and trim that matched the front panel of the dress. her fitted bodice ended just below the bust by giving her high-waisted appearance and a gathered skirt. her pannier was long and loosely fitting, with layers of light, semi-transparent fabric composed in the milky white sigils of glaring suns. she wore her thick raven-colored hair with the upper section secured and pulled back partially, allowing the lower locks to remain loose and full of texture. søren stepped down from the wooden stool once the clothiers around him began to compile their materials together. their faces were composed, schooled into expressions of placid neutrality, though a flicker of unease betrayed itself in the quick glances they exchanged with one another. each carried armfuls of fine fabrics, delicate threads, and glittering accessories, their movements deliberate and careful as if to avoid upsetting the peace. none dared speak; even the rustling of fabric seemed intrusive in the aftermath of the heated exchange between the princess and her mother. søren did not envy them the task of dressing his sister.
indent"the girl is mad... utterly mad!" his mother seethed. having trapped máirín inside the guest room, she felt comfortable enough to finally voice her indignation. she marched over to the open window. "how dare she threaten to humiliate us in front of our guests? it is difficult enough earning the trust of conceited gentlefolk. must we throw in insults as well? their egos must be satiated, not crippled. you would think that brazen noblemen and their haughty wives would be unaffected by the foul language of a young girl, but i can assure you that is untrue. the elite take offense at the slightest insult. it does not matter if it is uttered by a crone or a child. she is impossible! just like her fa—what do you think you're doing?"
indent"i was just going to check on má—"
indent"so both of you can gossipmonger and concoct high tales to tell your grandmother later? absolutely not! you know how oppressive your sister can be, and yet you constantly defend her ill behavior. would it kill you to defend your own mother for once?" the princess laughed dryly. "of course, that would require you to shed your hurtful inclinations about me. i know how you resent me, both you and your sister. do you think it's not obvious?"
indentsøren frowned. defeated, he took a seat on the edge of the bed-chamber's massive four poster bed. "i don't hate you, mother."
indent"tchah!" the woman hissed with a disregarding swat of the arm. "do not lie to me. it is unbecoming for a prince to bulldust." she turned to look out the window, her features contorted into a scowl. "perhaps you would find queen anastasia to be a much more accomodating mother. she would accept you, i am sure. her only son is an insolent and unrefined ruffian, as is her husband and middle child. the revenant queen must be hankering for some company whom she can carry on a civilized conversation with. you know, her son would be a perfect match for your sister. could you imagine such a daft possibility as that? oh, your sister would be furious!" she held her chin high in blatant superiority. public appearances were important to his mother. she disliked disorder and anything that could potentially damage her reputability, and máirín was the definition of dangerous goods. his sister could care less what others think of her, and that made their mother absolutely rattled. normally, his mother was an impressive demagogue and astute partisan, but her maturity regressed when provoked by her daughter. she resorted to petty squabbles and trivial denigrations like an unsophisticated young girl, exposing the defensive and raw emotions of her younger self. her words, usually crafted with precision and purpose, became clipped and impulsive, as if layered with a frustration that seemed disproportionate even to her. admittedly, the power dynamic was uncomfortable. she projected much of her unresolved bitterness when that carefully constructed facade of maturity and cunning crumbled into something puerile and unfiltered. she was quick to lash out with petulant indignation, her usual clever words often devolving into sharp, impulsive retorts that lack the wit and calculation she was known for. her inability to rationalize domestic slights amplified her immaturity and painted her as a mother struggling to reconcile her disturbing past with the relationships of the present. she could not effectively navigate juvenile acrimony without growing defensive herself. her current demeanor was not one of a seasoned diplomat but a volatile adolescent railing against injustice. it was as if máirín's desire for freedom threatened his own mother's fluctuating discernment towards what constituted an obedient and well trained wife and noblewoman in gibraltar. the hollow disparity between the perspicacity expected of her and the impulsive insecurities she could not seem to shed in the heat of familial discord was overwhelmingly profound. she acted like a sixteen-year-old unable to comprehend rejection, and she was unabashedly passive aggressive towards søren when she thought he was choosing máirín over her. she fell into fallacies and baseless assumptions over his feelings towards her by immediately associating his sister's anger with his own line of thinking. it was impossible to please her. he was constantly meditating their arguments or attempting to dissuade the other from acting out irrationally, for the older princess rarely claimed the high ground when she challenged her daughter's recklessness. what was he supposed to do? he knew that his sister had a tendency to act insensitive towards the plights of others, but his mother has never established herself as a reliable figure to begin with. she has never bothered with them before, so why did it matter now? because máirín's attitude threatened his mother's prestige as a royal ambassador? because she was trying to encapsulate the perceived perfection of eastern canada's reigning queens? she admired queen anastasia and queen léontine—so much so that her gown even bore similarities to her mother-in-law's style by borrowing the colors of the older woman's maiden house. his mother was comfortable in her royal duties because she has finally found her purpose. aoibheann has grown into an efficient stateswoman by molding herself after the women she most admired, but she was quick to show her true self when confronted by the harsh reality of motherhood. she has given birth to her pain and suffering, and she was reminded of that each time she argued with máirín or suspected søren of resenting her. truthfully, his mother was so impossibly inflexible that it was almost futile to try and dissect her line of thinking. she was volatile and hard to please, and it was difficult to gauge her general temperament when she was out of the public eye. søren never knew where he stood with her, never knew what she was feeling towards him. aoibheann has always been sharp-tongued and deeply critical, her words cutting like glass against her children's fragile hopes for affection. rarely indulging them with tenderness, she dissected their faults with a bitter precision that revealed a simmering dissatisfaction with everything around her. while she expected perfection, she offered little encouragement in return. the princess's polished and regal exterior could not entirely satiate the buried monster of a scorned woman who could not escape the shadow of her stolen youth. when the veneer of control was stripped away—when she felt undermined or criticized—her private demeanor regressed into that of a pejorative, prickly teenager, bristling with derision and defensive indignation. forced into the burdens of royalty and motherhood before she could fully grasp her own identity during her formative years, she oftentimes appeared emotionally stunted; the carefree joys of childhood were sacrificed to duty, leaving her yearning for the freedom to express her frustrations and insecurities without judgment. she sulked, stomped her feet, and lashed out in callow rage when she felt unfairly degraded. it made her both endearing and exasperating. she was a woman caught between the roles imposed upon her and the fragments of the child she was forced to leave behind. her carefully constructed facade was unraveling to reveal a deeply buried resentment for the sacrifices she was forced to make. it was why she had no sympathy for the plight of her children. the duality of her hidden acrimony—public sophistication and private petulance—somehow made her both a formidable figure and a profoundly human one.
indent"i don't want queen anastasia as my mother. i want you," he pointed out empathetically. it was true. his mother could be scathing and belittling, yes, but that did not change how he felt towards her.
indenthis consolation fell on deaf ears. princess aoibheann remained by the window with a sour look on her face. "hmm," she did not sound convinced. "in any case, i would not be surprised if you agree with your sister's delusions. the two of you have no idea what it takes to manage the largest province in canada. do you know how much blood and sweat it takes to merely manage the expectations and demands of the body politic? there are many who agree with your father's reasoning. horribly ignorant and obtuse reasoning, yes, but the unlettered loathe the idea of sharing their spoils with those they consider unworthy. we must not let our current struggles infect our relationship with the eidolon. we must encourage unity, not division! i have poured my own sweat and tears into upholding diplomatic values the past seven years, and what do i get for it? that wretched eula morstad threatening to undermine everything i have done! those boys, erix and halvor... they are contempile rogues. brutes, that is what they are! she has poisoned that thick headed son and nephew of hers with treacherous lies. if nothing else, they are consistent—always a spectacle, never a surprise. her pups are a marvel, truly. who else could concoct such a perfect mix of chaos and mediocrity? oh, i know she thinks her brood is far more superior than mine, that that asinine son of hers triumphs the rest of the stock because he can swing a sword. so what? you cannot survive on brute strength alone. you need prudent consulars, stable partnerships, savvy intelligence—does she truly think her son can rule on muscularity alone? ha! at-least i can lay content at night knowing i have a son who does not seek to impose mindless bloodshed and unnecessary violence on others. brutality without cause is the language of beasts, and what are kings and queens for if not to rise above the common barbarism of the pack? and you... you were not raised to be a benighted child. you know of discipline and mercy. your sister is a lost cause, but you have always been a good boy. eula is simply envious of me. she knows she cannot take her eyes off her son when he is not out venturing because he will transform your grandparents' palace into a house of harlots. hmph!"
indentsøren did not say anything. he watched her with an expression of temporary ambivalence, his eyes shifting every so often to observe his mother's face. he remained silent as she vented her frustrations. the young prince carried an air of quiet solemnity that seemed almost unnatural for someone his age, a gravity etched into his features by years of relentless duty and strict moral obligation. aoibheann was clearly pleased with her son's general mannerisms despite having never been involved in his upbringing. she loathed the barbarity of the mythic dawn's golden order while unintentionally praising their work. søren has been bound to the dark intricacies of the golden order for as long as he could remember. the negligent aspirations of young warriors and their selfish desires for personal glory were inclinations that søren has never been able to relate to. tactless hankerings? self-regarding power moves? heedless yearnings? anxiety over how to please and ensure your reputation as a fearless swordsman by disregarding established cultural practices? the idea of an empýrabúar and disciple of the golden order opposing their station and defiling the ancient institution's proprietes was simply out of the question. it was not just about disrespecting the beloved sanctity of their tribe's faith; it sullied the very gods themselves. the order's methodic practices and pragmatic hierarchy stifled opposition before it could form, and those who have attempted to revamp its orthodox customs were subsequently beaten into submission—literally and figuratively. there was no room for conflicting creative outlets or acts of rebellion to break the conservative narrative, for the order's oppressive nature did not just extend to those it sought to conquer or exterminate. the idea of breaking the wheel was, for a lack of a better description, unrealistic and delusory. how could one escape divine will and prophecy? søren has grown to accept the vexious and questionable circumstances of his life. his role in the mythic dawn's religion has quite literally shaped his entire personality and outlook on life. his maturity was abnormal for someone of his age, but it was not necessarily a choice. it was a survival mechanism, born of years spent trying to meet impossible expectations. he quietly envied the freedom of his vainglorious peers, the ability to live without the crushing weight of divine relevance hanging over their heads. whereas others his age stumbled through the aggressions and gaucheness of adolescence in all its peculiar glory, he spent his waking time mastering elden passages, memorizing complex liturgies, and learning to carry himself with the composure expected of a religious figurehead. painful rituals and mechanized blood rites were uncomfortable reminders that he had bartered something of his quintessence a long time ago in exchange for spiritual power, an act that was not entirely of his own doing. nothing could have prepared him for a world that treated him as both a vessel of divine will and a pawn of political strategy. his very existence within the order demanded a level of sagacity and domestication that left no room for the fumbling missteps of juvenescence; søren had the face of a boy trying to desperately fill the skin of a man. søren was expected to act as a point of convergence for spiritual energies seeking to make contact with the mortal world. it did not matter if his connection to the gods prevailed by deciphering cryptic augury sacraments, or if he acted as a vessel to bridge the incorporeal and physical realm through the sacred rite of bloodletting. he was paramount to the mechanics that composed the golden order's fundamental operations in gibraltar. there was no room for callowness, and they certainly did not afford him the luxury of acting out. his responsible and perceptive demeanor made individuals like his mother subconsciously bounce their own full-fledged problems against his psyche. they did not see him as a child but something more, something ripened and worldly. he lacked the petulance aggression and stubbornness of his peers to the point where seasoned adults felt that he was trustworthy enough to either speak to on practical terms. discernment was rare in annexed canada, but søren's gumption could easily be traced back to the environment he was raised in. his mother treated him different than his sister because he was broken-in, deferential, and far more emotionally intelligent than his peers. he did not live the life of an ordinary bloodborn prince. he was prohibited from partaking in the blood-soaked raids and glorious battles that define his people's culture. his role, though exalted, was one of divine detachment; his presence on the battlefield was considered a risk to the mythic dawn's spiritual equilibrium. his body and spirit were considered sacred vessels meant to remain untainted by the bloodshed and chaos of mortal conflict. søren's role as a divine intermediary required an aura of purity, unmarred by the baser instincts of survival and conquest. admittedly, it was a lonely existence. bound by the rigid constraints of his tribe's deeply rooted beliefs, there was no leg-room for common camaraderie or baseless fun. his superiors were quick to scold him whenever they thought he was acting childish or simple; any sort of behavior that was not perceptively eloquent or polite was forbidden. whereas others his age were often outspoken, uncaring, temperamental and resistant to authority, søren has never been afforded the luxury of acting out without experiencing severe consequences. he was conditioned and vehemently broken-in to the point where he no longer struggled or acted out with the waspishness of a rebellious child. there was no point anymore.
indenthis mother stepped away from the open window. she began to pace relentlessly all while twisting and fiddling with the wedding ring on her finger. "my entire life, i have everything and anything expected of me. your grandparents, your father, the court—anything they required of me, i would do it. i never fought, i never squabbled, i never created a scene or caused a commotion over the unpleasantries of life. even now, i remain loyal to the king and queen's starry-eyed vision of future tribal amalgamation as our province begins to rot from the inside out. and what do i get out of it? what have i received for a lifetime of duty and sacrifice? an ungrateful daughter, a son who secretly despises me, a husband who would rather uphold his own selfish ambitions over tradition, kin who would see each other bleed over empty threats and baseless fears rather than coming together to overcome their adversities. i have done everything for your grandfather, anything i could to help house kolbeck's reputation recover after his mother's reign. i decided to help him even after the way he treated me when i was your age, and what do i get in return? nothing. absolutely nothing!" she laughed bitterly. "after all, it would be far too strenuous for your grandfather to intervene in his family's affairs. he will fawn over your older cousins and adulate their victories in battle but when you ask him to cull his daughter-in-law's fearmongering and establish a firm stance over prince ulrik's inheritance? he won't do it. he won't! no, he won't listen to the 'soft-hearted fears of women' or the 'weak manipulations of enfeebled politicians.' he enjoys this, you know. oh, he'll scorn his advisors for stirring adversity in the court, but he enjoys being in control over everyone around him. what better position for such egocentricity than sovereignty? ha! do you know your grandfather loves siccing his sons against one another? he will never admit it, but he takes great pleasure in watching his own blood feud and quarrel with one another. he knows he is the only one with any sort of power to quell the aversion, so he savors the control he has over his own house. why would he promote harmony when he thinks he has the power to suddenly conciliate based on his mere position as king? why would he attempt to understand the fears of a mother when men do not know the pain of bringing a child into this world? he does not fear his sons and what they are capable of because he does not see them as people. after all, they are nothing but extensions of his own person, appendages of his own greed he thinks he can put down if necessary. you, your sister, your cousins—all of you are his property, and you will remain his property until he dies. and after that? you will become your father's property, for the son is the chattel of the man, and kolbecks are monstrous by nature." she spoke with an untempered rage, her words laced with a layer of pain she refused to admit outright. her sentiments cut like broken glass, each one a jagged shard of blame hurled at anyone within reach, as though her accusations could fill the hollow void left by her loss of composure. her tone, though forceful, wavered faintly, as if something deep inside of her was trying to betray the cracks in her composure that she refused to openly acknowledge. profound grief, restrained and repressed, stirred inside of her, yet the curve of her grimace and the way her breath hitched between her condemnations was unmistakable. her rage demanded an outlet, but her pain was a silent presence, an unspoken truth that turned her frustration into a weapon—one she wielded as much against herself as others. his mother was lashing out in an unyielding attempt to drown the vulnerability she could not bear to show, sensitivity that has never been welcomed by her kin and often made her the target of cruel jokes by her father-in-law and male relatives. the sight of aoibheann's barely concealed distress disturbed the young prince. while he has become familiar with the way his mother emotionally degenerated at the first sign of personal reproval, he has never heard her speak so bluntly about his grandfather or house kolbeck's alleged dysfunctionality. søren's presence in typical bureaucratic spaces and the electoral atmosphere of the suncrest palace has already opened his eyes to his family's disordered behaviors. but hearing it from his mother? it cast a whole new layer of dread over the situation. the royal family of house kolbeck was trapped in a suffocating tension. gibraltar's succession crisis has long cast a fearful shadow over the royal court and its attendees, leaving no room for trust or respite. the fear was palpable. the royal family's once-united front has splintered into a fragile web of micro-alliances and hostilities as questions regarding the sunburst throne fester like an open wound. both camps were operating in survival mode as various outlets, desperate to secure their futures should their champions fall, intertwined their fates with hesitant thread. the antagonism was unbearable, and fear of the unknown was pushing people into acting foolish and brazen.
indenteveryone but the king. an elderly sovereign of towering stature and undiminished vigor, king torhtsige embodied the unyielding spirit of a warrior past his prime yet unwilling to surrender to the demands of old age. his grandfather was fiercely devoted to his family, but his love was steeped in a haughty expectation of loyalty and obedience. he believed that blood alone demanded their allegiance to his creed, and his good-will manifested more as an expectation of their servitude than an expression of warmth. he ruled his house with the same iron fist he used to govern his province, brooking no defiance and tolerating no weakness. harsh and unyielding, he crushed dissent through the fact that his word was not merely law but an extension of divine mandate. a lifelong love for the thrill of battle burned within him, driving him to glorify war and dismiss peacemaking as a pursuit for the weak (it was truly a miracle that the mythic dawn established its first foreign alliance beneath his tutelage). he disliked sensitivity and commiseration for others. unnecessary goodwill was a sign of infirmity in the eyes of the older man. given the way the king's blatant favoritism and inclinations towards culling the weak in favor of bolstering the strong, it was no surprise why gibraltar's sociopolitical climate was collapsing. his grandfather's refusal to effectively and satisfactorily resolve his family's disputes only alleviated the court's fears of future instability; it did not matter if torhtsige has given no notion of altering the line of succession. he has done it before, so what is to say he will not do so again? his grandfather's pride has corroded familial trust and kinship, so much so that søren's mother and aunts have begun showing their discomposure over what they felt was an uncertain future. their apprehension has begun to bleed into their personal relationships as the three women struggled to reconcile with their husbands' precarious positions. their unease has already begun to affect their children—so much so that his cousins halvor and erix felt completely justified in taking out their wrath and trepidation on søren himself, whom they viewed as a terrifying key in their uncle brynjar's aggressive pursuits.
indentdespite the way his mother demeaned him earlier by cheapening his genuine goodwill as something disingenuous, he did not like seeing her upset. it was clear that aoibheann's argument with máirín triggered the quiet despondency she has been keeping to herself, her unspoken fears over the future that she has kept under lock and key. søren stood up from the edge of the bed so he could approach the restless woman. "mother, stop," he reached out to her as she attempted to blindly pass him. his arm snaked around her waist to keep her from turning away from him before he pulled her into an embrace, his arms locking around her torso. at first, he expected her to push him away with a disgruntled hiss, a sullen affront at what she considered an unwanted facilitation for affection—but she did not say anything. aoibheann stiffened against him. while søren had yet to reach his full height, he was already taller than his relatively petite mother. one of his hands reached behind her curls to gently cradle her head, his other arm remaining wrapped around her waist. she did not relax against him. instead, it took her a moment or two to acknowledge his endearment before she slowly returned the embrace. she rested her chin on his shoulder. his mother was not afraid to reject physical affection initiated by her children, but right now she begrudgingly accepted his comfort. "it's going to be okay, mother," he reassured her. "aunt eula has lived a life of leisure and opulence for years now. she doesn't realize what you've been through or what you've done for our tribe; she just automatically registers us as a threat now that she feels her station is in jeopardy. but i won't let anything happen to you or máirín. i'll keep you safe, no matter what happens with afi or father." she did not respond. even as he said it, he did not believe his own reassurances. he hated himself for lying, for offering a shield made of brittle promises, but he supposed the comfort of deceit over the cruelty of truth was better than further alleviating his mother's worriment. he felt an aching responsibility to protect both her and his sister, even if the older woman has never done the same for him. deep down, he doubted the strength of his own resolve. he was sure his mother felt the same, although she did not seem eager to tear him down for once. to an outsider, the peculiar display of mother and son might come across as unusual, if not somewhat uncanny. it was as if søren had taken on the role of a parent to comfort the older woman after she practically dumped her emotional baggage on him (luggage that included not so subtle insinuations of future royal familicide). aoibheann held onto him the way a girl might seek silent comfort from her father, a father she lost when she was even younger than he was now. he felt the bitter irony in their roles reversed—his own youthful demeanor heavy with the responsibility of soothing her fears, of projecting strength he scarcely believed he possessed in order to assuage her distraught. he was forced to step into the role of protector, of comforter, while his mother harangued like a frightened girl. if he did not mask his uncertainty than who would? as always, søren's perceived maturity forced him to abandon the idyllic fantasy of glory abroad or fame by the sword in order to carry the adults around him through their domestic tribulations. his mother did not shield him from affliction or infelicity, and she felt perfectly content slandering his kin in front of him whereas others might try and cushion familial unpleasantries from the young. aoibheann would never admit or even seek solace from others, which why was søren had to go to her to initiate it. perhaps it'd be easier to take a page out of máirín's playbook and simply exacerbate his mother's malaise by provoking her, but søren has never been that type of person. he would defend his mother's honor regardless if she deserved it or not; it did not matter if she rarely protected him in return. he could even vaguely recall an incident when he attempted to get in-between his parents' argument as a young child, with a then-five year old søren battering his amused six-foot-four father's leg and yelling furiously at him to leave her alone. he would do it again too, although he would not be particularly keen on facing the larger man in an altercation nowadays—his father has always been the tallest and heaviest of his two brothers. still, he would do it for her.
indentthere was a hesitant knock on the bedroom door, followed by the tentative voice of one of house åland's stewards.
indent
indent
indentthe royal family of house athanasiou was a tableau of united elegance and authority. clad in attire that subtly displayed their individual stations and blood bonds—rich velvets, gilded embroidery, and insignias of their houses—their appearance was a deliberate blend of individual identity and collective strength.
indentsøren's heart was pounding in his chest. his hands fidgeted at his sides, his usual composure unraveling under the weight of longing and self-consciousness. an odd mixture of joy, anxiety, and the bittersweet sting of nostalgia coursed through him. the world around him seemed to blur into an indistinct hum, the polite commendations of princess aoibheann and the tumult of surrounding household activities fading as his attention zeroed in on the revenant princess. calista. his chest ached at the sight of her. he could not describe the byzantine feelings he possessed for the young woman standing across the courtyard. admiration? veneration? awe? affection? deference? calista athanasiou has long been an object of admiration for søren, a darling individual he very much cherished as any prospector would relish an unearthed gemstone. he saw not just a person in calista but an ideal—fearsome, impassioned, and endlessly admirable. his admiration for her has long deepened into awe, his esteem for the young princess and the vehement qualities she possessed only heightening with age. it did not matter that their interactions have grown limited in recent years. even now, he found himself awash with emotions he could not quite name—was it sentiment, fondness, or something deeper? his adulation for her, shaped by years of nostalgic reverie, painted her as a figure of perfection, untouchable and radiant. his veneration for her both thrilled and unnerved him; it made him hyperaware of his own perceived inadequacies. how could he ever hope to match her grandeur? søren's status within the golden order and his tribe's spiritual affairs meant little when he looked upon someone as accomplished as calista. she embodied the tempestuousness and mightiness many would expect when they look upon the warriors of annexed canada. it was no surprise why her intensity and aggression in the colosseum of gore bay entranced its crowds. he has always thought of her as particularly fearless, a wraith in the form of a young woman whom could not be cut down by any ordinary sword. she had an impressive spirit. it has always been clear to him that calista was not the type of individual that others might consider biddable or easily acquiescent; perhaps that was why he has developed a growing attraction to her. she defied the mossbacked and oppressive principles of the golden order, and her reputation as a wild and brutal gladiator princess directly opposed the brassbound conformity søren has been forced into since he was a young child. no matter how much the revenant queen attempted to alter the public's perception of her, calista was the living embodiment of unconventional freedom. he has never met anyone like her. he adored her, valued her and whatever qualities she possessed that others might scorn her for. he wanted to be like her—a confession that would surely anger the obstinate reactionaries of the clergy—for who would be foolish enough to challenge her? calista was so august in her capabilities as a fighter that whenever he visited gore bay and spectated the games he automatically assumed she was going to emerge victorious. her skills with the sword were commendable. in his eyes, she was deserving of the highest esteem. the years have only transformed her into the embodiment of everything he admires: strength, prowess, and a radiant potency that only seemed to illuminate the courtyard. his hands continued to fidget and pick at his gloves, his normally calm demeanor faltering as he struggled to mask his delight. his eyes remained locked on calista. he could not tell if she was looking at him because of the metal veil covering her comely features. he desired to be near her, to be wanted by her as a suitable companion and addition to her already fierce reputability. søren has always valued her companionship. he felt that she did not view him in a critical or judgmental lens like others might do, and if she did, he was glad she kept it to herself as to not harm his already dejected sense of importance. calista offered him fellowship, amity, an implication of conviviality that felt real. søren has never cared about her birthright. what use would he have of that, anyway? he liked her because of who she was, not because of what she represented. he just wanted her affections, even if she did not necessarily understand him or the role he played in the mythic dawn's religion. he desired her companionship, for she represented normalcy and the beautiful habitualness of a normal life in annexed canada. calista embodied everything he desired in life, from her skill with weaponry to her unapologetic boldness in the public eye.
indentmáirín shuffled next to him with an annoyed mutter. her line of sight was transfixed on stjórnarherra druidess ann-sophie, a woman of good education and religious refinement who was employed to reaffirm the moral guidance, social training, and basic tutoring of the kolbeck children. the woman stood silently next to lord oddvar thorsteinsson, her dark eyes transfixed on the twin siblings as if attempting to silently gouge their behavior. not again. søren could not handle another altercation from his sister. luckily, calista's arrival hampered any ill-will máirín was conjuring inside her head. søren immediately brightened upon the princess's appearance. "calista," he returned her greeting with a slight bow of the head. máirín responded with a quiet welcome of her own. despite his sister's friendship with the revenant princess, she was clearly feeling apathetic to social interaction after her argument with aoibheann. søren did not share her insouciance. despite his earlier interaction with his mother and how her unsettling accusations concerned his unease, he was quite happy to be in calista's presence. her very existence immediately captured his attention and erased his previous inclinations, as did her outfit. he has never seen her wear something so embellished and ornamental. it was completely extravagant. beautiful, yes, and clearly baroque in craftsmanship, but it was resplendent to the point where it might be considered... gaudy? he would never think of her as tasteless or pretentious, but her outfit was clearly not of her own choosing. søren could not imagine calista concocting such an ensemble of her own free will. she did not look like a dusty and unkept combatant roaming the confines of a sandy arena but a sophisticated and elegant young woman who belonged in the pretentious confines of a royal court. her corset had been tightened to accentuate her womanly figure, and the dress's design appeared purposely intentful on highlighting the perceived delicacy of her sex by exposing an acceptable amount of skin. he did not realize he was staring at her until máirín nudged him with her elbow. søren immediately cleared his throat, his attention diverting away from calista. it was almost as if he expected stjórnarherra druidess ann-sophie to come up behind him and strike his palms with a riding crop for acting improper. it was inevitable that the young prince would eventually grow to show an interest in bodily appetites, although such feelings were still largely unknown to him. he has never given anything concerning sexuality much thought.
indentsøren stiffened when calista linked her arm with his. his heart begin to pound inside his chest again, so much so that it felt like it was going to come shooting up his throat. he looked towards máirín as the revenant princess began to guide him away before he glanced back at calista. talos. it took him a moment to realize she was talking about her falcon. his thought process was already so thoroughly muddled that nothing she said was getting through to him. he had to mentally wrench his attention from her so he could watch her interaction with her falcon. as expected, the sprightly creature was not interested in heeding calista's whims. he watched as the young bird—a vivacious and nimble thing with no clear concept of obedience as he soared above their heads—perched atop one of the slender entryways surrounding the courtyard. he had to swallow a snort of amusement over talos's blatant defiance. "you know, i think it's just something with birds in general," he reassured her. as always, søren was quick to rely on reasoning and analysis than have calista suffer from a brief bought of slighted pride. "you should see how máirín has been struggling to ride whitewing. she won't listen to anything she says and keeps getting distracted by people outside the paddocks. last time máirín ended up getting her foot caught in the stirrups and got dragged across the corral before she was able to free herself. ha!" his smile of amusement quickly faded. "uhm, don't tell her i told you that." his sister would gladly punch him in the shoulder for sharing that mortifying tidbit. having been distracted by talos's unruliness, he did not realize their arms were still interlinked until he attempted to face her. søren hesitated for a moment before he slowly pulled his arm free, his gloved hand gently grazing her own in a subtle act of affection before his arm fell back to his side. while he enjoyed physical contact from her, the threat of public perception and possibly receiving some sort of punishment later from his family's personal ministry over breaking acceptable conduct was enough to frighten him into submission. the royal governess would deduce their contact as inappropriate, and søren was not fervent on rousing a reaction from her. still, it was exhilarating being in calista's presence. he has longed to be near her again. she seemed to him a vision, embodying the same warmth and vitality that had captivated him as a boy, yet now imbued with a physical maturity that made her all the more mesmerizing. yet beneath the fire of his reverence lay a shy nervousness, a fear that his quiet nature might fail to impress someone so dazzlingly vivid, even as he yearned to step closer to the dream she had become. søren did not view calista as dangerous or unhinged. given his father's deterioration in recent years, he knew what deranged looked like, and it was borderline insulting to even insinuate that calista was precariously sectionable. as far as he knew, calista was not going around and attempting to unbalance regional security and prosperity by fueling vicious sociopolitical sentiment and dangerous aspirations. he was positive that calista was capable of compassion and solicitude, and that it was just the people around her who did not give her a chance to express herself properly. søren observed her features beneath the entanglement of gold that covered her face. "you look beautiful," he complimented her serenely. the prince stiffened as soon as the words left his mouth. "i mean, you always look exqui—pretty. you always look nice." was it wise to shower her in praise and applause her beauty when he was unsure of the status of their relationship? probably not. he did not want to strain their friendship because he was unable to show a sliver of self-restraint. "the red and gold, it really compliments your—i mean, it looks charming on you." another pause. "you can never go wrong with red... and gold." the gown did not look very comfortable. how was she able to trudge up the palace hill in heels? still, he figured a compliment was better than pointing out the meretriciousness of it all. søren was not trying to shower her with incessant flattery, either. oh gods, did it sound like he was? he was not trying to seek her favor by acting irritatingly fulsome. he should probably stop talking. søren began to pick at his gloves again, his hands fidgeting nervously in front of him. her presence was intimidating him. "you have been well? i don't receive much news of your doings save for what you write in your letters. i heard about your brother's victories in vernaloth," there was an edge of mislike and apprehension in his tone upon his brief mention of prince adonis, "but i don't care about him. i want to know what you have been up to. i've missed you."

