Rockette

Reign of the Usurper

^{darron ....|..... outfit ....|.....merial ....|..... outfit ....|.....seraphina ....|..... outfit ....|..... penellaphe ....|..... outfit ....|.....niktos ....|..... outfit ....|.....lyric ....|..... outfit ....|..... the great hall}

Consider it leverage, or perhaps, consider it a momentary sign of weakness, that unwillingness to breach a subject tangibly felt between each Velmorra as a tautly drawn cord, the siblings untoward, the parents bared, as if a carcass loomed over by sickening eyes and frothing maws. Antler-crowned and bowed under the weight of sovereignty, gleaning bones barbed towards their unknown enemies. A barrage of inquiries lanced betwixt her ears, the space endowed and cumbersome, at leagues of capacity from the proceedings of court and all of its intrigue. The protocols here dictated her mannerisms, but could not align with her countenance, nor convince it proper, as her brow lowered and her eyes narrowed, slits of violet darkening under candlelight. A scowl more befitting of Lyric.

Waiting, this beseechment of temperance, was not within her nature, to idly bide time against a mulling thought of where honor was due, for where honor was owed to it; to her family, the elk was a relative to their house, a patron of fable born of rock and stone, and the gilded horn that had offered its last son to campaigning heroism. Seraphina's consciousness swelled with the voided tendrils of her ascending doubt that sought to strangle the idealism that had coursed through her youth, to achieve the great and impossible in the honor-bound code of a knightly sort; the warrior within was parched for retribution and staunched for glory. The lady, who made attempts to embody the projected grace and fluidity as she followed the line of Velmorra into the ballroom, was visibly thwarted and idle in her movements. Feigning to be more inclined to the rustling silk and velvet, the royal purple of her gown, and all of its bronzed adornments accusatory, an imposter that felt without. What stubborn pride unsought here in unfettered twilight.

“That is not the face of a woman who has just met her future husband.” Staunch as a mountain, broad and bronzed, Darron Velmorra quietly approached his eldest daughter and offered his arm. Lyric similarly escorted Merial whilst Niktos moved in swiftly to proffer his guidance to Penellaphe, to which the youngest accepted with few words spared and only a muted nod. Seraphina sighed, though soft laughter found purchase through her discomfited breath.

“He is… something. I will give Prince Dorian that much. First impressions didn’t lead to much, I’m afraid.” Seraphina admitted that, for what grace of admiration she had bequeathed him had been barren, little more than a regard for a potential match that was seemingly foretold by their familial bonds.

“Oh, so you noticed after all when exchanging looks with a certain Captain of the Guard?”

“Oh, so you did notice beyond all that court bantry, something about making it all official, as if all decided ahead of us. If I had known that, I would’ve just stayed home and spared myself the trip.”

“Perhaps,” her father mused, head canted, eyes adrift. “Dorian is a prince only in name and lacking in nature. I would not choose such a man to hold the honor of your hand.” It was no secret to whom Darron supported. The day the news came by feathered courier that Declan had vacated his royal title, he had ridden hard to the valley, intent to dissuade him otherwise. For often they traded counsel, but Declan had not sought to inform him, and within the shadows, his title, the Lord of Stonefallow, had sown seeds of mutual support to nurture the unspoken loyalty some still harbored for whom they believed to be the true heir. Similar in his plotting to see Seraphina take up that Obsidia seat glistening in snowlight in the heart of Tarn’s rest.

“Treasonous musings from one of the King’s most loyal supporters, no? Is that not the intent of these next few months, to ensure that the crown falls to the North rather than be swept by the South?” She uttered, a near mockery of enunciated words to fall between them, father and daughter. “Rather to keep the influences of Karthos at bay, despite what currently sits upon the throne.” He drew Seraphina closer, the ballroom awaiting just yonder where the great houses filed into, escorted on whispers with bannered Lords and Ladies awash in the flickering candlelight. What impressions of grandeur and inspiring prowess of both glamorous food and drink became lost under the conspiring breath Darron dared speak, mindful of eclipsing shadows tossed by dark mahogany doors.

