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[color=808080][color=#695645][b]darron[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/ow4oPPd][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color][color=#513e42][b]merial[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/ZcJG3QC][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color][color=50404b][b]seraphina[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/HZ5cKBX][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#bd8484][b]penellaphe[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/nOYAau8][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color][color=9f7560][b]niktos[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/0w04c7j][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color][color=447989][b]lyric[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/TVhxbqc][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [b]the great hall[/b][/color]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080][color=#808080]Lyric Velmorra truly and undoubtedly hated all of this.[/color]

[color=#808080]Though perhaps, in hindsight, hatred was an aggressive term, a label, as opposed to dislike, or even distaste, for these delicate intrigues of court so complexly interwoven. Reminiscent of the heraldry he currently studied, with its silver threads woven intricately through capes of navy blue, such a contrasting hue to the bronze and violet he donned, the deepest of jeweled maeve that coursed toward near black when hidden under the shadows of alcoves and vaulted ceilings. Through which, in his perusal, Lyric compared the hewn stone here with the refineries of home, the masonry similar in its tincture, but certifiably lacking in the comparison, the mountainous stone it was born from was no grace of Obsidia, but something far more raw, intimidating, aged in the daunting structure it proposed. He took the opportunity to thoroughly adjust the weight of his finery that felt cumbersome on his body, something that had gone unworn for many moons, in the intricacies of their house; motifs of antlers were worn on each Velmorra, sometimes boldly, and at other times more subdued and vague, with embroidered violets hidden within the weighted fabrics.[/color]

[color=#808080]Interesting and perhaps intentionally endeavored was the incorporation of armored pieces, be they the spined, partial pauldrons that eclipsed his shoulders, or the overlapping pieces of hammered bronze that Seraphina displayed against her sternum and caps of chiffon sleeves, an interesting enough variance that was more artful, less practical, but in its own, arguably her will of defiance when not permitted to dress [/color][color=#808080][i]more[/i][/color][color=#808080]. She would have worn her blade of winter at her hip had their mother not intervened; the sheathed sword instead rested in her quarters, as told when they reconvened upon their arrival in the Valley of Kings. For weeks, they had woven an intricate web of diplomacy to solidify their position in the South, a success evidenced by the cordial greetings that greeted their entourage as it arrived on the precipice of sunset, heralding the coming festivities. For Darron was well known as High Marshal, loved by his King, but his wife and children were lesser known until this fortuitous (one of Niktos’ words) day that introduced them as [/color][color=#808080][i]prospects[/i][/color][color=#808080]. Lesser than their legacy, more as their bargaining pieces. Seraphina made such a point often on their journey here, ever since the brutal dismemberment of the bull elk had been so cruelly displayed across their path, she had been more vocally forthcoming than usual; the event had affected them all, and he tried not to reminisce, to reflect on it, when the evening itself was already endowed thickly with tension. Niktos yearned for coincidence and hope, for the whys and the inquiries to barter, but Seraphina demanded answers and imposed the honor so owed to their name. [/color]

[color=#808080]Lyric just wanted to disappear.[/color]

[color=#808080]And Penellaphe? She hadn’t spoken to either of them on the entire journey, permitting only small glimpses from the carriage; weeks of silence had eclipsed her entirely. They could barely begin to wonder at the reasoning behind such a withdrawal, Niktos thought it related to their sister’s sudden isolation from them, an unspoken secrecy of familial struggles unique to their inevitabilities. Seraphina had refused to confirm the theory, but neither did she deny it, allowing it to fester within them all. In this, Lyric was entirely thankful that neither his gender nor place of birth held much weight in these games of matrimony, for there was little he could offer, much less give, when his heart yearned for more than these conceptual burdens would ever allow. [/color]

[color=#808080]But less conceptual was the weight of a family name, a house, a sigil that reigned majestic and wreathed with quiet authority. He could not help the way his eyes shifted, subtle, but cutting, a method learned in youth, to glimpse without notice, a trait, a gift, he much preferred in the shadows from where he stood. The family of Velmorra stood as a sword, a spear, a wicked point akin to the antlers of their patron, spread aloft on royal tines, each polished and refined. His father, the eternal general, dressed in a violet hue so dark it nearly appeared black, the bronze of his armor pieces captured rays of waning sunlight, and his mother, the eternal jewel of velvet and copper, at his side, the Unbowed and the Unbent. Seraphina and Penellaphe were visions of wonder, standing on either side and dressed in finery that set them apart from the court gowns they wore back home. His oldest sister softened by the royal purple of her dress, the accentuating golds warming the hue of her skin, and waves of dark hair twisted around pins of golden antlers to pull the sides back, soft curls swept back over her shoulders, left bare by the billowing sleeves that fell around her slender arms. [/color]

[color=#808080]Lyric had to do a double take then, for Penellaphe was so alike their mother, it was as if glimpsing back to a time unknown, the girlish beauty that Merial once was now encapsulated in her youngest daughter, dressed in burgundy, her youthful radiance beholden to the richness of such a color that brought warmth to her solemn face. Expressive eyes idle, hair unbound and curled, slender neck adorned in a circlet of antlers that rested gleaming points at the hollow of her throat. She spoke not one word to either of them, addressed no one when eyes flickered toward her impression, every glimpse from what Lyric could tell carefully dismissed as if she was waiting for someone worthy of her acknowledgment, her grace, her candor.[/color]