[vaell]

xxxxxＣＡＬＩＳＴＡiiＡＴＨＡＮＡＳＩＯＵ.

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe revenant princess of the eidolon.
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indentdespite her annoyance over talos' disobedience, a flicker of amusement crossed the princess' veiled features when søren made mention of máirín and whitewing. it was already grueling enough trying to establish her authority with talos; calista could not imagine having to do the same with a creature far more physically capable than a raptor. still, with how much trouble talos has been giving her lately, she almost felt like it would have been more practical to have sought a companion as formidable as an owl-bear instead. at-least then it would be worth all the hassle, growing into a mighty beast that could match her indomitable spirit. calista turned her gaze away from the defiant young bird to observe søren from the corner of her eye. "don't worry," she teased, a faint smirk forming on her lips, "your secret is safe with me. for now, at-least." deep down, she cherished moments like these—simple, lighthearted exchanges that felt untainted by the weight of duty or expectation. there was something refreshing about their companionship, a kind of earnestness that has become increasingly rare in her life. it wasn't until she felt him shift beside her that calista realized their arms had remained linked far longer than propriety dictated. the realization struck her belatedly, though it hadn't occurred to her to question their closeness before. søren, however, seemed more aware of it, his subtle withdrawal marked by the faint brush of his hand against hers. the brief contact sent an unexpected ripple of warmth through her skin. the sensation caught her off guard, though she quickly smothered it before it could betray her outward composure. calista was not one to wear her affections on her sleeve; the act of surrendering her own sense of pride and control was non-negotiable─though admittedly, she was finding it hard to feign indifference when he looked at her that way. his compliments made her pulse quicken and her thoughts scramble for balance. the warmth creeping up her neck threatened to betray her, a soft flush inching closer to her cheeks. but she refused to give herself away, even as her heart began to thud faster in her chest. rather than evade his attention with a bashful display, the princess held his gaze steadily, a faint but knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips as he tried to find the right words. she usually found being the center of someone's admiration more tiresome than flattering, especially when in excess, but with søren things were different. the way he spoke did not come off as an attempt to win her favor. if anything, his words, even if stilted and awkward, were touching. calista was acutely aware of how much she stood out in her current attire. her mother had ensured as much. she was a spectacle meant to command attention, whether it be appalled disbelief or awe. it was anastasia's way of compensating for what she perceived as calista's shortcomings, an effort to present her daughter as a paragon of refinement rather than the untamed spirit she truly was. the revenant queen was, after all, nothing if not performative. she wanted to divert the focus away from calista's lack of urbanity and politesse, lest she be seen as a loutish brute by their eastern neighbors. and if heaping her heir in golden hardware and precious stones distracted others from their more leery inclinations when it came to calista, then that was all that mattered. anastasia had always been one to wield appearances like a shield, to ward off the criticism before it could even take root. it was almost as though her mother believed that, without the draping of finery and glittering jewels to conceal her, others would immediately deem calista ill-bred or crass at first glance. the ostentation felt suffocating, like a gilded cage, but søren's awkward yet well-meaning compliments dulled the edge of her discomfort. when he remarked on the color scheme of her attire, she had to bite back a laugh. his earnestness was almost endearing, and she found herself wanting to tease him, if only to see him squirm a little. "my, if i'd known all this ornamentation was to your liking, perhaps i would have started indulging my mother's demands sooner," she confessed, her tone carrying a hint of mischief. the glint in her eyes suggested she was only half-serious, though her next words held more sincerity. "thank you, though." she added, her voice softening. her gaze flickered over him, taking in his appearance. "you're not looking too bad yourself, either," she remarked casually, though her words carried an undercurrent of genuine admiration. søren, dressed in his formal garb, struck an impressive figure, donning the adornments that befitted a young man of his station, albeit in a much less outrageous manner than she. he looked to be the striking image of cultivated majesty, and usual, she thought it suited him. the subdued elegance of his attire complemented him perfectly. even despite her often airy attitude, calista fancied him more than she liked to admit. the prince had grown into his role with a quiet dignity that she couldn't help but admire. his once youthful charm has since matured into something more striking and magnetic. and while søren had always been a fetching sight to behold, she only found him more alluring in the wake of his inevitable maturities. the truth was, every detail about him—from the fit of his clothes, with its gold accents that caught the midday light, to the comeliness of his visage—had captured her attention in ways she dared not admit aloud. it was disarming, this newfound awareness, and she struggled to quell the unfamiliar emotions the young prince stirred within her.
indentcalista couldn't help the slight curve of her lips when søren spoke again, a faint smile forming on her face. "i've missed you too," she confessed, the words flowing with an ease that surprised her. she had longed for his company more than she cared to admit, though she still had to resist the urge to roll her eyes at the mere mention of her brother. adonis, fresh from a victorious northern campaign, had become the centerpiece of their mother's attention, basking in her praise as though it were his birthright. his demeanor hadn't changed for the better; if anything, his newfound self-importance grated on her nerves. he carried himself now with the swagger of a man who believed his martial prowess justified all manner of arrogance. admittedly, his victories had bolstered their family's control over the heartlands, and for that, she was grateful. yet there was an ache buried within her gratitude, a persistent envy she couldn't entirely suppress. his triumphs had cast her own pursuits in shadow, making her accomplishments seem insignificant by comparison. what value did glory in the colosseum hold if she hadn't yet made her mark on the battlefield? her brother's incessant boasting only fanned the flames of her restlessness. she itched to be involved in the theater of war. she wanted their mother to look at her with the same pride and approval she so freely lavished upon adonis. but deep down, calista knew her mother's esteem wasn't easily won. nothing short of blood-streaked victory in warfare would suffice. her mother respected power, conquest, and spectacle—the kind that adonis had mastered. and so, calista had recently found herself consumed by a relentless determination to prove her worth, to carve her name into the annals of their family's legacy by whatever means necessary. when søren inquired after her recent endeavors, calista gave a small shrug, the motion tight and self-conscious. she could already feel her simmering jealousy bleeding into her response. "nothing as compelling as him, i'm afraid." she said dryly, her tone tinged with barely concealed resentment. her irritation with adonis had lingered, the sting of his earlier remarks still fresh. he had been quick to belittle her achievements, reminding her just how small they seemed compared to his own. the thought that he didn't believe she deserved any of it only deepened the bitterness she tried to push aside. though she was certain søren would never ridicule her, the idea of recounting her recent accomplishments felt hollow. compared to her brother’s martial feats, what did she truly have to show? "just the same old, i guess. there was a tournament my mother hosted not long before we departed from gore bay. it went alright," she added, almost dismissively. given her mother's own reservations concerning calista's triumph in the arena, she was finding it hard to feel pleased with herself at all. it was inadvertently making her lose control over the unbothered image of stoicism she wanted to project to søren. calista faltered, struggling to summon the self-assurance that usually defined her. after a brief hesitation, she added quietly, "i, uh, won its title this year." it was much unlike her to demonstrate any sort of wavering confidence in herself. calista cast a brief glance over her shoulder where the rest of their families were congregated, feeling her frustration resurface when she laid eyes on her mother. the trust she placed in søren seemed to beckon her to open up. or at-least a sliver. calista's voice quieted a little, so as to not attract the attention of any prying ears. "but... my mother is being cross about it all. i'm surprised she even bestowed me the honor to begin with, what with me 'violating' the sanctity of her code. truth be told, i'm half-expecting her to strip me of the title altogether." she muttered, a hint of indignation underlying her tone. "she's impossible sometimes─uptight and thankless... as if i'll have to abide by the whims of protocol and tradition when i'm faced with the unpredictable beyond the boundaries of spirit island. can you imagine?" the princess scoffed to herself. her innermost, unvoiced frustrations were spilling out before she had the chance to stop them. she hardly seemed to consider the fact that søren might not be able to relate to the martial aspirations she spoke of at all given their vastly different upbringings. still, she pressed on, unable to silence her grievances. "no one is going to chastise me for right or wrong in battle," she said firmly, "because it doesn't matter." the moment the words left her lips, though, she immediately felt a twinge of regret, if not for having unburdened herself on søren, then for how tasteless she was behaving, condemning her own mother in front of him. calista almost wanted to wince over her own emotional outburst. her vehemence startled her, leaving her feeling exposed. she had been careless in airing her complaints so openly to him. by the gods, she was acting just like how everyone else saw her: unrefined, callous, and hateful. so caught up in her own feelings of injustice, she didn't consider how inappropriate it might be to confide in him so freely. calista shifted in place, clearing her throat awkwardly. "um..." she began, tense, "sorry." a strained laugh escaped her lips. suddenly, she no longer wanted the conversation to center around her. she'd much rather focus on søren's affairs than her own.
indent"i must rid myself of this cursed thing," she vaguely motioned to the corset cinching her figure, quick to shift the conversation away from herself, "walk with me? i want to know what you've been getting up to."


indentafter having her handmaidens attend to her, calista had returned to the courtyard to join søren and the others, though she seemed like a different person entirely. she'd traded the bright red dress she arrived in for something more practical─one of the few garments her mother had begrudgingly allowed her to bring, a piece entirely of her own choosing. unlike her previous ensemble, which seemed to have been crafted to highlight her femininity, the grey leather tunic calista wore now fell just below her knees, revealing a pair of dark taupe boots that rose up to her calves, obscuring the trousers beneath. despite its functionality, her outfit was not without elegance. a series of dark red and gold petal-like appliqués extended down to the bottom of the tunic, transforming into the heraldic motifs associated with her house. its mandarin collar, outlined in red piping, framed her neck, while a row of gold shank buttons traced the tunic's front closures. the sleeves of the tunic were short and wide, exposing woven crimson sleeves beneath. gold thread ran down each of her arms, culminating at the cuffs in a series of delicate patterns of embroidery. a long leather belt embellished with several golden studs cinched her waist, accentuating her form without overtly drawing attention to it. even her gloves—crafted from the same material as her tunic—mirrored the crimson and gold patterns that adorned the rest of her outfit, tying the entire ensemble together seamlessly. her hair, once meticulously styled, now flowed freely past her shoulders, save for the upper section being pinned at the back of her head in the form of a small chignon. there was a certain regal sophistication about her now. gone was the stiff unease she had embodied in her previous attire, suffocating her with its corsetry and heavy fabrics. now, dressed on her own terms, calista seemed to exude a newfound confidence, understated yet undeniable.
indenttruth be told though, she was just thankful her younger sister had not followed her out of the palace.
indentthe moment cybil had spotted calista leaving her temporary quarters, she'd broken free from their aunt's side and made a determined beeline for her down the corridor. calista barely had time to register the blur of her sister before cybil's small hands were clutching at the fabric of her tunic, demanding that she bring her wherever she was going. the girl's behavior, though exasperating, didn't surprise her. no, her clinginess was nothing new; in fact, it had only grown more pronounced over the last few years, what with calista spending most of her time on spirit island once again. whether it was spectating her sparring sessions or begging for lessons in the training hall, the younger princess seemed to orbit calista whenever she was near, unable or unwilling to break free. calista had grown accustomed to her sister's ceaseless requests of companionship, which, despite being rejected time and again, never seemed to deter her. what bothered calista more than anything was the way cybil's attention constantly pulled at her, making her feel as though she were a thing to be endlessly admired, rather than someone to be truly respected. it was as though cybil had transformed her into an object, not a person—something to be studied, imitated, and adored. calista resented that. she had always craved independence, autonomy, and the freedom to exist outside of anyone's expectations. but even her younger sister's devotion—however well-meaning—had a way of suffocating her. every time cybil reached for her attention, she felt like she was being slowly consumed by a presence that never ceased to demand more. it wasn't inherently malicious, but it still carried a weight. calista understood, intellectually, why cybil was so drawn to her. it was that natural bond of sisterhood, amplified by admiration. like any child, she was shaped by her surroundings, and given calista's time in the colosseum, it was only natural for cybil to want to emulate what she observed. cybil had began to see her as something larger than life, a symbol of strength and courage, perhaps. but that perception only made calista feel like she was constantly on display, expected to be some flawless version of herself that cybil—and others—had constructed in their minds. the more that people looked to her for something, the more she began to retreat. it wasn't just that cybil was needy, although that certainly exasperated the situation. she had never been fond of anyone, no matter how well-meaning, who clung to her for validation. cybil's devotion, which she knew was fueled by love, had a tendency to feel suffocating rather than comforting. it was a double-edged sword: on one hand, calista recognized how endearing it was, the way cybil saw her as someone worth looking up to. but on the other hand, it was precisely that attachment which had begun to wear on her. calista had never enjoyed being the center of anyone's unyielding focus. still, it was expected that cybil, no different than her or adonis, would enter gore bay's imperial school in the next few years so that by the time she was sixteen she might take to the arena. yet given the oppressive levels of attachment cybil clung to her with, calista suspected her sister's fascination wasn't born of any genuine passion for their family's brutal traditions. unlike herself or her brother, who had embraced their tribe's blood sports, cybil seemed ill-suited for the realities of combat. she fidgeted through tournaments, her discomfort barely concealed, and complained openly about the endless hours of ceremony and violence. for all cybil's talk of following in her footsteps, calista couldn't shake the sense that the girl was merely playing a part, one she didn't quite believe in but felt compelled to perform. she had always felt as though cybil were cut from a gentler cloth, softer and more sensitive than one might expect from someone of their lineage, no matter how much she claimed to have the same aspirations as calista. she had a feeling cybil might not be wholly comfortable stepping into the world calista inhabited, one that was filled with bloodshed and hardship, but just as with any child, she strived to be like her older sister nonetheless. the weight of that admiration was, again, both endearing and disquieting. cybil idolized her and clung to her image of strength, and calista couldn't help but wonder if it was a mistake to let the girl believe it was something to aspire to. the differences in their upbringing made it all the more jarring. their mother, once cold and aloof during calista's own girlhood, had transformed into a picture of affection when it came to cybil. she remembered how it used to puzzle her. how it used to upset her, really, that her mother had suddenly found the decency to be an attentive caretaker long after she and adonis had already grown up. their mother tenderly doted on cybil now that she had the time to. cybil, of course, wasn't to blame for their mother's newfound devotion, but the timing of her birth still stirred unease. born eight years ago, cybil came into the world not long after anastasia had solidified her military victories in the north and brought stability to their realm. it had felt too deliberate, as though her conception was less about marital love and more a calculated safeguard. calista couldn't prove it, but the thought lingered: cybil was anastasia's contingency plan, a fresh heir to secure the throne in case calista failed or perished prematurely. it was a chilling notion, but not one calista could dismiss outright. perhaps calista's mind was rife with paranoia, just as everyone seemed to believe, but was there not some reason behind her suspicions? still, no matter how deeply she mistrusted her mother's motives, calista made sure her acrimony never extended toward cybil herself. the girl had been born into a world she didn't choose, and it wasn't her fault if their mother's plans stretched beyond the boundaries of maternal affection. today, however, calista had no desire to entertain cybil's boundless energy. she hadn't been thrilled by the prospect of bringing her sister into town, where her needs would inevitably demand attention calista would rather spend elsewhere—namely, søren. the young princess, for all her charm, had a knack for wearing down calista's patience, and while she adored her, this was one of the instances where she craved reprieve. the only reason cybil wasn't at her side now was due to a hastily struck bargain. calista had promised to bring her something back from their trip into town—a trinket or bauble, though she hadn't yet decided what—and in return, cybil vowed to stay with cressida. the agreement had been sealed with an unspoken threat: if calista didn't hold up her end, cybil would go straight to their mother, weaving some tale of exclusion to stir their mother's ire. calista had folded easily, as she always did when their mother was invoked, for she cared little for what lectures anastasia might rain down on her.
indentdespite the absence of their royal parents, who had withdrawn to the palace shortly after the reunion of their families, the courtyard bustled with activity. the space hummed with purpose, a flurry of movement as preparations for their impending departure unfolded. sunlight streamed through the high arches above, dappling the stone pathways with shifting patterns of gold. the play of light seemed to animate the courtyard itself, softening the rigid lines of the columns that framed the space and lending warmth to the otherwise austere architecture. stable hands moved efficiently between the carriage and horses, adjusting harnesses and inspecting tack. a contingent of guards stood at the periphery of the courtyard, their polished armor glinting faintly in the sun's rays as they waited in disciplined silence. among the crowd, calista could spot her uncle deep in conversation with a man she vaguely recognized as the lord ascendant. nearby, her brother hovered awkwardly, his presence more an accessory to the scene than a participant. his restless stance and darting gaze reminded her of a stray pup unsure where to position itself. unsurprisingly, calista felt no inclination to join them.
indentas she entered the courtyard, the sharp cry of a falcon overhead drew her gaze upward. talos swooped low from his perch atop one of the arches, the bird's familiar silhouette causing her annoyance to resurface. she had expressly commanded him to return to her side earlier─a directive he had defied once already, much to her frustration. yet now, as if on a whim, he had decided to obey her, but only on his own terms. typical. the falcon's sleek form cut through the air, his powerful wings carrying him toward her with unerring precision. calista raised her arm instinctively, the motion an automatic gesture of trust borne from a few years of shared familiarity. she immediately regretted her lack of a bracer though, wincing as his talons dug sharply into the fabric of her sleeve, pricking the skin beneath. the sting was brief but unpleasant, though she masked her discomfort swiftly, unwilling to show weakness before the bird. the princess' gaze settled on talos with a mixture of exasperation and admiration. talos met her eyes with the unblinking intensity of a predator, his posture as defiant as ever. he tilted his head, the movement subtle but undeniably challenging, as if daring her to reprimand him. "you have a peculiar sense of timing," she muttered, her voice laced with grudging amusement. her words carried no real bite, despite her earlier frustrations. "you think you can do whatever you like, don't you?" talos answered her with a quick ruffle of his wings. the gesture seemed almost smug, as if he was affirming her accusation. a faint smirk tugged at her lips despite herself. honestly, calista couldn't decide whether she should laugh or sigh right now. she lifted her arm slightly, allowing him to adjust his perch more comfortably, even as the weight of him pressed into her skin. with her free hand, she ran her fingers along the sleek line of his wing, smoothing his feathers with practiced care. "do you ever listen?" she asked, her tone softening, "or do you just enjoy testing my patience?" talos offered no reply, of course. instead, he shifted his talons just enough to remind her of their presence—a small, deliberate test, one she refused to flinch at. her mind wandered briefly to the words of volscianus bouras─the eidolon's imperial falconer─who had once offered her unsolicited but pointed advice after observing her struggles with the raptor. what was it their master of wings had said, again? falcons are proud creatures; they respect those who earn their trust, not demand it. until you learn that, your highness, he will continue to defy you—and rightly so. the memory rankled her even now. she had earned talos' trust, hadn't she? from the moment she had bonded with him as an eyas, she had doted on him, indulging his quirks and temperamental nature. she had chosen leniency where others might have imposed stricter discipline, believing it would foster a deeper bond. yet here he was, as unruly and independent as ever, flaunting her commands as if they were merely suggestions. "too lenient," she grumbled to herself, acknowledging the thought with some irritation. perhaps she had given him too much freedom and allowed him too much room to assert himself. but then again, wasn't that part of what made him extraordinary? he wasn't some tame creature to be coddled or caged. talos was a predator of the skies, wild and free. trying to bend him completely to her will would be like clipping his wings. it would rob him of what made him magnificent. still, a part of her wished he would obey her more reliably. his unpredictability was both a source of pride and an endless source of vexation. in some ways, it mirrored her own stubborn nature. wasn't she just as guilty of ignoring orders she deemed unnecessary or ill-conceived? perhaps talos wasn't defying her for rebellion's sake but acting on instincts she couldn't always understand. his return now felt intentional, as though he sought to remind her of their bond—not of servitude, but of mutual respect. talos was willful, obstinate even, but he was also breathtaking—a bird of strength and independence, much like she fancied herself to be. he was an unpredictable creature, yes, but he was hers, and she supposed she wouldn't have him any other way.
indentcalista held talos' gaze for a moment, her annoyance ultimately ebbing into a quiet resignation. the falcon was as unyielding as the northern winds—relentless, indifferent to her commands, and entirely too self-assured.
indentafter a moment, her eyes drifted across the courtyard, unconsciously seeking søren. when her gaze found him, a faint pulse of something stirred within her—again, it was a feeling she couldn't quite name. her heart raced, but not with the sharp adrenaline she associated with battle or conflict. this was different: a quiet, insistent rhythm that she neither invited nor fully understood. control was her constant companion, her armor, but this? this was an unfamiliar breach. for a long moment, she lingered where she stood, her fingers absently brushing the soft plumage of talos' wings. the falcon, sensing the shift in her focus, ruffled his feathers before launching from her arm in one fluid motion. he alighted on her shoulder with practiced precision, his talons biting into her skin. the faint pressure barely registered; her thoughts were elsewhere, fixated on the young prince. without entirely realizing it, calista had began to move toward søren. the courtyard, with all its noise and movement, seemed to recede, narrowing her focus until it was trained solely on him. she couldn't pinpoint what drew her closer—the quiet gravity he seemed to carry or some deeper pull she had yet to name. all she knew was that proximity felt necessary, compelling her feet forward. talos let out a soft chirp, breaking her reverie for a fleeting second. the princess glanced at him, wary. "stay put," she warned him quietly, her tone teetering between command and plea. she half-expected him to defy her again, to take flight in some display of independence, but to her surprise, he stayed. his dark eyes locked on hers, and for once, his usual defiance seemed tempered. there was something almost knowing in his gaze—an acknowledgment, perhaps even a rare glimmer of respect. a faint smile tugged at her lips as she neared søren, relieved that talos had chosen to remain. "look who finally decided to behave," she remarked, casting a quick glance at the falcon perched on her shoulder. her tone was light, but pride colored her words; talos' obedience, rare as it was, felt like a small triumph. calista couldn't help but pause when she noticed the way the bird's gaze was fixed on the young prince, studying him with an intensity she hadn't seen before. it wasn't the cautious or territorial posture he often adopted with strangers. no, this was different. his head tilted slightly, the subtle gesture unmistakably inquisitive. her brow furrowed as she reached up to smooth talos' feathers. she had seen him react to other people before—with aggression, indifference, or the sharp-edged curiosity of a predator—but never with this quiet fascination. it was as though he were trying to place the prince, to recall some distant memory tied to the young man standing before them. before she could stop herself, calista stepped closer to søren, the movement instinctive. she justified it as a means of letting talos examine him more closely, though a deeper part of her knew better. it was an excuse—a fragile pretext to close the gap between herself and the prince. talos chirped at him, a soft, questioning sound. it wasn't a warning or a demand but something quieter, almost as if he sought a response from the prince. "he must recognize you somehow," calista mused aloud, her voice tinged with curiosity. it was possible the young bird recalled søren from when he last visited the heartlands. turning her shoulder slightly, she brought the falcon closer to søren. "you can touch him if you'd like," she offered, her voice softer now, an encouraging lilt to her words. it was an invitation for søren to step into the strange and often unpredictable dynamic she shared with the falcon. "i promise he's not as temperamental as he looks. just be gentle." to illustrate her point, she slowly raised her hand, her fingertips lightly brushing along the back of talos' head. the falcon leaned into her touch, the subtle shift in his posture betraying his contentment. his calm demeanor assured her that he would not respond aggressively to the touch of a stranger right now. when she dropped her hand back to her side, her eyes shifted to søren, watching him carefully as he stood just within reach of the bird. despite the moment of quiet intimacy, her thoughts flickered elsewhere for a moment—to the near-constant demands of her younger sister. if it weren't for her escape from cybil's clutches, calista doubted they would have been afforded even this sliver of privacy. for all her ebullience, the younger princess could be exhausting. it was no wonder why their aunt had sighed with exasperation, murmuring about how cybil had inherited the same stubborn streak that ran through all athanasiou women. calista had almost laughed at that but held her tongue; it was hardly stubbornness when cybil almost always got her way. "if you're wondering what took me so long," calista began, a wry smile tugging at her lips, "you'll be pleased to know i narrowly escaped being held hostage by my own sister." her words were punctuated by a snort of amusement. "she's quite the negotiator for an eight-year-old. made me promise to bring her something back in exchange for staying behind. so," she added with a pointed glance, "i expect you'll help me find something to keep the little beast from tattling to my mother." the humor in her voice was edged with genuine exasperation, though it wasn't without a certain fondness. "there must be some sort of trinket we can find to appease her," she murmured, a hint of contemplation in her voice. the promise of a gift had steered the girl back to their aunt's side for now, though calista doubted it would buy her much peace upon their return. she could already picture cybil's small hands outstretched, her eager eyes alight with anticipation as she inspected whatever token calista managed to procure.
indentdespite the fact that she could find comfort in søren's presence right now, calista had a feeling the carriage ride into town─and ultimately, the rest of their outing─was going to be a peculiar ordeal. her brother carried that unmistakable look about him today—a sulking, petulant expression that boded nothing but trouble. she could already imagine him slouched against the padded seat, arms folded tight against his chest, jaw set in defiance. his eyes would be fixed stubbornly on the horizon, refusing to engage with anyone or anything around him. calista doubted she could keep her composure if he acted out. given their altercation earlier, she had little tolerance left for his poor manners and his smug superiority. it was always the same with him—a quick, derisive laugh at their allies' customs or a careless dismissal of their way of life. his disdain for their eastern neighbors always rubbed her the wrong way, as if their culture were something beneath his notice, a trifling amusement rather than people deserving of respect. she wasn't in the mood for his antics though. not today. her patience was already worn thin from the chaos of recent days, teetering on the edge of breaking, and her temper, already a volatile thing, felt like a simmering flame waiting for the next slightest spark. and adonis—well, he had always been a spark. the mere thought of sharing such close quarters with him, enduring his brooding silences and the way he would inevitably treat their eastern hosts with condescension, made her stomach churn. conflict was inevitable. she knew it as surely as she knew the sun would set. the only small mercy was that their mother wouldn't be present to witness it. at least, calista thought bitterly, she wouldn't have to suffer through her mother's disapproving stares or reprimands while adonis was allowed to act with impunity. truth be told, it wasn't just adonis' condescension or his refusal to behave with the slightest trace of diplomacy that irritated her the most. it was the utter lack of accountability he faced for it. their mother, ever vigilant when it came to calista's perceived flaws, was conspicuously silent when it came to adonis' glaring faults. no matter how disrespectful he became, no matter how flagrantly he disregarded decorum, he seemed to remain untouched by their mother's ire. calista, by contrast, could not so much as raise her voice without earning a withering glare or a pointed rebuke. she was certain that adonis could flout every rule of propriety and there would be no reprimand for him. instead, there would be silence, or worse, tacit approval. it had always been this way. in fact, it was a pattern she had come to know too well: adonis' transgressions would go unnoticed and unpunished, while she bore the brunt of their mother's anger. no matter how blatantly her brother behaved, the weight of the blame always seemed to fall on her shoulders. even as a child it had struck her as deeply unfair. her mother's disappointment had become a familiar burden, one that seemed to press heavier with each passing year. it was clear that their mother saw them differently—not as equals, but as reflections of her own expectations. adonis, the golden boy, was everything their mother wanted to believe about their family: that they were poised, superior, and untouchable. anastasia seemed to believe that his behavior reflected strength, his disdain for others a mark of superiority rather than immaturity. calista, on the other hand, was a mirror held up to their imperfections, a reminder of the cracks in their carefully curated image. her fiery temper, her sharp tongue—these were her mother's favorite targets, easy flaws to latch onto and dissect. but adonis? he could do no wrong. his arrogance, cruelty, and carelessness were all excused, overlooked, or ignored entirely. her mother liked to paint her as the problem, the flaw in their family's otherwise pristine image. calista's anger was dismissed as something primal and uncontrollable, as if it were a failing inherent to her very nature. it was a convenient narrative, one that absolved everyone else of responsibility. no one ever stopped to consider what provoked her rage in the first place. no one cared to see the years of slights and injustices that had shaped her into the person she was. her mother demanded perfection, that she scrub herself clean of the rumors that clung to her like a second skin, but she never once questioned where those rumors had truly come from. they were born from the cracks in their family's foundation, the dysfunction her mother refused to acknowledge. calista had become a symbol of that dysfunction, the scapegoat for their family's failings. it was easier that way, to blame her for their house's fraying threads than to look inward and confront the deeper rot. it was more convenient to cast her as volatile and unable to control her emotions than to face the truth of their fractured legacy. the irony was unbearable—her mother's endless quest for control and perfection had done nothing but sow chaos. and calista was left to endure the whispers and the stares, to shoulder the blame for sins that weren't hers to carry. and yet, for all her anger, she felt a pang of something else—something that felt uncomfortably like guilt. as much as she resented the way adonis treated her, part of her couldn’t help but wonder if he, too, was just another victim of their mother's expectations. he had been raised to believe he was perfect, infallible. what kind of person did that create? what kind of burden did that place on him? granted, the thought was fleeting, quickly drowned out by her frustration. whatever burdens adonis carried, they were nothing compared to hers. he had never been the scapegoat, and as long as their mother continued to shield him, to exalt him, he never would be.
indentthe knot of bitterness in her chest loosened if only a little as she observed søren, her thoughts shifting away from the weight of her frustrations. it would be better, she decided, to focus on him. she needed to redirect her energy, to anchor herself in something outside of her own swirling frustrations. her attention briefly shifted toward the movement at the edge of her vision. a few of the guards were beginning to mount their horses, a clear signal that their departure was imminent. the sound of hooves and the increasing bustle of preparations made her acutely aware that this moment with søren was rapidly slipping away. she didn't want to relinquish the time she had alone with him just yet. and so, with an abruptness that caught even her off guard, she spoke up again, her voice rising over the surrounding noise. "so," she blurted suddenly, the word almost tumbling out in its haste, "do tell, are you and máirín looking forward to staying in gore bay?" her words hung in the air between them as she studied søren's face for any hint of a reaction. the question was a simple one, but it carried more weight than she had intended. søren, after all, had spent most of his life far from the craggy shores and windswept cliffs of her homelands. for reasons she couldn't quite articulate, his answer mattered to her. she wanted to know how he felt about his upcoming fosterage, beyond the weight of duty or obligation.

