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[color=808080][color=695645][b]#695645[/b][/color] & [color=513e42][b]#513e42[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color]  [b]tarn's rest[/b][color=2e2c2c]....[/color] |[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [i][b]two months ago[/b][/i][/color]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080][i][color=#695645]“You don’t have to go.”[/color][/i]
[color=#513e42][i]“If I do not, it’ll be seen as a weakness.”[/i][/color]

[i][color=#513e42]“A weakness that no daughter of stone would reveal, I would not jeopardize the chances for our children for the sake of my own vanity, to lay that cloak of cowardice on the name of Velmorra.” [/color][/i]

[color=#695645][i]“The King would understand; Rowan would not name it so.” [/i][/color]

[i][color=#513e42]“It’s not him I worry about. We all prepare to enter that viper pit, that gilded cage of ebon stone that rivals the structure of our house, wherein that woman awaits with her children poised and polished, preened to a sickening perfection. We know what this is, Darron. It is a ploy, a strategic maneuver, to secure her foothold through all of Aethoria with the hands of her children; the crown is only a ploy, a trinket, in the grand scheme of marriages and alliances.”  [/color][/i]

[color=#808080][i]In the lamplight of the flame, Merial stood, clad in the sheer garment of her chemise, a spun luxury of cotton, loosely and opaquely threaded, the silhouette of her body framed by resplendence. As was her namesake, she was the unbowed, regal, and unwavering, even the spite of age had not afflicted her countenance: sable hair, likened to the jeweled hues of a raven’s wing and unblemished by silver, through which her husband, Darron, admired from afar. He reclined on the collected furs of bear and boar, the eternal winter of their dominion stilling just outside. Permitting its glacial grace of tundra lands and eclipsing mountains, through the slivers of stone bedecking their chambers, with latticed metals bracketing every window. Cold molded itself here, immutable, its perpetual stillness born into the ore of Obsidia hewn from the deepest reaches of stone they mined. These serpentine caverns wove beneath the ridges of Aethoria, dubbed the Argent Vein of the North and South, where Harrowfield began. The malleable alloy was silver-sheened with pocketed shadows that consumed all light, the purest resources webbed with gold.[/i][/color]

[i][color=#695645]“You think Rowan so unbeknownst to her intentions, he brought peace to the realm, secured many a banner to his cause, including my father, who sent his only son into battle, so assured of his victory. There are many Lords who would voice similar sentiments. We have peace, Mer. Is your mind so clouded as the peaks of the Vein that you cannot see the bounty of the lands below?”[/color][/i]

[color=#513e42][i]“Such a victory was not without a price; you know this most of all.”[/i][/color]

[color=#808080][i]It was a well-worn and aged discussion, something that festered and ached between them, the formally scorned and the eternal loyalist, each bound by the mutual love for a man and shared affections for the mountains they called home. Merial approached her husband, hair unbound and tumbling thick over her lithesome shoulders, delicate lines of flesh tantalizing in the warm glow of the hearth, bathing the chamber in an ethereal luminescence. A sanctity of matrimony, the only lovers left alive in the suspension of twilight and secrecy laced betwixt them, exchanged as whispers fanned from lips. She straddled him, pale thighs parting over the plane of Darron’s torso, coarse with thick curls, and branded with scars of dense, pale lines, cool and rigid beneath her dexterous gestures. His breath deepened, the swell of his muscles as broad cords of riotous strength, once youthful and bronzed and glistening, now aged and battered, calloused palms and worn scars laden there that manacled around Merial’s hip and waist. She spoke with a tantalizing cadence, a courtesy only bequeathed to the man postured beneath her, where Darron had been since their betrothal. [/i][/color]

[i][color=#513e42]“I only wish the best for our children, the freedom that could not be afforded to either of us. Born of war and married unto its remains, we may have peace, but it was purchased, traded– coffers bleed dry in the illusions of happiness.”[/color][/i]

[color=#695645][i]“Such a cynic, my dear. The mind you possess is sharper than any blade.”[/i][/color]

[i][color=#513e42]“I’ll leave the swordplay to you on the fields; I’ll take the court. We go ahead of the rest, get there first, and establish Velmorra's name in the Valley. Send a raven only a fortnight from then, I don’t want them knowing our movements.” [/color][/i]

