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[color=808080][color=2d5a32][b]#2d5a32[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/d5DMbK6][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [b]her bedchambers[/b][/color]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]While the Valley might have been smothered under the oppressive kiss of summer, high up in the East tower of the Black Citadel the Princess Maeve looked Ira in the eyes and said [i]‘not today.’[/i] There was too much weight on the upcoming festivities for even the Gods to stand in her way. If there was ever someone with the sheer power of will to subvert the heat, it was her. She did not bend to men, Gods, or the scorching rays of sunlight that trickled in through her open windows. 

Rimeran blessed her that day with a soft breeze off the peaks of Mount Briar that was stirred about her bedchambers by the noname servants who continuously waved their fans behind her. Maeve would not let a single bead of sweat grace her skin out of risk of streaking her blaunchet or pulling the curls from her crimson hair. Her face and hair had been painted and pinned hours ago, a feat of artistry that she dared not undo. Everything had to be just so for the arrival of the Lords, not a toe could be out of order, especially when it came to herself. That was why her gown was laid out across her bed, scented with oils of rose and pine, awaiting her to don it at the last moment. There could be no wrinkles, no dampness from sweat, nor the odor of her freshly cleaned body. She could be nothing short of perfection. She wouldn’t allow it. 

Maeve had spent the entirety of her day locked within her chambers in not but a chemise, seated at her writing table reviewing a stack of parchments for the countless time in the days leading up to the Summer Solstice. She had asked the Keeper of Scrolls to obtain any and all information he could regarding the families that would be coming to the Valley of Kings, but more specifically the first born sons and heirs to the various holds of Aethoria. There was absolutely no way in the nine hells that she would be stepping into the Great Hall without a plan of execution and extensive research on her prospective husband. Knowledge was power and she [i]was[/i] going to be the most knowledgeable woman in the Citadel. 

Laid out across the cool white marble surface of the table before her were three perfect stacks of paper: one for every hold, every house, and their prospective heirs. Maeve had studied them ad nauseam to the point of having it all committed to memory. Even so, pale delicate fingers stretched along the ivory surface, seizing the stack that was worn and fingered more than the others, [i]the heirs.[/i] There was a page per son, denoting their name, age, and any other pertinent information that could sway her opinion on them one way or another. She knew every word, every sliver of knowledge from their house and sigil down to the color of their hair. Yet… She still reached for the familiar stack of parchments and brought it before her eyes to read just once more. 

Maeve had taken care to organize them by appeal, weighing every ounce of information as an important piece that could mold the remainder of her life. Title, wealth, protection, reputation, all of which were key factors that ordered the Lords from most favorable to least. 

At the very top of her list, and the sole focus of her efforts and attention was Valerius Kenra. Twenty-four, dark hair and darker eyes. Devout and loyal to a fault like his Lord father. House Kenra has served her family unwaveringly, dating back to when they fought alongside her father in his war. And while there might have been other stronger or more advantageous alliances, it was not uncommon knowledge that Valerius was one of the best swordsmen in the Ninefold alongside men like her brother, which was not something to shirk at. He had the capability to protect her, was honorable, and the heir to River’s End, all qualities that were highly favorable. There was some mention to a lack of decorum, but any man could be taught if he—[i]or she[/i]—was willing. 

She carefully moved the top piece of paper to the back of the stack bringing a familiar name to the forefront. Rhaevyn Varrow, thirty-four, white-blond hair and green eyes. Initially the heir to Gloomfen was her first choice in a prospective husband. He was a familiar face that had graced the halls of the Black Citadel on multiple occasions to visit his father, who coincidentally was the High Steward. Rhaevyn was known to be a formidable, if not terrifying, adversary in tournaments, but also against the bandits that haunted the marshlands. That would garner protection, but also has the potential for a volatile marriage. Overall it would be a smart match to continue the strong bond between Houses Varrow and Storvane, but his loyalties, while unyielding, are said to favor his family and sister above all else. 

Maeve flipped to the next page where the name Elrik Járnbjørn looked back up at her. Thirty, brown hair and eyes. Hailing from a house with similar ties as the Kenras, the Járnbjørns are also loyal to her family, although not as openly outspoken about it. Not much word travels from Ironcrag to Thornvale and what is shared is rarely about Elrik. Most mentions of their house focuses on the disgrace behind their youngest daughter’s disappearance and whispers of the secret cruelties of Lord Einarr. If it were not for the small addendum that people have mentioned similarities between father and son, he might have found himself higher on her list. 