[color=#808080]Slowly and mindfully, he turned away from the banner and permitted his back to it just in time for the royals to be introduced. It was more symbolic, he would later come to observe, to trade the fowl at his back for the owls that descended as a flock, led by the introduction of their youngest, escorted by the Captain of the Guard, no doubt. [/color]

[color=#808080]The purity of white led by the staunch black, softness, loveliness, all such fitting appellations that immediately spun through Lyric’s mind, brimming with curiosity– Princess Rhea. He knew only what his father had told him, but the vision of her in such chastity was disarming, her laughter a thoroughly dismembering trill that plucked at the strings of a withdrawn spirit. In various ways, the sound reminded him of home, of times in the hearth-warmed halls of Tarn’s Rest, with Seraphina and Penellaphe’s laughter surrounding him, of the soft breaths of quiet joy his mother would allow, her confidential strengths both leagues of comforting and sorrowful. Lyric hardly noticed at all when Niktos stepped up beside him, something of admiration that adorned his face, freshly shaven to proudly display the stubborn ridge of a Velmorra jawline, before pure devastation contorted his features into something entirely forlorn. It was almost dejected, the sort of lapse in countenance most unbecoming of a man; their father often wore such an expression when faced with their mother’s melancholy when they thought no one was looking. But here, Lyric observed his brother with an arched brow, witnessing the will of a reserved soul wither under the creeping tendrils of yearning.[/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Boreal’s breath,” [/color][color=#808080]He chuckled, mostly out of disbelief, for no portrait or whispered report, nor utterance from his father could’ve prepared Niktos for the revelation that was Princess Maeve. Many would assume her rigid and unyielding, and so perhaps she was, but that would unjustly confine her to rules of uniformity that lacked grace, were devoid of poise, and of honor. It’s ritualistic deadliness, it is the ice that caps the Argent Vein, it is glistening perfection, the unyielding and unforgiving confines of winter and ice, unwavering, but it is also restraint and confinement by more than a tightly laced corset. Niktos, in his overcoat of velvet with its embroidered bronze trimmings that curled into antlers, wreathed in violets, his armor the banded sash across his chest, was a man utterly stricken. [/color]

[color=#447989]“Really?”[/color][color=#808080] Lyric whispered, incredulous. In the same breadth, though, there was no missing the way Niktos’ eyes would waver, flicker, darting and then reigned back with sheer force that immediately corded his neck, his pulse apparent, and his intensity doubled. An observant figure would notice the way the heir of Velmorra could not help but study Prince Dorian in equal measures. And then, should a curious mind ponder, who was it truly that inspired that fleeting glimpse of desire to march across his face before fleeing behind a reserved mask of cooled indifference.[/color]

[color=#808080]And then the Queen and King were announced, and something within the Velmorra line [/color][i][color=#808080]shifted.[/color][/i][color=#808080] They retained their manners of the sword, but there was a glacial gleam to his mother’s stare that never abdicated from the royal pair, and even Darron, who was known most for his stoicism, could not prevent the subtle shift in his stance or the drop of his brow, not quite a glare, but more like the rigidity of a man that commanded soldiers in war. [/color]

[i][color=#808080]They[/color][/i][color=#808080] knew the art forms here, the steps, and the methods for approaching the royal family in court when deemed appropriate. As such, the Velmorra’s lingered as other families moved forward to present themselves, as if bidding time, as if ensuring their place, but there was a calculating shift from Merial that signaled a soft incline in her chin toward her husband, deferring to him to lead their family as Darron finally approached the dais with genial warmth radiating from his character. [/color]

[color=#695645]“My King,”[/color][color=#808080] he began, the rich depth of his voice not unlike addressing a friend- a brother. [/color][color=#695645]“Allow me the honor to finally introduce you to my family.”[/color][color=#808080] He bowed, not unlike those before him, but it was as if asking stone to bend. At their mention, his wife and children bowed and curtsied, measured actions fluid before reforming themselves into the spearhead, Merial at his side, Niktos on the other, two steps behind, and Lyric off to his right, Seraphina and Penellaphe beside their mother and similarly stationed. [/color]

[color=#808080]While the King’s smile was always warm and radiant, there was a slight shift when House Velmorra stepped forward. It was miniscule, almost imperceivable unless one knew to look for it. The radiance and warmth of his smile dimmed, if but for a moment, like a cloud passing before the sun when his gaze settled on Merial. Time did not weather her like parchment but aged her like wine, far richer and more elegant with each passing year. Her long hair was like silk and as dark as a raven’s feathers against a moonless night’s sky. If his gaze lingered he could almost remember how it felt, like the gentle ripple of water slipping through his fingers. It was a sensation that up until that moment he had not realized he was starved for. But its absence was not her doing, but his own, and the hollow void that festered in her absence was his burden to bear. He deserved it.. And worse, for no other reason than for causing that cold indifference that settled behind her eyes in his presence. [/color]