[vaermina]

ＳØＲＥＮ ＫＯＬＢＥＣＫxxx
I.xtribal affiliationsx II. a prince of house kolbeck


indentsøren offered her a light smile. "it went alright? you won the winning title! it is good, is it not, to defeat what were probably some seasoned opponents? not that you would find that difficult..." he felt the need to interject upon catching a note of indifference in her tone, although her wavering assurance immediately caught him off guard. the prince quickly fell silent as soon as calista lowered her voice. søren did not say anything as she lapsed into an irritated harangue. her words, laden with discernible agitation and wounded pride, felt distant to him. he was not sure if it was because of the growing unease that always gnawed at him whenever he had to listen to exasperated enunciations or if it was the stark reminder of the sociocultural gulf that separated their worlds, but søren could not relate to the princess's umbrage. he admired calista's fearlessness and her determination to excel in a world full of steel and glory, but it was a world he could never understand. he wanted to offer her solace, to tell her she was capable and deserving, but his voice faltered under the weight of his own insecurities. he struggled to keep his expression neutral to avoid a subconscious betrayal of his discomfort. calista's grievances about queen anastasia's oppressive expectations and belittling doubts stirred something deep in him—sympathy, yes, but also an ache of alienation. søren could not grasp the sting of being deemed unworthy to hold the winning title in a contest of martial skill. he'd be considered unworthy to even step into such an arduous atmosphere. calista burned with the fire of combat and fervidness, but his relevance has always been determined by portents beyond his control. what constitutes you being right or wrong in battle is if you manage to survive till the end. he did not say that, even if he was right in which one mistake could cost you your life in armed warfare. søren could only manage a soft murmur of reassurance, his voice a poor remedy against the flame of her indignation. her grievances were sharp and relentless, always circling back to her mother's constant interference, but each jab only served to remind the prince of his own helplessness in relating to her plight. the gore bay colosseum, with all its blood-soaked glory, was abnormal to him. it felt like a dagger twisting inside his chest, and he hated it. why could he not swallow his own discontent and offer her words of genuine consolation? søren knew he was acting miserly in his own cesspool of inconsideration, but it was difficult to stifle his own sensibilities towards a subject he felt so painfully sensitive about. he would give anything to participate in such a lifestyle. calista's adolescent woes and ambitions—so fierce and unrelenting—were unconventional to him, caged as he was by the rigid doctrine of the golden order. it has robbed him of the camaraderie others so easily shared, leaving him stranded in his loneliness. while søren may accept the restrictive limitations of his position based the context of hobson's choice, that did not mean he had to revel in it. he resented the divine weight thrust upon him, resented the distance it created between him and the average tribal upbringing. the gods have stolen that from him. they have left him isolated, aching, and filled with a bitterness he could not express without betraying his faith or the exaggerated sagacity others liked to place upon him. he felt not admiration for his role but a deep withdrawal, as if the gods themselves had carved him out of the world to stand apart from other people. he longed for something he was never allowed to claim. the clash of swords and the thrill of the hunt were rites of passage, but for søren, they were forbidden realms—a brutal reminder of his tribe's imperious chains. he was burdened by the expectations of his faith, dictated by principles he did not even understand. the weight of his exclusion always pressed heavily on his chest. he would love to be able to participate in martial efforts or acts of combative grandeur. was there nothing so valiant and august as accumulating a name for yourself, for cutting through the storms of chaos and subjugating the unworthy like a sharpened blade? he has always admired the lionhearted gladiators of the heartlands and the fearsome vikingrs of gibraltar, but the the golden templars of the mythic dawn were simply unmatched in his eyes. the young prince often found himself entranced by tales of the valëkrya's most holy warriors, their valor painted in vivid strokes by poets and chroniclers alike. to him, they embodied the ideals his onerous role seemed to deny him: honor, bravery, and freedom. obviously, søren's admiration was steeped in a naive ignorance, shaped by the gilded fables of courtly bards rather than the grim truths of battle and ethnic cleansing. to the prince, such individuals were paragons of chivalric virtue, untouched by the cruel realities that so often warp men into monsters. he clung to a romanticized vision of liberation and commendation, to the image lord oddvar so effortlessly exuded. his templars moved like storm clouds made flesh, clad in glinting gold that caught the sun and turned their armor into cloaks of fire. to søren, they were not mortals but living legends—heroes drawn from the ancient sagas he enjoyed reading with his grandmother. he admired their fearless poise, the discipline in every step, and the way they carried their swords with a solemnity that hinted at some sacred duty. søren could not perceive the travail that clung to them, the memories of what their hands have wrought in the name of duty. instead, he dreamed of valor, too cloistered by his role in the oppressive rituals of his tribe to fathom the cost of such ideals. oddvar and his templars were protectors of the old order, devout champions of not only gibraltar's religious institution but the principles and culture of its people. he longed for that reputation, to live of a life of illustriousness and honor. he has always wanted to be seen as something more. despite the repeated acclamations of his superiors, he found no true value in whatever influence he possessed. religion had nothing tangible to it. only saints achieve immortality in the annals of theology, and who wants to be remembered as a martyr when you can be canonised in the chronicles of history as a glorious knight?
indentthe prince shrugged off her regret. "you don't have to apologize," he consoled her. søren said that to everyone who expelled their discontent in his presence. it was like clockwork at this point, an automatic trigger for a situation he was always finding himself dealing with. calista, his mother, his kin: it did not matter. at this point, he practically expected every conversation to consist of some form of polemic invective; it did not matter if it was directed at him or somebody else. he wished he could offer calista some words of advice, but her situation was foreign to him. he knew what it was like to deal with a petulant mother, but when it came to everything else? he did not know what to say, and it was clear that calista did not wish to linger on the subject. søren felt a flicker of sudden exasperation. it was brief, a slight feeling that almost held no meaning, but it struck him just as fast it came. figures. he felt stranded in the uneasy space between her vulnerability and his mounting irritation. why do people do that? offload their maltreated emotional state before suddenly retreating upon realization of the cumbersomeness of their own inconveniences? he despised the stiffness of it all, the sudden withdraw as though the weight of their own emotions have suddenly become unbearable. it always left him with the awkwardness of an unfinished conversation and the unspoken burden of his companions' unresolved turmoil. it irked him, this habitual standoffishness, as if others feared their problems were too big to impose on him despite already making him a witness to their full weight. the crossness did not last. his pique faded as soon as it arrived. instead, he felt a wave of discomfiture wash over him. shame burned in his chest as he replayed the moment, chastising himself for the spike of resentment that had flashed in his mind. surely, he reasoned, calista's feelings were valid, her burdens real. it did not matter that their lived experiences had no similarities. her woes were justified... right? søren had to stop being so discourteous. he was not an inconsiderate or uncaring person, so why did he feel such abhorrence when confronted by such situations? it was common for people to unconsciously express their feelings without consideration for others, so there was no use getting ruffled over it. søren was certain that it was just a 'him' problem. he had to do better. after all, he was supposed to be self-sacrificing and complaisant. it felt almost abject to grow annoyed at someone else for speaking their feelings. who does that? he was better than that, surely, and she did not deserve to feel the brunt of his frustrations, even if he never quite showed such visible irritation. søren forced himself to swallow his feelings of unease before the prince eyed her gown warily upon her vague gesture. he was careful not to allow his attention to linger before he nodded. "yeah, sure. i know where you and your family are gonna be quartered the next few days. i can lead you to your room." søren offered her his arm in a polite attempt at civility. he doubted he had anything enchanting to offer calista in terms of his own life updates, but he supposed it was better than provoking her ire by reverting the conversation back onto her. the last thing søren wanted to do was spoil her first day in saint-cloud.
indent
indentrays of noonday sunlight filtered the palace's courtyard in shafts of brilliant gold luminosity. the light struck the smooth marble columns and polished stone pillars that framed the palace's outer courtyard as if caught in a silent dance. dazzling highlights shifted with the breeze, as if the light itself were alive. each column was a study in perfection, its polished surface reflecting the illumination in silken ripples, so fine they appeared almost liquid. shadows clung to the intricate carvings etched into their bases and capitals, their details brought into sharp relief through the blatant contrast of glint and shade. the warmth of late spring cast an air of serene magnificence over the palace in all its regal grandeur.
indent"—ybe you can talk to her? i know mother would listen to you. she refuses to hear anything about it, says i'm trying to get her in trouble with afi. but i'm not! i just, i don't know..." søren looked down at his feet, as if abashed by his own eagerness. "she never listens to me."
indent"oh, and get me in trouble with the princess instead?" oddvar bantered. "have i ever been unkind to you to the point where you would wish to see me dragged behind the carriage all the way to gore bay for irritating your royal mother?"
indentsøren's face flushed. "i didn't me—"
indent"i am only joking with you," the lord ascendant reassured him with a light laugh. the older man did not often interrupt him, but it was clear he felt compelled to do so when he realized søren failed to comprehend his witticism. lord oddvar was dressed in an ornately decorated suit of steel armor, one that featured polished metal plates etched with delicate floral and geometric ornaments in the shape of religious runes. the centerpiece of his ensemble boasted a luxurious gray cloak adorned with intricate gold embroidery, the like upon which included swirling, vine-like motifs running down its length that matched the convoluted designs engraved into the steel plates. framed by gilded borders, the cloak introduced an air of majesty tempered by practicality. the gold gleamed warmly against the cool steel. the metallic detailing was highly reflective. it caught rays of stray light, as if attempting to emphasize itself and the regal and ceremonial aesthetic of the templars' armor. its polished surface reflected a cold, silvery hue that spoke of meticulous craftsmanship. his chest plate and matching pauldrons were finely embossed with sophisticated embellishment, adding depth to the polished surfaces and further highlighting the care that went into forging such an impressive piece of armor. the combination of gold, silver, and gray conveyed both elegance and strength. its design suggested a blend of battle readiness and courtly prestige, a stateliness and punch of eloquence that painted him as a hallowed individual. for the sake of functionality, he did not wear the suit of stríðsmaður tveggja andlita. "tell me, why do you hold such an interest in the gore bay colosseum?"
indent"it's not that i really have an interest in it. like, it's not an interest where i just have to participate in whatever is going on there but, i don't know, i think it would be cool to... partake in it. you know?" søren could not help but feel foolish whenever he tried to convince lord oddvar of something. a figure of unshakable poise and measured grace, the older man stood as an unembellished contrast to the lineage of zealots and tyrants who preceded him. his predecessors, notorious for their ruthless persecution and fiery rhetoric, had cast long impressions of cruelty over the position he now occupied. whereas his forebears wielded their title to stoke fear and carry out relentless injury, he has become an anomaly—a figure of levelheaded judgment and measured benevolence. his level-headed, almost regal demeanor was complemented by a profound sense of justice and a refusal to act without certainty, traits that have earned him widespread admiration. even his armor and robes, embroidered with understated symbols of his faith, reflected his sophisticated restraint: neither ostentatious nor austere, but crafted to inspire respect. strangers were often struck by his thoughtful rationale and his ability to listen intently, qualities that lend him an aura of trustworthiness even among those who might otherwise despise his position. while the demands of his title compel him to oversee acts of persecution, his careful deliberation and distaste for cruelty has made him an unexpected symbol of compassion. he was the civilized face of brutal tradition, a man who tastefully diluted the severity of his office with emotional intelligence and a profound sense of humanity. he stood as an aberration, a source of benevolence in a role historically associated with fear and bloodshed. with a sensible and logical approach to life, he has cultivated a reputation for fairness by mediating disputes with measured sense and courting justice with understanding. his reign as lord ascendant has been marked by intellectual pursuits and a penchant for fostering dialogue over decrees. oddvar's polished demeanor, adorned with a disarming smile and a melodic voice, has long enticed nobles and commoners alike. his genuine interest in the well-being of other people ensured that his counsel was sought after not only for its discretion but for the warmth upon which it was delivered. there was solace in his steady presence. søren viewed him as the epitome of an ideal mentor—balanced, encouraging, and endlessly patient. oddvar demonstrated the art of leadership by example. who else could seamlessly blend goodwill with discipline? he exhibited rare values of integrity, humility, and empathy. the older man's ability to navigate the tensions of his office with such grace served as an inspiring blueprint. he has always offered søren practical and commersative advice, and rather than impose strict dogma, he encouraged critical thinking and genuine effort. the squires who served beneath him were proof of his sense of responsibility and the ethical consideration he put into his teachings. oddvar attempted to steer his charges away from generational contusion and collective societal aggression through encouragement of self-reflection, cognition, and quarter. he did not dabble in gibraltar's growing patriarchal trajectory—the like of which slowly stimulated limited emotional expression, overt displays of toxic masculinity, and the development of mental health issues due to the inability to openly discuss vulnerabilities. and while he has brazenly criticized gibraltar's regression in the matter, he never burdened the young with his frustrations on the province's increasingly radical ethnocentricity. unlike many of the adults in søren's life, he struck a fine balance between light-hearted charm and restrained cultivation. whether it was sharing a clever quip, indulging in harmless banter with close confidants, or chuckling at his own wry humor, it revealed an amity that softened the patent image of his title. it was that balance—an innate goodness moderated by authority, and an uncommon ability to laugh even in the difficulty of his duties—that made him beloved, even by those who might otherwise fear him. his keen wit and unexpected penchant for amusement endeared him to those in his orbit. while those beyond the border whispered dark tales of the golden order's history, those who knew oddvar found themselves drawn to his unwavering sincerity, a trait that made his dual nature as inquisitor and protector all the more mesmerizing. in søren's eyes, the older man could do no wrong. his elders loved to bark orders and berate the prince for his mistakes, but oddvar offered gentle correction by guiding him with a calm hand. the lord ascendant took the time to understand the boy's fears and shortcomings and addressed them with percipience rather than frustration. søren admired the man's ability to remain composed even in the face of provocation and disrespect. their bond thrived in an atmosphere of mutual respect and trust. søren always felt safe to ask questions and admit his mistakes, knowing he would not be chastised but instead supported in his growth. it was not just oddvar's benevolence that inspired loyalty in him, but it was the way he embodied the very teachings they studied together—a living example of the virtues he preached. it was rare to see integrity in a world full of violent hypocrites. learning felt safe with him; it never felt perilous or like søren was walking on thin ice. he never took out his anger on him, never admonished him or treated him as if he were somehow less than human. they had a bond that felt familial, built on trust and an understanding that søren would never be cast aside for falling short. his hospitality was not mere indulgence. he held søren accountable with a firm yet benign hand, ensuring he learned the importance of discipline and responsibility without falling into unfounded denigration. søren loved him the way a son loved his father.
indentthere was a pensive look on oddvar's face. despite his pleasant personality, the lord ascendant had a sharp look about him. his sable-colored hair, dark and sleek, was tousled slightly, as though he has spent the entirety of his morning running his hands through it in contemplation. his stubble was neatly groomed, framing a strong and angular jawline with high cheekbones and a narrow nose. his eyes, a pale shade of umber, were perpetually intense, as if he were carrying the weight of experiences far beyond his years. they were framed by the faintest of crow's feet—indications of a man who has smiled more than his current expression suggested. his lips, thin and slightly upturned, conveyed a seriousness that hid the sprightliness beneath. there was a certain charm beneath it all, a magnetism rooted in the sheer confidence of his presence. he would almost be considered handsome if it were not for the mark of jorgunnr that left half of his face mutilated by the burn scars of a branding iron. his silence was not encouraging, and søren felt the immediate need to explain himself. "i mean, how hard can it be? everyone my age is going to be participating. i don't want to just sit in the stands and spectate for an entire year. where's the fun in that? i've seen others fighting in the arena, ones who aren't even of eidolon blood, but i can't participate? i've been training for so long, and i'm sure i can hold my own! the gods have shown favor in the past, haven't they? and if i'm meant to walk the path you've shown me, shouldn't i show the order i'm ready for the trials they'll send me? or how about one round? just one! maybe if i just... do it, just take the plunge, it won't be so bad, right? what's the worst that can happen? if i get hurt, well, everyone's just gonna know i'm a stupid idiot who deserved the ass beating. no harm, no foul, right?" søren could not help but allow a hint of derision to invade his tone, as if his own self-doubts were already beginning to attack his confidence. each excuse was crafted with uncertainty and a touch of subtle sheepishness. his apprehension reflected his inner turmoil and his attempts to persuade his mentor, almost as though he was searching for reassurance that it would be acceptable for him to participate.
indent"well, yes, but i think defeat is the one principal gladiators are keen on avoiding, hmm?" oddvar responded lightly, his eyes searching søren's expression. "as for the men and women you have witnessed fighting in the arena, most of them are slaves. men and women who have nothing to lose is the best way to create a fight to the death. if you were to fight a rival gladiator, knowing they were plucked from their mother's breast as a newborn and raised in a macabre human abattoir so down the line they will die for human entertainment, would you strike them down? is it better to kill a freeman or a thrall, both of whom were raised in contempt to despise you?"
indentsøren frowned. was that a trick question? "i don't know... yes. no... maybe? would it be dishonorable to participate?"
indent"dishonorable? no. it is a way of life for the eidolon. there is nothing disreputable about tradition, no matter how sordid its customs may appear to outsiders. they may view some of our blood rites as abject and wretched, especially given their history with manitoba's populace. but both our tribes kill for reasons entirely of our own. no cause is more noble than the other. you cannot place objective importance on human suffering because half the time, there is no need for adversity to begin with, yes?" he placed his hands on søren's shoulders. the steel touch of his gauntlets felt cold, even through the fabric of his shirt. "i know you are frustrated, but the colosseum is not your element. it is blood sports, and it is a world entirely different from our own. war does not have codexes, søren. battle does not have creeds or outside forces determining whether you live or die. there will be no ruler to grant you clemency, no crowd to bolster your ego. your opponent will not kneel upon call, and there will be no witnesses to your struggles but the gods themselves. you want to know your prize for defeating your enemy? your life. there is no such thing as laurels or titles, and you will not come out happier than you were before because it is not supposed to be easy taking a life. anyone who tells you otherwise is either young, ignorant, or both. war is terror uncontrolled, unfettered, unbounded, with no rules of conduct or guiding ordinances. and when it comes to the colosseum, you are but just a lamb put out to pasture for the first time. any gladiator will see you, a prince, the first royal empýrabúar in nearly two centuries, and the future lord ascendant of the golden templars, and immediately set out to claim adulation by being the first one to force you to bend the knee. after all, the men who came before me built their reputations off the burnt bones of persecuted eidolon citizens. it's not far-fetched to say that the glory of defeating a future lord ascendant before he even has a chance to bloom might be considered stately in the arena despite our tribes' good amity. you wouldn't want to be caught up in all of that, right?"
indent"no... i guess not," søren mumbled in response. of course, he did not really understand. all he comprehended from oddvar's sermon was a polite rejection of his request; he failed to realize that the older man was trying to protect him from forces that would conspire to brutalize him based on nothing but what he represented alone. house athanasiou may have forgiven gibraltar for its religious tyranny, but that did not mean their subjects agreed. there was likely to be plenty of descendants hailing from former martyrs who would gladly accept the challenge of cutting down the lord ascendant's apprentice before he could even gain his own footing. it was almost poetic, like getting vengeance for generational suffering by taking out a scion of that former oppression—the progeny of theological authoritarianism being søren himself, who would eventually go on to become lord ascendant himself. unsurprisingly, søren was clueless to it all. despite his usual worldliness, he clung to a dream that the blade could forge him into someone worthy of the love and admiration he so deeply craved. he was ignorant of the steep cost that pursuit might demand. it was not just respect he sought but the love he felt has always eluded him—a desperate, aching void he believed could only be filled by proving his worth in the most tangible, undeniable way. he has long studied the murals and sagas of his ancestors—men and women immortalized in the blood and sweat of battle—and he longed to see his visage etched alongside theirs, a testament of unfounded courage and strength. søren believed the blade could speak the truth he struggled to voice. though he was naive to the grim realities of combat, he idealized the clang of steel as a path to the love and respect that always felt just out of reach. the thought of emerging victorious, standing bloodied but revered, filled him with a fragile hope that he could potentially alter his own destiny. yes, he knew that the concept of defying fate was downright blasphemous to the golden order, but it would be a way of seizing his own kismet. his kin would never allow him to participate in bloodborn raids, and truthfully, he was really interested in traveling over the eastern border, but the colosseum would have to do for now. if he could prove his worth in a controlled setting, it might give his family and the order evidence that he was not as weak as they thought (of course, søren failed to realize that it was not a matter of individual principle and how he could physically handle himself but the very suppression of their tribe's religion that kept him glued to one spot). he could see the allure in the colosseum, but it was more a matter of proving himself than receive any sort of public accolades. he did not want to be different. he'd gladly accept conformity if it meant he could live like everyone else around him. he did not want to stand out anymore. his 'uniqueness' earned him nothing but contempt and scorn, and sometimes a black eye from his cousins. the prince leaned forward to press his forehead against the lord's breastplate, his arms dangling awkwardly in front of him as he now stared at the ground. "i'm such a loser," he lamented. as expected, he immediately jumped into defeatism, a common form of discouragement and self-pity from the young prince when he hit a roadblock. "i suppose it is a good thing i will never father children. could you imagine trying to explain to them all of this? one day they'll ask, 'father, can you tell us about your heroic adventures when you were young?' and i'll be forced to answer, 'well, i made great strides in personal development during that time...mostly in the form of dodging every chance to be in a fight before it even occurred.' or maybe i'll say, 'i've been undefeated in the arena of avoiding swords. a true hero, really. ask anyone in the court who has never seen me wield one!' yep, sounds totally cool. i'm gonna die sad and alone, with no legacy to my name. søren the boring."
