[center][h3]Aymiria Unalim[/h3]
[sub]interacting with Zakroti Unalim [@darkwolf687] and Aurora Liesma [@weepingliberty][/sub][/center]

Miry felt her resolve weakening under that harsh glare, and fought to keep herself upright and not visibly falter as the taller girl offered her a sarcastic court curtsy. It was hard, very much an impossible task, but she thought she did decently well at seeming unfazed, and not letting her pleasant mask falter.

She said nothing, letting the other bride posture, unfocusing her gaze as the girl stepped closer, fully expecting a slap. The tongue of flame that danced across Aurora’s hand just in front of her eyes did make her flinch, tears welling up reflexively at the searing heat just centimeters away, but she soon regained her composure, even violet eyes meeting the younger girl’s green ones. Still she said nothing, watching Ro turn on her heel and march off in search of the dining room. 

Thin fingers felt the raised collar, the heavy embroidered trim along it. The new girl was right – she was trying to compensate for something. She knew that Ro could easily sway Zak, if she so wanted, and was perhaps trying to delay the inevitable.

[i]Focus. Calm.[/i] She forced the words through her mind, taking a shaking breath to calm herself, and set her head high and shoulders back. It was not her fault the other girl had taking the olive branch and burned it.

Though she was, quite frankly, no more familiar with the city manor than Ro was, she quickly sussed out the layout and entered the main hall from one of the many servants’ doors that lined the sides. She was quick to cross the room to the high table, trying not to feel self-conscious or overdressed in her finery, and also trying to dash away the reflexive tears that misted her eyes as she saw Ro drape her arms around Zak’s neck. 

At least her husband had learned his lesson. He was quick to scold her, quick to pry her arms away from him. At this point she was close enough to the high table to hear them speaking quietly, speaking at last about answers.

She shuddered, a wave of revulsion rocking her, and covered her mouth as her pale complexion turned a delicate green shade as she fought to push the sickness down. Forcing the bland smile onto her face yet again, she approached the table from the side, taking her seat as gracefully as she could and looking only at Zak, forcing her eyes to pass over Aurora as though she wasn’t there. Kindness had been repaid in fire…. Perhaps ignoring her would be the best bet after all?

“Forgive me, my love, for being absent from your bed this morning. I awoke quite unwell and decided to take advantage of my morning for an impromptu rehearsal. It seems I let the time get away from me--” Her eyes glazed over for a moment, a vague look of panic crossing her gaze as she patted herself for the satchel she usually kept her flute in.

She wasn’t wearing it. She had neglected to collect her instruments and music on her return from the solar – she had reasoned that she would have more time to practice later in the day, and didn’t want to go through the hassle of putting them back in her bags just to take them out later – but she was still filled with a momentary terror of having left her instruments unaccounted for. Even if she knew exactly where they were.

Shaking herself back to the present, she was just in time to hear Zak’s oath. His promise of honesty to the other girl. She deserved that much, Miry knew, but distaste and jealousy crossed her mind, barely hidden behind her mask.

“By star and night, I will speak without treachery.” She murmured the words as well, pressing herself back in the chair and digging her fingers into the wood arms as though she was falling, as though it would keep her steady and composed. A thrill of terror ran through her.

[hr][hr]


[center][h3]Scyrvensrel Talyrrth-Gunnvaldr[/h3]
[sub]interacting with Gwillim, Alfhi [@tracyarmav] Hestia and Tempe [@eclecticwitch][/sub][/center]

Oh. That had. Not been the reaction Scyrven had been expecting. A soft spluttering escaped her, and she quickly averted her eyes, a faint darkening blush covering her ashen cheeks as the girl bared her whole body and climbed into the bed beside her.

Scyrven was scared to breathe, scared to move, but the bride was…. Hiding her face in the pillows, her whole body shaking.

Praying that the move wouldn’t be taken the wrong way, she bundled up the sheets between them, pulling her shift down to cover herself (making sure she wouldn’t touch Hestia, even accidentally, in too forward of a way) and gently shifting to wrap her arm around the slender bride’s shoulders, gently pulling her close. “Please relax, little one. You are safe, I assure you.” She murmured the words, her voice still heavy with sleep. “Please try to rest- tomorrow will be a long day if you are tired.”

It was not long until she drifted back into her own dreamless dreamland, where she lingered for what felt only a few moments. The clattering of doors and chattering in other parts of the house woke her, and she was quickly roused to full wakefulness, moving to throw the blankets off of herself and at the last moment remembering there was another body in the bed, one so light she had almost forgotten the girl was there.

Moving gently to disentangle herself, she leaned down and planted a soft kiss on the girl’s cheek. In the night the bride had curled into more of a ball, and her hair had escaped some of its bonds, leaving the small bride in a state of still-slumbering soft disarray, an effect that was quite adorable. The girl’s hair really was the biggest part of her.

“Good morning, dearest Hestia. I hope you’ve slept well. When you’re ready and dressed, please find us downstairs – I’ll make sure everyone knows to direct you to the great hall.” Not sure if the bride was awake or coherent enough to process, the tall Drakkan woman nonetheless spoke softly to her, before finally extricating herself from the bedding.

A loose dress was put on – simple and functional, only a bit more concealing than her shift. She did not want to bother with her armor, not when she would be laced into it all day and in a sweltering arena for most of that time, and certainly not before breakfast. 

She descended the stairs, mentioning to the few household soldiers poking their heads out of rooms that they should steer the still-resting bride in the direction of the family gathering, when she arose, but were not to disturb her before then.

Upon entering the room she was greeted with the sight she expected, a half-asleep Alfhi curled upon a barely-more-awake Gwillim’s lap, and speaking to a—

…Wait.

She stopped in the doorway, likely a spectacle and a half, her still-braided russet locks sticking every which way without helm or headcloth to hold them down. Peering back and forth between Gwillim and the unnamed girl- clearly Gemmenite, though like no Gem Scyrven had ever seen, not with her dark complexion. 

“My love, who did you murder?” she asked, half-jokingly. She did not realize until several moments later that the bride would likely not see it as something humorous, and instead flashed an apologetic grin and slight curtsy to the girl, though it was awkward more than anything.

“My apologies. I assure you I am not usually this...callous, especially not in front of guests. Scyrvensrel Gunnvaldr, at your service. Who might you be, m’lady?”