[color=#808080]Whatever feelings had stirred in her presence, Rowan quickly pushed them away, burying them behind lock and key somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind where only his worst pains and deepest regrets lived. In its stead, his smile returned bright and welcoming, but missing [i]something[/i], like a small piece had been chipped away and lost in the Weave. He stepped forward, descending the stairs to the dais with his arms extended like he was not just greeting a friend but family. He did not wait for Lord Darron to finish his bow before clapping him on the shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. [/color]

[color=#dbbc77]"Dear friend, nothing would please me more than to meet this wonderful family of yours that you speak so highly of."[/color][color=#808080] His smile widened as he met the gaze of each of the Velmorra children with the quiet pride of someone who was seeing the faces behind the tales he had been told for years. [/color][color=#dbbc77]"It is long overdue that our families should finally meet."[/color]

[color=#808080]Many would not notice that imperceptible shift in the King’s countenance, the brief cowling of his exuberance that waned, just so, under a mind conflicted and a soul weighted by the crown he bore. But Merial noticed, for of course she did, in the reflection of her heart, there lingered a sliver, a vicious sort of gash, that yearned for the man before her as the sovereign of her lament and her rigid spirit, for Rowan existed as not just King in her eyes, but also the first love that left bitter unrest through her family line. Age had worn him finely, just as it had done to her husband, both once proud and beautiful warriors who carved a warpath across the realm, sown tale and renown through its depths, and in this Merial was a woman who could not help but [/color][i][color=#808080]compare[/color][/i][color=#808080] the two. It was a startling revelation, with her gaze flickering betwixt them, the General who equally embraced his King, his grin broad and his eyes brightened by the glimmer of pride, despite the rigid chips that lingered behind the glistening emotions, similarly to the shift in Merial’s piercing observations before she forcefully relinquished herself from the yawning abyss of her memories and flicked her gaze further along the dais to where Queen Valenya stood. [/color]

[color=#808080]The epitome of ruthless efficiency, polished and perfected, all of these personifications of silent fury and brutal courtship– everything that Merial did not trust, could not, and ultimately refused to. She would bow to her because that is what these games entailed; it was the careful movement of pieces on a board that convinced Merial to meet those sharp eyes, only for a moment, to acknowledge her reign, her station, her place at the side of the man she could not help but still harbor affection for. At her side, her daughters shifted, subtle and reserved.[/color]

[color=#808080]Until Penellaphe chose to act within that precious second. Once stoic and disregarding, she stepped forward to move beside her mother, such an exact replica of the young woman she once was, down to the tilt in her head and the flex in her jaw, even to the breadth of her gaze as they lingered solely on the King, intensity corded swiftly through her frame and bound her spine to seemingly lift her up higher. Merial regarded her daughter carefully, her actions unhurried, deliberate, and intentional, a similar tactic once employed by herself, tutored by her mother… [/color]

[i][color=#808080]To catch the eye of a King…[/color][/i]
[color=#808080]She inhaled sharply, suddenly, and held it there.[/color]

[color=#695645]“Yes,”[/color][color=#808080] Darron chuckled, and spared a brief glimpse toward his wife, perceiving the way she stood even more rigid, tensed, her hands folded in front as if to contain the bones and flesh beneath her dress, to control herself, no doubt, by the way she refused to meet either of their eyes. A part of him wished she had remained home back in Stonefallow, to perhaps preserve the fabled beauty that was Merial, once beloved of the King, to spare her these encroaching doubts when faced with the results of an inevitable betrayal.[/color][color=#695645] “Long overdue. I often carry tales back home with me. I feel as if I have truly witnessed each of your children grow up.”[/color]

[color=#808080]Seraphina listened idly, bored with these tactics, the prettily laced words and their hidden meanings, each utterance filtering through her mind, the quiet breath whispering past her lips, anchoring herself whilst her father spoke. She did not particularly care for the pomp and grandeur, nor did she care for the rustling silk and velvet encasing her, loathed against her skin, perfumed and oiled with touches of fragrance worn behind her ears and wrists. The exchange from riding leathers to this whispering chiffon was a startling contrast, more elegant than any gown donned back home, but queerly misplaced. In Stonefallow, often Seraphina would be given grace to wear ornamental pieces of armor with her gowns, bronzed and polished and adorned in silver edging. Here, she moved, carefully, rolled her weight from one side to the next, and felt askew standing next to Penellaphe, who moved so purposely and gracefully, born for these maneuvers, and then their mother, who was perfectly molded for the intrigues of court. [/color]

[color=#808080]She’d be better suited to standing as their guard, regaled in the armor of their house, blazoned with the rearing stag, similarly to the branded owls embossed onto the ebony chest pieces that she could not help but admire from her station. Her eyes of a near violet hue dipped carefully through each of them until they snagged over the curls (their likeness found in each Storvane child) of the Captain of the Guard– Declan. Subtly was not in her repertoire, devoid of it in fact, from the way she immediately sized him up, not just in feminine appraisal (she was still a woman by the Gods, she just rode into the battle with them too), but the way one would discern an opponent, her penetrating perusal appraising every polished surface of armor and then down to his sword where she realized, once more, why she had felt so out of sorts without her blade of winter sheathed at her hip, her fingers cautiously reaching down to where it should have been. [/color]

