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ɴ ɪ ᴄ ᴏ ʟ ᴀ ꜱ ʜ ᴀ ʜ ᴇ ᴇ ᴅ
The mother of the East, a woman heralded as a Queen of the dominating cliffs that her hold spirals over, ruthless as the peaks she commands and the waves crashing mercilessly upon her shores liken to her tumultuous gaze of ice-sheering blue. Whilst described often as cold, calculating, manipulative and cruelly deducting to her opposition of neighboring houses, Nicola is stalwart in her eternal devotion to her land and people, for all that she does is in the name of golden hawks and the sanctuary of her gilded family. She was the eldest of her many kin, they were proud of seven brothers and sisters, and the only one rumoured to be alive to this day -- speculation has risen that she possess one brother somewhere upon the adjacent continent but nothing has been founded upon the tale. She's a woman that struck away from the coiling norm of the realm and chose her own husband, whispered that he was foretold to be hers by the storms that collide in constant over the seas. Nicola adores her children, despite her coldness to their innocent hearts, but she is also a woman of power, grace, and fortune, and will see to whichever means to keep it and her house as one.
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Greatly interested in playing a CCF member.
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𝚢 𝚘 𝚞 𝚠 𝚎 𝚛 𝚎 𝚝 𝚑 𝚎 𝚕 𝚒 𝚐 𝚑 𝚝 𝚝 𝚑 𝚊 𝚝 𝚜 𝚑 𝚘 𝚝 𝚝 𝚑 𝚛 𝚘 𝚞 𝚐 𝚑 𝚝 𝚑 𝚎 𝚍 𝚊 𝚛 𝚔 𝚗 𝚎 𝚜 𝚜

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When it happens, it happens fast.

It blurs into singular motions warped in strides, it's a quickness that lopes and plods with terrifying haste suspended in the gloom, haunted by a scarlet glow and glimmers of baited bone that snap rigidly through shadow. Emma inhales, sharp, whistling through gapped lips and teeth and the banked darkness at her heels is abloom, expanding far and wide and whippingly fast in its security as such rapidly attaches to Damien's casted shadow. Miniscule twitches of muscle within her hand suddenly spasm, a quivering tell of danger that spells coldness across her limbs, rigid and binding, she gasps around the wealth of power pooling across their connection that arises within her and surrenders her visual to rejoin his own graces. Emma moves, and when she does, the eclipse of the night responds with haunting tilts of the sky, stars suspended in colliding pings that reflect upon her eyes brightened by swirling starlight.

But they move much quicker than she, her person guided back, told to remain at the water's edge less she come to harm; stay back, we've got this. You'll only get in the way. She knows she's not useful in such an affront, her prowess is afforded to decimation and subtle harm, something that festers and accelerates treacherously slow, rather than the sudden and harshness of outright strength. Emma gazes upon those thick into the fray, summoning weapons of valour and within the images of their patronage that christens them almost godly. Raw potential and power coiled upon the fringes of warrior intrigue and brutality. Champions, she thinks sudden and swift, landing on shields, rapiers, manipulated alloys and righteous crests of a manifest. Mortal frailty is not found here and she is breathless in reproach and perhaps fear of the sudden unknown. She seeks out Damien helplessly, her shadow a flicker of a connection that clutches desperately to his slickly coated shoulders quivering broad and weighted in his power, her palms burn, but she cannot respond beyond wet gasps and wide eyes rapt in diving nebulas donned in concern.

"Damien..." she breathes on a feathered whisper and with Shadow now formed, Emma quiets and stills, hair lazily toiling upon an unseen breeze.

Such a creature is not unknown to her entirely, it's akin to an exposition of her eternal nightmares, endless skies, and careening shadows, compiling haphazardly amidst her waking world and stilling within her bones. The voice sluices upon her pores, blackened and rippling with malice, every assault and blinding attack christened white and blinding, martial competence that blurs seamlessly together as they attack. Terrifying screeches peel through her ears with wanting pain, bubbling laughter that pursues Shadow's eerie cry that is wholly mocking and baiting. Each blow and parry and impale lands true, with slick blood that reeks of poison oozing from yawning sores, Shadow slumps forward from their assaults, wicked teeth having risen into a smile, snapping around a blackened tongue that uncoils and drenched in death.