“Your mother does not trust the Queen; it is she who pulls most strings here, all the playing pieces. Loathe I am to admit it. The city talks.” Seraphina paused, stalling their entry; the only sound permitted was the rustle of her skirts and the soft plink of bronze decorating her bodice as she breathed. “Is this why you and Niktos bothered not to mention what was deliberately left for us on the fields?” She inquired, accusatively. “Partially, for while Rowan would take up such an offense, I doubt that Valenya would spare such resources to care, not when it would dismantle these marriage talks to investigate.”

“This is a game now, not unlike a duel, not unlike war. But we trade our swords for concealed words and manipulative plays done under darkness.”

Transitioning from the great hall and into the cavernous ballroom was a dizzying effect, an amalgamation of dreams and wonder, with speckled moonlight and firelight alchemizing upon the border of both rigid affair and wild inclination. The long tables hewn from dark oak beckoned, the seats awaiting, decadence afforded, and little spared in the fineries of navy and silver lain carefully and artfully, tactful in the reminders of the royal family they all served and that deigned to house them. Seraphina dragged her admirations away and stood there with her father, both Velmorran down to their marrow, honorable and just, blackened hair and captivating eyes, commanding both presence and space in their conversation.

“What would you have me do, and if you say wait as Niktos did, I will fetch my sword and run it through the suckling pig and give these glorious houses of the Ninefold a real show.”

Darron laughed, a loud and brutish guffaw, similar to his days in the fields of boyhood, where all he knew was the antlered helm of his charging lead and the sweat and blood of his brethren. He recalled similarly brazen words spoken by those once close to him, brothers, now separated by leagues of country and obligation.

“I’ve no doubt, but there will be a time yet for you to show your skill with a blade.” It was no direct answer, but the soft smile that broke across his usual stoic countenance placated her all the same, a delicate curl of her lips pulled around her charming disposition, coloring her eyes with mirth. “You think they’d allow a lady into their duels and jousts?”

“I do not take you as one to ask permission.” He once more offered his arm to resume their procession into the ballroom that awaited, the rest of the Velmorra family already inside and dispersed, strategically placed by how close Niktos remained by the tables assumed for their progeny. Penellaphe stood by what was assumed to be her seat, where Seraphina noticed the designations of their placements, no doubt selected by Valenya, as her father had spoken; all of this was a carefully constructed plan by the Queen herself. She searched carefully for her own name, another diplomatic stratagem, a clever one at that, to separate kin and place them as tantalizing aspects, some more favorable than others. Darron gently laced his fingers over her own, drawing her gaze with a tempering squeeze.

“Mind the lace, as your mother would say. I must see to her.” He departed swiftly, rejoining his wife by the adjacent table, his hand at the small of her back, where a gracious smile would greet him. Let it never be said that Darron Velmorra did not truly adore his wife, even if the grace of her simper did not meet her eyes, dulled by something unspoken and unnamed.

Seraphina, now left to her own devices, pried her mind away from the exchanges with her father, the whispers betwixt her ears, and traded them for the plucking of string instruments and the lulling of trickling water, which served as a subtle accompaniment to the conversations held. From her position, she watched the intrigues of preliminary courtship beginning to take form: Dorian escorting ladies to their seats whilst exchanging small pleasantries, the Princess Rhea in conversations with her potential suitors, and Princess Maeve likewise, everything about her so refined and poised, more or less a silken accessory that she could deduce as being just as delicate, all of her strength spared for coiling tongues. She began indulging in her wine as the Lords settled around her, where Niktos would join them, and she chuckled, mostly to herself, for this was more befitting to his element than her own, with all his books and negotiations and capabilities of communication. She could only wish him luck, however, in the night that awaited them. Seraphina turned gracefully, skirts rustling around her legs, her gestures mindful and collected at her waist, hands laced idly. Her seat was down just a few paces, but then someone almost collided with her, her shoulder curiously brushing against a rigid bicep, her spatial awareness brimming with intrigue as she turned, an apology carried to her ears by a voice that plucked at her lobe, a baritone both pleasant and boyish, that disarmingly eased into a time once thought lost.