[color=#808080]Declan had grown comfortable in his years with the guard, shifting from being noticed before he entered every room to now being invisible in plain sight. He never much enjoyed the attention that came with being the heir, but he also understood the purpose and necessity behind. It suited him better than Dorian, the prying eyes of the people that came with their harsh judgements or rose tinted loyalties. He learned to bear the weight similarly to his father, while his brother was still learning how to navigate its complexities. But there was a peace that came from being part of the guard, being hidden in plain sight like a statue or suit of armor left to decorate the halls rather than a sword brandished as an open sign of protection. [/color]

[color=#808080]That particular day he drew more attention than normal, no doubt escorting Rhea played its part, but his father also requested for him to not wear his helmet so that even in his station, he could still be seen as a branch of House Storvane. Once the introductions had begun, his presence had vanished into the shadows like the rest of his men. Having been out of the public’s eye for years, he had grown comfortable in his invisibility, but with it he gained a keen sense of knowing when eyes were trained on him, even when he looked elsewhere. [/color]

[color=#808080]His head rose slowly, not so much like searching but to adjust his stance. Declan’s gaze leisurely swept across each member of his family as they stood upon the dais, down the steps toward his father, then along the current family being presented. He recognized Lord Darron immediately, having spent countless hours locked in lengthy discussions and debate within the council chambers, which meant the small congregation of dark haired nobles could be none other than House Velmorra. His attention drifted from the Lord and Lady, to their sons, before settling on the presumed eldest daughter as her gaze surveyed him like one would appraise an opponent or a suitor. [/color]

[color=#808080]He did not grow uncomfortable beneath the directness of her scrutiny, the dormant part of him that was once a Prince was used to such prying glances. His brows tugged together in silent curiosity, studying her in a similar way she did him until her gaze settled back on his. Declan did not know if she was the type of Lady to shrink away when caught red handed or settle into the bed she made, but either way, he did not draw attention to it. The only shift she would have been able to notice is the subtle way the corner of his mouth curled minutely into a faint smirk as he nodded his head in a small bow, before pulling his attention away like he had never noticed in the first place. [/color]

[color=#808080]During that small, missable exchange, the King continued to beam and boast about both his family and the one presented before him with unfiltered enthusiasm. [/color][color=#dbbc77]"I know each of my children see you as family and not a member of my council. It may be presumptuous of me, but I hope the following months gives us the opportunity to [i]truly[/i] call one another family,"[/color][color=#808080] he mused joyfully with a gentle clap of his hands. Houses Storvane and Velmorra have both been fruitful and blessed with four children each. A union between his own family and another who share a strenuous alliance would be the most advantageous, no doubt. But a more selfish part of Rowan hoped to create a union where he had failed those many years ago. [/color]

[color=#808080]The King stepped aside, sweeping his arm up through the air toward the dais and awaiting family as he spoke. [/color][color=#dbbc77]"While you are very well acquainted with my family, my Lord, it would be a pleasure to introduce them to the rest of House Velmorra."[/color][color=#808080] His hand stopped, hovering in the air with the palm up, guiding their eyes and attention to his Queen. In that moment he was trapped in a vise between the woman he once loved, who still tugged at his heart strings even through her cold indifference, and his wife who emanated a different type of chill, sharp and ruthless, with the arrogance of knowing what transpired in the silence and still being the one who came out on top. Rowan’s fingers curled into his palm, forming a fist as he dropped his hand to his side and steeled his resolve before continuing. [/color]

[color=#dbbc77]“My…"[/color][color=#808080] his voice trailed off, searching for the correct word that was respectful of the woman he had spent over three decades with, but also not disrespectful to the one he loved and lost. [/color][color=#dbbc77]"[i]Wife[/i] and Queen, Valenya. Formally of the Phorian Coast."[/color]

[color=#808080]Queen Valenya stepped forward with her head held high with a renewed sense of vigor in the face of the woman she beat to the throne. There was even a small ghost of a smirk that curled at the corners of her mouth and illuminated behind her eyes as she lowered herself into a curtsey. It was pristine and perfect, as always, but only those who had been studying her movements intently would notice the way she lowered herself a fraction more. It wasn’t in deference or respect, but a mocking self-righteousness. [/color][color=#942641]"Welcome, my Lord… [i]my Lady,[/i]" [/color][color=#808080]she began as she slowly stood upright. [/color][color=#942641]"I look forward to the prospect of [i]finally[/i] uniting our great houses."[/color][color=#808080] Her smile grew, almost derisive in the way it mirrored her husband’s, but it never reached her eyes which remained dark and cold as they settled on Merial. Without another word, she nodded her head and returned to her place beside the throne. [/color]

[color=#808080]Rowan blinked slowly, drawing in measured, steady breaths in an attempt to keep his calm and avoid making any further scenes. But his eyes spoke the words he did not dare speak as they snapped to his wife. She did not challenge him further, and for that he was thankful. He gave himself a moment to find his warmth—more a mask than authenticity in that moment—then turned back to the Velmorras like nothing had transpired. He cleared his throat and grin widened as he pressed on, motioning toward his son next.[/color][color=#dbbc77] "My secondborn son, Prince and heir, Dorian.[/color][color=#808080]"[/color]

