[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/VKP8sJ6.jpeg[/img] [sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][color=#FFE0B5][b]araminth[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]..[/color] & [color=2e2c2c]..[/color] [color=#705b56][b]branwen[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]..[/color] & [color=2e2c2c]..[/color] [b][color=#38AAC7]junia[/color][/b] [color=2e2c2c]..[/color] & [color=2e2c2c]..[/color] [color=#CE796B][b]corbin[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [b]the fist of the king[/b][color=2e2c2c]....[/color] |[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [i][b]days before the feast[/b][/i][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080] A hummed prayer weaved through the rumble of several carriages fighting the coast winds. A page cut the air with a sharp [i]thwip[/i], the reader’s dissatisfaction with the book obvious. A baby’s hunger cries joined, tongue clicking to the roof of their mouth, “Neh-”, met with a jiggle and a [i]shhhhh[/i]. Four pairs of knees knocked together at the center of the carriage. Four pairs of identically shaped knees, with the same mole on their left kneecap, which none of them had ever discovered they shared, nor ever would. Araminth held her fussing son to a chest unfit to feed him as Corbin looked outside upon grey skies meeting a grey ocean. The young man was green and made the wood of his lute soft with his sweat. He cradled it on his lap like a mate trying to keep him upright. Junia sat across from him, skipping ahead to the ending of her book. Her bad mood could not spoil the visage of youth and springtime she evoked with her fair presence. Beside her sat her square-faced opposite. Branwen hummed as she wove straw with worked, calloused fingers, binding it around a lock of Corbin’s hair. Three more were scattered on her lap, fashioned from more straw and the hair of the other siblings. Junia shut her book. [color=#38AAC7]“Do you have to do that now?”[/color] She twisted to Branwen. [color=#FFE0B5]“Don’t distract her during ritual, June,”[/color] Araminth warned over her baby’s grizzling. [color=#FFE0B5]“It’s tradition.”[/color] [color=#38AAC7]“Please, ritual. She’s playing with sticks. You made up this tradition to keep Bran from talking and now the carriage smells like a barn.”[/color] [color=#FFE0B5]“Like [i]home.”[/i][/color] Corbin stirred, muffling his groan into his shoulder. [color=#CE796B]“Minthy, I don’t think that dried fish kept well.”[/color] [color=#FFE0B5]“Besides, it’s for your own protection,”[/color] Araminth continued, [color=#FFE0B5]“It will keep you safe in the Citadel. Gods know—”[/color] Junia blew a raspberry. [color=#38AAC7]“I don’t need a little dolly to protect me,”[/color] she snarked. She threw herself onto Branwen’s lap, feet planted on the carriage roof. She clasped her hands together to beg in a childish manner, [color=#38AAC7]“O’weaver? Won’t you thatch me a new maidenhood? I promise I’ll be more careful this time, I won't let anything touch it! Not my finger, nor a courtier’s tongue, nor a knight’s prick, nor the arm of Master Edgarth’s chair nor Uncle Arren’s foot—”[/color] The collective groans had reached such a pitch they finally drowned her out. Even Branwen, who had been diligently working on the dolls as the bickering went around her, scrunched her face and kneed her off. Junia looked delighted with herself. Araminth’s lips thinned the same way their mother’s did. [color=#FFE0B5]“What are our words?”[/color] She demanded. Junia’s smile dropped in annoyance. [color=#FFE0B5][b]“What are our words?”[/b][/color] [color=#CE796B]“I don’t know, grains and shit,”[/color] Corbin answered through a burp that was very nearly an upchuck. Bran spoke, [color=#705b56]“Bounty befall the—”[/color] [color=#FFE0B5][b]“Wicked and just,”[/b][/color] Araminth took over. [color=#FFE0B5]“House Tyrcell serves all equally. That means we share our gifts, no matter our trespasses. We all deserve protection.”[/color] Each Tyrcell had an idol placed in their lap by Bran's hand. Junia looked at the humble thing like she'd been smeared with feces. The baby, whose name was Hector—though the siblings beyond Araminth had not grappled with the baby being someone named, rather than something wriggling—let out a scream for a long-overdue feeding. Araminth knocked on the roof and began to stand before the carriage had stopped. She glared between Junia and Corbin. [color=#FFE0B5]“And you better hope that straw covers the stink of poppyweed on the both of you.”[/color] She left the carriage, Junia’s cackling ringing in her ears. She hit the ground in such a way it upset an old wound and her hand held in her stomach with a grimace of pain. Corbin flopped out and immediately started hurling the dried fish that the fumes and motion had knocked around in his stomach and spoiled. Up ahead, Lord Tern was exiting his carriage, too caught up in a rant to assist his lady down, [color=#de3e33]“—and we’re stopping? There’s a bath and silk robes just over yonder, months of festivity stretched before us held in the royal court, and you want to take in the view?!”[/color] He gestured to grey on grey on grey. [color=#de3e33]“If anyone needs to relieve themselves, [i]use a pot!”[/i][/color] He whacked Corbin on the backside with his sheathed ceremonial blade. [color=#de3e33]“Enough of that. Let’s save the excitement for your engagement party. Don’t expel the last of the meat on you.”[/color] He knocked his chin up, grimaced at the boy’s long lashes and half-lidded eyes, the roguish charm he held even with flecks of puke on his chin. [color=#de3e33]“Egh, at least you’re pretty,”[/color] he muttered, before moving to Junia as she emerged glowing from her carriage. [color=#de3e33]“Hello, little princess,”[/color] he took her face in his hands. [color=#38AAC7]“Hello father,”[/color] she simpered back. [color=#de3e33]“Oh, aren’t you lovely as a sunrise. Looking at you takes me back to the blue flax fields of my youth. Those Storvane’s would be fools to spurn you.”[/color] Lord Tern looked around, completely bypassed Branwen, and settled on the crying baby in Araminth’s arms to scowl. [color=#de3e33]“Ah. That. Pass the babe to the servant’s carriage and let us be off.”[/color] With that he returned to doting on the pretty one. Lady Sable’s hand found Araminth’s arm in a quick gesture before she could go. She deepened her breaths and went forward to the servant’s carriage. Junia, charged on her father’s praise, whooped in glee and streaked off towards the cliffs. When the older sister knocked on the carriage door, a pleasant face that could never come from the ranks of scheming, disturbed nobility answered. Her lips that never seemed to have any blood in them were poised in an anxious smile. She hailed from Ironcrag, Araminth recalled idly, but she was too soft for Ironcrag. She wanted to draw blood to those lips. [color=#ffffff]“—nds, my Lady. I heard the young lord squealing over the wheels,”[/color] Leisel said. She had said something before that Araminth hadn’t caught. Leisel waited patiently. Ah. [color=#FFE0B5]“Of course,”[/color] Araminth agreed to something. She passed Hector over. Leisel settled down in the carriage, unceremoniously fished her breast out and let the boy latch. Like it was just work, which it was, but… Araminth shut the door of the carriage, before leaving it open a little, justifying it as not wanting her baby out of sight. She stepped aside and watched. It felt different seeing a woman’s breasts this way, nourishing a youngster. That was all the relationship a woman was supposed to have with them, knowing only her own. But Araminth had a passenger in her, some kind of possession, that seized her around the time of her first blood. A man. Sometimes when she was truly tortured and drunk, she thought it was the spirit of her dead father possessing her. A man that hooted and groped at barmaids and winked back at street harlots—oh, she hated those who were outwardly men, who could express it all, crude and disgusting and [i]accepted.[/i] Seeing Leisel breastfeed however had her doubting her condition was male. Whenever she reached for a breast in girlhood with her nerve-riddled hand, had she been asking for a mother? Surely, that was better than there being a man in her heart that thrilled at a chambermaid’s breath on her back while she bathed. As she watched her son latch and this kind, blue-eyed commoner smile down, she found something uglier than yearning. Envy. Now she hated and lusted for womanhood in equal measure, and she knew beyond doubt her heart was a man’s. Araminth turned and saw Branwen. [color=#FFE0B5]“Shit!”[/color] Slipped from her lips in a sharp intake before she could stop it. [color=#FFE0B5]“Ira strike me!”[/color] The observer just stood there, owlish eyes searching past Araminth to Hector. Araminth took her hand off her heart and shooed her. [color=#FFE0B5]“Go to your sister. Well? Get, creeper!”[/color] A shadow crossed Branwen’s placid face, but she turned and left Araminth to her complexes. She walked off the roads, near where Corbin was recovering on a rock with his lute and watched Junia walk along the cliffs in her billowing teal and yellow gown. His playing was carried off by the wind. Branwen squinted through the blown-out day, her hair lashing at her face like tiny ropes. [color=#CE796B]“Thanks,”[/color] Corbin said, holding up his straw idol to her. [color=#CE796B]“I think it’s working. Stomach’s already easing.”[/color] He smiled, the wind pelting his face and causing him to squint up at her too. He plucked a few more chords as they looked out at the ocean. These land-locked-lubbers didn’t see it much, at all. Branwen thought it was like a field but a worse colour. Corbin wiped the back of his neck, feeling the salt from the air turn dusty on his fingers. [color=#CE796B]“I think the sea is reaching us up here. It’d be something to see the ocean from a boat, huh?”[/color] He was prompting her to tease him about how he couldn’t even handle the sway of a carriage, but he got nothing. Corbin stopped playing with a huff. [color=#CE796B]“You know, we’re not at the Valley of Kings yet. You don’t have to already be so quiet.”[/color] He cringed, feeling rejected as he waved over her. [color=#CE796B]“You’re more fun than… this.”[/color] That made her smile. Branwen opened her mouth and— [color=#38AAC7]“O’weaver!”[/color] Junia squealed over the wind. Branwen, Corbin, and Araminth from by the carriage jerked their attention up in time to see Junia kiss her straw idol, then lob it right off the cliff. As she did, her foot slipped on a loose pebble. She disappeared behind the shrubs on the cliff’s edge with a shriek. Corbin’s lute sprang a string as it was discarded on the ground for him to take off running. The rest of the family sprinted to where Junia fell, shouting for her, all but for Branwen. The servants hovered at a nervous distance. Corbin reached the edge first, hearing Junia whimper. Happiness and worry flooded him—she was alive! But hurt terribly, she must be—and he lunged down at the first flash of teal. Junia was right next to the edge, her hair hanging off the cliff in a golden sheet. She was not hurt—she was [i]hysterical.