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

The memory surfaced, languid and simplistic, listing as though rippling waves undulating beneath swatches of sunlight before parting, sweeping between her ears as familiarity captured the unveiling of a once-upon-a-time suitor. As children of a war long since past, ties were forged under the cowl of matrimony, donned blue and bronze, and decorated in the niceties of unifying banners and lands for the sake of profitable commerce. This summer of political engagement was not the first time Seraphina had been proposed as a bride. In the foundations of youth and girlhood, beside the stories of glorified wardom, there had been whispering prospects of both knotted sword and valiant stag, an unwed hand to stretch yonder mountain territories, to cap whispering fields of wheat in the bartering futures for both crucial prey and blessed ore of Obsidia.

“Yes…” Serpahina whispered, momentarily taken by the masculine figure standing before her, close to a bespoken familiarity in the small space afforded between them. She looked up… and then up. His height was on par with her father’s, considerably taller than her, with her neck craned back in the slightest tilt, her gaze flickering up in small increments, measured and deliberate to exchange that memory of a boy for the presence of a man. The shadow of his brow, the simplistic charm, that refreshing candor, unguarded and unbound, the political strain of court had not befallen him, it would seem, and something within Seraphina loosened, albeit slightly, before recollection served just exactly who he was.

“Valerius Kenra.” His name sluiced through her teeth, having rolled against her tongue, a twinge of an old affair where summers of youth saw the Kenra’s crossing territories, their families once close, forged under war, before suddenly they had parted, a severe and sudden disconnect that later bled into the disputes of exporting stolen game and resources and border skirmishes. Not once, though, had Seraphina witnessed Valerius on those campaigns she had personally led, and for a brief moment, she speculated whether he was even aware of the poaching affairs, or perhaps he was knowledgeable and simply did not care, absorbed in his mantle as Lord and above such grievances.

“I said that the art of the bow would be lost upon you. For you had the potential for swordmanship, an arm with a reach and footwork that any man would find enviable, even at such an age.” And had he achieved such greatness? What tale was spared and spun through the realm had not reached the peaks of Stonefallow to her ears, but Niktos had once spoken about generational proclamations of his skills, and even her father had once acknowledged the heir of River’s End. Such minute praise was hard won by the former warstag, and she had been vying and relishing in it for years in her girlhood, intent on being worthy as the daughter of Darron Velmorra, the last son of the gilded horn. Her head canted to one side, dark curls pooling over her bared shoulder, lustrous and ravenlike in the subdued glow of candlelight, but the sparkling in the depths of her violet eyes was anything but, for the severity of her gaze glistened to swell and then darken, her lashes sweeping low against her cheeks contoured by shadows.

“Did you take my advice, I wonder, or have you continued your intent with elk bows?” She asked, hinting at something she could not and would not outwardly say. Call it fate intervening that neither Niktos nor her father stood close by. “Gorgeous beasts, aren’t they? Difficult to hunt, to bring down. Likened to the stag that champions the Velmorran line. All patrons to our house. Have you seen one recently?” Seraphina smoothed her gestures across her skirts, chiffon rustling, silks pooling and tugging, the bronze and royal purple of her attire willed into place, to busy her hands whilst she stood before the heir of Kenra, the heart of the house she had warred against, and their hunters.

“I have.”

^{interactions ....|.... darron & valerius. ............... mentions ....|.... valenya, rowan, declan, dorian, maeve, rhea. misc. others. ............... collabs ....|.... - - -}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5c6d72 ....|..... outfit .....|.....lake}

Theron’s brow furrowed, thick angles and sharp lines, a shadow briefly cast over the flickering hue that wavered betwixt their amber warmth and the slivers of blue and green that peeked forth, reminiscent of crystals webbed with jeweled tones and rivers of gold. His steps wavered, one foot planted back, taken off guard by the effect of his state of undress, which had brought the girl to fall entirely backward. Silence webbed and grew, an uncomfortable breadth that flummoxed Theron with flourishing waves of perplexity that bid him retreat back into the comforting swell of furs and claws, if only to sever the mortal constitution of this sudden embarrassment.

