❝ ── WASTELAND, BABY !

[vaermina]

ＡＢＲＩＬ ＦＯＸ－ＳＴＲＡＮＧＷＡＹＳxxx
I.xcisfemalex II.xno affiliationsx III. a resident of vault 113


indentshafts of fading yellow sunlight streamed through the biddercombes' cheerful gingham curtains, casting a warm glow upon the polished linoleum floor and chrome-trimmed appliances of the small kitchen. kitschy drawings of faded lime pie, jubilant roosters and speckled teapots lined the wallpaper that ed biddercombe hung on the kitchen walls upon his wife's gaudy insistence. the kitchen bore not only the gentle patina of countless family gatherings but a home that has stood unfazed as the heart of a time-forgotten haven. daffodil-colored cabinets, adorned with curved chrome handles, revealed treasure troves of neatly arranged chinaware. wendy biddercombe has always been meticulous when it came to the presentation of her household. she kept her porcelain chinaware in the cabinets—quartz, feldspar, and kaolin clay made them relatively invaluable in today's market—but her bone china enjoyed a tended spotlight in the home's numerous mahogany hutches. missus biddercombe's fine sets of bavarian gilded glass sets adorned with grey fish scale motifs and mulberry sparrows stood on proud display throughout the family home. she was meticulous when it came to polishing them, as she was with ensuring every appliance and counter in her house was speckless. the kitchen's state of affairs and everything it entails for a strict but matronly housewife meant the most to her. the centerpiece of the kitchen, a gleaming white enamel stove with dainty pastel accents, showed no signs of wicked grease and oil stains. the porcelain sink, adorned with a charming apron-front, stood similar in an unblemished glow alongside the formica countertops. two hours were spared earlier this morning rearranging the insides of the kitchen's retro cyan refrigerator. spoiled milk bottles and meatloaf leftovers were dumped and thrown out to make room for the various meals that had been prepared over the past week for the winter festival. the downtown bistro was one of the festival's main dessert providers—one could never go wrong with molded strawberry salad, cherry nut cake, grapefruit alaska, spiced pineapple upside-down cake and glass cups of tropical ambrosia salad—but nearly every household in merrowbeach contributed to the catering with a classic neighborly benevolence. they had more platters of ham with baked pineapples than they knew what to do with, and green bean amandine and olive-stuffed celery appeared to be a favorite amongst some of the families. there was a healthy and moderately alarming variety of home-cooked meals delivered to the festival every year: jell-o salad, creamed onions and peas, deviled eggs, easy chicken croquettes, chicken thigh fricassee with mushrooms and rosemary, welsh rarebit, beef casserole with biscuits, wedge salad, beef wellington, honey ginger carrots, tunnel of fudge cake, lasagna, tuna casserole, smoked pigs in a blanket. the kitchens of merrowbeach were scenes of a warzone earlier this week, but the promise of lavish social gatherings and quaint family gatherings had every housewife and paranoid husband rushing to clean their homes before the festivities began. the biddercombe household was no exception. missus biddercombe insisted that everything be perfect, in-case they were to host guests later tonight and drink a few tom collins at her husband's mini glass cocktail bar. like most of the homes in fallkirk county, the biddercombes' house represented a period of post-war optimism and mid-century modern delights. their living room and dining area embraced a mix of vibrant and pastel hues such as bold teal, orange, and chartreuse, along with adorning colors like mint green, blush pink, and baby blue. turquoise, coral, and buttery yellows adorned the walls with their geometric-patterned wallpaper, and clean lines and organic shapes defined the furniture. the living room featured sleek and streamlined furniture designs, with its pink upholstered sofa and striped lounge chairs bearing small, tapered peg legs. missus biddercombe's prized black noguchi coffee table set smack dab in the center of the room, and starburst clocks and sunburst mirrors overlooked the room's wall-to-wall arctic carpet. garnished decor such as ceramic animals figures, decorative ashtrays, vinyl wall pieces and table lamps with fiberglass shades were scattered throughout the home, and an old television set sat encased in a wooden cabinet in the living room. most of missus biddercombe's precious china sets sat on display in her dining room—none of them sat on her open-air shelves, where dozens of black and white photos of her family and friends perched—and her oak dining table was already prepped for a potential gathering with a yellow tablecloth and speckled melamine plates. a floral stained glass pendant light hung over the table, its pale lightbulb washing the olive green walls and abstract expressionism paintings in fading light. the light crawled along the tacky carpets and past the colorful linoleum of the kitchen to creep into the hallway where the home's wood-paneled staircase led upstairs. mirrors with decorative frames and large wall clocks with bold, visible numbers had been nailed along the wall that stretched upwards into the second floor of the house.
indentit was quiet upstairs.
indentthe painted casserole pan felt cold in abril's hands as she took it out of the refrigerator and placed it on the counter of the kitchen's servicing hatch. it was a crunchy spinach casserole, wrapped in aluminum foil and prepared by one of missus biddercombe's neighbors. it sat next to a plethora of similar dishes, all who were to be transported downtown within the coming hour for the winter festival. every year, merrowbeach hosted a weekend of jubilant festivities in early january that, in the beginning of the town's history, were held to celebrate the upcoming fishing season. the cold waters of the bay usually rewarded the locals with trout, reds, flounders, sheepsheads, black drum, bonito, pompano, whiting and hearty crab, although the latter usually forced fisherman out in rowboats with dip nets to catch the crustaceans in deeper waters. the basis of the celebrations haven't changed much when one accounts for the numerous fishing and crab eating contests held over the course of the weekend, but the township has adapted to the turning of the age and post-war enthusiasm by including entertainment contests, city plays and performances, collector shows, a flea market, food stands and various other contests. what was once a meager conviviality held to welcome a new year has become one of merrowbeach's most economically and socially valuable celebrations of the season. downtown main street was blocked off as a throughway for crafters and businesses alike, and the locals could enjoy a weekend of browsing through artisan stock or attending the local plays and performances hosted at the art center. generally speaking, it was far too cold to celebrate at the beach—some locals could still be found playing in the surf, undisturbed by the chilly sea—but the festival did well enough on its own that it did not have to depend on weather conditions to draw in a crowd. it was one of merrowbeach's biggest events, and it would not be until easter that the streets would grow as crowded as they were to be this weekend. abril's mother agnetha took it all very seriously. the winter festival was good business for her diner and small seafood processing plant down at the docks. the diner was closed during the weekend of the festival, but she kept a small stand open on main street to sell her stock of bistro desserts and fresh seafood. both options were a hit every single year, for the citizens of merrowbeach loved nothing more but newly harvested seafood and homemade desserts. the stardust bistro and diner remained one of merrowbeach's most successful businesses because of such sentiments; people preferred to shop at home than give their hard-working dimes to large corporations trying to bustle their way into small-town living. merrowbeach thrived off of local consumerism and classic hospitality. most of the businesses here were owned by the locals, and those who participated in the craft fairs usually walked home with a substantial amount of cash from curious buyers. the festival contributed greatly to merrowbeach's economic climate, and like most of its citizens abril was eager to help it get on its feet. she already spent most of the past week baking and preparing meals for the festival alongside her mother's social group. she has spent most of her life helping her mother bake extra pies and desserts for fundraisers and community projects. it was an awfully tedious but mindful project, one that abril enjoyed contributing towards. she was a dynamic individual who not only found joy in meeting the needs of others but also thrived on the tangible successes that resulted from her compassionate endeavors. many would proclaim that abril fox-strangways is a delight to be around, and a girl of most infectious friendliness and amity who boasted a helpful disposition to any task set before her. she was never the one to complain about the difficulty of a situation, and any complaints she did issue were usually concealed behind lighthearted banter to hide her true intentions. her personality was a blend of traditional values and a modern, progressive outlook, and she enjoyed the respect and veneration that came with her duties. abril extended herself into every corner of merrowbeach. it did not matter if it was simple volunteering, regional donating or scribbling her name down on some pieces of paper to join an outreach community project. she was by no means a woman who lacked ambition, and her eagerness to help did well with her assiduous ways. abril's more fussy mannerisms usually hid themselves well in her leaderly disposition, often to the point that she rarely came across as badgering. she had enough good sense in her body that connecting with others was never a chore. it appeared that nothing was a chore for abril fox-strangways. most would describe her as a good girl, a very good girl indeed, and a pleasant young lady who attended church every sunday and always punched in her employee card on time. even as a child she was never openly disobedient to figures of authority, and any grievances she had with her superiors were never uttered in their presences. she did what was requested of her without complaint, even when her thumbs felt like they were about to fall off from pressing pie dough or decorating hundreds of sugar cookies with vanilla frosting. abril has spent most of the day either thawing out dishes or presenting the final touches for pick-up; that was not including heeding missus biddercombe's wishes by helping tidy her home by scrubbing the kitchen tiles, wiping down every dusty or finger-smeared surface, and vacuuming the carpets free of orange cat hair. she checked the bottles of liquor behind mister biddercombe's home cocktail bar to ensure no half-empty glasses were in view, and afterwards swept the front porch clean of dead leaves shed by the big oak tree in the front lawn. she would not want missus biddercombe to come home and express disappointment in her efforts.
indentwhile abril would never admit it to an adulated adult, the acts of cleaning and preparing homecooked meals to be delivered downtown was monotonous at best, and she had other worries on her mind today. her hands were caked in flour from kneading dough all afternoon, and her fingernails were embedded with royal frosting from making batches of icing with raw egg whites, icing sugar and water. she had more leftover cookie dough from cutting pastries with snowflake and fish cookie cutters than she knew what to do with, and every dessert that needed extra garnishing—be it fruit slices, fondant, cheese, chocolate or chopped nuts—were finished by the time the biddercombes' grandfather clock struck three. abril could not deny the fact she was a swift worker, one who was always careful to avoid mistakes by acting so frivolous during her projects, but a part of her could not ignore the restlessness she felt deep in her bones. it remained an irritating perseverance in the back of her mind, a naughty woodchuck that kept pecking at her brain and reminding her every five minutes that, despite the beauty and joy of the winter festival this evening, she was going to endure yet again another uneasy night of dreams. even as she stared down at the polished kitchen counter and the wrapped dishes in front of her—she could already smell the stench of tuna wafting from one of the casseroles—she could feel her defenses closing in around itself, her thoughts already beginning to prepare her for whatever anomalous dream busted down her door tonight. they were restless reveries, a series of bizarre and exceptional dreams that made no sense to her but continued to haunt her sleep on a regular basis. abril has never been the type of person to experience vivid hallucinations. for the most part, her dreams were simple, nonsensical and overall harmless in terms of what her brain liked to present to her at nighttime. most of the time she could never recall dreaming of anything at all, and she was just fine with that. lately, her dreams have grown to become far more vivid, indecipherable and sibylline than any other silly musing she's ever had. she woke up with clear remembrance of everything that she had just experienced, and every dream she had seemed to follow a strict pattern. even now as she cleaned up leftover fondant could she recall the dreams that plagued her sleep every other night: the urban sprawl of southeastern conurbation was but a distant picture amongst the arid expanse of secluded terrain and scorched desert. the first hints of daylight unveiled a scene of weaved tranquility and harshness that could only be found in sunbaked valleys such as these. as the night sky bled into a canvas of pastel purples and warm medallion, wisps of clouds began to catch fire, igniting with a fiery brilliance that mirrored the sun's slow ascent to the throne. the air was crisp and cool, carrying the whispers of desert winds that have traversed vast expanses of sand and stone. the scent of ancient earth, tinged with the subtle aroma of hardy desert flora, lingered beneath the fading stars. the landscape's undulating topography, whether in the form of sand dunes or rugged rock formations, cast long, stretching shadows that appeared to elongate as the sun climbed higher in the sky. lean stacks of old cacti, yucca, brittlebush, and prickly pears bathed in sunlight as dawn touched the land, and desert birds took to the breeze as soon as the warmth of the sun graced their ground nests. the area's iconic joshua trees stood as silent sentinels, their spiky silhouettes a stand-out against the the evolving canvas of colors. the ambiance was serene, with nature's subtle symphony unfolding against the canvas of the awakening desert. in low-lying areas, hungry mammals continued to scurry along the cracked stone for sustenance, and wisps of wet mist danced above the ground. the dawn unveiled a captivating display of evaporating moisture as plants began to stretch and open their blooms, introducing a burst of color against the muted palette of dirt and sand. lakes were a rare sight in the valley; the most one could find was shallow ponds or unfriendly rivers with frothy brown water and strong currents. the jagged mountains and small plateaus that dotted the landscape created a dramatic interplay between light and shadow, between the safety and dangers of an alleged small slope versus an unsuspecting steep cliff. the beauty and stillness of daybreak hid the prowling coyote and venomous snake, and the shifty drifter who wandered along the valley's desolate highways found no kindness in the hearts of passing vehicles. the desert presented a delicate dance between the elements—a harmonious convergence of light and shadow, stillness and awakening. the transition between the cool hours of nighttime and the gaining heat of day transcends the ordinary, inviting contemplation and awe in the face of nature's ever-repeating masterpiece. mankind was not welcome in the barren landscape. nothing but god's creatures were welcome there, and man had so far proven himself unworthy of god's embrace. and somehow, deep in the shadow of the valley as abril found herself sitting inside a strange vehicle that looked almost entirely too newfangled, she knew that this was the end of the world.
indentabril would always wake up in the morning feeling nothing at all.
indentit was difficult to make sense of it all when she had no personal connection to what she was witnessing. abril has never left the limits of fallkirk county. she has, in some capacity, always resided within a few miles of the pacific ocean. she has never left the comfort of the west coast before, so where was her brain taking her at nighttime? what did it want her to see? was there something out there that wanted her to remember something, to view a vision lost to time? none of it made much sense to her, and her efforts to look into the concept of dreams through the local library have so far yielded no tangible results. she found a research paper published by a professor of physiology in which a new sleep state, rem sleep, was described and a correlation with dreaming hypothesized; it was followed by a delegation that the human sleep cycle of nrem sleep stages of increasing depth was followed by periods of rem sleep, with the cycles repeating through the night. it did not tell her much, though, at-least not much of anything that she could understand. she found another book of a nineteenth century austrian neurologist who theorized that dreams reflect the dreamer's unconscious mind and specifically that dream content is shaped by unconscious wish fulfillment. he argued that important unconscious desires often relate to early childhood memories and experiences. abril could not argue with that, but she was unsure that she could relate to it. her childhood was one of a very dull but pleasant actuality. she was born here in merrowbeach, delivered by her own father who, to this day, still operates as the town's leading physician and surgeon. she grew up in its idyllic suburbs, having received her education at its local schools and her sea legs on its local boats. her childhood was nothing particularly extraordinary, and abril grew up well-liked and well-loved by friends and family alike. she was never lacking in the social department, and striving to achieve her goals has always come easy to her. she has never experienced anything as calamitous as loss or trauma, which is why she could not quite make sense of what her body was trying to tell her at night. her life was not one of a perturbed nature so why was she witnessing something that, while not inherently discomfiting, certainly bore fruition that something was deeply and starkly wrong? she could not quite say how many times she's visited the same dream over and over again. there was nothing about it that struck home for her, no memory she could recall that would give explanation as to why she was in the middle of a barren desert. obviously, there was a sense of balefulness about it all that led her to experience the same emotions over and over again right before she woke up but she could not a finger on what it was. it was a strange experience that shattered her otherwise bonny existence here in merrowbeach, for it was rare for abril or anyone else who lived on the bay for that matter to experience anything world-shaking. abril found it easy to shove it all aside when she was busy focusing on the people or events going on around her but in moments like these, the silence made it easy to remember what she was trying so hard to veer away from. at this point, she was becoming convinced that it was a nightmare of some sort for what else could it be? nightmares could be recurring, although every other nightmare she could recall having as a child was always in black and white. in fact, her dreams were usually in black and white, something that seemed to be touched upon a lot in what few research papers she could find in the library about dreams. the lack of answers agitated her, but she supposed she was not terribly alarmed about it all. she was just unsettled over its obstinacy although nightmares were supposed to be off-putting, right? and the human body was not terribly sensible anyway. that's what abril was trying to tell herself, at-least. her father often told her that sometimes it's best not to try and make sense of the unknown, for there are some mysteries on this earth best left for god to figure out. dreams cannot harm you, and she was beginning to lean on the idea that her restless nights lately were a result of recent stresses. what would a philosopher know about the human body, anyway? the church viewed philosophy as not only distinct but mutually antagonistic to the christian attitude, and that it stood at the same time as rival interpretations of creation. according to the local pastor, you cannot have aristotle's eternity in time and god's creation on the same belief system without serious discordance. the thought did not comfort abril as she finished sealing the remaining dishes and placed them on the servicing hatch.
indentthere were several books in her tote bag that she had yet to return to the library that touched upon the cultural importance of dreams. she found one book that spoke about the dream worlds of the mayan civilization and how learning to dream with clarity and lucidity allows the human brain to access messages to the conscious mind after waking up. an archetypal dreamer is a spiritual warrior, and if a match between a day sign and dream occurs then it is an important one. one chapter focused on the essence of the koyopa, a feminine energy upon which shamans draw for important rituals. mayan priests would activate the koyopa through kulkukan movements in the highest chambers of their pyramids. they believed that the pe-dawn hours before waking are most important, and that the nawal wonders meet and interacts with wandering nawales of others. the day sign soul nawal is one's spiritual essence and archetypal imprint, and its inner purpose was to dream and roam freely. the "adiosich" is the soul of a person that lives on after they die—something akin to a spirit—and can be contacted by the living in dreams. the mayans used altars to communicate in the dream world, and they claimed to have received messages from items on their altar such as rocks and crystals. if everything is a living being, then it is possible to communicate with anything in existence. she even read that in mayan tarot card readings, leaving a particular card underneath your pillow at night allows you to connect deeper with the archetype of that card and visualizing the tarot card before sleep can unveil hidden messages. they believed in cosmic forces and spirit circles, and some dream practitioners even encouraged leaving a cup of water for your spirit to drink when it returns to your body at daybreak. the cultural practices of the ancient mayans and the knowledge she found on notorious occultists like aleister crowley certainly piqued her curiosity. if she was being honest, she had already thought of drinking a glass of water with lemon an hour before supper several days ago to possibly gain a crutch in understanding her dreams—it was a common practice back when the mayans were around. she doubted she could find crystals to make her own altar, too. rocks might work but what type of rocks? she did not know. she wanted answers, but she did not know where to start looking or if there were even answers to be found. there was a possibility that she was just being foolish, and her anxieties over what inflicted her had no basis or cause for wariness. others would view her strangely if they knew of what topics she has recently dived into—the librarian had given her an odd look when she went to the library the other day to check out the books. it was not that merrowbeach was full of close-minded bigots who would tar her at the first sign of hearsay but rather it was a small town and people loved to gossip. it's all you ever hear in the grocery store line or at the salon while you're getting your hair styled. abril could not say that it was anything inherently terrible other than run-of-the-mill bavardage of marriage speculations and social scrutiny but she was not exactly looking to endure that sort of treatment herself. abril has always enjoyed her privacy to begin with, and topics that could potentially alienate her spirit to casual perusal was unacceptable. she would not speak of her troubles to others in fear of appearing foolish, for who else could possibly relate? besides, there was a chance that abril was attempting to find fault where there is none, and she would be most embarrassed to tell others that something was wrong with her when, in reality, she was just going through the motions. she tried to lean on reason and logic above fear and paranoia, and busying herself with mundane tasks helped keep her from dwelling too long on her consternation. it was one of the reasons why she practically leapt at the opportunity of helping her mother with the festival's catering services, although by now most of the work was done. abril spent a good portion of her friday afternoon preparing the dozens of baked goods and dishes in missus biddercombe's fridge for pickup, and by now there was little to be done but have the plates be delivered downtown. her mother refused abril's help in that regard. she told her to leave missus biddercombe's house key beneath the owl statue next to the front door, and they will come and pick up the rest of the dishes before dusk.
indentthe falling sun cast a warm, golden glow upon conference grove avenue as abril left the home of the biddercombe family. the suburbs have always been a quiet place. less than a ten minute walk from the ocean, the quaint neighborhoods that surrounded the considerably small town of merrowbeach have always been a relatively peaceful place to live. neighbors were pleasant but insular, and every house that lined the streets were kept in impeccable shape. the residents of merrowbeach kept a certain pride about themselves when it came to the houses they lived in. you'll never see a house in merrowbeach with peeling paint or an overgrown lawn. in fact, nearly every housewife appeared to be engaged in a courteous but quiet game of warfare over who can outcompete the others in terms of presenting a flawless lifestyle and household. gardens remained as exemplary in wintertime as they did during the summer, and no resident would be found dead with a car covered in grime and dirt. uniformity was one of merrowbeach's most astounding traits, for its neighborhoods had very little diversity in terms of architecture and design. most of the homes were beach cottages and cape cods, with a few select ranch-style and victorian homes to boot. they were painted in light colors, pastels to match the luminance of the sea, and faded crape myrtles and young oak trees lined the sides of the roads where cars sat idly beneath their branches. the gardens planted by the denizens of merrowbeach were some of the finest in fallkirk county, with bundles of orange coneflower, purple asters, pale peonys and snow-white verbena decorating the edges and inner belly of bright green lawns. there were weathered statues of baby angels inside some of these gardens, for they stood silent vigilance over faded flowers and crawling ivy. as abril stepped off the front porch of the biddercombe house with her tote bag slung over her shoulder, she could not help but notice how wane the neighborhood appeared to be. the cold jaws of winter have already begun to bite down on the small coastal town. thin white sheets had been draped over flower bushes to protect them from the midnight cold, and the once bright scenery of smalltown living looked awfully gray as the sky drained itself of color. abril shivered against the cool breeze that came in from the ocean. long shadows stretched across the street from the quiet houses that stood guard on conference grove avenue, their windows dark and chimneys devoid of smoke. cars sat silent on the sides of the street like big metal beasts deep in slumber. she could find no source of children's laughter or the barking of chained dogs, and the only sounds she could hear was that of the wind and the sea. it was impossible to see the ocean from where she walked along on the sidewalk but she could hear its distant call, like that of a great god calling out to its followers for their attention. she was long familiar with the cold ocean breeze. she was familiar with the way the sky darkened into shades of light violet and dark amber, and she was familiar with the way the clouds rolled in from the ocean to settle over the bay of lovers. she always found this time of day to be melancholic, where the late hours of afternoon dwindled into early evening. winter always found a way to get her into that sort of mood. it never snowed here—snows last in the high mountains until early fall, before the summer melt irrigated california's central valley during the summertime—but there was something oddly pensive about spending winter near the ocean. abril could only assume that the festival contributed to the neighborhood's current emptiness, for it was rare to be out and about and spot absolutely nobody. there were always children playing on the sidewalks or women tending to their gardens and outside patios; dogs could be spotted lounging beneath large oak trees and men could be seen tinkering inside their garages. families most oft made their presence known, and it was strange to witness their absence. there was always somebody walking on the same sidewalk as her, for merrowbeach was a small town and it did not take very long to commute between the heart of the borough and its suburbs. abril enjoyed the trek. she found it easier to walk than to take her father's car and find some cramped spot to park it in in downtown. besides, she liked hearing the ocean. it was comforting to her that the beach was so close by, although she was unsure if it was because of a love for the sea or if it was because it was a direct contrast to the dreams that haunted her sleep as of late. to her, the ocean represented freedom and adventure, and she loved watching the fishermen from the docks navigate the waves as they attempted to conquer its unruliness.
indentthe commercial district of merrowbeach was not as quiet as its residential sectors. abril could tell almost immediately upon leaving the sleepy ambiance of the suburbs that most of the bay's residents were already beginning to congregate further into town. most of the celebrations did not start until later on tonight, but it seemed people were none too shy with getting a head start on the festivities. merrowbeach's business district was quite different than that of its quiet suburbs. a rather restrictive and bustling area that revolved around its popular main street, the town was composed of over a hundred brick buildings, all short of stature and all pushed up against one another with little room for anything else. most of the buildings in merrowbeach were not towering. most of them were only one or two story, thin and tall with large windows and a variety of businesses shacked inside. distinct keepsakes at the myriad of unique boutiques and shops along the brick-lined streets were easily uncovered by the wandering eye, and local artisans were always kept on their toes by the flow of traffic coming into their shops. there was a plethora of diverse shops to look upon in merrowbeach's business district. retail and home goods boutiques, gourmet provisions such as bakeries and butcher shops, health and beauty shops, general stores, fresh produce stalls, cafés and garages could be found scattered throughout the small district. they were all owned and operated by locals, and that's just how everyone liked it. main street itself was the bulk of merrowbeach's shopping experience, although the local courthouse, bank and police station could be found there as well. there was little room for parking aside from whatever parking spot one could find against a curb, and the small roads that zigzagged through the town's business district all eventually led down to the water, where merrowbeach's prized docks could be found. there was already a steady flow of traffic going on when abril entered the commercial district. the roads were packed with cars attempting to navigate their way out of the cramped avenues, and the sidewalks were littered with people rotating in and out of shops or heading down towards main street. the young woman could no longer hear the distant call of the ocean, for all she heard now were vehicles honking, muddled conversations and the faint call of music wafting up from main street. merrowbeach's commercial district was very much different than that of its residential neighborhoods. while one or two shop owners may spruce up their storefront with potted plants and small trees, it was a relatively lifeless front full of nothing but stout brick buildings and cramped streets where drivers felt like they were one centimeter away from hitting an iron light pole. the benches that lined the sidewalks were always occupied, and unless one was careful of where they were going it was easy to accidentally stumble into another party. abril tightened the gray headscarf around her head as she passed by the throngs of people. she had yet to style her hair today, and going out and about with unstyled hair was not ideal for abril. the scarf hid the plainness of her head. truthfully, abril had yet to get ready for tonight. as of now she wore nothing but a long-sleeved sweater, shiny black court pumps and a skirt that reached her ankles. it was unusual for abril to dress so plainly, but she was not about to abdicate her plans with saoirse. the other woman rarely showed crossness, but abril would not be surprised if she felt something akin to that emotion should abril dress without her. in fact, it did not take long for abril to appear in front of the merrowbeach dance studio where the other woman lingered inside. she was unsure of what she was doing inside. practicing, maybe? or just finishing up? she was tempted to enter but quickly figured that the others inside would most likely not appreciate a random guest entering their midst, especially when tensions must already be high from the winter festival. abril opted to instead take a seat on a iron-wrought bench outside the studio's doors. she placed her tote bag next to her. abril liked seeing the crowds. it gave her some hope that the festival would be worth the amount of time and effort that has been put into it by people like her mother. the older woman worked hard at everything she does, and she would be most disappointed if the crowds did not meet her expectation. abril did not blame her for that. there were already several plays set to be performed during the weekend by groups abril has been coaching down at the arts center the past couple of months, and she would be most distressed if something were to go wrong. but abril was eager to see what others have been working on in preparation for the festival, and she was most curious to hear what saoirse's ballerina company has been working on. she was unsure on whether or not they were participating in this year's festivities, but she remained curious nevertheless. saoirse was a wonderful dancer, a graceful woman who was praised for her talents for a reason. the winter festival seemed almost perfect for a ballet performance, and she could think of nobody better than saoirse to lead the charge.

[vaell]

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxa resident of vault 113.
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indentjanuary is always a special time of the year for the residents of merrowbeach. the ushering in of a new year brings forth a high of elation for most people, determined to make do what they could not achieve the year prior. people are anticipating what may be in store for them while others are dreading the prospect of what possible hardships they may come to face. regardless, cautious hopefulness and expectation seem to linger in the air, ready to be ignited by the promise of a few nights of merriment and gaiety. she supposed her father was right when he said people become filled with joie de vivre come this time of winter. serving as an escape from the mid-january blues, merrowbeach has made a tradition out of dedicating a few days of the month for winter celebration and festivities, beginning this friday evening and extending throughout the rest of the weekend. downtown would soon enough be brimming with folks eagerly looking for some form of entertainment or revelry, and oftentimes events coordinated through the town's center for the arts attract a considerable crowd. saoirse herself could testify for the awe and wonder artistic performances inspire in the community of merrowbeach, having spent time on stage as a performer for a ballet and in other instances as a marveling spectator in the audience. saoirse's efforts in the dance studio these past few months would culminate at the end of the town's wintertime festivities, starring in a well-known classic ballet such as swan lake, l'histoire de manon, the sleeping beauty, or the nutcracker ─ a favorite of hers, and the performance she was honored to lead in this year. the world of dance is a familiar one to saoirse and it often made much more sense to her than did the real, practical world. as of late though, she couldn't help but find her two separate realities encroaching on each other. ever since she was a young girl saoirse has attended most ─ if not all ─ merrowbeach festivities with a certain abril fox-strangways, her dearest and most cherished childhood friend whom she planned to spend tonight's celebrations with. much like the town has established it's own tradition, they too have. a small leather photo album in saoirse's room serves as home to a number of different memories the two of them have shared together over the years, evidencing how closely they've grown up and matured alongside one another. sometimes it was comforting to flip through the pages of the album after a long day at work or an exhausting practice at the dance studio. seeing photographs of her and a young abril playing along the shallow inlet of the coast as kids ─ a series of black and white candid images probably taken by one of their parents ─ could always manage to put a smile on her face even in the worst of times. saoirse was a sentimental person indeed; she liked to keep photographs, little letters accompanying christmas gifts, or other keepsakes most people may find trivial like movie tickets or receipts. she loved her friend as profoundly as any girl might their childhood companion, granted with a sense of awe and silent admiration. abril shone in ways saoirse did not, and she grew used to relying on her friend as the more outgoing of the two of them; in turn, the other woman understood her in ways other people did not. saoirse was still not far off from the shy, quiet little girl she once was but her friendship with abril has inadvertently helped her become more rooted in her identity. alas, saoirse was honored to be performing a ballet later this weekend; in fact, she was quite eager to show off her hard work on the stage but admittedly, there was another reason that might account for her growing enthusiasm today, curious as it may be. she's been restless at the barre today, and quite certain that if she remained stretching her leg for any longer she may fall into another fit of daydreams yet again. was it abril fox-strangways quietly infiltrating the recesses of her mind, or was she simply excited to embrace the beginning of a weekend full of carefree celebration? saoirse could not tell.
indentthe encore dance studio boasts a spacious room for the ballet company's practicing professionals, floored with a semi-traditional covering with wood battens laid on neoprene pads. the sprung floor is intended to minimize the stress on the bones and joints of the ballet company's resident studio dancers; with the load spread by plywood and good quality durable wood, the floating floor rests on an system of high density foam to absorb the shock of jumping by practicing dancers. other practice rooms in the studio have vinyl floor coverings that can be rolled up if they're needed for performances at different venues such as the center for the arts or merrowbeach's modest opera house. such vinyl floorings are easily mobilized because they rest atop the studios hardwood floors without any adhesive, requiring only a few tapes on the edges to be fastened up. she and the rest of her ballet company are often responsible for helping transport belongings such as floorings to different performance centers, just as they would likely be tasked with doing later this weekend. the studio walls are lined with floor-mounted barre ─ otherwise known as support bars ─ fixed to the walls of the room to provide support for dancers wishing to stretch in either stages of their warm up or cool down routine, such as saoirse was in the middle of doing now. floor to ceiling mirrors surrounded the main dance floor to ensure dancers could check their postures while practicing, interrupted only by a grand wall clock located near the top border of one of the walls. the ceiling height in the studio even permitted the addition of a few ceiling fans to help with the temperature and ventilation control in the room. a quaint piano occupies the space in the corner of the studio in case a dancer should wish to practice on live music, especially for a ballet and ballroom sequences. having finished practicing the third movement in the nutcracker pas de deux for the day, the melodies composed by the iconic pyotr ilyich tchaikovsky were no longer being played in the studio for saoirse. when she first arrived to the studio today after her shift at work she stowed her belongings and valuables in the studio's dressing rooms just down the hall. any props, costumes and accessories required to conduct recitals are located in a room adjacent to that very dressing room, also intended for the safe storage of equipment and the ballet company's collections of records, tapes and videos. other dancers have come and gone throughout the day as saoirse practiced, retrieving their items and departing, while others have come in to quietly begin their own stretching at the barre to warm up. save for saoirse and two other men, the studio was empty this time of the day. the young woman let out a sigh of relief as she carefully withdrew her outstretched leg from the stationary handrail of the barre, shifting on her feet a bit before alternating to elevate her opposite leg to ensure she's adequately stretched each of her two limbs. saoirse's pale blue eyes remained fixed on her reflection in the mirror though her features give away little expression. today she wore a plain black leotard complimented by a white tulle practice skirt over a pair of powder pink tights similar to that of her laced pointe shoes, an ensemble not uncommon for the ballerinas of her company. her short brown hair was pulled away from her face in a low, neat bun and though her wispy bangs were supposed to be held back by a thin black headband a few strands remained framing her face, enough as to hide the sheen of sweat that still sat above her brow. after a moment passed and she felt comfortable at the barre, saoirse lowered her chest to her leg to deepen the stretch in her quadriceps.
indentsaoirse was what some people might call a child prodigy, or at-least she came close enough to the small town equivalent of one. even as a young girl her ballet teachers would praise her for being endowed with an exceptional talent and unlike some dancers whose careers eventually fade out into a mediocre hobby, saoirse was fortunate enough to continue doing what she loved most by pursuing a professional career in dance. rooted in artist expression and technical difficulty, ballet is a demanding sport both physically and mentally. people often misjudge the strength, stamina and will required to dance ballet because seasoned performers on the stage make it look impossibly easy. the art form is so intricate that it almost paradoxically requires the dancer to practice abandon; if you think too much, you will almost certainly falter. it's taken years upon years of discipline, persistence, and overcoming injuries and setbacks for saoirse get to where she is today. it's not uncommon for the most talented of dancers to be promoted within their company very quickly ─ she's been acquainted with individuals nineteen and twenty years old in principal roles, compared to her being a prima ballerina for encore dance studio at twenty-three. nonetheless, such is a grand achievement to be celebrated at any age. and though expected to devote long hours dedicating herself to her craft, it's not uncommon to see saoirse serving coffees and pies at the stardust bistro and diner on main street when she isn't in the studio, a local favorite for most merrowbeach residents, owned and operated by abril's own mother, agnetha. saoirse has managed working at the diner for a few years now in order to earn some income on the side, having long grown used to the familiar faces of regular customers and their predictable set of orders during the time she has been employed there. the hospitality industry is often a stressful and taxing environment though she supposed sometimes it was worth seeing a certain someone whenever she decided to swing by and say hi. as silly as it may sound, she knew abril's favorite orders by heart. she preferred classic options on the menu, like a cheeseburger, or sometimes she'd even be in the mood for a strawberry shake topped with a swirl of whipped cream. even on days where abril seemed in a rush and saoirse would only see the blonde-haired woman for a few mere minutes before she was out the door with an iced coffee or a macchiato in hand, saoirse would often find herself thinking about their brief, transactional conversation hours after it already passed. sometimes saoirse wished she was more confident reaching out to other people but she has always been more observant than she has ever been meddling. if life was a movie or a tv show, she felt certain she would be dedicated the role of a background character with two seconds of screentime per season, a notion that didn't particularly seem to bother her. reserved and good-mannerly, not a single citizen in the town of merrowbeach would be able to conjure up anything devastatingly horrid about saoirse's character but then again, neither would they be able to comment on much about her as a person either. in highschool she had a few short lasting friendships though nothing significant; everyone else always had someone they were closer with, someone who they preferred to spend their time with. maybe for her that person has always been abril. there was a certain comfort in knowing someone as well as she liked to think she knew the other woman. they've experienced girlhood together, grown well acquainted with each other's families, and their respective involvement in the community and the fine arts kept them connected over the years. saoirse may not be the most proactive in terms of initiating plans with other people, but she does show her appreciation for what friendships she has in small yet meaningful ways. for instance, whenever saoirse has an upcoming performance at a large venue in town she often makes sure to extend an invitation to abril in case she would like to come. after all, it's always nice to think she might see a familiar face the night after a long performance on the stage, and above all else, she wanted to continue sharing this important part of her life with her friend.
indentwhere other people such as abril herself have been continually supportive of saoirse and her career in dance, she hasn't always felt the same unconditional support from her own parents ─ more particularly, from that of her father. jacques de rothschild lacked the creative mind she and abril seemed to share. where saoirse saw hard work and dedication in her craft, her father only ever saw child's play and a waste of time. clearly he did not consider she might one day make a career out of her favorite childhood hobby when he first signed her up for ballet at only four years old, a mistake she was sure he must dearly regret to this day. heading merrowbeach's downtown bank as managing director, jacques has made a name for himself in ways his daughter would never dream of. assertive, strong-willed and charismatic, her father makes the perfect businessman. as a prominent figure in the community who demands respect and authority, his fellow colleagues and subordinates either love him or they hate him, though he's doubtlessly garnered a predominant reputation as an arrogant man by the town residents as a whole. it's possible her father yearned for her to follow his footsteps into the world of business and thus one day take over his operations downtown but unfortunately for him that reality would never come to fruition. saoirse didn't think she much liked the idea of becoming her father either. a jacques jr. is something the town of merrowbeach could go certainly without, though even the idea of her being anything like her father seemed an impossible notion to grasp. she and jacques possess dispositions strikingly dissimilar and maybe that is a part of why he seems to resent her so. her father is the sort of man to trample other people's feelings with such an insensitivity that it almost seems cruel. it should come as no surprise why someone as emotionally tuned as saoirse has a hard time entertaining the company of her father at all. it's probably a good thing they both spend a lot of time outside of their common residence, otherwise the whole neighborhood might be kept awake from hearing their nonsensical quarrels every waking hour of the day. her mother seems to be the only one in their household with a perfectly level head on her shoulders, calm and sensible even in difficult or sensitive situations. niamh de rothschild would much rather facilitate compromise in an argument than she would like to see bitter feelings continue to swell. perhaps that is why she and her father are such a good match for one another, despite being so different by nature. her mother works at the town's joint clinic and drugstore alongside abril's father arthur, her job as a pharmacist being rooted in customer service and ensuring each party is appeased with the outcome of their access to medication, a responsibility that seems to extend in to how she conducts her own personal life. saoirse considered her mother to be respectful of her career-related decisions, especially in comparison to that of her father. she may not fully understand the allure of dance having never been involved in the art form herself but nonetheless she granted her daughter the support she needed. on the nights where saoirse's father might miss her ballet performances with some lousy work-related excuse, be it whether she arrives late or not niamh always found a way to join the crowd of onlookers, and her efforts did not go unnoticed by her daughter either. saoirse appreciated her mother's desire to be involved in her life and the curious interest she held for what her daughter evidently loved to do. it's not easy feeling confident in your career choice if everyone else is constantly shaking their heads in disapproval or questioning how you will ever be successful enough to make a feasible career out of dance. saoirse did not care if people thought her naive or a dreamer. she knew what she wanted for herself and this was it.
indenta final exhale escaped saoirse's lips as she raised her torso from her leg, allowing her ankle still propped on the barre to return to the ground. her attention flickered to the round clock anchored on the wall above her, eyeing the hand of the clock and it's position on the face. hm. it appeared she was running on time today, if not somewhat ahead of schedule in regard to her plans of meeting abril. the woman rolled her shoulders back, feeling her limbs grow more relaxed now that she's had the last hour or so to recover. she came in to the studio today to tackle some weak spots in the second act of the nutcracker, where her prime number is a pas de deux called the dance of the sugar plum fairy. apparently, choreographer marius petipa wanted the sugar plum fairy's music to sound like drops of water shooting from a fountain. russian composer tchaikovsky suggested the use of the celesta, an instrument that he said looked like a piano yet sounded like bells. fearful that another composer may catch wind of it and use the celesta before he might, tchaikovsky went so far as to ask his publisher to keep the purchase a secret. the instrument has since been forever identified with the sugar plum fairy. the studio was relatively quiet right now save for the slight creaking of the barre as two other dancers finished their warm ups. saoirse momentarily lowered herself to the ground in order to pull apart the bow of her point shoes securely wrapped around her ankles, allowing the ribbon to come undone. she threw a glance across the room as she collected her pointe shoes, looking into the mirror on the wall to make eye contact with her colleagues. followed by a meek wave of goodbye, saoirse sought to escort herself out of the studio room. the dressing rooms, though relatively small in comparison to the studio itself, have a special place in saoirse's heart. when she first joined merrowbeach's professional ballet company encore she felt as though she was finally fulfilling the dreams she once had as a child, having achieved her own permanent spot in a studio's dressing rooms. since then, the dressing rooms have become a sort of sanctuary throughout the course of her days as a professional dancer. though certainly not the most glamorous of spaces, this room has been lived in and witnessed all of her and her colleagues' good days and bad. along the walls of the room each ballerina in the company has their own light surrounded mirror, some with pointe shoes hanging haphazardly from the frame and others with personal mementos like photos stuck into the corners of the mirror. this room is where the beauty and elegance of ballet meets the ugly on a daily basis, with tutus and sweatshirts hanging amongst one another, a portable bed in the corner for long days and power naps, and piles of leotards and tights thrown amongst sewing needles and glue. each and every day this room is buzzing with the emotions of it's dancers. the dressing rooms have effectively proved a place of refuge, a momentary escape where they could collapse on the floor during an interval or express their exasperation during a rehearsal. they could cry when it's all become too much, or they could laugh out loud about it. saoirse has shared a multitude of moments in this room among the mess it can become during peak performance season, complaining and encouraging, laughing and crying. she and her colleagues have experienced an unimaginable number of situations together within these four walls. it holds not only their belongings but also their achievements and problems. it's a place where they can momentarily let their feelings out so they can keep it all together once they are on the other side of this door. saoirse's own counterspace was relatively neat and tidy save for a comb, an open makeup bag and a few hair pins from when she hurriedly threw her hair up after work today. instead of sitting down in front of the mirror she instead leaned forward to examine her profile, pulling the tie out of her hair and shortly thereafter the headband. saoirse ran a few fingers through her hair, trying to smooth out the frizz and alleviate her disheveled post-workout look before resorting to using a comb. she placed a hand against the counter in order to get closer to the mirror, determined to make herself appear somewhat presentable despite how much she was working up a sweat earlier. she was sure abril wouldn't care much for her state, but still, a part of her wanted to avoid looking a complete mess in front of the other woman who always seemed so put together herself. once saoirse was satisfied with her hair she quickly changed into a pair of black tights, a red-and-blue plaid miniskirt and a fitted white tee, leaving her pointe shoes and clothes on her counterspace. pulling on a pair of red mary janes and grabbing a crossbody bag, scarf and leather jacket she left hanging on the back of her chair, she was finally out the door.
indentsaoirse pushed open the studio doors only to be greeted with a bite of cold air, hastening her efforts to tie her red scarf around her otherwise exposed neck. the encore dance studio is located only a few blocks off main street, meaning her usual transitions from work to dance are almost seamless due to being within an ideal walking distance of each other. the building itself is mainly comprised of brick, with large black letters printing the words "encore" above the archway of the entrance in a script font. the dance studio is plain on the exterior and certainly appears more modest than the furnishings inside, making it hard to discern how old the building truly is. in her earliest days dancing with the company, she got so excited she once snuck abril inside to give her a quick tour of the new studio she belonged to. the senior dancers at the time probably just shook their heads and laughed at the sound of the two of them giggling throughout the hallways like girls. the memory often brought a small smile to her face. it made her wonder how often the other woman reflected on the time they have spent together. last year, when the two of them were browsing booths featuring the works of craftspeople and their goods during the town's annual wintertime street fair, saoirse had come across a delicate pearl necklace with a golden toggle clasp. she couldn't help but feel as though the piece of jewelry would suit the other woman, and as a small token of her appreciation for their friendship, abril would later find out she bought it for her that night as a surprise. she supposed gift-giving helped her convey the words she did not know how to speak out loud, nor felt the courage to. perhaps the other woman understood that. it didn't help much that saoirse often found herself stumbling over her own words in the face of abril's own sure demeanor. conversation and sociability has never been her strong suit despite the fact she has no real qualms toward socializing with other people. she liked to speak ─ granted, with some people more than others ─ but dialogue wasn't something that came naturally to her. instead, she often found she was the very person holding herself back. maybe she loved dance so much because it was a way she could express herself without the use of words. her shyness has been a hindrance to some aspects of her life, especially in terms of coming out of her shell, broadening her horizons and establishing a network of social connections, though remaining on the outskirts of a party is not nearly as bad as what other people make it out to be. judge her as you may, but sometimes saoirse truly believed that keeping to herself helped save her breath on people and that inherently made her relationships much more intentional. she need not waste her time telling people things they cared not to know, and in return other people did not expect that of her. enjoying a quiet life can be something beautiful. she adored abril and sometimes that meant admiring her from afar or finding comfort in the sound of her voice in conversation with another. her feelings for the other woman oftentimes felt so strong that sometimes she didn't even understand what they quite meant. there was nobody she would rather spend her time with than abril, and there was certainly no one else who made her feel the way the other woman does. it's possible she's gone most of her life without even recognizing the sheer devotion she's grown to have when it comes to her childhood best friend. then again though, the very question of abril's own feelings remained unbeknownst to her. was it just saoirse who felt this way? such a notion seemed impossible when they've always been toeing the line of something bordering fascination and attraction for years without breaching the restraints of their friendship. there was just something there, though hard for even her to place.
indentas saoirse emerged from the building her eyes landed on the back of abril's head, all of a sudden feeling a rush of giddy excitement warm her blood. a hand nervously fiddling with the scarf wrapped around her neck saoirse took a few hesitant steps toward the bench, approaching the other woman so as to not surprise her from behind with her quiet presence. saoirse could not resist a sheepish smile from crossing her face when she cast her sights on abril fox-strangways. "..hey," she greeted timidly, drawing abril's tote bag into her lap so that she could sit down beside her on the bench. abril's getup ─ though more plain and simple than saoirse knew abril was inclined to wearing ─ still managed to draw her eyes to the other woman. saoirse could only hope she didn't do too pitiful a job trying to look as though she did not just come from a grueling workout herself. growing self-conscious she tucked a lock of brown hair behind one of her ears, her eyes momentarily flickering to her feet in order to temporarily relieve her from making eye contact with abril. "i hope you weren't sitting around waiting for too long?...i'm sorry if you were. i honestly thought i was on time today, unless that silly old clock in the studio is broken again." she mumbled that last part, adjusting her clutch on abril's tote bag. the fabric felt stretched taut with whatever the woman put inside of it, and it's contents appeared more heavier than usual. if she had to guess from touch alone, there seemed to be a few books inside. saoirse was tempted to ask abril just what books were worth lugging around town with her but she knew it wasn't a polite thing to intrude on another's affairs. maybe abril simply went to the library before she decided to meet her and picked out a few intriguing fictional novels in the meantime. the notion wouldn't be unordinary, and that seemed to be enough to keep saoirse from taking a look inside of her bag. still, saoirse was an avid reader and she was curious to know what her friend might be delving into. perhaps she would inquire of her later should the time be right. silently returning abril's tote bag, she took the opportunity to link the crook of her elbow in the other woman's arm. "we might as well get a move on. i was thinking we could head over to my place, unless you have any objections?" truthfully, saoirse would prefer visiting abril's house but she decided she may as well invite the other woman out of courtesy. she always considered abril to the be the more stylish out of the two of them ─ her closet included ─ but she was certain the other woman would be more than willing to shift through saoirse's wardrobe to help her pick an outfit for the beginning of the festivities tonight. besides, saoirse is often more inclined to wear pieces normally shoved to the back of her closet if abril was the one suggesting a certain outfit might look good on her. it's not often she feels confident in her own fashion judgement though having her friend guide her certainly made matters easier. once standing, saoirse remained arm-in-arm with abril as they began their stroll down the street from the encore dance studio. fortunately for the two of them the walk to the rothschild residence would not be a long one. she much doubted either of her parents would be home to greet her and her friend at this hour so the house would likely be empty once they arrived. around them, the commercial district of the town was bustling with life no different than when saoirse first headed to the dance studio earlier today. the rumble of traffic and one-sided conversations passing this way and that as people walked down the street or emerged from local boutiques reminded saoirse of what anticipation simmered within the town of merrowbeach and it's inhabitants. tonight was bound to be filled with festivity, cheer, laughter and enjoyment, and saoirse was eager to take a break from the demands of work and dance. even better, she got to spend some time with abril for a change.
indenthaving been walking in relative silence save for the buzz of the town, saoirse's eyes briefly flickered to the other woman. "what did you get up to today? i can imagine you've been working hard lately, busy bee that you are." saoirse teased, her tone affectionate. she knew this time of the year was a hectic one for someone as community oriented as abril. the other woman frequently involves herself in fundraisers or local projects and saoirse knew the town's wintertime festival was no exception. she probably spent today much like she spent the last week, caught up in assisting with preparations any which way she could.