indent"woah! where'd all that come from? you're sounding like a rural hermit who's unsure whether or not he'll make it through the winter," oddvar rued in obvious jocularity. one of his hands moved to rest against søren's shoulder blades, the other carefully situated on the back of the sulking teenager's neck. "you poor, sweet creature. how will we ever nourish you back to health? plop you down in front of a warm hearth and ensure you have a sword to gnaw on for the winter? you know, when i was your age, i once swung my sword so poorly that i sliced the air and knocked myself off balance. fell flat on my back in front of my instructor. he was so impressed he let me leave the session without giving me a beat down—said he'd never seen such innovative combat techniques before. so, unless you plan to innovate your way into enemy applause, i think you're doing just fine." there was an unmistakable glint of amusement in the lord's eyes, the kind that softened rather than mocked, as if he found the prince's theatrics endearing rather than irksome. a glimmer of empathy lurked in his touch, a quiet understanding of the raw vulnerability that spilled from søren's hunched shoulders and averted gaze. rather than berating the teenager for nurturing an understandably bruised ego, he allowed him to stew without shame, his silence neither demanding stoicism nor denying the prince's right to feel. it was a calculated mercy, a subtle balance between lightening the mood and letting søren wade through his own turbulent emotions, unhurried and unpressured. rather than reprimanding him for indulging in his shattered ego, the lord leaned backwards ever so slightly, tilting his head just enough to meet the boy's downcast gaze with something resembling solidarity. with a subtle shift in demeanor, oddvar exuded an air of playful irreverence, as though he could sweep the embarrassment from søren's shoulders with little more than his own nonchalance. by exaggerating his own gestures of mock defeat and pantomiming an exaggerated sympathy, he allowed søren's feelings to remain unchallenged—an acknowledgment, not a dismissal. the tension of self-directed shame that clung to the young prince lightened under such deliberate levity. søren did not often display glumness in an open manner, but oddvar gave him the space to feel without fear of rejection or reproach. slowly, he looked up to meet oddvar's gaze. the older man was silent for a moment before he sighed. "you already know my feelings towards the matter. i always worry for you, your sister, your cousins. but... perhaps i will talk to your mother about it."
indentsøren's face immediately brightened. "really? you'll ask her for me? oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" without thinking, he went in for an embrace, his arms snaking around the older man's armored torso. "you won't regret it! i won't fail, i promise. i'll make you proud. and mother too! she won't be able to stay mad at me if i ask for her favor, right?" søren did not realize that initiating physical contact with the lord ascendant could be considered unseemly in the eyes of the clergy. tactical sense was supposed to be an inflexible element, but their relationship has not always been like this. once bound by rigid respect and formalities, oddvar initially regarded the twin children of princess aoibheann and prince brynjar with distant reverence by keeping their dynamic firmly within the lines of duty. he once maintained a strict and formal distance, treating søren and his sister with the respectful detachment their positions demanded. time and observation has softened those lines. søren's blatant need for guidance, validation, and fatherly care was palpable, a categorical contrast to the hollow affection he received within the selfish grandeur of his own family. oddvar understood the impropriety of indulging in such a personal connection, but his sense of duty to søren's well-being has overridden protocol. what began as formal lessons in combat and discipline evolved into gentle counsel on matters of life and morality, shared moments of camaraderie during difficult situations, and the occasional, quiet reassurance that someone believed in the prince's potential. oddvar has always recognized the unostentatious pitfall that lingered in the recesses of søren's cognizance. he saw how the prince often wrestled with beliefs that demanded blind devotion and ruthless sacrifice, doctrines structured to chip away at the innocence of youth and mold acolytes into figures shaped more by terror than conviction. it was a fine line. oddvar was unable to overtly challenge the foundations of their society without jeopardizing both their positions, but he refused to sit back and allow crowned heads to be sickened by the influence of serpentine prelacy. the looming shadow of opportunists within their court—devious figures who see the royal bloodline and its divine renown as tools for their own ambitions—remained a grave concern for the lord ascendant. søren's mind was already beginning to twist and buckle under the weight of their tribe's disharmonious religious ideologies, but he has yet to reach a point of no return. filled with boundless curiosity and an earnest desire to do good, he has long grappled with tenets that glorify non-secular violence and personal abdication. oddvar noticed the subtle changes—moments of doubt clouding the prince's once-bright mindset, a growing acceptance of the merciless dogma preached by their clerics, and the occasional parroting of the harsh ideals expected of him. it was not unrealistic to think that the pressures of duty and the demands of a faith steeped in cruelty could break søren before he even reached maturity. he was being slowly picked apart by not only divine albatrosses but his own family's impediments. he was being constantly pulled in every which way, his position incessantly torn apart by the calamity of tribal politics and diplomatic calculus. it was only expected that søren would develop an anxious attachment style as he grew older, behavior that others around him might deem as irritatingly clingy or pathetically unpoised. søren's behavior was not even necessarily suffocating—he was not quite bold enough to brazenly insert himself into others lives—but in a world ruled by self-proclaimed nonconformists, his desire for companionship was seen as needful and taxing. oddvar never vilified søren for acting human. the lord ascendant chuckled at the prince's display, his hands moving to gently peel søren's arms off of him. "do not thank me yet," he warned. "your royal mother is stubborn, and even i cannot go against the decrees of the king. but enough about that for now. come, let us greet queen anastasia's brother and his lady wife. we don't want to be disrespectful hosts, now do we?"
indent
indentthe sound of calista's voice broke through his thoughts.
indentsøren turned from where he stood on top of the stairs, his gaze fixated upon the sprawling valleys and jagged mountains that marked the heart of the saguenay graben. rays of pale sunlight bathed him in a warm, celestial glow, as if accentuating the subtle strength in his youthful features. the gold torc around his neck and the shiny circlet upon his brow reflected the light. his posture, though relaxed, carried a natural grace that belied his awkward nature. engrossed in silent reverence, whatever embodiment of regal serenity he exhibited was quick to melt away upon the princess's return. søren was only able to briefly note her change of attire before calista redirected his attention to her falcon. he could not help but immediately clock the bird's peculiar stare. "why's he looking at me like that?" søren regarded talos with a leery look. he must recognize you somehow. calista stepped closer to him, turning her shoulder so she could bridge the gap between him and talos. you can touch him if you'd like. he watched calista's gentle demonstration with a quirked brow. søren was skeptical about talos. the bird possessed an unruly and recalcitrant disposition, and he did not seem like the type of creature who enjoyed outside company. what am i doing? there was no reason to be chary towards talos when he has spent his entire life surrounded by owl-bears. owl-bears were tempestuous creatures, their behavior nothing more than a volatile cocktail of untamed fury and primal instinct. they were a jagged and unpredictable species. like the shattering of glass, they barreled through both physical and metaphorical obstacles with reckless, bone-crushing force. no living animal could match their savagery. with endless ferocious tenacity and chaotic fervor, owl-bears are known for their hair-trigger aggression. they were consumed by unrestrained energy and a savage malevolence, their actions always constituting a frenzied storm of violence. owl-bears are naturally pugnacious, headstrong, and intemperate. they can never be truly tamed, even by those who are bonded with them. the argument between his mother and sister this morning actually stemmed from aoibheann's refusal to allow máirín's owl-bear to accompany her throughout the day. his mother was worried that whitewing's inconsistent temperament would lead to the unfortunate mauling of some unlucky soul. and while søren would never say it to his sister's face, their mother's fears were not exactly ungrounded. whitewing has always been a capricious creature. her tempestuousness seemed more than mere animal instinct—it mirrored the volatile temperament of her bonded master. when the princess was feeling indignant or imperious, the owl-bear's thrashing tail and guttural cries grew more belligerent, her behavior a thunderous echo of his sister's mood. she was a creature of rage and erratic intensity, her violent tantrums a living testament of the emotions she shared with her rider. whitewing's truculence never truly went away, either. the beast's aggression instead ebbed to a simmering wariness, as though it remained coiled, ready to unleash chaos at the slightest shift in her mood. if anything, her combativeness has only grown worse in the past year or two, a blatant chain reaction of máirín's constant quarrelsomeness. whitewing could not be trusted to act tractable or obeisant. she would lash out at the slightest provocation, and it did not help that she was now at a size where she could not be easily subdued if she decided to attack somebody. she was several years older than máirín (his sister did not hatch her on her own) and was well over six hundred pounds, with room to still grow into an even heavier and formidable predator. owl-bears will attack anyone they deem a threat to themselves or their own; it did not matter how diplomatically important their victim was in the realm of human relations. if whitewing decided the athanasious or the ålands were a threat, there was very little anyone could do to stop her from attacking. it was why owl-bears were regarded so fearfully across the lands of annexed canada. they were more than unfettered symbols of martial power; they were living testaments to the harmony between his people and the wild forces of nature. only the most fierce of individuals were successful in bonding with them, so it was no surprise why máirín was able to gain whitewing's trust. he knew that the owl-bear would be traveling with them west to gore bay, but he was unsure how lenient her freedom would be. aoibheann did not trust máirín to handle her bond with the beast in a tasteful or even conscientious manner. it was not far-fetched to think that, in a moment of complete abandon and reckless anger, máirín would allow the beast to gruesomely attack and mutilate someone foolish enough to provoke her. his sister never thought about the consequences of her actions, and it would not be improbable to assume she would allow choler to cloud her judgment. that was exactly what their mother was afraid of. mimicking calista's movements, søren slowly reached out to stroke the back of talos' head. he figured that if he was able to handle the animosity of a beast large enough to squash calista's falcon with one paw, he could handle whatever talos decided to throw at him. he was careful not to apply too much pressure. "please don't claw me," he pleaded with the falcon. "i just wanna be your friend, yeah?"
indenthis eyes flickered to calista when she began to speak again. he smiled at the mention of cybil. "aw, well, there's plenty to be found in the city. it'll be easy to find something for her. just be glad we're in saint-cloud and not khyobel. i just know there would be an eager blacksmith who'd try and smelt some iron to send cybil off to war with a brand new suit of armor," he joked, poking fun at the capital city's numerous iron mines. saint-cloud was a beacon of cultural opulence and artistic ingenuity. for the people of gelderarich, life was an endless canvas to be boldly painted with passion, beauty, and an unwavering devotion to the arts. they boasted a shared love of creation and refinement, an atmosphere unlike anywhere else in the rugged lands of gibraltar. it would not be difficult to find something appealing for calista's sister. eventually, søren retracted his hand. he did not want to agitate talos by showering him in excessive endearment. with his attention focused on the falcon, it took him a moment to register calista's question. do tell, are you and máirín looking forward to staying in gore bay? søren had to resist the urge to frown at her inquiry. truthfully, the prince felt a strange mix of indifference and weariness when it came to settling into life in gore bay. the unfamiliar customs of his temporary foster home felt distant, lacking the warmth of his native soil, but he understood the necessity of his presence there. in the heartlands, there was safety in the guise of detachment, but that safety came with its own challenges. søren knew that he was going to be watched, studied, his every move a reflection not just of himself but of his homeland's precarious reputation. apart from its colosseum, gore bay held little allure, its opulence dulled by the knowledge that his presence there was not by choice but necessity. it felt more like a political maneuver than an act of genuine enculturation. it was almost as if søren expected gore bay's court to treat him with measured courtesy, their smiles perfunctory, as though they would see him as more of a diplomatic burden than a guest. he could see it now. the unfamiliar principles and the distant stares of those around him would culminate in the young prince feeling unmoored, a stranger even to himself. his days would be filled with polite lessons and formalities, his nights with restless thoughts of home—its familiar hills now steeped in turmoil. something about it all felt precarious, as if his safety itself was conditional and constantly dependant on outside factors. yes, he could not ignore the quiet relief of being away from the simmering chaos at home, but the heartlands presented a different gauntlet to navigate. still, he buried his unease beneath a polite facade. "i'm not sure about máirín, but i think it'll be fun. i mean, anything is better than gibraltar at this point, right? your tribe has interesting customs compared to what goes on here." realizing that his words could come across as a diatribe, he immediately frowned. "not that the heartlands is terrible or anything," he reaffirmed, the need to explain himself overriding his thought process once again. "i hope you don't think i meant anything negative when i said your customs are fascinating. i wasn’t trying to imply they're odd or anything like that—well, not odd, just… unique. which is good! not that gibraltar is dull or anything, of course. i just mean yours are… full of depth. but not in a way that's, um, overwhelming. i just mean… you must be proud to come from somewhere so rich in tradition." it was common for søren to exculpate himself, a defense mechanism born from a fear of being misunderstood, a desire for validation, or trying to avoid conflict by ensuring the other person fully comprehended his point. the prince's attempts to be effusive in his praise while his insecurities drove him to over-elaborate often led to convoluted explanations and unnecessary clarifications. his lack of meticulous detail concerning his interest in gore bay was intentional. while søren was not an unkind person, his reserved nature made it difficult to dissect his true feelings on any given subject. truth be told, his cynicism towards the heartlands was fueled solely by his lack of trust in the people around him. he never felt safe in his surroundings. every glance felt like an evaluation, every word spoken to him like a negotiation, as though he were a resource to be leveraged rather than a boy deserving of care. even his kin, those bound by blood and duty, stood idly by, their silence an endorsement of a culture that does nothing but exploit. individuals such as his grandfather rationalized their inaction as reverence for tradition, turning away when he needed their protection most. abandonment constantly gnawed at his trust. how pathetic was that? he did not expect calista to understand or even care, hence his false optimism concerning his fosterage. she had her own problems to contend with, as did everyone else around them. it would be a futile conversation anyway.
indentthe sound of whinnying horses caught his attention. the royal retinue was beginning to gather at the foot of the stairs, the barking of orders rising above the din of clattering armor and quick footsteps. søren was eager to escape the conversation at hand, and their imminent departure from muria palace gave him the perfect chance to avoid becoming embroiled in an uncomfortable discussion. "come, let's claim our seats in the carriage. luckily for us, it's less than a ten minute ride into the city so we won't have to deal with adonis and máirín sulking for long," he joked. despite it only being a short walk down to where the carriage sat, he offered calista his arm again. always the gentleman.
indent
indentcharacterized by a harmony of eloquent and belle époque-inspired architecture, where tightly packed buildings with bright terracotta roofs created a lively tapestry of color along the wide sapphire strip that was the saguenay river, the city of saint-cloud was a beautiful blend of beauty and practicality.
indentthe city was divided into layers. atop its grand hill, muria palace sat comfortably above the sprawling metropolis, its soaring spires and detailed masonry exuding a unique nobleness and authority over the surrounding valley. surrounding the base of the precipice, the city cascaded down the slope, following the natural terrain until it culminated into a port by the waterfront. a single elegant bridge spanned a shallow chasm surrounding muria hill by connecting the noble castle to the bustling city. winding streets and staircases connected the upper and lower sections of saint-cloud in a natural attempt to emphasize its organic, hillside layout. the city's composition radiated artsy charm, characterized by tightly clustered, vividly colored buildings with predominantly red-tiled roofs—a beautiful contrast with the pale architectural details outlining the municipality's conglomerated structures. with intricate facades, arched windows, decorative stonework, and unique murals, saint-cloud was vibrant and picturqueste. the city's infrustrations almost bore an old-world charm, what with its stone balustrades and tiled details. no building was the same; each featured pastel hues of cobalt, marigold, crimson, and salmon, adding to the city's lively, almost whimsical atmosphere. some dwellings bore relatively simple architectural elements while others—tall, multi-tiered buildings constructed with a blend of stone and wood—stood out against the tasteful dwellings that stood close to muria hill. exhibiting gabled roofs with weathered shingles and wooden cross-beams typical of medieval architecture, homes that did not exude immediate opulence could be found close to the city's port and outer districts. arched stone skybridges, framed by thick vines of sweet blooming jasmine and pale climbing rose, connected various buildings throughout the city's intersections. open squares dedicated for communal gatherings culminated in small ridged outlooks throughout the city's boundaries, where the city's elevated position offered panoramic views of the surrounding mountains and sprawling basins. located throughout the city were pockets of lush greenery and terraced gardens, a natural contrast to the urban vibrancy by reinforcing the harmonious relationship between nature and architecture. various lemon and peach trees lined the streets as the chromaticity of late spring enamelled the city in a riot of colors. canary yellow forsythia and mottled purple hydrangea stood out amongst the layered hedges bordering the edges of saint-cloud's streets and homes. in fact, the city was overrun by waves of budding frondescence and sleepy flora. saint-cloud's various archways, pergolas, balcony flora, urban orchards, irrigated channels, and shaded boulevards were nothing more than an agglomeration of various floriage found all across gibraltar: blue-bead lily, choke cherry, mayflower, purple saxifrage, rhodora, trillium, wild strawberry, wolf willow, white water lily, the brazen blue flag iris. nestled in the corner of every junction sat plots of overgrown bunchberry dogwood and sweltering orange day-lilies—the like upon which attracted the pleasant hums of curious songbirds. squirrels remained a constant annoyance for the city's inhabitants as they scurried along the walkways in search of berries. tended to by the careful hands of various residents and nurtured into a plant kingdom of rainbow saturation, saint-cloud's polished layout was cut by winding pathways of worn cobblestone. pruned foliage in the form of renaissance topiary dotted the corner of every street or the front of small lawns; hedges in various forms of native animals stood proud in the seedtime breeze, their leafy forms sheared and clipped to perfection. cracked stone benches covered with thin layers of creeping moss lined the footpaths, and a large fountain cut from the same marble used to construct the palace sat directly in the middle of the town square. a statue fashioned in the slender form of house åland's founder stood atop the wellspring's pedestal, her arms stretched outwards in a benevolent gesture even as the sun weathered down her fine features. english ivy crept up the craggy fabric of her gown and twisted itself like a snake around her upper limbs as water spouted from her feet and into the pool below. dappled doitsu koi and calico goldfish nested amidst the pond's floating piles of water hyacinths, pickerels, and cattails. there was little shade to be found in the city square; its various fruit trees were just barely sprouting. the heart of saint-cloud's commercial operations, the buildings encircling the town square sweltered in harmonious proportions, their facades a mix of pale stone and warm terracotta. framed by intricately carved pilasters and topped with a pediment bearing the crest of the artisan guilds that called the city home, elegant cornices and decorative friezes displayed a wealth of detail—scenes of battles and celestial deities, each hinting at the city's proud heritage. wrought iron balconies jutted from the second floors, the greenery of their herbal niches spilling over to provide a touch of nature amidst the urban splendor. crimson and cobalt awnings shaded various market stalls down below. hundreds of merchant stands, wealthy kiosks, and overflowing booths lined not only the edges of the town square but various pocket spaces surrounding the massive fountain. and that was not even taking into account the various elegant boutiques, cafes, and emporiums that claimed residence in the buildings surrounding the urban square, or the open alleyways branching off from the plaza that led deeper into crowded streets where merchants continued to hawk their wares in unique bazaars and agoras. a city at the height of its cultural and economic power, the sheer fortitude of saint-cloud's sociodemographic aptitude spoke through its bustling citizenry. the city square was packed.
indentdespite the city's impervious crowds, søren was glad to be free of the stagecoach. the cramped confines of the gilded carriage had felt heavy, the air charged with a silent discontent that hung between his companions like a brewing fire that was on the edge of a sudden spread. máirín spent the entire ride glaring sullenly out the window, her fingers drumming a petulant rhythm against the polished wood of the armrest. calista's brother adonis sat across from them, surly and grimacing, as if the very act of being present offended his sensibilities and provoked a silent condemnation for everyone around him. and that was not even including calista, who was likely just as silently agitated over her own grievances as the other two and capable of lashing out at any single moment. søren sat poised and quiet the entire ride, his hands resting neatly in his lap, his mild expression betraying none of the discomfort he felt. the faint creak of the carriage wheels and the muffled clatter of hooves had only served to highlight the awkward silence that stretched between them, a silence punctuated occasionally by a sharp sigh or the swish of heavy skirts shifting irritably. while the others stewed in their grievances, søren's gaze discretely wandered between his companions with an air of unspoken curiosity, as if he were an outsider observing a tableau of discontent rather than a participant trapped within it. discord was inevitable. máirín already made sure of that by attempting to provoke calista's brother in the carriage. contrary to what her coy apology hinted at after she 'accidentally' jabbed the eidolon prince in the knee with the end of her umbrella, he knew that his sister's actions were led by nothing but a love for bedevilment and importunity. it was how she acted out against the harsh expectations and rigid conformities of the golden order. she did not seek approval or amity to bridge the gap between the divine and mortality; she lashed out in antagonism and contention. as shown by the way she once attacked their cousin halvor with little regard for the fact he was a man twice her size and height, her need to prove herself showed itself differently than søren's. her idea of avouchement was physical violence and verbal dissension. perhaps that was why she was constantly embroiled in arguments with their mother, for máirín embodied the stereotypical traits of house kolbeck: aggression, intemperance, passion, and inflexibility. as much as he cared for his sister, sometimes he wished she would just leave it alone. it was unwise to provoke adonis, especially during a time when both of the twins were likely to get chastised by their mother or thrashed by house kolbeck's personal prestastétt for stirring trouble.
indentthe rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone and the hum of conversation blended into a symphony of urban life, punctuated occasionally by the melodious chime of energetic instrumentals. their lilting melodies called forth the city's deep appreciation for music. despite the large crowds, the people of saint-cloud did not swarm the royal entourage. whether it was out of pure fascination or because of the large density of guards that poured into the surrounding area, the populace was wise enough to keep their distance. a warm breeze licked søren's face as he turned to look at the revenant princess beside him. máirín was struggling to catch up with them, the ends of her dress catching on every possible crevice in the cobblestone underfoot. he held máirín's umbrella up towards the sun to block its rays from shining in their faces. he had snatched the parasol from his sister earlier, for he did not trust her to cease her nettling. "so," he began, trying to ignore his growing unease at the chaos of the marketplace, "what does your sister like? i'm assuming anything extravagant like dresses are off the list, although that might earn you brownie points with your mother," he jested, yet another lame attempt to boost calista's spirit. saint-cloud offered a unique cultural synthesis by blending the elegance of ancient france with the refined opulence of the fallen italian kingdoms. unlike the stern simplicity and utilitarian wares of gibraltar's nordic villages where fur, timber, and iron dominate, saint-cloud's market was a celebration of human creativity. it blended the sensual richness of its southern influences with the stoic integrity of its northern roots. pastoral beauty and mythological grandeur held much more importance than pure functionality when it came to the ornamentation and goods sold here in gelderarich. saint-cloud's artistic hub, a confluence of southern grandness and cosmopolitan flair, felt like a doorway to another world—a vivid, sensory celebration that seemed almost defiant in its divergence from the stark, grim traditions found across the rest of gibraltar. there was bound to be something here that resonated with cybil, something that was colorful and sublime enough to please her.

[vaell]

xxxxxＣＡＬＩＳＴＡiiＡＴＨＡＮＡＳＩＯＵ.