[/i] Araminth struggled to control her breathing as she reached them, her little sister writhing in adrenaline-induced ecstasy and little brother sunken in defeat. She leaned over the cliffs to gaze at the waters churning below and saw no sign of the idol. Her heart dropped into the sea at the horror of the omen, followed by the stories of her father’s plunge surfacing in her memory. Memories that were living through their mother’s eyes as she struck Junia across the jaw. [color=#DBA159]“YOU HARPY! Does it delight you?! To be so careless, so selfish with your life!”[/color] Lady Sable roared, trying to shake her as Lord Tern fought to have her in his arms. The pause in Junia’s laughter was minute. The smile blossomed back on her face, wondrous. Grotesque to all who knew what would follow. [color=#38AAC7]“Oh dear mother, Boreal would not let me fall,”[/color] she exhaled, [color=#38AAC7]“Didn’t you hear it on the winds? I’m to be Queen.”[/color] The wind had turned, sweeping the dismay of her family and her little sister's joyous revelation to the sea. Bran could feel the servants gawking at the scene, judging her for her distance. She shut her eyes and continued humming her little spell. She sent a prayer out to Lacra and Boreal for the straw idol crashing against the cliffs with the waves. The idol in her hand was held tight to her chest. Wispy, blonde strands of hair peeked out between the woven straw. Of course Bran did not trust Junia with her own idol. She recognised when the tides of her sister’s sanity were beginning to ebb. It was Bran’s fate that had taken the plunge into the ocean—and whatever harm befell her from this omen, her baby sister would never know her part in it. On her House’s words, she swore this.[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][color=#FFE0B5][b]araminth[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [url=https://i.pinimg.com/736x/03/44/c6/0344c624a3dbd1e6fa505a83c8aeb58d.jpg][color=808080]outfit[/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]..........[/color] [color=#705b56][b]branwen[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [url=https://i.pinimg.com/736x/c6/57/09/c657096501aede1cb6cb561d04fb4870.jpg][color=808080]outfit[/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]..........[/color] [b][color=#38AAC7]junia[/color][/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [url=https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b1/9a/0c/b19a0c274b8edc25f0bedd185469cb26.gif][color=808080]outfit[/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]..........[/color] [color=#CE796B][b]corbin[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [url=https://i.pinimg.com/1200x/ad/24/0e/ad240e0e71ef65512626113e3f5c689a.jpg][color=808080]outfit[/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]..........[/color] [b]the black citadel[/b][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [color=808080]The rest of the journey was tainted by a heaviness that weighed on everyone but Junia. Araminth and Branwen sat straight-backed on one side of the carriage. Junia lounged across the seat opposite them, giggling and rocking her head from side to side. She had been declawed since taking her ‘medicine’, a heavy drug she inhaled by the spoonful that tamed her impulses but left her blissful and hazy. Still, every movement too sharp had her sisters twitching. The carriage hit a small dip in the road then wheeled over a smoother texture that made the windows stop rattling. It was almost quiet, the eye of a storm of potholes and debris. Corbin shouted an expletive up ahead. The clop of hooves cantered back to the carriage. [color=#CE796B]“Sisters! You [i]must[/i] see this!”[/color] Junia sprang up and bodied Branwen to squish her nose against the glass. She screamed. [color=#FFE0B5]“June, don’t you think it!”[/color] Araminth yelped and reached for her as Junia swung the door open. A vast mountain range stretched before them and briefly it looked like they were rolling over nothing but air. Junia clasped Corbin’s stretched arm and swung onto his horse to streak off together laughing and hollering like schoolboys. Branwen stood, hanging her torso out the door to watch after them. Her gaze trailed up from her sister’s flowing blonde hair to their destination. The very mass of it affected the air here, demanding it still. A crescendo of dark turrets narrowed to a point that rivalled the mountains it nestled itself within. [i]The Black Citadel.[/i] By the nine, how many had died for this to stand here? The labour alone, frostbitten peasantry toiling to stack every stone, carving through a mountain to fashion another that they may never step in. Then the wars, the bodies thrown against the ramparts and bloodying themselves for the flags they’d later be burned in. Something older than honour beckoned death here. It had called for death in its thousands before, and its stones were growing cold and wanting, and Branwen’s straw idol was at the bottom of the ocean. The seafloor rose and pushed on her chest as she gazed upon its tallest spire. It was disingenuous that they were even here and they all felt it as they entered the citadel, trailing behind their strutting father and hollow-eyed mother who had spent their past few days trying and failing to convince Lord Tern to do the wise thing and send Junia back home. She held herself tall and kept her worries trapped in the firm line of her lips for now. The Saintess was used to enduring such humiliations. As it was, their invitation was farcical enough. [color=#de3e33]"Surely I've told you all of House Tyrcell's efforts in the Usurper’s War? The records dull it for the sake of our House’s values, but our part was far grander –”[/color] Lord Hamil, Lord Tern’s older brother and the favoured Lord of Harrowfield, held the House during the time of King Rowan’s revolt. He had been frustratingly, explicitly neutral, carrying on trade as usual and keeping Harrowfield’s roads open to all with a ban on any disagreement spilling on his soil. It was House Tyrcell’s way, in most things. But, if their father – the blowhard soliloquizing an altered version of events right now – had been the head of their House, he’d have sided with the fattest coin purse. That would have been the tyrant King Leoric. Which he had, undermining his honourable brother’s efforts by taking a few bribes and disappearing food shipments to Stonefallow. It was either water under the bridge or he had never been discovered, as the Tyrcells remained Lords of Harrowfield. [color=#de3e33]"... it's an enduring and rich friendship us Tyrcell's carry with the crown,"[/color] Lord Tern continued, [color=#de3e33]"Solun be praised, it's about time the support of House Tyrcell is recognised and rewarded."[/color] A resounding, [i]Yes, lord father.[/i] Junia couldn't hold in her giggle at the end. She was made to take one more spoonful of medicine before they saw the Great Hall. Araminth had a strict script to follow: introductions to the crown were to be mundane, fleeting, and not worth committing to pen. The scratching of the straw idol tucked beneath her embroidered corset grounded her. Corbin had his stolen away in his boot while Branwen displayed Junia's brazenly on her belt. When the royalty was presented and Dorian’s eyes swept through the cloying crowd, Araminth shied her eyes to coo to Hector. Junia returned the look with a dip of her chin and a girlish smile, Branwen stared owlishly with a straight-lipped expression that wouldn’t soften and Corbin looked to be polite. The young lord had his own orders to follow and was deliberately keeping his attention off the princesses, discreetly looking for the telltale flash of gold and green among the court. Junia was not nearly so subtle as she observed the Crown Prince. She leaned into Branwen. [color=#38AAC7]“Is he handsome?”[/color] She whispered, [color=#38AAC7]“The shadows fall harshly on his face in this light. Is he just as the rumours say?”[/color] Branwen gave the Prince a hard, assessing up-and-down. [color=#705b56]“He’s handsome,”[/color] she replied decisively. Junia recoiled in surprise. [color=#38AAC7]“Oh, right. I suppose…”[/color] She trailed off and joined in staring at the Crown Prince alongside Branwen. Their heads tilted in the same manner. She couldn’t stand it and lunged the other way to her brother, [color=#38AAC7]“Do you think-"[/color] [color=#CE796B]“Yes, he’s handsome, June.”[/color] [color=#FFE0B5]“Shhh. He’s unanimously handsome, now be quiet and wait to be called upon,”[/color] Araminth spoke from the corner of her mouth. Junia slunk down an inch shorter. She returned to observing the prince, swaying in place a little like she could shift the light on Dorian and fix the way her eyes perceived him. Corbin did not have it in him to comfort Junia’s anxieties when his own heart was playing peekaboo at the base of his throat. His eyes had tracked them across the hall: House Ganasen. Lords of Lost Coast, of ports and [i]profit[/i] – and now Corbin’s mission handed to him by his eldest sister. It made sense, an alliance between the richest supplier and richest merchant was inoffensive and just good business. But, shit. Business had to be wrapped up in courtly process and the only insight he gleaned through the daughter's introduction to the crown was that she was… here. Mundane, fleeting, not worth putting to pen. Just as Araminth would prefer. He could see the eldest’s small nod to herself and feel her relief that the Ganasen’s daughter seemed someone sensible. [i][color=#CE796B]“Why do I have to do it? Junia would have it far easier seducing the Ganasen heir.”[/color] [color=#FFE0B5]“Because Cory, for our sister to survive, she must marry for love. Nothing good will come from a marriage with a lord that doesn’t treasure [b]all [/b]of her and I will not entrust her to anyone otherwise.”[/color][/i] Eventually the King’s gaze made its way to them with expectation. The thought seized the three debuted siblings at once, that they had never bowed to anyone greater than themselves but lesser than the gods. Junia burrowed her arms into Corbin and Branwen, looping theirs with hers. She kept her gaze fixed straight - terrified and bloodthirsty in equal measure - even when they twisted their heads to her in question. Corbin flashed Branwen a shrug and a dismissive smile, trying to come off as carefree while he sweated rivers down his back. Branwen raised her brows back at him then captured Araminth’s arm and dragged them all forward. Araminth jolted so that it sent shockwaves down the sibling chain. She was screaming, [i]mundane! Fleeting! Unworthy to pen![/i], and could not jerk her hand back. They did not walk the same way. Araminth, shoulders back, chest and stomach sucked in, the hollow finally given something to protect in Hector whom she held tight to her abdomen like she held him for nine months. Branwen, weight lurching forward on the balls of her feet and arms tucked up, chin in and eyes forward like something… not from here. Junia, floating, chin up and led first by her jewelled mouth, and Corbin’s swagger that favoured his left side. They did not walk evenly, or cohesively, and they would have drawn less attention to it had they not linked together, but they portrayed a united front all the same. Lord Tern hadn’t peered back to see it as he swept out his billowing sleeves and bowed, [color=#de3e33]"My King! It is my utmost honour to be in your halls presenting the heirs to Harrowfield."