[vaell]

xxxxxＣＡＬＩＳＴＡiiＡＴＨＡＮＡＳＩＯＵ.

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe revenant princess of the eidolon.
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indentstrategically situated at the highest point of land in the cochrane district, snowcapped foothills and crags jutted out from the earth around elkmire castle as though hungering to swallow the keep whole. light was beginning to breach the mass of mountains in ishpatina ridge, the sky suspended between the certainty of night and the break of dawn. from her guest chambers calista could spot a shroud of mist looming over the atidurn pass, obscuring the only viable passageway to and from the remote stronghold. the steep flanks of the mountain range grant the ruling house of stavropoulos the chief advantage of inaccessibility, making assaults on elkmire castle difficult and depending on the whims of the weather, sometimes even impossible. how strange it is being here again, calista mused. no longer a guest on the account of war. the last time calista stepped foot in the halls of elkmire ─ let alone laid eyes on the surrounding countryside of koiláda tou chrysoú ─ was after the battle of xauburn, when the eidolon's two year-long war effort against the northlanders of black river finally came to an end one dreary evening on the outskirts of adapolis. even despite the fervid reception that awaited calista in the city of uhelchester come word of her triumph, she could still remember that night well; how victory tasted and how it smelled, bitter and metallic on her tongue like spilled blood. parts of the battle at xauburn came more readily to her than others. she could recall the aftermath of the battle most vividly, dragging her longsword on the wet ground beneath her as she trudged through the thick fog that settled over the battleground of the xauburn gold belt. her mind implored her to keep moving but at that point she had no idea which direction she was even heading in. the weight of her sword felt exceedingly heavy in her hands, its hilt threatening to slip from her grasp altogether. is this what a slow death feels like, she'd wondered, warmth leaving the blood that splattered her face as soon as it congealed. tears left long streaks through the dirt and grime on her cheeks, a result of the fresh memories of so many of her men struck down around her. for all she knew she was one of the last survivors, the northlanders refusing to yield even as their own numbers dwindled with each fresh charge of eidolon soldiers. calista knew then that even if she did live she would be marked forever by the sight of so much death around her. thousands, they'd said. it had to be thousands. laying claim to the goldfields of cochrane and reaffirming the eidolon's control over the mines of huadale west, croseus, and urymont immortalized calista in more ways than one. her departure from cochrane and subsequent arrival back to the capital city of gore bay was marked by celebration in the streets and weeks of festivity to commemorate her military victory, yet surviving the carnage that night despite the terrible slaughter of her own military host would not grant her the same sort of commendations her queen mother once received after the war efforts she led in greater sudbury. queen anastasia's people hailed her the immortal queen of the heartlands after she survived inside the walls of rayside-balfour, apparently having been separated from her own military force long enough for ballads to be written in her honor. unlike the renown her queen mother garnered during the infamous war of the sault, the battle calista waged at xauburn isn't sung throughout taverns or inns, the prospect of the eidolon's beloved revenant princess coming perilously close to death miles away from the familiar call of lake huron's north channel no more than a tragedy weaponized by the likes of their western rivals. sometimes it felt as though she was embroiled in a strife that was not her own, viewed only as a mere extension of the women that came before her, a vessel intended to mindlessly see through their goals and aspirations before they are lost to the tides of history. calista knew better than to think she was the haunted, though. like the daimon said to dwell beneath the subaqueous caves of spirit island, she is the haunting. calista has seen the look on her mother's face before, watching yet another man mercilessly fall at her daughter's hands in the gore bay colosseum, not much different than if she'd seen a ghost. it begged the question; did her queen mother ever succumb to doubt, looking upon the face of her young heir if only but to wonder if their bloodline may truly be doomed, plagued by the what the people of the eidolon call maniae? what has been said about her family's bloodline by the tribes of manitoba is no different than claiming they might be accursed by the daughters of nyx, baleful rumors birthing life to a heinous prophecy that has since been circulating the lands of annexed canada from the days of her grandmother juno's rule. calista knew her closest kin have tread carefully around her ever since she was a mercurial young girl, though they would never admit being worried she might be the one foretold to send their dynasty into ruin. what did her uncle galen once tell her, though? ─ "to be mad in a deranged world is not madness; it's sanity." calista didn't believe in destiny, be it falsehoods conjured by their enemies to challenge her family's right to ascendancy or not. destiny is only a cage this world forced her in since she was a girl, her hands bound by the manacles of those who came before her and her ankles by fetters constructed by the fearful hands of her own living family. destiny is little more than a torture rack stretching her ever so slowly until one day her limbs might finally dislocate and be ripped from their sockets. destiny is what sought to smother her in the middle of the night before discarding her lifeless corpse on the shallow inlet of lake huron. the concept of destiny has been ─ and always will be ─ calista's greatest adversary.
indenta curious chitter called out to the revenant princess, drawing her attention away from the mountains that lay beyond elkmire castle. calista turned away from the arched windows and to the sight of her peregrine falcon talos. across her room the regal bird sat perched inside an iron cage finished in antiqued bronze, the torchlight from sconces on the walls casting a gleam on its metal bars. the guest chambers calista occupied for the time being were located adjacent to house stavropoulos' own apartments, its walls paneled with richly carved wood and furnished by the presence of a few scarlet and emerald wall hangings emulating their hosts sigil of a golden rose. though her bedchamber was not as large as that of her ruling lady cousin's, it still housed a sizeable canopied bed, ebony colored rugs, golden-tinted round windows and a modest vanity table with a beaten silver mirror to boot. she could spot her reflection in its scratched surface from where she stood, an ashen and ebony pelt of a dreadwolf covering her shoulders and a navy blue cloak fastened at her collarbone. down the length of her cape a pair of rearing lions were stitched in gold thread, the sigil of her house on proud display. a beautifully tailored golden velvet dress hugged her frame, though the garment revealed very little of her skin for even her arms were covered with sleeves to help ward off the cold. her long dark hair had been piled at the crown of her head and secured by an intricate golden headpiece adorned with jewels, with several rows of loose braids draped over the back of her bare neck. when calista was a young girl she would have scoffed at the idea of being bedecked with such finery. growing up a competing gladiator in the gore bay colosseum she used to favor tunics and trousers over the impracticality of dresses and jewels meant to be donned by girls of her station. even now calista felt as though she looked strange so heavily adorned. her older brother adonis used to remark she was more a brute than a girl ─ a gibe that often proved itself true when the two children would proceed to get into a scuffle. nonetheless, coming face to face with what brutality and bloodshed exist outside the sanction and rules governing the gore bay colosseum forced her to harness the defiant habits she once bore as a temperamental child who spurned tradition and authority. on the battlefield there is no one betting the last nomisma in their name for your victory. no southern palm branch will be handed to you come your triumph, and no crowd of onlookers will be cheering for the game of cat-and-mouse you play with your opponent. what years she spent a youth consumed by the adoration she garnered from the seas of people who would flock to the gore bay colosseum to watch their revenant princess take on heinous war criminals or seasoned competitors only culminated to a string of unfortunate mishaps in the north come her involvement in their military campaign in the kenora district. calista's early penchant for the unpredictable made for dubious warfare strategy and it did her no favors when it came to currying respect with venerated figures positioned at the helm of the eidolon's military. most of her early adulthood was spent this way, seeing through rash choices and facing the dire consequences, no different than how she used to repeatedly defy the rules of engagement in the gore bay colosseum. it's no wonder why putting someone as notoriously wild and untamed as calista athanasiou in heaps of finery seemed akin to forcing a lion to perform a series of circus tricks. though she still makes a point to dress in martial wear as often as possible, preferring a suit of decorated golden plate, calista has become equally comfortable in a lady's garb. the blue train of calista's cloak trailed behind her as she made to cross her chamber to approach the waiting peregrine falcon. talos restlessly shimmied along the length of the wooden perch in the cage when she neared, chirping in greeting as the princess gingerly reached a hand toward the metal bars of its enclosure. she watched the raptor fan its wings in anticipation, revealing rows of barred white feathers beneath a plumage of pale pewter. a glint of amusement in her eye, calista pulled open the latch on the cage door. the peregrine falcon all but darted out of the cage with a few beats of its feathered limbs, hook-shaped talons outstretched to aim for a place on her shoulder. talos landed on the furry pelt she donned, momentarily grappling for stability before finding sure footing. once steady the peregrine cocked its head around to survey calista's bedchamber from its newfound vantage point atop her shoulder. she watched the vigilant bird of prey from the corner of her eye, taking heed of her companion's agitated bearing. it seems you and i both tire of this stay already, calista observed. their trip north from the capital city of gore bay traversing through the lands of the sudbury district and even parts of the temiskaming shores made for a long and tiresome journey to the border of gibraltar and the heartlands, where an encampment teeming with tribesmen of the mythic dawn would soon be awaiting reception from the eidolon once they departed elkmire castle. calista and her royal family have occupied elkmire keep since last nightfall, an arrangement conceived out of convenience for the castle's proximity to the gibraltar border, granting them and their retinue rest before recommencing the final leg of their trip to the eastern border. given the circumstances, calista deemed it fortunate talos seemed to bear a mild temperament today for neither she nor the peregrine have ever been keen on trading in the blue skies of spirit island for four suffocating stone walls. in the eidolon birds of prey such as the peregrine falcon have long been revered for their sharp vision and hunting prowess, becoming a symbol of focus, intelligence, and celerity. the ancient practice of falconry itself has evolved from a mere hunting technique into a refined art and a symbol of status among the upper echelons of their tribe. in fact, it was calista's uncle galen who presented talos to her as a gift on her sixteenth name day, a fledgling once taken from a nest in devil's rock as a downy bird still unable to fly. the falconers in the timiskaming district are known for their expertise in rearing an imprint, an arduous and time-consuming undertaking according to her uncle.
indenta meek voice hesitantly sounded from the hall outside calista's chambers, interrupting her train of thought.
indent"my princess?"
indentcalista turned her gaze away from talos, recognizing the familiar voice of one of her handmaidens. lady andromeda bouras. the only daughter of the ruling lord of the timiskaming district and warden of the east, lady andromeda was brought up on the shores of lake timiskaming's wabi bay near the gibraltar border. aside from dominating the sport of falconry as a result of their control over the territories of devil's rock, the house of bouras is also well known for partaking in the practice of archery, an art lady andromeda herself has learned to master. calista eyed the door separating her and the other woman. a moment seemed to pass before she responded at all. "enter." calista simply commanded. the door to her bedchamber creaked open and with it came the lithe form of lady andromeda swathed in a sea of purple and grey and trailing closely behind her, the raven-haired lady bellona drakos. much unlike calista who regarded her personal attendants with mild disinterest, the peregrine falcon on her shoulder carefully watched the two ladies enter her room, keen eyes following their movements as they approached their princess. lady andromeda ─ no different from usual ─ appeared unsettled under the watchful gaze of the raptor, momentarily averting her eyes to the ground below her as she and lady bellona curtsied before calista. "your highness," she raised her gaze to meet calista's own. "the lady lucina has requested your presence in the great hall before we take leave."
x
indentthe great hall of elkmire, though empty save only for calista and the set of royal guards posted outside its great oaken doors, was once populated by dozens of martial champions reporting in campaign briefings during the time she spent waging war in the district of cochrane. in fact, entire ranks of legionaries mustered at the city of uhelchester during the battle of xauburn. the revenant princess found herself standing where she and a handful of lord commanders of her own legion once presided over the fate of the northlanders of black river at the table of chártis, a long table carved from black basalt and painted in the form of a map of cochrane and its neighboring districts. an empty gallery lined the perimeter of the chamber around her in concentric crescents to accommodate a military presence that has not been required within these walls for years. banners depicting old glories hung in rows along the walls of the hall, some woven as tapestries. between the proud displays of wealth and influence the house of stavropoulos liked to flaunt hung their coat of arms, a golden rose on a green and red field. calista's eyes flickered to the empty throne at the end of the hall, carved from the same dark, fine-grained volcanic rock from the abitibi greenstone belt as the table of chártis. calista did not bother to turn when she heard the sound of guards forcing open the grand doors of the hall behind her. instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the elkmire throne, anticipating the sight of her lady cousin from the corner of her eye as the sound of heels clicking against the stone floors of the keep drew near. "my princess," the woman greeted from behind her, her piercing voice one that made calista want to gouge her own ears out. she was quite certain lady lucina would have breezed by her without so much a glance if duty did not compel her to uphold an modicum of respect and yet here she was, coming to curtsy before the revenant princess. "cousin." calista spoke dryly, feeling the brief touch of the woman's hand on her arm as she rose from her curtsy, far too familiar and much too friendly for what ill terms they were on. even the smile on her painted lips seemed unnatural too for the lady of cochrane has always held herself with a rigid demeanor, more often scowling than is she smiling. "thank you for heeding my request. i thought we might have more time to dredge up old tales of glory and conquest from the time we last spent together, but alas.." lucina trailed off, resuming her approach to the modest dais of the elkmire throne. her words reeked of false affection, almost laughably so. not to mention lucina all but made her wait on her arrival ─ deliberately, calista was sure. the revenant princess watched her cousin's scarlet skirts stream behind her like a cascade of water over the steps she ascended to her seat. beneath a decorated baldachin, gnarled rose thorns carved of basalt twisted around each leg of the elkmire throne, spicules pointed like daggers extending to the height of the seat. her lady cousin wore a blood-red gown that matched the field upon which the stavropoulos rose was displayed on their coat of arms, her dress appearing to have been crafted with satin and intricate filigree like detailing stitched in with golden threads. ribbing and other visible stitching corseted her chest and accentuated the finer parts of her figure, glittering golden leaves and flowers sewn into the flowing fabric she wore. the other woman wore her black hair in an elaborate waterfall braid, her forehead encircled by a simple golden circlet whereas the rest of her tresses fell past her shoulders in a cascade of locks. calista folded her arms across her chest expectantly, observing the lady from where she remained standing. "is that why you called on me, so that we might fondly reminisce the happenings of the past?" she questioned, raising a quizzical brow. the peregrine falcon on her shoulder shifted its weight, opening its wings to swoop down and land on the table of chártis beside the revenant princess. lucina only regarded calista with a look of amusement. "no," she clarified, letting out a quiet laugh. "no ─ i only wanted to personally bid you farewell before your travels to the gibraltar border." the lady of cochrane leaned back in her throne, perhaps in one of the only instances in which she might ever be able to look down upon calista from a position of her own authority. a moment passed before she spoke again. "you know, when i caught wind of your betrothal a few months back, i was surprised." calista could feel her jaw twitch though her features did not betray what agitation the other woman stirred in her. "and what of it?" she ground out. though calista has never been particularly proficient in navigating the vagaries of veiled insults or hidden snipes inherent to life at court, it was not hard for her to understand why her lady cousin might have called her to the great hall to begin with. truly, calista knew lucina could care less about her leaving elkmire so soon; in fact, she probably counted down the hours come the departure of her and her royal family. what she wanted was to see calista squirm with discomfort by dangling her premediated fate above her head, for she knew how vehemently the revenant princess valued her independence. lucina only shrugged. "i suppose i did not expect the rumors to birth truth. you have always been such a force, beloved cousin. it's hard to imagine you tied down. i'm not sure if i should congratulate you or console you...." she paused for a moment, scrutinizing calista with a critical eye. "it's quite possible you might fit in with that pack of religious zealots just fine though."
indent"careful." calista warned her. "those religious zealots you speak of are going to be people of the eidolon no different than people of the mythic dawn come our union."
indent"oh dear...you sound like you already convinced yourself this is what you wanted. is it, cali?" the lady probed, undeterred. even her cousin's sobriquet for her was enough to make her want to cringe. quickly growing tired of lucina trying to toy with her, she let out a sigh of exasperation. "my wedding to prince halvor is for the greater good, cousin, a notion that seems lost upon you more often than not. perhaps my queen mother ought to have offered your hand to the mythic dawn on a silver platter instead ─ only, i'm sure they'd find you a lot less palatable with what faithless history your house has sown. who knows what might happen when prince halvor and i are to wed. cochrane may just become another parry sound under our decree." lucina narrowed her eyes at the latter, for what calista so boldly insinuated was not lost upon her. even if she was just being derisive, the former lords of parry sound were no longer, their district territories now an extension of gore bay and the southernmost heartlands. "so now you seek to threaten me in my own keep, cousin?" she let out a mirthless laugh, the sound bouncing around the walls of the great hall. "i'm sure soon enough you'll try to have me hung or burned at the stake for being a heretic when your husband-to-be forces you to turn to the mythic dawn's valëkrya. even sooner you'll be tearing down the statues of athena in gore bay. isn't that so?" lucina's voice dripped with a hatred not unusual for lords and ladies of high renown who feel threatened when it comes to their alliance with their eastern neighbors. while the most prevalent beliefs in the heartlands revolve around deities derived from hellenistic worship, religion plays a very insignificant role in the governing of the eidolon itself, a notion that differs greatly from that of the mythic dawn whose ancient history is known for being steeped in holy war and the massacre of other religious groups. many in the heartlands fear the prospect of religious assimilation, of having to forsake their own gods lest bloody hunts for non-believers should ever ensue. even calista had her doubts at times. after all, what made her queen mother so sure they would not come to be swallowed whole by the mythic dawn's religious fanaticism come the future? perhaps a lifetime spent trying to maintain their alliance with the gibraltar tribe meant she willing to make sacrifices, and if not to ensure their collective futures together, then to prevent what foreign diplomacy she has cultivated from falling to ruination altogether. the lands of annexed canada have not yet seen two major tribes successfully merge with one another to create a blended way of life, and her queen mother was a determined woman. calista and prince halvor's betrothal turned a new page in the history books, one that many hoped might usher in a new era of prosperity and unprecedented dominion for the mythic dawn and the eidolon. no one should dare cross an alliance as mighty as their own come their integration with one another; after all, the heartlands and gibraltar are among the largest territories in canada, each with a wealth of resources to be exploited. granted, criticism is bound to surface come word of an arrangement as binding as a union of marriage between the respective heirs to the sunburst throne and the hallowed throne. her lady cousin's condemnation of her marriage came as no surprise, though her worries did pose curious ─ after all, lucina stavropoulos was by no means a godly woman. as much as she might try and play the hand of a distraught devotee, calista could wager lucina did not fear the loss of practicing her beliefs in her own homelands. it seemed much more likely she only wanted to provoke calista over the matter. she and her cousin have been at odds since they were children, seemingly. though evident during her time spent in cochrane during the war it only came more apparent to calista later in life, this idea that lucina has always been betting against her. the resentment she bore for queen anastasia was one that did not discriminate. a girl who assumed ladyship over her house at the age of sixteen while her lord father remained a captive in the dungeons of legio gemina keep, the rest of her family sent to slaughter by the command of calista's own queen mother, lucina has never seen a friend in calista. her cousin's bitter grudge against her family ─ despite her own having committed treason of the highest kind ─ only festered as the years passed. lucina went from being a youth who placed bids against calista behind her back during gladiatorial games to a woman who refused to compromise even during times of strife. during the military campaign calista waged against the northlanders she had to manage warding off not only their rivals occupying major gold mines in the district, but her own cousin too. ever since the uprising of cochrane staged by the houses of stavropoulos and cirillo, gore bay soldiers have been stationed at major strongholds in the region. doubtlessly, calista's presence in elkmire a few years ago stoked a new flame of fear in her cousin who, like prey being hunted, became threatened and hostile. lucina likely loathed the idea of the revenant princess exerting any form of authority over her in her homelands. considering her family's uprising revolved around their independence from the royal house of athanasiou, becoming kings and queens of cochrane in their own right, calista wouldn't be surprised if lucina was frightened by the idea of not having complete control. she might have thought calista a privileged, self-important, bumptious and condescending woman come her involvement at xauburn but the other woman certainly owed her more than what meager respect she offered her now. "dare i say you sound frightened?" calista's mouth curved into an impish smile. "come now cousin, do you honestly think i would let elkmire fall to the hands of a mythic-borne lordling when thousands of my men died fighting your battles?"
indentlucina leaned forward in the elkmire throne, peering down at the revenant princess. unlike calista, she was adept in the art of deflection and knew it was easier to aggravate the revenant princess by evading her jabs altogether. "dear cousin, it wouldn't matter in the slightest even if you did install a nobleman of the mythic dawn in my stead. don't be so naive. do you know what it is they do to non-believers? what they will do to your people? i'm certain you've heard tale enough. even if you come to worship their deities you will never be one of them. you know that, don't y─"
indent"do not lecture me as though i'm a child!" calista interrupted, the hiss of her voice ringing sharp in the quiet hall. the smug look on her cousin's face did little to quell her growing vexation. lucina had calista right where she wanted her, no different from a trapped animal falling victim to a set lure or a wild beast being poked and prodded in a game of venationes. and of course calista took the bait. she refused to be her cousin's plaything for any longer though. turning toward the table of chártis, calista extended a hand toward talos as though to invite the peregrine to return to her. the raptor seized the opportunity to reclaim its rightful spot on her shoulder, hooked talons threatening to snag the fabric of her dress on its climb to the height of her arm. the revenant princess glanced to the elkmire throne with a scowl. "go on then," she growled. "speak your parting words and be done with it. bear in mind if it weren't for my martial support at xauburn, you would be a slave at the hand of the northlanders right now without a throne to sit. you'd be wise to remember that." she added, eyeing her cousin critically. calista gingerly brushed a hand against the crown of talos' head, eliciting a chirp in response.
indentlucina worked her jaw. the lady struggled to refrain from countering the other woman but even then her cousin knew better than to overstep her station with a retort. she and calista were kin, yes, but the change in her demeanor was enough to remind lucina of her position. the other woman shifted in the elkmire throne, leaning back slightly. the barbed stems of carved roses framed her seated position. "safe travels through ishpatina, your highness." her curt farewell sounded more hollow and rigid than it did sincere or warm, but calista had already turned on her heel by the time she was speaking, making her way toward the great doors of the hall. the set of guards stationed in the hall were prompt to open the doors come her approach. her lady cousin's words echoed behind her as she swiftly made to depart the hall. "do remember to watch out for any mountain lions lurking about atidurn pass," lucina called, almost tauntingly. "they are known to be quite vicious around these parts."