“Oh… Uh, well.”

The more she spoke the more bewildered he became at her speech, she was truly a delicate thing, surrounded by bouquets of flowers that sprouted, defying the chilling winter and the grittiness of sand that would normally hinder their growth. He’s reminded of the forests where he traveled as a stag some weeks before, wild flowers abloom in their ranges of violets and yellows, speckles of white too that perfumed the air in their fragrances, some of which thrived in the dawning frost and wilted in the night. It was a peculiarly unrestrained power, so secondary he imagined, and for a moment he had forgotten himself and any sort of human manners, for any other person would’ve helped her stand, no? He had endeavored to behave like a gentleman toward Callista, despite all the bestial counterparts who shuddered at the prospect of being in such proximity. Theron reached out an unsteady palm only for her to stand on her own merits, small gestures brushing sand from white denim, face flushed, eyes fixated on him… He severed that connection with a forced swallow, throat bobbing, hand tucked neatly away with dexterous fingers curling into his palm, a fist then formed and hidden with claws prickling into the lines of fate and heart scoured thick and unyielding

I hope you don’t mind me asking…

Her proposed inquiries had his attention snapping back toward her, a near-violent sliver of golden amber diffusing through swaths of blue and green.

… Are you one of Artemis’ lot?

That utterance of that name, he knew it, vaguely yes, but not of it, a spellbound, lunar wrath that suddenly listed through his heart and clung to the dregs of a vagabond spirit. It was a manifested dream that sundered a vow unspoken through Theron’s rippling core, muscles suddenly taut and bunched, undulating beneath pale, cold, bitten skin of a winter’s kiss dancing across corded sinew. The hound inside of him bayed as if lured by the silver moon hidden yonder a beaming sun that filtered rays of holy light, a cleaning spectacle that sparkled off willed wild flower blooms and glittering sand. In the silvered field that occupied his mind, vague, shadowed memories formed as eclipsed figures danced in the pale moonlight, blankets of darkness twisted and malformed, bearing the faces of a bygone era, of ancient, mystified realms. A voice caresses against the chasm betwixt his ears, shorn of nothing but haloed eyes suspended in the throes of a fantastical dream…

“I don’t feel the cold…” He uttered, lost amongst the words she spewed, the whispered breath hushed under her delicate voice. He inhaled through his parted lips, where scents sired across the well of his tongue that pressed against ridged teeth, the apex of his canines as wicked points of bone to perch against his lip, as she fell into more inquiries, as if bridled with a curious mindset, her previous embarrassments forgotten in idle drivel. She gave her name, and Theron nodded slowly, digesting, wherein she also gave the reign of her Godly parent, more forthcoming than Callista had been, hesitancy did not exist in this Iliana, and he mulled the pronunciation of her name around on his tongue, allowing a soft breath to escape in a worn sigh. He couldn’t say he was confident in knowing who Demeter was… but she was kind enough, even with the insistent chatter.

“So I heard,” though Theron was unaware of any struggles, only privy to the knowledge of the Camp as an ethereal tether that had lured him on the tidings of the moon. “Never knew such a thing existed, but it’s… something.” Did he mention the cabin, the luxuries of belonging somewhere that beheld his moniker as one of them? Things that were his to possess when, only hours before, he had nothing to his name but ill-fitted clothing? Would she understand the simplicities of comfort afforded to a man who couldn’t speak without detachment to cowl his intentions and words? The calmness of his mind was both a boon and a curse, a cold clarity and precision that made him more mechanical than genuine, despite the fluidity of the primal instincts within.

“My name is Theron,” he offered quietly. “I haven’t eaten, no. I’ve only a vague sense of where everything is.” He craned his neck back, nose to the air like a beast, and said. “But, I’m figuring it out by the scent of everything. Easier to remember that way, I suppose.” Thus, his wanderlust, which found sanctuary at the beach now beset with the flowers Iliana had subconsciously grown.