[color=#695645][i]“You suspect someone…?”[/i][/color]
[i][color=#513e42]“I suspect [/color][/i][color=#513e42][b][i]everyone[/i][/b][/color][i][color=#513e42].”[/color][/i]

[color=#808080][i]His palms slid up, rough and forged of steel, and just as unwavering, the chemise clothed over her body yielded immediately, its wide, gaped collar pooling low and loosely ribboned shifts of linen parting to a heat not entirely fault of the crackling flame that wreathed a halo of amber around Merial. She sat, poised above him, the shadows flitting to and fro over her modesty undulating under the glimmer of night.[/i][/color]

[i][color=#513e42]“Most of all, The Queen.”[/color][/i]
[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

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[color=808080][color=50404b][b]#50404b[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/YltxvyK][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color][color=9f7560][b]#9f7560[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/SIjp37Q][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color][color=447989][b]#447989[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/sur2LAF][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [b]border of stonefallow and harrowfield[/b][/color]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]
[color=#808080]The journey from Tarn’s Rest is not an easy endeavor to make, for it is a gamble of uncertain paths through which to traverse, the procession of northern lords and ladies of bronze and violet in itself is a political stratagem, the first of many maneuvers across a proverbial board adorned in pieces of ivory and others of black, some here are glacial and hued from crystalline forges. Others woven of gold, be whatever hue of stone or jewel, they glimmered in the offsetting sun of the realm with their branded name of house and their clandestine intention. Loosely prophetic in the destinies known and rumored and the honor sought in the peak of summer, where letters delivered by raven wing wove an elaborate tapestry of Nine. [/color]

[color=#808080]Though many would strategize the expanse of River’s End territories or even the Lost Coast to host their approach, it was the mountains they chose, all paths interlinked through craggy faces and pocketed sediment of unmined Obsidia, the unique stone raised as a border on either side of the widened course, the valley once a boon that transported units of Stonefallow soldiers directly into Harrowfield, pact earth and wedged chunks of stone worn down by steel boots and hooves. Long-forgotten peace agreements and treaties marked the entryways and the mountain path, protected by curious crevices slit into the mountains, identifiable only to those who knew what to look for. Just curious and intelligent demarcations in the stone, reminiscent of antlers branched in shadows and suns gauntleted in fists, that even now, in a time bereft of war, remained. [/color]

[color=#808080]Beneath Seraphina’s gloved touch, she traced the mimicked tines that scaled over the sharp cuts of cooled, shadowed rock; through even the headiness of the summer solstice, it was frigid and unmovable wealth, as all things of the stone remained. Wistfulness adorned her features, for once upon a time, phalanxes of bronzed warriors came through these broadened trails, her father leading from the front as always or stationed in the center to disperse commands. Often she wondered what it would have been like to lead such a contingent with an antlered helm adorned upon her brow, rather than the ornament that half her cascading locks of ebon were secured with, scooped back over delicate ears and lifted, revealing long lines of a strong neck where chilling frost chased beaded sweat. The further they traveled, the more the heat billowed inward on coiling winds, likened to a furnace, pumped and fanned by flame; the temperatures melded with layers of clothing shed under the pressing warmth. Forgone of the silver-ticked fox fur that previously cloaked her shoulders, Seraphina shed the secondary layer of her velvet overcoat, burnt umber riding leathers stifling, sweltering almost, wool-lined fabrics now a discomfort.[/color]

[color=#808080]In contrast, she had grown with them as a luxury, just like the jeweled violet tones she wore that contrasted against her skin, pearlescent with subtle bronze. In another endeavor to bring comfort, she lifted one of her hands to her full mouth with teeth pinched on the stitched leather of her middle finger, where space left between hide and cloth bunched, carefully, she slid her hand free and mimicked the motion on her opposite hand and tucked her gloves into the belted copper cinched around the dip of her supple waist. Beneath her thighs, her dappled grey mount stirred, the mare’s delicate hooves, slender and pointed, clopped against the compacted earth beneath, impatience cording her muscles taut with tension. Seraphina patted her neck in a muted answer, hushing her disquieted motions for the time being. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“Easy, we’re just waiting for the others. That’s all.”[/color]