indentindentindentindentindentindentindentindentindent──

indentas suspected the journey on stratnach road from elkmire castle grew to be a tiring one, if only for the company calista had to keep. her family is usually bearable enough ─ granted in small doses and at even smaller increments of time ─ however their extensive traveling together has begun to grow increasingly exasperating by each passing hour.
indentmounted sidesaddle on her ivory stallion fortuna, calista held the horse's reins with a pair of dark leather gloves dyed the same navy blue as the cloak on her shoulders. she could hear the call of snow buntings and black-capped chickadees amid the sound of hooves clopping against the soil and stone aggregate underfoot. overhead talos circled the sky above the eidolon party, light wings gliding on the breeze in the air. calista would not be surprised if the raptor was assessing the flat stretches of land they traversed through, populated with deciduous trees and eastern white pines smaller birds would likely flock to. oftentimes peregrine falcons target birds like ducks and shorebirds along the shorelines of spirit island, capable of taking on prey as large as loons, geese, large gulls, or even as small as songbirds. seldom are small mammals and insects their target, and rarely carrion. calista has seen talos stoop in spectacular dives to strike prey out of the air before, sometimes even knocking larger birds out of the air, fed upon the ground where they might fall. a modest distance in front of calista and her siblings rode their queen mother on a dark stallion, escorted by a pair of her personal guards, knights and servicemen of the imperial shields who also reinforced the rear of their procession, as well as several of her own advisors. the revenant queen was directly accompanied by their uncle galen, the liege lord of sudbury and the ruling lord of house ateos. in their culture the role of the queen mother's brother often seems a puzzling concept for outsiders to grasp. foreign diplomats might expect the queen to travel with her king consort instead of her brother galen, however calista's father balisarius remained in gore bay in her queen mother's absence, meaning his formal introduction to their royal guests would come upon their arrival to the southern city. calista did not find such a notion bizarre. after all, her uncle galen has raised her since she was a young girl. he was the one who helped her hone the art of the blade and during her adolescence he took on most of the undertakings one might expect of a mentor or a father. calista did not harbor any ill feelings toward her father for his lack of involvement in her life nor could she understand why anyone might be inclined to think that she might. king balisarius drakos was once a famed gladiator but as the years drew on he grew far more interested in attending gladiatorial games as a spectator, a pastime he could no doubt indulge in more frequently without the expectation of guardianship. she supposed it was not only outsiders who questioned the eidolon's longstanding traditions of adhering to a matriliny though. catching wind of her brother adonis muttering something to himself, calista cast a glance in his direction. "talking to yourself again?" she teased.
indentadonis caught her gaze and held it. the prince glowered when her own did not falter. "what do you want now?" he spat. her brother bore the traditional hallmarks of a heartlander and indeed of an athanasiou; dark was his hair, and dark were his eyes. the prince was adorned in a high-collared navy doublet and jerkin both made of velvet, a relatively simple cut but finely made. over it he wore an extravagantly embroidered short-cut cape of cloth-of-gold lined with ermine. a belt was drawn across his waist, a long dagger in an engraved sheath on the left. the finishing touch was a golden lion brooch that fastened his cloak to his shoulders. riding at calista's opposite side was her younger sister cybil. overhearing their exchange, the younger woman was eager to chime in. "leave him be, he's probably just whining again." her remark amused calista. her sister had no right to talk about whining given the fuss she's been making since they departed elkmire castle but still, any jab at adonis was a jab she would entertain. much like calista herself, the youngest daughter of the revenant queen looked every inch a wealthy princess of gore bay. her mousy hair was pinned back from her face and piled artfully atop her head, the rest of her locks falling to the middle of her back. her gown was resplendent, a dark navy embroidered heavily with gold thread in an ostentatious display. the three lion cubs of the eidolon looked utterly united, a perfect display of joint power if it were not for their constant childlike bickering. "the poor baby just isn't getting enough attention. would you like it if you were the one betrothed to prince halvor instead of calista─?"
indent"i'm sure we can have that arranged. in truth, i'm amenable to the idea so long as he is." cybil giggled over calista's rather flippant comment, a sound brimming with delight over their brother's mockery.
indent"by the gods!" adonis snapped, evidently affronted by their exchange of banter. "enough. and to think i thought you two more mature. especially you, calista, being the heir to our esteemed hallowed throne and all─ but i suppose i can't hold it against you. the fairer sex are always less inclined toward reason and far faster to team up and accuse, to torment."
indent"and yet you still did not answer our proposition," calista challenged him, dismissing adonis' strongly prejudiced attitude toward women as though it were commonplace. she was determined to get a rise out of him. "and not objecting at all certainly means something. does my older brother have something he'd like to admit? perhaps that i am whisking away his one true beloved bound in the shackles of a political marria─"
indent"you truly are a dolt, aren't you?" adonis quipped bluntly, unceremoniously interrupting her midsentence. "maybe if we had another respectable man around here i wouldn't be so humiliated all the time. one with a spine, that is. our father does not even receive invitation to ride with us nor does he fight for one. he's just as pathetic as the rest of you lot if you ask me."
indent"you're implying our uncle galen ─ and what trusted advisors accompany us now ─ do not count as fellow men? interesting indeed."
indent"uncle galen has a soft spot for you. call it pity, i suppose. in any case he's not exactly what comes to mind when i think of someone asserting some real power around here."
indentqueen anastasia glanced over her shoulder, seemingly upon the sound of their bickering. her expression was hard to read though it certainly appeared somewhat pointed. calista caught her gaze for a brief moment.
indentgently tugging at fortuna's reins, calista advanced to her queen mother's side at a modest canter. behind her she could hear adonis mumbling something along the lines of her 'running to mommy dearest' though his comment did little to ire her. queen anastasia acknowledged her daughter's approach without so much a glance. her eyes remained trained on the road ahead of them. "calista." her tone was curt. the raven-haired woman was quite the imposing sight, her style of dress decidedly more severe in nature compared to that of her children. a golden armored corset compressed the bodice of the long dress she donned, a gown colored the blue of house athanasiou and trimmed with gold thread. engravings of ornamental designs lined the plate around her waist, including the depiction of two rearing lions at her chest. at her neckline a round pendant displaying the head of a lion hung from her throat in a long golden chain. queen anastasia's ebony tresses were pulled away from her face to accentuate her sharp features, her hair secured in the fashion of an artful chignon at the nape of her neck. even the crown atop her head was an ornate display of queenship. sharp black blades protruded from the golden band on her headpiece, beset with stunning sapphire gemstones to match the rich fabric of her dress. the precious stones glinted in the sunlight filtering through what trees they passed. her queen mother emulated martial style even in her finest of wear, a notion that did not strike calista as surprising. a woman preceded by a staggering history of cold-blooded, vicious war campaigns and countless years spent conquering the gore bay colosseum prior to her ascension to the throne even in spite of her mother's disdain for her, the revenant queen of the eidolon held herself in a way that made clear she was not one to be trifled with. even calista felt as though she must straighten in the other woman's presence herself. queen anastasia's stony demeanor seemed to be the consequence of her experiences as a youth, the rage she accumulated over the course of her adolescence driving her to not only enact bloody war against manitoba tribes infiltrating major domains in the heartlands, but enabling her to succeed in doing so too. she was certainly no longer a girl suffering at the hand of her mother in front of thousands of commoners and highborn alike. queen anastasia's mother juno sought to humiliate her heir a countless number of times in the gore bay colosseum before her reign came to an abrupt end, an observation widely acknowledged if not witnessed by many. your grandmother's rule was one tolerated out of fear rather than one built on the respect of her people, her queen mother once recounted. juno's growing inclination toward achieving bloody glory over their rivals ─ particularly her selfish desire to exclusively reap the acclaim that came of such military excursions ─ certainly made for a tenuous period of foreign diplomacy for the eidolon. even what prosperity juno brought to the heartlands after laying claim to the kenora diamond mine during the war of the blood diamonds in league with their eastern allies was said to have been rather short-lived. juno was still possessed with the notion that her own court was infiltrated by loyalists seeking to carry out the agenda of her late aunt the usurper. as a result, she would go on to irrationally accuse and sentence a number of prominent aristocrats and some of her trusted advisees to their death, either by their own hand or in a public spectacle at the gore bay colosseum. juno was known to be as erratic and unpredictable as she were cruel and unkind. apparently, she started to think herself more a god than a mortal, a belief that is not hard to discount when considering her rather untimely death. it seemed a haunting notion to imagine, her grandmother standing in the arena so confident and sure, no doubt drunk on the worship from her people, unsuspecting of what beast lurked in the shadows free from its lair. surely by the time anyone in the crowd noticed the nanook loose in the arena juno's throat had already been slashed open, her limp body tossed to the ground by the starving beast who no doubt eagerly satiated its hunger on her royal blood. the ice bear would have been apprehended immediately by order of the overseer of the colosseum but only then it would've already been far too late. calista warily observed her queen mother from the corner of her eye. it has been said that anastasia ─ despite the atrocious relationship she bore with juno ─ took to her public displays of mourning quite seriously, and like a woman weeping blood she was often styled in high-necked black gowns, sewn with dozens of blood-red gems cut in the shape of teardrops. curiously enough calista's uncle galen once mentioned her utter lack of tears over the matter. in fact, she was sure he mentioned anastasia seeming a new woman come their mother's unfortunate death. released from the tribulations and suffering juno once inflicted upon her, anastasia was quick to come into her own agency as revenant queen, and even quicker to establish herself a competent ruler. what perceptions people held of anastasia from her being forced to participate in impossible gladiatorial games hosted by juno were quickly buried come her grand successes over the stone hounds of manitoba in the districts of sudbury and thunder bay. even despite juno's attempts to debase her reputation anastasia was always going to be a force to be reckoned with, having seized a major expanse of territory in the thunder bay district at the ripe age of seventeen ─ a victory that supposedly turned juno against anastasia to begin with, with the former being unable to accept the notion of her successor outclassing her by any means. calista looked over to her uncle galen when his voice suddenly pulled her from thoughts. he rode opposite to her queen mother. "not a greeting in store for me? good to see you too, princess." he jested playfully. she was thankful for the familiarity of his light demeanor right now. "ah, uncle." calista offered him an apologetic smile. "how are you faring? it's been no small trip from sudbury, has it?"
indent"no," he chuckled in agreement. "but getting out of that stuffy mine is good for me." only her uncle would refer to his ancestral seat as a stuffy mine. even her queen mother could not mask the glint of amusement in her eye. "i can imagine the journey all the way up from gore bay has been more taxing than mine own though, or so i hear. what say you, calista?" the older man seemed to search her expression for a moment, as though trying to gauge her current temperament. galen wore the simplest of the athanasiou finery on display, donning a long, white surcoat clasped in the center by the sigil of his house, a golden fox. emblazoned underneath his collar were ornate flourishes of black thread. she noted the man's beard and hair had been trimmed and cut respectively to look much neater than usual too. calista was quick to tear her gaze away from her uncle's own. "it has been long, yes, and tiring." she said simply, her tone coming off rather blunt. calista's eyes remained fixed on the patchy road stretching through the sparse woodlands ahead of them so that she might avoid the sight of his frown. her uncle galen was far too accustomed with her habits, more so than even anastasia herself. he knew she was seeking his and her queen mother's company for a reason rather than entertaining that of her siblings. a part of her wanted to remain distracted during their journey on stratnach road. what her lady cousin said to her last they were at elkmire seemed to echo in her mind like a hatefully incessant reminder of her future: i'm not sure if i should congratulate you or console you. she could almost picture lucina's smug face, wearing that horrible grin she so desperately wanted to wipe from her perfectly sculpted features. calista did not want anyone's pity. there was nothing to pity. or was she lying to herself? maybe a part of her was resentful toward her queen mother. after all, the other woman spent years of her own life unmarried, apparently partaking in carefree endeavors of self-exploration all the while impressing the masses with her swordsmanship in the gore bay colosseum. by the gods, she only married her father because he survived the brutal series of venationes she arranged, proposing that any man who could overcome her games should be fit to win her hand in marriage. and that was only after she relented from a previous announcement, that being she would only marry any man who could best in her in the colosseum grounds. she even took a horse from each man who failed in his attempt. when it became clear to her that she would best each of her opponents, only then did she make amends to her prior declaration. the notion was an oddly frustrating one to grapple with. the other woman had the right to dictate her own fate. she inherited the hallowed throne and did as she pleased for a time. when she eventually came to wed it was fully on her own terms. she was not married off like some political pawn to gain the eidolon more power or land. she may have been tied down to a man at the end but it was a relationship she ultimately chose. calista had to wonder: when in the history of house athanasiou has the heir to the hallowed throne been forced to bow her head and comply with a marriage proposal, least of all to a foreign house? she supposed her grandmother juno was an exception, her marriage to calista's grandfather lord demonax cirillo of the archipelago being one arranged by her aunt who seized her rightful throne from her. calista's situation was far different though. she was no captive like juno was once. calista's queen mother stole her ability to choose from her ─ a prospect that surely a younger anastasia would have been furious over herself ─ and she treated her no different than her younger sister cybil, married off to a wealthy lord to grant her family more influence throughout the territories of the heartlands. perhaps that is it, then. the whole situation was simply infuriating. calista has done fine for herself this long without a husband and she hardly thought it culturally appropriate to engage with the mythic dawn in such a manner. her queen mother was not only threatening calista's autonomy but choosing to undermine centuries of an established matriarchy, whereby dynastic descent has been reckoned solely through the athanasiou female line. once calista married into the mythic dawn's royal family would she not inherently loose some of her power? their gibraltar neighbors certainly do not adhere to the same rights of primogeniture as they do. granted, they rule over two separate territories through two separate thrones and seats of power, but would having a blended way of life not change that in the end? tradition was being sacrificed for power, almost blatantly so, whether or not anyone was willing to look it in the eye and call it that. she was raised to understand the role of the ruling queen as being one not dependent ─ or even subservient ─ to a man, let alone to the husband she might take on. it was a bizarre concept to her, this possibility she might have to answer to another ruling authority, and it was one that by nature she did not like. since she was a young girl she has been under the impression she would come into a power of her own, and to potentially have that stripped away, or at-least diminished in theory, was quite hard to come to terms with. either way, calista hoped prince halvor did not expect much from her. it would make both of their lives significantly easier if they could both just perform their duties and carry on their own pursuits as they pleased. she was to be the revenant queen of the heartlands one day, not merely some consort to hang off the arm of a man born outside of her culture. everyone would certainly do well to remember such a notion come their wedding.
indent"...i'm going to be getting my boots caked with mud! and my skirts, oh gods. one of the finest dressmakers in gore bay fashioned this─"
indentcalista glanced over her shoulder upon hearing cybil's complaints. the expression upon her face was not a particularly impressed one. a moment passed before she shifted her gaze back toward her queen mother and her uncle. "if it's not too late, may i request we make a detour? i'm thinking it might be wise to drop cybil on lord bakirtzis' doorstep before we squander our chances with the mythic dawn altogether. we've travelled long enough already. what's a few more days to thunder bay?" behind her she could hear cybil's appalled protests at the mention of her betrothed, though the sound of her voice was almost drowned by her uncle's boisterous laughter. both became rather irrelevant when calista began to notice the change in their surroundings though. the gradual recession of towering trees into rather stumpy ones indicated they were proceeding to the timberline of the sparse forest they were travelling through. "your majesty," a serviceman interjected from the the lateral side of their procession. "the camping grounds are upon us." upon hearing confirmation of their subsequent arrival, calista tensed without realizing it, gripping fortuna's reins for a fleeting moment before forcing herself to regain her composure. she had to remind herself it would not bode well for her if the mythic dawn thought she looked as though she'd seen a ghost upon laying eyes on their encampment. even despite her efforts, why did her throat feel as though it were closing though? this sort of unease was much unlike her. calista swallowed thickly when the trees eventually gave way to the sight of old palisades, tall stakes protruding from the ground to fortify the encampment site frequented by the royal families of the mythic dawn and the eidolon over the years, an area located at the border of the heartlands and gibraltar. despite the feeling of dread pooling in her stomach, a part of her remained hopeful. in particular, a certain søren kolbeck crossed her mind. she should see him here, amongst the many...
indentonce in the clearing, queen anastasia was the first to dismount her steed, one of their attendants taking the reins of her queen mother's stallion. calista gently pulled fortuna's reins toward her body to urge her horse to come to a halt as well, her eyes only briefly flashing across the reception of the other royal family outside the palisades before she followed in suit with her queen mother. calista's dainty pair of heeled shoes made contact with the earth, her navy cloak twisting behind her when she turned to face fortuna. she gave the stallion a reassuring pat on the neck before allowing the horse to be tended to by another one of their men. casting a curious glance up to the sky, the revenant princess spotted talos diving down to perch among the palisades. the raptor looked out on the eidolon's impressive retinue, preceded and flanked by bannermen hoisting house athanasiou's sigil of a crowned golden lion on a navy field. while the rest of their procession proceeded to slow to a stop, calista was quick to join her queen mother and her uncle, heedful not to appear careless or distracted when formal introductions were to be made. her siblings made to do the same. determined not to dirty the hems of her skirts, cybil gathered the fabric of her dress in bunches to keep her skirts from dragging on the ground underfoot, her caution far different from the way adonis carried himself, confidently swaggering over to take his place at his family's side once they approached the royal family of the mythic dawn. "king ulrik," anastasia greeted the man cordially, paying him respect with a bow before giving his wife the same courtesy. "queen aoibheann. it will be good to see you both setting foot on heartlands soil again. we welcome you." the revenant queen glanced toward calista expectantly, who in turn took a step forward to stand at her side before the rulers of the mythic dawn. "please, allow me to reintroduce my daughter and heir to the hallowed throne, princess calista athanasiou." calista lowered herself to a curtsy when her queen mother presented her to the king and the queen of the mythic dawn. between the two rulers, queen aoibheann was certainly more of a familiar face given her frequent visits down to gore bay, oftentimes on the account of foreign trade and diplomacy. her queen mother has grown fond over the other woman too, as far as calista understood it. it would appear they have grown to have a sort of companionship with one another since their initial introduction to each other years back. queen anastasia continued on to address the lord standing on her opposite side. "and accompanying me today is my brother, lord galen ateos, the liege lord of greater sudbury." calista's uncle offered the two rulers each a bow. "king ulrik, queen aoibheann. it's an honor." galen said. both cybil and adonis paid their respects to the foreign rulers once their queen mother called upon them to do so, but calista was hardly paying mind to what was going on around her, and she certainly did not care much for standing around like a prize to be shown off to the royals of house kolbeck. there was only one person whose attention might matter to her at all, and only for him did she find herself hoping she looked every part the regal princess she was fashioned to, a notion that would not typically concern calista otherwise. the revenant princess raised her eyes to survey the members of the royal kolbeck family, briefly searching for a familiar face among those in attendance. should her gaze even momentarily fall upon søren calista was sure her eyes might linger a moment too long. her wandering attention would be quickly reeled in by the sound of her queen mother's voice though. calista averted her gaze when the revenant queen looked to both king ulrik and queen aoibheann once they finished exchanging formalities between their families. "i do trust the journey to the border was uneventful?" she inquired. "i understand it is no short trip from khyobel either."

[vaermina]

ＳØＲＥＮ ＫＯＬＢＥＣＫxxx
I.xtribal affiliationsx II. the lord ascendant of the mythic dawn


indentthe winter breeze carried the distant call of a wolf's howl, long and lonely in the frozen expanse of the canadian wasteland.
indentthe pale sun high above, shrouded in a thin envelope of dull overcast, did little to chase away the cold that clung to the wilderness along the border. radiation fog lingered throughout the valley of towering spruces and thin pine trees like a sea of ivory mist. there was a stillness in the air, broken only by the sound of distant bird calls and the cry of the wind as it rattled snowy tree branches. the land that fringed the border was an isolated one, quiet in the dead of winter and unafflicted by the usual activities of human civilization. an expanse of open basins, frozen rivers, and frosty wetlands, there was little to see apart from quiet homesteads, lone fishing shacks and abandoned townships from an age long since forgotten. it was difficult travelling through the mountainous terrain of the canadian shield, a rocky plateau that stretched practically stretched throughout the entire province of gibraltar. with rolling plains, forested valleys, and hilly regions of lakes and swampland, it was even more strenuous during wintertime. canada's back country was a treacherous realm. a land divided by tall clefts, large slopes, winding creeks, and everlasting woods, most of the territory proved perilous during the wintertime. ragged rock formations and cracked stone underfoot made it difficult for livestock to navigate as farmers urged their flocks to warmer pastures, and unsuspecting crags and sudden changes in scenery morphed the backroads into a potential death trap for unsure travelers. it was nearly impossible to discern how deep a snow drift truly was during this time of year, and whether or not a slope was truly ending where one's eyes promised it would be. the rich duvet of foliage, small rocks and verdure that usually made up the forest's undergrowth was hidden entirely by pockets of sleet, and not even the usually rich abundance of waterways found throughout southern redibor proved secure to travel upon. the smaller lakes and brooks were completely frozen, encapsulated in bright white ice that reflected the midday rays of winter sunlight. the larger basins and creeks proved a tough creature to conquer. the freshwater lake of lake simard remained unfazed by the cold upon the royal retinue's passing a few days ago. the shoreline's abundant stashes of pickerelweed, blue flag, arrowhead and bulrush had been layered in fine coats of ice upon closer inspection, and the tall conifers that sat on the lake's shore stood like frozen statues, silent and unyielding in their observation of the large lake. with several islands, lake simard was an outgrowth of the ottawa river. the north shore of the lake formed two large curves while the south coast has several bays: the bay of deer river, bay klock, poverty bay and bay snags. and while the lake itself remained unfrozen, its blue waters proved unwelcoming to the human touch. most of the country in ottawa valley proved that way. nestled between the saint lawrence lowlands and the canadian shield, ottawa valley sat along the border of gibraltar and the heartlands. a vale of flat farmland, sparse forests and towering foothills dotted with dead boscage, the ottawa river flowed through large swathes of snow-covered woodland and shriveled blueberry bogs. patches of birch, maple, beech, oak and ash occur in more mesic areas with better soil further inland in gibraltar; wetlands became more common as one drew closer to the border, with relatively pristine sand dunes, diverse shoreline alvars, and large silver maple swamps beginning to dot the landscape. similar to the rest of the surrounding woodlands, the wetlands were trapped in their own quiet alcove with nothing but thin ice, tawny plants and sparse trees dotting the landscape. observant hares and skittish foxes blended in nicely with their surroundings. the towering sentinels of the forest—speckled paper birch and pale red oak, thin balsam popular and narrow western hemlock—stood proudly amidst the winter panorama, their branches stripped bare of leaves. the skin of their trunks, weathered and rugged bark as deep as the color of soil, stood out against the pure white canvas of snow that lay comfortably atop their exposed roots. some branches even drooped beneath the weight of the frost, creating enchanting archways and tunnels for explorers to pass through as they mingled with dead thorn bushes and unkept brambles. the forest floor, once a bustling tapestry of greenery, was now cloaked in a soft layer of snow. occasional bursts of color punctuated the monochromatic landscape as vibrant red berries clung defiantly to frost-kissed bushes, and the occasional splash of sage dotted the landscape as hardy evergreen trees persisted through the cold weather. the forests became less abundant as the border grew near, and the flat vales of ruined bogland and dead plains grew more persistent. it almost appeared like the trees were beginning to purposely stick together to avoid the ruinous temptation of being the odd loner stuck out in the frozen mire.
indentthe toil that came with travelling through frostbitten country was not lost on the royal retinue of the mythic dawn. the land was inhospitable this time of year, a graveyard of treacherous roads, troublesome weather and scathing temperatures that made both man and beast rather ill-tempered. the summer thoroughfares were too perilous to travel upon this time of year, for the icy roads promised nothing but shattered bones and broken wheels. they were forced to utilize the mountainous terrain to avoid the worst of the flat lands, where deep snow drifts all but guaranteed perplexed wagons and exhausted livestock. it was a difficult journey for the king's entourage, an ever-present cortège who reveled in the benefits and pleasures of high living but loathed the odiousness that came with long-distance travel. the royal house of kolbeck was joined by quite the number of aristocracy, a none too docile mass of wealthy patricians, influential merchants and reputable well born that most likely leveled into the hundreds. most of them were lords and ladies of the great houses and their respective vassals; others were affluent traders and property owners who have long since raised their social statuses through a culmination of wealth and intelligent property operations. the retinue was bumbling with an assortment of impatient nobles, their families and households and wagons full of wares and belongings that they were unwilling to leave behind during their brief stay in the heartlands. most of them were courtiers of the royal court, and a mere scoop out of the usual thousands that attended the royal court in the suncrest palace back in khyobel. whatever constituted their personal agendas in making contact with the heartlands was their own, for their presence was nevertheless required on an occasion as grand as this. no gibraltar grandee was foolish enough to miss such an historic landmark for the future advancement of the mythic dawn, and the extrapolations that were sure to come out of these recent events promised tempting economic and social awards for those willing to play the game.
indenthaving spent the last few days travelling through grueling conditions, the comforts of a well-tended campsite was a welcome reprieve for the members of the royal entourage. nestled upon the frigid threshold of a dead forest and frozen mire, the royal campsite stood as a beacon of grandeur amidst the pristine white landscape. flanked on all sides by sentinels of towering pines and snowy swamplands, the campsite exuded an air of regality and warmth that not even the rugged environment could hamper. this was not the first time this particular site has been used as a camping ground. it bore the touch of previous occupancy through worn gravel underfoot, a handful of protective cheval de frises on the outskirts of the camp's perimeter, and old lantern posts that had been shoved into the ground over a decade ago. it was located next to the entrance of the forest, the trees tall and unyielding as they looked down upon the tents, and right before the terrain gradually morphed into swampland and frozen hills. at its heart lay a majestic pavilion, adorned with rich crimson and medallion banners emblazoned with the tribal crest, billowing proudly against the backdrop of the winter sky. the pavilion, crafted from the finest silks and furs, served as both a temporary throne room and a sanctuary from the biting chill, its interior warmed by crackling hearths and opulent tapestries that depicted scenes of valor and conquest. surrounding the pavilion sat the tents of the noble retinue, each meticulously arranged in a symmetrical pattern reminiscent of a grand court. these shelters, though smaller in stature, were no less lavish. their canvas walls were insulated with plush furs and adorned with intricate embroidery that spoke of the status of their occupants. sturdy torches cast flickering light upon the scene, and meandering pathways of crushed pine needles and powdered snow lead to the various satellite tents set up cautiously amongst the snow drifts. the air was alive with the enchanting melodies of court musicians, their instruments carefully sheltered beneath elaborately crafted awnings and broken only by the howls of the retinue's wolfhounds. the camp buzzed with the sounds of activity; servants scurried about, tending to the needs of their lords and ladies, while guards clad in boiled leather and gleaming steel stood vigilant against the silent threat of the forest beyond. the many wagons and carriages that made up the retinue were carefully parked on the outskirts of camp, with the horses and cattle that pulled them set out to graze from hay bales brought along on the journey. within the opulent confines of the camp's many tents, the walls were draped in sumptuous silks of regal hues, where an aura of divine grandeur permeated the air. tapestries of religious motifs adorned the walls, depicting scenes of celestial beings in godly repose and intricate patterns reminiscent of sacred geometry. golden candelabras illuminated the spaces, casting a warm, ethereal glow upon the rooms, while fragrant incense sweetened the air. plush cushions and palatial chairs, embroidered with symbols of faith, were scattered across the floors, inviting guests to recline in comfort and reverence. small altars fashioned from polished marble stood as focal points outside the tents' flaps, adorned with intricately carved icons and offerings of precious gems and perfumed oils. detailed byōbus depicting scenes of bloodborn victories hid the occupants' cots and personal valuables from view. ornate rugs, woven with threads of gold and crimson, hid the earthy ground from view. as the gentle rustle of silk curtains danced in the breeze, candle light flickered throughout the tents, illuminating the intricate carvings of wooden furniture and the gleam of precious metals scattered throughout. the tents of the bloodborn nobles were a sanctuary of warmth and comfort, their thick, insulating layers of fabric carefully designed to ward off the chill, while still allowing the soft murmur of the winter breeze to permeate the space. but now, most of the tents sat empty, cleared out upon the arrival of the eidolon.
indentgarbed a suit of traditional armor, søren kolbeck appeared quite plain amongst those who stood in attendance beyond the palisades of the bloodborn's encampment. in fact, he appeared almost like a sore thumb amongst the sea of luxurious fur coats and colorful fabrics. his companion, the ardent rafaelle okland, put him to shame by mere appearance alone. adorned in regalia befitting his station, lord rafaelle's resplendent ensemble tailored to exude power and prestige. his attire, a seamless blend of sophistication and opulence, featured a doublet of rich, obsidian black velvet, intricately embroidered with crimson threads of shining suns to accentuate the boldness of his presence. a white undershirt, hidden only by golden clasps in which kept the soft material of his doublet closed, peeked along his throat with the blooming figure of a stark collar and delicate lace cuffs along his wrists. cascading from his broad shoulders, a flowing cloak of deepest scarlet billowed behind him, its edges trimmed with fine gold filigree and the soft fur of black minx. he wore a thick chain of intricate design about his neck, wrought from gleaming ebony and studded with rubies. his fingers, adorned with rings of antiquity, each bearing the crest of his noble house, shimmered with the light of precious gemstones. his attire was a visual symphony of black and red, from the sleek dark color of his trousers to the leather boots in which hugged his calves. distinguished by a commanding presence and charming disposition, the lord cut a striking figure amidst the grandeur of his fellow tribesmen. his countenance, framed by a meticulously groomed mane of chestnut brown hair, exuded an air of refinement and authority. not a hint of facial hair marred the smoothness of his visage, and the fine lines of his face only emphasized the aristocratic cut of his jaw and the strength of his features. the man's piercing mahogany gaze, set beneath arched brows, focused carefully on those around him and, to a certain degree, the lord ascendant, whom he had been conversing with in hushed conversation prior to the arrival of house athanasiou. draped in garments of exquisite tailoring, lord rafaelle moved with effortless grace as he fixed the gold brooch pinned to his doublet. a lord of the great house of okland, the man was originally born into the vaillancourt family, an influential and wealthy merchant house situated in blood and wine country. famous for producing some of the finest mead in gibraltar, the vaillancourts bore an outward presentation of opulence and sophistication, with lavish banquets, colorful social displays, and extravagant parties serving as showcases for their luxurious lifestyle. their public image was carefully curated, projecting an air of affluence and exclusivity that masked the relentless drive propelling their success. they operated with a calculated ruthlessness veiled beneath a facade of aristocratic charm. they functioned with a pitiless and strategic approach that mirrored the intensity of their prized concoction. cloaked in an aura of deliberate elegance, the family navigated the cutthroat world of commerce with a shrewdness that bordered on cunning. there were rumors of the family's dealings in cutthroat negotiations and clandestine dealings, acts of exploiting rivalries and leveraging alliances to maintain their stranglehold on the industry. their reputation for producing unparalleled mead was bolstered not only by the quality of their product but also by their shrewd manipulation of trade routes and distribution networks. they viewed competition not as adversaries to be vanquished but as pieces on a chessboard to be maneuvered and outmaneuvered in their relentless pursuit of supremacy. negotiations unfolded for the clan like a high-stakes game of chess, each move designed to secure advantageous positions and undermine rivals. the vaillancourts orchestrated these maneuvers with a precision that left very little room for error. they employed a ruthless pragmatism, crushing competitors with a strategic finesse that only enhanced the allure of their renowned mead. in the past few decades, they have bought out more land than they knew what to do with while simultaneously crushing weaker wineries and breweries beneath their heels before subjugating their rivals to their whims. the mythic dawn's alliances only further fueled the ambitions of the vaillancourts and rival merchants houses, for political and economic opportunism in the heartlands and akhiwudian could prove fruitful for those willing to play the game. the family's rise to prominence was not just about crafting exceptional spirits but mastering the intricate dance of power and influence, making them a force to be reckoned with in both the market and the machinations of high society. and despite their current standing, the vaillancourts were not of noble blood (albeit they were not keen on admitting so), but rather began their journey as simple commoners before crafting the now famous recipe for goldenglow mead. they have catapulted far beyond where one might think someone of their original station might end up, and lord rafaelle himself has played a massive hand in their current ascent. the former heir of the vaillancourt estate, the older man was introduced to the royal court by his seasoned tactician of a father before he even knew what the royal court was. marred by early years of warfare and foreign glory on the battlefield, lord rafaelle would later develop into a proficient politician upon becoming head of the vallaincourt family. he was a former ambassador of the house of kolbeck, a trusted diplomat and efficient plenipotentiary whom often accompanied queen aoibheann on foreign pursuits during the reign of king torhtsige. he lacked the dogmatic and offensively brutish mannerisms that so many canadian tribespeople displayed. in a land that was utterly dominated by cultures of war and cruel pursuits, many tribesmen lacked the charisma, perspicacity and patience needed to create efficient governmental structures and political atmospheres. the tribes of the mythic dawn and the fallen eidolon were not the only groups to experience mad monarchs and violent shifts of inner power and turmoil, for there have been just as vile─and perhaps even worse─figureheads who have ascended their thrones and left behind a tainted legacy in the provinces beyond their borders.
indentperhaps that is why so many found the lord to be an interesting character, for the reckless and bold far outnumber the cautious and astute here in the canadian wasteland. prior to becoming a great lord several years ago, lord rafaelle had spent most of his time rotating between his duties as a kolbeck ambassador and dictating his inheritance over the vaillancourt estate. he once served the royal court as an emissary, and frequently engaged in political and economic negotiations, promoted bilateral cooperation and safeguarded bloodborn interests in the heartlands. he served queen aoibheann as an attaché before the war of wrath, and he was one of many politicians and noblemen who made up her political retinue as an envoy. lord rafaelle proved to be a popular ambassador during his years with the royal court. self-assured, charismatic, and optimistic, the older man exuded warmth and purpose, so much that his charisma was inordinately throttling. the almost primitive and mistrustful ways of the average bloodborn tribesman did not seem to necessarily affect lord rafaelle's character, a state of mind that many, as a native of gelderarich, would swiftly attest to his 'bohemian' heritage. those born in blood and wine country have always been considered to be an idiosyncratic brunch, for they lived a preserved way of life that embraced the ideals of ancient european court circles. they possessed a prevailing aristocratic spirit that sought to sustain art and personal craft, hobbies and avocations that are often greatly scorned throughout annexed canada. they considered art and earthly pleasures as not just a form of expression but a cornerstone of cultural identity and societal cohesion. the natives of gelderarich valued creativity, collaboration, and mutual advancement. craftsmanship was revered, with artisans honing their skills over generations. their crafts not only serve practical purposes but also contribute to the aesthetic beauty of daily life, enriching the environment and enhancing the well-being of gelderarich's general populace. and unlike the neighboring subregions, economic prosperity was pursued through innovation, entrepreneurship, and sustainable practices. rather than viewing resources as finite commodities to be fought over, the populace embraces collaboration and cooperation to ensure equitable distribution and long-term sustainability. there was a strong emphasis on education and technological advancement, with investments made in research and development to drive progress across various fields. the people of gelderarich championed refinement and progression, concepts that are often grossly neglected in the tribe of the mythic dawn. it was why they appeared so alien and almost frustratingly uptight to their neighbors, for their liberal mindsets aggrieved those who benefited from the old customs of the bloodborn populace. religion was respected throughout gelderarich─and even widely practiced─but not in a way that mimicked the tribe's overall fanatical mindset. lord rafaelle's background as a native of gelderarich and his subsequent beliefs imposed him as a striking individual that differed from the average bloodborn ethos, and that is what made him so beloved as a foreign ambassador. instead of shunning the beliefs of neighboring adventitious tribes, he instead temporarily embraced their ideals and became the poster boy of eidolon-mythic relations. he did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and his ideals and beliefs were hidden beneath whatever guise he found suitable to display. the candid acrimony of the bloodborn did not necessarily apply to lord rafaelle. he was generous and open-minded when it came to appealing to the better nature of the heartlands residents. when he was an ambassador, one could always find him sitting amongst the crowds of bloodthirsty spectators in the infamous gore bay colosseum, surrounded by both bloodborn visitors and eidolon residents alike. his cool-headed nature and beguiling tongue has made him many friends throughout the heartlands, both in the commerce department and sea of politics. it was no surprise why the man would seek to expand the vaillancourts' influence and wealth by offering an olive branch to similar eidolon merchant houses, and the eidolon made for a juicy target when one accounts how much alcohol the tribe runs through while watching their beloved games. lord rafaelle's connections, carefully nurtured through decades of congenial companionship and careful industry undertakings, has allocated the vaillancourts' businesses as some of gibraltar's most successful foreign commerce dealings. lord rafaelle's part in creating a system of flourishing consortiums between the bloodborn and eidolon only bolstered his status in the royal court, and it was of no contemplation to the king of who better to fill the vacant spot of a great lord than one as loyal as rafaelle vaillancourt himself. to some, it was a worthy selection. to others, it was a sycophantic move granted to a man who was already quite immoral and unprincipled to begin with. lord rafaelle's endowment as the new lord of house okland was based on pure connection and piety. after years of bloody war and a mountain of losses, they needed a reliable figurehead, one whose faithfulness will remain steadfast in the face of any temptation to renounce, desert, or betray the crown. but the act of betrayal was dubious when it came to men like lord rafaelle. despite his polished public personality and vast connections built upon a seabed of good faith, there were many within the royal court who felt that the lord was janus-faced. he certainly had no qualms befriending individuals whom he believed could serve his cause in some way shape or form. his beliefs were slippery to begin with, and the older man had no trouble twisting himself into a restrictive cast if it meant he could find some way to manipulate the system for his own benefit. it was probably one of many reasons why he has developed close ties with not only house kolbeck but the religious factions that served their gods. lord rafaelle would gladly present himself a righteous subject if it meant reaping the benefits of eliminating his rivals from the game, for many believed it was he that was responsible for exposing the crimes of the former lord okland (despite lesser accusations that he himself was also engaging in criminal conduct alongside the former lordling). the pieces fell together almost perfectly when one accounts how the vaillancourts' wealth will only continue to rise now that one of their own has claimed dominion over the entertainment halls that put house okland on the map. he knew how to make friends in high places, as shown by his relationship with the lord ascendant of the mythic dawn. as high inquisitor and one of the tribe's most leal and vicious hands of justice, it did him good to find some standing with lord søren.
indentlord rafaelle stood patiently on his left, bordered only by a bridge of inquisitive nobles who had come from their confines of their tents to witness the arrival of the eidolon's royal family. the lord ascendant's sister, lady máirín, flanked his right. the aristocrats gave the royals a respectable distance, standing behind and off to the sides of the camp's wide entrance like a crowd of curious pigeons. the mythic dawn's religious body stood with them, albeit at an interval that set them apart from the crowd of high-born and granted them their own respective aura of powerful aptitude. they stood out amongst the tide of rich furs, glittering gemstones and deep silks with an emanation that tasted almost grim. lady máirín wore a long-sleeved, high-necked gown in a rich, dark merlot-stained hue. the fabric was a heavy, textured material that was almost starch in nature─a gown of undoubtedly complex patterns such as brocade, damask and matelassé─with a fitted bodice and structured shoulders that extend slightly beyond her natural shoulder line. the bodice featured a unique v-shaped seam that extended from the high collar to her waist, creating a flattering silhouette. the sleeves were long and fitted, with intricate detailing at the cuffs. the gown's material did not flutter in the breeze and appeared almost as restrictive as a suit of armor. the dress went down to her ankles, although there was hardly anything conservative and prudent about its fashion statement. the ivory skeleton of a small raven was sewn into the front bodice of her gown. it was posed as if in forward flight, its bony wings outstretched across her chest and its beak pointing to the sky in silent ponder. its fragile bones were carefully sewn into the rigid fabric of her gown, the mahogany threads appearing almost like red vines that had trapped the bird in life and now preserved its body in death. máirín's hair was unstyled, marred only by the presence of a circlet made out of twisted birch wood with plastered redberries. her hair fell down to her waist, its wavy curls billowing slightly in the breeze. her pale features were marked by a faded bloody handprint that lay plastered directly across her face, a common symbol worn by ladies of the wood during matters of particular diplomatic importance─no matter how ominous it may appear to those unfamiliar with the mythic dawn's religion. her face lacked any emotion save that of a slight smirk, her dark eyes surveying the approaching eidolon retinue with great interest. her druids stood silently behind her, for they too bore an ominous appearance with grotesque wooden masks reminiscent of mischievous forest spirits. her brother did not look any less welcoming than she. clad in a full suit of dark, ornate armor, his chest was protected by a blackened breastplate with a large cross pattée emblazoned on the front. the edges of the breastplate were lined with gold trim and large pauldrons, also edged in gold, covered his shoulders and extended down to protect his upper arms. a series of segmented plates hung from the lower edge of his breastplate, protecting his upper legs and groin. they were adorned with gold rivets and buckles. accented rerebraces for the upper arms and vambraces for the forearms protected his limbs from potential injury, and his hands were encased in gauntlets with articulated fingers, allowing for dexterity while maintaining protection. the knuckles were reinforced with additional plates. with a closed helm that covered his entire face from view entirely, the religious figureheads stood accompanied by a number of leal subjects ranging from masked druids to armored templars. their magnetism was rivaled only by that of the royal family, whom stood unperturbed before the eyes of their subjects as they surveyed the approach of the eidolon retinue. the kolbecks stood in quiet anticipation, their demeanor exuding an air of ancient but majestic pride. hailing from an archaic bloodline, house kolbeck has ruled gibraltar from the sunburst throne for centuries. they were an illustrious family, grandeur and imposing but cavalier and vain all in the same breath. their egotism manifested in their unwavering belief in their own divine right to rule, their entitlement evident in the way they carried themselves, heads held high, as if the weight of the crown was a mere trifle upon their regal brows. they participated in the game with muted magnificence, for that was the cost of being one amongst the high-born. every gesture, every word uttered was carefully crafted to project an image that most would consider to be gracious behavior. it was not easy to navigate the world of nobility. demeanor was as much a part of the legacy as lineage. behind closed doors, whispers of intrigue and machination abound as they vied for dominance within the gilded confines of their palace walls, yet every public appearance was meticulously curated to project an image of unassailable majesty, with even the slightest hint of imperfection swiftly swept under the rug. their house's long history of political and civil strife was something the kolbecks were not quick to acknowledge, and it was impossible to tell their recent woes by first impressions alone. king ulrik and queen aoibheann held their heads high, so much so that their subjects felt the need to follow. in the bitter chill of canadian winter, the monarchs were adorned in garments both regal and practical, tailored to withstand the unforgiving cold while exuding the importance of their positions. atop the king's broad shoulders rest a cloak of the finest fur, a majestic mantle fashioned from the pelts of arctic foxes, its creamy hues a striking contrast against the stark white landscape. lined with insulating layers of quilted fabric, it provided both warmth and protection against the relentless chill, its hem brushing the snowy ground with each step. beneath this outer layer he wore a tunic of supple leather, dyed a deep, earthy hue reminiscent of the ancient forests that cloak gibraltar's countryside. embellished with intricate patterns and runes of amber and crimson stitching, each symbol told a tale of valor and lineage. he wore a supple leather jerkin, adorned with gold clasps, over the tunic itself. his legs were encased in trousers of thick, weather-beaten leather, reinforced with additional padding at the knees and thighs for added insulation and protection against the elements. they were tucked into sturdy boots, lined with fur and fitted with metal studs for traction on the icy terrain. upon his head sat a crown forged from iron and adorned with hessonite garnets, a stark contrast to the soft fur framing his face. yet, even amidst the opulence, practicality reigned supreme, as the crown was designed to fit snugly over a fur-lined helm, ensuring that no gust of wind or flurry of snow can penetrate his defenses. it was not the traditional crown worn by the ruling monarch of the mythic dawn. the original crown worn by the ruling monarch of the dawn does not leave the walls of the suncrest palace, for it was too valuable to take on the road.
indentyounger than the husband, queen aoibheann retained a sense of juvenility that did not break down with age. wrapped in a cloak of the deepest of purples, reminiscent of the velvety hues of twilight skies, she commanded attention with an aura of gracefulness that was not often found in the rugged populace of the bloodborn. her gown, spun from the finest wool and silk, bears subtle gaelic motifs woven into its fabric, a nod to the intertwined heritage of her realm. embroidered with intricate patterns reminiscent of celtic knots, a fur-lined sepia cloak cascaded around her shoulders, shielding her from the biting cold while adding a touch of untamed wilderness to her ensemble. the cloak was lined in white fur that matched the ensemble of her own husband's apparel. she wore minimal jewelry apart from colorful runic beads at her throat and a sparkling tiara embedded with hessonite garnets. stories did not do justice on describing the beauty of the witch-queen. with a pearlescent complexion and sharp features, the queen bore high cheekbones and a strong jawline that only accentuated the fullness of her face. cascading down her back like a midnight waterfall, her long, lustrous black hair framed her face with a stark contrast, accentuating cold features that speak of both strength and grace. she looked just like her daughter. her eyes─a mesmerizing shade of mint-green, reminiscent of the northern lights dancing across the winter sky─pierced those around her with a striking clarity. with full lips and a prominent nose, queen aoibheann looked younger than her age, and it made her stand out when perched alongside her husband. she had the characteristics of a dark vixen, but king ulrik himself possessed a rugged regality that could not be found in the unblemished visage of his wife. she did not have any prominent wrinkles or imperfections, something her husband could not relate to. weathered by the passage of time and seasoned by the responsibilities of leadership, the lines that skewed the crevices' of the king's face spoke volumes of the tribulations he has experienced in life. with a square jawline, chiseled features, and piercing eyes the color of icy fjords, he commanded attention just by appearance alone. a thick mane of long frizzy hair, once the color of burnished gold, now bears the distinguished marks of gray, cascading down his neck to rest upon his shoulders like waves upon a rocky shore. his beard, similarly touched by the passage of time, framed his face in a mantle of authority, its length groomed yet untamed, hinting at a wildness beneath the surface. tall and imposing, he carried himself with the grace of a warrior and the poise of a monarch. his physique, though no longer as robust as in his youth, still retained the strength and endurance forged in countless battles and trials. king ulrik looked just like his mother, the former queen léontine, and his own disposition bore some analogy to the golden queen's good nature. neighborly and somewhat well disposed, king ulrik lacked the physical frigidity of his queen. it was far easier to read his expression than it was the average bloodborn noble and while not entirely magnanimous in nature, the king possessed a sense of geniality that has only helped strengthen eidolon-mythic relations over the years. he was not an adept politician by any means─he still relied on his advisers to guide him through his reign─but his cooperative stance on matters where his kin and people have been unwilling to budge made him a leal ally of the heartlands. he had a jovial sense of humor when not overwhelmed by political duties and while not easily angered, his wroth was something frightening to behold. he had a good sense of judgement and relied on such shrewd instincts to guide him in his decisions; such decisions seemed to include pursuing further relations with their western neighbors. it was no surprise that king ulrik would be the monarch to usher in a new age for his tribe, and a new era it would certainly prove to be. the marriage betrothal between prince halvor of house kolbeck and princess calista of house athanasiou promised an auspicious future for the tribes of the mythic dawn and fallen eidolon.
indentthere has never been two major tribes in close proximity that have combined their respective ways of life to become a provincial superpower in canada. while large tribes have certainly created alliances based on marriage proposals, there has never been a blended merging of two distinct ways of life to create a regional sovereignty. it was a prospect that, for the most part, has been believed to be widely impossible. the tribes that dot canada's landscape have been fighting for centuries over resources, land and local power and more often than not, said tribes bear distinct cultural differences that meant a clash of law and reason with their neighbors. the tribes of annexed canada have never been too keen on sharing vital resources with one another, and it was a constant race between neighbors of who may reign victorious over uncontested subregions and crucial capital. naturally, it also meant that tribes who find ways to grapple dominion over others are keen on destroying rival cultures and ways of life, if only to preserve their own heritage in a land that will not hesitate to wipe out entire bloodlines. the alliance between the people of the mythic dawn and fallen eidolon was one that has been brewing for decades now. it has reasonably suffered historical highs and lows throughout the years, although the betrothal between the crown prince of the mythic dawn and the crown princess of the fallen eidolon promised a future that seemed almost incomprehensible to think about. it was true that the bloodborn and the eidolon lived very distinct lifestyles that, without some sort of buffer or adaptation, promised to clash violently in the future. there were differences in religious beliefs and customary traditions that could affect the way the two tribes merged their societies, and it was a threat that was unfortunately almost all too real for the two royal families to deal with. in fact, the past decade alone showed how the citizens of gibraltar felt about the mythic-eidolon alliance when they rebelled against the crown with the black prince as the figurehead of their rebellion. tradition served as a critical anchor to identity and heritage. it preserved the customs, rituals, and narratives that connect people to their roots. these connections were essential for maintaining a sense of identity and belonging, and the bloodborn had not been eager to share their land and heritage with that of their western neighbors. and while those who publicly participated in the uprising have since been executed and largely eradicated from the tribe's political sphere, there was still the underlying threat of those who secretly held the same beliefs and still retained positions of considerable power. it was a risk that both families were willing to take, albeit at the cost of tradition and autonomy itself. it was expected that prince halvor and princess calista would rule as one with the combined interests of both their tribes in mind, although whether or not the two royals would be willing to make adjustments to handle the burden of such a responsibility had yet to be seen. it was a situation that king ulrik and queen anastasia would need to prepare them for, for any sense of weakness or conjugal unrest between the two heirs would surely lead to unscrupulous subjects seeking a way to undermine the alliance by taking advantage of their inability to stand as one. it would only take one person to undermine the sanctity of the concordat, something the bloodborn were all too familiar with. it would only take one great upheaval to destroy the alliance but this time, such destruction would surely end in the deaths of both house kolbeck and house athanasiou. the marriage betrothal between the tribe's two respective heirs now marked the two families as one body, and if one body was to suffer a dagger wound directly to the heart, it would be enough to kill them both. should they fail in uniting their people as one, it could very well result in a self-inflicted revolution that would have both houses eliminated and their thrones seized by ambitious names who had no intentions of living in peaceful co-existence. their alliance has already upset and alienated many of their subjects, and failure to bring about a successful union would result in a total dismantle of trust and respect between that of the royal dynasties and their people. failure was not an option, for death would be the price they would pay for their foundering. one can only stand against the tides of war for so long, and neither house would be able to survive a revolution enacted by their own people.
indentthe arrival of house athanasiou brought hushed awe upon the spectators. the whinny of horses and the brisk orders of soldiers ushering their mounts to a halt broke the stillness of the air, permeated only by the quiet whispers and interested gossip of the surrounding crowd. the banners of house athansiou and the tribe of the fallen eidolon fluttered in the cold breeze, their stark colors a daunting sight against the gray of the surrounding landscape. the eidolon's procession was an impressive sight, if only because of those who spearheaded its front. all eyes remained glued on the immortal queen and her royal children as they dismounted their steeds. there has always been a sense of repute and great interest when it came to observing the interactions between house kolbeck and house athanasiou. did they truly hold each other in such high approbation? what did they really think of one another? do they hold similar beliefs, and will said beliefs help guide their tribes to a better future? yes, the tribes' respective monarchs get along just fine now but will the same be said for their children when they rise to power? are they strong enough to carry on their legacies? there would always be a shadow of doubt and judgment poisoning the pool upon which the common people drink, and gossip and unheard hearsay concerning nobility would always be their poison of choice. it was an interesting pastime, to speculate the hidden evils and ambitions that may linger in the hearts of their tribes' biggest names. eyes remained glued on the athanasiou clan as they approached the kolbecks, their respective house colors intertwined in their very clothing. and as always, there was a dignified approach in queen anastasia's words as she addressed the king and queen of the dawn. "queen anastasia, it is an honor to be in your presence once more. your welcome is most gracious. and as always, it is a pleasure to be amongst your kin," king ulrik responded decorously in return, his voice loud and crisp in the silence of the crowd as he addressed the immortal queen, her children and her lord brother. he responded to her bow with one of his own. the crowd's attention pierced the royals as the king introduced his children, daughter-in-law and son-in-law to the athanasious. the king's children and in-laws stood alongside king ulrik and queen aoibheann with a silence that only invited conversation should such a branch be extended to them, as per their own courteous greetings to the queen of the heartlands and her family when provoked. the pressure to carry themselves in a courtly manner and to allow the monarchs space to talk without interruption was immense. there was a part to play, a theme common in politics and affairs of state. it was important for both clans to retain diplomacy, no matter how boorish and lifeless their interactions may seem to others. queen aoibheann smiled slightly at the other woman's inquiry, her pale hands clasped in front of her. "there were no impediments, no," the raven-haired queen confirmed. "it was a smooth journey. of course, winter has never been the most pleasant of seasons to travel in, but the remaining miles will be most pleasant now that we have your company to enjoy. i hope that the weather has been kind to your retinue, as well." queen aoibheann's diplomatic experience made her a tactful woman, although some might say she stood out amongst the current brood of kolbecks. she was not king ulrik's first wife nor was she the mother of his children. his first wife, princess eula, died many years ago before he ascended the throne. the marriage between queen aoibheann and king ulrik was one of an interesting fiber. it was not uncommon for monarchs of the mythic dawn to remarry after the death of a spouse, and most of said marriages tend to occur even if said monarch had children with their first spouse to begin with. it was often contributed as either a political move or one of pure desire, and in the case of king ulrik and queen aoibheann, it appeared to be a bit of both. queen aoibheann had married king ulrik to ensure not only her own survival but that of her children following the sack of khyobel and the war of wrath. it was a survival move, not one based on carnal desires or some intense grasp for power. the ancient blood laws of the mythic dawn proclaimed that the direct bloodline of a certifiable sinner could, in some cases, be contested in a court of law and furthermore eliminated entirely should someone come forward and contend of the grievances they suffered beneath said wrongdoer's hand. in the case of the adrúmentarii, the losses and pain suffered beneath his hand could not be understated. there were many that came forward demanding the head of not only his wife but that of his children, a rightfully reciprocal justice for the kin they had lost during the sack of khyobel and the years of woe. it was the law of exact retaliation, the same principle that a person who has injured another person is to be penalized to a similar degree by the injured party─or, in the case of murder, the murderer's kin must suffer the same fate. it was a largely primordial constitution of tribal jurisprudence that has grown slowly uncommon as the decades pass but, when enacted, could prove fatal to innocent parties. there was ultimate hypocrisy tied into such blood laws that has led to its declining popularity, such as the fact that the house kolbeck's direct bloodline cannot be held to its standards. after all, there has been so much inner bloodshed and kinslaying throughout the past three or four generations that should such laws be held to a pristine standard, house kolbeck would not be standing here today. but many had called for its enactment after the black prince's rebellion, and queen aoibheann rushed to marry the wifeless king ulrik in a desperate bid to save not only her life but that of her children's. she was granted immunity from such demands upon her ascension as queen and marriage into the ruling bloodline, and king ulrik had quickly grown resistant to the very idea of harming her or his niece and nephew. perhaps it showed a deeper kindness that the king did not readily display, for there are many in this violent land who would have gladly butchered prince brynjar's children if it meant ensuring the death of his direct bloodline and a possible reoccurrence of war in the future. hypothetically, they would not be able to follow in their father's footsteps and challenge the natural line of succession if they were dead. blood ties and lineage mean everything in annexed canada, especially amongst that of royal families. and while queen aoibheann was successful in escaping the demands of the tribe's blood laws, time and consequence has demanded the fracture of her immediate family as a whole. with her first husband shunned and imprisoned, her twin children remained isolated from house kolbeck. it was not a purposeful misdemeanor but rather circumstance of their religious positions and the responsibilities they must now uphold. they no longer carried the titles of prince and princess, and stood alone from the royal family during processions as important as this. it was not that they did not hold positions of great importance but rather their exploits in maintaining and upholding the tribe's religious atmosphere isolated them from their royal blood, and their duties involved greater undertakings nowadays. they were not forced to uphold their former duties as royals anymore. they rarely interacted with the royal family unless it happened to involve courtly duties and appearances. aoibheann was queen, yes but her children would not inherit the throne upon her passing. they too would fade away like that of a burnt spark, with nothing remaining of their legacy but that of what they chose to craft and uphold in life. aoibheann was queen, but she has lost everything to get there. and she was the happiest she has ever been, but at the cost of a once dutiful husband, her kin and two loving children whom, upon being handed life's unpleasant realities, have grown cold, bitter and ambitious to an almost zealous degree. she stood as queen while they stood in the shadows of the crowd. it was almost like her children never existed, a prospect that most likely pleased many people. aoibheann was queen, but she had little to show for it apart from the husband she was forced to marry and the crown she wore on her head, with flecks of faint blood stains dotting its surface from when it fell into a pool of queen léontine's blood. it was impossible to tell if such prospects had a toll on her. "we are most honored to be here today. my former advisor and now leal vassal, lord rafaelle okland, has brought two wagons of the finest meads and alcohol from gelderarich to toast to you and your family's health. we offer it as a gift, as thank you for allowing us the privilege to be amongst your people." queen aoibheann looked to the king almost expectantly. while he has proved himself to be a sociable man, he lacked the political tact and overall guile of his wife. it was good that he was open-minded and appeared to pick up a few things during his years as king, for there are many tribal monarchs out there who would refuse to even stand in front of another ruler and address them with the proper titles, much less than of an independent queen. king ulrik nodded in agreement. "yes, and we are most delighted to see where this road takes us. and while i do not ever doubt your aptitude, your majesty, i must ask and hope that it is not too strenuous to host our retinue? we do not wish to impose on your good will." it was a reasonable question. the bloodborn retinue was almost overflowing with nobles, influential merchants, popular religious figures and bumbling patricians. it was possible that even more may cross the border in the coming days, ranging from wealthy noblemen to curious lowborn seeking to enjoy whatever entertainment the heartlands may offer. a tide of people would surely follow house kolbeck's wake in eager anticipation of the budding marriage alliance, for it was an historical event. whether or not the large crowds of bloodborn and eidolon citizens mingled appropriately with one another had yet to be seen.