[/color] The King’s smile brightened as he watched the family approach, a delighted warmth gracing his face at the wholesome, and slightly clumsy, show of unity. He descended the dais not with the poise of a royal, but the relaxed almost leisurely welcome of a man inviting friends into his home. [color=dbbc77]"It is my honor to welcome your wonderful family to my home."[/color] When his feet found the stone at the bottom of the stairs, he softly clapped his palms together as his gaze settled upon Araminth and the radiant child within her arms. He slowly approached, not daring to touch the baby without his mother’s approval, but Rowan dipped his head just enough to catch a view of the tiny lord’s face. [color=dbbc77]"Forgive me,"[/color] he apologized with a smile that somehow widened across his weathered and age worn face. [color=dbbc77]"It has been many years since I was in the presence of a wee babe. A child’s smile and laughter can truly warm the coldest heart."[/color] The King laughed affectionately, always having had a soft spot for the bright innocence of children. Just the sight of the babe was enough to warm his heart and consume him with the ache of longing for the days when his own children could still sit upon his knee or would fill the Black Citadel with the echoes of their laughter. After another selfish glance down to the baby, the King took a step back and let his gaze sweep warmly across the Tyrcell family. [color=dbbc77]"I hope the Gods looked favorably upon your journey. I know the road from Everdell is quite gruelling."[/color] Araminth had not thought bringing a baby to a snake fight was a strategic play, but it had brought a genuine smile to the King's face, something that Lord Tern [i]had[/i] to exploit. The tense hands that cradled Hector had softened, just enough for him to easily abduct his grandnephew out of Araminth's arms. [color=#de3e33]"The Gods made merry all the way, Your Majesty,"[/color] he proclaimed, holding the baby boy to his side. [color=#de3e33]"Do not apologise for admiring the sprout. Lord Hector of House Wroth. Were he a Tyrcell... I care for him as if he were my own."[/color] A pause. [color=#de3e33]"Grandson."[/color] Each Tyrcell managed to keep their expressions mostly unchanged, though the slow turn of his eldest's head was telling. It was expected of Tern but insulting. While Araminth was being ripped open like fruit to deliver the new lord and Lady Sable was at the door muttering her spells and prayers over roots and idols, the head of the House was nowhere to be seen. The observer Branwen knew him to be at a brothel, probably trying to forget about the continuation of his late brother's lineage by siring yet another bastard. In any case, he didn't care much for Araminth or the baby. The baby did not know this, and kicked his legs like he wanted to jump as he smiled with the blithe joy only a baby could evoke. Tern returned it briefly - [i]he had Hamil's eyes[/i] - before dropping him back on his mother. When Araminth held him again, she squinted at Hector, who had lost his smile the moment he no longer faced the royals like he was already a masterful court manipulator. [color=#FFE0B5][i]"You are the greatest act here, frog,"[/i][/color] she whispered into the silken bundle. The way the Lord snatched up the baby without pause or consideration for the mother made the King tense beneath his robes. It set his teeth on edge and brought forth the tiniest furrow between his brows. His smile remained, pulled taut as he appeared attentive with small nods while sparing the young mother a kind gaze that shared something words could not. [color=dbbc77]"Children are innocent, untainted by the cruelty of this world,"[/color] Rowan offered with a wise gentleness as his gaze fell to the delighted baby. [color=dbbc77]"They deserve love despite the circumstances of the birth, sometimes even more so."[/color] His gaze softened, watching with a fond admiration at the love that poured from the mother when her child returned to her arms. The King let out a soft breath he had not known he was holding, letting his gaze find the Lord once again. [color=dbbc77]"If only the Gods had seen fit to bless me with nieces and nephews."[/color] His smile saddened at the thought. Vague images of what the children of his brother and sister would have looked like started to creep into his mind before abruptly ceasing as the Lord filled the silence. [color=#de3e33]"Now, I shall make no more introductions before you do us the honor of introducing the impressive company at your side,"[/color] Lord Tern said with a flourish and a dip of his head to King Rowan's family. The King laughed, but it was not radiant or luminous, it was more calculated, a reaction to save face in the presence of a Lord that sowed unease with a remarkable amount of arrogance and obliviousness. It was almost impressive, in an odd sort of way. Nevertheless, Rowan did not linger on the prodding way Lord Tern half demanded he introduce his family, although he could sense his wife shifting without glancing back at her, like the air around the dais thinned and chilled. Rather than giving her a chance to speak or comment, he rubbed his hands together and stepped to the side, allowing House Tyrcell to have full view of his family. [color=dbbc77]"Yes, of course."[/color] Rowan swept his arm through the air, stopping when his hand was directed up toward his dour-faced wife. [color=dbbc77]"My beautiful wife and Queen, Valenya."[/color] The Queen took a single measured step forward, gathered a handful of her skirts, and bowed elegantly. Through the entire gesture, her gaze bounced between the babe wrapped in silk and the boisterous Lord of the house. She wasn’t entirely certain what discomforted her more, Tern, a man who did not seem to know his place and likely to overreach quite brazenly, or a baby… A crying, sniveling, bundle of flesh that required constant vigilance. She recalled bearing children, feeding them, and swaddling them when they cried like terrors through the night. Her husband looked back on it with fondness. She on the other hand… Rowan knew the look behind her eyes, but he also knew his wife’s pride was the most fragile and sacred thing to her. She would not dare challenge him openly twice, not when he was poised to stop her where she stood. It was a small, simple blessing that he would not shirk, choosing to move on and save them both the trouble. His hand moved toward his son who remained steadfast at Rhea’s side after the chaos that befell the Járnbjørn introductions. [color=dbbc77]"My second born son and heir to the Ninefold, Dorian."[/color] With a reassuring squeeze to Rhea’s arm, Dorian slipped free and stepped forward. His right hand pressed gently to his chest while the other tucked securely behind his back. He dipped low and steady into a bow, offering all of the unweb children, the son included, a warm uneven smile and slight nod of his head. [color=dbbc77]"And my lovely daughters, Maeve and Rhea."[/color] Both Princesses stepped forward as they had with every family before, lowering with their practiced poise and elegance. Maeve was sharp and exact, a mirror of her mother in every sense. While Rhea was a little more fluid, her light dulled from earlier but there was still a warmth behind her eyes and in the faint curl of her smile. [color=dbbc77]"My daughter Rhea is [i]quite[/i] fond of children."[/color] The King’s attention turned back to the Tyrcell daughter and her content child nestled in her arms. [color=dbbc77]"If you ever need any assistance or simply a friendly, understanding face, I’m certain she would be elated."[/color] At the mention of her name, Rhea’s head lifted. Her bright eyes found her father’s affectionate grin before drifting to the mother and her small baby. Her own smile grew slightly as she raised her left hand in a small wave as if everyone in that hall did not already know who she was and she needed to single herself out. But, nevertheless, she spared the young mother an additional nod before her and her sister returned to their places. The way the King sought to lift his youngest after the cacophony of the previous House introduction did not escape Araminth. Neither did the flutter in her chest at the thought of her son being held by a princess. It was a silly thing to put weight on, but it was there. After the feast, Lord Tern would rant and rave at how the baby had upstaged his own children during introductions. In private, Lady Sable would remark that Tern was lucky the Járnbjørn disaster had preluded their House, because it was his behavior that stained them all. She would pay for it. Then Junia, or perhaps Corbin, would weather that. But for now, these brewing abuses were held at bay, and Lord Tern kept his best smile. [color=#de3e33]"You have a beautiful family, my King. Strong heirs. The legacy of House Storvane is well guarded."[/color] It was a legacy he'd very much like his blood to be a part of. Tern swept a hand out to Lady Sable. She took it, cool marble sliding over his patchy, damp skin. [color=#de3e33]"Allow me to introduce my wife, the saint, Lady Sable."[/color] Lady Sable clearly had a few years on the lord. The fabric draping her head covered the gray hairs that would have been obvious as she curtsied to the royals. Her face was one that would have been wise if there had been more warmth to it. Instead, it was stern and world-weary, her last drop of pride clenched fierce in the set of her jaw. Lord Tern gestured, [color=#de3e33]"My eldest, Branwen."[/color] Branwen refixed her eyes forward. She curtsied mechanically, counted in her head to three, and as she was straightening, Lord Tern was moving on, [color=#de3e33]"My little wildflower, Junia."[/color] Junia stepped forward and let her satin skirts flourish as she curtsied. She allowed her eyes to flick up as she bowed her head, giving a coy look to the prince. The lights were spreading out around him and turned his face dark and impenetrable in her vision. Her medicine was taking full effect now. She tried to hold in her laugh, but it carried on her words in a pleasant way, [color=#38AAC7]"I still hold my breath and think I'll wake from this honour, Your Majesties. I do hope friendship finds us this Summer."[/color] One last meaningful look towards the black blob that was the prince's face. Lord Tern beamed and swung over to his son, [color=#de3e33]"Here stands my only son and heir, Corbin."[/color] Corbin bowed gracefully. He gazed over the Storvane sisters and their brother, conceding that they were all beautiful, but the prince especially gave him a tingle down his back. Terrible enough was the title and power he carried, worse still were those dashing curls, sculpted jaw and dimpled chin. He tucked these thoughts into the camp of jealousy and swore not to revisit them. [color=#de3e33]"And my niece, Lady Araminth of House Wroth, with her son, the young Lord Hector,"[/color] Tern finished. Araminth curtsied. This went quite well, all things considered. King Rowan’s smile remained wide and radiant as his gaze drifted to each member of the Tyrcell, giving them each his undivided attention and a gentle nod of acknowledgement. [color=dbbc77]"You have a beautiful family, my Lord and Lady. I am certain your late brother would be pleased to see how much his daughter, and the rest of his family, have flourished."[/color] He lowered himself into another final bow with his right hand pressed against his chest. [color=dbbc77]"It is a great honor having House Tyrcell within my halls. I look forward to the friendships we might foster in our time together. I do hope your visit will be everything you wish for and mom."