[color=#808080]As was her want, she had ridden onwards to scout out the rest of the trail ahead of the carriages and her brothers, who straddled similar mounts. All horses bred in Stonefallow were unique in stature and identifiable by their bold eyes and natural arching necks. Powerful of haunch and muscle, their hooves were narrow, pointed, and medium-sized compared to traditional equine with wide stances, and when juxtaposed to Iron Hides, they were smaller. Still, their sturdy positions and broad chests built a powerful span between their forelegs, making them suited to the climate. Their ambling gait was an easy ride, built for long distances and sloping ridges, and their thick coat, ranging from the dappled silver of her own mount to liver, chestnut, and then to flaxen, insulated them well from the eternal cold—the [/color][color=#808080][i]Velkaer Highlanders.[/i][/color][color=#808080] The charcoal colored reins in her hands fell lax, loosely threaded through her fingers as she regarded the shadows at her back. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“Though,”[/color][color=#808080] she said aloud, wind pulling through her locks, tugging loose the small, intimate braids that looped through the silver antlers donned. [/color][color=#50404b]“Any longer and we’ll just ride to the King’s Gate ourselves, wouldn’t that be something?”[/color]

[color=#808080]Hot air pushed through her horse’s - [/color][i][color=#808080]Myrkae [/color][/i][color=#808080]- velvet nose, peculiarly in tune with her mistress and her whims. The weight shifted in her hind quarters as Seraphina led her around with the lightest pressure of her reins, angling her greyed body to align with the rock at her flank. The mottled color of her coat was easily camouflaged against the cliffside, as if falling snow suspended in time, winking in soft, pale light that began to shimmer over the peaks above. Glittering swatches of Obsidia bloomed under the summer sun, rivers of gold shimmering and undulating, as if alive under the bedrock of black that contained it all. Seraphina admired it, for back home, the very ore was built into the stonework of Tarn’s Rest, its likeness found only in these northern spires she knew as well as the back of her hand. [/color]

[color=#808080]Telltale hoofbeats sounded behind her, moving into a swift trot by the clips of it. She turned about to face it head-on and met with the familiar chestnut mare, Aurelune, that served her twin, Niktos. Temperamental but affectionate to her rider, the shrill neigh that followed in pursuit of her tossed mane brought an eyeroll from Seraphina, who tugged just so on the reins kept loose within her hands, prompting her mount to shift backward with another hot rush of air blowing through her nose. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“She acts more like a dragon each time you bring her out from the stables. I don’t know why you don’t retire the nag.”[/color]

[color=#808080]Niktos scoffed, [/color][color=#9f7560]“She has character, distinction.”[/color][color=#808080]  He dug thick leather soles into her heaving flanks, quelling her into a smooth halt that left appropriate space between the two (apparent) mortal enemies of his horse and his sister’s. His weight settled forward whilst he adjusted himself shortly after, the burgundy saddle creaking, with a pale riding blanket beneath it. His saddle bags, in comparison to Seraphina’s, were weighted with books and parchment, idle reading he had called it, and the habitual need he felt compelled to document every league of their journey, quill poised and ink well secured to a ring that he fastened to his board, tucked neatly away in close reach. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“That’s a nice way to say cun-”[/color]
[color=#9f7560]“Careful, sister, with a mouth like that, you’ll likely scare away your future husband.”[/color]

[color=#808080]She laughed, a sharp, biting whip of a trilling coil that snapped from her lips and flitted over her teeth, likened to the edge of her blade that lanced through her speech. The certain lilt in which she spoke, born of the North and molded by it in glinting barriers. [/color][color=#50404b]“My future husband would be more inclined to shove it full of his coc-”[/color]

[color=#447989]“Please, spare me.”[/color][color=#808080] Announced a young, exhausted drawl, which revealed Lyric Velmorra astride his bay gelding, Caethil, appearing from Seraphina’s opposite end. A small cleft in the rock face revealed a slender trail, just narrow enough for one rider and his mount. Whilst Seraphina would often ride ahead, it was Lyric who would endeavor to seek out hidden passages, alone, even if it took him in a roundabout way, never committing to the straight and uniform, his curious nature tempting him to veer just so, right out of reach. His severe brow and withdrawn expression created an incessant scowl, like a shade worn to chisel out the hollow of his cheeks and line of his clenched jaw.[/color]