[vaell]

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe royal advisor to the arkhian crown.
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indenton the banks of the brazeau river invidia bore witness to the purification of her intended vessel.
indentanduru sahōdariya obaṭa āyācanā karami. their chants were drowned by the deafening roar of blood in her ears, by the water drowning out her sense of hearing. despite the frigid waters gwen was burning from the inside out. the pulse in her temple throbbed as she fought against breathing in a lung full of water. even her chest felt as though it would soon tear open from exertion alone. if she were not held so firmly beneath the surface of the river her limbs would have begun to thrash by now, a frenzied grasping at nothing but the currents of water. gwen strained her eyes upward, trying to make out the faint shimmer of the surface, but it seemed impossibly distant. light danced and twisted, teasing her with the promise of air. she could feel the weight of water pressing down on her, distorting her view of the world above. she was losing air. the internal pressure in her body was growing unbearable. even time itself felt as though it were stretching out, seconds beginning to feel like minutes. everything gwen felt was instinctive. total. consuming. she was reduced to an animal who knew nothing but the urge to claw and rip and tear and push, driven only by a surge of desperation to survive. submerged in a cold black abyss, gwen faced the precipice of life and death just as the dark sister intended. here she was forced to acknowledge how easily man could be reduced to nothing but bestial instinct. she had no choice but to yield her imagined authority, to realize that which tethered her to the physical world could be stripped away in an instant. anduru sahōdariya obaṭa āyācanā karami. before gwen could realize what was happening, she was being pulled from the water by her sisters of styx, damasandra helsing and maeve dragomir. struggling to breathe, she swallowed as much air she could the moment her head broke the surface. she could feel their grasp on her shoulders tighten as she staggered forward. the black veil intended to shroud gwen's visage clung to her face now, heavy with the weight of water absorbed by the sheer fabric. her body wished to panic when she realized no breath she could take in would be complete, hindered by the presence of the wet veil. her chest was heaving in desperation, greedy for air. all she could see through her obscured vision was a woman stood in front of her swinging a thurible back and forth, repeating the same words over and over again ─ anduru sahōdariya obaṭa āyācanā karami ─ and just as soon as she was forced above water she was thrust back down beneath the surface again. gwen gasped. the river closed in on her again. her lungs pulled in deep, reaching but finding nothing. everything seized come her first breath of water. her body was suddenly fighting a battle it could not win: she was fighting to breathe, yet fighting to cough, to expel what water would come to rush into her lungs. a chilling sensation akin to fear shot up her spine, though quickly her fright turned to horror. it was painful, more than she remembered. her lungs suddenly burned something fierce. her chest was erupting in agony, and soon convulsions would take her body if she did not regain air. she tried to thrash against the two women holding her under though her efforts were in vain, only expending what little energy she had left. gwen could sense her vision narrowing, her limbs growing heavy, sinking. her vision swam with shades of grey, brown and blue. there it is. the world, it was fading away to a distant point, a mere speck on the horizon. she was not in this body. she was not drowning. anduru sahōdariya obaṭa āyācanā karami. this is what it meant to be purified. only when gwen could submit to total detachment and complete surrender could she ever be untethered and free from this physical vessel. anduru sahōdariya obaṭa āyācanā karami. the wave of acceptance that came over gwen and encouraged her body to go slack and cease its futile fight did not come from a place of hopelessness or resignation. this was not her welcoming death. this was her stepping into a rebirth. when next did her sisters of styx pull her from the river she would be born anew, a woman having come face to face with her own mortality. she would stand once more blessed by the dark sister. anduru sahōdariya obaṭa āyācanā karami. the words coming out of the mouths of the women around her suddenly became clear again, and hands were pulling her heavy body from the water. gwen sputtered when she surfaced, casting out the water filling her mouth, leaving an earthy taste behind. her lungs burned. though close to choking to death no one surrounding her dared interfere. this ritual was an undertaking of gwen's own. an augur must undergo purification rites to ceremonially prepare for communications with the divine, and gwen has been called upon to take the auspices for saint-arkh's military endeavors. in the cimmerian chantry purification rites are typically associated with a number of ceremonial acts of customs in an attempt to establish a higher degree of purity in relation to the ascendant plane, and neither fasting nor water immersion are considered uncommon practices. someone ─ damasandra, was it? ─ did lift the veil from her face, draping the fabric past her hairline so that her features were no longer concealed. gwen blinked away the sting of murky water in her eyes. she found herself surrounded by four expressionless stares, women of the royal clergy dressed in simple black robes. as customary of the purification ritual, gwen's face was the only one exposed now, stringy pieces of dripping ebony hair stuck to her pale skin. she slowly breathed in the cold winter air. now that she could regain her breath it felt as though slivers of ice were crystallizing her innards like little blades. by virtue of only donning but a thin black dress, a chill was beginning to rapidly spread outward from her core. the wet material hung from gwen's lean figure, clinging to her frame despite normally being a shapeless garment. the five women would certainly pose a curious scene to behold from the arkhian military grounds. the women of the royal clergy encircled gwen where she stood in the brazeau river, having waded in water up past their knees. beyond the circle of the clergy, the river's surface bore signs of winter's embrace, a delicate veil of frost creeping steadily across its expanse. the brazeau river lay ensconced in a shimmering sheath of ice, its edges frozen by the encroaching cold. flakes of snow fell from the sky. gwen shivered.
indentthe royal advisor was escorted back into the thick of the saint-arkh military encampment by her clergy. behind gwen, lilith blackwood and judith obadia each swung a metal censer on its chains, tendrils of smoke rising from the incense burning within. the soldiers they passed would stop what they were doing to lower their eyes in deference to the sacred presence passing through their midst, whispering words of worship beneath their breath as gwen tread by barefoot on the uneven, frozen grounds. the discomfort would only be fleeting, she told herself. it would not last. she could bear this, and much more. being uncomfortable was a necessary part of the purification process. it was a necessary experience for most things in life.
indenttheir procession through the campgrounds came to an end when gwen and her clergy were back within the shelter of her allocated tent, one among the many occupied by prominent military figures. a tented canopy with rich cloth dyed ebony and mauve, the tent itself was aglow with the light of braziers within, flames casting intricate patterns of shadow and light upon the canvas walls. the interior of the tent was illuminated not only by the practical light of braziers but also by the soft, golden glow of flickering candles arranged in an intricate pattern around a makeshift altar in one corner. the scent of herbs and oils hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smell of leather and sweat that permeated the encampment itself. incense burned in ornate censers, fragrant tendrils curling upwards towards the canopy above. here, amidst the trappings of military command, gwen could find solace in the rituals of her faith. lilith made sure to attend to gwen while their sisters of styx occupied themselves with the preparations of breaking her fast, a customary tradition preceding any conduction of augury. what weakness gwen felt now was largely due to not having eaten a proper meal since the last day past. rubbing her hands together to ward off a chill, the royal advisor approached a lit brazier in the middle of the tent, welcoming the pleasant feeling of warmth emanating from its burning coals. unsurprisingly, gwen's first instinct was to pull the damp dress from her shoulders. skarrynden's frigid winter air penetrated the soaked material, rapidly wicking the heat from her body. not even the presence of a fire could chase off the cold she felt. with some assistance, gwen managed to remove the garment from her body. the drenched article of clothing fell limp at her feet, replaced with a set of ebony robes meticulously emblazoned with the heraldic bearings of saint-arkh in deep purple thread. as the other woman pulled the fabric over her shoulders, gwen found herself staring into the fire, fantasizing over the prospect of life back in duskhelm. she thought of ravensage keep, of being able to call upon a servant to draw her a steaming hot bath in her own private apartments in the castle. her body ached in yearning at the thought. once her robes were secure, lilith stepped away from her. gwen allowed her eyes to flutter shut as lilith joined her sisters of styx now, the women beginning to encircle her where she stood in front of the brazier. she inhaled deeply, the smell of incense penetrating her senses, a warm, rich and complex aroma of spices reminiscent of burning artemisia absinthium. the herb contained compounds thought to induce altered states of consciousness, making it easier for diviners to access the ascendant plane and receive messages or visions. as judith and lilith began fumigating her with incense, gwen's eyes reopened. the flap of her tent rustled, and she could spot maeve approaching with a ceremonial blade in one hand and a clucking, nervous chicken held firmly in the other. she must have retrieved the bird from one of the wooden crates they brought with them from duskhelm, specifically intended for the use of divination or religious purposes. damasandra now held in her hands a shallow, wide-rimmed bowl. it was empty ─ then a surprised squawk sounded out ─ and the vitality of the chicken drained into the contents of the receptacle. vermillion splattered on maeve's sleeves as she held the lifeless hen. almost symbolically, the impurities of gwen's mortal vessel were ritually transferred onto the animal, gained and then lost just as quickly. gwen's gaze became fixed at a point on the opposite side of the tent as judith and lilith dipped their fingers into the bowl, their digits now stained scarlet as they stepped around the brazier to gwen. anduru sahōdariya obaṭa āyācanā karami. that same chant they whispered, roughly translated to 'dark sister, i call upon thee'. she closed her eyes once more, surrendering herself to the ritual. she felt the sensation of fingertips slowly beginning to drag across the innermost portion of her closed eyelids to her temples, forming a line of warm, sanguine fluid across her skin. as they anointed her, the women proceeded to drag their fingers from the lower waterline of her eyes down her cheek to mark another harsh line, a trail of crimson making it appear as though gwen herself was shedding tears of blood. the life force of the chicken served as a symbol of sacrifice to invidia, an exchange for the blessing of making her will known to them when gwen would take the auspices. purification is invariably required before any contact with the sacred, an undertaking required prior to any major endeavor to ensure their success and a right relationship with the dark sister. death and rebirth are central principles to the chantry's practiced rituals. when gwen was submerged in the river, her mortal vessel and the physical world were symbolically put to death and then renewed in a purer and better state. additionally, blood itself is associated with both life and death, and consequently important to the renewal process as a whole. when next did gwen open her eyes, her blue irises interrupting the dried scarlet line across her eyelids, her gaze focused on the bowl in damasandra's hands once more. her sisters of styx dipped their fingers into the liquid again, proceeding to mark gwen's forehead, wrists, and palms with religious symbols associated with invidia, including letters of saint-arkh's ancient tongue spelling out broken prayers and enigmatic depictions of a darkened sun. as lilith finished marking a few cryptic words across gwen's forehead, red markings encircling her forehead like a thin band, damasandra presented gwen with a second dish. this one was filled with a thin, clear broth, seemingly a blend of water and an assortment of several herbs ground together specifically intended for her to break her fast. the woman presented the drink to her lips, standing across the brazier. though the infused water tasted nothing near delicious, nor would it prove filling in any capacity, gwen still had to suppress her own eagerness to consume the offering. she took the liquid down in several gulps as damasandra tilted the contents of the bowl into her mouth. behind her, lilith and judith retrieved a rather impressive headpiece to place upon gwen's forehead. a fusion of ancient craftsmanship and eldritch design, a circlet forged from darkened steel wrapped around the crown of her head, its surface etched with inscription much like that marked on her body with blood. from its crown rose a series of jagged spikes, veils of midnight-black silk cascading from each point, flowing like liquid shadow around gwen's head and shoulders. within the folds of the fabric, subtle markings of saint-arkh's heraldry danced and shifted. adorning the veils covering her face were clusters of obsidian shards, their glossy surfaces reflecting the faint glimmer of the crackling fire before her, woven into a lattice to only partially conceal her face, leaving only the barest hints of their visage visible beneath the shroud. typically gwen would don an eye covering, a separate piece designed to fully obscure her sight while enhancing her connection invidia. it was fashioned from smooth, black leather and snugly conformed to the contours of her face, leaving no gap for even light to penetrate. the veils she wore today would have to suffice for the sake of practicality though. finally, her sisters of styx secured a few chains of blackened metal around her neck, amulets and talismans layered on top of each other with pendants in the shape of saint-arkh's sigil.
indentwith gwen now fully donning her ceremonial attire she truly did resemble a conduit to forces dwelling beyond the veil of mere mortal understanding. stark markings of vermillion stood out against her pale skin, tracing ritualistic patterns of ancient rites, twisted sigils, or passages invoking the name of invidia. each streak and smear was deliberate, serving as a testament to her devotion to the faith. her being among arkhian soldiers ─ sharing their camping grounds, breaking bread with them as equals, being apart of their victories or losses ─ has certainly helped bolster the waning confidence of their military forces these past few days. the royal advisor's recent appearance in skarrynden was commanded by the king of evenfall himself when news came of saint-arkh's military struggles up north. in the tribe of saint-arkh the military and the faith are inseparable, bound together by a covenant forged in blood and darkness, where victory is not just won with swords and spears, but with the power of the divine. gwen's presence intended to serve as a reminder of their connection to the goddess of the night, who ultimately guides their actions and shapes their individual destinies through the stygian path. the men and women who serve saint-arkh must be emboldened by the knowledge that victory is within their grasp, that their faith will carry them through even the darkest of times so long as they remain steadfast in their service to invidia. what their soldiers needed was a renewed sense of purpose and determination, and gwen was supposed to be the one who offered them that beacon of newfound invigoration. additionally, as someone well versed in the practice of augury, it was expected of military leaders to consult gwen if they sought to invoke invidia's judgement concerning their military campaign against the tribe of stellarun. considered to be a historical practice within their tribe, the interpretation of omens and signs are often considered crucial for ensuring the success and safety of arkhian military endeavors. typically, a number of different rituals can be employed to take the auspices depending on the circumstances, including the inspection of animal entrails, examination of celestial phenomena, observation of sacrificial offerings, or even the study of bird behavior, one of the most well-known forms of augury within the cimmerian chantry. when it comes to assessing the soundness of military campaigns, the behavior of certain birds, including eagles, hawks, ravens, or chickens, can be interpreted as favorable or unfavorable in the eyes of an augur ─ and it just so happened that gwen knew today would be an auspicious day for the tribe of saint-arkh. the importance of ensuring their military leaders feel confident in their decisions was not a notion lost upon gwen, and she felt it best to take matters into her own hands. as she was only recently installed to her position in duskhelm, serving the royal house of nocturne after the king's disposal of her predecessor, she was not particularly keen on running the risk of plummeting the spirits of their military by declaring invidia did not look down upon their war efforts favorably. what transpired in skarrynden today needed to reflect well on her tentative relationship with king burchard. the matter was simply non-negotiable, even if that meant potentially conducting divination in accordance with her own interests in mind. tampering with the results of augury for personal gain is considered highly unethical in the eyes of the chantry, a deceitful and dishonorable violation of the code of their faith, and yet if there is no one to question you, or no one who will, then there is no possible chance you can mutilate your own reputation or credibility. gwen spent a large portion of her life serving the house of macbeth in viviencia as the noble house's dark augur, and there she did what others could not achieve, weaving the ideologies of the chantry into their governing practices and the ways in which they maneuver saint-arkh's political landscape as a whole. she transformed a reluctant great house into an obliging one that would gladly carry out the bidding of the chantry should the need arise. what gwen has done for the faith far outweighed the relevance of a single taking of the auspices on a dreary, snowy day in skarrynden that everyone would soon forget about in a years time. besides, gwen was not actually undermining the chantry's ethical standards. she was doing what she had to in order to ensure saint-arkh did not face defeat at the hands of their enemies, and if that was considered a betrayal of trust and a violation of religious principles, then she did not know what was considered moral and right. gwen was acting to ensure a net positive result for the whole of the tribe, even if that meant incidentally abusing her position of power as one of the chantry's most esteemed augurs. she could not imagine what effect an ominous interpretation, rather than an auspicious one, may result in. gwen only knew that this was the dark sister's will. she knew because there, held beneath the currents of the brazeau river, invidia did not seek her retribution upon her most vulnerable state. even before she underwent her purification ritual gwen had already long been skewing the results of the augury in her favor, selectively feeding the chickens that would later be used for ritual purposes. she held back on their food intake in order to make them more famished, which would likely lead to a more favorable omen. and yet still, here she was standing now, garbed in the symbols of the dark sister and more confident in her choices than ever she had been before. gwen did not feel remorse for her actions because she did not see them as inherently wrong. this day was necessary for the rest of her destiny to unfold in the manner the dark sister intended. after all, she was invidia's chosen vessel. she has known this since she was a young girl.
indentwhen gwen did step outside of her tent again she was greeted by cold air crisp with the bite of winter. small flakes of snow drifted down from the darkening evening sky, settling on the folds of her dark robes as a reminder of the harshness of the season. lilith and judith, ever dutiful, made their way to retrieve the crate of chickens outside the stables without needing any prompting. their breath formed clouds of vapor in the cold air as they moved, footsteps muffled by the thin blanket of snow beginning to cover the ground. damasandra and maeve remained at gwen's side, their own outfits mirroring her own albeit in a much more simplistic, humble fashion to indicate their own positions within the clergy. they both donned only simple robes and a single thin black veil to cover their faces, each holding a metal censer of incense in their hands, chains wrapped tightly in their fingers. while lilith and judith were fetching the chickens, gwen decided to begin navigating her way to the command tent where their military generals were likely convening and awaiting the clergy. the two women followed her in silence, maintaining a respectful distance behind her as she walked ahead of them, censers swinging almost hypnotically on their chains.
indentonce gwen approached the command tent, damasandra and maeve were quick to arrive at her side, pulling back the cloth entrance so that she might proceed inside before them.
indentwhat sounds of conversation were coming from within faltered once the military leaders inside began to take notice of gwen. one man, positioned directly across from the entrance, was the first to recognize her, his words tapering off mid-sentence as his gaze landed upon her. his sudden silence seemed to ripple through the tent, prompting others to turn their heads and follow suit. around the table erected in the center of the tent, the generals serving beneath prince talion's command paused in their discussions. maps and markers lay scattered across the surface before them, forgotten for the moment as their attention shifted towards gwen. a sense of anticipation hung in the air, mingling with the fading echoes of conversation as they awaited her next move. the generals were of much less interest to her than the man commanding them, though. gwen's eyes, mostly obscured by a few layers of thin black veils, momentarily shifted to the prince. there you are, she mused inwardly. what seemed to be the perfect opportunity lay right in front of gwen: a chance to not only inspire the confidence of their military generals, but to reinforce the legitimacy of the augury by preying on the presence of one of the royal lunespawns stationed here in skarrynden. prince talion nocturne. if she could manage to involve the prince in the ceremony, every witness would be too preoccupied with his participation to question how the auspices were being taken, her fellow sisters of styx included. gwen had no intention of facing scrutiny by members of her own clergy should they suspect she meddled with the feeding pattern of the chickens after declaring she attend to the animals herself since arriving at skarrynden. besides, it was about time the prince was reminded of his importance in divination practices. given his status as a royal lunespawn, gwen knew the great extent to which prince talion has been exposed to the ceremonies and rituals carried out by the chantry. doubtlessly, he was no stranger to his importance in the context of their religion, but beyond that, did he have any actual desire to grasp what was rightfully his? to reach out and touch it, take it with his own hands, bloody or not? gwen was uncertain. from the time she has spent in the royal court thus far she did not take notice of the prince being particularly ambitious, even despite knowing his fabled claim as high celebrant. a part of her wondered if he had what it would take but even then, it did not matter. his destiny was prescribed for him, and she was going to help him understand what his place was in this world ─ and in the next, too. prince talion may not yet know it but he has become the object of gwen's morbid fascination since her arrival at duskhelm, like a creature to be studied from a distance until she knew exactly just how to approach him without being snarled and hissed at. her plan was already set into motion and she had not yet even done anything to directly interfere with his life. perhaps that was a part of it, this calculated distance she initially kept from him, even if her lack of access to prince talion was due in part to the presence of his royal family. she was not treating him like an oddity or a curiosity, as any other member of the chantry might should they gain a seat on his royal father's council. gwen could have easily scared prince talion off by now but she knew better than to overwhelm him with preaching about invidia or his inherent ties to their faith. if she did that then he certainly wouldn't see her as any different from the rest of the chantry. she needed to carefully position herself in his life first, and that is exactly what she has been doing. let his curiosity grow on its own and do half the work for her, she figured. gwen needed talion to take an interest in her ─ why she treated him differently, seeing him not just as a puppet on the strings of the chantry but an actual person with real, human feelings, or how it was that someone like her was offering him kindness rather than seeking to manipulate him and his situation ─ and she would keep burrowing into his flesh until it was far too late for him to realize she was the one in control, not him. her and the prince, they were bound by the same strings of prophecy that tales of the ancient past foretold. passages from the mysterium lucifugous detailing the coming of the high celebrant destined to lead followers of invidia to ascendancy once spilled from her very lips as a young girl deemed to be a prophetess. he could not even begin to fathom the extent to which their lives were intertwined. her entire life seemed to lead up to her installation in duskhelm, and it could not just be mere coincidence that there, her and prince talion's fates finally collided. gwen would not stand by idly as the opportunity passed her by, either. there was something in the prince that she knew she could harness to her advantage. something moldable, like a clay one could shape into any form. his bloody encounters with members of the clergy such as mother superior mona already proved she had something to work with. it did not matter how prince talion felt about his place in their religion now. all that mattered was what gwen could make of him. he was going to bend to her will with time, give himself over to her freely without even realizing what he was doing. she was going to take every piece of him, too. she was going to take and take and take until there was nothing left of the person there was before. she was going to take until hers was the only name he cared to yield to. with time, prince talion would not be the same man she laid eyes upon now. she would change him, irrevocably and permanently, though the change would be so gradual he himself would not even notice it. this was the only way gwen could get what she wanted, the only way she could satisfy her thirst for a higher seat of power, and it only happened to be chance that prince talion was the means through which she could get what she wanted. she needed to gain his trust and his confidence above all else, and fortunately, gwen was a patient woman. she had no qualms slowly introducing her presence to the prince time and time again until through mere exposure alone he was certain of her integrity. there were no boundaries concerning the lengths that gwen was willing to go to fulfill her own desires through the prince. she did not care what she needed to do in order to cultivate a sense of loyalty in the man. she needed his support, undying and constant, so that one day she may find herself utterly untouchable.
indentgwen took a step forward now. in response, the generals standing before the table made space to accommodate her presence. though they would not be able to see it clearly, her lips curled upward into a slight smile as her eyes swept across the tent to assess those present. damasandra and maeve remained standing adjacent to the entry of the tent, not following gwen without an invitation to do so. the atmosphere of the tent certainly seemed to shift upon her approach before the assembled group. she could feel their gazes fixed upon her, awaiting her words with a mixture of reverence and apprehension. as though to subdue the remainders of their conversation, gwen raised a single hand, exposing a series of crimson markings dried on her palm, lines of red wrapping around her digits and emerging on the backside of her hand in etchings of the ancient tongue. the tent fell into a true hush now. "my prince. generals," gwen began, her voice low yet respectful, "you have summoned me to take the auspices, to seek guidance of the divine and beseech the favor of invidia in the trials that lie ahead. you seek answers in the darkness, and i am here to provide them." her words seemed to evoke a sense of anticipation inside the tent now, as if the very fate of their future now hung in the balance. and in a way, it did. of course, she knew their want for guidance was not merely a matter of curiosity but a reflection of the dire circumstances that befell them. "in the darkness, we find truth," she continued, her cryptic words weaving a web of intrigue. "and with invidia's blessing, we discover the path forward." it was usual for people to hang on gwen's every word, entranced by her inherent power as someone believed to be capable of communing with forces beyond mortal comprehension, and martial leaders were no exception. gwen clasped her hands behind her back. unsurprisingly, she did not address her sudden intrusion upon their campaign briefings. gwen had invited herself into the command tent without waiting to be expressly called upon and there was a reason why no one dared question her. prince talion and his men sought to invoke invidia's will and that meant they must abide by the whims of the chantry, herself included. in the tribe of saint-arkh, the balance of power often blatantly leans in favor of their religion. even if she may have come to them at an inconvenient time, they wished to consult the auspices, and they would so when gwen presented herself to them in the manner she pleased. across the tent, her eyes shifted to prince talion, staring at him from beneath the bejeweled lattice of her veil. he may not have been anticipating her appearance to come when it did, but she was going to quickly make him forget any interruption her presence may have caused. she wagered the prince was probably long used to the chantry inserting themselves wherever they wished, or doing as they pleased, granted so long as its within the limits of their power, but he was soon going to realize gwen was not here to push him around or force the guise of control out of his hands. rather, her intentions would seem to him quite the opposite. she was going to give him the opportunity to join her in divination, to see if he might exercise his autonomy to join her on his own accord. what he needed to do was begin taking charge of his own decisions, and his men needed to see this with their own eyes, see his willing participation in the faith. he did not need to be browbeaten into submission or cornered like an animal of prey to carry out her bidding or heed to her agenda. she just needed to make sure the prince was under the impression that this ritual was going to be a joint effort. this evening was not simply going to be about the chantry advising their martial forces into victory ─ no, not at all ─ and instead of merely having the prince obeying with her wishes, he would instead actively assist her in establishing a connection with invidia. all he needed to do was understand her offering was just that ─ an offering. it was impossible to know whether or not the prince even knew the difference between a gesture of participation and a command at this point but still, gwen was sure that he would at-least be able to recognize the unique way by which she broached the matter. would he offer himself up for the sake of amplifying her connection to the divine, though? she did not yet know the limits of prince talion's willingness to cooperate with the chantry, but she figured she knew how to corner him into agreement regardless should all else fail. nonetheless, gwen was careful choosing her next words. for now, she wanted the prince to feel as though she was extending him an invitation to join the ritual, rather than simply commanding him to do so. true, she was indirectly putting pressure on him by addressing him in front of his own generals ─ essentially forcing him to comply lest he want to further dwindle the spirits of his own men ─ but it was not obvious by the way she framed her words. "my prince," she started. "if i might suggest, sometimes a more...potent connection with the ascendant plane demands sacrifice." gwen glanced over her shoulder at maeve, whom she knew carried a ceremonial blade on her person from what transpired during her earlier rites of purification. she silently bid her sister to come forward with a slight tilt of her head. their wordless interaction was all that maeve needed to understand what gwen was asking of her. the woman produced the small, gleaming dagger from her robes, placing the hilt of the blade in gwen's outstretched hand. her fingers closed around the handle, the blades surface glinting in the dim light of the tent. gwen turned to face the table once more, setting the knife down in front of everyone to observe. her display undoubtedly cast an air of intrigue among those present. not even the details of the augury were yet divulged to those in the tent and she was already seeking some sort of a sacrifice to accompany her efforts, seemingly hinting at prince talion's participation. gwen's eyes flickered around the tent. "holy blood is necessary." she finally clarified, though remained rather vague in her intentions, not revealing much more than she wished to. her gaze landed on prince talion again. she watched the man carefully now, studying him for any signs of reluctance or hesitation. a few drops of his blood could mean a better connection with invidia and thus a greater chance that she could interpret the signs with enough clarity to ultimately help them succeed against the stellarun. before he might have the chance to form any definitive opinion over what her intentions may be though, she spoke up again to address him directly. "consider my offer, your highness, as an invitation to join me in carrying out invidia's will. of course, rest assured that no shame or dishonor should befall you if my proposition is not to your liking. i'm sure your men would understand. after all, you have been expending your energy toward war efforts in the name of our goddess and i do not seek to ask more of you than is required." gwen spoke carefully, deliberately noting his current contribution to their cause so that he may feel more inclined to comply with her on his own volition. she presented him with a choice, and even if he knew he had no feasible way of rejecting her offer even despite her supposed reassurances, at-least she had granted him that which others have not: a fleeting sense of freedom and self-governance.
indent"but do know this," she added, an additional effort to coax him in the right direction and lure him into the false pretenses of her seemingly good natured intentions, "i would consider it a great honor to have you at my side during the ritual, my prince, and your sacrifice would certainly pose a blessing to all of us."