[/color] Rowan allowed himself one more selfish glance down at the baby, letting the ache build in his chest for but a moment before he turned and ascended the dais once again, to stand beside his family. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] house storvane [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [@Mjolnir][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [hr][hr] [center][img]https://imgur.com/5cFxh75.jpeg[/img] [sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][color=5f815f][b]daemric[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/qqheRLp][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=cbb2ab][b]aenora[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/nyBDlPx][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=455955][b]rhaevyn[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/xoWXZnD][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=6f5062][b]aelyria[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://i.ibb.co/nNv6TVcg/image-2025-12-30-193943136.png][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [b]the great hall[/b][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]The Varrows stood at the front of the Great Hall, close to the dais, and to the right of the King, as it was intended. While they were not equals with the royals—[i]not yet anyway[/i]—the High Steward was the right hand of the King, and as such his place was close and at the ready, as tradition demanded. They stood as a stoic line of pale skin and paler hair, a wall of black and green separating the other nobles from the royals, like a hierarchy in flesh, placing themselves above the rest, an arm’s reach from the throne. Rhaevyn lingered at the end of the line, farthest from the aisle like a protective bookend opposite his father with his sister and mother between them. It was a position of purpose, but not out of vigilance. The farther he was from the procession of royals, the less he had to feign curiosity in the Queen’s shadow and the Storvane’s black sheep. He showed a moderate level of interest, making a show of leaning around his mother slightly to steal glances of crimson hair and gowns of ivory and blue. But overall his stance was a little too relaxed, a little too leisurely. His weight shifted to one leg, his other foot lazily extended to the side. His hands rested on the pommel of his sword that was strapped to his hip, a comfortable stance that exuded strength in his ease. Unlike the other nobles in the room who presented their power like a sharp blade lying on a table, Rhaevyn didn’t flaunt or boast. He had heard the tales of his combat prowess that spread through the Ninefold, knew the whispers that called him The Eclipse, a shadow of darkness and death that washed over his enemies like the night. It was a title earned and heralded, one that he would not argue or brandish, but he’d let his dark reputation proceed him and lay the groundwork so he could simply… [i]be.[/i] Strength openly displayed could intimidate weaker men, but it was the hidden blade, poised but out of sight that [i]real[/i] men feared. Aelyria stood as though sculpted there, an elegant constant amid the slow tide of velvet and murmured power. Her posture was immaculate, shoulders eased back, chin lifted by the smallest dignified degree, hands folded neatly at her waist as if they had been arranged by an artist who understood restraint as its own form of beauty. A soft smile rested upon her lips, gentle and grateful, the expression of a lady who knew how to look honored by proximity to the throne, how to appear quietly awed by ceremony and lineage and the weight of tradition. The emerald and black of her gown pooled around her feet like shadowed water, its gold embroidery catching the torchlight in faint, reverent glimmers. She looked, to any watching eye, perfectly content to be exactly where she was—fortunate, dutiful, pleased. Inside, her thoughts were less charitable. Her gaze drifted, delicately veiled in politeness, over the gathered houses, the peacock silks, the overwrought jewels, the desperate tailoring meant to scream relevance into uncaring fabric. Some wore their importance like armor too large for them, clattering with every breath. One man in particular drew a flicker of her attention; a lord, if his sigil spoke true, clad in riding leathers still stained with the road, dust clinging stubbornly to his boots as though he had ridden straight into the hall without the courtesy of a bath, let alone a change of clothes. [color=6f5062][i]Ghastly,[/i][/color] she thought, with serene finality. Had his house truly lacked the foresight to arrive with time enough to present themselves properly? Or was disorder their native language, chaos stitched into their banners? Either answer reflected poorly. Aelyria kept her smile sweet and untroubled as her judgment settled into place, neat as a bookmark slid between pages. A quiet hum slipped from her throat before she quite realized it, a soft, wandering note born of idle boredom rather than any melody she knew. Her mother’s head tilted a fraction in her direction, one silver brow lifting in gentle reprimand. Aelyria turned her eyes at once, offering a small, apologetic smile, warm and fond, the sort reserved for private corridors and childhood memories. The hum died obediently in her chest. Her attention wandered again, this time to the walls of the Great Hall, where the King’s Guard stood in silent formation. Dark sentinels stitched into the architecture itself. They were remarkably still, she noted, as though carved rather than born. Armor polished to a mirror’s dull gleam, every plate aligned, every strap fastened with ritual precision. Their swords hung at their sides like patient thoughts, neither threatening nor decorative, simply present. Helmets concealed most of their faces, steel flowing over the shape of noses and framing their faces efficiently, leaving only mouths, eyes, and their brows to betray the men beneath. In the torchlight, they resembled a line of ravens perched along stone flooring, dark and watchful, creatures of omen and order. Most of them were indistinguishable in their discipline, until two were not. Near the far pillar stood a pair whose stillness faltered just enough to be interesting. One was tall and broad shouldered, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested familiarity with consequence rather than disregard for it. Beside him stood a shorter guard, red brows visible beneath his helm, pale skin stark against the dark metal, face utterly impassive, as if it were a mask he’d dedicated his life to perfecting. Aelyria watched as the taller man glanced sideways, then again, his mouth twitching with poorly concealed amusement. He wiggled his eyebrows, [i]actually[/i] wiggled them, before tilting his head subtly toward another section of the hall, gesturing with a fractional jerk of his chin. The shorter guard followed the motion, his visible brow knitting in confusion. Aelyria, curious now, let her own gaze drift in the indicated direction. And paused. The object of their attention was impossible to miss; a man who seemed less forged than assembled, enormous even among soldiers. He towered over the rest, easily seven feet tall, broad as a fortress gate, armor stretched to its limit across a stocky frame. Sweat streamed down his face in earnest rivulets, darkening the edges of his helm padding, glistening on his upper lip. His expression was a portrait of pure human misery, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, mouth drawn tight as if resisting some internal catastrophe of the most undignified kind. He looked, quite sincerely, like a man fighting for his life against his own body. Aelyria’s upper lip curled before she could stop it. Only a fraction. Only for a heartbeat. She returned her gaze to the two guards just in time to see the shorter one roll his eyes, fondness unmistakable even through the rigid frame of his helm, while the taller man smirked openly now, clearly delighted, as if any crack in the other man’s composure was a private triumph. It was a small, human exchange, fleeting and ridiculous, unfolding in the shadow of banners and crowns. And she had watched it all. The realization stirred a faint, incredulous amusement in her chest. [color=6f5062][i]Is this what boredom does to me now?[/i][/color] Observing guards as one might birds upon a gate, cataloging their habits, their hierarchies, their silent languages. The thought might have embarrassed her, had she not already mastered the art of compartmentalizing her own nature. Her thoughts brushed, briefly, against the matter of marriage, the whole purpose she was here, against the subtle weight of expectation threaded into every gathering, every glance from ambitious mothers, every measured pause from hopeful fathers. She felt nothing for it. No flutter. No anticipation. If fate were unkind enough to bind her at all, then only a prince would suffice. Anything less would be an insult disguised as a ceremony, and she had no interest in the prince, or any of the Lords that sauntered in. She smoothed her expression, restoring it to gentle neutrality, tucking away her private assessments as easily as one slides a book back upon its shelf, spine outward, contents hidden, perfectly accessible should she ever wish to revisit them. Her father moved at last, and the shift was so subtle it felt inevitable, like the tide answering a moon no one needed to name. He waited for the lull with practiced patience, for the final eager house to exhaust itself of introductions and performative reverence, until the space before the dais stood briefly unclaimed. Of course he would go then. The High Steward did not scramble for notice, he assumed it, stepping forward only when the moment itself had been properly cleared. Aelyria straightened instinctively as he turned, beckoning with a quiet, authoritative gesture that required no haste, only obedience. She followed in measured steps, skirts whispering softly across stone as they advanced, her expression brightening into something warm and receptive, eyes lifting toward the dais as though the honor were freshly bestowed rather than long anticipated. Her father’s presence changed the air around them, not louder, not heavier, but settled, like a hand laid firmly upon the spine of the room. When he spoke, his voice carried easily, respectful and kind without bending into deference, a tone honed by years of standing precisely where kings required him. [color=5f815f]“My Grace, might I have the honor of introducing my family to you?”