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe revenant princess of the eidolon.
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indentcalista offered søren a slight smile, an attempt to reassure him that she understood what he was trying to articulate.
indentshe didn't find his words offensive; if anything, the way he fumbled to clarify himself almost made her feel bad for asking such a daft question to begin with. calista absently brushed her fingers along the edge of talos' wings, distracting herself from the restlessness creeping into her frame. interrupting søren and dismissing his concerns outright might have spared them both this awkward exchange, but the urge felt wrong—ill-mannered, even. it was better, she decided, to let him finish and grant him the space to untangle his thoughts in his own way. still, perhaps the fault was hers to begin with. what had she expected him to say anyway? søren was far removed from the brutal realities of her province and the complexities of her culture. his polite detachment was no different from anyone else who viewed the heartlands through the lens of foreign mystique. plus, the young prince has never struck her as an insensitive person. she doubted søren would ever intentionally insult her tribe's way of life (and by extension, her own) but then again... even if he did, she probably wouldn't hold it against him. how could she? gore bay's colosseum, though grand and magnificent, was as much a symbol of imperial pride as it was of control. it embodied both the empire's decadence and its oppression, a paradoxical stage where strength was showcased yet subtly constrained. it was almost a cruel irony that the very system she unwittingly resented was also the stage upon which she felt most alive. since its inception, the gladiatorial games in the heartlands have served a dual purpose. to the common people, they were a source of entertainment, a visceral distraction from the empire's fraying edges, be it economic instability, widening social chasms, or the threat of porous borders. the roar of the crowd, the spray of blood on the sand—these were distractions designed to unify and pacify. but for the ruling class, the games were something else entirely, a way to demonstrate dominance while diverting attention from political failure. they were a public theater where rebellion was staved off by the crown's ability to entertain and appease, any discontent being drowned in the clash of blades and the blood of its champions. calista's own disillusionment with imperial expectations have grown in tandem with the way her mother used the colosseum as both a proving ground and a leash. every triumph she achieved was heralded as a testament to their bloodline's might, but every misstep was punished with swift and often merciless consequences. it's why she took pride in her accomplishments yet frequently expressed bitterness toward the mechanisms that forced her into them. despite calista's royal blood, training as a gladiator offered no preferential treatment or special privileges. the imperial school had stripped calista of her youthful illusions surrounding the entitlements of power, replacing them with a more pragmatic understanding: respect must be earned and constantly defended. she was yet to conceptualize why she resented the very institution upon which she was thrust into as a girl, but it had a lot to do with the way her personal identity was linked to her faculties as a seasoned gladiator. calista's worth was inextricably tied to her ability to fight and endure. it left her with a strange disconnection from her own self—she was proud of what she has achieved, yes, but also left to contend with conflicting feelings about the gladiatorial institution itself. this internal dissonance was even more apparent whenever calista tried to navigate relationships outside the arena. during the time she spent training as a gladiator, the very concept of camaraderie became twisted. friendships─if you could even call them that─were fleeting, born of necessity rather than genuine trust. in the barracks, people didn't become allies because of shared experiences or mutual respect. they did so out of convenience. there was always a calculation hidden behind every interaction, a question of whether someone could be relied upon or used to get ahead. it taught her to approach every relationship, be it with friends or foes, with a certain degree of skepticism. if she learned anything over the last few years, it was that trust was always in flux. vulnerability wasn't just uncomfortable—it was dangerous. even now, she couldn't entirely disentangle her sense of self from the years of discipline that had shaped her. it was not that calista didn't desire connection or closeness─it was simply that, in her mind, esteem had to be won, just like everything else. there was a reason why opening up to other people felt cumbersome and awkward to her. she had been conditioned to view interpersonal relationships as secondary to her martial pursuits─entanglements that were inevitably going to wind up messy and unpredictable. she had seen too many of her peers burn others when they were allowed too close, and she wasn't ready to be another casualty of that cutthroat environment. it made her naturally wary of other people's intentions, and even more reluctant to place any real emphasis on the people in her life. the lanista's teachings had shaped her identity, honing her strength under the watchful gaze of an empire that valued her only so long as she bled for it. with the way her mother's relentless presence loomed over every aspect of her life, it was easy—natural, even—to place the weight of her frustration squarely on queen anastasia's shoulders. the punishments, the humiliations, the constant tests of her strength? all of it was the queen's doing, and all of it seemed designed to remind calista that her victories were not entirely her own. her mother turned her triumphs into fulfillments of obligation rather than accomplishments deserving praise. yet the weight calista carried wasn't solely her mother's doing. she was undergoing a deeper, more existential struggle that was not readily apparent to her. what calista failed to see was how much deeper her unease ran. she had come to resent the colosseum not just because of her mother's manipulations but because of the way it had consumed her entire sense of self, and that was the realization that eluded her. she had been shaped for a singular purpose, a role that she hadn't necessarily chosen but had mastered nonetheless. calista didn't think much beyond that; to her, this was simply how things were, how they had to be. yet there was a growing discontent that gnawed at her when the cheers of the crowd faded. she focused her bitterness outward, though, convinced that if her mother's controls were lifted, she could embrace the pride she felt in her role without the accompanying weight of dissatisfaction. but her conflicting feelings weren't just about queen anastasia's overbearing nature. her emotions were tied to something far more intrinsic and harder to communicate: the creeping suspicion that without her martial upbringing, she wouldn't know who she was.
indentfortunately for søren, calista let the moment between them pass without any further scrutiny, her attention momentarily diverted by the bustle of the retinue below. his comment concerning adonis and máirín managed to elicit a slight smirk from her though. "thank the gods," she muttered as she took søren's arm. the falcon on her shoulder immediately responded to their newfound proximity, letting out a soft, low chirr at the innocuous gesture. talos' wings flared briefly, and before she could lift a hand to calm him, he took flight. talos launched from her shoulder, the weight of him leaving her side as suddenly as it had arrived. the bird circled once above them, his form cutting a sleek arc against the sky before settling on one of the courtyard's archways. evidently, the young bird had no desire to remain glued at calista's side as they journeyed into the city. it seemed far more likely he would follow them at a distance.


indentthough it was not calista's first time visiting saint-cloud, it's architectural magnificence never failed to catch her off guard. the city unfolded like a painted tapestry before them, its rooftops─predominately clay-tiled but interspersed with weathered singles─cascading down the hillside toward the wide expanse of the saguenay river. for a moment, calista allowed herself to take it in: the elegant facades with their pastel hues, the carved arches and sweeping stone balustrades, and the carefully cultivated greenery spilling over balconies and through winding streets. it was a place that wore its artistry proudly, every corner imbued with a blend of human ingenuity and nature's persistent touch. she wanted to dismiss it outright as ostentatious, yet another display of excess meant to distract from the grim realities of the world, but saint-cloud had a charm that defied cynicism. there was a harmony here that made its beauty feel organic rather than imposed. it was alive in a way that gore bay—with its stoic grandeur and brutalist purpose—could never be. the winding cobblestone streets, dotted with blooming flora and shaded by lemon and peach trees, seemed worlds apart from the rough, sun-bleached roads of her homeland. the vibrant market square teemed with life, its noise a cacophony of hawkers' cries, laughing children, and the occasional strum of a lute or hum of a songbird. the scents of jasmine and citrus mingled with the sharper tang of spices and freshly baked bread. saint-cloud was alive with color and motion. even the air itself seemed different, filled with the hum of conversation, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone, and the strains of music floating from the marketplace. the city felt whimsical in its layout—a sharp contrast to the methodical symmetry of gore bay. back home, the streets were wide, straight, and purposeful, radiating out from the central forum like the spokes of a wheel. everything in the heartlands seemed designed to reflect order, permanence, and the will of the gods, from the towering marble temples to the meticulously maintained public baths and gymnasiums. saint-cloud's charm was rooted in its individuality. no two buildings were quite alike, each sporting its own palette of muted hues and ornamentation. gore bay, on the other hand, favored uniformity: columns of creamy limestone, colonnades framing open courtyards, and statues of gods and heroes positioned to evoke both awe and reverence. even the temples in the heartlands stood apart, vast and imposing, their fluted columns soaring toward the heavens as a reminder of mortal subservience to the divine. where gore bay's agora served as the beating heart of commerce and civic life, lined with stoas and hemicycles for public debate, saint-cloud's marketplaces overflowed with an almost chaotic abundance. the stalls seemed to burst with goods—spices, fabrics, trinkets, and wares from every corner of the realm—all surrounded by the cheerful disorder of traders and buyers haggling in good-natured rivalry. it was so remarkably different from what she was used to that being immersed in the city always seemed to guarantee an exciting experience. unlike the wide amphitheaters of her homeland, where dramas and orations brought the community together in displays of both artistry and intellect, saint-cloud seemed less concerned with grand spectacles; its communal spaces were cozy, inviting, and scattered throughout the city in small squares and terraces, where the people gathered amidst fountains and flowering trees. it wasn't better or worse, she thought, just different. where spirit island stood as a testament to the antiquity of its people, saint-cloud celebrated life in all its spontaneity and color.
indentcalista's gaze flickered toward søren, drawn by the sound of his voice. his question drew her focus outward to the vibrant marketplace sprawling before them, a kaleidoscope of colors and textures. the corner of the princess' mouth curled upward in amusement. she could imagine that if cybil were here right now, she would probably be dragging her and søren toward every wonder that caught her eye, practical or not. "off the list?" she repeated incredulously, though it was evident she was only joking with him in turn. "hah. to get back in my queen mother's good graces, i'll first need an armful of costly trinkets and ornate baubles. then, you can help me hold several trunks full of dresses and jewelry," her arm found his again, drawing her directly under the shade of the umbrella he held in his opposite hand. "we should be able to haul all of that around the city, right? gods, i do hope the carriage ride back won't be too cramped. if there's no space we may need to kick adonis out of the wagon. hmph. oh well." calista's airiness carried a certain light-heartedness to it. she knew her brother wasn't the most amicable of guests. truth be told, he probably deserved to be deserted and forced to navigate his way back to the palace all on his lonesome. what better opportunity to reflect on your inadequacies than over a long, grueling trek uphill? despite being the foreigner in this marvelous city, calista was the one who immediately took the lead in their journey through the market, gently pulling søren in tow by the crook of her arm. unsurprising for someone as self-assured as she, the princess seemed undisturbed in the face of the chaotic. she moved through the market with an ease that was almost too natural, as if the throngs of people, the cacophony of voices, and the riot of colors surrounding them were nothing more than a part of her usual environment. calista's attention span, however, was anything but predictable. one moment, she would be captivated by the ornate jewelry glimmering under the afternoon sun; tiny gold filigree rings gleaming beside silver necklaces, their chains twisting into intricate designs, and brooches set with sparkling stones. the next, her fingers would be brushing the edges of different materials, distracted by the rich and opulent bolts of fabric unfurling from an adjacent stall. she was a difficult person to keep up with, constantly distracted by all the different wares on display, her sudden bouts of interest sending her and søren darting from one merchant stand or kiosk to another. though søren might easily become overwhelmed by her liveliness, swept along in a whirlwind of exploration, calista didn't seem to notice. her head was constantly turning, scanning the marketplace with an eagerness that bordered on restlessness. anytime something captured her attention─be it a trinket for cybil or something that piqued her own interest─that was enough to redirect her path, pulling søren along with her. she was the picture of tireless curiosity. but after a short period of browsing here and there, it wasn't long before they found themselves standing before a small, charming kiosk, its wooden frame draped with a colorful fabric awning that fluttered softly in the breeze. the stall seemed to be a treasure trove of hand-carved wooden figurines, each one hand painted in vibrant hues. the carvings, carefully shaped by the hands of a local artisan, stood side by side. there were creatures of the land, sea, and the sky─seahorses with curled tails of cerulean blue, wolves perched on intricate stone-like pedestals, and birds with wings spread in mid-flight, their feathers traced in delicate shades of lavender and sunlit orange. one piece in particular caught calista's eye─a horse rearing on its hind legs, its coiled muscles painstakingly yet meticulously carved. the horse's body was painted with rich browns and blacks, while the hooves and tail were touched with gold. using her teeth to pull the glove off her left hand, calista reached out to examine the miniature sculpture. it seemed like a considerate gift, she thought, given cybil's love for daring tales of heroes and their loyal steads. it was not excessive or inordinate by any means either. "hm. too bad it's no winged horse," calista mused aloud, glancing at the prince as she turned the wooden figurine over in her hand. she supposed she should elaborate. "uh, there's this legend back home about a hero called bellerophon. cybil's obsessed with the iliad, you know, won't stop talking about it. but basically, bellerophon had to prove himself worthy of riding this horse, pegasus, yadda, yadda, eventually tamed the beast with a golden bridle..." she paused, wondering if he'd follow the thread of the story. she felt ridiculous referencing something he probably had no inkling about, but it was possible he might find cybil's engrossment in mythology endearing. calista shrugged, feigning indifference. "but eh. if you ask me, the best part of the tale is when they conquered monsters like the chimera. erm, like, this half-lion, half-goat, fire-breathing creature with the tail of a snake. anyways, point being, bellerophon and pegasus were said to be unstoppable as long as they were together." she spoke with a deliberate hint of detachment, as if the matters of mythos and folklore were of little interest to her. admittedly, calista's outward lack of care was a subconscious effort not to appear insipid before the prince. whether she would admit it or not, she cared about what søren thought of her, and she didn't want to come off as too eager or overly erudite. it was a harmless, adolescent display of feigned insouciance in an effort to appear more worldly in his eyes. calista twirled the figurine in her fingers. "cybil loves those type of stories about heroes and their steadfast companions. how they share a bond and they're stronger together for it, or whatever." calista held the wooden horse a moment longer before setting it back down, her lips pursing thoughtfully. "she has a way of moving onto something new every week though, so it's probably not worth it, and─ ooh,"
indentbefore søren could say anything to change her mind, calista had already moved on, nudging him toward the adjacent stall. her mind, it seemed, moved faster than most people could follow, jumping from one thought to the next, never lingering for long on any one thing. even if søren tried to match her energy, he would likely still find himself continually being tugged in various directions. though she clearly appreciated the splendor of the city, she wasn't one for the slow, methodical contemplation that saint-cloud seemed to prize. no, calista was more like a bird in flight, darting from one moment to the next, hungry for new sights and experiences. it was as if the world was something she couldn't hold still long enough to really understand, but her restless, passionate nature seemed to demand she experience everything all at once. the princess' gaze had been drawn to a collection of rings at the next kiosk, their gemstones catching the light in a way that almost made them glow. there were rows of intricate bands, some set with smooth, polished stones, and others with sharp, angular edges, each uniquely designed. calista stepped closer to the stall front, her fingers brushing over the edges of the display. she had a feeling cybil would appreciate something wearable—jewelry was safe, predictable, and she'd likely be pleased with whatever calista chose. something shiny and delicate like a new earring or necklace would probably earn her sister's approval without too much thought. a sculpture, on the other hand, could be perceived as an affront to her young age and subsequently chucked at calista's head in vexation. the princess' eyes roved over the jewelry before them, a hint of indecision lurking in the back of her mind. her fingers absently brushed over a petite gold band, but it was a fleeting touch, her attention already drawn elsewhere. the moment she noticed the pair of matching rings on display, everything else in the stall faded into irrelevance. they were simple yet striking—crafted from dark, burnished silver, each set with a small alabaster stone that gleamed like a drop of captured moonlight. the craftsmanship was understated but elegant. without thinking, calista released søren's arm and plucked one of the two rings from the stand. a faint smile crossed her lips as she turned to him. "this one's lovely, don't you think?" she asked, holding it up between her fingers for him to observe. her eyes searched his features as though to gauge his reaction. the action felt lighter than the moment deserved, as if masking something deeper─what that was, though, she could not quite place. this was supposed to be about cybil. she had been looking for something fitting she could gift her sister without it being deemed childish—but the moment she saw the pair of rings, all of that became secondary. her fingers barely brushed søren's knuckles as she reached for his hand, and yet, the touch sent a jolt through her, quick and insistent like the spark off a whetstone. "you must try it on!" she insisted, the words slipping from her mouth before she had the chance to weigh them properly. before he could say a word, calista's calloused fingers were slipping beneath the hem of his glove, tugging it free in one swift motion. she told herself it was practical, that he needed to be barehanded for the ring to fit properly. it was a necessity. nothing more. but necessity had nothing to do with the way her pulse stammered at the warmth of his skin, the way her fingertips lingered against the ridges of his knuckles for a moment longer than necessary. she positioned the ring just above the tip of his index finger, hesitating for a second as though waiting for him to object─or perhaps hoping he wouldn't. with slow, deliberate care, she proceeded to slide the ring down to the base of his finger. somehow, it fit perfectly. something about that sent a strange satisfaction through her. calista adjusted the band slightly, fingertips ghosting over his skin, her voice quieter than she intended when she finally murmured, "there." for the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to look at him again. quickly, almost awkwardly, she withdrew her hand, clasping her own wrist as though to ground herself. calista turned back to the stall, busying herself with retrieving the second ring—something to keep her hands occupied, to force herself to look anywhere but at him. when she slid the matching band onto her own finger, she realized immediately that it was too large for anything but her middle finger. the princess pushed it into place, flexing her hand slightly just to see the way the silver caught the light. despite herself, she stole a glance at søren, her eyes flickering to his hand. calista cleared her throat. "i think it suits you," she said lightly, her voice carrying a sincerity that betrayed the air of indifference she so often tried to maintain. calista averted her gaze to inspect the ring on her finger, though it was mostly a distraction from the inexplicable warmth blooming in her chest. truth be told, it wasn't unusual for søren to have this strange effect on her—this unsettling ability to dissolve her usual confidence. but here, standing in the soft hum of the market, it felt impossible to mask entirely. before she could second-guess herself though, calista reached for his hand again. her fingers brushed his lightly as she aligned their hands beside each other, the two silver bands gleaming in tandem. a small, breathless laugh slipped past her lips before she could smother it. "and... i don't mind matching," she confessed, heart stuttering when she looked at his face again. for a moment, her confidence wavered, doubt creeping into the back of her mind. what if he didn't care the way she did? what if this was all just trivial to him? the thought felt heavier than she expected, almost enough to make her double back on her words entirely. calista hesitated. "i mean, uh, only if you'd like that too, of course." she added quickly, a hint of uncertainty in her tone. her hand hovered beside his, unsure whether to pull away or not.
indent"well, well," a lilting voice, sharp and familiar, cut through the privacy of their shared moment like a blade. "look who i finally caught up with. what's all this about?"
indentthe princess quickly dropped her hand from søren's, but it was too late. adonis had already seen what he needed to. calista could feel a flush beginning to creep up her neck, embarrassment quick to surface upon her brother's appearance. "oh, i don't mean to interrupt," he drawled mockingly, stopping behind them. the man peered over their shoulders, leaning in between them as if he had the right to intrude on their conversation. "please, do carry on. those rings are quite charming." the prince's eyes shifted between her and søren. all of a sudden, the ring on her finger felt like a glaring beacon, its weight mocking her. it had been a small, inconsequential thing a moment ago, nothing more than an indulgence of a small, foolish whim, but now? under adonis' scrutiny, it would become something else entirely. she could already anticipate the sort of insufferable remarks her brother was going to make, the way he was bound to make some wretched joke at her expense. without thinking, calista quickly yanked the band off her finger as if it had burned her. she knew what it must have looked like to søren; that she had been caught indulging in some fleeting, childish fancy, and when faced with even the barest scrutiny, had recoiled. still, she returned the ring to the stall's display with a muted clink. "it doesn't matter," she muttered, her voice tight. she refused to look at søren, her gaze firmly cast downward. "it was stupid anyway." the words tasted bitter, like she had bitten into something rotten. she knew, even as they left her mouth, that she had chosen the wrong thing to say. stupid? the whole thing hadn't been stupid, not really, but now? the moment they shared had been twisted, cheapened and rendered meaningless in the span of a few cruel seconds. a flicker of amusement crossed her brother's face, and she knew she had only made matters worse for herself. "oh my," adonis chuckled derisively, crossing his arms over his chest as he straightened. "touchy today, aren't we?" it was obvious he was finding this entertaining. the prince didn't even need to do much to manipulate the situation either—he seemed to know that calista's pride would do all the work for him. he could predict her reaction and watch her unravel the moment he made the smallest jab. as he shifted his attention to søren, calista could feel a sense of powerlessness creeping in. admittedly, there was not much she could do right now without potentially instigating an argument with him. calista was a reactive, temperamental young woman, yes, but even she knew better than to inflame her queen mother's ire any further, and being caught acting uncivilized in front of their hosts right now would do just that. anastasia had made it clear that any lapse in decorum on calista's behalf would be met with no leniency. her mother had a penchant for carrying out punitory and correctional forms of discipline through combat, and she doubted that søren and máirín being in gore bay would do much to change that. adonis leaned down toward the young prince, though his eyes remained fixed on calista. she watched him warily. "you want my word of advice?" his voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing with søren an invaluable piece of wisdom, "don't take it too personally. my sister is a fickle woman." the implication was subtle but sharp. he knew how to twist the knife without it being obvious, how to make søren question his place with calista without saying it outright. calista wanted to counteract his words, to tell søren it wasn't like that, but her throat felt tight, constricted. the anger that stirred inside of her was hard to contain, but she knew she couldn't give adonis the satisfaction of seeing her lose control again. the way he played this game—baiting her and trying to turn the tension between them into something more volatile by provoking her irascibility—was second nature to him. if she retaliated, she would only be giving him more ammunition to escalate things further. and yet, her silence worked against her, too─it gave him room to twist the narrative, to make her look like the very thing he accused her of being. "you see?" he guffawed, as if her quietude had proved his point. adonis finally stepped back, rising to his full height again. judging by the look on his face, he seemed to relish the discomfort building between them. "but then again, what do i know?" he added flippantly, stepping around the pair to casually inspect the wares of the nearest vendor, as though he hadn't just thrust them into an excruciatingly awkward situation. she could only stare at her brother as he paused before the neighboring stall, eyeing a set of trinkets with feigned interest. while the moment itself had been fleeting, trivial in the grand scheme of things, it still had unraveled the same way all such moments did, leaving in its wake the bitter aftertaste of regret. it was never the action itself that mattered, nor the object in question, or even the context of it all. what mattered was the unspoken rule that had once again been reinforced; that vulnerability was little more than an invitation for scorn. even if søren knew better than to listen to the foul things that came from her brother's mendacious mouth, dismissing his words as little more than petty malice, it did not change the underlying truth. nothing could ameliorate the fact that the people around calista were continually teaching her that unguarded acts of connection or earnest shows of emotion were inherently pitiful. there was an inevitability to it, a cruel, cyclical nature that ensured no moment of sincerity remained untouched by the creeping stain of shame. it had been this way for as long as she could remember. softness, whenever it surfaced, was met with derision. and she had learned, time and time again, that any sign of sentimentality was a liability, a weakness to be exploited. it became instinctual to sever vulnerable moments before someone else could do it for her, to destroy the evidence of her own longing before it could be held against her. perhaps the worst part was that søren was different. he did not speak to her in the language of cruelty. he did not twist the depth of human emotion into something laughable, and he did not seem to hold the same unspoken contempt for sincerity that most others did. was he doubting her now, though? was he wondering if he had misread her entirely? she had given him every reason to believe she was fickle and insincere, she supposed, just like her brother said. it was what she was used to doing, though—stripping the moment of its meaning before it could turn into something real, to make a mockery of it before anyone else could. and yet, it still left her with a bitter taste in her mouth. admittedly, there was no satisfaction in cutting herself off first. no triumph in pretending that nothing mattered to her in the first place. she was left only with the hollow space where something real had almost been, and the certainty that, if given the chance, she would do it again. because that was what was expected. there was no safety in allowing herself to believe otherwise. at the end of the day, it was easier to mock than be mocked, or to reject before being rejected. it was easier to retreat than to suffer the indignity of letting someone else have any sort of power over her.
indentthe silence between her and søren seemed to stretch, thick and uncomfortable. calista's fingers twitched at her sides, useless, as if they wanted to reach for something but didn't know what. maybe she should say something. but what? there was no point. she couldn't address the situation without sounding pathetic. after a moment passed, calista finally forced herself to meet to his gaze, hesitant. "anyway... uh, should we look around some more?" it was clumsy, in a way, the manner by which she had shoved the words into the space between them, but she didn't care. anything was better than letting the tension linger. "i still need your help finding something for cybil," she tried to offer him a weak smile, "perhaps some sort of jewelry? i don't know about rings, but maybe a pair of earrings or something?"

