[center][b][i]Royal Blood[/i][/b][/center] --- As she enters the city, the first time in years, a shudder runs through the aasimar woman and she cannot help but draw her cloak around herself tighter, obscuring her hand moving instinctively to the grip of her greatsword. For a moment, she feels the hum of magical energy tingle forth as the connection is made, her natural magical affinity reinvigorating the holy enhancements upon her blade and armour in preparation for any trouble at her returned presence to these lands. The downside, however, is that her natural glow seems to only increase, from her skin, eyes and armour alike. The dark cloak was doing little to stifle it... So in this city of stifling gloom, even in her darker garb native to the lands, she sticks out as a source of light. Her eyes dart about the architecture, the gargoyles seeming to glower down like outraged demons still. She cringes back and tries to make herself look smaller, only succeeding in distracting herself enough to step into a puddle, making her leggings damp. Rayvon winces and tries to shake off as much of the water as she can manage before ascending the stairs. It was there they meet Mikan. As the woman trills out in an overtly cheery manner, she fails to hold back her obvious look of contempt at such a display. Such an apparent overtly exaggerated display to lull people into a false sense of security that she might be some absent-minded ditz. The aasimar snorts and looks away. If the woman was an assassin and ambassador of Renalta, she should be acting as such. Going down the dark stone halls, she finds herself stiffening, looking for danger around every corner. About each bend, Rayvon expects a group of Witch Hunters to appear, recognize her and shout out their alarm and chase her out of town once more. Yet, in the same instance, she wonders at the back of her mind which way she might go in order to to discover the dungeons and free her mother, if she was even still alive. She chews her lip before moving closer to the group, Ceann in particular. The silence of the woman was comforting when the others seemed... Just a bit unsettling to her. No body, she knew no one, yet in the same instance... Arriving in the throne room, the oppressing dark almost felt alive, trying to bat away any light. It almost even seems to complement the mood of the people in grief and fear. She hesitates entering the room, before proudly brushing her cloak back, her luminescence a declaration of its own against the darkness. She strides forward, stopping just behind Mikan as she kneels. Looking down at the assassin, and the others who follow, she has to fight back a barking laughter at most of their explanations. They seemed so contrived... Yet, as it comes to her turn, she kneels down, bowing her head. “My liege, I am Rayvon Krayvitch, daughter of Delaine and Bellatrix, as I am sure you are aware.” She chances a look up, focusing upon the obscured shape of the Crown-Prince. “I owe allegiance to the throne of Liveria, as it is my birthplace. So, to that end, I will service the kingdom, as my mother and ancestors past all have.” She fights back a bitter comment when talking of her mother and her service. After all, loyal through all those years... and what had it gotten the matron? Her shoulders itch at the moment and she struggles not to fidget as a spasm of phantom pains burst forth at the missing extensions. She quickly looks back down in submission, hood spilling forward and obscuring her face.