[color=#808080]The Prince sauntered forward to the edge of the dais with a casual air that would not be expected of a man who was next in line to rule. He lacked the seriousness and patience for formalities such as these, but in truth, while he might have been a [i]peacock[/i], he did not much enjoy being kept on display rather than getting the opportunity to mingle. His place was not on a throne or beside it, but among the Lords and Ladies that filled their halls. He could not seduce—or secure a betrothed as his mother would aptly put it—when he was above people and not among them. Dorian was over the ceremony of it all after the scene his mother made at his sister’s expense. Whatever entertainment he might have made of it all had lost its luster. His single loose curl dangled freely as he lowered himself into a bow and pressed his right hand to his chest. He gave himself a moment to study the faces before him and attempt to commit them to memory for wine and revelry replaced them, then returned to his place beside his sister. [/color]

[color=#808080]The King nodded his head, then motioned both of his daughters forward. [/color][color=#dbbc77]"And, of course, my wonderful daughters, Maeve and Rhea."[/color]

[color=#808080]Both Princesses stepped forward, both elegance and grace with their crimson curls, adorned in their gowns of navy and ivory. Maeve was the picture of what was expected of a woman of her standing, carrying herself with a poise that was unmatched and honed from years of practice. She did not look at the Lords before her as prospective love matches or the proper pieces of lineage to give her the most attractive children, they were puzzle pieces, a necessary step in her life’s path. Unlike her sister, she was not looking for an opportunity to escape from the Black Citadel, on the contrary she was loath to lower her standings from a Princess to a Lady, but thus was her plight as a woman. And rather than go against the grain and fight it, she embraced it and carried her exceedingly high standards into the pool of suitors. [/color]

[color=#808080]Before her both Niktos and Lyric were offered on bronze platters like offerings to make an alliance, and while she understood the merits behind the politicking unlikely to settle for either of the men before her. One, was a second son, and thus deserved not an ounce of her time. The other? He was not at the end of the list, nor was he at the top. Sure, Niktos was attractive, but the same could be said for most of the Lords in the hall. But beauty and sexual appeal did little in her regards for marriage. She knew little of his prowess with a blade or on horseback, nor had she heard word of his command as a Lord. Unfortunate. But she also imagined her mother would not be keen on any matches with anyone from House Velmorra. All to be said, the Lords before her did little to keep her attention beyond the required curtseying. [/color]

[color=#808080]Rhea, on the other hand, followed in her sister’s footsteps, mirroring her movements like she had done numerous times before. Her expression was almost vacant, with a far off look behind her eyes that didn’t settle on any of the nobles before her. She still smiled, more out of muscle memory rather than authentic warmth but otherwise she presented herself as expected, perhaps a bit distracted and downtrodden but a Princess by all accounts. [/color]

[color=#808080]Perception was key and delicate in these games; these forged and articulated circumstances that aligned themselves with every glimpse, structured movement, countenance, and annotation. Smoothed bites and silvered tongues, with the brightest of lights to cast the deepest of shadows that churned navy blue, bisected by royal violet. Bronze and silver thus clashed, molded, two differing hues of precious metals beset with their adorning jewels. The word ‘Wife’, a mere title to some, an adoring affection perhaps when muttered, a leash or a claim to others, but in this, it was so phrased in a way that fell into voided silence, a hollow resonation then bequeathed with the righteousness of Queen, and every rolling timbre of the King lanced as a bolt of Boreal’s reign towards Merial’s core. Perhaps her spirit of temperance and resilience, born of Stonefallow’s winters, was not enough to soothe the flame of indignation that plumed beneath the viperous intentions of Queen Valenya. Her words were placating, near patronizing, and her smile, to some of the court, would’ve been perceived as respectful and admiring to the House intimately interwoven with her own, deeply corded and conspiring with promise, but this was the simper of a predator that mocked as a great, winged bird of prey that swooped low, skirts pooled and plucked as wings, her curtsey so fluid as talons raking against chilled stone. Merial saw it all for what it was worth, and the twinge of pain that crossed through the cold indifference etched across her features fractured, a sliver of truth peered forth through the crack in her unbowed soul, her dark eyes glistening as within the clasp of her hands she felt the stinging bite of her nails piercing into the flesh of her palm, warmth pooled, stung and she flattened the shallow crescents bleeding scarlet into her trembling gestures against taut muscles that undulated beneath a rigid corset. [/color]

[color=#808080]Rushing to her side would’ve only shamed her, but Darron was a man besotted with his wife, and rather than rush to her side or disregard her ailment entirely, he merely held out his hand, similar to how King Rowan had done previously for [/color][color=#808080][i]his wife, [/i][/color][color=#808080]who[/color][color=#808080][i] [/i][/color][color=#808080]had refused to unify themselves before them. The differences in reception were stark and obvious; it was subtle in the actions, a simplistic enough surrender as Merial slid her hand into Darron’s awaiting grasp and held such firmly, tucking her in close as his side, his body angled in such a way to sever that burgeoning connection brought from the depths of a love long lost. [/color]