[vaermina]

ＳØＲＥＮ ＫＯＬＢＥＣＫxxx
I.xtribal affiliationsx II. a prince of house kolbeck


indentbefore søren could respond to calista's carefree jest, she began pulling him in the direction of the marketplace.
indentsaint-cloud's commercial forum was as distinctive and noteworthy as the city itself. beyond the general square upon which the most influential and wealthiest merchants set up their shops, most of the courtyard's outlying streets expanded deeper into the heart of the metropolis's various agoras and bazaars. the city was built to be spontaneous, eventful, unparagoned, and exceptional when compared to the rest of the province's common cold archaism. its mismatched buildings and narrow streets provided a rare sense of community, especially one that enjoyed the cultivation of enlightenment and erudition. pulled helplessly along by calista's endless inquisitiveness, there was little søren could do but allow the revenant princess to drag him every which way. unsurprisingly, saint-cloud's anomalous exchange was bound to capture her attention. gelderarich's deviation from the traditional customs of its homeland sparked a distant familiarity with some of the eidolon's own traditions, and one could argue that the citizens of blood and wine country have more in common with their western neighbors than they do the rest of their province. it was not necessarily parallels in culture as it was a semblance in national origins, although the people of gelderarich have always been incredibly notable in their own right. it was common for the bloodborn to sell various artifacts and belongings they've plundered in foreign raids, but such practices were rare in saint-cloud. it was obvious that everything on display inside the outlet was pure artisanal and self-created. the sea of baubles and sundries was endless: glittering carcanets and jeweled amulets, medallions and gold charms, handcrafted furniture and charming houseware, emblematic framed artwork, distinctive clothing, exclusive iron weaponry, upcycled accessories, and handmade crafts. no two kiosks were the same. meticulously painted wood carved figurines sat proud on display, with skillfully weaved garments shifting in the breeze from various booth awnings. sunlight reflected off intricate glass effigies, and the curious sound of shaky symphonies sounded from buyers investigating whittled instruments. the city's farmers market, a quaint earthly exchange where livestock was auctioned and produce, leafy goods, and various provisions were sold, was entrenched off the hardy docks of the saguenay port. the vibrant clothing of the town's beholding residents was a blur as søren was pulled along by calista through the packed marketplace. her interest was boundless; one moment they were scanning an impressive collection of shimmering regalia and the next they were perusing rows of airbrushed sculptures tall enough to reach their knees. it wasn't long before calista found an assemblance that peaked her fascination. the colorful stall was a cornucopia of furrowed figurines, all painted in radiant hues of color. most of the figurines were carved in the shapes of various fauna. søren watched as calista picked up a decorated horse figure, its small body chiseled in methodical form. having shuffled beneath the kiosk's awning for some shade, søren listened to the princess with mild attentiveness. the iliad? søren was not sure he knew what that was. in fact, he had no comprehensive idea on anything she was speaking about. the hero bellerophon, the winged horse pegasus, the mutant monster known as the chimera─he possessed little knowledge of the eidolon's mythology. obviously, it was not a topic he was allowed to study, although his temporary residency in gore bay may allow him the opportunity to become more familiar with her tribe's fables. admittedly, søren's spirit of inquiry was piqued. "i mean, we don't have winged horses but we do have a lot of animals in our sagas that cybil might like. there's the deer that eat from the leaves of the ash tree, freyja's chariot-pulling cats, gaeldir's wolves and his eight-legged horse─there's a ridiculous amount of horses who serve the gods. there's even dragons. what kid doesn't love dragons?" søren pawed at one of the figurines in front of him, his head turned so that he could hear his companion. if cybil had a penchant for divine heroism and gallantry, there would surely be an abundance of trinkets scattered throughout the market that would please her. it was unlikely they would find a recreation of pegasus in gibraltar, but there was plenty of other celestial animals tied to revered figures that cybil might find endearing. deiform creatures borne into the nine realms through magic or a high pedigree of ancestors would certainly captive a young girl fascinated with tales of intrepidity, but he knew that his people's religion differed from the status quo by insisting that even the gods were not infallible beings incapable of misjudgment. there were many components revolving around bloodborn mythology that directly contradict the idea of pantheons being faultless and apodictic beings. it was an antithesis to the common immortality and courage associated with foreign deities. it was all about signifying a cyclical renewal of creation and destruction, with a hopeful element of regeneration and growth after the chaos. cybil might find stories involving the monstrous wolf vanargand and the world serpent martrödir frightening, two demonic beasts who are not valiant companions of the gods but rather responsible for ushering in their destruction in a violent collapse of the known world. the idea of hideous monsters being capable of not only challenging divine figures but possessing the capabilities to tear them apart and trigger the end of humanity could very easily shatter cybil's impressionable perception of folklore, even if it was apart of mythos she was not familiar with. still, she did not have to know the lore behind such figures to find the physical trinkets of said beasts enticing. if she liked pegasus, he did not see why she wouldn't like some sort of ornament fashioned in the likeness of geirridaxa, a beautiful golden horse known for helping usher the sun across the sky by evading the hungry jaws of the wolf yngvitnir.
indentsøren's attention was diverted from the display of brilliant baubles as calista suddenly began to nudge him toward the adjacent stall. the princess's restless attention span was nothing particularly new to him. she has always been a chaotic spirit, and søren did not want to dull her spark by dragging his feet and complaining about her dragging him everywhere. if anything, it was a good thing she was so fascinated by what she saw in the marketplace. an assortment of finely crafted rings appeared to strike her interest. the jewelry was enchantingly minted. composed of glossy gemstones and haggard jewels set into circlets of cathedral, solitaire, pave, halo, twisted, and vintage bands, the glittering accessories were evidently fashioned with delicacy and precision. søren's eyes roamed over the stall's collection of radiant trinkets in subdued enthusiasm before calista suddenly released his arm. she plucked a ring from the vast trove of glittering bands. søren glanced curiously at the presented jewelry. crafted from lustrous silver and set with a bloodless stone, the ring was uncomplicated but sophisticated. it belonged to a twin pair. "it's nice," he agreed amicably. "i like the opalite." prepared to shift his attention back onto the kiosk, the prince could not help but feel a flicker of surprise when calista suddenly reached for his hand. it was not her insistence that caused his heart to lurch but rather the way her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his glove so she could tug it off. her touch was fleeting, her fingertips just barely brushing against the bone of his knuckles, but it was enough to make his heart start racing. søren felt an immediate sense of bashfulness wash over him. he did not know why, but any fulsome attention from the revenant princess never failed to make him feel mousy. how could he put into words what he felt towards her when it was so elusively unparalleled, when there was no adjacent situation to make sense of it all? he knew it was indescribably unique and precious enough that attempting to make verbal sense of his own emotions would only bring forth chagrin if spoken in the wrong company. the young prince could feel his face begin to burn as she slid the ring down the base of his finger. it fit perfectly. søren stared at the ring with an almost blank expression as calista turned away from him, his mind addled with ambiguous thoughts. he forced himself to meet her gaze before he cracked a sheepish smile. "you think so? i don't know, my mother always insists on us wearing gold because of our tribe and house colors, but... silver is nice. yeah," he looked down at his hand again, fingers flexing as the band caught the noonday light, "it's pretty." søren had to resist the urge to jolt when she aligned her hand with his, her fingers brushing the side of his hand lightly. the silver rings they wore were practically identical. and... i don't mind matching. søren looked up at the princess again, his eyes meeting her own. he had to force himself to hold her attention, despite his immediate desire to look down in self-effacement. he was not familiar with calista's display of open palliness. she wanted to match with him? it was rare for anyone his age to show aroha towards him, nevertheless a desire for genuine kinship. intimacy in the form of simple familiarity was a peculiar sensation, but it was certainly not unwanted. contrary to the isolated and independent landscape of annexed canada, søren has always felt that human beings were creatures of social need. it felt wrong to deny oneself affinity and attachment when it was so crucial for a prosperous development, but he knew it was a rare mindset to have. many people felt that tenderness was a liability, an open wound in the form of vulnerability that was inclined to be exploited and destroyed by those around them. in some ways, søren could agree with that. he knew firsthand how dangerous it was to live in an unstable climate and be perceived as unguarded and woundable, but he was nothing if not hopelessly enchanted by the nobility of the human spirit. the need for genuine connection was deeply ingrained into the very codexes of human biology. it was a fundamental aspect of human existence, but they have somehow managed to twist themselves into living in a society that shunned sensitivity and maltreated delicateness. søren had not expected such ingenuous sincerity from someone who grew up in the blood-soaked pits of gore bay, but he wasn't going to reject calista's attempt at chary veracity. he appreciated the gesture─more than appreciated it, really, for who else apart from a select handful of people even cared to show such authenticity towards him? the idea of matching with her in such a simple way was oddly endearing.
indentbefore he could respond to calista's timid inquiry, the sound of her brother's voice broke through their conversation like the slice of a scathing sword.
indentcalista's hand fell away from his as soon as adonis crept up behind them, his sardonic eyes peering over their shoulders in an immediate act of inauthentic curiosity. from the get-go, it was obvious that her brother's intentions were to mock and ridicule. contemptuous and arrogant, there was nothing likeable about adonis athanasiou. whatever quantum of goodwill and cordiality he might possess was constantly overshadowed by opinionated and disparaging displays of superiority. the older prince has always been disdainful, backhanded, and catty. it's been that way for years. adonis has never been a man of generosity, and his inconsiderate tendencies were already starting to take root upon his intrusion into their conversation. søren could not help but grimace when calista swiftly yanked the ring off her finger before returning it to its exhibit in a open display of cold feet. stupid? did she really think it was a dumb gesture? "it's not stup─" adonis's snicker interrupted his objection. it was difficult for søren to hide his displeasure. truthfully, he had not expected the princess to bend the knee so quickly to her brother's denigration. it hardly seemed in character for someone as capricious and hot-headed as calista to act so diffident in the face of criticism. there was no indignation, no chagrin, no inkling of vexation at her brother's obnoxious jeering. rather than stand her ground and solidify her convictions, she gave into adonis's cruel inspection with absolutely no resistance. what was so bad about matching rings, and why does it matter if her brother found the idea immature? adonis's assessments should be of no consequence, for it was in his nature to be cynical and mordacious. perhaps calista did not want to be molded into a caricature, an embellishment that her brother could pick apart for his own twisted amusement. it was archetypal for adonis to craft objects of derision out of other people, and it seemed that calista was in no hurry to mold herself into some piece of futility for him to laugh at. søren could feel himself grow defensive as soon as her brother shifted his attention unto him. he had to resist the urge to step back when adonis leaned down toward him. the annoyance was palpable now. if he were a cat, his hackles would certainly be rising in evident umbrage. why would he listen to him? adonis has already proven himself to be insincere and shifty, a man who enjoyed reveling in the discomfort and despair of other people. søren was not a doltish or obtuse person. why would he believe him? adonis did not care for calista in a way a brother should care for his sister, so anything he had to say regarding her character was null and void. he was petty, malicious, spiteful, disrespectful─it was second nature for him to scoff and taunt and ridicule. søren would have been more likely to question calista's veracity if the moment they shared had not been so unschooled and candid. despite what adonis was trying to imply, calista's intentions with the matching rings was wholehearted and profound, pretensionless in a way that was natural and endearing. she might not be willing to admit it now, but he knew what he saw moments ago. if anything, her repression and instant overture to withdraw and abolish the sentiment they shared was disappointing. calista crumbled at the first sign of mockery and appeared to have no intention on displaying open attachment for the sentimentality she enjoyed. as much as he would like to be surprised given her usual ardency, he was not. it was far more painless for people to adapt impassive and long-suffering ideologies in the face of precarious vulnerability. it was easier to reject fragility and embrace stoicism. it was easier to disregard empathy than allow it to dictate your actions when it clearly held no sway over other people. but... when has he ever shown callousness towards calista or even a willingness to take advantage of her sympathies? why must he receive the fallout of her and her brother's malignant relationship? adonis may be willing to bite her in unkind impertinence for what he viewed as acts of hilarious delicateness, but that did not mean søren was going to follow in kind. he would never hurt her or treat her with contempt. whatever. he did not know the complexities of their bitter relationship, and it felt fruitless to contemplate as an outsider looking in. perhaps it would be easier to detach himself from their rivalry if he did not feel so affected by their scuffles. he felt the need to defend calista, even if she herself was unwilling to say anything in combat of her brother's mockery over their situation. it was an involuntary impulse, a foolhardy proclivity that søren often struggled with. he was always jumping to safeguard the bonds of his most treasured relationships, even if the individuals in question did not necessarily need or deserve his aid to begin with.
indent"you don't even truly know calista since you do nothing but provoke her all the time, so why would you even care t─" søren's spontaneous outburst was cut off almost immediately by her brother's black chortle. in an uncaring fashion almost certainly expected for adonis, the older prince was quick to wander off to pursue the market stalls in contrived interest. whatever søren had to say in combat of the older man's mockery died on his lips. adonis was most likely quite satisfied with how he managed to disparage their heart-warming interaction, and now the two royals were left behind to pick up the pieces of their failed happenstance. silence filled the air, broken only by the distant howls of stray dogs and the passing conversations of discerning passerbyers. his momentary surge of imprudent defiance was gone as soon as it came. søren did not know what to say. much like with every botched situation he came across, he felt the need to say something, anything to fix the situation at hand, but what? should he comfort her? prod her for an explanation and dissect her sudden withdrawal? ask her what she truly thought about the rings? he supposed there was no point. he doubted she was going to give him a concise and satisfying response out of fear of appearing ludicrous, but her sudden sequestration did bother him. he knew better than to earnestly acknowledge her brother's statements as absolute truth, but the fact calista was not jumping to prove him wrong was concerning. she most likely did not want to appear puerile or desperate in his eyes by untangling the unpleasantness of it all, yes, but her silence was unencouraging. he guessed there was no easy way to navigate the imperilment her brother represented for them. she would most likely earn her mother's ire by lashing out, but was it a good idea to remain renicent when such choices only reinforced her brother's inflammatory ego? and if calista was unwilling to challenge adonis's derision, what luck could søren possibly have in filling that position for her? true, he appeared much more willing to oppose the older man's maltreatment than calista herself, but he knew that defying adonis's provocations and weathering his brutality would only make him that much more of a target in his eyes. given søren's unique birthright and scriptural significance, it was unlikely that he would have ever made a pleasing companion for adonis to acquaint himself with, but people like him do not take kindly to outcasts and rejects spurning their dominance. much like søren's male cousins, adonis will probably view søren's rebuff as not only a challenge but an obstacle that cannot be allowed to nourish any sense of competition to his already dreadful pomposity. it was dangerous for søren to make a target of himself by repudiating adonis in an attempt to protect calista, for surely the older prince would only view his lack of accomplice as irksome and insolent. men like adonis do not want comradeship but reverence, even from the individuals they seek to actively subjugate and oppress. søren was no match for her brother, but that did not stop him from rushing into exculpation. he never learned his lesson, even after the many brutal altercations he has found himself in over the past year or two with his older cousins over his father's actions. søren was swift to defend the people he thought highly about, but he rarely put the same energy into protecting his own sense of self, and that could easily come back to bite him in the ass if adonis thought søren was more willing to shield calista than go along with his masculine browbeating. as expected, there was no explanation for calista's actions, just a lame attempt to fill in the graceless tension that lingered between the two of them.
indentbefore søren could awkwardly agree with her unappealing proposal, the thin red curtain behind the impressive display of jewelry suddenly shifted. a man appeared before them, stout and pudgy with colorful clothing that obviously indicated a striking background, with an expression that all but told of the superciliousness he must feel upon their highborn presence. the merchant attempted a sloppy bow from behind the kiosk, his feathered hat nearly slipping off his round head. "ah, what a pleasure it is to behold the revenant princess of the eidolon and our glorious future lord ascendant!" the man exclaimed in common appeasement. "it is an honor to behold you. please, let me know if there is anything i can do for you! it is always a beautiful day in saint-cloud when we are blessed with the presence of our betters." the merchant's sycophantic demeanor would have been agitating if his attention did not immediately shift to the glinting presence on søren's finger. oh. he was still wearing the ring. unlike calista, he had yet to yank it off his finger. a wave of discombobulation rolled over him. it would have been mortifying if he walked away from the stall without realizing the band was still nestled firmly on his digit. should he return it? it felt awfully uncharitable to abandon the ring right in front of the jeweler's face, especially given the vast wealth and influence of his royal kin. he knew he was under no obligation to purchase items out of pity, but did he even want to give the ring back? despite calista's own perceived indifference, something about the ring felt distinguished now. it meant something, no matter what other people tried to say, and he did not want to so easily let go of that consequential notability. he swallowed the lump in his throat, conscious of the way silence now stretched between them and the expectant merchant. "uhm... yes, can i buy this ring? i mean─" why was he asking permission? he was a prince! "i want to buy this ring. please." he knew that calista might find it perplexing or even discomfiting that he still desired the silver band, but why would she even care? she did not want the ring herself, that much was clear, and søren was not going to force it on her. this was for him and him only, and as long as calista was not matching with him in a way that could provoke humiliation on her end, she should not find it unsettling. at-least, that's what he told himself. he did not want to make her agitated, but it should not be of concern to her if she was not associated with the bands anymore. the merchant looked pleased as søren handed him back the ring for purchase. "a beautiful choice, my prince! and quite interesting, might i add. my wife had this ring forged in tribute to sjöfn, our lady of love. it is said that the goddess is as beautiful as the moon, she is," he added wistfully, tapping the white gemstone with his finger as if pointing out the superb symbolism associated with his craft. "and as we all know, the moon has always been considered a representation of love and its changing phases . but... this ring does come in a pair, your royal highness. it is meant to be worn by cohabitees in guidance with lady sjöfn's romantic will. of course, i can always sell you just the one! it is not an issue! but if you have someone in mind..." the man's gaze briefly flickered to calista─a look that was barely noticeable but undeniably inquisitive. by the gods. søren wished a northern eagle would just snap him up in its talons and carry him away into the sky. why must this feel so undignified? he would not have minded purchasing the rings if calista was still interested, but now he looked sheepish and destitute buying a band meant to be worn by a beloved. he felt the need to insist he was not some paltry and lamentable creature, a common staple of his when he felt suddenly misunderstood or somehow in the reeds of uncertainty, but why should he explain himself to this stranger? he did not care about søren's thought process beyond how a royal purchase will undoubtedly bolster his business status... right? søren's eyes flickered to the ring calista had placed back on display. he was silent for a moment, his jaw clenched in temporary thought before he looked back up at the silversmith. "i'll take them both, thank you," søren reaffirmed, his hand reaching into his pocket to pull out a small sack of penningars as the merchant happily bagged the slender rings for him. he kept telling himself that it was a meaningless and negligible gesture, one that held no true meaning and was quite trivial in the grand scheme of things. calista did not want her ring, but that did not mean søren could not buy it and keep it for himself. it should be of no matter to her as long as it was not associated with her. he doubted she would object to him buying the rings anyway, for that would mean exposing some sliver of sensitivity that she appeared none too keen on sharing. a part of søren felt red-faced over the rings' romantic allegory, but he liked the jewelry. no matter how false or inconsequential their shared moment was, it felt like the bands meant something in those fleeting moments. it was a gesture of endearment, a sense of strong fondness that rang true. it felt wrong to suddenly reject that, and he will cherish the rings even after the princess's repudiation. of course, it did feel discommoding to be the only one to put himself out there, but he did not hold it against her. after a minute of awkward spectating upon which søren carefully avoided calista's eyes out of fear he might catch something unsatisfactory in her expression, the merchant handed him his glimmering procurement with a send off of great cordiality and appreciation. søren quickly shoved the rings inside his pocket, his hand moving to slip on the glove that calista had pulled off earlier. he cleared his throat again as they turned away from the stall. "okay, now we can go." he was not eager to loiter or answer any questions she might have regarding his intentions. he doubted she would even pester him about it to begin with, but he figured with how quickly calista was willing to forgo discomfort, it was fine if he did the same for once.
indentsaint-cloud was unaffected by their unease. lively and boisterous as ever, the crowds had not stopped their ceaseless wonderment as the royals emerged themselves back into the fray. with their attention now turning to the distracting commodities of the marketplace once again, søren forced himself to swallow his qualms as they resumed their elusive search for cybil's perquisite. luckily for them, stewing in the inconveniences of their adolescent drawbacks was marred by the newfound presence of søren's sister máirín. having briefly lost sight of them earlier in the main square, she appeared with the spunk of someone utterly unaffected by the self-consciousness of their disastrous interaction earlier. if she sensed their unease, it did not perturb her. if anything, his sister's lack of involvement made it easier to not allow those feelings of bashfulness and mishap to openly dictate their interactions. she did not allow them to chance to develop any sort of visible poignancy over what just happened with adonis, for she began to indiscriminately drag them around as soon as they caught her up with the mission at hand. situated between the two of them with both her arms hooked with theirs, máirín began leading them out of the square and further into one of the adjoining streets. as much as he loathed to admit it, søren did feel a sliver of consolation upon his sister's arrival. whatever reasons or obstacles that hindered søren and calista from fully holding adonis accountable for his mischief─be it the princess's unknown source of suppression or the prince's lack of intimidation skills─did not seem to affect máirín. despite her and calista's similarities, the younger royal's lack of care towards any form of punishment doled out by her superiors made her all the more a liability in the grand scheme of delicate diplomacy. the ire she received for her impudence through the critical lens of their mother's carping and their clan prestastétt's censure never seemed to hinder her ability to defend herself. true, she was often gracelessly belligerent, but it was rarely without reason. she did not care of the repercussions she might face in private for acting out, and she did not care how such boorishness may affect her reputation with their foreign allies. she has always been remarkably fearsome in the face of adversity, but it made søren feel somewhat foolish to rely on her as much as he did. he was the older twin after all, but he simply lacked the fire that fueled his sister's actions. his cousin arkyn liked to sneer that máirín was his sworn protector and that he was to be the first lord ascendant to have himself a personal guard dog─an insult that was not too far off from the truth. there was some always invisible element stopping him from reaching his full potential, and he was bound to civility in a way his sibling was not. true, he was quick to defend those he held dear, but that did not mean he possessed the capabilities to actually hold his ground. máirín was not bound by propriety, and she was far more likely to retaliate against adonis than søren and calista if the older man decided to come sniffing around again. it did not matter if the two of them tried to calm her displeasure; he knew from experience that attempting to fan the flames of máirín's paroxysms was a futile effort. their mother liked to describe her as half-mad, but he knew her anger was not indiscriminate as in she ruthlessly harassed other people like their cousins enjoyed doing. his own convictions aside, máirín was a bulwark he could rely upon. søren could not help but feel somewhat endangered after their encounter with adonis, and her presence greatly helped in settling his unease. it was not that he was suddenly uncomfortable being in calista's presence, but it was now clear that she possessed underlying inclinations that stopped her from meeting adonis head-on. and if calista showed no initiative to match her brother's birse beyond immediate emotional withdraw, søren being the only one willing to speak up put him in a precarious position. the notion of being trapped in a situation where he could expect no aid or relief from those around him was one that was all too familiar, and it made him feel nothing but that familiar taint of consternation. truthfully, he did not expect calista or máirín to fight his battles for him, and he knew that neither of the two princesses owed him anything when it came to personal vendettas against his own person, but it was jarring to feel like he was the only one willing to put himself on the line by retaliating against adonis earlier. he supposed he could not hold it against calista. he doubted she was afraid of her brother but rather the implications that came with going against him. queen anastasia reminded him of his own mother when it came to public etiquette, and he could not imagine the revenant queen would take kindly to her children engaging in a verbal spat with one another. perhaps calista was weary over invoking her mother's fury, but that still did not explain why she was so quick to cast aside her ring at the slightest hint of incoming ridicule. based on the sagas he read growing up, søren always thought that holding your ground against dismissal was the most heroic thing to do, but now he was not so sure. there were questions bouncing around in his head that he knew he would not get answers for: was calista hesitant to align herself with him specifically? was this an indication that she would not go against her brother's malice, even if she possibly witnessed him provoking søren and máirín in the future? did she possess the same peculiar feelings for him as he did for her? he knew that she cared for him, but her lack of willingness to even wear matching rings with him out of fear of being made a standing joke was disheartening. perhaps søren was so used to being an object of ridicule that such notions did not influence his actions in context of interpersonal relationships. he has come to learn that no matter what he does, his actions are bound to be picked apart and mocked, but it would be no surprise to him if calista felt differently. her gladiatorial lifestyle has probably shaped her into a woman who does not want to feel bound to others or become a target of facetious remarks, the same as every other adolescent fighter in annexed canada.
indentwhy am i still thinking about this? as they walked down the crowded street, he felt a rush of exasperation over his own obsessive thoughts. the way he senselessly chewed self-doubt and pondered over questions he knew he would never receive clarity on was overwhelming. he could never let things go, even when others around him wanted to forget and forgo unpleasant situations. there was no way to know what calista was thinking if she was unwilling to be honest with him, and that uncertainty was just something he was going to have to live with. it was unlikely that the young prince was going to hold her accountable for anything he disagreed with, too. he was bound to search for some vague justification to excuse the revenant princess's behavior, and the notion that he would ever confront her over unpalatable conduct was laughable given the way he allowed himself to be treated in every other cornerstone of his existence. his fear of rejection and ending up alone completely marred his ability to effectively communicate with others, albeit he was certainly better at doing so than most other people. he guessed the whole incident just left a bitter taste in his mouth, and it did not help that his momentary panic at the jewelry kiosk earlier ended with him claiming ownership over two rings that calista no longer wanted to be associated with. what was he supposed to do with her ring? he could give the band to one of his female kinsmen or his ash maiden maleia, but that did nothing to change the fact the rings were crafted in a romantic undertone. it was supposed to go on calista's finger and nobody else's. it was fruitless to expect any clarification or some sort of illumination regarding the tarnished rings. disastrous and botched attempts at sincerity and connection were not deserving of restoration. there was never clarity upon where he stood with most of the people in his life. it was always a guessing game, a postulative arena he was constantly circling around in as he stumbled through the dilemmas and complications of affinity. closure and resolution were never on the table. at the end of the day, he would never really know what the matching rings truly meant to calista, and that was just something he was going to have to get over. he supposed she did not owe him an explanation, even if she had been the one to bring up the rings in the first place. máirín's voice cut through his relentless brooding, her light-hearted tone an indicator that she was feeling far more spirited than she was earlier in the palace courtyard. "it is a shame that cybil has no interest in warfare. children her age usually begin learning how to swing a sword here in gibraltar, but i suppose there's plenty of things here that might still be of interest to her." her attention flickered to calista. "shall we head closer to the port? some of the shops near the waterfront aren't as posh as those near the square, so we might find something more unique for your sister. oh! there's bound to be some animals up for auction near the water, too. not saying we should get her a pet or anything, but it's always fun looking at what animals are being moved further inland. we might even see some owl-bears from the forests of eluthumora being transported on longships." she continued to pull them along, clearly not as interested in heeding their suggestions as her words might suggest. "perhaps i could find a better saddle for whitewing. there's bound to be some nice ones here, right? i hate the hand-me-down one i got now, it's falling apart! you think we got enough silver to pay for one?" before søren could respond, she interrupted him. "bah! actually, i guess we need to save our coin for cybil. owl-bear saddles are more expensive than horse saddles after all... shame. should we stop and get something to eat, too? i'm starving! how does mother expect us to wait around all day until supper? sometimes i think she just purposely starves us so we don't offend grandaunt aculia by picking at our food. does your mother do the same thing? act all insane when it comes to simple mannerisms like that?" she looked at calista again, her attention bouncing back and forth.

[vaell]

xxxxxＣＡＬＩＳＴＡiiＡＴＨＡＮＡＳＩＯＵ.