[/color] he asked, before bowing deeply to the royal line upon the dais, every movement precise, reverent, and perfectly timed. Aelyria mirrored the motion a breath behind him, lowering herself into a graceful curtsy that revealed nothing but gratitude and composure. From the corner of her eye, she caught the faint ripple of attention spreading through the hall, the subtle recalibration that followed House Varrow wherever it went. This was not the eager ambition of lesser houses, nor the stiff pride of ancient bloodlines clinging to memory. This was something quieter, more dangerous, confidence born of proximity, of power exercised rather than displayed. And as she rose, smile serene and posture flawless, Aelyria knew with quiet certainty that this was exactly where they belonged. Rhaevyn followed his father’s advance, a few steps behind with his mother’s hand lightly hooked around his forearm. Her presence was fluid and graceful beside him, the fabric of her skirts brushing his leg as she glided across the Great Hall. She was a woman of timeless grace, who carried power, sharp and silent, like a blade concealed beneath her gown that rustled with every movement. Aenora Varrow was a woman with a presence not unlike the Queen, demanding respect and reverence in every room she entered without ever speaking a word. It was a strength that was silent and venomous like poison, sickly sweet to the unknowing eye but deadly when least expected. Her smile was charming and bright, illuminating behind her eyes as if it had always lived there. She curtsied when expected while he dipped his head low into a proper bow alongside her. While everyone else in his family stood before the King with a radiance that looked as natural as the sun—a farce that was no more common than sunlight in Gloomfen—Rhaevyn remained silent and assessing as his gaze swept across the royals that lined the dais. None of them were strangers. They were all faces he had met at one time or another when he visited his father over the years, but he was no more familiar with them than he was with the smiles painted across his family’s faces. The King was far too kind, likely to get himself killed or send the kingdom into ruin. The Queen was not unlike his own mother but lacked the power to sway her husband. An heir with a mind for whoring rather than politicking. A daughter so rigid that one inconvenience could snap her in two, and another daughter that brought scandal upon the royal name and claimed innocence. What more mattered? Rumors were currency in the Ninefold and that was what reflected upon himself and his family, not the truth. He had more desire to throw himself upon his blade than marry one of the royals. The King’s smile widened as he clapped his hands against the armrests of his throne and moved to his feet. He wasted no time descending the stairs and meeting Lord Daemric as equals, two friends that fought through war and the struggles of the court side by side. While the High Steward and his wife have graced the Black Citadel for decades, he deserved the same time and respect given to all the other Lords, if not more. [color=dbbc77]"My friend, I would be delighted. I am grateful for the journey your children have made to join us here. It warms the heart to see a family united within my halls."[/color] Aelyria watched her father’s smile unfold with quiet reverence, though she knew it for what it was. To the untrained eye it was warmth, an old comrade’s gratitude, a steward’s humility before his king. To her, it was silk drawn carefully over steel. Lord Daemric bowed with perfect depth, neither too low nor too shallow, every motion measured to the breadth of a breath. There was nothing soft in him, only precision, only intent disguised as loyalty. When he spoke, his tone carried that same careful construction. [color=5f815f]“I’m most grateful for this event, my Lord,”[/color] Lord Daemric murmured in reply, turning his gaze onto his family, allowing his face to intentionally soften in a way that was familiar to Aelyria when it was only for show. There was nothing soft about her father. [color=5f815f]“It gives my family the chance to gather in one place, an occurrence that is seldom possible now that the children have grown into the responsibilities of their standing.”[/color] He turned back to the King, eyes alive with pride that was not faked, perhaps the only true feeling her father permitted himself beyond disdain. [color=5f815f]“It is my honor to present my beautiful wife, Lady Aenora.”[/color] His gesture was deliberate, gaze more possessive than loving as it lingered on his wife for a breath longer than necessary as she stepped forward and curtsied. [color=5f815f]“My eldest son, the pride of Gloomfen, Lord Rhaevyn.”[/color] When his attention settled upon Rhaevyn, Aelyria caught it, the subtle narrowing of their father’s gaze, the silent command woven into paternal acknowledgment; [i]behave, smile, be charming.[/i] Rhaevyn didn’t need to hold their father’s gaze to know its intent. It had been drilled into him as a boy, repeated before every presentation, and spoken as gospel the handful of times he had graced these very halls in his adolescence. He stepped forward, poised and strong, with his head held high, but not too high to be considered disrespectful. His left hand did not move from its perch atop the pommel of his sword, but his fingers hung lazily, an intention to show comfort rather than opposition. He bowed gracefully, as was expected of him, and as he stood upright once more a smile graced his lips. It wasn't jovial or warm like the King’s, but there was its own enigmatic charm that faintly curved at the right corner of his mouth. Just enough that his father wouldn’t make a scene, not now anyway. [color=455955]"A pleasure, as always, Your Grace,"[/color] he greeted the King with the same honeyed words he always did whenever he visited the capital. Rhaevyn loathed court and all the ass kissing that came with it, but he knew how to play his part. Although six months was… a long time to be on one’s best behavior. [color=5f815f]“And my most precious daughter, the jewel of our family, Lady Aelyria.”[/color] She had already moved before the final syllable left his mouth. Emerald skirts swept in a controlled cascade as she dipped into a flawless curtsy, posture unbreakable, balance immaculate. The gold embroidery at her hem caught the light as she lowered herself, lace sleeves whispering faintly with the movement. When she rose, her expression bloomed into something luminous and sweet, dimples pressed delicately into her cheeks, eyes bright as though this moment alone had been worth the journey across the King’s Fist. [color=6f5062]"It is a true honor to be before you and your family, my King,"[/color] she murmured, voice gentle and clear, pitched perfectly for the dais to hear without ever straining. Gratitude laced her tone, admiration softened its edges. Her gaze drifted, measured, deliberate, to Prince Dorian. She let it linger just long enough to suggest intrigue without impropriety, curiosity without too much improper hunger. A small, almost shy smile curved her lips as her lashes fluttered, the picture of a young noblewoman quietly enthralled by royal presence. Inside, she felt nothing of the sort. Rather the sight of the Prince disgusted her, if she were being quite honest. But she knew precisely how to let the hall believe otherwise. The King’s smile was unwavering as his gaze shifted to each member of the Varrow household as they were presented, meeting their bows and curtsies in kind. [color=dbbc77]"You have a remarkable family. As always it is a pleasure to see Lady Aenora and Lord Rhaevyn grace these halls. But I am thankful to have an opportunity to finally meet your daughter as well. She gets her beauty from her mother, no doubt."[/color] He stepped aside, assuming a place near Lord Daemric so that his own family was in full view as he motioned up toward them. [color=dbbc77]"Not unlike my own daughters. They were fortunate not to inherit much from myself,"[/color] he jested with a laugh that was all radiance and warmth. [color=dbbc77]"While most of your family is familiar with my own, let me reintroduce them all the same."[/color] Rowan’s attention shifted to his wife who was a paragon of beauty, even as she remained cold and austere. [color=dbbc77]"My beautiful wife Valenya."[/color] The Queen stepped forward, and while there was still no small part of her that was upset with her husband, she knew better than to challenge him twice in one evening. She lowered herself into a proper curtsey with a smile that never quite reached her eyes, then returned to her place beside her daughter and the throne. [color=dbbc77]"Dorian, my son and heir."[/color] The Prince had remained steadfast at Rhea’s side after their introductions with House Járnbjørn, if only to help shield her from their mother’s angry sidelong glances. He gave her hand a gentle pat before slipping his arm from her hold so he could step forward. He had noticed Lady Aelyria’s gaze and the way it lingered when she was presented. She was a beauty, no one could deny that. A woman of the marshlands with hair like snow, but there had always been something about the Varrows that shifted the air when they entered the room. He could not help but wonder if she held the same sort of power. His gaze remained on her showing the same level of intrigue she showed him, but whether that curiosity was born of an interest in her character or an interest in her family, he was not certain. After Dorian returned to his place, the King motioned for his daughters to step forward. [color=dbbc77]"And, of course, my darling daughters, Maeve and Rhea."[/color] Both Princesses moved forward in unison, silks and satin softly brushing along the dais as they lowered into perfect curtsies. Rhea did not look anywhere in particular, keeping her gaze focused on the stone beneath the Lords’ feet, or the embroidery around the hem of the Ladies’ skirts. Maeve on the other hand kept her attention locked on Rhaevyn who rested solely at the top of her list. Her attention focused to a single point like a predator locking onto its prey. His presence was a force, preceded by the combat prowess she had only heard whispers of. He was handsome not unlike some of the other Lords, but where others were dark haired and of the earth, his light hair and cold air made him stand apart. He was not known to be charming, but she did not need charm… She needed power, a title, and a name. She could have charm for the both of them. Her attention lingered unabashed, target locked, as her and her sister returned to their places among their family. The King’s praise drifted over her like sunlight over still water, warm, generous, entirely expected. Aelyria lowered her head just enough to acknowledge it, her pale lashes dipping as a modest smile curved softly at the corners of her mouth. A faint color rose along her cheeks, delicate and convincing, the sort of blush that suggested humility rather than calculation. It would have been easy to believe she was touched by the compliment, perhaps even overwhelmed by the attention of a monarch’s favor. In truth, she merely noted how easily kindness from a king softened a room. When she lifted her gaze again, it wandered, as if by accident, toward Prince Dorian. Their eyes met. For the briefest moment the world seemed to narrow to that shared line of sight, a quiet thread stretched between the dais and the place where House Varrow stood. Aelyria held his gaze just long enough to make the moment unmistakable before her composure wavered with practiced perfection. Color deepened faintly in her cheeks, and her eyes slipped away as though she had been caught in some private admiration, lashes fluttering as she turned her attention politely toward the floor for a breath. It was ridiculous, theatrical even, but she executed the performance with such gentle authenticity that it felt almost spontaneous. Beside her, her father stepped forward just enough for his voice to carry with the appropriate warmth. [color=5f815f]“Your daughters have grown into beautiful young women, my King.”