“Eating would be the smart thing, if you’ll point me in that direction… Or show me.” He moved slowly to retrieve his belongings, his shirt he left alone and once more donned his jacket, opting to zip it up completely this time as a gesture of good faith, or so he proposed in his mind whilst he raked one hand through his curls to smooth them back before putting his ballcap back on, a sliver of a shadow hazing his stare still wavering between ocher and blues and greens. A part of him was starved, another part of him worn and exhausted, traveling up the mountain and lingering among the woods before being thrust into an obstacle course had been a tiring affair, now suddenly evident by the voided hollow that moved sluggishly through his body.

When had he last slept in an actual bed?
One to call your own.

The inquiry in itself, so directly barbed and ringing against the heave of his ribs, wrenched forth a shuddering exhale that hazed white like fog in eyes, and within such a finite second, he suddenly very much felt the cold.

^{interactions ....|.... iliana ............... mentions ....|.... - ............... collabs ....|.... -}

Reign of the Usurper

^{darron ....|..... outfit ....|.....merial ....|..... outfit ....|.....seraphina ....|..... outfit ....|..... penellaphe ....|..... outfit ....|.....niktos ....|..... outfit ....|.....lyric ....|..... outfit ....|..... the great hall}

Lyric Velmorra truly and undoubtedly hated all of this.

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

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

Lyric just wanted to disappear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To catch the eye of a King…
She inhaled sharply, suddenly, and held it there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The King nodded his head, then motioned both of his daughters forward. "And, of course, my wonderful daughters, Maeve and Rhea."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honor endures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, Lyric would mutter, as lovely as a flower wilting under darkness…

He stood taller than her, her youngest boy, and escorted her into the crowd of Lords and Ladies, the rigid scowl of his brow creating shadows over his angular features.

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

“There’s something –”

“Sera.”

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

“Now is not the time,” he whispered, low and steady, his height pressing inward. She stood up straighter, if such were possible, everything about her rigid and unyielding.

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

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

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

^{interactions ....|.... storvane. ............... mentions ....|.... - - - ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5c6d72 ....|..... outfit .....|.....lake}

Theron stood along the shoreline, paws sunk deep into sand, the chill of the water vaguely registered as he loped back and forth, long snout descending to sift through the various scents that gathered here, edged in the crisp, lingering chill of winter. He didn’t know what he searched for out here, only that this canine nature possessed of his heart lured him to decipher every inch of the camp, starting here at the lake. His mind cast itself wide and far, fixated on the twins, on those bright eyes he compared to the snow, to the water, to the piercing rays of the moon that tugged helplessly and, near painfully, at his heart, her pale face wreathed in shadow. He’s reminded of the silver-lined gaze of fogged memories and halts, claws sinking deep and hackles raised at the assault of the unknown.

For whatever reason, her likeness lurked there, along with ringing chords of joyous laughter that fought for space betwixt his ears. He shook out his fur, attempting to banish these sudden doubts that dragged and filled in those previously voided sections of his mind. Even in the form he favoured most, human inclination and weakness still brewed there and ailed his calm nature, creating a tendril of unease to unspool and thread itself deep into his spirit. A growl slid out from the narrow cavity of his chest and slithered against his canines and tongue before awareness suddenly inched across his spine and spread out into his ribs.

He didn’t truly expect anyone to come out this way, not after the obstacle course, but then perhaps there were not many places to venture, after all, he had come out this way, had he not?

Theron’s head lowered, the intensity of his golden eyes unwavering as they watched her. Golden hair and amber eyes, a petite frame that, even in this state, he could easily loom over. His muscles corded themselves tight in apprehension as a soft chuff pumped out from his maw. She attempted to make herself appear much smaller, knelt down as she was, voice calm and melodic as it rang across the beach and reached out to him, placating and gentle, but uncertain.