Onto the next potential suitor, Kaladan Bray. Twenty-seven, brown hair and hazel eyes. While his later father was a true loyalist to her family, serving as High Admiral, he must have made enemies somehow somewhere to warrant the entirety of his family, aside from one son, to be massacred. There, no doubt, would be a target on the surviving son’s head that could pass onto herself if she were to become his wife. And while there is always the burden of giving a husband heirs, the weight of that task would be far more grave given he was all that remained of House Bray. Maeve had no way of knowing if she was barren or not, but after King Leoric’s desperation for an heir that led to her father’s war, she cannot help the way that concern lingered in the back of her mind. She also had to take into account the simple fact that Kaladan was not raised to rule over Salt Spire, as a middle son, he would have much to learn and it was unclear if he would be the type of man she could control easily or not.

She slipped that page to the back and revealed the next Lord, Niktos Velmorra. Twenty-eight, brown hair and dark blue eyes. House Velmorra, similar to House Varrow and Kenra, have been steadfast in their loyalties, and so close to the Storvanes that they named them Lords of Stonefallow in their absence and they have been considered kin for decades prior. It is by that logic that it would seem the easiest answer would be for Maeve to pursue the eldest son and join their families where her father failed in pursuit of a military alliance. But noted in her studies, Niktos has a mind for diplomacy but not an ounce of skill with a blade. Maeve wants—no [i]needs[/i] a husband that will protect her. While a tongue may be sharp, a blade was sharper. Words cannot solve every conflict and what men would follow a Lord who would not fight alongside them?

With a sigh and a shake of her head, Maeve tucked the parchment behind the others, knowing the deeper she delved into the pages, the worse the prospects became. 

The next name she beheld was Raelan Al’Seren. Twenty-four, brown hair and eyes. The Al’Seren house has been a bit more removed from the Storvanes and royal affairs than others, which brought into question the authenticity of their loyalty. A marriage could strengthen that tentative bond. But when it was all said and done, what Maeve thought of the man was irrelevant, on paper or in person. He was not the heir, regardless of birth. The Lord of the Sunderlands had forgone tradition and named his firstborn daughter as heir. Maeve was already losing station no matter whom she married, but she refused to fall so low. The Lord’s page was hastily pushed aside and hidden beneath the others as if a second born son or lesser noble had managed to slip through the cracks. 

Then there was Imran Ganasen. Twenty-seven, black hair and dark eyes. A house with an alliance not born out of loyalty but fealty. The Ganasens served the realm as many houses do, but they were not seen as kin like some of the other noble families. Their power had its uses and a stronger alliance of marriage would be advantageous, but the root of the problem stemmed from Lord Imran. A known lecher and indulgent man, a match with him would sully Maeve by association, whether or not she cared for his proclivities. Her name was all she’d have left once married and she’d be damned if any man tarnished it for his own base desires. It was a shame Imran wasn’t more like his brother, from what she read, Khalil was far better suited for lordship, but she would rather die and suffer the nine hells than marry a bastard.

There was only one remaining suitor that even graced Maeve’s list, last and most certainly the least, Raynauld Cantlowe. Twenty-six, dark blond hair and blue eyes. Considering Harrowfield was one of the wealthiest holds and supplied most of the Ninefold with food, a marriage with one of their sons begged to be considered. But it began and ended there. No matter how much Maeve pressed the Keeper of Scrolls for information on Raynauld’s disinheritance, all of his ravens returned fruitless. The only thing she was sure of was the uncertainty around the current heir for the Cantlowe house and a secret scandal with details unknown. A marriage without—

[i]Knock. Knock.[/i]

Maeve looked up from the stack of parchment, wrinkled from the repetitive grip of her thorough evaluations. She straightened the leafs of paper against the marble desktop, the sharp tapping echoed throughout the silence of her chambers, contrasted by the gentle gusts from the fans and the whistle of the wind slipping through her window. She set aside the pages in a neat pile, perfectly aligned with the other two stacks that lined the far side of her table. Her right hand swept across the ivory surface, gently using the tip of her index finger to straight the azure quill so its angle was parallel to her inkwell but perpendicular to the parchments… [i]just so.[/i]

Her hands fell to her lap, resting atop the thin cotton fabric of her chemise that clung faintly to her thighs. She scooted out her chair, only a fraction, angling it enough to face the door but only so it was still quite apparent she was in the middle of something and whomever wanted to seek her attention was interrupting. [color=2d5a32]"Who is it?"[/color] Maeve called out, wanting to know who dared disturb her so close to the feast. She wasn’t going to bother worrying over making herself presentable for someone unworthy of her time at a moment like that.