[/color] His tone held the respectful cadence of a loyal servant speaking before the throne, humble admiration woven carefully into every syllable. To the court it sounded sincere, even affectionate, the voice of a steward who had spent decades in loyal proximity to royal power. Aelyria knew better. [color=5f815f]“They truly take after your wife,”[/color] Lord Daemric continued smoothly, his expression bright with courteous charm, [color=5f815f]“Just as your sons surely take after you.”[/color] He offered the King a smile that shone with admiration, perfect, polished, and utterly false. Aelyria recognized it instantly, the same expression she had watched him wear before nobles, generals, and rivals alike. It was the smile of a man who understood that flattery, like a finely sharpened blade, was most effective when the victim never felt the cut. Aelyria allowed her own expression to soften once more, lifting her gaze again as though the exchange itself had reassured her. The faintest hint of that earlier blush remained on her cheeks, lending her an air of youthful sincerity that balanced beautifully against her father’s composed diplomacy. Anyone watching would see a daughter proud to stand beside her family beneath the gaze of the throne. Only she knew how easily the performance settled upon her shoulders, like silk, like armor, like a second skin. [color=dbbc77]"Thank you, my Lord. Your kindness and loyalty has been a cherished boon as King."[/color] Rowan’s smile beamed as he gave Lord Daemric a friendly pat on the shoulder. [color=dbbc77]"I look forward to the opportunity for our families to grow closer over the following months."[/color] His attention shifted back to the young Lady Aelyria, bowing his head toward her. [color=dbbc77]"I do hope you enjoy your first stay in the Black Citadel. My home is your home, as your family will no doubt tell you,"[/color] he added, pressing his hand against his chest, giving House Varrow a parting bow before he ascended the dais one final time, before returning to his family’s side. Rhaevyn was not as skilled in the placating of nobles and royals like his father and sister. He could bow, nod, and recite the pleasantries his father had driven into him since childhood, but he lacked the gentle touch of charm they possessed. He did not become a warrior through forced pleasantries and feasting. A blade does not peacock before it stabs, its honed edges glint in the light as a harsh warning of power and intent. He was the marshlands’ blade, sharp and calculated. It was not his job to charm or seduce, but to remain vigilant. He was as warm as tepid water, but he followed formalities, as was expected of him, if only for his mother’s and sister’s sakes. Once the King started the slow ascension back to his throne, Rhaevyn slowly turned toward his mother, right arm bent in quiet offering. [color=455955]"The feast should be starting shortly,"[/color] he commented observationally and factually, lacking any pretense of enthusiasm. Once in the ballroom he knew he could disappear beneath shadows and wine, but the feast called for more socializing and charm that he mustered over a year’s time. There was no avoiding it. So like any skilled warrior, he’d rather face it head on and get it over with rather than avoid the inevitable. Lord Daemric received the King’s final words with the same polished grace he had worn throughout the exchange, his expression composed into something warm and appropriately humbled. He returned the parting bow with smooth precision, neither too deep to diminish himself nor too shallow to invite insult. In the torchlit splendor of the Great Hall, beneath the gaze of nobles and royals alike, he looked every inch what the realm believed him to be, a steadfast steward, trusted confidant, loyal friend of the crown. Yet beneath that immaculate surface, Aelyria knew her father’s mind was already moving three steps ahead, fitting the King’s genial warmth into the careful machinery of opportunity. Men like Rowan were easiest to manage when they mistook kindness for strength. Beside him, Aelyria dipped her head with practiced sweetness, pale lashes lowering as she offered the King one last smile, the one her mother had taught her before she was tall enough to reach a banquet table. It dimpled her cheeks just so, softened her mouth, and made her appear every bit the grateful young lady overwhelmed by royal generosity. [color=6f5062]"You are most gracious, my King,"[/color] she said, her voice clear and light, touched by the kind of sincerity that was all the more convincing because she knew exactly how to counterfeit it. When she straightened, she did not look back toward Prince Dorian, though she could feel the weight of the royal dais at her back like the lingering heat of a fire. Instead, she turned with elegant obedience and slipped her hand into the crook of her father’s arm as naturally as though it had always belonged there. Together, they moved from the dais in measured steps, the polished stone gleaming beneath their feet, the murmurs of the Great Hall swelling again behind them like a tide reclaiming shore. The hall seemed changed now, though in truth it was only that House Varrow had finished being seen. Aelyria could feel the glances that followed in their wake, curious, calculating, envious, speculative. Let them look. Let them wonder. The family’s place at court was never simply occupied, it was asserted, quietly and with absolute certainty, as if the very architecture of the Black Citadel had been designed to make room for them. [color=6f5062]"The King was so nice,"[/color] she said at last, her tone bright and girlish, pitched just loud enough for any passing ears to hear the innocent remark and nothing more. She tilted her head to look up at her father as she spoke, the picture of a daughter charmed by royal hospitality, still dazzled by her first formal welcome into the heart of the realm. The image would have been almost laughable, had she not worn it so flawlessly. It sat upon her like lace, delicate, and entirely strategic. Lord Daemric glanced down at her, and for a fleeting instant, something almost indulgent touched the corner of his mouth. [color=5f815f]"Indeed,"[/color] he drawled softly, the single word rich with private meaning. No more was needed. He knew she understood. Aelyria looked ahead again, her gaze settling upon the glittering hall before them, on the nobles shifting into clusters, the servants preparing for the feast, the slow unwinding of ceremony into something looser, more dangerous. Her smile remained, but it changed. Just slightly. The sweetness stayed at the surface, but beneath it something finer and sharper unfurled, a blade hidden in velvet, a thought sharpened to purpose. The corners of her lips curved with the faintest edge of satisfaction.[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [@Sleepy Tani][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [hr][hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/kcoloiY.jpeg[/img] [sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][color=dbbc77][b]rowan[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/PVLCBIh][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=942641][b]valenya[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/gsLoxtb][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=42557d][b]declan[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/QjHpgeZ][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=846d49][b]dorian[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/tRVscKv][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=2d5a32][b]maeve[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/FKFacz4][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=10636f][b]rhea[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/ncAJV9r][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [b]ballroom[/b][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]The soft murmur of restless conversation grew and began to fill the Great Hall as the formal introductions came to an end and the warm glow of the setting sun that poured in through the windows was replaced with the cool luminescence of the moon. The evening chill had settled into the bones of the Citadel, stealing away the suffocating heat and humidity of summer for something cooler, and far more tolerable for when the feast turns to frivolity. As day grew to night, the heavy tension of politicking and formality waned as presentations concluded. When no more houses came forward leaving the floor before the dais vacant, the King rose from his throne a final time. He stepped forward, raising his hands—still weathered and calloused even after years of privilege—to beckon for everyone’s attention and silence as he addressed them once more. [indent][indent][indent][color=dbbc77]"Well met, everyone. My neck is stiff from the weight of the crown and ceremony, as I suspect your backs could use some respite from all that bowing and pomp. I am pleased to have been given the opportunity to meet each and every one of you. I am grateful to see that the next generation of Aethoria is in such capable hands. You have done your houses, and holds, proud today. But I’ve always found that you learn more about one another over a drink rather than formal introduction. The musicians have been waiting long enough and the kitchens are starting to smell too good to ignore. It is time to put the politics aside and enjoy each other's company. Let us adjourn and feast!"[/color][/indent][/indent][/indent] The King clapped his hands together jovially with a luminous smile that beamed brightly across his face. After concluding, he turned slightly toward the Queen, and his light flickered, if for but a second, before pushing it away to dwell on later. He cleared his throat and extended his arm toward her in offering, as was expected, but that did not stop the icy chill that passed between the pair as they locked limbs and began descending the steps without so much as a sidelong glance to one another. No words were shared. Not there. Not openly. They had mastered the art of conversation through body language and the shared rigidity that laced through their muscles while moving in sync with one another. It was a rehearsed dance, poised and perfect as royals needed to be, because they both understood the price of appearances. Anger was saved for private, not the prying eyes of court. The Storvane children lingered upon the dais, preparing to follow in their parent’s footsteps. Before Dorian had the chance to take his place at his sister’s side, Maeve had sidestepped him and seized Rhea by the upper arm, holding her in place with a vice-like grip. She tugged her sister closer until they were shoulder to shoulder and her venomous words could look little more than whispered gossip about prospective suitors. [color=2d5a32]"It has not been a single day, yet you already seek to embarrass me."[/color] Her tone was cold and biting like the chill that blew down from the mountains in the dead of night, but her smile was warm, almost conspiratorial in its falsehood. Rhea, on the other hand, was not as skilled at masking her emotions. She gasped at the sudden tug and the fingers that curved so deeply into her ivory skin that it was likely to bruise. Her gaze was sharp and incredulous as she attempted to tear her arm free and step away. [color=10636f]"You embarrass yourself,"[/color] she replied, matching tone for tone. With a more forceful yank she pried her arm free and took a small step back, putting some distance between them. [color=10636f]"Who will you turn your hatred towards when it is your own arrogance and lack of kindness that keeps marriage from your grasp?"