[vaermina]

ＴＡＬＩＯＮ ＮＯＣＴＵＲＮＥxxx
I.xtribal affiliationsx II. a royal lunespawn of house nocturne


indentdraped in a pristine cloak of white and ivory, the dense forest of coniferous giants—dead pine, towering spruce and crippled hemlock, unvarnished as an army of barren skeletons—stood in silent vigil along the stretch of the muddy tributary. their needles and branches were dusted with a crystalline sheen that reflected the fading rays of winter twilight. the forest stood vigil over a stretch of undulated terrain with sandy crags of frozen earthy hues leading down to the brazeau river. small tufts of frosty beach grass and patches of hardy shrubs cling tenaciously to the cliffs' edges, their roots digging deep into the sandy substrate for stability. the bluffs, steep but relatively short, stood out like claw marks etched into the earth by the claws of a massive cat. in the low-lying areas along the opaque river, boggy swamps lie dormant, their icy waters stilled by the cold embrace of winter. frosted reeds stood sentinel along the marshy edges, their delicate forms outlined in white. the brazeau river meandered through the landscape like an idle snake, its surface partially frozen, yet still flowing with a gentle current. along its banks, pools of water mirrored the serene beauty of the surrounding wilderness, their glassy surfaces fractured by the occasional ripple. the brazeau river advanced in a harmonious dance through the vales and valleys, its cold waters and striking rapids pushing its way through not only the rocky gorges and small canyons of drakonia but into the plateaued dells and crenulated basins of skarrynden. precipitous escarpments of frozen earth lined the forests beyond the rocky riverbanks of the brazeau river. along its rugged embankment, the remnants of frozen ice clung stubbornly to its edges, their jagged forms protruding like frigid fingers into the churning current. the river's partially frozen surface creates a mosaic of textures, with sections of glassy ice juxtaposed against the swirling mud and frothy current. it was bleak and colorless. winter had sucked the color out of the land, leaving it painted stark and dreary. a once promising stretch of mountainous green belt, savalow's hours of glistening twilight were dreary when painted over by the clouds of winter. during the months of springtide, the evening sky promised a shift from azure to the delicate blue-green of a robin's egg, and the gashed red earth and tall pines displayed a scenery of green that could rival even the most beautiful of western forests. a subregion covered in various piedmonts and dense forests, it held little solid resemblance to alpine drakonia and instead seemed to encompass that of the dangerous terrain of the rocky mountains and the more arboraceous woodlands of the north. winding through patchworks of weathered boulders and lichen-covered fields that bore no obvious signs of wildlife, the brazeau river remained a dominant riverway in the wilds of savalow, its fast-moving waters cutting through the countryside like a white knife before its eventual acclimation into the north saskatchewan river. characterized by rolling highlands of dead forests and gullies of frozen bogs, savalow had little to offer but enemies in its woods and pockets of blood-stained capital. it was a largely unfriendly stretch of territory, its deep fissures and uneven crevices offering little but unsuspecting death for those not aware of the area's uneven terrain. blankets of snow hid savalow's ravines from the wandering eye, and fine layers of lingering mist did little to warn the territory's occupants of the steep bluffs that dotted savalow's topography. the land itself was once a promising belt of greenwood before winter came and sunk its frosty fangs into its neck. persistent snowstorms and lingering fog made traversing the forests a danger in and of itself, and what little game could be found in the woods proved hardly nourishing for human sustenance. most of the major elk herds in savalow have already migrated south for the winter, and whatever else was left to be found proved sickly from the elements. clusters of dead underbrush such as shriveled golden currant, twisted stalk, and crowberries hung like tiny jewels from bare branches, preserved in icy suspension. much of the forest's undergrowth was hidden by snow, its dead thicket gray and lifeless. blood was the only splash of color to be found in the quiet adjournment of the frigid forest. dark ichor splattered mounds of snow and dripped from the clusters of thin trees dotting the landscape. the frozen corpses of many an arkhian and stellarun soldier lay strewn throughout the countryside. many of them laid half-buried in the snow, others swallowed by thorny hedge bushes or draped across rotting logs that sat nestled between the open gaps of savalow's shallow gorges. the soldiers, clad in tattered uniforms of ruined crimson, lie dead in twisted contortions, their misty eyes staring blankly at the darkening sky. some still clutch weapons in stiffened hands, while others lie sprawled in contorted poses, their limbs preserved in grotesque postures of violence. the carcasses of slaughtered mounts lay scattered amongst their fallen riders, where eager crows fluttered from the bare tree canopies to feast on their frozen flesh. the air was heavy with the scent of iron and decay, mingling with the crisp aroma of pine trees and wet stone. an eerie silence reigned, broken only by the occasional creak of swaying branches and the quiet howls of the wind. punctuated by a grim tableau, it was the scene of an eternal graveyard, a desolate necropolis of slaughtered souls lost to the cold. as the sun nestled its way below the distant hills, the arkhian military encampment was beginning to settle into an uneasy tranquility, with soldiers seeking solace in camaraderie and the quiet reflection of their own thoughts: dawn will bring with it the stark reality of war once more. the rhythmic clang of armor and the distant cadence of marching feet, echoes of laughter and camaraderie drift like ethereal whispers through the air, punctuating the solemnity of preparation with moments of respite and shared bond. the military encampment was a bustling hub of feudal martial might, with the vast sea of tents growing upon supplementing auxiliaries like mushrooms after a spring rain.
indentthe command center's atmosphere encompassed that of a striking nature, infused with the essence of power, purpose, and meticulous planning. the tent's interior was surprisingly spacious, its fabric walls adorned with banners bearing the sigil of its commanding officers. the nerve center of savalow's military campaign, the command tent was crafted from sturdy canvas dyed in deep earthy hues of basil and burgundy, offering both protection from the elements and an envelope of rugged functionality and subtle opulence. the tent's exterior was adorned with intricate patterns of gold and silver embroidery, and tall wooden poles supported its peaked roof. overhead, banners and pennants hung from rough-hewn poles, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of the tent's interior. the air was heavy with the rich aroma of aged parchment and the faint scent of woodsmoke lingering from nearby hearths. though austere in its furnishings, the command center was a sanctuary of undeniable authority. the space was dominated by a large war table, its polished surface etched with the intricate details of the surrounding terrain and countless strategic deliberations. miniature figures representing legions and fortifications were meticulously arranged upon its displayed map, a visual testament to the unfolding theater of war that ravaged the valleys of savalow like some sort of infectious disease. rows of oak shelves and a sturdy elm escritoire lined the left wall of the tent, where dozens of documents and letters lay a strewn amongst various inkwells and quill pens; weathered coffers with silver clasps lay stacked against the opposite wall, where various modules of a personal nature were stored. stationary armor displays lined the back of the tent, the enameled surface of iron suits shining in the light. the flames of a hanging brazier cast rows of old military tomes, important officer correspondence letters and historical battle accounts in shades of flickering amber. paintings hung from the walls of the tent, their colors faded and dull from years of elemental exposure. some were oil paintings of local savalow scenery, but most of them were portraits, painted in the likeness of various influential arkhian figures. there were a few sketches of the dark cardinal, xheskia neziri, swathed in layers of coal black robes with a striking dragon-inspired headdress atop her brow. featuring a distinctive beak-like nose and an alluring eye that added an enigmatic touch to the painting, the headgear was crafted in gleaming melanite, a subset of the rare andradite variety of garnet that was dark in color. it was adorned with lavish decorations, the presence of pristine snowflake obsidian gemstones lining its seams. her beady eyes were hidden from view by her headgear. the number of paintings depicting the malignant figurehead was rivaled only by that of house nocturne's official portraits. their watercolor eyes followed the movements of the tent's occupants with stark indifference, their gazes holding an almost fictional sense of judgment as they presided over the generals crouched around the war table.
indent"i have received reports from my scouts that the stellarun have constructed a military encampment two miles southwest of boggy hall," general hershel balthazar's voice cut through the crackling of the fireplace like a sharpened knife. "they amass more soldiers with each passing day, with scores of reinforcements arriving from swan hills and further north. they are replacing their dead faster than we kill them. can we expect to match their numbers in the coming days, ambassador? lady baelfire must know of how dire our circumstances have become."
indent"of course not," answered the smooth but bold voice of general farhad ghemsari. the closest in age to prince talion, ghemsari was a confident and vibrant young man with strong features. he had no love for traditional customs. "the lady baelfire must be prepared for the oh-so-imminent threat of civil war and violent religious deconstruction in her homeland, even with enemy soldiers knocking on her doorstep. we must act as if we stand alone; there will be no more help sent from the lords and ladies of saint-arkh. it is fruitless to sit here and ponder over imaginary support. we need king burchard's support."
indent"an astute observation, general ghemsari, but only half true. the king has already sent us his greatest blessing in the form of his personal clergy," general orson araminta responded with something of a forced smile from his position across the table. he was the only official in the tent to be sitting down, an unsurprising act for a man with his reputation. a stout lord who carried a somewhat dull air about his person, general araminta stood out more for his reluctance and petulance manner than his prowess. he had a rotund figure, his belly protruding conspicuously beneath his ornate, though slightly ill-fitting, armor. his face was round and his cheeks often flushed, either from exertion or from embarrassment, and his eyes were small and shifty, darting around as if he was constantly anticipating ill quips from his comrades. a thick, well-groomed mustache and beard framed his face, adding an air of pretentious dignity to his person, though it was clear he lacked the confidence to back it up. "there has never been a war won without invidia's blessing."
indent"yes, i am sure four women attempting to drown themselves in the river are going to find a way to lead us to victory whereas our own strategy has failed," sneered general ghemsari. "have we truly fallen on such hardship that we must consult the chantry? they failed to foresee the dangers of sending prince amalric and his soldiers north. must we rely on their counsel of how to proceed in our endeavors to annihilate the stellarun when they misinterpreted the signs of valkyanki riders in deathshroud moor? if they cannot tell the difference between man and beast in their visions, i worry for this campaign and the future of our tribe."
indentgeneral araminta grimaced at the younger man. "surely you do not mean to question the cogency of the chantry's guidance? prince amalric's death was a... terrible tragedy. a terrible misfortune, indeed, and saint-arkh grieves his lost dearly, but to question the chantry is to question the dark sister. we need the guidance of an augury. now, battle river and house sycorax may not be as duty-bound to invidia as the rest of saint-arkh but hints of sedition are neve—"
indent"are you accusing me of subversion, araminta? i'm afraid your devoutness stems from not your morals but your crotch. have you not been eyeing her holiness m'hael-meraud and her women since they first arrived in savalow? "
indenta sputter of dismay sounded from general araminta, and what would have been an undeniable counter of religious consternation was interrupted by prince talion. "enough, both of you. unless you have something to say that will magically clear our path to the reservoir, you can hold your tongues." immediate silence followed. the prince's tone was not combative but enervated, weary from the dire circumstances of their situation in savalow. "there will be no further discussion surrounding the clergy. his grace the king sent them as answer to our summons, and i trust his judgment." unsurprisingly, there were no more attempts to combat the prince's words with continued impertinence. perched at the head of the table, talion leaned over the map of southern skarrynden, one hand resting on the surface of the wooden table and the other curled around his aching abdomen like the way a child would cradle a splinter. there was a wound on his torso created by a rogue arrow that, despite being only several days old, tormented him with constant discomfort. malachite eyes observed the torn cartograms before him. compared to the grizzled appearances of his military advisers, talion still possessed the clement touch of springtime. he appeared younger than he truly was. with tousled hair that clearly showed a mirage of golden dye framed by two lighter money pieces, his face retained the cherubic softness of youth, with smooth cheekbones and a delicate, rounded chin. his jawline was gently rounded, softening his otherwise aristocratic appearance. what was usually a fair complexion was covered with a thin layer of dirt from his recent excursions out in the frozen wasteland. garbed in the darkened armor of megang dolgrithor, he appeared both out of place and hauntingly striking. the armor itself was a grandiose suit, composed of cold, dark metal with serrated plating and the bloody skulls of invida. the breastplate itself was designed to look like a flayed ribcage, with gnarled hands resting over the shoulder plates and intricate runes threaded on the cape that hung from his waist. the suit was forged to embody the grim aesthetics of saint-arkh, with such elaborate craftsmanship that the armor itself was recognized by most across central canada. it was astoundingly heavy, and talion's body ached with the exertion of wearing it.
indentafter nearly three months of failed military advances and regional skirmishes against the stubborn tribe of stellarun, the atmosphere of the war tent was suffocating with tension. maps and strategic plans lay scattered across the table, marked with the relentless frustration of unachieved objectives and crippled breakthroughs. the air was thick with the weight of expectations unmet, and the pressure of impending decisions loomed over the campaign's military leaders like an executioner's axe. the once confident hum of decisive commands has turned into agitated, anxious discussions, punctuated by the occasional outburst of frustration and egotistical insults. the grim reality of savalow's struggling military campaigns grew ever parlous, bartered by the equally bleak situation of saint-arkh's domestic affairs. political strife and economic turmoil have eroded aristocratic support for the war effort, a rare occurrence that only appeared to strike during times of institutional friction. there were many and more gentlefolk that shared lady baelfire's irresolution over sending their bannermen up north. recent political upheaval and house nocturne's dwindling faith in the tribe's religious leaders have led to increased fears over the future of saint-arkh's domestic landscape. the delicate balance between orthodoxy and royalism has grown threatened over recent events, upheaved by years of deteriorating church-state relations and increased apathy from king burchard. the threat of civil war was imminent. murmurs of discontent and outrage have now grown to be a realistic ultimatum, burdened by the cimmerian chantry's long history of encroaching into matters of state. the overstepping of boundaries have now become glaringly obvious, with the chantry wielding its increasing influence to sway political decisions and undermine royal authority throughout southern wild rose country. their persistent meddling has sown seeds of dissent among the royals of house nocturne, who have long begun to view the chantry's actions as a direct challenge to their sovereignty. the hostility was barely concealed, but it did not grow overnight. king burchard has never been a poster child of positive church-state relations. from the moment he ascended the throne, the butcher of drakonia pushed a more assertive stance to reassert royal prerogative following his father's brief yet disastrous reign. the king has never been an unsuspecting target for outside manipulation, especially at the hands of the chantry. he was an anomaly in a dynasty that has been historically prone to heeding the whims of the tribe's religious body. and while he never outright condemned the chantry or refused to treat with them, he certainly did not allow the organization's clerics nearly as much freedom as his predecessors when it came to how they approached the crown. relations between the crown and the chantry have never quite reached this state of decay, but to deny the fact it was inevitable would be foolish. the death of prince amalric was enough to break the hourglass, and now it was unclear what the future may bring.
indentthe war council's conversation had continued in the lull of talion's thoughts. "lady baelfire sends her regards, but she cannot spare anymore of her bannerman to our cause," chief diplomat aishwarya yadhavar was speaking. she stood out amongst her comrades with a thick yellow coat boarded by feathers from an unknown bird. "she is weary to leave her lands sparsely defended."
indent"and lord and lady grimm? have they not called their vassals to war, even after the death of the crown prince?" inquired general lyndsea keara. an older woman of fifty three, her hair was a shade of striking silver, worn in a tightly bound braid interwoven with practical leather cords. her face was marked by the ridges of age, although her dark gaze remained as sharp and steely as a youth's.
indentaishwarya hesitated. "unfortunately, novimera's response has been more of the same. it has been a struggle to receive any type of response from the lords and ladies of saint-arkh. i believe they may be hesitating to send aid out of fear of our current... political climate," she added carefully, her eyes shifting towards talion for a brief moment. "and the repercussions that could befall them given the state of the crown and the cimmerian chantry." the ambassador's words were covered in a veil of coerced politeness, but it was clear what she meant. the recent conflicts between the chantry and the crown have fostered an atmosphere of paranoia amongst the noble houses of saint-arkh. the uncertainty of what was to come and how the two entities would continue to interact with one another has created an uncertain future for the tribe of saint-arkh. king burchard has proven himself to be an obstinate leader, one who could not be counted on to forgo his acclaimed grievances in the name of wider peace when he has already sacrificed so much in the name of their tribe's religion. it was unfair to expect the monarch to submit to the chantry when they themselves have done so little to rectify their recent misgivings against the crown, but there were some tribesmen who believed that house nocturne should show their bellies anyway. the all-consuming religion of saint-arkh and the almost cult-like faddism of their divine worship took and took and took until there was nothing left to gain or give. arkhians were almost expected to sacrifice whatever is needed in order to please invidia and her most devoted followers, and this mindset has appeared to almost embolden the chantry's leadership over the past few decades. combined with the dark cardinal's unsavory reputation and king burchard's disastrous temper, it was bound to be a recipe for disaster. the governing body of the crown, seeking to assert its secular authority, has begun to push for policies that conflict with religious doctrines since the king's coronation, leading to brief moments of public dissent and unrest. the chantry, wielding significant moral and spiritual influence, has often mobilized its followers against the crown's decisions, framing subsequent conflicts as a battle between divine will and earthly power. in recent years, this tension has gradually led to a polarized society where each side has rallied support and loyal, deepening overall tribal divisions. and the great houses, who often rely on a balance of religious and political favor to maintain their status and influence, have begun to feel increasingly anxious about the prospect of civil unrest or, because of the recent death of the crown prince, even a full-blown civil war. their fear stemmed from the potential for widespread conflict disrupting their economic interests and political stability, forcing them to navigate a precarious path between aligning with their king or the chantry, all while attempting to secure their own positions of power and privilege. there was the potential for further disorder if the standoff escalates, for saint-arkh's nobility may engage in behind-the-scenes negotiations in hopes of averting chaos while preparing for the possibility of conflict. their current uncertainty and unreliability as the tribe's military sought to expand north did nothing but add to the overall volatility of the situation. the great houses were not keen on sacrificing precious soldiers if it meant those combatants could prove useful on the home front should civil conflicts begin popping up in their claimed territories. and while there has been no signs of armed arkhian conflict that could spell the start of civil warfare, it seemed that much of saint-arkh's nobility was unwilling to take the chance of being cast down from their golden seats in a violent uprising.
indentgeneral keara looked to talion. "my prince, you must write to your royal father and request aid in the form of the bloody fingers. we cannot hope to conquer the reservoir in the name of saint-arkh with such little manpower, nevertheless hold it should we push back the stellarun to their encampment in boggy hall. there has never been an army in the history of the wasteland that has been able to successfully bring the bloody fingers to heel. they will change the tides in our favor, without us further risking what little soldiers we have left."
indent"no," talion's response was immediate, almost curt in its delivery. "we cannot risk it."
indent"my prince, if i may..." general araminta interjected, pleased to find a way once more to contribute to the conversation. " the bloody fingers will yield to holy blood, as they always have. it is the destiny of every prince and princess of eventide to claim dominion over the bloody fingers in times of war. they will yield to your devout claim, as the king's clergy would tell you."
indent"the bloody fingers would sooner feast on our own soldiers than they would attack the stellarun. we are struggling enough as it is to hold the line; i would not jeopardize what little progress we have made thus far by turning to such cheap methods." not only would talion be unable to control the rogue creatures but to deploy the bloody fingers in a time of political strife would do nothing but alarm the crown's renegades and possibly catapult saint-arkh into civil war. how would would the chantry react to the bloody fingers being mobilized for the first time in years? they would most likely fear king burchard would let loose the creatures on their strongholds. the creatures were barely tamable, constantly hungry and dangerous for anyone to involve themselves with. talion would not be able to bring them to heel.
indent"with all due respect, your royal highness, we have already deployed a number of cheap tactics against the stellarun so far during this campaign," general balthazar responded with a cool deference. a pasty man with a pallid face and a balding head, he carried himself in a quiet manner that was more respectful than most. he bore a certain air of morbidity and cunning that was common for members of his house. "it is abnormal for royalty to be involved in such localized military campaigns, at-least not until the final battle sits on the horizon. you are a glorious fighter, prince talion, but if we cannot rely on the support of supplementary auxiliaries from the great houses or support from the crown in the form of the bloody fingers than we must look into changing our tactics on the battlefield." the older man held talion's gaze, as if searching for silent approval to continue his proposition. "we cannot continue risking our greatest asset." it did not take an act of sorcery to realize that the generals were cautious around prince talion. they were acutely aware that his moods and decisions were often unpredictable, something that could potentially jeopardize their carefully laid strategies or expose them to sudden shifts in policy. it appeared that they balanced their respect for the prince’s personal virtues with a prudent awareness of the risks his instability might pose to not only themselves but the savalow campaign. this careful dance involved not only managing their own reactions and expectations but also preparing contingency plans to safeguard their operations from the consequences of any erratic behavior. it was a nuanced blend of respect and wariness, for prince talion has so far displayed a complex layer of emotions during his time in savalow. experienced military officials are expected to navigate abstruse relationships with the royals of house nocturne, although it seemed that talion's reputation of relevant benevolence has influenced the way his generals felt about him. they appreciated his genuine concern and his willingness to heed their advice. this positive regard fostered a sense of patience and devotion among the generals, who were more inclined to go the extra mile in their duties, for they seemed to believe in the prince’s good intentions and personal integrity. the duality of admiration and caution shaped their interactions, for the element of vigilance helped them in suggesting any bold moves that could provoke or exacerbate the prince's volatility. seasoned and pragmatic, it was clear that the generals worried about talion's ability to make tough decisions under pressure or to navigate the intricacies of warfare and diplomacy. they held tentative confidence in his leadership, a relationship where respect was tempered with a prudence for potential missteps that could jeopardize the outcome of their campaign. they shared a complex dynamic, for talion certainly did not act like the average military leader. his goodwill fostered a sense of moral high ground amongst his subordinates, promoting a compassionate leadership style that contrasted with the often ruthless pragmatism of military life. however, his lack of tactical experience and strategic acumen were viewed as potential liabilities, with fears that his idealism could lead to indecisive or overly cautious decisions in critical moments. this duality—respect for his benevolence but concern over his instability and inexperience—created an undercurrent of tension within the ranks, as the generals grappled with the challenge of guiding and supporting a leader who has yet to fully earn their confidence in his command capabilities. talion has never led a crusade until now, and his nescience was as plain as the ignorance sketched across his face. he had no idea how to form a plan based around strategic visions and resourcefulness, not when they were already struggling with limited supplies and manpower. talion and his generals need to quickly adjust strategies and tactics in response to changing circumstances and unexpected challenges, and that required possessing mental and emotional toughness to withstand setbacks, losses, and the stress of a prolonged campaign that the prince did not exactly have. he lacked practical experience in leading military excursions, so much so that he was not sure where he was most needed in the grand scheme of things. he grew up on tales of arkhian monarchs and nocturne generals leading the charge into devastating scenes of war and fury. he wanted to encompass that fairytale, to mold himself into the same ornament that has shaped the royals before him. truthfully, talion cared little for the glory aspect of it all; he did not care to be written into song or to have paintings created of his victories in savalow. he simply desired the respect that came with leading a successful onslaught, to be considered a true nocturne capable of useful contributions. it almost felt like his title as a lunespawn overshadowed everything he does, that everything he accomplished ultimately twists back to benefit a religious narrative. he wanted to lead a successful campaign based on sheer will and courage alone. he did not want to have to fall back on sordid tactics like deploying the bloody fingers or relying on others to fill in the gaps of his own ignorance. this was the first time he's ever been in control of a military excursion; he has always been dictated by others, utilized as a weapon of war on the front lines to push back the enemy. his father trusted him to bring savalow into arkhian control, and he did not want to ruin that trust.
indent"you speak of risks in regards to my participation in this war as if our leaders do not require men and women of lower standing to risk themselves everyday in the name of invidia. how can i call myself a prince of house nocturne if i am not willing to risk my life for saint-arkh?"
indent"the risks have you so far taken in the name of the dark sister and your royal father are not in vain, my prince," general balthazar reassured him, his cold gaze still latched onto talion. "it is honorable for any noble to take up their shield and sword in the name of their tribe, but that is exactly what the stellarun are counting on. they have grown familiar with the ways of our people, and they know house nocturne is not composed of cowards. their generals expect you to be on the field alongside your soldiers. they know that saint-arkh cannot afford to lose another prince, not after we lost just prince amalric. why else have they shown such determination to not cut you down but to take you back to their jarl? your capture would be most beneficial for stellarun survival. that is why they keep separating you from your soldiers on the field. they want to isolate you and take advantage of the chaos so they can pluck out off of the battlefield and take you deeper into stellarun territory. they'd use you as a bargaining chip to force the king into pulling his armies out of skarrynden."
indent"i see where are you coming from, general balthazar, but prince talion's presence on the battlefield is nonnegotiable," general araminta interjected almost nonchalantly. "our soldiers need to see the heir to the nightshade throne fight alongside them. their morale has already plummeted enough as it is. they must not think that their prince is abandoning them to fight a fruitless conflict alone." he glanced at talion. "royal lunespawns are invidia's chosen, after all."
indentbalthazar regarded the younger man with blatant distaste. "you struggle to claim principled righteousness so much that you fail to realize how worthless you truly are to the war effort. you expect the heir to the nightshade throne to risk his life fighting along the river while you stay here in camp and dictate who gets to live and who must die? i would be more than glad to accept aid if the dark sister herself appeared and gave us her divine powers in the form of a specter army but we must be realistic. prince talion is valuable. we cannot make the same mistake again by putting him in the line of danger nor can we risk our units crumbling because we ourselves are too busy trying to aid the prince from being ambushed and captured by stellarun soldiers."
indent"and i told you lot that aid is coming. the augury will grant us invidia's blessing and shine light on the future of savalow's occupation!" araminta looked to his companions with a wild glint in his eye. unsurprisingly, he ignored general balthazar's accusations surrounding his alleged cowardice and failures as a competent warrior. "i will not apologize for holding faith in the chantry's will. it is not in the order of things to lock away a royal lunespawn and allow the common blood to steal their glory. it is within prince talion's destiny to conquer wild rose country in the name of the dark sister, just like his uncle before hi—"
indenta burst of cold wind interrupted the general's zealous spiel. the flames from the hearth instantly wavered from the outside breeze. the boundaries between the pragmatic world of military strategy and the enigmatic realm of spiritual guidance appeared to blur as the clergy entered the command tent. the air grew cooler, and an almost imperceptible zephyr seemed to carry whispers of ancient secrets as the robed figures, their faces hidden in the shadows of their veils, glided silently into the room. the women appeared almost wraith-like, their moderate shrouds and dark robes concealing their skin and marrying them as one into the shadows of the natural world. the generals immediately stood to attention upon the entrance of king burchard's personal clergy. araminta was the first to jump to his feet, the paunchy man instantly forcing himself into a respective pose. the clergy's sudden intrusion was not unexpected. in fact, their obtrusions beyond that of the upcoming augury was almost anticipated from the moment they arrived along the brazeau river. it was common for followers of the chantry to carry themselves with silent pride, so much so that many of them felt comfortable barging into spaces that have not made themselves explicitly ready for their presence to begin with. their conviction stemmed from unwavering beliefs that they are guided by a divine purpose, which imbued their actions with a sense of righteousness and moral clarity. their religion provided a comprehensive framework for understanding the world, interpreting events, and making decisions, thus instilling in them a profound sense of certainty and duty when it came to advising the nobles of saint-arkh. the communal reinforcement of their faith within their community further strengthens their resolve, as they draw support and validation from like-minded individuals who share their fervent devotion. the chantry was driven by the conviction that they were fulfilling a higher calling and contributing to the spiritual and moral welfare of their society, and this led to heightened acts of egocentric boldness in the political sphere. it was no surprise why king burchard felt increasing agitation over his former clergy's impunity, for they used religion as a shield for their incessant prying and dictations. and even now as lady gwendolyn addressed the group with a raised hand, talion's attention remained only half-present. the familiar sight of their ebony robes and swinging metal censers instantly triggered a plethora of uncomfortable emotions for the prince. if there was one sentence to describe talion's participation in their tribe's religion over the past seven years, it would be this: active but disengaged, unresponsive, and inattentive. he found that his line of thinking would grow hazy and ruminative, mostly comforting fantasies, as he began to tune out the uncomfortable reality he found himself living through. most arkhians would tell you that through invidia they have become aware of their values, passions, and unique gifts to identify a path that brings them the most fulfillment and meaning in life, but talion did not share their enthusiasm. despite his alleged blood-ties to sibylline prophecies, he has struggled to feel emboldened by invidia despite sharing a love-hate relationship with the dark goddess. in fact, parts of him felt highly repressed, undeveloped, and ineffectual because of the misgivings of his youth and his involvement in the chantry. there were moments where he felt incapable of facing his problems, growing obstinate and dissociating himself from unpleasant situations to the point of barely functioning. he was tired of emotional conflict so he become self-effacing and accommodating, idealizing others and 'going along' with their wishes by falling into conventional roles and expectations. he learned how to become emotionally indolent at a young age because of his status as a lunespawn, and how poorly he was treated beneath those who were supposed to nurture his growth in the tribe's religious sphere. what was thought to be a reliable process in helping him grow a backbone and shed his old blood did nothing but stick him into a cycle of aggression he could not escape from. subjected to harsh indoctrination, physical punishment, and psychological manipulation, lunespawn often internalize violence and cruelty as acceptable means to an end. the chantry's dogma, enforced through fear and pain, often erode their empathy and instill a deep-seated mistrust of others. their moral compass, skewed by the chantry's oppressive teachings, led them to justify harmful actions in the name of religious or ideological purity, perpetuating a legacy of brutality and intolerance throughout wild rose country. the chantry's influence stripped them of empathy and compassion, replacing these qualities with rigid, punitive attitudes and a readiness to suppress dissent. the resultant lunespawn, molded by trauma and indoctrination, become enforcers of the chantry's doctrines, regurgitating a cycle of brutality and control that can come back to haunt even the most committed members of the chantry in the form of the dark urge. believed to be a form of spiritual illness that develops into maladaptive behaviors and a propensity for authoritarianism and violence, the dark urge is believed to strike lunespawn at random, particularly those already inclined to troubling behaviors. after years of unhinged and uncontrollable behavior, infected lunespawn grow so severely disoriented and catatonic that they abandon themselves and transform into shattered shells, caught in the frays of madness to the point where not even the most adept of the chantry's healers can pull them out of the darkness.
indentin talion's case, his worldview was tainted by the cruelty he has endured, leading him to perpetuate the same cycle of violence and control in his interactions with rival tribes. a dark, unyielding perspective has cast a long shadow over his adult life. every day, he faced the challenge of reconciling the aggressive behaviors expected of him with his natural inclination toward empathy and understanding. his struggle was not just against the external pressures of the tribe but also an internal battle to preserve a sense of authentic identity amidst the corrosive influence of his upbringing. talion has never been the type of person who thought it easy to take the life of another person. his environment was often steeped in brutality, with the tribe of saint-arkh valuing ferocity and the chantry imposing a rigid, punitive doctrine. despite his innate gentleness, he is frequently coerced into acts of violence, both to survive and to appease those who dominate him. the external pressure to embrace his responsibilities was compounded by his own mental instability, which manifested as an intense internal conflict and crippling anxiety. the dissonance between his true nature and the harsh expectations placed upon him created a turbulent psychological landscape, making it increasingly difficult for him to embrace and express his inherent kindness. with a natural propensity for gentleness, talion did not take pride in harming other people. the prince was disastrously open-minded, to the point where trying to shove a sword into his hand as a child proved to be entirely time-consuming. he was slow to learn as a youth and slow to embrace ferocious ideals that frightened him. it was not in the natural way of things, to claim the life of another human being in a senseless act of violence—a thought process his mother superior once dubbed belonging that to the gentle heart of a tarnished luniete. his moments of clarity were often overshadowed by forced participation in the tribe's savagery, so much so that he learned long ago to begrudgingly accept the ideals of his tribesmen unless he wanted to end up as one of their victims. as a youth, talion was considered manageable and easily acquiescent until he reached adulthood. his gory encounters with the chantry's followers in recent years was the reason why a layer of subtle unease passed across those inside the tent upon lady gwendolyn's invitation to include talion in her rituals, an offer that the prince nearly missed in his dissociative state. holy blood is necessary. silence followed the woman's mystical request, although whether it was one of silent intrigue or silent discomfort had yet to be perceived. an air of charm had taken to the generals as they listened to the mystifying words of the royal advisor, one that was quick to shift upon her invitation to prince talion. shifty eyes glanced between the two figures in visible reluctance—even the pious general araminta was beginning to look uncomfortable. the immediate unease that snuck into the command tent was not surprising. talion's gory encounters with followers of the chantry in recent years has webbed the prince into an uncomfortable reputation of unpredictability and precariousness. it was the reason why his generals have been so cautious in the art of advising him, for the young man's brutal confrontations with clergy members over the years has made him mercurial in times of high stress. his dual nature, marked by both benevolence and sudden fury, often left people in a constant state of uncertainty around him. and with his obvious capacity for solicitude and understanding, it made his unpredictable rage all the more puzzling and tragic. he did not seem to act out unless forced into situations of crippling pressure, unto which the burdens of high expectations and the fear of what was to come caused him to lash out. talion has found it to be an uncontrollable reaction, one that typically tends to burst when he felt vulnerable or helpless. he lashed out in acts of violence, the only language the people around him seemed to know and fear. talion has long since learned that he could utilize his blessed assets to essentially intimidate those around him into heeding his words, but he rarely threatened violence or even domineering language on others unless he felt it was his last resort. and when it came to preserving his own sense of safety, he found himself lashing out in acts of uncontrollable and impulsive brutality, for it seemed to be the only way to get others to take him seriously. it was like he was caught in a sudden wave of impetuous and inhibited ruthlessness, like his body was acting faster than his brain was registering his movements. in such moments, it appeared like the prince's accumulated stress, fear, and frustration culminated in an explosive outburst, serving as a desperate attempt to reclaim a sense of control and deter further aggression from those coming at him. it triggered a state of heightened physiological arousal where rational thought was often overridden by instinctual responses, resulting in a surge of defensive adrenaline where he lashed out in a desperate bid to protect himself. it was spontaneous, abandoned, heedless, a wretched form of anger that often claimed the lives of those unfortunate enough to be around him. much like an animal of prey that has been persistently harassed by a predator, his blatant instability seemed to be rooted in the profound impact of sustained psychological torment and the inherent human drive for self-preservation. but to the tribe of saint-arkh and its people, he was a royal lunespawn afflicted with the enigmatic disease known as the dark urge. it was the only logical explanation for his acts of sudden and random violence against those around him, particularly followers of the chantry who have attempted to invade his personal space in the past and subjugate him to the organization's rituals against his will. as a youth, he never went against the will of his superiors and what they wanted from him. he never had the gall nor the will-power to resist authority, and in a way he still acted in the means of what others desired from him. but now, it seemed that his forced cooperation came with a potential blood price, although lady gwendolyn did not appear particularly perturbed by the risks. perhaps she held the same mindset as some of the more devoted members of the chantry, that talion's volatility was controllable in the right circumstances and he just simply needed someone more strong-willed to contend with his moodiness. after all, who could know the heart of a lunespawn, men and women born with the blessings of the moon maiden and made ill through invidia's darkness?
indentdespite the myriad of complex emotions he felt, talion managed to maintain a surprisingly neutral expression that was only conflicted by the clenching of the jaw. he should have known better than to think that, even in the middle of a frozen wasteland surrounded by nothing but charred battlefields, he could not escape the reality of his position. it seemed that no matter the circumstances, invidia would always crave the blood of her lunespawn. he was not surprised by the woman's offering. he should have known as soon as she and her clergy arrived in savalow that his participation would be required for their divinations. it was a tale as old as time, although her offer both annoyed and intrigued him nevertheless. tethered symbolically to the very fabric of their religion as a living embodiment of divine favor, lunespawn have been utilized by the chantry for centuries in order to claim the dark sister's godly favor and guidance. lunespawn were often paraded as mere instruments for archaic rituals and ceremonies, and they have long been used to reinforce the spiritual authority of the realm, a fact that gnawed at talion's desire for personal agency. yet, amidst the swirling tempest of his discontent, a flicker of surprise and perplexity emerged. lady gwendolyn, a traditionally unyielding bastion of ritualistic command like many grand clerics before her, has presented him with an unexpected freedom of choice. this gesture, uncharacteristically lenient, unsettled the prince. he had braced himself for an ultimatum rather than an invitation. the duality of being revered and yet feeling exploited created some modulation in the situation, leaving the prince teetering between reluctant duty and the yearning for autonomy. his irritation was palpable; the rituals have always felt like a burdensome obligation, a chain that bound him to the ceremonial roles he resented growing up. and yet, he has never been asked to participate in a religious ceremony. he has always been expected to uphold his duties without complaint, to surrender himself to the goddess of the night and whatever she required of him. he has never been consulted on his thoughts concerning certain rituals; there has never been a choice on whether or not he was to surrender himself to the blade. it confounded him that she was essentially granting him a choice. certainly it was the illusion of choice—in reality, his choices were limited from the get-go—for there was no liable way for him to decline her offer without further deflating the already dejected spirits of his military advisers. perhaps that is where he felt the agitation come in, for he was still being cornered with an impossible decision but to be even consulted was startling enough. he could think of no rational explanation as to why she would care enough to humor him so. truthfully, talion knew very little of lady gwendolyn. he knew she had served house macbeth before his father, and his father must have seen some sliver of reliability in the woman if he sent her to savalow, nevertheless accepted her and her clergy as his religious advisors given what happened to the last bunch. he couldn't help but feel slightly distrustful of the situation, for it felt like he was navigating new territory by claiming some threads of self-autonomy, no matter how paradoxical it actually was. and even if he wanted to reject her offer, he knew he could not afford to. he had to take charge of the situation and show his generals a sense of sacrificial leadership. he could not shirk his duties just because he was uncomfortable. free will aside, talion would not have rejected the clergy's advances anyway. despite his profound personal turmoil and deep-seated grievances with the doctrines that have shaped his worldview, the prince remained steadfast in his adherence to the chantry's ritual initiations. his journey through religious trauma, marred by profound disillusionment and internal conflict, has not severed the emotional and psychological bonds he held with the organization that defined his lineage as a lunespawn. the chantry's rituals and initiations, steeped in centuries of tradition and imbued with a mystique that resonated with the very furrows of his identity, were more than mere ceremonies; they represented a link to invidia and a semblance of order amidst his chaotic internal landscape. despite the anguish and skepticism that simmered within him, he often refrained from rebuffing or rejecting these sacred rites, for he understood that they were not just ceremonial obligations but vital components of his heritage and duty. his acceptance of the rituals was a complex interplay of reverence, obligation, and an unspoken hope that, through their performance, he might find a semblance of peace or reconciliation with the faith that has so profoundly impacted his life. his outward rejection of these ceremonies through physical violence were not exactly talion's doing to begin with; they were impulsive and unpremeditated, triggered only by situations where he was approached by chantry members in a harsh and domineering manner where he felt completely out of control. it was in situations where he felt cornered and targeted that the dark urge suddenly seemed to boil to a breaking point, where the prince lashed out the best way he knew how in order to get away from the perceived danger. it was never intentional, and he usually always expressed some form of remorse afterwards for his actions (although some certainly believed he murdered his mother superior on purpose). there were very few people who were willing to meet him in open conflict, nevertheless physically subdue him and not receive a disastrous injury in response. his history of mutilation and death against invidia's clerics has made him almost as dangerous to the cimmerian chantry as the paladins of moonrise, although nobody in power was willing to admit it. it was easier for them to rationalize his instability as the result of some other loose fabrication, for the dark cardinal and her followers were unwilling to retract their claws from talion's throat just yet.
indentstrangely enough, he did not feel that intense suffocation in this moment.
indentafter a minute or two of silence, talion finally spoke with only a few curt words. he leaned up to his full height, his arm still notably wrapped around his injured abdomen. "what would you require of me, your holiness?"

[vaell]

xxxxxＣＡＬＩＳＴＡiiＡＴＨＡＮＡＳＩＯＵ.