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe revenant princess of the eidolon.
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indentcalista had to school her features into impassivity upon the jeweler's sudden greeting. the young princess clasped her hands behind her back, willing herself to remain still as she battled the weight of her own discomfort. she barely registered the rehearsed nature of the merchant's words, what with his customary phrases concerning their illustrious standing and honored presence. what truly managed to catch her off guard was søren. calista's gaze shifted to him from the corner of her eye, not quite able to mask the flicker of surprise and confusion that crossed her features. what..? a quiet pulse of bewilderment coursed through her veins, sharp and immediate. he still wanted the ring, even after she had so unceremoniously cast her own aside? calista didn't know what to make of søren's unexpected resolve. all she could recognize was the vague, uneasy sense of compunction his decision brought forth─a quiet reminder that she had somehow erred in her haste to avoid being categorized as pathetic. certainly, she was puzzled as to why he was still interested in purchasing the silver band at all, but his persistence made her feel more remorseful than it did mystified. would it be too late to interject and reclaim the opposing ring for her own hand? or would that look even worse? if she spoke up now and relented in her earlier show of repudiation, søren might think she had been embarrassed to be caught with him in front of adonis, and now that her older brother had disappeared, only then was she conveniently willing to embrace him. that thought alone was horrific. it was not true of course, but surely trying to adopt the ring as her own would only make matters more unsettling, wouldn't it? honestly, calista wasn't sure what to do. the strange situation was as uncomfortable as it were emotionally distressing, and that was not a feeling she was used to facing. all of her problems were often better laid to rest by the use of the blade rather than apologetic words of regret and shame. this was unknown territory for her and she didn't like it. how could something this trival─it was trivial, was it not?─be so complicated? was it just because it involved søren? the sheer potency of what inexplicable emotions she associated with him was making her feel more shamefaced than she ever has been before. she didn't want to hurt or upset him, and the mere thought of doing such a thing was certainly worrying. calista knew something was off kilter and yet she didn't know how to rectify it. she was not equipped to push down her ego and embrace the rings─and thereby, søren─because her pride refused her. when did these small, inconsequential things start to pester her like this anyway? this unnamable undercurrent of warmth she felt whenever she was with søren was quite unusual. she has gone through life so unbound by others and free from the tethers of typical interpersonal relationships and connection that what she felt for him was truly jarring. she didn't know how to adequately express her care for him, or to convey whatever it was she felt in his presence or at the mere mention of his name. these complicated feelings somehow made everything that happened between them feel magnified to an almost unbearable extent, just as it did now. normally there would be no harm in forgoing a ring matching that of your peers, but this was different. this was not just about the materialistic nature of the band itself. there was something else... she just didn't know what. that's what was so disconcerting. still, she knew she had done something wrong by abandoning søren so quickly, and that was evident by the burning pit of shame she felt upon hearing him take the ring. was he upset with her? he didn't seem it, not if he still wanted the ring. she had expected him to set it back down at the kiosk but he did the exact opposite of that. calista felt trapped. she didn't know what to do or how to communicate her feelings to him, and she wasn't sure he'd understand anyway. gods. why must this be so painfully delicate? why did she even feel this way at all? it was so unlike her to feel any sort of contrition for her actions that the very feeling itself was disturbing. something was nagging at her to remedy the situation at hand but she had no idea how to execute that. there were no words in her vocabulary that could possibly explain the way she felt toward him, let alone allow her to conjure up an honest expression of regret without coming off as insincere or false. it didn't help that they were in public either. how could she even address the situation without the risk of someone else interjecting? surely she could speak with him later, right...? that would be the mature thing to do, she was certain. but by then would he even want to talk about it? what if the situation wasn't actually that big of a deal to him at all? he was buying the ring she'd picked out for him, and he gave her no indication that he was upset with her at all. i must be thinking myself half to death right now. and just when she thought things were already uncomfortable enough, an unwelcome rush of heat suddenly prickled the back of her neck when the merchant brought up the ring's foreign symbolism. a tribute to love. a pair. cohabitees. the man's glance toward calista was fleeting, yet she noticed it all the same. what did he want from her? a flustered protest? a coy smile? while she gave him neither, the young princess did awkwardly avert her gaze. what she didn't expect, however, was the way søren readily obliged him. calista's throat tightened, and for a brief, absurd moment, she thought she might have misheard him entirely. but no─there he was, reaching into his pocket for a small coin pouch. a strange, unnamable pang of hollowness split open in her chest. it was no longer just regret or guilt—those were emotions she could identify. this was something else entirely, an unsettled thing that clawed at her from the inside, something she could not bear to examine too closely. she knew he wasn't buying the opposing ring for her. that much was obvious. she had made her disinterest clear, had she not? søren was intelligent enough not to insist where he was unwanted, and certainly not foolish enough to press one of the bands into her palm and prattle on about fate or sentiment. but he was buying them. both of them. and keeping them. why? the question swirled in her mind, but she could not bring herself to ask it. she couldn't find the words, and that alone infuriated her further. it was one thing for him to buy the ring that he was already wearing, but the other...? why bother at all? calista's stomach twisted into something tight and uncomfortable. admittedly, she had no reason to feel anything about this. none. perhaps she didn't openly accept the sentimentality of the ring anymore, but that didn't mean she had expected him to want it. not like this, with such quiet insistence, as though the thought of leaving it behind had never even crossed his mind. calista momentarily shifted her gaze away as the jeweler bagged the pair of rings for him. she had to remind herself that she had no right to care what he did with the ring now. if he wanted to carry it with him, whether that be to clutch it in his hand in the dead of night, or toss it into the saguenay river, or to have it melted down into a pool of shapeless silver─what was it to her? and yet, as the merchant folded the rings into their cloth pouch and placed them into the prince's waiting hand, she found herself unable to keep from watching the transaction. there was care in søren's gesture, an effort to reclaim something that she had hastily abandoned, and it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. she knew her impulsivity had been a mistake, a means of shielding her own vanity and self-image, but at what cost? normally, calista would have found some way to defy her older brother's domineering attitude, regardless of how much damage it might bring upon her later, damn the consequences─her entire life had been spent pushing past them anyway. just not this time. she was already fighting an uphill battle, teetering on the edge of profound irrelevancy in her mother's eyes, and calista knew better than to challenge her a second time. back home, the colosseum was her domain. that was where her defiance had weight, where her fury could be unleashed without fear of disastrous repercussion. her mother only begrudgingly entertained her acts of rebellion because calista was shielded by the support from the crowd. the people's affection was a buffer, softening the blow of any missteps and turning potential punishment into little more than a passing irritation. though her behavior was erratic, unpredictable, and certainly unbecoming for someone of her station, it captured the attention of the masses all the same. calista had become a figure of awe and reverence in the southern heartlands for a reason. the people didn't just cheer for her victories but the defiance she embodied. she was a symbol of strength and untamed power, and that was something her mother had to reckon with whether she liked it or not. though anastasia might never admit it, she must understand this dynamic. calista's power did not come from courtly obedience or political acumen; it came from the bond she had with the citizenry. if it weren't for the crowds she drew to the city, then perhaps she would have been punished more accordingly, losing favor with her lanista and being forced to fight in less prestigious venues. then she would have her status diminished to the point where her martial reputation was pushed into obscurity for acting in a way that dishonored her role as a gladiator. such was not the case, however. removing calista from the fights in gore bay would be a grave mistake, and the queen must know that. anastasia could lecture her and punish her in small, personal ways, but there was a line that even she couldn't cross without inciting a dangerous backlash. for all the authority she held in court, the queen was still at the mercy of public sentiment, and calista had inadvertently cultivated a connection with the people that her mother could not control. it was not a thing to be underestimated. paradoxically, calista's influence in the arena was, in many ways, more potent than any political maneuvering, and she was surprisingly astute when it came to using this knowledge to her advantage. granted, her perspective was less about reasserting where the power truly lied in the capital and more about preventing her mother from exercising corporal punishment against her, but she still possessed some thread of understanding nonetheless. foreign affairs, on the other hand, were not to be trifled with. diplomacy was paramount, and even that stiff, suffocating dress she had been stuffed into earlier had served as a subtle warning. though she may be a fierce gladiator, she was still the crown princess of a powerful dynasty. even she understood that certain boundaries could never be overstepped. adonis knew it, too. it's why he pushed her so, needling her and twisting the knife deeper, smug in the knowledge that there would be no violent reprisal and no public, dramatic undoing of his cruelty. their mother was already dismissing calista, and if adonis whispered the right poison into her ear, then there would be no room for her defense. it wouldn't matter that søren had been there to witness their argument, nor if the truth was something else entirely. anastasia would believe adonis over her every time. she already thought calista was aggressive, temperamental, and prone to violence—anything he might say would only confirm what she already believed.
indentokay, now we can go.
indentcalista could only nod in response. she was restless with words she did not know how to shape. there had been a moment, small and fragile as it were, where she might have asked him why, demanding some explanation for his persistence on keeping something she had so easily discarded. but the moment passed, and she let it. and in truth, she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer anyway. calista silently fell in step beside the prince, keeping her eyes trained forward as they wove through the marketplace together. her thoughts remained tangled in the quiet space between them, caught on the feeling of something left unsaid. any sort of inclination toward making a botched attempt to explain herself was luckily subdued by máirín's reappearance. truth be told, calista was somewhat grateful for the distraction her presence brought with it. she practically forced them to move on from what had just transpired, pulling them into her midst and leading them out of the square. it was surprisingly difficult to disregard her own feelings though, and she found herself struggling to remain present in the moment for reasons unknown. it was not often that calista got caught up in her own tribulations like this. she often went largely unaffected by these sort of situations because she has never quite treasured someone like this before. if anything, she almost found herself growing irritated by the situation as a whole because it was so foreign to her. how could she deal with something she has never faced before? her immediate response was anger, a reactionary emotion she wielded to bypass feelings of despair or melancholy, though it had no feasible outlet right now. how could everything in her life be so impossibly unsatisfactory? there was no pleasing her mother, and she was bound to make further blunders when it came to her relationship with søren so long as she kept letting other people influence the way she felt. while she never went out of her way to deliberately upset him, her unintentional lack of awareness when it came to demonstrating sensitivity to other people's feelings only made things that much worse. in that regard, calista's indelicate nature was inherently problematic. she was not soft-spoken by any means but she yielded to the same adolescent feelings of self-consciousness anyone else might and inadvertently allowed it to dictate the state of her relationships. in truth, the very essence of tribal culture had become so ingrained in calista that she couldn't fully recognize its influence. as a collective, the people of annexed canada seemed to value shows of hardiness, robustness, and emotional detachment over demonstrations of aptness, perspicacity, and amiability─an unsurprising observation given their brutal ways of life, but it did have an undeniable impact on the youth being raised in such oppressive environments. the need to be seen as something worthy shaped the way calista responded, especially in moments like this. she was certain this would've been so much easier to handle if she was back home right now─at-least there she could funnel her energy into something worthwhile, to put her frustration to good use and make an example of whoever was unfortunate enough to cross paths with her in the colosseum. it was typical for calista to seek out the brutal, unrelenting focus of combat to burn away what unpalatable thoughts plagued her mind, seeking out someone willing to cross blades with her to let steel do what words could not. in the colosseum she found her refuge; there, she could escape from the baffling intricacies of human bonds to immerse herself in something bigger than her own emotions. that was the sort of thinking that created warriors who are relentless, unyielding, and capable of enduring tremendous hardship without letting personal struggles or emotional conflicts hinder them. annexed canada's brutal culture did not allow for softening—if anything, it glorified the act of fighting not just to survive, but to dominate, to prove one's worth in a world that places a premium on resilience over everything else. it would be much easier to deal with the inconvenience that befell her and søren if she could simply retreat and take to the arena, but instead she was forced to allow her feelings to fester in her mind, and it agitated her greatly. there was nothing that made calista more restless than having to face the fallout of her own actions, for she had nothing but unease coiled in her limbs and no way to expel it. it was evidence that she was somehow maladjusted, inept in ways that others were not. socially, she was not graceful, she knew. still, it was not any more pleasant having to confront that fact. she just wished she was not so hesitant to put herself out there in fear of looking like a fool. søren probably would have appreciated it if she had at-least said something about the matter rather than just brush it aside... but admittedly, she did feel a hint of misguided vexation toward him as well. and the longer she dwelled on it, the more that irritation grew, sinking its claws into her already disordered thoughts. it was not without its shamefulness, of course—because she knew, logically, that she had been the one to abandon the ring first, that he had not done anything to intentionally slight her—but just what the hell was he thinking, buying the pair of rings anyway? at first, the thought only tugged at her unease, plucking at the edges of her composure like an errant thread. the more it lingered though, the more it left her feeling dissatisfied. the shame that had been curling in her gut was transforming into something more defensive, and knowing that he now had the matching set in his possession─that he had gone out of his way to keep both rings despite her rejection─only made her feel worse. was he trying to make her feel guilty over the matter at hand? if so, he was certainly succeeding. calista couldn't help but let herself stew in her own frustration, allowing it to take root in the space where her guilt had once been. it was easier, in the end, to be aggravated with him than to sit with the discomfort of her own emotions. everything about the situation was absurd and senseless, and yet no matter how much she told herself that, her feelings refused to abate. it was no surprise that the concern she had initially felt toward søren fell apart into something more malignant when left unattended. it was how calista operated. when she did not know how to process something or did not have the right words to shape the emotion properly, it often turned sharp-edged. true, her frustration was misdirected, and she knew that adonis was the one who had set this entire debacle into motion, but knowing that didn't mean she wasn't allowed to work through her emotions in the way she wanted to. if anything, calista couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of affirmation upon the sequence of events that had passed between them─it was the realization that she should, in the future, be more cautious so as to not find herself in these sort of predicaments to begin with. that way, she could avoid all possibility of fallout with someone like søren. if calista wanted her connection with the prince to remain untainted, then she would need to be more sensible going forward.
indentit would mortify her if søren could hear her thoughts, the way she had spiraled so quickly from guilt to frustration to something else she did not dare put a name to. but alas, he couldn't. and she would make certain he never would.
indentthe sound of máirín's voice recaptured calista's attention before she could ruminate any longer, interrupting what self-reproach she felt before it could be further distorted by her waspish temper. it is a shame that cybil has no interest in warfare. the young princess only smirked slightly. is that so? no, it was certainly no shame, but she didn't voice that thought to her companions. while cybil's subtle distaste for brutality made her an anomaly in annexed canada, calista recognized the edge her sister's wariness granted her. cybil would emerge from gore bay's imperial school as a trained gladiator one day but that didn't mean she would be indefinitely successful in the public eye. many gladiators fail to make a name for themselves and perish if they are not dedicated to the craft or lack the grit needed to persevere. such worked to calista's advantage. their bloodline was notably rife with power struggles between female descendants contending for the thronus aeternus, and being able to dominate the colosseum thus far made calista feel rather secure, even if she did not suspect her younger sister to be capable of any sort of serious scheming yet. historically speaking, it was idolization and the approval of the masses that had fueled rivalries between siblings—bitter feuds that ultimately heightened sociopolitical tension. and while cybil might be able to get away with one day retiring from the gladiatorial scene should she detest it so vehemently, such a decision was not one granted to the eidolon's crown princess─and calista was glad for it. her reputation would only serve her better down the line when she finally ascended the throne, assuming no outside forces could besmirch her name before then. "wait, we might get to see some owl-bears?" calista blurted as máirín continued directing them toward the port. the way her features seemed to light up gave away her eagerness. the majestic yet fearsome creatures were not native to the heartlands, so as a foreigner her intrigue was only inevitable. the young princess did not possess the same sort of exposure to the beasts as søren and máirín did, and though she knew better than to underestimate their predatory prowess, she couldn't help but feel fascinated by the species. to some extent, she even envied their eastern counterparts for having been able to harness the ability to produce companions out of such formidable animals. she could only imagine how sweet it would be to share a bond with such a force of nature. her awe for owl-bears was not a sentiment widely shared among her own people, but she held an interest toward the creatures nonetheless. was she secretly a little fearful of them if not downright intimidated at times? ...well, perhaps, but so what? they were so breathtaking to behold that her natural trepidation mattered little in the grand scheme of things. máirín's mention of food managed to reel in her wandering attention again. hm. i suppose i am hungry, she realized. cuisine traditions in the heartlands differed from that of gibraltar. the young princess was used to the meals she grew up with─refined or not. during her time in the barracks training as a gladiator, she became accustomed to starting the morning off with thick barely porridge, sometimes plain or mixed with goat's cheese if the lanista was feeling generous. on better days, there had been fresh bread, still warm from the stone ovens, dense and hearty, meant to last through the rigorous training ahead. some of her peers would tear into dried figs or handfuls of almonds between practice rounds, anything to save off hunger until the midday meal. calista often frequented gore bay's marketplace when she grew tired of the monotony of the meals being offered. there, she could at-least find lentil stews rich in garlic and coriander, sometimes sweetened with dates, other times thickened with bits of cured meat. fresh fish, always abundant, were often grilled with fennel and lemon or salted and dried to keep for longer periods of time. there were even chickpeas roasted with cumin and olive oil, eaten by the handful, or mashed into pastes and scooped up with flatbread. among her royal kin, however, even the simplest of morning meals were luxurious by comparison. there would always be trays laid out with fresh figs and pomegranates, their skins split open to reveal the jewel-bright seeds within. bowls of thick, tart yogurt were often drizzled with honey and accompanied with soft cheeses, salty and brined, spread over thick slices of bread. the sprawling feasts held in the keep were always the most astonishing though, like a grand spread made for the gods themselves. the intoxicating aroma of roasting meats and spiced wines and the glint of gilded platters brimming with delicacies—it was the kind of extravagance that only spirit island could conjure. adonis' reception back home was the perfect example of such grandiosity. platters of stuffed grape leaves, their delicate wrappings concealing rice spied with cinnamon and saffron, had been laid in neat rows upon trays that night. while the centerpiece of the feast had been roasted northern bobwhite quail, crisp-skinned and stuffed with crushed walnuts and pine nuts, calista much preferred the delicate fish. the seafood dish had been poached in oil and served with garum, the fermented sauce a staple in the royal kitchens. even the sweets were always just as delectable as the actual meals themselves, and calista was never shy about indulging in them. almond cakes soaked in honey have always been a favorite of hers, though she didn't mind the taste of syrupy pears stewed in wine and cinnamon either, their skins wrinkled and dark with spice. of course, there was always entertainment too—the kind that made feasts last well into the night. performers played the kithara or the aulos, filling the halls with bright, warbling notes, while poets recited verses of heroes long past. calista wondered if she'd find anything remotely familiar here in saint-cloud. despite the luxurious palette her royal upbringing granted her, calista was open-minded when it came to trying different cuisines, foreign or not. she was only vaguely familiar with the sort of dishes being served in saint-cloud but she didn't have a problem trying anything new either should the siblings recommend any specific street food. máirín's next comment concerning her mother was enough to earn a look of amusement from calista─admittedly, the other princess' unfiltered and forthright manner was refreshing to witness, and the common austerity she spoke of was a familiar source of aggravation for calista herself. authority in any capacity was often hard for her to yield to. "mhm," she confirmed, her exasperated tone betraying her irritation at even the thought of her royal mother. "it's probably a good thing our mothers can't remain glued at each other's sides all hours of the day. their boredom would lead them to concoct further means by which to torture us." calista snorted, her eyes roving over their surroundings as they walked the streets of saint-cloud arm-in-arm. she was only joking, but there was some underlying truth in her statement. she knew her mother held princess aoibheann in high regard, a fact that was unsurprising given their lack of dissimilarities, but it was more than mere diplomacy that shaped her mother's attitude toward the princess. judging by the way her queen mother catered to her so readily, always ensuring her guest chambers were prepared and fitted with the finest ornamentation, it was obvious to calista that princess aoibheann was a welcome guest in the heartlands. considering their dealings involved the tedious matters of trade and foreign relations, the two women were under no obligation to do more than tolerate each other. but alas, the pair seemed to share more of a companionship than was typical of the shallow, transactional relationships commonplace in royal courts. it was why calista was so quick to remark on their dynamic as she saw it. granted, in actuality it was pleasant having her queen mother preoccupied with the other woman's presence whenever she did travel to the heartlands. anastasia gravitated toward her company, and when she would withdraw into her conversations with princess aoibheann it allowed calista the chance to evade her mother's constant scrutiny.
indent"food does sound good though," she agreed after a moment, almost thoughtfully. "what do you two usually eat around here?" calista looked to máirín, curious, but her eyes briefly flickered to søren to try and catch a glimpse of his expression. she had no idea if there was still any sort of tension between them or not─it certainly felt like there was, even if it was thinly disguised by máirín's presence. ugh. there it is again. calista felt a fresh spike of irritation resurface. i'm looking into this far too much, aren't i? if søren was truly upset with her then he would confront her about it later, would he not? she supposed there was no use getting strung up about the situation any further. if she kept on like this then she would only make matters worse by simply imagining some sort of nonexistent conflict between the two of them, and that would only bring it into being. she didn't want the rest of their day to be ruined just because she was feeling friction where there was probably none to begin with. calista was not one to mull things over to an excruciating degree, laboring over her own thoughts and feelings in an endless loop of self-tortured contemplation. the fact she was even trying to ascertain whether søren truly was unaffected spoke volumes about her subtle care toward him, even if she did not readily act on her better impulses─that being, to have resolved the situation in the moment. it would've been simple really, just a few short words and everything could've been addressed, and yet instead they'd just carried on like it were nothing. calista wanted to use máirín's newfound presence earlier as an excuse as to why they did not say anything to each other. she'd interrupted them before they even had the chance to reflect on what had happened, hadn't she? truth be told, whether or not calista was willing to admit it, it was doubtful she and the young prince would've settled matters properly even if his sister had not conveniently reappeared at the scene. there were too many confounding factors at play, and if no one was willing to make the first move forward then both parties would remain standing in silence perpetually. it left certain thoughts and feelings pent up to fester, never to be spoken aloud. sometimes even forever. calista had to force herself to shake off the feeling of discomfiture that clung to her, turning instead to the world unfolding around them. it was not a difficult task—not when the city's rhythm pulsed so vividly through its streets. vendors distantly called to passing patrons, their voices tangling in the air, merging into the grand symphony of saint-cloud's din. the upper districts had long since given way to the livelier quarters of the lower city, where the scent of the air was laced with the earthy tang of the river. calista's gaze flickered ahead, drawn to the silhouettes of docked galleys and the lively sprawl of harborside vendors beyond the sloping street. the road beneath them, once meticulously paved, grew somewhat uneven as they descended—its cobblestones worn smooth by the steady tread of countless travelers. the buildings here bore the marks of time and trade: wooden shutters left ajar to invite the breeze, faded murals flanking narrow doorways, and balconies draped with drying nets and bundled herbs. down ahead, the main avenue widened once more, its expanse revealing fleeting glimpses of masts swaying against the sky, rigging shifting with the gentle roll of the current. the rooftops clustered tightly together, yet between them, the unmistakable gleam of water shimmered in the distance. the streets soon spilled onto a broad promenade of pale cobblestone, curving along the water's edge, the river's surface catching the afternoon light in rippling bands of gold and blue. the city's structured elegance did not dissolve here at its edge—rather, it adapted. even among the bustle of laborers and traders, there remained a certain refinement. there was merchant stalls sheltered beneath striped awnings and mooring posts thick with coiled ropes and tethered barges. further beyond the immediate docks, an earthbound market stretched along the water's edge, a hub of trade humming with energy. sharp cries of bidders cut through the air where livestock auctions unfolded, their voices rising above the steady murmur of commerce. stalls overflowed with fresh produce—bundles of leafy greens, plump fruits, and earthen vegetables stacked high in woven baskets, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of the port. it was alive, this place—a restless current of movement and industry, where the promise of distant shores and the return of long-traveled vessels lent an ever-present urgency to its air. though saint-cloud was no island city, the sight of the port ahead stirred something in calista. it was like a small flicker of familiarity. and for that, she found herself eager—almost impatient—to fully emerge onto the riverside port. the young princess suddenly freed her arm from máirín's before bounding ahead of the pair, her stride quick as she twisted around to face them, her expression alight with mischief. "last one to the docks has to, uh—" she barely paused to think, a spark of an idea flashing across her face, "—ooh, eat whatever the winners pick!" calista spun back around and took off down the sloping street, her laughter trailing behind her as her boots struck the uneven cobblestones underfoot. the thinning crowd parted just enough to let her slip through, the scent of the river and freshly baked goods swirling around her as she dodged past a cart stacked high with baskets. the princess barely spared a glance back, but she knew máirín wouldn't let such a challenge go unanswered, and søren would have little choice but to indulge her playful spirit. as usual, calista was caught up in the rush of her own momentum. it was a boldness that betrayed her lack of concern for getting lost in the crowds or being separated from søren or máirín. those sort of worries simply didn't register for her.

[vaermina]