He contemplated how he might respond, how he might approach. Was he lost? Perhaps. Hurt him? Theron almost scoffed at the notion. She was such a delicate looking thing, as if a flower, with soft, silken petals of pale gold, helpless in the throes of the cold. He finally reclined into a seat, falling back to rest on his haunches with a soft huff, head swaying side to side idly. He had stepped into his human form with Callista on the mountainside, but here he hesitated, golden eyes flicking to the side. He had left his ruined shirt and jacket elsewhere, thrown over a random branch to retrieve later. If he were to take such a shape now, he’d be left unclothed, save for his modesty, and something told him this small, assumed, fragile girl would topple over at the sudden change.

However, he couldn’t really converse in this form…

He barked, once, as if in a warning before dappled silver and white shed back, revealing twitching muscle and heated skin, an apology brimming within his eyes still aglow in hues of gold. Theron stood his full height, palms raised.

“Uh, no.” He swallowed, trying not to acknowledge that he only wore his sweats. “I’m not lost… I just wanted to look around. I arrived just this morning, before the course…” He winced at the growling timbre that he hadn’t yet shed, his words rough and sluicing through his teeth.

^{interactions ....|.... iliana ............... mentions ....|.... katryna, callista. ............... collabs ....|.... -}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#cb6583 ....|..... outfit .....|.....main hall.}

Callista slowly, idly, mulled around the honey coating over her tongue, the sweetness pooling between her lips, and stuck to her teeth. She sucked and pulled against the ridge of bone nestled there whilst her eyes curiously traveled down along her companion’s figure, what she could see, anyway, and then back up to meet her eyes.

There was fatigue there, heightened and gleaming before glimmers of warmth, subdued and perhaps snuffed under whatever it was that perplexed her, along with something else that brewed under those tendrils of affability. Her hunger was a genuine figment, but Callista could taste other emotions burdened under her gluttony, vague though they were and not of her particular domain. Afterall, it was the way she ate that drew her here, despite the way she mildly began to contain herself, much to Callista’s disappointment. Indulgence was such a rare, fickle thing.

“Yeah,” she began, piling berries on top of pastries and honey, dolloped with cream. “Sounds like I missed one hell of a party. I’m sure I could’ve helped… somewhere.”

She watched as her hand extended across the table, her head canted to one side, as if an animal curious and observant, her dark eyes flickering in recognition at the ink wed to her fingers, her own hand lifting to mimic her motion, to grasp a hold of what Callista assumed for a handshake. Though formal, she could not deny the prospect, that hidden want, that curled tight and then stretched taut, just a simple taste, really. To grab hold of those adorned gestures to figure out what lingered there beyond the depths of hesitancy, what if she could lightly nudge her towards inhibition, to stir awake something that fed her ravenous nature, what lurked there.

And what suddenly drew her gaze away.

Callista turned, eyes snagging on the red head that moved, like a feline, her eyes tracking him relentlessly before snapping back toward Tapeesa, as she had introduced herself, and could not help the curling smile that fled over her cheeks. Oh.

“Mm, makes… sense.” Callista was entirely distracted, her gaze flitting, skipping, dancing over Tapeesa’s adoring features. “My dad’s Dionysus. I think.” She tapped a nail against her temple. “I hear him in here all the time, never has really introduced himself as such, but I have only guessed from what I feel.”

“Madness is such an interesting thing. Along with impulse.” She held up her hand from the table, splayed her fingers out wide, palm thrumming.

There was no denying what was drawing Tapeesa’s attention, Callista could see it, almost taste it. But these were territories of an emotional nature that she didn’t know, that she couldn’t sway, only skirting the edges of them as an imposter. Still, they shared a similar realm, and though Tapeesa had stopped eating, her knuckles now blanched white from the grip she maintained on her fork, Callista couldn’t resist the inclination to reach forward to influence her otherwise.

“Boy troubles?” She mused in a lulling, quiet question.

^{interactions ....|.... tapeesa ................ mentions ....|.... nate. ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

_{LOCATION. new york city - marquee skydeck.}

012. the pornstar

---

_{INTERACTIONS . &&}

It was something of a marvelous struggle to leave an impression, to debut as a wonder, to herald feminine mystery and charm when half the world (for they were on top of the world, weren’t they) had seen your tits.