[color=#50404b]“Spare you?”[/color][color=#808080] Seraphina mimicked his droning timbre, [/color][color=#50404b]“Please, spare [/color][color=#50404b][i]us[/i][/color][color=#50404b], brood any harder, and the mountains are liable to fall over on us, swooning.”[/color]

[color=#808080]Lyric scoffed, [/color][color=#447989]“I don’t brood.”[/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Yes, y[/color][color=#50404b]ou do.”[/color][color=#808080] His older siblings chimed in simultaneously, exchanging knowing glances, a muted agreement, as Niktos continued, compelled by Seraphina’s curled, smirking lips. [/color]

[color=#9f7560]“In fact, the dames lined up in the halls from all manner of court would agree. Let’s just hope it works well enough against Princesses.”[/color]

[color=#808080]The younger Velmorra flushed, but his lips lifted all the same, the color of his cheeks splotched onto his neck. [/color][color=#447989]“Says the [/color][color=#447989][i]heir[/i][/color][color=#447989] whose only knowledge of a woman comes from books.”[/color]

[color=#50404b]“What do either of you know of a woman?”[/color][color=#808080] Seraphina muttered as beneath her thighs, her horse stirred, the muscles underneath her coat laced tight with minuscule twitches cording through her haunches. Eager to move, the mare pulled on her reins, bit flat and heavy against her tongue, her rider's hands loose as she allowed her head to sway. [/color][color=#50404b]“How far behind are the carriages anyway? We’ve some weeks of travel left, and our parents expect us in the Capital sooner rather than later.”[/color]

[color=#808080]Having departed a month previously, the reigning Lord and Lady of Stonefallow had made for the Valley of Kings, intending to garner favor for the name of Velmorra by mingling among the amassing figures of all the Ninefold, whilst Darron had made the journey every so often with a small contingent as High Marshall, it was Merial’s uttered return to Thornvale that was most anticipated, for the former love of King Rowan had not graced the Black Citadel since the birth of Declan. With the glories of Stonefallow following in kind, their parents were effectively establishing connections with the providence of their name and royal favors: Darron’s renown as an accomplished General and Merial’s fabled herald as both Aerndal and Velmorra, with lingering vestiges of Queendom. [/color]

[color=#808080]From deeper within the canyon, the mentioned carriages began rolling into view, drawn by crossbreeds of [/color][i][color=#808080]Velkaer Highlanders [/color][/i][color=#808080]and [/color][i][color=#808080]Brackmere Iron-Hides[/color][/i][color=#808080], silver-sheened charcoal pelts with broad faces and hooves, draft horses with wide stances that enabled them to pull the vehicles at a leisurely pace, even when weighed down with finery trunks and persons, the most loyal of Stonefallow nobility, advisers, and handmaidens to both Seraphina and Penellaphe, with the mounted escorts of their bronze-helmed and antlered military. With a fragile peace recently established with their western neighbors, they spared little in assembling their vast retinue. The recent rumors that came ferrying from Harrowfield did little to convince them that all remained hospitable among the golden currency of wheat fields, for they would come close enough to Everdell in their direct path South, that an unease could bear fruit into something far more troubling. Niktos has assured them that the Cantlowes were aware, as all noble houses were, of the decree and the unspoken accords. Still, Seraphina’s mind was too stubborn, bordering on suspicious (a trait with which she shared with her mother), to be of a diplomatic and agreeable mind like her twin. Favor it to a womanly intuition, that same inclination that saw her to victory when establishing reclamation on the borders, but even in the security of the mountain shadows that she knew, something was not quite right. The capillaries of the ridge shimmered as if they, too, felt something amiss and only cemented that queer sensation that had taken root. [/color]

[color=#808080]The second carriage, arguably larger and cut of dark wood, lacquered and accentuated in bronze and escorted by thick-plated knights, shuddered, wheel spokes glinting, and Seraphina promptly looked elsewhere and guided Myrkae back around, facing the main trail, permitting nothing but her back. It did not go unnoticed. [/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Is there a reason you two aren’t speaking, Sera?” [/color][color=#808080]The inquiry was gentle, hushed with a subtle prod by the rich baritone of his accent, as Niktos came up on her right, their horses respectively easing into a shared pace, even with ears tipped back and one snapping harsh, rigid teeth at the other. Lyric lingered not far behind, mindful of their bowed heads, the din of hooves, rattling carriages, and, from somewhere yonder, the yip and bays of hounds, creating a lively atmosphere despite the settled weight of prospect into what awaited them.[/color]