[color=#808080]To their children, this matter of seconds fell away into a weighted silence. Niktos did not miss anything in his observations, and neither did Seraphina (though he also noticed her sudden attachment to a certain Captain of the Guard and the way she regarded the man as an opponent postured across enemy lines), who met his flickering gaze immediately and tensed. Her spine flexed, rigid, she stood ever higher as the blade of winter polished to a peerless shine, the unified spear as they were, the royal tines of their patron spreading out to encompass the dias in a show of unity as their general father moved. The introductions continued, but there was a tension that slithered through the bronzed front of the realm’s most honorable of houses, a stag that had lowered its crown to the owl not as subjection but as a warning. They were silent as opposed to boastful, intentional in their unspoken vow, loyal there were to a fault, but the name of Velmorra refused to remain hidden in the glories of snow and stone just because it had borne a line of Kings.[/color]

[color=#808080]Honor endures.[/color]

[color=#808080]Dorian’s impression was subdued, fleeting; they were not the first family to be introduced and lingered towards the end of the procession, the taxing affairs of being presented weighted heavily upon him by the casual indifference in which he exuded, but the glory of him as a man was not understated in the way Niktos studied him so intently. He bade it not show across his clenched jaw, the ticking muscle there hammering into an erratic pulse that coiled down the rigid line of a convulsing throat. Should anyone truly notice, it would be difficult not to guess what vexed him even when his eyes lowered themselves only seconds later. Seraphina was too preoccupied in the way her head canted one way and then slid carefully to the next, violet eyes dancing, mirth sorted through the tilt of her lips in a challenging smirk now thrown as an invisible gauntlet not towards the heir that she was to consider, but the elder brother, since cast from the royal line, who caught her bold stare and held it briefly before dismissing her. But the acknowledgment was there, and in this it lingered; curiosity roamed through her blood; her nature demanded more, and was stubborn to relinquish it even amid the soft exchanges happening around her. Seraphina honed in on her challengers ruthlessly, and there she beheld the Captain of the Guard as such a thing to conquer. [/color]

[color=#808080]Penellaphe could not be more disregarding, her attentions and fixations resting upon King Rowan, bequeathing his second-born and heir with a shallow glimpse and a tilt of her head. The looming cowl of Merial’s likeness was a haunting prospect, reflecting back to easier times before coveted lands became bedeviled by cruelty and bloodshed. In the most minute gestures, she merely tucked a springing coil of black hair behind her ear, the antlers nestled around her throat glinting in the waning light. [/color]

[color=#808080]Maeve was even more devastating up close. Niktos’ previous sentiments and observations were only doubled and compounded by the severity of her ruthlessly perfected visage, to the finery donned and every whisper of fabric even so carefully executed when she dipped into a well-rehearsed curtsy. In the briefest of moments, he was a youth in court when first introduced to a Lady, a youngling Lord unbeknownst to a destiny that awaited him in the scheme of lineages and crowns, but smitten with the introductions and announcements of childhood promises. In the looming shadow of his mind torn asunder, Niktos felt a simmering need, a want, a kernel of desire that lodged betwixt his ribs and nestled within his lungs that grew curiously bold at the envisioning dream of what Maeve would look like if disheveled. Her pride was evident and worn simply as a shawl over bare shoulders, not too loud or boasting, but evident still in the way she carried herself [/color][i][color=#808080]above[/color][/i][color=#808080] them. He felt decidedly beneath her and found the position not entirely unpleasant, but Gods above did he want to catch her unawares just as she had done unto him, and when she bequeathed them with a careful dismissal, her attention left wanting, he was unable to silence the small chuckle that slid from his throat and carried up from his chest that feathered into a scoff before it was silenced by the lifted brow of his mother who quietly shook her head– nothing here would go unnoticed. [/color]

[color=#808080]Rhea was far lovelier, but her subdued and hollowed mannerisms left much to be desired, her mimed efforts lackluster, her vacant and cast-off look snagging against Lyric’s memory. She had been laughing moments before, but the previous display and ridicule had left its shaming mark, and there were parts of Lyric that lamented over the loss of it, but he could not bring himself to action, could do little else in the line of his family, though he made an effort to capture her attention, if anything, to signal something of a camaraderie that she was not alone in the vaulted void left in the wake of their older siblings.[/color]

[color=#808080]The opportunity, though, that fleeting chance, fell beneath the sheer magnificence of his general father, who, with renewed enthusiasm and with something akin to a commandeering glean in his dark eyes, fell into introducing the house of Velmorra with both honor and pride, commanding the rich cadence of his voice as he had done numerous times on the battlefield. They knew his name, his impression, and here we would reveal to the realm the hidden gem of his heart and the pride of his house, and they would not forget it.[/color]

[color=#695645]“It is as you say, I see you and your children as family, watching them all grow up into the fine examples of royalty that they are. [/color][color=#695645][i]All of them[/i][/color][color=#695645].” [/color][color=#808080]There was little distinction in the way Darron’s words coiled, the way he dedicated that portion of time to acknowledge Rowan individually, and to all but name Declan outright, and it was no secret to where his favoritism lay in the way of forsaken heirs and strutting men who were forlorn of their birthright. He paused here long enough before continuing. [/color][color=#695645]“Family, we already are, in these coming months, we shall make it [/color][color=#695645][i]official[/i][/color][color=#695645].” [/color]