[/color] Before Maeve was given the opportunity to respond, Rhea turned away, rubbing her arm where the phantom ache of her sister’s grasp still lingered upon her skin. Her obscene amount of skirts made her feel like she was wading through water, steps slowed and weighed down as the fabric rustled against the stone underfoot so loud it was almost deafening. She approached the edge of the dais where Declan waited with his right arm bent just enough for her to rest her hand in the crook of his elbow. [color=42557d]"What was that about?"[/color] he asked, looking down at her with the curiously furrowed brows of a brother wishing to be privy to sibling squabbles. [color=10636f]"[i]Nothing,[/i]"[/color] Rhea hissed through clenched teeth, huffing as she fought to grab a handful of the fabric that encapsulated her so that it did not constrict her with every step. [color=10636f]"Maeve is just…"[/color] She kicked her skirts in frustration, like they had offended her as much as her sister had, or they merely suffocated her like everything else in the Citadel. [i]Either way.[/i] [color=10636f]"[i]Maeve,[/i]"[/color] she added with an irritated scrunch of her nose, as if that was answer enough, because anything and everything her sister did could be summarized as simply… [i]‘Maeve.’[/i] She took a second to gather herself, closing her eyes for a moment and taking in as deep of a breath as her corset would allow before letting her brother begin to guide her down the dais. Declan took each step before her, keeping his foot steady on the stair so that she could find it for guidance when sight alone could not aid her in navigating the pool of fabric around her. [color=42557d]"Ignore her,"[/color] he suggested quietly, lowering himself down another step. [color=42557d]"Her nerves make her… Well…"[/color] [color=10636f]"A bitch,"[/color] Rhea completed his sentence with a blunt sort of sincerity. He tried to stifle his laugh, but it still slipped through the cracks of his amused smile. [color=42557d]"I was going to say irritable,"[/color] Declan corrected quietly as they reached the ground safely in one piece, without any tripping or further embarrassment. Rhea shook her head dismissively with a contorted and annoyed sort of expression, but she did not argue or offer further insult. [color=42557d]"Soon enough she will have far too many suitors to juggle. Then she will forget all about tormenting you,"[/color] he offered as he led her across the Hall in the wake of their parents. [color=10636f]"Do you truly believe that?"[/color] Rhea asked, looking up at her brother, brows raised and an unconvinced scowl curling at the corners of her mouth. Declan cleared his throat, attempting to temper the guilty smirk that curved beneath his dark beard. [color=42557d]"We can certainly hope."[/color] The siblings held each other’s gaze for a beat or two, before a warm laughter roared to life between them as it had when they first entered the hall, bright, unbidden, and carefree in a way that eased tensions if only for a moment or two. Meanwhile, back upon the dais, Maeve scoffed and rolled her eyes in that shrewd and self-righteous way she often carried herself. She glared at the back of Rhea’s retreating head before conceding and stepping beside Dorian, taking his arm a bit more aggressively than what was called for. He looked over at her with a stunned and amused expression, as if his sister’s temper was far more entertaining than it had any right to be. She was like a spoiled child who was not happy unless everyone else around her was more miserable than she was. A superiority complex she inherited from their mother that she carried with a little less grace and far less intimidation, which added no merit to her sharp edges. She was a hound that was all bark and no bite, thus entirely amusing for all the wrong reasons. [color=846d49]"Do not bring me into this,"[/color] Dorian jested quietly as he looked down at the whiteness in her knuckles from her unnecessarily tight grip. Maeve didn’t wait to be guided, half dragging her brother along toward the edge of the dais. She began descending the steps one at a time, never relinquishing her hold on him, using him as support and an unwilling outlet. [color=2d5a32]"You cannot remain indifferent forever,"[/color] she rebutted, tone hushed and masked behind a practiced smile while her gaze skimmed the pool of Lords and viable suitors. [color=846d49]"Sure I can,"[/color] he replied with a warm laugh that mirrored their father’s in the crowded bustle of the Great Hall. Dorian’s head tilted toward her, hovering close enough that his errant curl brushed along her cheek with each step. [color=846d49]"Have you ever considered that [i]perhaps[/i] it might be easier to find a husband with… [i]Oh, I do not know…[/i]"[/color] His free hand rose to rub at his chin pensively—[i]dramatically[/i]—softening the blow of his words with theatrics and humor. [color=846d49]"[i]Kindness?[/i]"[/color] His head dipped while his brows rose, holding her gaze like a quiet challenge for her to seek out the warmth that once lived in her heart before their mother snuffed it. [color=2d5a32]"No."[/color] Her answer was clean, concise, and offered little to no emotion. Maeve let the silence suspend between them for a moment as her gaze drifted toward their parents who parted the sea of nobles with their presence. [color=2d5a32]"Mother did not change herself for father,"[/color] she continued, slowly turning her head toward Dorian as if her gaze alone spoke of the weakness of kindness and compassion. [color=2d5a32]"Why should I?"[/color] He sighed as his voice dropped to something softer and more serious than he ever used, as if he intended to reign wisdom, if for only a moment. [color=846d49]"Father… was at [i]war.[/i]"[/color] It was a tale they both knew well, but Maeve always seemed to conveniently forget that little detail. Of course their mother didn’t need to change who she was when marrying their father, it was a marriage made of necessity, out of an alliance to win a war… or die. It did not take a wise man to see the unhappiness and lack of love between the two of them. His sister could claim all she wanted that love was not necessary for a strong marriage, but Dorian wouldn’t believe her. He refused to believe that [i]that[/i] was the sort of union she desired. [color=846d49]"We are both unwed, childless…"[/color] Dorian continued as some of his sarcasm slipped back into his tone, light, warm, and always to be taken with a grain of salt. [color=846d49]"[i]Old—[/i]"[/color] [color=2d5a32]"I am not old,"[/color] Maeve quickly interjected, raising her chin in distaste as if the word ‘old’ alone was an affront to her very existence. [color=846d49]"Mother had seen eighteen winters when she gave birth to Declan… [i]You are old.[/i]"[/color] Maeve scoffed, shoulders tensing as the weight of her age—and therefore her declining fertility—came into question. [color=2d5a32]"What is your point?"[/color] [color=846d49]"My point, [i]dear sister,[/i]"[/color] he replied, slowing their steps so they remained far enough away from their siblings so they were not overheard. [color=846d49]"Is that [i]maybe[/i] you should not look a gift horse in the mouth and try to be a little nicer… For the sake of your future husband, if no one else."[/color] She did not initially respond, remaining silent and pensive as their steps slowed to match their family while Rhea and Declan burst into laughter ahead of them. Maeve stood a little taller, rolling her shoulders and perfecting her posture as if seeing her siblings unravel before her made her wish to present herself as the stark contrast. It was only then that her hold on Dorian’s arm eased as she spared him a quick, judgemental glance. [color=2d5a32]"You are beginning to sound like Declan."[/color] [color=846d49]"[i]Am I?[/i]"[/color] The words fell from his lips with the sort of surprise often reserved for far more dire circumstances. Moments that left him stunned and animated, with a hand dramatically pressed to his chest. [color=846d49]"Is this what sobriety does to me? It’s dreadful. I should remedy that at once,"[/color] he mused with a weightless chuckle and a gentle squeeze to his sister’s arm, which would undoubtedly make her roll her eyes and turn her head from his in disgust. At the front of the procession, the King and Queen, who were led through the gathering nobles by a pair of guards, approached a set of dark mahogany double doors nestled between two large stone hearths on the eastern side of the Great Hall. A pair of servants who stood ready, and easily overlooked, took hold of the ornate handles and pushed open the towering doors to the adjoining ballroom. The wood groaned and iron hinges creaked as the magnificence came into view and the savory scent of a feast, days in the making, flooded into the room like its own silent invitation. The room before them was a wonder and crowned jewel of the Black Citadel. Whispers and rumors often spread throughout the Ninefold about the obsidian cavern ballroom, but it was a rare sight that lived in legend. Most never received the opportunity to gaze upon it. Halfway through the room, just beyond carved stone and columns, the Citadel blended into a cave as if finery and nature were one in the same. Spandrels gave way to stalactites, candlelight shifted to the cool glow of moonlight, and stairs were carved of stone, following alongside the flow of water that trailed in through the hanging valley above. Reflections of yellow firelight and silver moonlight glistened off the falls like stars as it poured down the side of the cavern and trickled along nature made steps into a rippling pool that hugged the far side of the ballroom. The site of it nestled beyond the ballroom floor was like something out of a fairytale, where one dance could transport someone from the structure of court into the wilds of a dream. Upon entry they were first greeted with two long tables of dark oak, adorned in navy table runners that came to a point with braided silver tassels at each of the heads. The chairs were ornate in the ways only a keen eye would recognize: carved legs and arms that curved to match the architecture of the room, cushions upholstered in the richest velvets and studded with polished silver, each one identical with the decadence befitting a King. Candelabras encompassed in delicate filigree of leaves and wings lined the center of the table, interspersed between platters of roasted aurochs basted in dark ale, peppered pheasants, and a glazed suckling pig resting on a bed of greens and cloves. Trays sprinkled throughout the settings were towering with honeyed figs, wheels of sharp aged mountain cheese, and delicate pastries, flakey and warm from the oven, filled with jams and custards from all across the Ninefold. Smaller, less adorned tables hovered around the outskirts of the room for household retinue and cherished friends of the court. While they did not dine on silver plates, nor drink from gold-leafed chalices, their offerings were the same, from every beast and fig, down to the imported Karthosian wine. Dark obsidian stone arched overhead, carved meticulously by artisans from centuries passed. Half a dozen chandeliers the size of carriages