ＳØＲＥＮ ＫＯＬＢＥＣＫxxx
I.xtribal affiliationsx II. a prince of house kolbeck


indentmáirín shrugged. "well, there's some street vendors who sell some nice stuff in the lower quarters of the city. there's this one guy who makes a pretty good galette-saucisse. uh, it's a cold buckwheat crêpe that's wrapped around a warm grilled pork sausage. there's other simple foods like jambon-beurre or some socca, which is just made from chickpea flour and seasoned with sea salt, cumin, and olive oil. you'd probably like that." gelderarich's localized culture was not an adequate reflection of gibraltar's overall ethnology. indeed, saint-cloud's predilection towards the celebration of general education and the humanities was an aberration when compared to the province's blood-soaked archaism. erudition and refinement remained august cornerstones of societal development in blood and wine country but in every other subregion, anachronistic orthodoxy and destructive raids in foreign lands tarried as the lingering buttress of bloodborn tradition. the cuisine offered in gelderarich was not an accurate representation of what the province's natives usually consume, but perhaps the varied selection might appeal to the distinctive taste pallets of visiting foreigners. unfortunately, the idea of calmly pursuing the streets in search of interesting fast fare appeared to be the last thing on the two princesses' minds. søren could not help but watch in visible dismay as calista pulled away from máirin before she suddenly began to take off down the canted street. "hey! that's not fair, you gave yourself a head start!" his sister yelled after the other woman, her arm slipping away from søren's before she immediately gave chase. the sight of the two royals vanishing into the crowd without any visible concern for their surroundings was staggeringly incredulous to watch. "what are you do─we're not supposed to wander of─agh!" an exasperated sigh escaped the young prince. left with little choice but to begrudgingly accommodate their careless impulsivity, søren forced himself to pursue his two puckish companions.
indentthe picturesque vista of a coastal harbor nestled against an impressive mountainous backdrop, saint-cloud's port lacked the grand sophistication of the upper districts. the cityscape around the harbor was densely packed with inharmonious-styled homes featuring thatched and tiled roofs in earthy tones. winding streets weaved between the tightly clustered buildings, some with timber-framed facades of sweltering frontage, others displaying elegant stonework of mismatched cobblestone. unlike the stylish buildings found closer to the palace, most of the buildings surrounding the port were stuck in various stages of disrepair. the buildings hugged the coastline, creating an irregular yet nevertheless charming panorama that climbed up the city's natural hillside. smoke rose from dozens of chimneys and mixed with the loamy tang of the waterfront. along the cerulean shoreline, various oak-columned structures of professional merchantry perched amidst humble residencies─large public storehouses stuffed with iced poultry and seafood, bonded warehouses full of imported materials, cross-docking depots packed to the brim with struggling workers─all suggested the port's practicality as a center for trade and commerce. scribes and moneylenders sat at sturdy wooden tables outside said establishments, carefully tallying transactions under the watchful eye of passing guards. overgrown pansies and violas overran weathered wooden docks that stood jutted out along the water, providing docking space for small fishing boats. those who did not desire the tedious obligation of proper boatmanship were allowed access to boat runoffs, small slopes along the water's edge where trawlers could simply push their small vessels out and go. accompanied by a rather large, sturdy stone pier, the harbor was dotted with cranes and wooden scaffolding for loading and unloading cargo. heavy mooring posts wrapped in thick, frayed ropes lined the edges of the marina. commercial fishermen rushed about in an atmosphere of controlled chaos, their barks of command barely perceptible over the din of creaking wood and the distant cries of gulls. burly dock hands in coarse woolen tunics and weathered leather boots hauled crates filled with salted fish, barrels of ale, and sacks of grain from the ships, their hands blackened with mud and tar. longshoremen worked diligently along the edges of the landing in a futile attempt to repair the dock planks, their tools working to hammer in fresh nails where the wood has splintered. save for small fishing boats with bedraggled nets draped over the sides, most of the ships docked in the harbor with sails partially unfurled were knarr vessels. cargo ships built and honed exclusively by the bloodborn populace, the vessel's oak frame was often constructed much deeper than an ordinary longship's which, when paired with a wider body, created an incredibly stable merchant ship. these adaptations allowed it to sail smoothly as well as helped it disband the harshest of watery conditions. commonly constructed by riveting overlapping planks to the hull, its blueprint created a clinker-hull which better suited it for the rough storms that often attacked the ocean. knarrs were primarily used to transport merchantable stock, tradable goods, and staple commodities. stone jetties extended like cracked fingers into the calm waters of the saguenay river, effectively boxing in a variety of moored ships as the port's laborers filtered from one barge to the next. many of them were unloading cargo onto open wagons; others utilized the harbor's numerous hoists and winches to lift what they could not by hand. the stone walkways of the bustling port winded around the harbor's edge like a great serpent, their well-worn surfaces polished smooth by the countless feet that have passed over them. though not directly linked to the docks where ships moor, the paths served as arteries of commerce and leisure, curling around the bay in a sinuous embrace. the heart of the port's marketplace, the landing followed the natural curve of the shoreline, at times broad and open like a plaza, at others narrowing into shaded passages beneath the overhang of old timbered buildings. low walls of stacked limestone separated the walkways from the lapping tide, their edges softened by moss and crusted barnacles where the river's spray reaches. at intervals, wide terraces jut outward like the coils of the resting world serpent martrödir, providing shaded alcoves where merchants unfurled their wares along the walls of the large buildings that lined the port's periphery. the marketplace was not the bustling heart of the docks where sailors and laborers hauled cargo. instead, it was the silent veins of the harbor, where traders set up shaded stalls along the parapets and awnings stretched over well-worn benches. the scent of brine mingled with roasted fish and spiced cider as a fishmonger behind a frugal kiosk gutted a fresh catch, his stained apron splattered with brine and blood. coopers stacked barrels along the decrepit steps leading up from the pier by tapping the casks with wooden mallets to ensure they were sealed tight, while scribes in ink-stained linen recorded shipments beneath faded canvas awnings. there was a sense of slatternly appeal when it came to saint-cloud's harbor. while it lacked the artistic spice of the upper districts, its grizzled buildings, faded murals, and asymmetric layout warped in bursts of overgrown foliage and crumbling stonework echoed the underprivileged and impecunious lifestyle of its residents. historically speaking, gelderarich has never been a subregion riddled with overwhelming criminal strife and localized violence, but the city's lower districts were not nearly as polished and urbane as its statelier quarters. if infractions against the law were to be committed anywhere in saint-cloud, it would certainly be near the port. the war out in the gulf also posed its own unique challenges for the residents of saint-cloud. much of the city's imports were delayed since the wardenness of gelderarich halted maritime activities along the mouth of the saguenay after anticosti island was lost to the eastern reavers. with postposted shipments along the st. lawrence river and merchant vessels even destroyed by roaming rivals, the penniless and affluent were beginning to feel the consequences─a recipe for social disaster.
indentthe three royals eventually came to a halt beneath a terracotta archway, one of numerous entrances that chose to suddenly abandon the city's narrow pathways and instead open up into the wide promenade that ran along the city's busy harborside. triumphant, máirín turned around to face søren, who quickly took to leaning against a derelict street lamp in temporary lassitude. "aha! we won!"
indentsøren scowled. "how was that race fair? you two had a head sta─actually, whatever, fine. okay, i lost the race, but what about everybody else? how do you think they'll react back at the palace when they're told we ran off from the protection of the escort? what about lord oddvar and lord galen? this is dange─"
indent"oh, you sound like mother right now," máirín complained, clearly disinterested in heeding any sort of caution when it came from a source that sounded dangerously similar to princess aoibheann. "they'll find us sooner or later. i mean, saint-cloud isn't terribly huge, right? certainly not like khyobel. besides, there's plenty of city guards and private mercenaries around the port. who would be idiotic enough to try and harass us? we're honored guests! besides, i'm sure oddvar and cali's uncle will catch up with us eventually. they're not as uptight as everyone else around here; they won't rat us out to those witches on the hill. oh, come on, stop worrying! let's go before the cavalry arrives."
indentdictated by the natural contours of the water rather than the rigid precision of the docks, the marina's weathered forum boasted a peculiar establishment. worn smooth by countless footsteps, the pale limestone avenue hugged the edges of the waterfront, its stability rising and dipping with the bank's gentle undulations. the pier and boating docks themselves were built over the river's sandbars and natural intertidal zone, although the rest of the port remained firmly on land. the muted tones and general banality associated with the city's port clashed with the land's generous horticulture. across the blue belt that was the famous saguenay river, the land stretched in a vast, emerald expanse, gently rolling toward the distant mountains that cradled the valley in a protective basin. the slopes were modest but undulating, their contours carved by the careful hands of nature and generations of cultivation. even from here, one could view the distant illustration of blooming vineyards sprawled in neat, endless rows, their vines heavy with ripening fruit and bordered by climbing trellises in disciplined lines that shimmered in the sunlight. in the very far distance, where the land met the saguenay graben's mountainous embrace, the hills rose more boldly before surrendering to the sheer cliffs of the flat peaks beyond. ridges were painted in deep shades of viridian, some softened by the haze of wildflower meadows, others darkened by pockets of dense woodland. from the river’s edge, one could barely register the glimmer of white-walled farmhouses and sprawling villas tucked into the hills, their terracotta roofs catching the noonday light. unfortunately, it was impossible to manually cross the saguenay river and access saint-cloud from the other side due to the river's sheer width. large, sun-bleached bridges with accompanying taverns were constructed along the tributary at its narrowest points for ambulatory travelers, although private boating and public ferries remained the most popular modes of transportation in the valley for a reason. most of the saguenay river was bordered by high plateaus and craggy cliffs that rose to upwards of a thousand feet, but saint-cloud and its surrounding cityscape had been constructed on relatively irregular farmland before it eventually rose to meet the alpine structures in the near distance. the city's hills were nowhere near as steep as the subregion's lofty mountain massifs and, beyond the immediate municipalities across the waterway, much of gelderarich's towns and estates could only be found further inland. it was difficult to settle along the water directly due to the river's large escarpments. as the three royals approached the port's quintessential marketplace, søren stuck close to máirín and calista, his carefully concealed annoyance practically imperceivable. søren was grateful for his sister's company, but he could not help but feel irked over her irresponsibility. her casual unwariness was not only foolhardy but utterly and completely thoughtless, and despite their relatively benevolent relationship, it was not without its frustrating complexities. saint-cloud may not be saturated in the same tense sociopolitical strife that threatened the rest of gibraltar's stability, but that did not mean it was utterly devoid of trouble. there could very well be a wandering vagabond about who would not hesitate to run their blade through an unsuspecting royal, and that was to say nothing about the dangers of careless roaming when calista was in their party. sure, there were city guards patrolling the city's port, but they currently lacked the protection of a well-rounded envoy. it did not help the three royals were currently unarmed and roaming through a crowded area known for being significantly less eloquent than its wealthier counterparts. beyond hopes of a quick intervention from the port's watchmen, they would be on their own if a group of inconspicuous radicals tried to harm them. as always, søren appeared to be the only one with some level of perspicacity over the matter. he could not entirely blame calista for her playful behavior. as far as he knew, the heartlands' sociological climate was relatively stable due to the efforts of her queen mother. it would be ridiculous of him to critique her when she was a foreigner in these lands, but máirín should know better. admittedly, his sister's behavior felt somewhat acerbic right now, even if it was rather unintentional. for once in his life, he would like for them to present a unified front, even when it felt like an inconvenience to her restless spirit. he supposed it just matched the current disaster that was their house's reputation, where a bed of chaos has taken root and allowed for public disarray, competition, and discord to take over the family name. unlike calista's brother, máirín never acted in a way where she calculatedly handpicked when and how she was going to displease her sibling. she never sought to purposely offend him, but she often acted in a way that spoke of unintentional selfishness towards the people around her. it was rarely malicious, but the consequences of her brashness and disdain for authority were bound to end terribly. she was prideful to the point where she refused to submit, even if it came at the cost of søren receiving a portion of the punishment their elders dumped upon her. it never seemed to matter if he was a willing accomplice in his sister's schemes. the twins were so intricately woven into not only their family's dynamics but the divine foundations of their tribe's religion that any heat máirín received ended up burning him too. it was partially why he found himself so silently ruffled over her disregard. he did not want to be punished because of his sister's improvidence. true, calista had been the one to initiate the race, but it was their due diligence as her hosts to ensure no harm came to her while she was in gibraltar. unintended or not, it felt like máirín's incaution was painting him as a wet blanket, a malcontent who would rather sit on a bench and complain than indulge in any real entertainment, and that wasn't true. søren enjoyed festivity, but it truly felt like he was the only one out of the three of them who held any mature regard for repercussion and corollary. his sister's desire for liberation directly clashed with the concept of synergy, and søren's prudence indirectly painted him as spoilsport. it was not only frustrating but a gross mischaracterization of the exuberance he was truly capable of.
indentnestled amidst a stone herd that was the harbor's numerous weathered buildings, a blacksmith's forge occupied a sturdy corner of an old edifice, its darkened facade and soot-streaked walls bearing the test of time. a large iron sign, shaped like a hammer and anvil, creaked gently in the breeze above the shop's open entrance. a wooden awning stretched along its outer wall, sheltering a varied display of wares set atop rough-hewn tables and hanging from iron racks. gleaming fittings caught the golden light of the harbor. a stand of finely crafted swords and daggers, their hilts wrapped in dark leather, all but suggested the blacksmith's skill extended beyond the mundane. rows of gleaming horseshoes hung from sturdy iron hooks, and racks of well-crafted fishing hooks, harpoons, and anchors all suggested a particular catering to the port's maritime folk. small displays showcased decorative metalwork. from intricately designed lanterns to delicate wrought-iron filigree for those seeking embellishments for their vessels, it was clear that the blacksmith boasted an exceptional degree in nautical fashion. the scent of burning coal and hot metal drifted from within, where the rhythmic hammering echoed against the thick stone walls of the port's bedraggled dwellings. the shop's entrance lacked a customary door and instead opened like the shadowy maw of a dragon, its dim interior revealing little of its contents. as the only ironsmith located along the dockyard, it was unsurprising that máirín appeared to gravitate towards the small emporium of metallurgy wonders, her silent insistence practically unchallengeable as she led søren and calista through the fish market. "look at this!" his sister gawked as they approached the forge's exhibition, the stench of salt and smoke nearly overwhelming as she reached to grab an iron helmet. a lithe skullcap of predominantly blackened metal, the helmet featured a closed-face design with three vertical slits along its visor, allowing for ventilation or limited visibility. a striking plume of tattered, silver-gray horsehair cascaded from the top, adding a touch of what søren could only summarize as regal decay and mystique. with a slightly pointed face shield and reinforced edges, the piece exuded an air of dark nobility. "huh, i've never seen anything like that," søren mused, his hand reaching out to lightly paw at the helmet's plume. bloodborn armor has always been a rather unique aspect of gibraltar's warmongering ambitions. historically speaking, warriors of the mythic dawn have always favored practical and straightforward armaments such as iron and leather spangenhelms, interlinked iron ring mail shirts, and boiled leather gambesons. maneuverability and functionality serviced his people's customary fighting skills in a way that did not cost them the burden of heavy iron plating but, truthfully, the designation of armor aesthetics and usability boiled down to social class. commoners cannot afford a brigandine of exquisite iron plating. many of them lack the disposable income to buy a fresh suit off the mannequin, nevertheless employ the services of a well-rounded armorsmith. it was probably why so many lowborn soldiers in service to the great houses were far more likely to fall in battle when compared to their highborn commanders. the leather pourpoints worn by the working class possessed a dense structure that allowed it to absorb and deflect slashing attacks from lighter weapons and, as a result, reduced the severity of cuts and preserved the wearer's mobility. but leather armor fell short against direct piercing strikes, and a well-aimed thrust from a sword, spear, or arrow can right puncture through, as leather lacked the rigid structure needed to dissipate force across a broad surface. in contrast, iron armor—ranging from chainmail to solid plate—provided far superior protection against stabs and blunt force trauma. chainmail's interwoven rings helped prevent deep punctures, while plate armor's solid construction outright deflected or even absorbed powerful blows, though at the cost of increased weight and reduced agility. in that regard, he supposed his tribe was diverse in the ways of cosmetic presentation on the battlefield. detailed heavy armor was worn only by those with the wealth to afford it. who else could afford to embellish their suits with gemstones? the most diversity peasants could furnish themselves with was perhaps salvaging armor parts from their fallen foes. søren has heard tales of bloodborn warriors who claim enemy armor for themselves during raids and repurpose its aesthetics to fit their own defense style by creating a hodgepodge suit of various ornamentals and plating. it did not sound as attractive as sleek iron suits embedded with precious stones and elegant composition, but perhaps that was why it was such a popular practice with the lower class. why spend your silver at the forge when you can cross the border and slaughter a foreign tribesman for their armor instead? it all tied into his tribe's centuries-long tradition of depredation, where the valuables, wealth, and cultural capital of foreigners was believed to be their divine right and property.
indentmáirín slid the helmet onto her head, careless as to how it might tousle her hair. it was far too large for her cranium. "how do i look?" she questioned them, her voice echoing as if she were trapped in some underground cavern. she lifted the visor to peer at them from inside the helm. his sister looked so utterly ridiculous that søren could not help but snort in amusement. "ridiculous. now that you've had your fun, how about you put it back before you accidentally scratch it or something? i don't think we have enough silver to cover the costs if you shatter it or something."
indent"shatter it? by the gods, it's an iron helmet, søren. can you relax? it'd take a morningstar to crack this thing!" despite her heedlessness, his sister removed the oversized helmet and placed it back on display. she immediately reached for another armament, this time it being a thin small-sword. "now this is something that looks like it'd shatter upon impact. how is this supposed to compete against a greatsword or an axe? i guess it's slender enough to pierce through skin something awful, but imagine trying to parry with this thing! hmm... i don't know, you probably know more about blades than i do," she remarked to calista, her hand now outstretched in order to bestow the other princess the sword for inspection. søren forced his features to remain neutral as he watched his sister's movements, unbothered by the divergence she courted with every careless indulgence. to her, propriety was more of a suggestion rather than a royal obligation. it irritated him. her audacity not only risked their mother's wrath, but it risked sullying their family's already unstable image, their challenged station, their very place in the intricate, unyielding web of courtly tradition. he wanted to tell her to stop with the frivolous mindset, to remind her of what was expected of them, but what good would it do? she would only laugh at him, dismissing him as stiff-necked and tedious, just as she always did. and despite his frustrations, despite that tight coil of disapproval twisting in his gut, he knew he could not lead her in a direction she had not interest undertaking. he supposed that trying to force the two royals into leaving would only further solidify his notability as a stick-in-the-mud, and that was the last thing he wanted calista to think about him. instead, the young prince forced himself to ignore his misgivings as he turned away from the two women, his attention shifting further down the line of stocked goods. a pair of finely wrought war axes gleamed in the noonday light, their crescent-shaped blades inlaid with swirling knotwork patterns of silver. they depicted entwined wolves and ravens, the creatures circling each other with talons outstretched and teeth bared. their hafts, carved from sturdy ash wood, bore intricate runic inscriptions. beside them, a seax dagger with a richly patterned blade sat in an embossed leather sheath, its hilt wrapped in tightly braided elk hide for a firm grip. a hand-and-a-half sword, its fuller running deep along the steel, caught the eye with a hilt wrapped in fine blackened iron wire, the pommel shaped like a snarling wolf head. at the far end of the forge's exhibition, a massive bearded axe, meant for breaking shields and shattering armor, leaned against a wooden post, its broad blade bearing the faint shimmer of carefully layered steel. even the simpler weapons—a row of sturdy spears with leaf-shaped heads and round shields bound in iron—spoke of a keen attention to balance and durability.
indentwait, what's that?
indenta basket of plushies sat at the far end of the display table, their congenial features of button eyes and stitched smiles immediately catching his attention. søren approached the container, his hand reaching out to squeeze the nearest stuffy. what were these guys doing here? a forge seemed hardly fitting for a basket of stuffed animals, especially when compared to the impressive rows of unveiled weaponry next to them. perhaps one of the blacksmith's kin hand-stitched them? they bore distinctive, visible stitches, slightly uneven seams, and soft fabric. some were made of plush velvet, others of coarse burlap or faded cotton, their button eyes mismatched or delicately embroidered in expressive shapes. a stout bear with a patched ear donned a quilted tabard, its tiny cloth pauldrons secured with braided twine, while a long-eared rabbit wore a miniature gambeson stitched from old linen scraps, complete with a belt of frayed ribbon. a fox, its fur sewn from a mix of russet wool and silken scraps, carried a tiny felt dagger in its paws, as though forever poised for a playful duel. perched proudly among its plush companions, a falcon plushie exuded an air of quiet authority, its stern expression meticulously embroidered with sharp, downward-angled brows and a precise, hooked beak of dark thread. its body was sewn from a mix of soft gray and brown fabrics, with darker patches stitched across its wings to mimic the natural mottling of feathers. the cloth armor it wore was crafted with surprising detail—a snugly fitted tunic of dark blue felt reinforced with tiny, overlapping panels of stitched linen to resemble brigandine. around its shoulders, a small woolen cape draped elegantly, fastened at the front with a loop of golden embroidery thread. clutched tightly in its talons—stitched with careful curves to suggest sharpness despite their softness—was a plastic sword, its translucent surface slightly scuffed from past battles, the hilt wrapped in a thin strip of leather-like fabric for grip. even with its rotund, plush body and tiny stitched feet barely peeking out from beneath its armor, the falcon's rigid posture and unwavering glare gave it an undeniable presence. søren immediately plucked it from the pile of ragtag adventurers. heh, it's talos. he immediately thought of calista. should he buy it for her? it was more of an item of amusing sentimentality than anything saccharine, but he was not sure if she'd accept it or not. she backed out of the rings over adonis's mordacious jests; he could not imagine she'd accept a stuffed animal. she'd probably spurn it on the basis of its potential to attract another bout of open ridicule. still, he supposed there was no harm in showing it to her, even if he did not purchase it.
indentsøren approached calista from where she still stood in front of the display table. máirín was only a few feet away, silently admiring herself in a full body mirror as she adjusted her grip on a gleaming claymore. "look who i found," he announced, a slight smile dawning upon his lips as he raised the plushie to view. "this'll be talos in a few years. he'll have to don a set of armor made for a doll just to follow you into battle. you'd have your own mini valkyanki. just, you know, without the coolness of being able to fly on... birdback? eagleback? yeah, whatever, you get what i'm trying to say." he set the plushie down on the table in front of her. he wasn't going to shove it into her hands, but it was there if she was interested in taking a look. it'd be way more comical if he had decided to buy it for her as a surprise gift, but the humiliation would be far too overbearing if she did not accept it. truthfully, he felt trapped in the suffocating in-between of adolescent and adulthood transition, where nothing seemed to make sense and everything felt like an uphill battle. he longed for the confidence of manhood, the ability to adequately convey his emotions and expectations without tripping over his own feet. other times, søren yearned for the simplicity of childhood again. such trivial exhibits never seemed so mortifyingly profound as they do now. was there still a hint of tension between them over what happened earlier with the rings? logically, calista had no right to feel indignant over what he did, but he knew that logic did not always coincide with reality. was she mad at him? did she feel like he was silently scorning her? judging by her current temperament, she did not seem to be lingering in any sort of visible agitation. still, he could not help but wonder if calista felt some level of disgruntlement towards him. in hindsight, perhaps buying the matching rings had not been the best idea when attempting to navigate an already fragile dynamic, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
indentwith máirín distracted, he could poke her and try to dissect her thought process over what happened earlier with adonis, but that was probably not a good idea. given her reaction at the jewelry stand, she did not strike him as emotionally intuitive or congenitally reflective, and whatever mental deliberation she was forced to endure after their confrontation with her brother has surely roused some sourness on her end. the thought of calista harboring some degree of virulence towards him was entirely unpleasant, and he wasn't quite sure how to confront that. it seemed wrong to just disregard what happened earlier in the upper quarters of the city, but was it even a good idea to even try and tackle the indignity of it all? he was weary over provoking calista's anger by unintentionally prodding emotions she wished to stifle. when it came to his frame of mind, søren was not nearly as withdrawn as others in terms of willing vulnerability, and he found himself constantly navigating relationships where all he received was closed off and uncommunicative mentalities. perhaps if he was more well-spoken and expressive he might be able to turn said rocks into diamonds, but he had no idea how to circumnavigate unresponsive dispositions without angering the other person. he could never figure out how to steer the conversation in a way to achieve what he desired without risking injury in response, and it was probably why he often found it so difficult to confront clumsy situations such as these. much like every other adolescent his age, he was reasonably unpolished and ungainly when it came to discernment but, unlike his peers, it was not because he inherently lacked emotional intelligence or empathetic recognition. he simply fell short of the courage and verbal diplomacy needed to smoothly convey his sentiment into words, and his ability to handle potential aggression or rejection without suffering some sort of disconsolation in return was nonexistent. søren was devoid of self-confidence and self-assuredness, and his lack of conviction made it difficult to breach situations that desperately needed some perspicacity. some level of open acumen was needed to understand what happened between them earlier, but how were they to communicate when calista was unwilling and søren did not have the backbone to breach her temperament? still, he did not want her to think poorly of him or suspect him of hidden motives because there had been no opportunity for him to explain himself. "also, i—um, i just wanted to say—" he forced himself to ignore his discomfort, that familiar flash of anxiety that began to build almost as soon as he decided to start speaking, "i'm sorry if i, uhm, happened to offend you earlier or if what i did made you uncomfortable. it's never my intention to hurt your feelings, and i don't want you to think i was acting in a vindictive way. it's not like that." gods, just strike me down now. it was uncomfortable to be around someone when he knew he had done something to offend them. truly, if calista had demanded to know his intentions, he would have told her why he did what he did, but she had not seemed interested in questioning him, and he did not want to push the subject any further by adding unnecessary justifications. his apology was simple because it seemed best to make it straightforward and honest and not push his luck by lingering too long on the subject. søren has always felt compelled to pile on explanations when attempting to convey his motives, especially if he knew that any ambiguity would land him in hot water. he believed that if he gave a compelling enough reason for his choice, others would see things his way and not lash out at him for his own unique thought processes. if he could make others understand why he did what he did, perhaps they would still like him. and when he felt guilty over his decisions, he was quick to turn to awkward exposition to convince others he had a good reason for doing what he did. søren believed that in order to be likeable, he had to be unfailingly agreeable and accommodating, to put the feelings of others above his own. he wanted to be clear about his intentions to increase the depth and authenticity of his and calista's relationship, but he might be already failing miserably at that. if there was an opening to do so, he would have surely began looking to her for reassurance by illustrating his rationale in hope that she would understand and come around to his point of view. often, it was not really about changing opposing minds as it was needing external approval for his own controversial choices. it was not a form of manipulation but a sign of respect, to find trust in hoping he would earn support for what he did, even if his decisions were not agreed upon. but having received no validation over whether or not buying the rings was a justified decision, he was now swimming in self-doubt. in some ways, such behavior made it hard for him to think independently. while he did not think he did anything wrong, he could not help but feel like he did commit some offense towards her. he always felt remorse whenever he felt like he hurt the people he cared about, no matter how unwilling they were to show the same penance when they retaliated in return. søren was not sure if it was merely the friction between them that contributed to his guilt or if it was his familiar accusations ringing in his ears, but he could not help but feel contrited over his own actions.
indenthis mother always accused him of manipulative and self-serving behavior whenever he committed an unintentional slight against her person, and it was becoming harder and harder to remain vigilant over whether or not she spoke the truth. søren did not feel like he was an unscrupulous or deceitful person. he certainly did not buy the rings to make calista feel abashed over what happened at the jewelry stand, but did intentions even matter when your actions triggered affliction anyway? perhaps he was an artful person and did not even realize it... or does it work that way? his mother has always insisted that his crafty callousness was the designation of his very blood. in bloodborn mythology, it was believed that empýrabúars are born with the remarkable ability to bewitch and compel affection by endearing themselves to other people. there were only a few handfuls of recorded empýrabúars throughout his tribe's history, and all were written in historical archives to have been cunning, resourceful, beguiling, and articulate individuals who rose to positions of great ecclesiastical power. whether it be from divine ordinance or a ministerial stereotype, his mother seemed certain that søren acted in a way to purposely discomfit her. his grandmother insisted that her behavior was nonsensical; she merely accused him of insidious behavior to make herself feel better because his amiable mannerisms triggered her sense of regret after she treated him poorly, and most people cannot handle the guilt of knowing they are in the wrong. princess aoibheann knew she had no valid reason to villainize him, so she conjured a story of false indignation to justify her misplaced frustrations. logically, it made sense, but why did søren continue to find ways to distress the people around him? there had to be something wrong with him. the gods must have cursed him to live not only a colorless and dismal existence through religious edicts but to also become of unintentional wire-frame model of refined exploitation, a creature engrained with the natural incentive to sinisterly enchant the people around him. given his natural apprehensiveness towards just about everything in life, søren was already assuming the worst, already mentally confirming the role he played in hurting calista's feelings. he wanted her to know that he had not meant to act against her, hence his haphazard apology. truthfully, he did not even know if she was cross with him, and he had no idea if apologizing would lessen the burden or inflame the restlessness of unspoken diffidence. he had no clue if calista would even appreciate his concession or if she'd grow openly irritated with him for even vaguely mentioning it. he wasn't prodding her or even directly confronting what happened, but even apologizing could be the wrong move and he just didn't know it yet. søren supposed he wouldn't be surprised if she did get angry with him; it wouldn't be the first time he received a lashing for trying to correct an unpleasant situation. he did not expect a candid response from her. really, he did not even expect a response at all. he just wanted her to know that he was sorry, and that he cared about her enough to say that, even if the prince had no plausible cause to take the blame. he was willing to become the scapegoat if it meant soothing whatever quiet animosity calista might be nurturing towards him. "you don't have to respond. i-i just wanted to, uh, tell you that. here, take this," søren suddenly dug into his pocket so that he could pull forth the small pouch of penningars. he carefully reached over to grab her hand, deftly ignoring the way his heart lurched when he made contact with her gloved skin. he gently unfurled her fingers so that he could place the pouch into her waiting palm before he manually curled her digits over the small bag. "in-case you see something for cybil. or, you know, if you want to buy something for yourself. it's yours." he let go of her hand. he figured that bequeathing her their only form of silver so she could make independent purchases without asking him first was a good idea. he has already done enough damage by carelessly pursuing the rings, and he did not want to add any unnecessary discordancy to boot by making her feel like she had to ask him for financial leisure. was he even making the right calls right now? should he have just ignored his perturbation and hoped the tension disspaidated on its own? sure, but that would have not done his own guilty conscious any favors. he did not want her to think he was some sort of spiteful or malicious person, and the only way to solve that characterization was to apologize, even if he was not at fault. his character was already epitomized in the confines of his tribe's religious institution, and he wanted his relationship with calista to be devoid of any false portrayals. he wanted her to know that he was being genuine, even if he lacked the eloquence to adequately express that. søren just wished it was easier to communicate with her without the threat of condemnation hanging above his head. of course, he did not blame her for it, but he felt like he was navigating the unknown. it was impossible to tell how calista was going to respond to his mitigation when she acted so reticent in the face of emotional discomfort.