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe revenant princess of the eidolon.
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indentcalista silently watched the exchange between the monarchs, her queen mother expressing her gratitude over the other tribe's token of goodwill with practiced ease. much like the mythic dawn's generous gesture, the crown intended to host a grand banquet in their honor upon arrival to spirit island. the feast would be a lavish affair, meant to showcase the best of what the heartlands and the city of gore bay had to offer, providing a taste of the eidolon's hospitality and cultural richness. they would be welcome to feast upon an array of local delicacies including a variety of fresh fish caught from lake huron's shoreline and its many tributaries, a common staple of an islander's diet. any meads and alcohol from gelderarich would certainly complement the culinary tradition of the heartlands, allowing their guests to enjoy a fusion of flavors that highlighted the best of both cultures. upon hearing king ulrik's inquiry, calista glanced at her mother. she noted the faint smile on her lips. "i assure you, hosting your distinguished retinue is neither a burden nor an imposition." she confirmed. "we are well-prepared and more than willing to provide for the needs of your people." in the weeks to come, the city of gore bay would come alive with festivities to commemorate their alliance with the mythic dawn. streets would transform into a vibrant display of colors, adorned with flags and banners bearing the tribal crest of the eidolon and house athanasiou's navy and gold. every corner would be humming with the energy of street performers, adding to the cacophony of noise that would soon echo through the city. local artisans and craftsmen would be eagerly setting up stalls in the merchant quarter, showcasing their wares in an effort to earn a profit come the influx of visitors to the district. vendors were sure to be selling handcrafted merchandise such as pottery and ceramics ─ exquisitely crafted amphorae, vases, and bowls decorated with intricate designs and patterns ─ or textiles with colorful woven fabrics, such as woolen cloaks, tunics, or elaborate garments dyed and embroidered by hand. others might offer ornate sets of golden and silver jewelry including rings, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings featuring gemstones and intricate metalwork, or fragrant oils and perfumes made from the herbs and flowers native to spirit island. as an integral facet of their culture in the heartlands, the gore bay colosseum would become the stage for week-long tournaments where people of the eidolon and the mythic dawn could gather together to bet on gladiators as they fought their way to glory and fame. while the royal family of house kolbeck would first be escorted to the capital city of the heartlands, they would later travel from spirit island to its neighboring districts, a brief introduction to some of the eidolon's most noteworthy territories and influential families. the marriage betrothal between calista and prince halvor demanded such a grand display of unity in order to forge stronger ties between their two distinct realms. peaceful coexistence is not something easily achieved nor sustained in the lands of annexed canada, where greed, desperation, and pride have been known to lead to the downfall of entire dynasties. and while the political happenings unfolding between the tribes of the mythic dawn and the eidolon would no doubt lead to some of their citizens growing fearful over the prospect of potentially losing their known ways of life, the masses would see their concerns put to rest. the celebrations hosted in the capital city alone would help promote stability and foster a sense of unity among their people, who would in turn become more eager to embrace the tentative hope that her and prince halvor's union promised for the future of their tribes. calista herself harbored complicated feelings over the matter at hand. personal afflictions aside, she knew that by ruling as one, their tribes could fully consolidate their military resources and strategies, not only bettering their ability to defend their borders against external threats but deterring potential aggressors too. aside from being able to field a larger and more effective fighting force, their tribes would also see greater political and social power as a whole. their marriage alliance and subsequent unification could pave the way for diplomatic ties with other willing tribes, strengthening even that of their geopolitical position. they would be able to establish new trade routes, facilitating the flow of goods between their territories to allow access to resources otherwise hard to come by. they would likely see enhanced production capabilities, improved infrastructure, and a more robust economy come their rule ─ that is, assuming she and prince halvor could withstand what tribulations they might face, being two heirs both thrust into a position demanding integrity, communication, and discipline. they were doing that which no others have succeeded in doing. it was a daunting task placed upon their shoulders each and bestowed upon them at the behest of their royal parents, the weight of years spent cultivating a relationship between their tribes finally culminating in the ultimate trial. it remained to be seen whether she and prince halvor could meet the expectations set for them. did they have what it would take? it was a question that lingered in the minds of commonfolk and nobility alike. could they harness that same ambition which drove their forebears' before them to pursue this very alliance ─ even despite years of bloodshed, unrest, and turmoil ─ and turn a new page for annexed canada? for now, it remained most imperative to appeal to the people, encouraging cooperation while acknowledging and respecting their inherent differences in culture. their return to the city of gore bay alongside their eastern allies would mark the beginnings of auspicious celebration.

indentindentindentindentindentindentindentindentindent──

indentthe great hall within legio gemina keep boasts a chamber capable of accommodating the royal families of the eidolon and the mythic dawn alongside their most prominent courtiers. much like the rest of the castle, the hall appears to echo the classical architecture of antiquity, having been constructed from meticulously cut masonry and adorned with columns and arches of local limestone and marble designed to support the vaulted ceiling overhead. high, narrow windows line the spacious room, providing an excellent view overlooking the bustling city of gore bay and the serene waters of lake huron from their vantage point atop the liontári cliff. nestled on the north shore of the island, the capital of the heartlands sits on expansive waters, the bay itself an inlet characterized by calm waters and a gently curving shoreline. the northern and easternmost coasts are more rugged, with limestone cliffs rising dramatically from the waters of the lake, interspersed with small sandy coves and rocky outcroppings perfect for exploring or simply enjoying the sound of waves crashing against the shore. spirit island is known for its diverse natural landscape consisting of steep crags, tranquil forests, and picturesque inland lakes. beyond the city, expansive, rolling hills characterize the southernmost portions of the island, dotted with quaint villages and farms. the island's interior is made up of dense forests of maple, birch, and pine, disrupted by trails that lead to hidden waterfalls, secluded freshwater lakes, and panoramic vantage points. the only way to access the gore bay district by foot or by steed is through a decommissioned swing bridge connecting the island to the almaguin highlands and the sudbury district, a route the eidolon-mythic procession had to venture on their journey to spirit island. at the far end of the great hall, the members of house athanasiou and house kolbeck were seated together on an elevated dais, deliberately positioned to overlook the grand chamber. two shorter tables flank the one occupied by the royal families, reserved for foreign dignitaries or advisors. positioned on either side of the hall, long, polished tables set with fine linens and silverware underscore the grandeur of the feast, while the open floor invites guests to partake in traditional dances as bards play their melodies. sat beneath hung tapestries depicting triumphs of the eidolon and pointed navy banners stitched with rearing golden lions, aristocrats filled every viable seat, the sound of their voices mingling with the music plucked from string instruments as they dined upon the spreads of local dishes, wines, and delicacies from across the heartlands laid out on tables among the flickering light of golden candelabras. the culinary offerings at the banquet seemed to be a reflection of spirit island's most abundant natural resources, with the main courses representing the bounty of lake huron. plates of freshly caught seafood or platters of succulent grilled fish such as lake trout or whitefish garnished with fresh herbs and drizzled with citrus-infused olive oil were being served, accompanied by local resources such as wild rice steamed and mixed with aromatic herbs or transformed into delicate rice cakes served with a dollop of tangy wild berry compote. alternatively, other courses catered to different tastes. roasted game birds such as a quail or pheasant, seasoned and accompanied by a side of roasted root vegetables, provided their guests with a more hearty option. those preferring lighter fare could even opt for a salad of fresh greens tossed with edible flowers and dressed with a light vinaigrette from pressed oils. alongside the meads and alcohol from gelderarich, wines procured from the heartlands' vineyards in the niagara peninsula, the north shore of lake erie, and prince edward county offered a taste of local terroir, a less familiar option for their gibraltar guests. their guests could sample the ice wine made from grapes frozen on the vine in niagara, or carbernet franc produced from the eastern shores of the heartlands, known for its peppery, herbaceous notes and medium body, or from their southernmost territories a smooth merlot with notes of plum, black cherry, and chocolate. as the banquet continued, a selection of desserts would be served, featuring pastries filled with preserves made from fruits such as apples or cherries and drizzled with honey from local apiaries. additionally, delicate custards infused with vanilla would be presented. the feast alone was an extravagant display put on by the house of athanasiou, welcoming the mythic dawn to their homelands with the finest fare to dine upon as preparations for citywide celebrations and festivities began to unfold in the streets. when their procession first entered the city's walls calista even caught a glimpse of the gold, crimson, and navy ribbons festooning the exterior façade of the gore bay colosseum, an unmissable demonstration of her queen mother's hospitality but also a formal acknowledgement of house kolbeck's presence in the heartlands. the banquet hosted in the keep not only served as a celebration of the mythic dawn's arrival in the city of gore bay, but also as a testament to their alliance with the bloodborn, a memorable occasion sure to be etched into the annals of the shared history between the eidolon and mythic dawn.
indentthe monarchs of the heartlands and gibraltar were seated adjacent to one another, separating their respective children to either sides of their table. much like everyone else, calista exchanged her travelling attire for something a bit more formal. her handmaidens had drawn a bath for her upon their arrival to legio gemina keep, washing the last few days' journey from her skin before dressing her in a gown fit for the occasion. clothed in a deep navy blue fabric, the neckline of calista's dress was fashioned in a classic bateau style this time around, gracefully sweeping across her bare shoulders and forming a gentle curve that followed the natural line of her collarbone. her dark hair was fashioned half-up half-down, a braid secured around the crown of her head while the rest of her hair cascaded past her bare shoulders to her waist, revealing a pair of gold drop earrings matching the simple yet elegant gold circlet resting gently on her brow. a silken cord of gold thread was laced tightly beneath the bodice of her gown to accentuate the curve of her hips, a small clasp in the shape of a lions head at its center. embroidered midnight blue detailing was woven throughout her dress' bodice, stylizing house athanasiou's sigil into a subtle motif that appeared to weave throughout the material of the gown. the sleeves of her dress were long and flowing, made from the same deep navy fabric as the rest of her gown. under normal circumstances, calista would be trading in her fine silks and jewels for armors and leather by the end of the night to take part in the opening ceremonies of the city's gladiatorial games, though today she would find no such reprieve from the tedium of tradition and pleasantries. her queen mother expected her to navigate the art of diplomacy and statecraft rather than swing a sword around to impress the bloodborn watching from the stands of the colosseum. either way calista knew better than to rebel against her mother's wishes. she would entertain their royal guests for now, even if she was somewhat disgruntled over not being able to participate in the opening games. queen anastasia has proved herself a hardened ruler for a reason, her reputation one earned through shrewd governance, and she was certainly not one to shy away from disciplining her own children. in recent months, calista's brother adonis was barred from attending important court functions — feasts, ceremonies, and councils — due to his harmful stance on their alliance with the mythic dawn, spewing ideology that could threaten their standing with the other tribe should impressionable members of their court latch onto his words. his presence at the banquet tonight could only be explained by time spent attempting to regain their mother's trust, a tenuous arrangement that could surely be revoked at any moment should he make an utterance that might offend or insult the mythic dawn's royal family. and while calista agreed that adonis' punishments were warranted, she too has felt wronged by her mother's judgement in the past. a little over a decade ago when calista faced certain defeat at the hands of the scarlet hand, her military blunder would leave her incapacitated from her regular duties for months on end, the result of nearly a year of physical and mental trauma sustained on the battlefield and under her captors, their treatment often barbaric and inhumane. as soon as calista was on the mend, she sought solace in the arena. she would leave legio gemina keep at nightfall through its network of tunnels and passages to compete in gladiatorial games not officially sanctioned by the crown. for her, these clandestine excursions were not acts of defiance against her medical confinement, but rather a means of reclaiming her identity and purpose. yet, as someone once known for her rebellious spirit, calista always felt like her mother's concerns were more about what social and political ramifications may befall her rather than her own daughter's well-being. even the memory of being sentenced to indefinite confinement still stung. it was a time in her life where she felt profoundly misunderstood by everyone around her, her need for autonomy and personal agency overshadowed by the weight of political calculations. it seemed that even calista's own mother harbored fears about her tarnishing her reputation and fulfilling the accusations leveled against her: that one day, she would ascend the throne and become a ruler perceived as erratic or unstable. she could understand her mother's intentions came from a place of well meaning though that did not erase the isolation and turmoil she was forced to endure alone as a confused and hurt youth still haunted by the horrors she suffered in the northern heartlands.
indenta countless number of tribes occupying territory in the lands of annexed canada are defined by their savagery and brutish ways, and the scarlet hand is certainly no different. a tribe that currently dominates regions of manitoba bordering the heartlands and along the bay of ghosts, the scarlet hand gained control over territories formerly under the rule of the stone hounds come the war of the sault, including the infamous interlake region (otherwise known as 'the heart of manitoba') which would eventually become their capital. they have managed to retain important strongholds in the northernmost portions of the heartlands such as the greater dryden area and the sioux narrows, historically warring with the eidolon in the kenora district as a result. to this day, calista still refuses to have an open dialogue about her first campaign in the north. her avoidance over the matter was initially difficult for her family to comprehend, let alone the likes of the tribe's most talented healers, however it should come as no surprise that calista ultimately proved unwilling to divulge the horrific consequences that came as a result of her own martial errors. in the eidolon, accomplishment and achievement mirror that of the gladiatorial lifestyle. personal glory and hardship are rewarded and praised, and weakness on any front ─ including feelings of shame, regret, or humiliation ─ are often quite publicly spurned. psychological peace of mind and mental wellbeing are topics not often broached among their general populace, let alone understood. the scarlet hand and their abhorrent practices of human hematophagy and enthrallment are no secret to the rest of this divided country either. calista need not recount what her time as a prisoner of war was like because it's not that hard to imagine. as a captive, she could serve as a bargaining chip to deter the eidolon from advancing in the kenora district, but she was considered a criminal in the borders of manitoba all the same. having slaughtered one of the scarlet hands' most esteemed military commanders in the gore bay colosseum as a youth, the force that successfully thwarted her military advancements made sure she paid for her offenses nonetheless. what happened to her in the kenora district was said to be so jarring that even the prospect of facing the scarlet hand on the field again made her blood run ice cold with fear. despite being safe within the confines of legio gemina keep, the royal healers often reported unexplainable spells where calista would admit to feeling dizzy, lightheaded and faint, often accompanied by sweating and an accelerated heart rate. sometimes she felt a tightness in her chest so consuming that it felt smothering, and other times she felt as though she were choking from mere shortness of breath alone. much to everyone's confusion there would never be any immediate physical stimuli causing her distress, though given their healers' lack of understanding when it comes to trauma responses or triggers, conditions pertaining to anxiety or panic are often attributed to the influence of gods or spirits. for example, the goddess hecate is associated with magic and the underworld, and her influence is commonly thought to cause mental disturbances. either way, the sheer terror she associated with being cut off from her own military on the field forced her into becoming a prudent strategist, something a then-young calista would not have been described as by her martial superiors. though some would attest that the incident in the greater dryden area against the scarlet hand forced her to wise up, she certainly did not need persistent violence committed against her person in order to realize her tactical blunders. the mere mention of the scarlet hand still made her skin crawl with disgust. like a number of tribes who take morbid fascination in the eidolon, the scarlet hand are known for ritualistically using gladiator blood for the purpose of augmenting their health, a believed remedy against disease and illness in addition to gaining strength and vitality. apparently their people are willing to pay exorbitant amounts for the blood of their eastern neighbors, especially when mixed into remedies. given their adoption of bloodletting rituals, the scarlet hand collects blood from enslaved prisoners of war under controlled circumstances, specifically holding those with known gladiatorial backgrounds hostage. typically only those of affluence and high standing within the tribe can access this form of 'medicinal' treatment, with some even laying claim to specific individuals. though far less common, prominent martial officers have even been known to force defeated gladiators into their personal servitude, their enslavement typically denoted by the branding of their initials. those few who find themselves the personal property of these such martial officers are typically destined for a life of horrific abuse, as bloodletting is not the only loss of autonomy they must endure. typically, these officers will have filed their lateral incisors and canines to sharp points in order to make their ritual of human hematophagy easier. unsurprisingly this practice has led to heightened tensions between the eidolon and the scarlet hand, politically and otherwise. though taken hostage over a decade ago, the commander who managed to brand the revenant princess still taunts her 'connection' to him to this day. he once even admitted that "one taste of calista’s blood was not enough" for him, hinting at the rather disturbing nature of her prolonged captivity.
indentcalista looked up from her plate, absently pushing her fork through a tender piece of whitefish. her attention flickered to her siblings, catching part of their conversation. "i'd bet the entire royal treasury on theocles," she heard adonis declare, a confident smirk appearing on his face. "i've never seen him tire against an epaneinondas like idaeus." cybil's expression indicated that she didn't entirely share their brother's opinion. theocles demakos ─ otherwise known as the beast of draipool, a small community located at the northern tip of the bruce peninsula ─ was announced to be fighting idaeus coumantaros, their match supposedly the highlighted entertainment of the opening games sponsored by the queen herself, officially kicking off celebrations in the city. calista was not sure how theocles ended up a gladiator. he was most likely forced into slavery and then into a gladiatorial imperial school, like most combatants who entertain the eidolon public. regardless of his origins, he is widely known as one of the most fearsome likourgos style gladiators to have graced the gore bay colosseum. protected by a heavy shield and carrying a short sword, a gladius, or a dagger, the likourgos are specially trained to fight epaneinondas, a type of lightly armored gladiator armed with a trident and net. this matchup is particularly popular in the heartlands, as it pits the likourgos' heavy armor against the lightweight epaneinondas. on account of their heavy armor, a likourgos gladiator is more prone to exhaustion during longer matches, and thus have to rely on quickly concluding the battle to gain victory. epaneinondas are lightly equipped in order to evade the likourgos' attacks, attempting to exhaust the likourgos. this match-up often dramatizes an encounter between the 'fisherman' and a 'fish', where the epaneinondas use their net to catch the likourgos, often equipped with armor bearing scaly patterns and smooth contours. just like adonis suggested, theocles demakos has certainly earned his reputation. typically fighters are granted retirement or freedom if they show great skill and bravery, and in doing so they are rewarded with a wooden baton known as rudius. theocles has been awarded the rudius four times, but each time he refused his freedom and chose to remain a gladiator. "there's a reason why idaeus is one of the few epaneinondas who have standing in the arena though," cybil argued. "he's not traditional. i've seen him catch his net on fire to light an adversary in flames before. theocles can't expect to win relying on brute strength alone." despite not having become a successful gladiator herself, calista's younger sister grew up watching the bloody entertainment in gore bay colosseum just as her siblings did. she was not entirely unfamiliar with their best fighters nor the fighting tactics they deployed. cybil glanced to calista as if hoping for her support. sighing, her eyes flickered to adonis. "remember that anargyros, deianira kondylis? swore she'd beat me to a pulp if i ever crossed her in the arena." she mused. "cybil's right. don't be so fast to empty your purse for the obvious choice." a successful anargyros gladiator at the time, deianira didn't expect a scrappy eighteen year old like calista to stand a chance even despite rumors of her prowess. typically anargyros are tall and always very muscular, depending on their strength and endurance to survive battles against foes more suited to attacking. calista could distinctly remember how satisfying it felt knowing she bested the seasoned gladiator, especially since around that time søren and máirín were in gore bay to foster and bore witness to her spectacle. adonis sneered. "that's hardly a fair comparison. i wouldn't bet on an epaneinondas even if their name was athanasiou." her brother's contemptuous manner did not surprise her. the more skin left unarmored and exposed, the lower a gladiator's status. idaeus coumantaros would not be favored by the crowd simply due to the light arms and armor of his fighting class, establishing him as one of the lowliest and most disgraced of the gladiator types. typically helmets allow both gladiators and spectators to dehumanize the fighters in the arena ─ when a combatant has to kill a comrade-at-arms, someone they probably lived and trained with everyday, their opponent's helmet adds an extra layer of separation ─ however the epaneinondas are allowed no head protection, their face visible to all. even their fighting style is another strike against them, as reliance on speed and evasion can be viewed as undignified in comparison to the straightforward trading of blows. calista even heard stories suggesting her grandmother juno once had all net-fighters who lost in combat put to death so that spectators could enjoy their expressions of agony. calista supposed that having been underestimated in the early stages of her own gladiatorial career, she was more inclined to root for the underdog.
indentbefore calista could get another word in, the shift in music prompted cybil to swiftly pull her to her feet. the delicate strum of a lute heralded the next dance sequence, a type of quadrille popular in the courts of both the eidolon and the mythic dawn sharing combined elements of their tribes' cultural heritage. she resisted the urge to grumble at her sister's enthusiasm. as if expecting her protest, queen anastasia levelled a pointed expression toward her daughter, and upon noticing this calista begrudgingly let the younger woman guide her from their table to join the crowd of nobles already arranging themselves into the elaborate formations characteristic of the dance. the great hall, already resplendent with its ornate decor, now became a vibrant tapestry of fabrics as each courtier took their place. the dance typically consists of several couples arranged in a square, with each facing one of the four sides of the formation. to begin, each noble must first bow or curtsy to each other and the audience before advancing towards the center of the square and retreating to their original positions. like the rest of those joining the dance, calista did just that and moved to the center once again, this time in a combination of stepping forward, turning, and retreating from the courtier opposite to her before joining hands with him. the floor quickly became a fluid mosaic of interlocking steps and coordinated turns, and calista and her sister appeared to become seamlessly swept into the rhythm of the dance. maneuvering through the dance's complex patterns, calista found herself shifting partners with a fluid elegance, her movements guided by the precise choreography that dictated the quadrille, steps demanding both attentiveness and grace. around her the great hall buzzed with a harmonious blend of soft laughter and animated conversation on the sidelines, punctuated by the rhythmic clap of hands and the occasional flutter of skirts. the music, with its lilting tempo and delicate melodies, seemed to pulse around her, yet she remained detached from the buoyant energy enveloping the room. stepping in time with the music, calista managed to cast a glance to cybil and her new partner, a man she recognized as lord nikolaos of house galani. where calista found herself merely enduring the social obligation, her sister appeared to embrace the quadrille with joyful abandon. having joined hands with lord alexius dousmanis, calista allowed him to guide her through this section of the dance, though despite his eagerness her focus was divided. between twirls and artful pivots around the lord, she couldn't help but catch fleeting glimpses of søren kolbeck. it was hard to shake this feeling of being caught between two worlds. the dance continued around her in a whirl of polished smiles and orchestrated grace but calista could only think of the unspoken connection that tied her to the lord ascendant of the mythic dawn. her longing almost always turned into something much more ravenous when it came to søren, primal and wanting. though she's spent hours in his presence committing his likeness to memory ─ tracing his sculpted features with delicate hands or giggling upon hearing the sound of his slightly accented voice whisper in her ear ─ calista found it difficult to rely only on stolen glances alone. even the political arrangements taking shape around the revenant princess and the crown prince of the mythic dawn seemed to do very little to deter the nature of her involvement with søren. she has never been one to dwell on the consequences of her actions, far more eager to act on her desires and indulge her impulses than sit around pondering repercussions. she harbored the same lack of foresight even as a young girl, thriving off the adoration of cheering crowds in the arena who celebrated her daring and reckless behavior, despite her actions often warranting her queen mother's disapproval. her palm still resting in lord alexius' own, calista noticed her brother had left his seat when she turned to face the far end of the great hall again. curious, her eyes flickered back to søren's table.
indentthere her brother was, approaching the lord ascendant of the mythic dawn where he was seated. locked in the quadrille, calista could not do much to intervene.
indenthaughty and proud, the manner by which prince adonis athanasiou held himself was almost theatrical ─ his shoulders held high, his movements controlled ─ as if he were stepping into a stage to perform a well-rehearsed act. and in a sense, he was. his notoriously unpleasant demeanor served only as a front for his own self-inflicted insecurities and frustration. despite the luxury of his royal birthright, the governance of their tribe has never quite pleased adonis. his contentious relationship with the matriarchal structure of the eidolon, which relegated the throne to his younger sister, calista, rather than himself, has long fueled his bitterness. this discontentment often manifested in his interactions, particularly towards those he perceived as his rivals or reminders of his own perceived shortcomings. much like the rest of his royal family, adonis was adorned in the regal colors of gold and navy. he wore a deep navy doublet embellished with intricate embroidery, depicting house athanasious' sigil in proud, elaborate detail. the fabric, rich and lustrous, draped elegantly as though to accentuate his lofty posture. he donned a matching cloak of navy silk on his shoulders, its hem lined with gold trim. the clasp at his throat was a large, ornate golden lion's head. with a bejeweled chalice of ice wine from the niagara peninsula in one hand, an air of pomposity seemed to ooze from the prince as he swaggered from his seat. his demeanor was that of a man accustomed to command, his movements marked by a controlled grace. as he seemingly made to head down the dais, his eyes happened to catch sight of søren kolbeck, and a flicker of recognition flashed across his face. at first almost passing by the lord ascendant altogether, adonis seemed to pause when he became aware of the other man's presence. the prince turned to face the table where søren was seated. his face bore traces of a smile, and though outwardly friendly, his features carried the same hint of the mockery he once readily displayed toward the other man as a youth. "well, if it isn’t the shadow of the past," he greeted the lord ascendant, his voice laced with veiled mockery, clearly indifferent to any disruption he might cause among the seated guests. adonis barely seemed to question whether he was intruding on any existing conversation. in fact, he hardly even acknowledged the others seated at the table alongside søren. "delightful to see you again. i presume you have been keeping well." his words, though seemingly polite, carried an edge that belied their surface warmth, making it clear that old tensions were far from forgotten. "excited for the games? if i recall, you've always been one to stand on the sidelines, haven't you? never did see you compete back when we were younger." the prince took a deliberate sip from his goblet, his feigned warmth masking the derision in his tone. "seeing as i'm set to fight later this week, i would not advise stepping foot into the arena this time around either. i'd hate to put a damper on your celebratory spirit is all. though i do wonder if my sister would be willing to take you on─ i've never seen calista refuse a challenger. it'd be far too humiliating for her. though i can't imagine an actual match between the two of you would be any better. you could probably tank her popularity with the masses if you really wanted to. imagine, our so-called 'champion of the heartlands' stalling the whole match just to avoid scraping the lord ascendant of the mythic dawn. quite the spectacle, indeed." adonis' gaze remained fixed on søren. his words hung in the air, a blend of mockery and challenge. he seemed intent on provoking a reaction from the other man. adonis did not need to know the exact nature of calista's relationship with søren to understand his sister has always harbored something of a soft spot for him, an uncharacteristic occurrence for someone as rough as she. when they were younger he could recall calista and søren often missing from the crowds of tournaments ─ something irregular for the revenant princess, who loved to watch combatants prove their honor and courage through bloody spectacle ─ to visit the different sights of spirit island instead. unlike his sister, adonis had not exactly been one of the most welcoming hosts to the city during søren's fosterage. it seemed likely the pair even started to avoid the colosseum because of his presence. they would instead be escorted to towns like yhuorhull, where they could visit yrin falls to play in the water that cascaded down its broad rock face, forming a misty veil around them. at that time of the year the falls would have been surrounded by a lush, verdant landscape of dense forest and rugged terrain. one time she and søren even journeyed to draipool to see the epwich hollows, a hidden grotto located along the shores of the bruce peninsula. a shoreline sea cave carved from ancient limestone, the cave is known for its turquoise pools of water often appearing to glow on sunny days due to the underwater tunnel extending from the cave through the cliff to the georgian bay. they even got to pass through murder cove on their way to the grotto, a region composed of flat limestone rocks and a small white boulder beach. evidently, calista had been determined to prove to søren that there was much more to be enjoyed on spirit island than simply their gladiatorial culture.
indentas the concluding notes of the quadrille played out, calista exchanged a hurried bow with the lord of the ouimet canyon before she made to cross the hall. she navigated her way through the dispersing crowd of dancers, her gown flowing around her like a cascading wave of navy as she moved. her concern was not so much with søren, whom she trusted to manage himself with the requisite decorum, but rather with her brother. while she knew the lord ascendant had the courtesy to conduct himself properly, her brother's unpredictable nature posed a more significant concern, especially given his recent run-ins with their queen mother concerning their tribe's alliance with the mythic dawn. with measured steps, calista ascended the dais again, heedful to lift her skirts to prevent them from dragging. the subtle murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses filled the air as the music in the hall began to lull. upon reaching adonis' side, calista offered a composed smile, her presence almost immediately shifting the atmosphere. "it appears i've arrived just in time,” she said, her tone one of careful neutrality. "i hope i'm not intruding." she addressed søren and his companions with a respectful nod before turning her attention to her brother. adonis regarded her with an amused smile. "ah, calista. we were just discussing the possibility of søren joining the games this week. i was suggesting he might find it more entertaining to face you rather than me." calista only raised a brow. she felt acutely aware of the delicate nature of their encounter, and despite adonis' irking demeanor she was determined to navigate the situation at hand with tact. while her first instinct might have been to go on the offensive and exchange insults, she wanted to avoid causing any more friction than necessary, particularly in front of their distinguished guests. "always the jester, my brother," she spoke thinly, her gaze lingering on adonis before shifting to søren. "i suppose he does have a point though. what's the fun in facing someone you can cut down in two strikes? at-least you and i would not bore the crowds to death." adonis' face tightened into a scowl at her indirect jab. "alas, i believe there are other matters that require my brother's attention right now." calista looked to adonis, taking a subtle step closer to him now. her voice lowered to a firmer tone. "i do recall cybil mentioning your name. would you excuse us?" adonis narrowed his eyes at her, opening his mouth as if to say something but stopping himself. he studied her expression for a moment, silent. the prince proceeded to take a short sip from his chalice as though deciding whether or not he wished to heed her words. with a final glance cast toward søren and those seated at his table, adonis stepped past calista without another word, his navy blue cloak trailing behind him as he descended the dais like a petulant child chastised by his mother. it appeared he knew better than to defy her so publicly, likely only because he did not want to invite further scrutiny upon himself by their mother, jeopardizing his chances of enjoying the celebrations to come. as adonis receded into the throng of nobles in search of their younger sister, calista turned fully to søren, her expression softening slightly. she didn't expect to approach the lord ascendant this way, but she supposed her brother's tendency to play the part of the provocateur gave her an excuse to catch up with him, even if only for a brief moment. in truth, calista had no interest engaging in formalities with søren nor did she care much to act the part of a polite acquaintance, modestly inquiring about his state of affairs or how he might be enjoying the city. it would feel far too strange to adhere to the pleasantries and niceties common to courtly life while in his presence. the truth was, she wanted to tell him she had missed him, a sentiment she could not openly articulate in the midst of their families and courtiers. if she could, she would admit to that and much more. quite frankly though, they were not in private. they still had to maintain a modicum of awareness if not for their immediate surroundings then for the people around them. so instead of professing the ways in which she had longed to see him, calista would have to make do until they managed to acquire some semblance of privacy. the sound of a new note rang out in the great hall to signify the beginning of the next dance sequence, drawing her attention momentarily. calista glanced over her shoulder, assessing the nobles taking to the floor before returning her gaze returned to søren, a slight, teasing smile curving her lips. her eyes seemed to glint with a hint of challenge. "you know, you missed the first quadrille." she observed, her voice carrying a playful undertone. "it would be a shame to repeat that same mistake again, would you not agree?"

[vaell]

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe royal advisor to the arkhian crown.
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indentgwen's smile ─ obscured by the veils covering her visage ─ deepened.
indentthe unease in the command tent was almost palpable given prince talion's erratic reputation—a notion that did not seem to deter the gland cleric, who stood unperturbed and resolute in her invitation. the discreet glances exchanged among his martial officers hinted at a shared unease, their eyes lingering on gwen with a mix of cautious curiosity and unspoken concern. it was clear she either possessed an unusual bravery or an alarming disregard for the risks that lay before her. not even the injury prince talion seemed to sustain would be enough to hinder him should the augural ritual go awry. despite the inherent power dynamic between them as lunespawn and cleric, the reality remained that, much like those who met a grim demise at his hands, gwen was physically vulnerable to prince talion's whims. her own self-assurance seemed to stand in the way of reason though. she was quick to attribute the prince's bloody encounters with the chantry to their own carelessness as opposed to his uncontrollable bouts of violence. she figured they perished as a result of their own hubris, thoughtlessly imposing sacred obligations onto prince talion without so much considering his psychological boundaries. the human threshold for affliction is low enough and as blessed vessels of invidia, royal lunespawn are expected to withstand much more turmoil than the average citizen of saint-arkh, the divine consequence of their unique upbringing and exalted status. historically, the chantry's means of tainting luneth's children in the name of the dark sister have revolved around stringent initiations and the expectation of uncompromising surrender on behalf of the lunespawn. those luneites fortunate enough to be embraced into invidia's darkness will have their personal reservations squashed and their self-governance stripped away, with any acts of reluctance or defiance met with punishment rather than a fair, constructive hearing. the truth is, many of the chantry's members fail to recognize the folly in stripping lunespawn of their autonomy without offering them a bone in return, perpetuating a vicious cycle of misjudgment and death among clerics who overestimate their own invincibility and ultimately bring about their own downfall. though it may sound conceited, gwen saw herself as different from her predecessors, firmly believing in her understanding of the lunespawn struggle. she knew that sometimes granting someone the illusion of choice and liberty could have a profound effect, often rendering a person more compliant and willing to submit despite their initial apprehension. with the right approach, she was sure that even prince talion's aggressive impulses could be managed. just because he has not been controlled in such manner before does not make it impossible either. while the dark urge makes it difficult to anticipate the behavior of lunespawn, who often succumb to outbursts of violence that manifest at random, gwen seemed to think the outcome would be far less perilous if lunespawn shared a different relationship with their given handler. a connection built on mutual respect and loyalty would always surpass one built off twisted feelings of veneration and a learned fear of authority. after all, a dog will not bite the hand of its owner without reason. gwen was sure that lunespawn operated on a similar level when it came to their base impulses, and it would certainly not be the first time her unconventional manner of thinking has proved successful before. the lords and ladies of saint-arkh are not always willing to treat with the chantry, and the unyielding, stubborn house of macbeth was once among that same opinion. before joining king burchard's personal clergy, gwen was one of the first chantry members assigned to house macbeth in decades. like his forefathers before him, the lord of vivencia openly refused to allow a dark augur in his noble household due to a deteriorating relationship with the faith and the clergy that serves. it remains unclear why lord macbeth had a sudden change of heart, begrudgingly accepting gwen into his retainer despite his longstanding refusal. speculation suggests that the chantry might have made a compelling case by offering promises of aid, a renewed strategic partnership, or significant compensation that would settle previous grievances. most people are far more keen to feed on rumors and gossip revolving around the personal affairs of house macbeth though. was internal dissent within the family the issue? did some of lord macbeth's kin favor the chantry's influence in vivencian politics while others resisted it? prying nobles seem to think the lord of vivencia might have been in a position where he had to balance competing interests within his own house, but in reality it was far more likely that he faced extreme political pressure from the pious arkhian noble houses and recognized the strategic necessity of accommodating the chantry. given vivencia's influential geopolitical position sandwiched between the sunirean border, drakonia, and serindor, cultivating a positive relationship between the house of macbeth and the chantry was seen as imperative at the time. saint-arkh's holy war waged against their western neighbors meant that battles would not only be won by generals at the border of tashemen and vivencia, but also in the form of the wraith-errants, warriors of the chantry responsible for attacks against the church of luneth. the prospect of one day conquering tashemen, the tribe of syl'siros' capital, all but necessitated pragmatic compromise and cooperation with the chantry. even so, gwen's appointment as vivencia's new dark augur didn't necessarily mean she was welcomed with open arms. upon her arrival in the city of arachburn, she quickly learned that she would not be taken seriously in any capacity until she proved her value to house macbeth and its lord. the chantry's limited political influence in vivencia at the time rendered gwen insignificant, and as a representative of the chantry her opinions were often held in low esteem. pigheaded and unwilling to put down his pride to accede to the chantry, she could not hope to appeal to a man like lord macbeth by undermining his sense of authority and overstepping her own station, issuing religious mandates or instructing him to mindlessly heed the words of the dark cardinal. her commands would only fall on deaf ears. gwen had to be content with allowing lord macbeth and his vassals to engage with the chantry on their own terms, for making demands would certainly get her nowhere. she had no choice but to make certain aspects of their religion more palatable in order for the lord to see reason, and that often meant allowing lord macbeth the autonomy to make decisions rather than forcefully imposing the chantry's beliefs upon him and his noble family. with time, her apparent respect for lord macbeth's self-governance began to foster a more receptive environment at court. by honoring his independence, she gradually built his trust, making him him more open to considering her advice without immediate resistance or dismissal. the lord began to recognize that she dealt in ways not common to the likes of those situated at the highest rungs of the chantry, and as a result they formed a relationship based on mutual respect─though still a tenuous arrangement at the time given vivencia's cultural and political landscape. in order to both steer and encourage house macbeth toward complying with the chantry, gwen had sought to align the chantry's influence with a respected and historic practice in arkhian culture ─ the augurium anduru ─ rather than reintroduce the faith as a disruptive element encroaching on the authority of house macbeth (the very reason why the noble family came to detest the chantry so explicitly to begin with). without first cementing lord macbeth's trust in her motives, she probably would not have been able to successfully revitalize the tradition of holding an annual augury in vivencia. as a result of her apparent sensitivity to local traditions and leadership in vivencia, gwen successfully framed the chantry's involvement in the region as a continuation of established arkhian customs rather than an imposition, and the success of her strategy did not go unnoticed. within the clergy's most prominent circles gwen was celebrated for her masterful diplomacy and her skillful navigation of vivencia's intricate political and religious landscape. somehow she had managed to achieve harmony between the faith and the ruling lord of arachburn, a rare and remarkable feat once thought seemingly impossible. in truth, gwen was a rare oddity in the midst of the fanaticism common among the religious figures of saint-arkh. she seemed to be one of the few proponents of invidia willing to seek middle ground between religious zeal and secular reason, appealing to both the realms of the faith and the crown without blatantly aligning herself to any specific cause, and that alone made her inconceivably dangerous. she was like a chameleon, shifting her allegiances based on the people around her. in the end it was nothing more than a masterful performance, meticulously orchestrated for her own gain.
indenther pale blue eyes remained fixed on prince talion, an arm still cradling his injured abdomen. "accompany me to the divination tent, my prince." gwen studied his expression, a moment passing before she addressed the rest of the command tent. her intentions remained ambiguous. "an audience shall be permitted today."