hung from the ceiling, holding countless candles, bathing the feast in a dim, warm glow. Beyond the tables the room curved around an empty circular center that waited for the whisper of skirts and the quiet tap of shoes lost in dance following their meal. The small protruding balcony of the minstrel’s gallery hugged the southern wall, hidden in plain sight behind spandrels and dark curtains. Their music, a soft, welcoming cadence of strings and pipes echoed throughout the grand hall, mixing with the gentle roar of conversation, chairs dragging across stone, the shuffle of servants weaving through the chaos, and the soft rushing of water that tinged the air with the sweet scent of a mountain spring. The King and Queen made their way toward one of the more extravagant tables where the Lords, Ladies, and esteemed members of the High Council would dine. They did not take their places at the heads of the table, instead settling in the middle [i]among[/i] their friends and allies, one of the few demands Rowan would not budge on, no matter how much his wife detested it. Meanwhile, their children gravitated toward the opposing table, identical in every way down to the place cards organized meticulously along the settings to ensure the Queen’s hand was always present, even down to whom they could converse with over dinner. Declan guided Rhea along the length of the table, searching the various cards until they found her name, lost somewhere in the middle where the young Lords and Ladies met. She did not study and memorize the various suitors to know who was the eldest or offered the most prestigious alliance, but she was not naive. She recalled their introductions and the faces that fit each name. Her mother sat her in the middle like an after thought, surrounded by the men and women that she did not deem worthy enough to be closer to Maeve or Dorian. She was placed between second sons because she did not need to make an advantageous marriage or a love match. She simply needed to marry before her past could tarnish the Storvane name or her sister’s chances at claiming a highly sought after Lord. While her shoulders sank, if only moderately, Declan’s smile never wavered as he released her arm and began pulling out her chair. [color=42557d]"It’s not so bad,"[/color] he reassured her quietly as he stole glances at the names that surrounded her. [color=42557d]"Lord Emil seemed kind and he is a familiar face."[/color] His gaze fell to the place card to her right. [color=42557d]"And Lord Valerius obviously enjoys riding, so you share a common interest."[/color] Her smile returned slowly, not as bright and a bit apprehensive, but still authentically her. [color=10636f]"Do you always see the sunshine through the storm?"[/color] Rhea asked as she stepped between the table and her chair. Her hands swept along the back of her skirts, holding them in place as she lowered herself into the seat with a soft sigh. [color=42557d]"Someone in this family has to,"[/color] he mused with a grin far too warm than it had any right to be as he gently scooted her chair in. [color=42557d]"Out of all of our siblings, I believe [i]you[/i] are the most likely to marry,"[/color] he added little more than a whisper, making sure his voice did not carry. Rhea’s head snapped around abruptly, looking up at her brother with a stunned sort of incredulity. Declan chuckled, resting his gloved hand upon her shoulder. [color=42557d]"I am serious. You are not a drunk or a lecher or…"[/color] He paused for a second, trying to find the correct word once again. [color=42557d]"[i]...Irritable.[/i]"[/color] He squeezed her shoulder once before slowly stepping back, letting his hand return to where it rested upon the pommel of his sword. [color=42557d]"Remember to [i]breathe[/i]—"[/color] he emphasized the word dramatically with a pointed and playfully stern glance, [color=42557d]"—and you will be fine."[/color] Declan pointed toward a column along the circumference of the ballroom that lingered near their parent’s table. [color=42557d]"I will be just over there if you need me and Coren should be nearby."[/color] Almost on cue, the guardsman in question entered the ballroom and stationed himself similarly on the outskirts of the room, close and within view of Rhea. Beneath the narrow slit in his helmet she could see the squint in his eyes and the subtle shift that hinted at a small smile taking root. He raised his hand, just barely at his side, and gave her a fleeting wave of acknowledgement before becoming still as stone like the rest of the King’s Guard. Rhea let out a deep breath, puffing out her lips dramatically, as if she had been holding it in since the moment they entered the Great Hall. She shifted in her chair, glancing over her shoulder toward her brother who was already making his way toward his post. [color=10636f]"Thank you,"[/color] she called after him quietly, trying her best not to draw attention as the other nobles started funneling into the ballroom. Declan looked back at her for only a second, flashing her a quick, affectionate wink. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The clink of his armor shifting preceded him as he slowly crossed the ballroom. With every step the brotherly warmth he wore open and unabashedly slipped back beneath his breastplate for safe keeping, something to cherish and guard when the duties of his position took precedence. His smile slowly faded, it was not an expression of indifference, but the alert stoicism of a guard who handled his job with the utmost severity. He stepped into his post with a practiced attentiveness. While all the people before him would feast and revel, he was a guardian that kept to the shadows and not finding respite until the candles burnt out and only servants remained in the hall. House Varrow entered the ballroom second behind the royals, as was their place. And while Rhaevyn had no intentions on marrying any of the Ladies, let alone one of the Princesses, he was also aware of the role he had to play, especially before the eyes of his father. Whether it was a boon or a hindrance, he was not the type of man that did things with subtlety. He could play the long game, but a bold act before others were willing to risk their comfort was his best opportunity to set the pace. He tenderly passed his mother’s hand off to his father’s other available arm before setting off. His haste was hidden beneath the ease of his long and steady strides, and the confident air he brandished like a coat of arms. He paid no mind to the place cards or where his name fell. His attention was solely focused on the eldest daughter as her brother guided her toward her seat. When Dorian went to pull out her chair, it was Rhaevyn who materialized beside her with a charming smile and a hand extended, his palm up turned. [color=455955]"Allow me, [i]your Grace.[/i]"[/color] He bowed his head in deference, making sure not to crowd Princess Maeve, but still remain close enough that his presence could not go unnoticed. A single brow rose with an impressed curiosity at the Lord’s boldness. Maeve gave her brother a quick, dismissive nod, which he heeded without argument. While Dorian wouldn’t admit it outloud, if someone else wanted the burden of catering to his sister, then he was not going to complain. He gave the Lord a parting nod, then wandered off toward the opposite end of the table. Instead of taking a seat, he waited patiently with his hands cupped behind his back, ready to offer assistance to any of the Ladies who were willing to accept it. While chivalry came naturally to him, he was also aware of the watchful gaze of his mother. He might have had every intention to get lost in spirits as the night progressed, but he also wished to avoid as much of her ire as possible. [color=2d5a32]"Thank you, Lord Rhaevyn."[/color] Maeve’s voice was sweet and laced with honey as she placed her hand lightly into his awaiting palm. His fingers, strong and pale, curled around her hand with a gentleness that contrasted his stoic and commanding presence. He guided her to the space before her chair with a practiced patience and a Lord’s poise. But before she could reclaim her hand, Rhaevyn lifted it slowly while lowering his head to close the distance. His lips brushed against her knuckles before pressing against her skin in a warm, lingering kiss. It lasted a second longer than what was proper, but if he noticed, he did not let on. His head tilted up, just a fraction, just enough for his piercing gaze to reach her from beneath his strong brow. [color=455955]"Forgive me, your Grace."[/color] His voice was rough and low like a secret shared between the two. [color=455955]"I had to be the first to [i]properly[/i] greet you."[/color] The tip of his thumb swept along her knuckles once, before releasing her hand and stepping behind her chair. Maeve had expected charm and flattery, but she was not prepared for how well it worked… Or perhaps how well it worked coming from someone as handsome as Rhaevyn Varrow. He was the sort of man that carried a fierceness with him unlike other men—like her father—who fostered compassion. Tales of his prowess had reached many ears, hers included, and a man who was as skilled with his tongue—[i]words[/i]—as he was with his blade was someone she needed to keep her eye on. While Rhaevyn was already at the top of her list, his boldness intrigued her and did not go unnoticed. Her smirk came effortlessly, with a predatorial arrogance of a woman who felt like she had already won. She lowered herself into her seat, brushing her skirts into submission, while he pushed the chair in behind her. [color=2d5a32]"But you already know me, my Lord,"[/color] she commented, hands hidden in her lap as the tips of her fingers trailed along the skin that still felt the lingering warmth of his lips. [color=455955]"[i]Ah,[/i]"[/color] he mused, punctuated with a low hum. Rhaevyn’s hands curled around the back posts of her chair as his head dipped slightly to hover closer so his hushed words could reach her ears. [color=455955]"Who is to say we cannot get reacquainted."[/color] His smirk grew like a silent challenge, lingering in the space beside her just long enough to catch her gaze before letting his hands fall to his side and finding his way to his own seat… which [i]conveniently[/i] happened to be directly across from her. As the nobles took their seats and the servants began carving into the various delicacies laid out before them, there was a subtle shift throughout the room. The rigid formality of the Great Hall faded into the dim warmth of the ballroom, and the rehearsed introductions gave way to the dangerous, silver tongued dance of the court. While the wine began to flow and conversation grew louder, every lingering glance, shared toast, and whispered confidence carried a weight that could bolster a house, or be its undoing. The pleasantries were over. The hunger that swept through the room wasn’t reserved for the feast, but for the power and prestige promised with the right match. Behind the clatter of silver and the flow of wine from crystal decanters, the board had been set. The true games of the season had begun, and in the Ninefold, the first move was often the most decisive.[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] rhaevyn varrow [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] emil, valerius & house varrow [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]