[color=d6d6d6]"It is Amira, Your Grace,"[/color] a soft voice responded from the opposite side of the door. 

The Princess’s demeanor shifted, but the change was so subtle only those most familiar with her would notice the difference, the way the angle of her body changed by a single degree, her chin tilted upwards by a hair, and the corner of her mouth tugged faintly to be considered more of twitch than a conscious decision. [color=2d5a32]"Enter."[/color] The moment the door opened, Maeve turned her attention to the servants behind her as they waved their fans in quiet obeisance. [color=2d5a32]"Leave us,"[/color] she commanded. 

Amira entered the room, head downcast with her hands cupped before her. Raven locks, damp from the heat, clung to the young woman’s cheeks and forehead but she did not complain nor say a word. She silently stepped aside, waiting for the other servants to leave before closing the door and throwing the lock behind them. She turned to face the Princess, face showing the desire to speak but the knowledge to wait until spoken to, as her mistress demanded. 

[color=2d5a32]"You are late,"[/color] Maeve filled the silence as she stood from her seat. Bare feet softly padded against the stone floor across the room and over toward the open window. Her hands rested upon the sill as she leaned forward into the warm glow of the setting sun that dipped behind the snowcapped peaks of Mount Briar. Her gaze trailed down the jagged rock, following the winding paths to steal a glance at the narrow bridge that crossed the ravine leading toward the entrance of the Citadel. There was no sign of horses nor carriages, but eventide was almost upon them, heralding that the time had nearly come.

[color=d6d6d6]"Pardon, Your Grace."[/color] Amira curtsied, exactly how the Princess had taught her, back erect as she lowered herself until her knee nearly brushed the ground and bowed her head. [color=d6d6d6]"Your sister returned late from her time in the valley. The Queen demanded I wait alongside her for the Princess’s return and prepare her for the feast."[/color]

Maeve sighed, frustration apparent in the slacking of her shoulders and the draw of her breaths. She did not speak about what troubled her, but it always came back to one thing, Rhea. While she had done nothing beyond being the perfect Princess, Lady, and daughter, her sister’s insolence cast a shadow over all her endeavors. It was unfair that she planned and prepared but was beholden to Rhea’s tardiness and disregard as if her sister’s transgressions were her own. [color=2d5a32]"What delayed her?"[/color] Maeve inquired with a sharpness in her voice as she pushed off from the window’s ledge and turned her attention back to her waiting handmaid. 

[color=d6d6d6]"The Princess had a run in with one of the visiting Lords. She nearly trampled him to death along the Weave while racing upon horseback."[/color] Amira stood back upright and started toward Maeve’s wardrobe, retrieving her finest undergarments and corset to assist the Princess in the final stages of preparation for the festivities. 

[color=2d5a32]"Which Lord?"[/color] Maeve asked as she hastened toward her desk, gathering the various leaves of parchment and carrying them over toward the foot of her bed. She began laying them out with the same amount of methodical order as she did on her desk, aligning the bottom of pages to the edge of the footboard, straight and precise. While she did not need them, she never did, Maeve wanted the comfort of the knowledge at her fingertips, able to reference a Lord, hold, or house the moment a name was mentioned. 

Of course her sister couldn’t have run over a simple commoner. No. It was a Lord. Maeve couldn’t decide what would have been a worse victim, one of the Lord fathers of the men she sought to marry or one of the eligible men listed on her precious bits of parchment. Both were like a nightmare made reality. She hadn’t even had the opportunity to present herself and the woman she was before her sister tarnished something else. 

Amira draped the gathered clothing over the back of the writing chair, aside for the corset, then slowly approached the Princess who was already preparing herself with her hands grasping the post of her canopy while her gaze was fixated on her papers. [color=d6d6d6]"Emil Járnbjørn, Your Grace,"[/color] she answered.

[color=2d5a32]"Second born son and third born child to Einarr and Serene Járnbjørn of Ironcrag,"[/color] Maeve rattled off the facts, eyes closed as if testing her knowledge for a teacher rather than a gathering of nobles. Just as Amira went to wrap the corset around her torso, she leaned over, fingers flipping through the pages to find House Járnbjørn to reference her answers. They were correct, of course they were, but seeing it confirmed in writing always brought a small amount of satisfaction to her.

[i]A second son.[/i] Thank the Gods... Although the rumors of Lord Einarr’s wrath did concern her. Would her sister’s stupidity ruin her own chances at a match with Elrik? He was not at the top of her list, but Maeve wanted to disregard suitors at her own discretion, not at the whims of her sister’s lack of propriety. Rhea’s blunders should not affect her chances with prospective pairings, yet her misdeeds reflected back onto her tenfold. 