[color=#808080]With her delicate hand held so finely within his, Darron guided Merial forward, who lifted her head, a chilled luminescence sparkling to life in her gaze as it settled carefully on King Rowan before fixating on Queen Valenya with rapt attention, the ghosting curl of a smile blooming, something truly endearing, saccharine, pulling across her features into a simpering grin.[/color][color=#695645] “[/color][color=#695645][i]My wife[/i][/color][color=#695645],”[/color][color=#808080] Darron emphasized, subtly but pointedly. [/color][color=#695645]“Lady Merial, as you well know.”[/color]

[color=#808080]She fell into her curtsy with a certain grace, likened to a crystalline tower with its sharpened apex and rigid lines, as if she were undoubtedly made of Obsidia, the color of her hair reminiscent of its void-like, structured core. Unlike Valenya, she did not dip herself so low, though she came close to it still, for this was another formation in the way of things, for she may have lost the throne to the tides of war, but she did not in the throes of love, for none could deny that Darron Velmorra loved Merial Velmorra with all that he possessed, even if portions of her soul were irrevocably bound to the man he valued as both King and brother.[/color]

[color=#513e42]“My [/color][color=#513e42][i]Queen[/i][/color][color=#513e42], as always, it is such a pleasure. How do you find the Valley from the Coast? I hope you have adjusted well enough over the years.”[/color][color=#808080] Her lashes panned down, a nod, with a small and delicate cant of her head, whilst she peered up before rising to meet Rowan’s eyes. [/color][color=#513e42]“My King. It is an honor to finally grace these halls. My husband brings many tales home.”[/color][color=#808080] To anyone else, it was a simplistic conversation dressed in platitudes, the former lover making niceties where deemed appropriate to the woman who warmed the bed of the man whose heart she once knew as well as any. There was, however, a discernible intent laden in Merial’s choice of words; those well acquainted with the delicate art of articulated speech could pluck the words from her lips and read them as scripture.[/color]

[color=#808080]The Queen’s head inclined, curious and incredulous not only at the fact Lady Velmorra acknowledged her, but openly conversed. The rest of the Lords and Ladies might have offered their respects and greetings but none openly addressed her with anything beyond that. There was a sharpness like a hand poised on the hilt of a blade, but it remained sheathed. The blood letting could wait for tonight, and [i]only[/i] that night, was for pleasantries, but it was still there, ready and waiting like a viper in the shadows. [/color][color=#942641]“To be honest, I miss the ocean and the salt in the air,"[/color][color=#808080] she replied with a gentleness in her tone that drew the stunned sidelong glances of her children. Valenya could play the game, even if those around her only knew her for her candor. She gave her children a fleeting glance that said more to them than anyone else could grasp, a silent yet stern warning, before looking back toward Merial.[/color][color=#942641] "But, alas, sacrifices must be made,"[/color][color=#808080] she concluded with layered words as her hands clasped together against the silk of her skirts.[/color]

[color=#808080]Merial’s expression, from mawkish and cloying, lapsed into a frown, delicate and nearly dismissible, for she had not expected the Queen to respond so… candidly. But within, she understood the implications, the carefully veiled ones that perhaps women of their station could only grasp.[/color]

[color=#695645]“My firstborn son and heir, Niktos.” [/color][color=#808080]Darron continued, missing the exchange between his wife and Valenya entirely.[/color][color=#808080]Niktos bowed deeply, and perhaps for far too long, a few mere seconds that spared him to glimpse upward through peculiarly long lashes that snagged his gaze against the perfect coils of crimson hair that belonged to Maeve and perhaps, then, to spare a fleeting regard towards Dorian. Shafts of hair cut over his brow to shadow the breadth of his gaze before he stood and uttered. [/color][color=#9f7560]“It is an honor.”[/color][color=#808080] Simple and direct, his voice was meant to be bold and proud, but instead came hoarse and deepened, reflecting something unknown that roiled through his bones. [/color]

[color=#695645]“My eldest daughter, Seraphina.” [/color][color=#808080]Her curtsy was less elegant than that typically afforded to a Lady; she was more unyielding in strength, a staunch weapon displayed in the light at just the right angle, a perfected soldier with her military grace. She spared no words as her brother had, just her gaze of near violet that flitted betwixt each Storvane, Declan included.[/color]

[color=#695645]“And my youngest children, Lyric and Penellaphe.”[/color][color=#808080] They bowed and curtsied respectfully, Lyric’s movement quick and despondent, a near scowl worn onto his countenance (impatience, perhaps), and Penellaphe swift and fluid, brought a fraction lower than her sister and mother.[/color]

[color=#bd8484]“Your Majesties,”[/color][color=#808080] she finally spoke, gracing the ears of her family after days of stoicism and vigilance, as if harnessing that delicate cadence of her voice for this precise moment. However, she proffered only so much, knew just enough to give in trials, these initiations and introductions and critical steps that would seal the future of Velmorra and Aerndal combined. Penellaphe smoothed her palms against her skirts, subtle gestures that mimicked her mother's. [/color]

[color=#695645]“The House of Velmorra,”[/color][color=#808080] Darron finalized, Merial’s hand still within his own, and lifting it just so in their well-unified family to present to the King and Queen, and to the entirety of the court. A powerful force to surely be reckoned with.[/color]