[color=#50404b]“I’ve already told you, Nik,”[/color][color=#808080] she muttered, lapsing into the use of their affectionate monikers, eyes adrift until they settled on the dark mane of her horse. [/color][color=#50404b]“It’s nothing. Just a simple… dispute between sisters. Nothing to concern yourself with. You’ve your own things to worry about.”[/color][color=#808080] Serpahina pointed out, straightened her spine, and dug heels into dappled flanks. [/color][color=#50404b]“Like how to woo a princess, you think your literacy would so win over Maeve?”[/color]

[color=#9f7560]“She’s never left the capital, who knows what would tempt that…” [/color][color=#808080]He stalled, considered his company, felt a rising pressure emerge from the span of his ribs, and coughed. [/color][color=#9f7560]“I’ve only seen portraits, and what father has told us about her. Cycling rumors about her cleverness, what I could gather from differing reports by connections in Thornvale.”[/color]

[color=#9f7560]“More interesting tales concern the younger princess, Rhea.”[/color]

[color=#50404b]“I didn’t realize you were such a gossip,”[/color][color=#808080] Seraphina quipped, and from over her shoulder, she could hear the deepened sigh of Lyric. [/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Hardly gossip if it all reveals to be true.”[/color]

[color=#808080]She hummed idly at that, lulled by the clip-clop cadence of hooves, as a silence befell them, not quite comfortable, but neither taxing nor corded with tension. Instead, it was a muted acknowledgement of their lives changing, of leaving home and being led South by the coming of the Summer Solstice, the months ahead lay bare as unknown and unsought. Marriage, in all its known matrimony, appealed little to her. Still, even so, Seraphina knew she could not escape it long, for no battle strategy could thwart the inevitability that her hand would be sought after, especially with her father's tenuous maneuvering to name her as his heir. Though untraditional, it was not unheard of, for she recalled once hearing the successor of the Sunderlands was an eldest daughter, too. However, if Niktos were to gain favor and the coveted hand of Maeve won, then what would those results be, favorable or no, if he were to remain in the capital at her side? If Lyric too were to, somehow, win the heart of Rhea and Penellaphe to be sworn to Dorian as his Queen. If they were to succeed, where did that leave her, the blade of winter, cold of steel and alone in the spires of the North, whilst some Lord warmed her bed. A cockpiece for her mount at her leisure, or would be deemed as her duty as his wife, to birth heirs of Stonefallow. [/color]

[color=#808080]It would not be so, she declared, such a circumstance listing through her thoughts as beneath her sudden intensity, Myrkae, stirred and blew through her velvet nose as if to punctuate her internal edict, earning an affectionate palm against her curved neck. She had other intentions for her life and would not be denied them, for she was owed as such with cold steel worn at her side. [/color]

[color=#808080]But for all of their preparations and careful maneuvering of resources, as time edged onward, a small glimmering ray of sunlight fissured through the slopes of rock and jagged spires, christening in leagues of golden light, and with it came death. [/color]

[color=#808080]The hounds retained by the kennel master, who saw best to have them restrained as they traveled through the mountains, began to bay louder, frenzied and stirred, long howls rebounding off the stone, creating an echo that one could feel down in their marrow. Anyone else unaccustomed to their cries would be disturbed; however, the mountainous breed of their canine companions was as trusted warriors in their own merit. If they were spurned into such hysterics, then there was bound to be a reason. The end of the path loomed just ahead, around a shelf of black rock that would yawn out into scattered boulders and swaying fields of wheat, a strip of parted land to await them, veiled in the lingering clouds of the Argent Vein that sometimes spread into an imperceptible fog. It would cover them, for a time, long enough to reform lines and tend to the horses. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“Something isn’t right,”[/color][color=#808080] she said aloud, turned about in her saddle, and called for their release. Niktos echoed the command and heeled his horse to a halt, and Lyric, too, who exchanged a glance with his elder sister. Without a word uttered, he guided his horse about and rode back to the second carriage, for it always went unsaid amongst the Velmorra siblings: [/color][color=#808080][i]protect[/i][/color] [color=#808080][i]Penellaphe[/i][/color][color=#808080]. Broad, powerful streaks of amalgamated black, white, and orange suddenly filled around them, accompanied by solid white with high-bannered tails curled over bristled backs and wide heads with deep, amber eyes, each collared in violet and bronze with antlered motifs branded to each leather cord. The long journey would’ve seen them restless, anything amiss acutely sensed, even the horses now could feel it: something stirred and clung to the summer wind, a premonition it would seem, heralded by the sun. [/color]