But Daisy Black made it look so fucking easy. Those elevator doors yielded on a delicate chime, but it might as well have been rusted doors being shunted open with brute force, for suddenly there she was- the pornstar.

Even as that collaborative din ebbed and flowed, the atmosphere hushed at her revelation, the cacophony falling away into its own dissonance, ringing hollow in her ears. Betwixt them lay an esoteric lament that sang her disparity, her muffled morality, the shorn and mutilated virtue of a woman that contemptuously brandished her sexuality as a given right. Forgone of the vanity, they mused, a rapturous sin that vandalized the sanctity of flesh when so lavishly given and palmed viciously by strangers bedecked only by mewled monikers of stage pseudonyms. But that was how it always went, didn’t it? These things occurred at such a predictable dichotomy between the prudish and the ravenous, those that prayed for the exposure of her soul and those that craved more of it, rapt with the incessant need to see more, should she cleave apart her ribs and expose her heart, would they then stop crying for her name into the darkened shame of their heaving bodies?

Probably not.

It was in these minute instances that Daisy paused, body refined and poised elegantly in the sequined mesh dress that contoured her figure. She had dropped the ivory capelet from her bare shoulders and took in the party with flickering sweeps of thickly clustered lashes that fanned over jeweled cheekbones, diamond clusters scattered amidst smudged blacks that adorned the beloved countenance that could curl one's name into a prayer the way she could arch her spine that cost a god damn fortune. Conversations lulled within the space created around the elevators, criticizing glances that swept back across her elongated physique once, then twice, recognition blooming heated scarlet in some, whilst splotching indignation through others. Daisy reveled in it, able to capture these glimpses, permitted to dissect human nature with a glistening eye whenever someone happened to look her way, and to know exactly who she was. What she was.

That’s right, you nasty bitches.

Dexterous gestures shook out her mane of red hair, neon scattering amidst strands of scarlet to light the strands aflame that spilled across pale and supple shoulders before resettling down her spine, swept back by silver combs to accentuate the long line of her graceful neck. The ruched knot in her dress dragged panels of glittering skirts across a sliver of pale skin, a slit in the fabric exposing the entirety of her thigh as Daisy slid through the crowd and slithered through bodies, enmeshed with a contortionist's aptitude. She had missed the speeches and announcements with intention, because William Tremayne was bought in big with S&S (because, duh, why wouldn’t he be, the shit wrote itself) with her invitation prettily delivered in bouquets of roses that perfumed her vanity and trailer for weeks, the scarlet blooms crushed beneath a patent leather heel with its red-bottom scuffed to glorious hell despite Zachary’s placating tone that it was all just business. Sure, it was. She had heard all of it before, the fundraisers, the grants, the charities. He was into it, Jonathan too, having wedged himself into the influential sphere of Trinity Houston just because. Not that anyone truly liked him, as Erin muttered about ‘that Vale bastard’ and his smug, heavenly gifted face that once, woefully, attempted to make an honest woman out of Daisy.

All those late nights piled crudely in the corner as dirty laundry littered with shards of glass, reflecting all the sinful envy he coveted.

But she was here, and he wasn’t. None of them were; Trinity had declined, too busy, too proud, and far too detached from reality to pry away from her debauchery. Her endeavors were efficient, but her nature was obsessive, favoring morality as currency in the exchange of close-ups, pin-ups, and exotic scripts brimming with intemperance. Zachary was too busy, too busy to be her guardian for the evening, her chaperone, so to speak. Too busy to entertain her schedule and relations, too busy for the job given, and no one to shadow her whispering steps on a night usually requiring those looming figures.