[color=#808080]The King’s grin widened, filled with a warmth and compassion often unknown to royalty. [/color][color=#dbbc77]"You have a delightful family. I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you more during our time together."[/color][color=#808080] While his smile remained, there was a heaviness behind his eyes that could be mistaken as old age and weariness from the formality of introductions, but in reality it was the pang of a love… lost. Seeing her likeness reflected back in their austere glances or the darkness of each child’s hair tugged at something forlorn within him that had been buried away for decades. Rowan loved his own children more than life itself, but seeing the one face he had to turn away to win a war reflected back at him tenfold struck something deeper inside him. [/color]

[color=#808080]He cleared his throat, forcing his warmth to shine forward, repressing the darkness that frayed at the edges of his mind, to greet his friend as he always had… like family. [/color][color=#dbbc77]"I thank you all for making the long journey from Stonefallow. I know it is not for the faint of heart."[/color][color=#808080] Rowan met the gaze of every member of House Velmorra before concluding. [/color][color=#dbbc77]"My home is your home and I do hope that you all enjoy yourselves during your stay."[/color][color=#808080] With a parting pat to his friend’s shoulder, the King slowly climbed back up the dais. The discomfort behind his eyes was fleeting and visible for only a moment to his family, before snuffing it like a candle as he reclaimed his spot upon the throne as if nothing had happened.[/color]

[color=#695645]“Your Grace,”[/color][color=#808080] Darron concluded, slow and methodical, his eyes doing a thorough sweep of the man he had spent months with in the bitter cold of war, of seasons that passed with nothing but bleak reality trembling in its wake… He made a small bow, a military action that held a closed fist against his breast, and said little else, whilst Merial was the first to dispatch herself from the oppressing weight of their mutual exchanges, no bow or utterance of gratitude, just elegant steps hastened by the phantom that wore the face of her King. Lyric was not far behind, immediately at her side, where they spoke hushed and close, her maternal affections clasping a delicate palm against his shoulder, a simple motion that told him not to worry for her but to instead focus on his own affairs. [/color][i][color=#513e42]Rhea was truly lovely, wasn’t she?[/color][/i]

[color=#447989][i]Yes,[/i][/color][color=#808080] Lyric would mutter, [/color][color=#447989][i]as lovely as a flower wilting under darkness…[/i][/color]

[color=#808080]He stood taller than her, her youngest boy, and escorted her into the crowd of Lords and Ladies, the rigid scowl of his brow creating shadows over his angular features.  [/color]

[color=#808080]Seraphina’s flickering eyes stilled, shorn of ice, reminiscent of ice floes in the turbulent seas, incredulous as her father made his recognition known in time with his farewells. Would he truly not mention anything of what they encountered on their travels? Rowan had mentioned as much, knowing the journey was long, knowing it tested the fortitude of those born in the North and the cold, just as others could’ve betted or hedged, just as the one who was responsible for the maiming of the bull elk left for them to bury. The flames from the pyre burned fresh in her mind, the smell coiling, the bones bleached, and the antler she had taken from the ashes felt within the palm of her hand as a demented blade worn of death and despair. Seraphina moved close to the dais, silk-feet whispering, chiffon ruffling, the simple movement stirring a swell and rush of energy into the breadth of her lips as she prepared herself to speak –[/color]

[color=#50404b]“There’s something –”[/color]

[color=#9f7560][i]“Sera.”[/i][/color]

[color=#808080]Niktos flanked her immediately, his arm branded across her torso to steer her about, nearly hauling her away into the shadows of the hall, a soft gasp parted from her lips before she jerked back and swiftly removed herself from him, a brief altercation should anyone decide to pry or glean, the elder siblings of Velmorra at odds with one another in the grand scheme of the coming summer months. [/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Now is not the time,”[/color][color=#808080] he whispered, low and steady, his height pressing inward. She stood up straighter, if such were possible, everything about her rigid and unyielding. [/color]

[color=#50404b]“Then when? Or do we simply let it go? I feel as if you’re stalling for something.”[/color][color=#808080] Seraphina hissed, head given at an angle, her words cutting and slick with her ire. [/color]

[color=#9f7560]“Consider it as leverage, we say nothing now, whoever is responsible will wonder why we haven’t made claims or brought it up to the King and Queen as an official complaint. Let them stew over it for a time, let them slip up. Someone will have wanted us to know it was them as time continues. This is going to be a long, long summer, Sera…”[/color]

[color=#808080]They had taken small steps away from the raised platform, but Seraphina's eyes kept wandering back, an internal war beginning to take hold, its assertion glistening, swift, and severe, in the expression that clouded her charming disposition, turning it into something calculating and bold. It was Penellaphe who met her eyes in that moment, a flickering pass between sisters that yawned into the chasm they created, a simple nod, a delicate motion with a quirked brow and then the younger of the two had moved on, stepping around them, avoiding them entirely before she followed after their father who, as a general, surveyed the room as he would a battle field and greeted faces he often would see in his rotations as High Marshall. Seraphina visibly deflated, then spared Niktos one final glance before leaving him alone to his distractions, a soft promise whispered that she would not simply let this go. His attention thus lifted towards the royal family, stolen, as he was helplessly suspended between a shameful, lustful qualm for both the Prince and Princess, unable to discern whom his heart leaped for in that moment, yet knowing it would damn him, and perhaps his house, all the same.[/color]

[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]


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