[color=#808080]And then she could smell it too, something that traveled on a warm breeze, thick and heavy:[/color][i][color=#808080] iron and rot[/color][/i][color=#808080]. [/color]

[color=#808080]Seraphina urged Myrkae into a sudden gallop and drew the winter blade at her hip; it sang with a finality once pulled from its sheath, a glistening pommel and hilt crafted with mixed metals of bronzed coppers and shafts of silver, a branded elk head there and wreathed in antlers. Close behind, Niktos followed, calling after her with a warning, his shout echoing through her head as she called back: [/color][color=#50404b]“I’ll be fine!”[/color]

[color=#808080]And she would be, just as she had been fine when she had ridden to Cragehollow to meet the forces of River’s End. She did not balk then, even when faced with the might of a singular unit of soldiers who cared little for her gender. A woman on the battlefield was no less or more to them, just another body in their way to run through, and hardly spared. [/color]

[color=#808080]At the end of the trail, where the mountain yielded to fields and the sun rose sluggish and hazed in cloud, Seraphina finally did leave the path with the life blood of her body frozen in shock and her expressive eyes immediately rounding out, the blade in her hand winking in the sunlight that also shone upon the desecrated remains of an elk, a patron of their house, brutally torn apart and lain there. As a sign. As a warning.[/color]

[color=#808080]As a threat. [/color]

[color=#808080]The mighty bull’s body was flayed, its reddish brown pelt torn away in vicious clumps, cut, severed, thrown askew, and wasted to utter ruin. Legs cleaved and gnawed, innards spilling outward, a sickening buzz of insects immediately assaulting her senses as the hounds she had followed yipped and bounded up her, some baying madly with the discovery, as Seraphina could only stare at the mutilated form of such grace and power. The most telling of its defilement was the antlers, shorn from its decapitated head, hacked away so ruthlessly that chips of bone and fur fell around it, eyes plucked, creating sunken pits of unseen horror, and a tongue that lolled out, half eaten, picked at by scavengers. Its heart was laid betwixt the cross of the once-majestic creature's crown, with a nondescript, black dagger, stabbed through it entirely and anchored in the soiled dirt. The scattered rocks bore slick remains of dried and decayed blood, the smell of its shame and despair causing Seraphina to pale, her stomach plummeting. For though she was no stranger to death, this was not by the sanction of Umbran or even Rimeran, their dominations known to the North as machinations of life and eternal winter that they embodied. This was an act of something far more obscene; this was chaos in all unraveling forms that defied the bounty of life, and such an animal's divinity now violated. [/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Sera - Gods! The fuck.”[/color][color=#808080] Niktos voiced his disgust aloud as he caught up to her. With a well-practiced gesture, she sheathed her sword and dismounted with bent knees and a soft grunt, not bothering to echo his outburst as he dismounted as well. She eased the excited hounds with sharp whistles ringing from her lips as Niktos hauled some of them back, creating space as the kennel master called for their return with bells and shouts. Seraphina kneeled, her fingers splayed, poised, her palm reaching for the dagger there; upon further inspection, something familiar was revealed, and she paused, lips contorted. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“This has to be the work of River’s End,”[/color][color=#808080] she accused with a whisper, her accent turned harsh and pushed through her teeth.[/color][color=#50404b] “Fort Twobrew isn’t far, just around the bend of the Southern Vein, easily traveled if you push through the smaller paths that surround Cragehallow. A small party could easily pass through them, unseen, to intercept us here.”[/color]