But it does not fall, not yet.

Emma has not realized that she has stepped forward, breaking among the crowd protected by the shores of the lake, bounded by her shadow, spurred by an unknown force that compels her strides whilst Shadow falls, foiled to its knees. A roar of laughter rings against her ears as the creatures raises both arms, black tendrils swirling amidst the bi-mortal children, slithering betwixt her figure then, taunting as it speaks.

"This is all the children of Gods have to show?" Shadow hissed, a slithering speech that rocked Emma to her core. "Pathetic. Undeserving. Mistakes."

Shadow's barbed tail coils then, bunched together before it releases, bidden by reflexes that released numerous projectiles upon the earth, shadows pooling forth in their wake. One comes dangerously close to Emma, a black barb grazed upon her cheek that weeps red upon her pale skin. She flinches, only barely, and listens as another voice summons forth upon her mind: whisper soft and delicate, a blanket to soothe her frayed nerves and soul burdened by the power jolting between her and Damien. Emma's lashes peel wide, her gaze brightened incredibly so, silver stars that bolt across the eerie blackness of her eyes that shimmer then with knowing.

You can help...

Emma kneels, nails raking across whipping shadows, grasping such within her usually fragile gestures now confident and sure, muscles thriving and bounding, her heart aflame and anxious. She breathes around a surge of power that boils within her veins, it wakes across the shadow joined between her and her brother and through such she siphons his emotions: his usual abrasive nature, and confidence within a battle, his raw potential. Emma inhales all of this and more, silver tears spiked upon her lashes whilst she tugs, pulls, ripping apart the veil of shadows usually commanded to shield her within. The rendered darkness splits into a yawning abyss of a void, an endless and desolate pitch that groans eerily within a low-crowned crescendo of barely constrained fury.

"Force it into the void," she cries. "Let it be lost, forever."

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ᴅ ᴀ ɴ ɪ ᴄ ᴀ ꜱ ʜ ᴀ ʜ ᴇ ᴇ ᴅ
The warrior, the soldier, the woman who forsake silk and luxury for the hold of the blade and the sound of the undying upon the fields in which she commands. Death reaps and sows upon her breast, undone by the hand in which a christening blade of gold reigns, carved and beaten by flame into the image of a careening bird upon the hilt; claws of the predator poised to maim. Stoic malice gleams abroad eyes of subdued tones, lax hues of gold that have long been drowned by time, cooling to amber as if a kindling of fire has long perished within. The reserve of her upbringing gilded upon her bearings like an armor, of which all ladies of the East wield undoubtedly. Sallow tresses pool upon pale skin, dusted coral in the sun, fair and blemished within shadow by the rigid command she bears. Time has ran its course against the warrior princess of the Easteren cliffs, the eldest daughter, her sworn loyalty tested aside falcons that have fought under her champion for many years.
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ᴅ ᴀ ʜ ' ʟ ᴀ ɴ ᴀ ᴇ ꜱ ʜ ᴀ ʜ ᴇ ᴇ ᴅ
The golden princess of the East: bejeweled and bestowed upon with beauty often heralded upon canvases of golden regalia; sweet ichor blesses her grace and twinkling eyes report shimmer upon a cherub bearing. Eerily aglow within the gloom, bidden under lamplight and candle flames, a yearning prospect to the whispers found in the surroudning holds that pine endlessly on her embellished reputation. Youth preens and glimmers with rouge upon her lips, a darkened hue of scarlet nestled upon a bow shaped smile adorned prettily as sacred, revered, and wholy beloved within the keep of the East crowned high upon olden shores banked against unforgiving waves. Wholesome locks coil among lithesome shoulders, tangible delicacey toned soft in hues of brown, eatheren darkness and auburn touches of golden likeness similar to the graces of night and day. The Golden Princess, as such a moniker entails, is the youngest of four, a jewel of the Eastern hold of flaxen hawks and their silvered falcons, her image often beside ancient creatures of the eternal skies dominion. She is thus a symbol of divine purity; a key figurine of both power and beautiful grace.
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updated -- 7/6/19.

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