[color=2d5a32]"Was he injured?"[/color] she followed with another inquiry. Though her question was not based in concern for the Lord who likely wouldn’t earn a second glance from Maeve, but out of concern for how her sister’s actions would harm her opportunities with the elder brother. 

Amira took a step closer to the Princess and carefully wrapped the corset around her torso. [color=d6d6d6]"The Princess did not elaborate beyond him surviving the incident,"[/color] the handmaiden answered as she got to work lacing up the back with practiced efficiency.

[color=2d5a32]"Rhea’s folly will be my undoing,"[/color] she muttered beneath a sigh. Maeve could only hope that it would only ruin her sister’s chances with one of the Járnbjørns, while bolstering her own opportunities by illuminating the contrast between them. It was for the best. Rhea was far too soft and compassionate for the likes of the cold harsh lands and people of Ironcrag. Best she stands down and focuses her attention on one of the Cantlowe sons and leaves the more promising prospects to herself. 

[color=d6d6d6]"I have also heard word of your brothers, Your Grace,"[/color] Amira added as she finished slipping the laces through the eyelets and started pulling taut the ties row by row. 

[color=2d5a32]"Continue,"[/color] Maeve replied, standing tall yet unbothered by the tightening of her corset, having years of experience to no longer feel suffocated by the garment. 

The sound of fabrics and threads creaking as they were tugged and pulled filled the silence of the large room before the woman responded. [color=d6d6d6]"The Captain of the Guard traveled to the Black Rose to fetch the Prince, but not before being seen cooling himself in the Weave."[/color]

Dorian’s appetites and habit of vanishing when he was expected to fill a role he was not born into was far from new. But the way the information was shared was as if Declan’s duties as the Guard Captain was something of note that warranted her time or concern. He was no longer a Prince, so he had the freedom to come, go, and mingle with the common folk as much as he pleased. What did it matter to her?

Maeve sucked in a breath and held it as the laces tightened, being sure to save the small bit of space as Amira finished so she could breathe comfortably. [color=2d5a32]"It is of no surprise that Dorian sought escape on the eve of the solstice. The guard should know better."[/color] She paused for a beat, trying to find the words that did not betray her inner thoughts. [color=2d5a32]"As for my broth—[i]Captain[/i] Declan’s movements, they are of little consequence to me. Unless his actions directly reflect upon myself or my family, it is not my concern."[/color] Her words were colored with indifference and her face blank, but the subtle flutter of her heart showed a depth she kept locked away. Maeve forced a brave and uncaring face at her brother’s decision, but the reality of her thoughts was… [i]betrayal.[/i] 

Declan not only turned his back on the realm, but on his family and the position he was born into. He thrust Dorian into a role he had no hopes in filling, disappearing beneath the shadow of better men that he could never live up to. While their brother did not make good choices, it was unfair to shift that burden onto him without giving him so much as a say. And deeper still, there was a quiet, dark part of Maeve that harbored jealousy at the bond Declan shared with their sister. She was the youngest, the baby, precious and pure. At every turn Maeve was overlooked while Rhea was the focus, and her brother’s affection followed suit. From where she stood her brother floated through life doing as he pleased without thought for the outcome of those actions, a way of thinking he learned from their father and passed onto their sister. She cared for him, but he chose his path, one that separated himself from them. So that’s what she gave him… separation. 

[color=d6d6d6]"Yes, Your Grace,"[/color] Amira replied plainly with a nod of her head as she tied the corset laces into a knot, then tucked the ends beneath the thick fabric.

[color=2d5a32]"Is there any other news?"[/color] Maeve released her hold on the post of her bed to tug on the hem of her corset, then adjusted her breasts to entice the eye of any Lord that dared a glance. While she was certain she could beguile a man with her wits, gaining his attention without words was a prosperous advantage. 

[color=d6d6d6]"Yes, Your Grace. The Lords have been seen in the valley and are nearing the Citadel. All have been accounted for."[/color]

[color=2d5a32]"Very well."[/color] The Princess gathered up her loose pages that were laying across her bed. The time for her to recount the information she gathered had passed and now was the moment for her to put that knowledge to use. She slowly turned around to face her handmaid, trading the parchments for a pair of stockings held out in exchange. [color=2d5a32]"Let us not tarry. I shall not have my first impression be that of tardiness."[/color][/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]
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[color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] valerius, rhaevyn, elrik, kaladan, niktos, raelan, imran, raynauld, rhea, emil, declan & dorian [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none[/color]
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