[color=#9f7560]“That’s a heavy accusation, Sera.”[/color][color=#808080] Niktos muttered and knelt beside her. He studied the dagger and the arrangement of the antlers and the brutal dismemberment, trying to rationalize the cruelty of such an act. [/color][color=#9f7560]“They’re hunters, they don’t waste game like this.”[/color]

[color=#50404b]“You don’t know them, some of the men I fought, hunters all of them, left dismembered foxes right along the borders and would soil their pelts of blood and mud to make a point.”[/color][color=#808080] To mimic the darker threads of her hair, she knew, but did not voice so aloud. [/color][color=#50404b]“Say what you will of the Kenras, but I doubt they are entirely aware of what happens; people spin truth to suit their needs, no matter their Lord.”   [/color]

[color=#808080]Their gazes met, clashed. Similar shades of blue, one lighter than the other, steelish and unwavering in his prying gaze, whilst hers ran deep, as if churning depths of the sea, so richly hued they shone almost violet, kissed by the rays of sunlight. Niktos never agreed to her methods; he often voiced such opinions when he was attempting to establish accords and reforge trade agreements for the market and trade. Fish imports were vital to their citizens during the winter, providing a large portion of their diet, along with salted venison. A luxury of commerce that was almost lost. [/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Put aside your past grievances to consider the reasoning, the implications, the risks.”[/color]

[color=#50404b]“I am,”[/color][color=#808080] she rejoined quickly and stood to her full height. Niktos rose with her, nearly a full head taller than she, glaring down the bridge of his nose, his knowing eyes awash with reprimand, revealing the potential of the ruling Lord he could one day become, the diplomatic mind of cunning efficiency. Seraphina’s chin notched up in retaliation– stubbornness. [/color][color=#50404b]“Two daughters, two sons. We’re a threat, we’re Velmorra, our line is deeply intertwined with Storvane. You, Lyric, Pen; it’s a smart match, it writes itself, our families finally joined as one. Can you imagine the powers of the North and South? Stonefallow is the birthplace of Kings, brother.”[/color]

[color=#50404b]“This,”[/color][color=#808080] she gestured with a pointed finger, her arm tensed. [/color][color=#50404b]“It's a message to answer that threat.”[/color]

[color=#9f7560]“You don’t know that. Remember, sister, you are a prospective bride too.”[/color]

[color=#808080]She immediately bristled, shoulders tense and drawn up, spine rigid, the light of the sun flickering off the crystalline shards discovered as sharpened glints of violet steel within her eyes, the namesake of the winter blade known to be true. Whatever words could be spared fell away as dew on blades of grass, trickling slowly, likened to the beads of sweat that fell over her brow and down the slope of Niktos’ jaw. Without a word, Seraphina bent down to grab hold of the dagger, tearing it away from the heart it impaled and from the ground. She immediately tucked it away in the space in her saddlebags, ignoring Niktos's soft protest, his expression shuttered, the reserved visage sliding into place with ease. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“Evidence,”[/color][color=#808080] she replied coolly, voice laced with frigid cold. [/color]

[color=#808080]Before Niktos could even formulate a response, Lyric, along with the carriages, emerged from the mountain pass. The younger Velmorra’s face thinned and paled, drawn as white as the snow. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“Don’t let Penallaphe out of the carriage,”[/color][color=#808080] she ordered,[/color][color=#50404b] “Not until we burn these remains, no matter who did it, such a creature didn’t deserve to be slain like this—especially one of our house.”[/color]

[color=#50404b]“We will honor it and its life before moving farther south,”[/color][color=#808080] Seraphina recited, bowing her head of black hair, the antlers worn catching the light, tines of silver like white fire.[/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Honor endures,”[/color][color=#808080] Niktos quoted their words, Lyric muttering in unison, still astride his horse as if frozen into place. With a solemn expression, Niktos reached for the elk's heart, studying its structure and the wet chambers still filled with blood; scarlet oozed into his palms, black with death. Something ill felt then churned through his body, anchored down into his soul, and with a glance towards his sister, he could not help but worry that this would not be the last corpse they’d come across. Be it beast or man.  [/color]

[color=#808080]For their long summer had only just begun. [/color]

[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]
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[color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] velmorra siblings [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] rowan, valenya, kenras, cantlowes, maeve, rhea, dorian, zahara. [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none[/color]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]