indentindentindentindentindentindentindentindentindent──

indentinside the divination tent, the air bore a subtle fragrance of incense, blending resinous notes of frankincense and myrrh with hints of aromatic sage and lavender. as the incense burned, wisps of fragrant smoke rose from censers suspended on sturdy hooks and chains anchored around the beams of the tent. crafted from polished silver and gleaming metal, their surfaces bore intricate patterns and symbols illuminated by flickering candlelight from torches mounted on sturdy poles or secured within ornate sconces along the perimeter of the tent. positioned at the heart of the tent was a low, rectangular altar crafted from aged oak, its surface marked with intricate carvings of ancient runes. a dark velvet cloth was draped over its surface, embroidered and bordered with silver thread. on the altar, offerings of dried herbs like fragrant sprigs of rosemary or bundles of dried chamomile were already arranged in careful symmetry around its center. at the focal point of this arrangement a polished silver bowl sat upon a wooden pedestal, its gleaming surface catching the flickering candle flames. the altar itself was flanked by a set of tall, slender candelabras made from wrought iron, each holding candles whose steady flames cast elongated shadows across the canvas of the tent. woven tapestries depicting saint-arkh's darkened sun—its obscured radiance shrouded in deep, shadowy hues and its rays woven in dark threads—and various interpretations of invidia's likeness—some portraying her ethereal beauty with delicate threads, and others using bold stitching to emphasize her otherworldly presence—hung along the tent's interior walls with solemn grace, not merely decorations but reminders of the spiritual connection and contemplation meant to transpire within the sacred confines of the divining tent. here, gwen and her sisters of styx routinely prepare to commune with forces beyond mortal ken—to seek clarity, receive visions, and to navigate the uncertain paths that lay ahead with wisdom born of the divine. only the sound of pecking and scratching disturbed the placid atmosphere. in the middle of the tent a small cage composed of simple metal bars held a few young hens, visible to all. though confined for now, gwen and her sisters would soon be able to assess the chickens' movements and actions come their release during the augury. in the tribe of saint-arkh, birds are among the foremost signs by which the dark sister communicates her assent or displeasure with a proposed action, acting as vehicles through which divine will can manifest. the auspicia ex samagiya ─ auspices being taken from the feeding of chickens ─ is often especially employed on military expeditions. arkhian martial officers frequently consult augurs at many critical junctures in the field, sometimes even before they engage the enemy in battle. when the auspices were to be taken, the chickens would be fed special mixtures of grains and lentils designed to crumble and fall when pecked at─ideally, the grains would make a pleasing 'rattle' as they hit the ground. if the chickens refused to come out or to eat, or uttered a cry, or beat their wings, or flew away, the signs would be considered unfavorable. on the contrary, if they ate greedily, so that something fell from their mouth and struck the earth, it was considered tripudium solistimum and was held a favorable sign. in general, the practice of augury holds significant importance in guiding arkhian state affairs and decisions through the interpretation of auspices─signs and omens believed to convey the will of the dark sister. augury is particularly crucial in matters of governance, military campaigns, and other situations where divine approval may be sought. public auspices are commonly taken before significant events and sometimes even before a noble lord might exercise his authority, while private auspices can be taken by invidia's followers whenever they wished for guidance. in more dire circumstances, augurs often turn to the practice of calling upon holy blood. this practice is one steeped in primitive, ancient beliefs that date back centuries following the great divide, reflecting a connection between the physical and ascendant planes. blood ─ a potent symbol of life force and vitality ─ is significant in many different facets of arkhian life, ranging from the blood shed in marital customs and even during their holy festivals and celebrations. in some augural rituals, the act of incorporating the blood of lunespawn into chicken feed is believed to infuse the animals with a heightened sensitivity and connection to the ascendant plane. this is thought to make the creatures more receptive to omens, enabling them to better convey messages from the divine realm through their behaviors. moreover, the act of mixing holy blood with feed can also be seen as a sacred offering to the dark sister or a gesture of reverence, signifying a deep respect for invoking their goddess during the divination process. in some cases, an augur may even resort to additional techniques to seek further clarity of the auspices. one such method involves tasting lunespawn ichor, which is believed to carry potent spiritual energy. the act of tasting someone's life force is not merely a physical act but rather a spiritual communion. if gwen were to partake in such a practice with talion, she was supposed to gain greater psychic sensitivity and insight into the auspices, ensuring a deeper understanding of the divine messages being conveyed from the ascendant plane. since augury involves interpreting omens or divine will, having a heightened ability to process and understand these signs is just as crucial as introducing the hens to holy blood. ensuring those gathered in the tent bear witness to such an interaction between her and prince talion would serve to have the most profound impact possible. even his status as a royal of house nocturne and a lunespawn could add a new layer of legitimacy to the auspices she sought to interpret. prince talion's participation would represent saint-arkh's acceptance of divine guidance and the acknowledgement that their military decisions in savalow were subject to the will of invidia. a gesture of unity and sacrifice, it would be made known that he was committed to supporting and aligning their military's decisions according to the will of the dark sister. the ceremony would serve to uphold the common saint-arkh belief that effective governance requires harmony with divine forces ─ as interpreted through the auspices ─ to ensure the prosperity and stability of their tribe. in saint-arkh, it is thought that decisions of state should be made with reverence for divine will and guidance, ensuring that the crown acts not only with political authority but also with divine approval.
indentstanding before the altar with prince talion by her side, gwen surveyed the generals positioned around the perimeter of the tent, each of whom appeared to be observing the pair with keen interest. meanwhile, her sisters of styx remained in the shadows, discretely positioned in the corners of the tent, their hands clasped in front of them as though awaiting their turn to assist gwen with the augury when called upon. the divination tent fell silent when she turned to fully face the prince. without looking away from talion, gwen beckoned one of her sisters to come forward with a subtle flick of her wrist. in response, one of the women from her clergy stepped forward. damasandra helsing, though dressed in the same ebony robes and veil as her sisters, was distinguishable by her long burgundy hair, secured neatly at the nape of her neck. her eyes were cast downward as she approached the pair before the altar. gwen watched her closely from the corner of her eye. "remove my veil." she instructed, her tone carrying an air of cold authority. damasandra's head lifted slightly, her face momentarily clouded with puzzlement. her eyes shifted between gwen and the dark steel circlet atop her head, clearly somewhat taken aback by the unexpected request. although her hesitation was brief, it was noticeable enough to pique the curiosity of those observing. gwen did not owe her any explanations though and that much was made clear by her continued silence. damasandra was quick to step behind the royal advisor to carefully remove the headpiece from her forehead as she commanded. the gesture was an unusual display of humility, revealing gwen's face to the rest of the tent. typically, most augurs will choose to keep their features hidden in order to maintain impartial interpretation, but gwen believed that transparency was necessary on this occasion. prince talion required a different approach; seeing her expression and recognizing her as an individual rather than a foreboding figure momentarily exploiting his divinity was crucial. during the ritual, he needed to empathize with her emotions and feel what she did. it would only hinder her efforts if he felt disconnected or intimidated by her. gwen chose to show herself unmasked, a precaution intended to prevent him from recalling any unpleasant experiences with the chantry that may incite the dark urge. her tactics were calculated, if not deliberately vigilant. she had to cultivate a calm environment for the prince but also a safer one for her own security. and though gwen already commanded the tent with her imposing presence alone, the grand cleric's exposed countenance revealed an image of both elegance and authority. her piercing blue eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, held an intensity that effortlessly seemed to captivate those who might meet her gaze, momentarily drawing attention away from the dried crimson markings anointed across her eyelids and below her waterline. she boasted symmetrical features made pronounced by finely arched eyebrows and a straight, delicately proportioned nose. in the glow of the torchlight, gwen appeared both enchanting and formidable, the shadows cast upon her visage emphasizing a well-defined jawline and prominent cheekbones. even her fair complexion provided a striking contrast against her dark hair, which cascaded past her shoulders in ebony waves. though she no longer donned a circlet on her brow, red ritualistic markings encircled her forehead all the same, spelling out the jagged words of an ancient tongue. she was an alluring woman who embodied the dark, seductive beauty commonly admired by the people of saint-arkh. it was easy to imagine her features set in a stoic display of severity ─ one might perhaps even anticipate it given her position ─ but instead, the corners of her lips tilted upward into a small smile when her eyes met prince talion's own. "you wonder what exactly it is i require of you," she began carefully, breaking the silence that seemed to hang heavy in the tent. since the prince has never led a military campaign himself prior to now, gwen knew that also meant he has likely never participated in a ritual of this nature. since lunespawn are considered sacred to invidia, augural ceremonies involving holy blood are typically reserved for times of significant importance or desperation. even the act of needlessly spilling lunespawn blood is frowned upon in their religion and often regarded as an insult to the dark sister herself. gwen was treading into uncharted territory with prince talion and she needed to be mindful of that. he was unfamiliar with what lay ahead, and the unknown can often be quite daunting. he would have no choice but to place his trust in her, and she would have to do the same in return. after all, this was her first time officiating this particular ceremony with a royal lunespawn. from this point on, they had no choice but to put some semblance of faith in each other. "as your generals would surely agree, the presence of a royal lunespawn on the battlefield bestows an inherent blessing upon our military forces. the very blood that runs through your veins is sacred, a testament to the will of the dark sister─and its shedding must not be in vain. understand that what i ask of you is miniscule compared to the trials you have already faced." as she spoke, her hand gingerly brushed against his, the cold metal of his gauntlet biting against her bare skin. though barely perceptible, gwen hesitated for a moment. her gaze remained locked on prince talion's as she searched his expression for any signs of mistrust or wariness. though she had to maintain a composed exterior, her pulse seemed to quicken in that very moment. is this how the others felt? she wondered. prince talion posed an immediate threat to her wellbeing even if he did appear stable right now. having come this far she knew she could not falter now though. she had to force herself to continue, to slowly immerse the prince into this unfamiliar ritual. with one motion she breached his personal space, her touch delicate as her fingers decisively wrapped around his armored wrist. she guided his hand above the silver bowl on the altar, the contents of the vessel already filled with chicken feed. by now it would become obvious to everyone bearing witness that gwen intended to draw ichor from his hand.
indent"if you would allow me, my prince..." she turned her attention to his gauntlet, which appeared to be secured by several straps and metal clasps to protect his hand and forearm in battle. with seemingly practiced fingers, gwen carefully located the primary clasp near prince talion's wrist. she delicately unlatched it, ensuring each movement was slow and deliberate as though to avoid startling him. as the clasp released, she moved on to the secondary fastenings, undoing them one by one. with each strap loosened, gwen maintained a steady hold on the prince's arm to support its weight and prevent any sudden movements. her movements conveyed a sense of reverence and consideration, careful to honor both the practical need of removing his gauntlet while respecting his own dignity. every now and then her eyes would meet his own, silently inquiring if he was still at ease. as the final clasp came undone, she gently eased the gauntlet off his hand, mindful of his comfort. once the gauntlet was removed, gwen set it aside on the altar, ensuring it was placed where it would not disturb their ceremony. she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers now as their hands made contact, a sharp contrast to the cold sting of his metal gauntlet. her pale eyes flickered to his own again. it was difficult to gauge whether the prince felt relaxed at the moment. after all, he was still being coaxed to the altar like a sacrificial lamb, even if gwen was the kindest butcher he's yet faced. she could only presume that when compared with augury, certain rituals like dreamwalking ─ the practice of entering and manipulating the dreamscape, a 'no-mans land' where the subconscious minds of mortals go to dream ─ would pose an even greater challenge for someone like prince talion, especially as a lunespawn afflicted by the dark urge. though some reservations lingered in the back of her mind when it came to involving him in the augural ritual, in the grand scheme of things she reasoned that this was certainly much more tame than what he might normally be subjected to. in saint-arkh, dreamwalkers of the chantry are thought to be blessed with the psychic ability to communicate, receive information, or manipulate the minds of others while unconscious or dreaming. as a result it's no surprise they play an important role in shaping the minds of young, impressionable luneite children, often assisting the mothers of styx in the upbringing of lunespawn. the likelihood of prince talion lashing out right now, as opposed to during a dreamwalking session, appeared negligible, particularly given that the latter often involves administering various herbal remedies and medicinal concoctions, each of which can disrupt a person's psychological state. gwen found some comfort in knowing that prince talion was not under extreme duress nor being forced into the dreamscape against his will, both factors which could potentially make any ritual involving him much more dangerous. he was not going to be under the influence of any special elixirs right now either so his mind would remain clear at-least. so far gwen has been careful enough to officiate the augury in a way that allowed the prince to analyze each movement she made and every expression that might cross her features. even now as she made to produce a small dagger from her robes, gwen did not immediately bring the blade to his skin. her slender fingers curled around a hilt wrapped in dark, weathered leather, adorned with small silver charms and talismans associated with the dark sister. the guard and pommel of the dagger were ornate, inlaid with blood-red gemstones that glinted like embers in the flickering torchlight. the blade itself was a marvel of arkhian craftsmanship, forged from a unique blackened metal with an obsidian-like sheen, designed to absorb and devour light rather than reflect it. such was considered a rare alloy, known among their smiths for its resilience and supposed ability to better conduct ritualistic energies. its edge was honed to razor-sharp precision, tapering to an almost needle-thin point, perfect for piercing armor or flesh with unerring ease. it was apparent that any cut made with such a dagger would be clean and effortless, a testament to the blade's superior forging. the blade's surface was adorned with a complex network of arcane symbols, their intricate patterns resembling the cryptic designs painted on gwen's face. tiny, delicate runes, barely visible, were inscribed along the fuller of the blade, hinting at ancient enchantments woven into the weapon’s very essence. clearly, gwen's ceremonial dagger had been crafted with her holy position in mind. when she spoke next, her words were no different from that of any other augur. the verse she recited was steeped in tradition, a passage from ancient texts and a formal part of the ceremony at hand. she looked between prince talion and the rest of the tent now, her tone growing solemn. "by the shadows that bind and the darkness that guides, we gather here in unity, each a weave in the pattern of styx. as holy blood flows and mingles with our sacred rites, may invidia's will be revealed in the dark currents that shape our destiny. invidia─mistress of the night and she who dims our sight─embrace this offering and grant us the vision that only the truly forsaken may behold. let the veil between our world and the abyss be torn asunder, and may your hidden revelations guide us through the path laid before us." still holding prince talion's hand in her own, she gently guided him to open his palm. her dark, penetrating gaze locked with his. "may holy blood seal our bond and consecrate this rite."
indentgwen swiftly drew the blade across his palm.
indentin one single motion the edge sliced through flesh with a clean, precise cut, releasing a thin stream of sanguine fluid. the incision was quick yet controlled, leaving a narrow, crimson trail in its wake. ichor welled up almost immediately, oozing from the fresh cut. crimson began to trickle from his palm, dripping steadily down his hand into the silver bowl beneath, each droplet darkening the chicken feed within. the women of gwen's clergy had averted their eyes now, their chants a series of whispers beginning to envelop the divining tent. anduru sahōdariya obaṭa āyācanā karami. gwen tightened her grip on his hand, holding his wrist firmly. their nearness suggested she had taken a subtle step closer to him at some point. "one taste," she murmured, her voice urgent. before he could fully grasp what was happening, she was already drawing the prince’s hand toward her mouth. for a heartbeat, her lips hovered over the crimson line on his palm, a tantalizing proximity that heightened the growing tension between them. her breath, warm and slightly bated with anticipation, fanned against his skin. gwen looked the prince right in the eye as she slowly pressed her lips against his palm, her mouth forming a seal against his skin. each action she took was slow and measured, a deep, purposeful act of the rite. the sensation was strangely intimate and intense, the metallic tang of ichor prominent as if each drop absorbed was a binding element in their ritual. the taste flooded her senses, mingling with the faint, acrid scent of the ceremonial incense wafting through the tent. as gwen's mouth worked over the area, the world outside their immediate sphere seemed to dissolve into obscurity. the other figures in the tent, once so vividly present, now blurred into a distant haze. the focus of her entire being was drawn to prince talion and the deep, sacred connection she sought to establish. the ritual felt almost surreal, as if the very fabric of reality was being woven anew by their interaction. gwen's awareness was sharply attuned to the significance of their actions, her every sensation heightened, her consciousness expanding into realms previously unexplored. with her mouth remaining latched to his hand, she looked up at talion through her dark lashes, her eyes reflecting what could only be described as an almost reverential intensity. the sensation felt like a profound embrace, an opening to a higher, mystical dimension. the iron-rich flavor on her tongue was more than just a taste; it was a conduit to invidia, a bridge to the ascendant plane. her connection to the goddess felt immediate and powerful, as though she were channeling the dark sister's essence directly into the world. the experience was somehow both grounding and transcendental, linking her spirit with invidia's will. her eyes did not break from his own even when she finally did pull away, a faint smear of vermillion lingering on her lips and the corner of her mouth. in the quiet that followed, gwen's demeanor shifted to one of calm reverence. she felt aligned with the divine, granted a deeper immersion into the mysteries of invidia's domain like she never had before. she did not bother to wipe away the remnants of holy ichor from her lips, a visual testament of the sacred act she had just performed. instead, she lowered her eyes to prince talion in a show of respect and holy reverence, acknowledging his sacrifice and the pivotal role he played in the divine communion. although none of his martial officers had interjected yet─silence being a commonly respected aspect of many rituals in saint-arkh─there was almost no doubt that some of the men and women present would feel equally disturbed as they were in awe. the symbolic exchange of holy blood between an augur and a lunespawn is not a typical practice many people can claim to have witnessed, and not all arkhian nobles are interested in ancient rites of the chantry or what perceived benefit they may yield. it was unlikely anyone would dare speak against gwen and her clergy but that did not mean they were not forming opinions of the scene before them as it progressed. when next did gwen meet prince talion's gaze, she gestured to the silver bowl on the altar. "would you do the honors, my prince?" she inquired. it seemed she was referring to having him throw the chicken feed on the ground before them, so that when the chickens were released they could either leave choose to leave their cage and feast or refuse to leave their enclosure altogether, either of which would be signs easily interpreted by gwen. the grand cleric watched him expectantly while one of her sisters of styx approached the chicken cage, ready to release the creatures once prince talion had performed his indicated duties. this was, yet again, another uncommon demonstration on gwen's behalf. she was involving the prince in the augury quite heavily, assigning him an active role rather than a passive one no longer required after the drawing of his blood. she was not even expected to pay him much attention after he served his allotted purpose but it seemed she was acknowledging him anyway. whatever was happening right now was certainly not ordinary, though the devout in the tent would surely be quick to write any curiosities off as invidia's will already manifesting itself. gwen could have disregarded the prince from this point onward for all it mattered─any other member of the chantry dealing with lunespawn would have, but alas, she did not. she seemed to hold a strange degree of unspoken respect for the prince, almost a humble submission to his inherent holy power rather than a domineering need to control and exploit his position. she was elevating a lunespawn to the status of a spiritual equal right now, as much as a participant in this ceremony as she.

[vaermina]

ＳØＲＥＮ ＫＯＬＢＥＣＫxxx
I.xtribal affiliationsx II. the lord ascendant of the mythic dawn


indenttorch light reflected off the dark surface of søren's amber mask.
indentcerulean eyes observed the great hall of legio gemina keep with minor interest. the banquet hall was a grand expanse, with soaring ceilings supported by intricately carved columns of local limestone, their surfaces adorned with small cracks and swirling patterns applied by the careful hands of thoughtful craftsmen. the floors were a pristine blend of polished travertine and white marble, the cool surfaces gleaming under the soft glow of bronze chandeliers suspended from the arched ceiling. the walls were lined with tall, narrow windows framed in dark, richly grained wood, allowing streams of fading sunlight to filter through the stained glass and cast colorful reflections onto the noble populace below. a long, opulent table made from a single slab of marble, its surface veined with subtle hues of gold and cream, sat on a heightened dais at the far end of the chamber, its surface set with silverware and crystal goblets that sparkled in the torch light. luxurious tapestries hung between the hall's tall columns of sedimented fossils, shells, and sea coral. the throng of highborn that crowded the hall were dressed in vibrant hues of garnet, violet, cobalt and golds, providing a warm contrast against the cool tones of the stone keep. highborn ladies glided their way throughout the banquet hall in gowns of sumptuous silk and velvet, each dress a careful masterpiece of craftsmanship and the result of weary, overworked seamstresses. deep shades of fiery crimson, sapphire blue, and emerald green were popular choices, their rich hues highlighted by intricate medallion and anchor embroidery that traced delicate patterns along tight bodices and loose sleeves. some bore softer tones of lavender, rose, and ivory, their dresses embellished with pearls and tiny crystals that caught the light with every movement. the skirts were voluminous, sweeping the marble floor with layers of fine lace and tulle, while the bodices were tightly laced, accentuating slender waists and graceful silhouettes. jewels sparkled at their throats and wrists—diamonds, rubies, and sapphires set in delicate filigree. their lord husbands, equally resplendent, wore tailored doublets of brocade and velvet, with fur-lined cloaks of ermine and fox fur. their fastenings were adorned with the gemstone-encrusted brooches of their houses or the monarchy they served. the great hall itself could be the scene of an embroidery piece. it looked like an elegant drape piece that could be found hanging from the wooden beams of a noble's armory. it was an artistic panorama of aristocrats in their natural habitat. it was clear that the throngs of patricians were attempting to show off their wealth and esteemed positions in their respective societies to their neighboring tribesmen. heavy chains of office, encrusted with colorful trinkets, hang from their necks, while their fingers were weighed down with rings set with stones of topaz, opal, and aquamarine. women wore lavish hairstyles pinned with jeweled combs and tiaras, their voices laced with the subtlest hints of condescension or flattery as they spoke with those who shared their tables. the nobles subtly jockeyed for position, engaging in conversations that were less about words and more about the power plays beneath them. fortunes are flaunted with abandon, for the true currency of annexed canada was power. it was evident by the calculated grace of those in attendance that the people of the heartlands were still feeling quite prudent over their eastern neighbors.
indentsitting quietly at the end of the table, søren did not engage with his fellow companions in their waggish conversations. unlike his fellow templars who bore simple outfits padded with soft iron plating, søren's regalia marked him as someone of obvious authority, his quiet presence commanding attention without the need for flamboyance. his doublet, tailored to perfection, clung to his form, emphasizing a muscular build sculpted through years of harsh discipline and rigorous training. he did not wear the colors of his birth house. the fabric of his tunic was a dark, almost obsidian hue. it shimmered subtly under the light, as if woven with threads of starlight. a faded pattern work of hazel beads was meticulously sewn across the front of his tunic, symbolizing the ancient tree of life so prominent in the mythic dawn's religion. his trousers, equally dark, were tucked into well-worn, knee-high boots. his doublet was secured at the waist with a wide, leather belt, intricately embossed with ancient symbols of his faith. the belt, a rich dark brown, contrasted itself against the shimmering black fabric of his attire, grounding his appearance in an almost earthy, martial material. over his right shoulder, he wore a thin cloak that rippled like dark water, fastened at the neck with a silver brooch in the shape of the three rings. he wore no jewelry, save for a single signet ring on his right hand—a ring that bears the emblem of his order. the ring was heavy, forged from dark metal, its surface worn smooth from years of wear. and while not as extravagant as the ring, a single lapel pin in the shape of a lioness head was fastened directly over his heart. he was a lordling who needed no colors to announce his presence; the dark, simmering fabric of his tunic, and the somber tones of his garments that rejected the brighter colors of the crown said enough on its own. unlike the many braided hairstyles that graced the banquet hall, søren chose to not style his platinum hair save for pinning up the front section. it allowed the leather strap that kept his mask in place a more comfortable fit. a golden half-mask that elegantly covered the right side of his face, it obscured the deep, jagged burn scars across his right eye that marked him as both a figure of spiritual reverence and a man burdened by his past. the mask was finely crafted, with intricate engravings of celestial symbols and sacred texts that shimmered in the light, giving it an almost exquisite glow. the single eyehole that allowed him to peer through the visor was rimmed with delicate filigree, resembling rays of sunlight radiating from his eye, a subtle nod to his role as a beacon of religious hope for the people of the mythic dawn. the edges of the mask were lined with a soft, velvet padding to ensure comfort during long hours of wear, while the inside was engraved with a small prayer. in gibraltar, gold was believed to have healing properties. gold particles were used in potions and elixirs thought to rejuvenate the body and increase longevity, and there was also the fervid belief that gold represented spiritual enlightenment and transformation due to its inherent ties to the bloodborn's religion. truth be told, the only reason søren wore a mask to begin with was for the comfort of those around him. the physical evidence of his zealous veneration often made those outside his people's culture uncomfortable. enthusiastic admiration of supernatural beings was by no means a new pastime for the human race. society has admired the concept of the divine long before the world was consumed by eternal fire, and that often included the conception of spiritual reproach to avoid unworldly death and receive forgiveness from their gods.
indentit was necessary for søren to act in unwavering devotion and to utilize the unique circumstances of his position as a means to maintain the spiritual and social order of his people. prosperity, protection, and favor of the gods hinges upon his relentless dedication to his craft. bloodletting was considered a pinnacle sacrifice, and each ritualistic cut or wound was proof of his unwavering piety, a physical manifestation of his willingness to endure pain and affliction for the greater good of his tribe. it was also to reinforce his authority, demonstrating his readiness to bear the burdens of his people's sins and shortcomings. as lord ascendant, he was not only the dominion of non-secular jurisdiction but he was a vessel for others to commune with in times of spiritual crisis. it fell onto him to bear the misery of his people, hence why he was so quick to shed his own ichor for them when the tribe's religious bodies deemed it necessary to please their pantheon. it did not matter if it was a simple cut on the palm or a dirk twisted into his stomach; it was a burden he must bear to deliver enlightment on his subjects. to deliver unto them the grace of gold he must be willing to indispose himself in the process. he could not be the justice of the golden order if he did not prove willing to endure the ailments of the mortal form in the name of those who respected him. it was a very sacrificial position, one that required a certain degree of selflessness and the ability to rationalize the physical world versus the spiritual world. pain is temporary, blood loss is holy, and oblation is forever. it was a concept that must go hand-in-hand with one another. those who serve the valëkrya must be willing to make sacrifices in the name of the greater good, and whatever self-guilt and anguish you absorb from your hallowed duties will pour out of you once you contrite yourself with the cold blade. perhaps that was why søren has delved so deeply into self-absolution, for the grief that still stalked him since he was a young adult has yet to leave him. there was pain somewhere inside there, so much so that he knew he could not dig it out with a knife, no matter how much he yearned to. he silently begged his gods for solace each time he grabbed the hilt, but they would not give it to him. perhaps that is how he ended up in a vicious cycle of self-penance and delectation, caught up in a sea of self-abasement only to discover the self-gratification he received from the populace for their admiration of his bloody rites triumphed that of discovering the source of his lingering emotional pains. there was also the point of his vows, where he was required to remain in absolute abstention to imitate the sacrifice of married life and chastity. one might suppose that constant exposure to physical tribulation since childhood might build a sense of tolerance for it, and eventually transform that tolerance into a preference when it controlled his life and took charge over everything else. agony was certain, often controllable, and sometimes hedonistic, but not everyone understood that. it was why at the behest of his queen mother he wore a half-mask in the first place, to hide his mutilations as not to disturb those with weak stomachs. the worst of his scarring was concealed beneath his mask. the left side of his face was not as jarring, with the most prevalent of his blemishes being that of compact defects and small cicatrices down his lips, as if one had tried to meticulously sew his mouth shut. there was also a patch of prominent scarring along the left side of his neck, a parcel of defaced flesh pocketed with teeth marks as if some creature had attempted to sever his head off by eating directly through his neck.
indentwith his attention locked firmly on a familiar presence dancing in the crowd, søren did not heed the approach of a rapidly gaining presence. "my lor-" his grand seneschal, ser cullen, was unable to finish his warning before prince adonis athanasiou appeared at the end of the table.
indentsøren could hardly shift his position in his chair before prince adonis began to speak. the sound of his voice─an intonation that never quite lacked in derision or contempt─was almost jolting to hear. there was no temporary reprieve in gathering his thoughts, the table's former conversation all but now dead with the arrival of queen anastasia's oldest child. søren cleared his throat, his body turning slightly in his chair as to face the older man. "prince adonis," he greeted the other man carefully. the luxurious colors of prince adonis's ensemble did little to alleviate the greenery of his personality. even as he spoke now, it was clear that whatever benignity laced his words was nothing more than thinly feigned. of course. not much could be expected from the prince in terms of social niceties. his foul personality festered beneath a mask of regal insouciance. egotistical, mean-spirited and patronizing, prince adonis has never been a pleasant companion to have around. he was overtly hateful and nasty back when søren spent a year in the heartlands as a teenager, and by søren's perception he hasn't changed much in his self-induced misery. adonis had been one of his most prolific tormentors when he was a teenager. the niceties of nobility and the respect that came from blood lineage meant nothing to the quick-tempered minds of tribal youths. as a child of midwinter, the unique circumstances of søren's birth immediately marked him as an outsider, even amongst those of his own tribe. he never participated in the ordinary customs of childhood. raiding, foreign and domestic battles, sailing, even eidolon gladiatorial games; he was never allowed by his father to participate in the bloody excursions that defined tribal adolescence. his in-between existence marked him as strange and unfamiliar, making those who targeted him feel justified in their cruelty. the very customs he was detached from were twisted into weapons against him. and despite his rigorous training beneath the tutelage of lord oddvar, there was little that could be done to satisfy young søren's enmity over his situation. all throughout his childhood, he had been the subject of pitiless jests and relentless teasing by those who found amusement over his situation. his peers often taunted him with harsh jabs about his supposed detachment, mocking him with chants of religious phrases he barely understood or artificial imitations of sewing noises to represent the bloodletting rituals he was forced to endure as a child. it was nothing but a painful echo of the communal bond he was deemed to have severed by simply not conforming to their collective expectations. it was certainly not by a lack of wanting, although he was deemed cowardly for staying beneath the control of the adults in his life anyway. the harassment was never terribly bothersome until he reached his teenage years, upon which he began to experience that intense wave of torment from those who considered him to be strange and peculiar. even his own cousins thought it hilarious to poke fun at søren's lack of battle experience and his sheltered upbringing. he remembered his cousins prince halvor and prince erix broke the owl-bear egg he was attempting to hatch by playing catch with it. and while he had been reasonably upset about the egg's spoliation, prince adonis's reign of terror had soon proved itself far more detrimental to søren's character. even now, he could not understand what he did to make the prince dislike him so (that did not include his confusion over how prince adonis recognized him, for his physical appearance has changed so drastically). he had no idea if it was envy, discontent or the source of some other foul emotion that søren had no interest in learning about. king ulrik once joked that queen anastasia could not even hope to marry her son off to a noble lady that may yet tame him because he had no interest in the fairer sex, although those rumors appeared to stem mainly from the bloodborn's blatant dislike towards the prince altogether. he has always been ill-mannered and insolent, disrespectful to just about anyone who he deemed as competition. adonis's impudence frustrated søren as a child, for he not only detested his unpleasant jibes but the way he treated the women around him. and while teenage søren was not nearly as adept as those around him when it came to understanding how the world worked, he never hesitated to verbally defend himself, his sister or princess calista from adonis's temerity. perhaps the older man viewed søren's boldness as a slight to his ego and thought it only necessary to teach him a lesson. looking back on their encounters, young søren was in no shape to be challenging adonis to a duel. he did not possess the same military experience or life experience as adonis when he baited him into a fight, and his glamorized perception of war did nothing but make him vulnerable to the unscrupulousness of true swordsmanship. their duel was a disaster. what exactly was søren thinking at the time? he did not know. perhaps he was desperate to prove himself, desperate to earn himself the same adoration he often displayed towards calista when she triumphed in the colosseum. perhaps he wanted to feel like he had some sort of claim to the same air as her, like he was not some sort of leech that just followed her around because she actually treated him with dignity. she certainly treated him far better than her brother ever did. perhaps the prince viewed the younger man as an insult to his reputation. how dare a whelp like he raise his sword against him? truthfully, søren could not remember much of what happened after he was disarmed. he remembered hitting the ground and crawling in the sand to try and reach his sword, only to be pulled back and bombarded with insults for his impertinence against the prince. søren vaguely remembered struggling against him, trying to get him off of him as he was accosted for his perceived disrespect. and even despite his tribe's reputation for engaging in close-range combat, there was little he could do to defend himself against a man who was not only larger than him at the time but far more accomplished in martial prowess. he remembered how he tried to return to the keep after their confrontation like an animal that sought somewhere quiet so it could die of its wounds in peace, completely spaced out as to the fact he was going to get noticed immediately for his disheveled appearance and bloody nose. at the time, his duel with adonis felt like the worst thing that could ever happen to him, a brutal act of humiliation that his ego would never recover from. if only he knew what would later await him beyond gibraltar's borders; barbarous monsters and devils in the shape of human combatants that would make even adonis athanasiou live up to his epithet of the mewling lion cub.
indentthe table's atmosphere thickened with unease. there were exchanged glances of shared indignation and apprehension while others shifted awkwardly, their bodies betraying their discomfort with stiffened postures or averted gazes. it was silent for a moment as the two men looked at one another. "hmm." sensing the danger of the situation, cullen reached for his arm, only to narrowly miss the fabric of his sleeve as søren stood up from his chair. despite his flurry of emotions, søren regarded the older man with a smile, seemingly polite and courteous. "yes, it would be quite the spectacle indeed. i am afraid i would be an unworthy opponent for her royal highness, for she has surely proven herself time and time again in the colosseum." a few looks of puzzlement were shared by those sitting at the table, as if they could not quite understand why the lord ascendant was indirectly agreeing with prince adonis's derision. søren was silent for a moment as he held the older man's gaze before he shrugged his shoulders, his hands moving to clasp in front of him. "alas, i am her sworn shield. it would be improper for us to engage in a false duel in front of the masses. a boring tragedy, is it not? well... at-least the crowds will be satiated with your presence. it is quite thoughtful of you to offer yourself as entertainment while queen anastasia and her heir convene with king ulrik and their counsels. i'm certain your queen mother appreciates your generosity to enthrall the masses as she discusses the future of our tribes. that is why i am quite surprised you have blessed us with your presence, my prince. i thought you would be celebrating with your kin." he held adonis's leer with an almost unsettling intensity, the darkness of his half-mask shrouding one side of his face in shadow as if he only bore one eye. "it is exciting, is it not? perhaps you will join us in a toast to the health of our fair future queen. i can imagine it must be exhausting business, to bear the responsibilities of being born a royal heir. perhaps the gods were kind when they predetermined our roles in this world, don't you think? men like us, well, we're meant to serve, not rule." while his tone bore hints of convenance that did not portray the contempt of his words, his features told a different story. his mouth was curled in a slight smirk that could be almost mistaken for a smile, and there was a glint of derision in his eyes that matched the ridicule of adonis's own words. while it would be best to ignore adonis's jabs entirely and allow the prince to run himself into the ground, søren could not resist the urge to verbally spar with him. as a child, he secretly sought the protection of queen anastasia by sticking close to her in the stands of the colosseum so he could avoid the worst of adonis's mockery, but he was not afraid of him anymore. he was not afraid to match his scorn, and he knew just exactly how to get beneath his skin. there was nothing the older man despised more than being reminded of his royal circumstances. the hallowed throne, so close yet eternally out of reach, was a symbol of prince adonis's resentment—a constant reminder that his worth was forever bound by the accident of his birth, never to be fully recognized by his mother. the prince despised their tribes' alliance just as much as søren, and perhaps that is why it was so easy for him to temporarily forego his own grievances to silently rub it in adonis's face. he enjoyed seeing the other man fall into states of discomposure and chagrin. he did not intend on allowing himself to be his punching bag again. if adonis desired to spark the flames of discord again, he was more than welcome to, but søren had no intention of allowing himself to be stepped on. he was confident in which he knew what insulted adonis's pride and what injured his self-worth. if anything, søren's position as lord ascendant afforded him more protections than his title as prince ever did. if the older man desired to punch him in the face, it would not be søren who would be sanctioned by the crown and temporarily locked away by the ruling monarch for his insolence. that was the beauty of the irascible mind, and how easy it was to goad the dyspeptic into acts of public foolishness. adonis was a prat, a man so caught in the throes of his own bitterness that he has remained the same disgruntled person for over a decade. perhaps he would find himself more beloved by his people if he left his echo chamber of call boys in kenora behind so he could actually contribute to his tribe's achievements than glorify his past victories. he would not be surprised if the chronic war of the north got its name because adonis was a chronic pain in the ass to everyone who has ever served beneath his leadership.
indentthe arrival of princess calista athanasiou immediately shifted the tense atmosphere of the two men's interaction. the intensity upon which søren carried himself immediately softened upon her arrival. the interaction between the two siblings was observed cautiously by those around them. the fraught history between princess calista and her older brother was one of a delicate balance that she must maintain alone; their relationship has long been marred by rivalry and discord, a fact well-known by those who have spent any significant amount of time in house athanasiou's presence. søren watched the two royals silently; the only reaction to be had from the man was the slight curl of his lips at the princess's jab. he did not contribute to their brief conversation, if only because he knew adonis was sure to lash out from his own subtle incitements. it was only when the other man decided to leave them did he properly address the young woman. "my princess," he greeted her with a slight bow, his hands moving to clasp behind his back. the absence of prince adonis and the parody that came with facing him was gone, and now he was left confronted by calista herself. semi-conscious of those still sitting at the table, søren observed her carefully. memories of their shared laughter, secret hideaways, and whispered dreams flooded his mind, filling him with a sense of bittersweet longing. how strange it was to be back here again, standing in the same hall they once convened in as children. there was something to be said about the convoluted timeline and complicated feelings he held towards that of his fosterage in gore bay. one of the few redeeming qualities of his time spent in gore bay was calista. as teenagers, the heartlands was their playground, an exuberant realm that they often explored in great detail. he remembered how they would explore sapphire grottos and blooming pastures, stumbling upon quiet falls or thriving meadows as they branched away from the common life of the gladiatorial games. calista, with her chestnut curls bouncing at every step, challenged søren to step outside his comfort zones and away from the gilded knife of the ritual blade to explore the beauty of annexed canada during the summertime. and søren, a lanky seventeen year old with a mop of unruly flaxen hair, would often feign indifference over her trials, but the slight blush that remained imprinted on his cheeks often betrayed his growing affection for her. there had been a layer of sweetness to their friendship, for they had yet to be tainted by the rot that grew outside their borders in the shape of rival tribesmen. their time together was a melody of carefree youth, if only because calista led the way with such infectious enthusiasm. he had been fond of her as a teenager, so much so that even with a reserved nature he was still content to let her take charge of their adventures. though he had lacked her boldness, her courage inspired him in a small way. he greatly admired her when they were young. her fearlessness in facing seasoned gladiators in the arena and the way she so naturally compelled the adorations of the spectators motivated him. her exploits in the colosseum reminded him of the shield-maidens of the mythic dawn. both their tribes shared similar sentiment regarding the glories of war and personal victories sustained on the battlefield and, at the time, søren had not yet embraced the grace of his divine pantheon. he held no ill-will or judgment towards the eidolon when he was young (a sentiment that would quickly change upon his departure from gore bay). calista had been kind to him, and she had shown him no judgment during a time in his life when his family was beginning rot from the inside out. she treated him fondly when they were young, and he appreciated the authenticity of her friendship at the time. as a caged divinity, he had not been able to enjoy the average wonders of childhood, and she gave him the closest semblance of normalcy that she could. they had been wildly different when they were young─calista intrepid and passionate, søren conscientious and regardful─but they made it work based on sheer liberality, something that the lord ascendant no longer possessed. the many hours they spent wandering the shorelines of spirit island or dipping through the crowds of the marketplace cemented what had already been the beginnings of a bond from her time spent in gibraltar, and it did not take long for søren to become attached to her. he cared for her, deeply so, and he held her in great esteem. he valued the time she chose to spent with him. after all, she was the crown princess and heir to the hallowed throne while søren had been, well, the son of a second son. before he became lord ascendant, he was destined to live a common life of bland royal politics and no social reputability. he had nothing to offer her when he was a teenager, but she did not appear concerned over his lineage. naturally, he would grow to become quite tender towards her, an emotion that has remained persistent to this very day. he remembered his initial reaction when he first learned she had been rescued from the northern heartlands after being forced to serve the scarlet hand in a period of disastrous penal servitude. ever connected to her despite their shared distance and the respective chaos occuring in his own homeland, he wrote to calista in hopes of reestablishing contact with the revenant princess. to be honest, he did not quite know what he expected from her. perhaps fueled by his own loss and abandonment at the fracture of his house and the death of his people, he had hoped to hear from her once more, to receive a letter from her that could assure him that she had not been claimed by the same type of brutality that took his kin not too long ago. the emotional agony that came with that time period remained a haunting element in his life, one upon which death and uncertainty made itself comfortable at his front door. unable to find reprieve or shut himself away due to the duties thrust upon him as gibraltar descended into bloody pandemonium, his attempts to contact the princess were met with nothing but silent dismissal. he eventually, albeit begrudgingly, stopped writing to her altogether. sometime later, the first few letters he would receive from the revenant princess in response to his own were fed to the hearth by his own queen mother, whom intercepted their newfound line of communication shortly after the incident of springgrove when talos appeared on the windowsill of the bedchamber he laid unconscious and mangled in.
indent"you know, it is quite cruel to order away a man's play-thing and then burden him with the expectations of a dance," søren responded in kind, his tone mildly frisky to subtly indicate the nature of their relationship. "but alas, i have already sworn my sword to your saintliness. and that must include my dancing legs, i suppose." he nodded towards the middle of the banquet hall. "lead the way, your royal highness."
indenttruth be told, the guiding tides of the quadrille held little interest to the lord ascendant. agitated by the burden that came with flowing in precise patterns—hands touching briefly as partners exchanged places, weaving in and out in a harmonious display of coordination—it all seemed terribly tedious just to enjoy a shared space with princess calista. rows of courtiers, dressed in richly embroidered silk and velvet, formed perfect squares, their features a blend of concentration and anticipation as the rows of dancing nobles began to proceed. only briefly faced with calista before being forced to advance to the center of the floor, søren was quick to find himself annoyed. the music, a lively tune played by a string quartet in the corner, filled the air with a rhythmic pulse that guided the precise movements of the quadrille's dancers. they moved in a pattern that created an elegant, flowing sequence, where each pair moved in and out of the square, forming intricate lines like the way an artist might drag a paint brush down a canvas. the dancers' movements were synchronized, creating a harmonious wave that flowed around the square. it was a performance that required the careful movements of forward and backward steps, often involving intricate footwork to keep up with the course of the music. the women who were presented with the hands of their partners responded with a delicate turn as the pairings exchanged places with their opposites, moving in a circular motion around the ballroom floor. to those on the outskirts of the great hall, the quadrille created a beautiful interplay, a sea of oscillating colors as vibrant gowns created a fabric prism and gemstones twinkled in the light. it was required to maintain a degree of nimbleness for dances such as these, and søren would be lying if he said he found it easy to keep up with the natural poise of the nobles around him. he very rarely participated in such festivities nowadays, and combined with the golden mask that covered half of his face and limited his range of sight, he was beginning to find it difficult to maintain a delicate sense of balance. the only guiding grace in this situation was calista. while the engineered footwork required for the quadrille demanded constant motion and the intricate circulation of moving dancers, he still found himself face-to-face with calista every few sequences. his hands would touch hers, the cold band of his ring pressed against her warm skin for only a moment before they moved apart again. he could smell the fragrance of her perfume whenever he got close, a sweet aroma of cedar and jasmine that tickled the senses. his attention remained enamored by the revenant princess, his gaze following her no matter where two of them ended up in the dance sequence. and even as he took the hands of unknown noble ladies, he could almost feel a set of eyes burning into the back of his head from afar. while he was unable to properly discern the source of the concentration he felt against his person, he would not be surprised if queen aoibheann was watching him from the dais. a quiet dissentient of the arrangements between the lord ascendant and the chosen heirs, queen aoibheann disliked the notion of søren's furtherance in the royal families' circles. having spent years attempting to abrogate the potential damage his religious crusades could cause to the mythic dawn's future with their allies, aoibheann has proven herself to be a withdrawn, impersonal and baffling woman. a woman whose icy demeanor was forged in the fires of a traumatic marriage and stolen innocence, her even-handed and fair-minded reputation amongst her people did little justice to the involuted complexities of who she was as a person. she was strong and respected, hardened by the turmoil that was her past. the deep-seated resentment she felt towards the slights of her past manifested in a cold, unforgiving nature towards her children. and while queen aoibheann has never enjoyed a particularly strong relationship with her children—when they were young, she was often distant and critical at best—the way her kids embraced the warmth of a religion that destroyed so much of her life has stripped her of any inclination toward forgiveness or pride in her offspring. she lost not only her own birth tribe to the mythic dawn's violent fanaticism but eventually her found family in the kolbecks, specifically her beloved mother-in-law. søren's own moral failings only deepened the chasm between them. despite his fervent efforts to gain her favor, his actions—often manipulative and self-serving—never aligned with the ideals she outwardly champions in her interactions with the eidolon, though her own morals were equally compromised. his unscrupulous deeds, driven by a desire that nobody could quite figure out, only further alienated him from her admiration. søren, for all his piety, was no paragon of virtue; his actions, often cruel and self-serving, reflected the worst of his lineage—so much so that historians considered both him and his sister not to be born of the kolbeck's royal golden lineage but a new derivation, a lineage of fire. he sought the queen's admiration not only out of love but from a twisted sense of obligation and a need for validation that was never forthcoming. and aoibheann, perceptive and unyielding, saw through his shallow adherence and artful schemes, offering only cool indifference in return. søren has spent his entire life trying to live up to an impossible standard, adopting a veneer of veneration that only barely concealed his darker impulses. perhaps her contempt was not without its merits; the lord ascendant's behavior frequently mirrored the very cruelty she once endured before her marriage to king ulrik, making any possibility of reconciliation seem as distant as the warmth she never bestowed upon him. søren's ambition was ruthless, and his religious radicalism went hand-in-hand with his self-serving actions that reflected not only his father's tyrannical nature but the very worst elements of the golden order. his queen mother saw in him a mirror of the man she once despised, and though her son craved her praise, she withheld it, knowing that his deeds—driven by pride, deceit, and a thirst for power—were undeserving of admiration. aoibheann herself has never known the full touch of tenderness but only in intervals, so how could she offer him what she herself has so rarely received?
indentunlike her son, queen aoibheann valued the tribe’s political alliances over spiritual conquest, fearing that his unyielding pursuit of divine justice mirrored the ruthless path taken by his forefathers. sensing the growing danger of his influence, she subtly manipulated his religious zeal to send him on distant campaigns under the guise of supporting his holy missions, but with the underlying intent of keeping him far from the tribe’s delicate network of alliances, lest his fervor ignite a war they cannot afford. the raven-haired queen despised the influence søren has cultivated for himself, viewing it as not only a threat to the mythic dawn's stability but her own power as blood sovereign. while she may see through his hollow gestures of filial piety, there were many who did not, and søren was not foolish enough as to destroy his reputation with the common born of gibraltar less they become useful to him in the future. he has created a dark network of sycophants, informants, and zealots through years of acts of public submission, dutiful devotion, and spiritual manipulation. his allies served as his eyes and ears, making him nearly omnipotent within the court and beyond. the baseborn loved him because his lineage—a child of midwinter born to the royal family whom would later go on to become lord ascendant—marked him as especially blessed by the gods, and he has capitalized off of that credulity for his own gain. he wielded compassion to shrive pure the hearts of men, and he inspired consideration from others like a shepherd tending to his flock. he held the warmth of a man deeply invested in the spiritual well-being of his people and while he was certainly concerned over gibraltar's metaphysical health, he was also aware of the fact that those who bear the love of the commonfolk receive the upper hand. a community built on the foundations of faith and love is also a fortress from which one can wield influence, expand their reach, and maneuver through the intricate web of party politics and statesmanship. religious loyalty was symbolically and psychologically meaningful, and religion has always been the primary tool upon which house kolbeck controlled its people. much unlike the reputation he carried outside his tribe's borders, søren was viewed as accommodating, gracious and munificent by those who sought his favor and guidance during religious festivals. he rarely turned down citizens who sought an audience with him. loyalty from those around you was earned through a mixture of kindness and non-leniency, and it mattered how exactly you chose to portray those two characteristics to the masses. people despise feeling like they are being bulldozed and constrained by those in power, but allowing your subjects too much freedom allowed treasonous ideas to take place, fueled by a lack of principles and interest from their rulers. people are much more likely to risk their lives for you if they love you, not fear you. and while the baseborn's idolization stemmed from a lack of education and centuries of intense indoctrination, the nobleborn have always been more difficult to tame. informed, canny, and self-serving, nobles are less likely to bow to the notion of supernatural deities. the highborn cannot be rationalized with unless it involved materialistic ventures or, in some cases, sheer effort. his interactions with the highborn have been unpredictable at best, with some falling into the common pit of devoted worship and others caught in the tides of their own intemperate rapacity. mindful of the ways upon which it was crucial to maintain a constant sense of solicitude, it was once noted by his uncle's royal court that søren had artfully stolen the heart of the paleblood knight, a lord of house fevold who sought to challenge him for the unscrupulous violence he bestowed upon his niece's husband during a religious duel. rather than kill the man for his emotional outburst and blatant disrespect for their tribe's customs, the lord ascendant instead chose to spare his life, a decision that not only surprised those in witness but ser storolf himself. his clemency would later earn him the older man's respect and approbation. queen aoibheann saw through his false kindness, for she knew it stemmed from a place of ministerial aptitude. he did not execute the paleblood knight because ser storolf was a man of astute martial prowess; søren did not spare him because the gods granted him a random slice of forbearance. his mother was aware that his power—rooted as much in fear as it is in faith—has the ability to outstrip even her own. there was a dangerous fragility to the influence he wielded, one she has managed to find a way to exploit for the good of the crown. his authority was formidable, but she has proven herself determined to limit what prestige he has garnered himself by sending him abroad to initiate holy wars against the tribes of annexed canada so that the mythic dawn and its allies might thrive without the vicious claws of sectarianism slicing them at every turn. it was a strange decision for her to essentially orchestrate the same terror she suffered as a girl against other tribal societies, to sacrifice them to the tyranny of the order's flames, but it seemed to be a decision she was willing to make to further house kolbeck. still, she was none too keen on allowing herself to give him her approval, even when he returned to gibraltar to make a gift of the crucible knight's head to his uncle and mother. king ulrik had been delighted by his success, but there had been no physical glee in his mother as she observed him from her throne. his attempts to earn her blessings beyond those of public shams never succeeded. when queen aoibheann did show him affection, it was usually manipulative and artificial, an obvious ploy to try and deter him from whatever goal he had in mind that she did not agree with. søren could never do anything right by her, even if he waged holy wars to keep the taint of dark gods from corrupting the king of the dawn and his fair queen consort. she tried to lessen the cruelty of the mythic dawn's traditional ways of religious monomania by hiding her own son, their mouthpiece and figurehead. even when she had him transported down to spirit island after his disastrous campaign in the frostmire, she ordered the bloodborn physicians who tended to him to cover the left side of his face in bandages so the eidolon healers could not look upon the mark of jorgunnr. king ulrik approved her proposal based on his own assumptions that it was an ill-omen to look upon a broken lord ascendant in such a bare state, but søren was not convinced by her falsities. she was most likely horrified by the thought of outsiders witnessing the true barbarity that came with the mythic dawn's practices of self-violence, a persistent trait for her as she constantly vied for the esteem of their neighbors.
indentthe quadrille's participants made one final bow before the music stopped. the murmur of conversation and laughter began to sound again as the great hall's musicians swapped their instruments for another tune until the next dance began. as the throng of nobles proceeded to once more congregate the main floor, søren approached calista from where she ended up across the square. he offered her a smile as he drew close to her. "i never took you to be such a fair dancer, my princess," the lord ascendant mused. "is this the work of your queen mother? i think you are a much more entertaining fighter. perhaps once the opening games are finished, queen anastasia will permit you to take to the arena once more. who knows, i may even grant you my favor in the form of a garland. i'll steal one from your brother; i'm sure he has enough to spare." it was evident by his tone that he was joking. he had no qualms poking fun at the rigged structure of annexed canada's commonplace masculinity, where some men outside the heartlands might find it offensive for a woman to ask their favor in a gladiatorial game. having initially approached the princess with little heed to their surroundings, it took him a moment to realize how close he was standing in front of her. subconsciously, his hand had found its way to her arm, hovering just slightly above her wrist. the lord ascendant immediately retracted his hand before he took a step away from her. old habits die hard. having been separated from calista for many years, it was almost like his natural inclinations for prudence and circumspection was stripped away. a part of him felt like a child again, driven by an unguarded impulse to just simply be in her presence. apart from the evident maturities of adulthood, little about her has changed—a stark difference between their two respective physical appearances. her caramel hair remained long and wavy, the sharpness of her features only that much more prominent from being exposed to the tribulations of the wasteland. there was still that familiar spark in her hazel eyes, one that burned with such intensity that it was almost uncomfortable to meet her gaze. her beauty, which has only deepened with age, stirred something in him that he often tried so hard to suppress. their bond, forged in the carefree days of youth, has long been strained by the weight of their respective roles. she stood on the brink of marriage to another—a union that was both politically advantageous and emotionally devastating. the betrothal between prince halvor and princess calista filled him with a quiet, simmering resentment, though he knew he had no right to feel the way that he does. his body and soul belonged to the golden order. he was forbidden to form earthly attachments in the silhouette of a lover, but that did not stop his afflictions when it came to calista haunting his subconscious. he was always drawn back to her by an insatiable hunger that has long contented itself on eating away at his insides. oh, how he has tried to detach himself from her, but it never seemed to work. he was bound to her, tethered to her in a way that he could not quite understand. true, he had lost that level of irksome clinginess he possessed when they were young as he sunk deeper and deeper into his own throes of divine madness, but that did not mean his feelings towards her have changed. he loved her, truly loved her, and it was why he felt such indignation over the cards they have been dealt. the suitors that have come sniffing for her hand—his insipid cousin halvor included—were all shine, no substance. it was hilarious how søren—a religious warrior who was forbidden to marry or have children, nevertheless engage with the opposite sex in any manner that could be deemed impure—understood calista far better than her own betrothed. their shared history was why his queen mother has tried to limit their contact throughout the years. they were a tempestuous duo, their connection forged in the crucible of intense emotion and duty. their differences, far from being a source of conflict, created a profound balance—her charming finesse tempered his fervent zeal, and perhaps his grounded nature helped to anchor her when the weight of the crown grew too heavy. when together, their passion was palpable, their stolen moments suffused with a sense of raw intensity. it is the fusion of their contrasting strengths that made them an unstoppable force, each finding in the other what they lack within themselves. and despite the distance of their relationship and their main form of communication composing of mainly letters throughout the years, there was still that love there, wild and consuming, pushing them to the very edges of their respective worlds. if anything, their relationship could prove to be more torrid now given their fervent interests in the specific enterprises of their cultures. calista's ever-present love for gladiatorial competing and vying for the adulation of her people would mix with søren's inclinations for success in holy persecutions and earning whatever delusional merit he thought he gained by targeting those of different faiths like fire touching kindling. no matter the wildly different circumstances, they both enjoyed bloodshed and war. calista's objective history of killing those she faced in the colosseum with little to no second thought on how it would be perceived by her mother paralleled søren's own habits of thoroughly destroying those who dared to oppose him based on his own uninhibited thought patterns that said enemies could one day challenge him again should he show them mercy. and while his brutality was often more calculated and deliberate than calista's random acts of imprudence, it did not seem to matter much in the end. they were like two rapid dogs that loved licking the blood off of another one. it was never a good thing for someone or something to end up at the end of søren's twisted fascinations, and unfortunately he has developed quite the infatuation for the revenant princess. blinded by his own habits of intense dedication, it made for a perilous obsession, one that clouded his thoughts even now as he observed the physical silhouette of her collarbone. his hunger for her was rapacious, avid, with a keen edge that almost bordered on lechery. it overpowered any self-reproach he had. he needed her horrendously, to the point where he was almost beginning to feel nauseated.
indentthe lord ascendant began to play with the ring on his finger. his childhood habit of messing with his hands when confronted with his own discomfort remained prevalent in adulthood. he was conscious of the way he stood out when compared to the revenant princess, what with his own dark outfit clashing with the regal colors of house athanasiou. it almost reminded him of what his mother once said to him, that his dark foreign reputation as naturalborn of the void—a term often used by the tribe of circe to refer to those they believe to be born without souls—would only stand fit to clash with that of princess calista's demeanor, whom encapsulated the boldness and ferocious temerity that came with walking in the warm admiration of her people and shedding the blood of those unworthy to stand before her in the arena; she captured the light he tried himself so hard to obtain. he stood with the right side of his face, masked and hidden from sight, facing the royal dais; his left side looked upon princess calista, as if the last shreds of his self-autonomy that have not yet been claimed by the valëkrya still looked to his lost love for her endearment. "i, um... you... th—" a sheepish look crossed his normally self-assured features. as they were still surrounded by the company of other people, he knew that they must maintain a degree of propriety in the way they interacted with one another. he could not say what he wanted to say, and the lack of privacy was already beginning to exasperate him. they could not delve into anything of substance while they were inside the main hall, at-least not without being discreet about it. the lord ascendant had no interest in small talk, but there was not much else to lean on. he did not want to depart from her presence either. he cleared his throat. "i heard that you and prince halvor plan to take to the city later to greet the common born and participate in their festivities? i hope you will forgive my cousin when you are in his company. he lives a... pedestrian life. you'll most likely find talos to be a better suited companion. alas, it seems that prince halvor has formed himself quite the circle of admirers already. hopefully you won't find my company as dull as his should he end up distracted by his newfound companions." while he tried to pass off his statements as lighthearted persiflage, there was an obvious streak of jealousy that tainted his words. he was not doing a very good job at portraying himself as a benevolent and gracious religious figurehead who only wanted the best for house kolbeck.

[vaermina]

ＴＡＬＩＯＮ ＮＯＣＴＵＲＮＥxxx
I.xtribal affiliationsx II. a royal lunespawn of house nocturne


indentstepping inside the divination tent felt like walking inside a dark sanctuary entirely enclosed from the troubles of the outside world.
indentflickering candle flames cast dancing shadows along the tent's walls. the soft, golden light barely illuminated the space, leaving corners in deep, impenetrable shadow. clusters of candles glimmered throughout the restricted space, their waxes pooling at the base of their holders, creating rivers of molten amber that slowly hardened into abstract sculptures. a thick haze of incense hung in the air, its tendrils curling lazily upwards before dissipating into the dimly lit space. the fabric of the tent's walls, deep midnight blue and dark boysenberry, shimmered like the surface of a black lake, exuding not only a sense of careful luxury but prophetic mystery. large, ornate censers swung gently from their hooks in the ceiling, their innards glowing a deep orange as they released more of the fragrant smoke. the censers' intricate carvings of serpents and dragons seemed to come to life in the flickering light, almost as if they were writhing and flying through the dim haze of the tent. the walls of the tent were lined with rich, intricate tapestries depicting celestial symbols, arcane glyphs, and the delicate patterns of saint-arkh's blackened sun, as well as shaded silver threads catching the light of invidia's various artistic interpretations. a dark goddess, her presence dominated the tapestries with an almost ominous aura as talion stepped further into the divination tent. his eyes landed on one of the more bolder ornamental illustrations hanging from the walls. standing tall in the center of the drapery, her figure was swathed in flowing, pitch-black robes that blended seamlessly with the shadowy background, making her seem like a living embodiment of the night. a long, blood-red cloth was tightly wrapped around her eyes, symbolizing her blindness—a blindness not of ignorance, but of a deliberate, ruthless impartiality. her hair, a tangled mass of serpentine braids, cascaded down her back, glistening with the sheen of blackened steel. her right hand, skeletal and bony, held a pair of uneven scales, weighed down by skulls on one side and bones on the other. around her, the fabric was embroidered with scenes of chaos and destruction: burning villages, twisted trees, and anguished faces contorted in silent screams, all rendered in deep, violent hues of red, black, and sickly yellow. she was portrayed with an otherworldly beauty twisted by malevolence, her form draped in robes as black as the void, adorned with jagged, silver symbols that shimmer like distant stars—mocking her sister’s celestial light. her skin was the color of dark sangria, a shade reminiscent of deep, poisoned wine. often portrayed as a relentless force of careful vengeance and silent wisdom, an entity whose wrath knows no bounds, invidia's presence hung heavy over the divination tent. it would almost be uncomfortable if talion was not familiar with the virulent bounds of her worship. he has grown long accustomed to the shadowy altars in her temples, adorned with the most vicious symbols of her hatred: broken crescent moons, charred and shattered, symbolizing her eternal vendetta against her sister luneth. she was the relentless scourge of the faithful, her image carved into the very foundation of saint-arkh's blood-soaked altars. as talion approached the altar of aged oak in the middle of the tent, he eyed the silver bowls and polished candelabras with chary reluctance. the taste of acrid incense and the stuffiness of the dark tent was already beginning to overwhelm him, for reasons he should be long content with by now. he has been immersed in these type of ceremonies since he was a young child, an unyielding tradition that demanded his presence as a symbol and instrument of divine favor. his interactions with the chantry and ultimately saint-arkh's religion as a whole soon grew to be oddly similar to the way one must conduct themselves in the public eye of the royal court. it was expected for lunespawn to learn how to mask their unease—offering smiles and gestures of reverence to please the elders and courtiers who view in them the promise of continuity—for the greater good. lunespawn were expected to uphold unique responsibilities and burdens that the rest of saint-arkh's populace does not need to worry about. yet, each ritual chipped away at his sense of self, the relentless pressure to embody a role he neither chose nor understood leaving him with a festering sense of dread that only grew with age. the weight of expectation—of invidia, of his kin, of his people, of the chantry—has long begun to fray the edges of his mind. talion often struggled to align himself with the brutal ideals of the goddess he was supposed to revere. despite his fervent attempts to find acceptance and devotion within her cold embrace, his inner self recoiled from the blood-soaked rituals and the merciless doctrines preached by her followers. each ceremony left him more hollow than the one before as he was forced to witness acts of cruelty that twisted his soul in ways he could not reconcile. it was not for a lack of wanting; he yearned to belong, to be seen as devout, but the chasm between who he was and what was demanded of him widened with every prayer. the pressures of the chantry, with its unyielding eyes and zealot followers, only deepened his isolation, for he must wear a mask of piety while his heart remained estranged from the violent goddess who seemed to thrive on his own torment. every ritual, soaked in the fervor of fanaticism, felt like a test of his loyalty—a loyalty he desperately wished he could offer freely. he tried to mold himself into the image of a devout follower, but he often found himself recoiling from the cruelty celebrated by those around him. he could not understand why he was so different, why he did not feel the same relentless devotion and crushing bloodlust that his fellow arkhians often experienced. it was expected that young lunespawn needed to be brokered in and gradually introduced to the culture of saint-arkh, but lunespawn around talion's age were presumed to have already been successfully assimilated into their tribe's religion. in moments like these, talion did not think that to be true.
indentconscious of his newfound position before the altar, the young prince could feel the heat of his generals' gazes burning into the back of his neck. his eyes burned from the curling fingers of the incense's aroma. he turned his head to look at the clerics with neutral caution as they interacted with one another before the altar. he could not help but feel awkward and gangly standing directly in the middle of the tent, like some great beast that knew no life but the cold iron of caged bars. he never knew quite knew what to do with himself when it came to any ceremony that did not involve a layer of unconsciousness to it, and the obscurity surrounding the augury itself did not help with his uncertainty. he observed his father's clergy silently, for he had no desire to question the validity of their actions or the steps they intended to take with the augury. lady gwendolyn's docility did surprise him, though, and the prince's steely detachment was momentarily marred by a look of bemusement. the removal of the woman's dark headpiece was an unusual, if not downright rare, ritualistic occurrence. clerics often wear traditional, concealing outfits to embody the sacred disconnection from the physical world that invidia represented. these garments, often composed of thick, heavy fabrics like black velvet and deep crimson brocade, were designed to obscure their forms entirely from view. followers of invidia believed that by concealing their own physical appearances, they strip away the distractions of the mortal coil, allowing them to focus solely on the spiritual realm. the head pieces and eye coverings they wear, sometimes intricately embroidered with sigils of saint-arkh's dark faith, were not just symbolic but a necessary tool for emulating the dark sister's blindness, forcing them to rely on their other senses and their faith. through these practices, it was hoped by invidia's clerics that they can achieve a state of spiritual blindness, where the distractions of sight do not hinder their connection with the goddess. they desire for their inner vision to be sharpened, guiding them towards divine insight and the dark truth. it was a ritualistic means of emulating one of the dark sister's most prolific traits, to surrender one's sight and identity in order to perceive the world as she does. the concealing nature of their attire also signified their renouncement of earthly vanity and individual distinction, allowing them to function as mere vessels for invidia's power. by obscuring themselves, the clerics erase personal biases and emotions, stepping closer to the impersonal, absolute nature of the dark sister's justice. it was why viewing lady gwendolyn's face in the bare candlelight felt almost immoral to talion. the exposure of the cleric's features almost broke the ethereal atmosphere, revealing the humanity beneath the divine facade that composed the usual occultist nature of the cimmerian chantry. her sudden display of vulnerability, in stark contrast to the usual impenetrable presence carried by her fellow cultists, felt almost profane. it felt profoundly unnatural, as if the barrier between the sacred world and the mundane had suddenly been stripped away. the prince looked upon gwendolyn with distinct unease and mild inquiry. he was perplexed with the direction the augury was going. he had no idea what she was doing and, at this point, he doubted he had any power to question it. the woman looked just about what he expected someone in her position to look like. casting an almost striking figure, lady gwendolyn's long black hair cascaded past her shoulders like a river of ink, contrasting sharply with her pale, almost alabaster skin. high, sharp cheekbones gave her face a sculpted, almost ethereal quality, the crimson markings plastered across her forehead only enhancing the regality of her overall appearance. she encapsulated the seductive beauty that was the hallmark of their people, a vision that was both captivating and unsettling. as he looked upon her face, he was unsure what to think. he was treading into unknown territory right now. talion did not understand what was happening. he has never been involved in auguries to this extent, for he has never been dictated the leading commander of any military campaign up until now. he knew it was unusual for clerics to take off their ceremonial headdresses during these types of ceremonies, although he could not think of a good reason as to why she would want to do so. it was not in the nature of saint-arkh's religious system to question the motives of the cimmerian chantry. naturally, ceremonies of great spiritual importance were entirely left up to the hands of invidia's secretive clerics. he supposed there was something deeply personal about her actions, though, as if removing her veil somewhat humanized a normally enigmatic figure. it made her devotion seem both deeply personal and slightly more accessible, even if her intentions remained shrouded in mystery. there was a small part of him that felt more at ease now that he was able to look upon her face, as if the dark preconceptions that were usually so prevalent in these ceremonies were no longer present. she appeared less enigmatic now. it was oddly humanizing, and it did help to lower the prince's tribulations, if only by a little bit.
indenttalion's arm twitched when he felt the cleric's hand brush against his own. similar to their interaction in the command center, it took him a moment to realize she was speaking. understand that what i ask of you is miniscule compared to the trials you have already faced. the woman's eyes were locked on his own, as if searching for some sort of signal from him. talion's mental detachment could not be helped. the prince’s mind instinctively retreated when confronted with the familiar sights, sounds, and scents of the rituals associated with the cimmerian chantry. the rhythmic chants and incomprehensible enchantments that once held mystical allure now triggered buried memories of unease and helplessness, causing him to space out and allow his mind to float elsewhere where the horrors of his past cannot reach him. it was a defense mechanism, a way for his perturbed soul to shield itself from the ever-present darkness that his position demanded he confronted, but which he could no longer endure without retreating into an inner void. his experiences with the clergy as a child, layered one upon the other, instilled a deep sense of dread and confusion in his developing mind. as he grew older, the expectations only intensified, leaving him little room to process the horrors he had witnessed. now, as an adult, the very rituals that once terrified him have become a hauntingly familiar routine, although the scars left behind have never truly healed. his dissociation served as a fragile barrier between his present self and the echoes of his younger, more vulnerable years, where the line between devotion and terror was often blurred beyond recognition. from the tender age when most children are shielded from the world's harsher realities, he was exposed to the relentless demands of saint-arkh's bloody faith. it was difficult to feel comfortable in any scenario that promised so much unpredictability, although the unique circumstances of the augury proved to be so far tolerable for the young prince; he had yet to lose his mind and lash out at those in the divination tent. possessing little emotional control or clemency for mental resistance, fear of the unknown often got the better of him. it appeared that the augury's more gentler practices did not trigger the same visceral reactions from the prince as did other ceremonies, allowing him to participate without the risk of lashing out or being consumed by obscure fears. there was a layer of reprieve to be found in ceremonies such as these, where the rigid dogma of invidia's will was softened, and the atmosphere less suffocating. though still connected to the chantry, the augury offered him a sense of tolerance and understanding, making it slightly more bearable on his subconscious. lady gwendolyn did not appear keen on forcibly submitting him to invidia's will either, as shown by the careful pace in which she carried herself and led the ceremony. it was perhaps why the young prince did not pull his hand away or shrug off her touch when she began to cautiously undo the straps that held his metal gauntlet in place. while he was not entirely sure of the clergy's intentions, he could appreciate the way the grand cleric respected his dignity. lunespawn are considered sacred to invidia, but that did not mean they were spared the gross opprobrium that came with being born in the tribe of syl'siros. the vilification and animadversion that came with denouncing the church of luneth often translated into intense homogenization for lunespawn children. the chantry was kinder and more indulgent towards lunespawn children who embrace saint-arkh's culture without flounder, and there were many lunespawn children who displayed no visible struggle in adapting to saint-arkh's brutality. but there were also many lunespawn children like talion who were slow to adapt, and it made for a difficult childhood beneath the tutelage of invidia's strict clerics. there were many followers of the chantry who treated talion with dutiful reverence─said amount often doubled that of those who did not─but the most prominent in his life rarely treated him with that same approbation. he did not deserve their respect back then, and he supposed he saw the truth in that. talion was never terribly belligerent or demanding as a child. he lacked the ferocity so commonly admired in the tribe of saint-arkh, and most of that fire he held as an adult appeared to be either artificial or unstable anyways. his early exposure to the religion of invidia's more harrowing aspects has left him deeply scarred, manifesting in a volatile temperament that often marked him as unpredictable, a man who sometimes erupted into violence without any discernible cause. it appeared that his instability has become a focal point of concern for lady gwendolyn, who understood that the rituals surrounding their faith—already demanding and severe—could easily push the prince beyond his breaking point. as a result, she approached him with extreme caution, carefully crafting an environment that felt not only secure but anchored. it appeared that her primary goal was to maintain his fragile calm, knowing that any misstep could lead to chaos for not only the prince but for everyone involved in the ceremony. the way she handled him made it clear that she intended to prevent his mind from spiraling into the darkness that so often consumed him, a darkness far different than the one fostered by invidia herself. careful handling was necessary, and it appeared that lady gwendolyn was intelligent enough to recognize that. talion watched as his gauntlet was set aside on the altar before the grand cleric produced the same ceremonial blade from the command tent for all to see. he eyed the dagger with unease, its surface adorned with a complex webwork of archaic symbols and ancient ideograms. he was conscious of the way she had guided his hand above the silver bowl on the altar, the way she began to speak in cryptic tongues to invoke the dark sister's insight. each word she spoke coiled around his thoughts, drawing him deeper into the ritual and closer to her presence as a result. he could feel the heavy occupancy of his generals behind him as they observed the ceremony from their positions along the tent's walls. as she gently guided his hand, her cool fingers grazing over the veins of his wrist, there were motions of electric tension in the air, a pulse of something unspoken and dangerously intimate.
indentall it took was one singular motion from the blade.
indenttalion instinctively winced at the brief flash of pain that followed the dagger's movement. the cut burned hot, as if the cold metal left a trail of fire beneath his skin. for a moment, the gash stung fiercely, the nerves in his hand screaming from the sudden, violent intrusion; it was followed by warmth as blood welled upwards, slick and sticky, mingling with the throbbing ache that pulsated in time with talion's racing heartbeat. he had to resist the urge to clench his fist as a trail of ichor dripped from his palm and into the bowl below. the murmured chants of the clergy culminated in the background, their hushed recitations pulsating throughout the tent like a shadowy snake seeking to wrap its coils around its unsuspecting prey. talion could barely register the gash on his palm before he realized lady gwendolyn had taken a step closer to him, her grip suddenly tightening on his wrist. talion was given little time to process what was happening before the cleric drew his hand toward her mouth, a sudden and rather unexpecting move that the young prince was not expecting. his first instinct was to yank his hand away, especially when the margin of her lips made contact with the open incision on his palm. initially, it was an unpleasant sensation. his hand pulsated in throbbing discomfort, the open irritation of his ritualistic gash momentarily worsened by the cleric's bizarre actions. the prince felt the need to rip himself away from her, if only because the sudden outlandishness of her religious venture caught him off guard. his hand visibly flexed beneath her grip, as if he were rashly debating on whether or not he should pull away from her enthrallment. it would be easy for him to pull away from her or even lash out if he wanted to, but he remained oddly composed. when she touched his skin, discerning the warmth of his ichor, it was as if a veil had suddenly lifted between them, revealing an undercurrent of devout complexity and unembellished ramifications that neither could fully acknowledge. the pain he felt quickly burned away, pacified by the eccentric actions of the grand cleric. their shared moment was profoundly and suddenly intimate, as if the darkness of their faith had suddenly forged a temporary connection deeper than either could have anticipated. yet, it was laced with an unsettling discomfort. talion felt a flash of something intense—perhaps boyish desire, perhaps primal fear—as he met her gaze. her cobalt stare burned right through him, as if she was somehow receiving not only a taste of his holy ichor but threads of flesh from the very depths of his soul. the sensation was both soothing and searing, a strange mixture that just barely halted the prince from wrenching his hand away from her. it was as if she were tasting the very essence of his life, a strangely harmonious act meant to connect them both to their dark goddess. abnormal tension crackled between them, the line between ritual and something more primal blurring. the connection was undeniable, yet the intensity of the moment left him feeling exposed, as if the darkness they served had drawn them too close, too deeply into one another's presence. he could feel his face begin to burn from the shared affinity of the ritual, as if they were suddenly engaged in some sort of act of carnal knowledge that should not be held in the presence of others. he wanted to divert his gaze elsewhere, but he found himself almost entranced by the intensity of her stare. there was something oddly alluring about the dynamics at play. lady gwendolyn, who sought to taste the dark sister's holy chosen despite the dangers he posed towards her safety, and prince talion, who could easily reinforce his autonomy by actively resisting her but instead choosing to willfully disengage from his impulses like some beast resisting the urge to attack its tormenter. it appeared that the ritual demanded this closeness between the two of them. talion's pulse had quickened from not only the pain of the cut but from the simmering traction between them. the act was intimate, a mingling of distant souls drawn through the letting of blood, a practice believed to lure them closer to invidia, who often demanded such offerings from her followers for a deeper communion. yet, the moment was laden with discomfort that talion could not quite discern himself—a hidden reminder of the profound bond between lunespawn and cleric, and the damning power dynamics at play. while talion could not understand the spiritual ecstasy she may be experiencing as a result of the ritual, it felt on his end as though she was not just consuming a part of him, but also taking something deeper—the ethos of his character, the lifeblood of his soul, leaving him exposed and vulnerable before a power far greater than himself. it was a strange feeling, for it did not necessarily translate into discomposure. it felt far different than the usual situations he found himself in, where he was often expected to conform into the caricature of the sacrificial lamb before the altar. the ceremony was intimate in a way that held multiple meanings, the same way that his blood appeared to be a multifaced key to earning the dark sister's favor. while certainly uncomfortable and very much potent, there was something about it that was almost comforting too, as if the very act of being essentially nurtured after just being harmed was soothing to him. it reminded him of the way a traveler might attempt to suck the venom out of a snake bite wound. there was a subtle manipulation in the way she guided him that he did not immediately detect, a barely perceptible push that almost made him want to trust her, to feel safe in her hands, if only because she has so far carried herself in a manner far different than that of her fellow clerics. the only sentiment he held over the matter was a strange array of sensitivities at how the liturgy was carried out. something about it felt unrefined but also passionate and unconcealed. like many before him, he was drawn into the dark and twisted sanctity of the chantry's rituals where boundaries were often blurred; he was not finding solace in the act itself but rather the steps taken to make him fall into that false sense of security to begin with. the way she had latched herself onto him made him feel peculiar, although he could not quite distinguish what exactly he was feeling to begin with.
indentwhen lady gwendolyn finally pulled away from him, talion slowly retracted his hand, his arm returning to the same curled position around his armored abdomen. he ignored the dull ache that was now pulsating from his palm as lady gwendolyn motioned towards the silver bowl on the altar. strangely enough, he almost found himself missing the soothing ailment of her maw against his gash. while some of his feelings could be accredited to a lesser guilty pleasure that he was not quite attuned with from the get-go (the prince rarely participated in the tribe's more venereal religious customs, for his parents disliked the notion of strangers seeking such deviant contact with their lunespawn children based on their ties to invidia alone), she had momentarily taken away his pain, something that was quite rare for a lunespawn and something he often found himself seeking subconsciously. who would not desire reprieve from their pain? considering the nature of what has already transpired, her inquiry would have surprised him if it weren't for the already unconventional steps she has taken so far during the augury. while talion has had little involvement in military premonitions, it did not take an intellect to realize that she was granting him far more self-rule than other clerics in her position. it was a fleeting offer for some semblance of self-control. talion's skepticism stemmed from his own mistrust towards the chantry's underlying motivations—strategic maneuvers used in the past to subtly influence or manipulate him without overt coercion, tactics his father often mused about whenever he entered one of his rages. still, talion could not help but appreciate this minor reprieve from the ritualistic oppression he endured so commonly at the hands of the chantry. it was a complex blend of dubiety and relief; lady gwendolyn's facade of leniency offered a temporary escape from the stifling demands of his role, even if he remained wary of the deeper, unspoken implications behind the cleric's seemingly benevolent actions. it was a begrudging comfort, although he supposed he had no reason to challenge her anyway. she has shown no outward misgivings that could spell some foreboding motivations at hand, and it would be unfair of talion to abruptly assume that every follower of the chantry was out to enslave him to their cause. so far, the woman has treated him far better than some of her colleagues, and it would be unjust of him to treat her poorly when she has afforded him more respect than he probably deserved. besides, lady gwendolyn and her clergy served the king himself. talion's father would not have sent them if he thought they were to be discredited as leal supporters of the crown. perhaps it was wildly childish for the prince to rely on his father's judgment to discern how he himself should perceive those around him, but he found the lord of saint-arkh to be a resilient judge of character. king burchard possessed a shrewd sense of perception and acute discernment, traits that often clashed with the cimmerian chantry's underlying goals for political and religious power. his father's disconnection from the worship of invidia granted him clarity that the more fervent lacked, which meant that acts of manipulation often fell through with him. he trusted his father's perspicacity on the matter. if he thought lady gwendolyn and her clergy were acting in favor of the dark cardinal, he would not have even entertained sending them to skarrynden to begin with. not realizing that he has remained almost eerily silent since entering the divination tent, talion cautiously stepped closer to the altar. his head still buzzed from the energy of the bloodletting ritual. he could hear the soft clucking of the clergy's caged chickens as he threw the chicken feed on the ground before him. while not as tense as he was before, talion was still unsure of what exactly he was about to witness. he was putting some semblance of trust in the clerics standing around him.