And Erin… Was bartending tonight, here, of all places, recruited by the caterer’s operations coordinator. One of many hired for these festivities, nestled against a satellite bar positioned out on the skydeck, all stainless steel polished to shine, lit up by lurid neon, the backdrop of the skyline framing her in resplendence, where Daisy Black finally found her, directed by their back-and-forth text messages that had distracted her plenty on the Uber ride here. A blessing, truly, for her driver kept trading glimpses through the rearview mirror as she snapped gum between her teeth, obnoxious and yet endearing, with bubblegum-pink bubbles blown out past her painted lips. Should’ve taken a Lyft.

“Wow, hey, look at you.”Clad in her white button-up and black suspenders, the material nearly translucent to expose scraps of lace beneath, her pants just a size too small, and her feet in thick-soled Doc Martins, she was the subject of admiration and envy as Daisy twirled. Truly, she was as if a blanket of night descended and cloaked her in its refinement, pale skin as if the moon with its radiance contained within a mortal shell, and then alighted by flame.

“You don’t even want to know how much this dress costs.”
“You’re only going to wear it for one night, too; that’s crazy work.”
“I can always donate it,” Daisy brushed a stray lock of red behind her ear, revealing a trio of black studs pierced along the curve of her lobe. The gesture is a simple one, slumberous, unhurried, but her eyes, muddied shades of green and brown, flicker interoceptively through capes of accentuated lashes.“Seems to be the trend around here anyway.”

“You missed it; he totally acknowledged our hard work with a round of applause, too." Erin scoffed and tugged her phone from her back pocket, displaying the cracked OLED screen that spider-webbed from the corner where it had impacted concrete many drunken nights ago. The brief recording she had opted for in the moment immediately played through a tilted angle to glimpse through stilled bodies, the audio crisp in some instances and then muffled in others, with Erin’s voice crowding over the announcement with her chagrin.“I was going to upload it later, such a load of shit, honestly. But at least the tips have been good, and I’m getting paid a stupid amount. I’ll cover next month’s rent.”

“Erin, you don’t ever pay rent.”
“Just let me feel human, Daisy, it’s honest money that I don’t have to flash my ass for.”

“Hey, this ass foots the entirety of our expenses, did you not watch my interview on The Tonight Show? My name is a top search on fucking Google.”

“Excuse me, your highness.”She mock-surrendered with palms up and eyes rolled high, before she wedged her phone back into her back pocket and retreated behind the bar, expertly spinning a rock’s glass in her hand and a tin shaker in the other.“What’re you drinking? And if you say espresso martini, I will jump off this building. I ran out of my batched cold brew in the first hour, and the main bars have the espresso machines.”

Daisy palmed her chest in a feigned wound and laughed with her trademark titter in the low, throaty, husky giggle that rasped through her lips, lashes sweeping low and casting shadows unbound across her visage.

“I’ll take the filthiest martini you can make me then and an obscene amount of olives.”
“Gross. Vodka, right?”
“You know me so well, babes.”

“You just missed Bobby Rifo, too,”She carried into casual conversation, tilting bottles upside down expertly before spinning them back down into the well station attached to the mobile bar. They fell with the thuds of glass and metal, muted by the music that leaked out this way, inspiring vibrations.“Aren’t you a fan?”

“What gave you that idea?”Daisy uttered. She had checked in her capelet at the door but kept the small leather clutch tucked beneath her right arm, from which she deftly pulled her cell, thumbing through messages with a quick, illuminated eye that spiraled into various notifications despite having set her mobile to ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode. Daisy wasn’t working, a rare night off where she didn’t have to study scripts or attend the gym, her regimen harsh and critical, her training never ending to maintain a svelte frame that shifted under the shimmering cover of her dress. In exchange for her drink, she dropped it back into her clutch before passing it over to Erin to receive the obnoxious amount of olives skewered and laid horizontally across the rim of the glass.

“I’ve heard his music play from your room.”

“Trinity wants to branch out with soundtracks in certain specials. I was curious. Heard the name a couple of times.”She plucked the bamboo skewer and deftly curled her tongue, pulling olives past her lips with a satisfied ‘pop’.

“Oh.”

“I’m not sure there’s a man alive to keep up a tempo quite like that.”
“Okay, thank you. I’m working here.”
“You asked.”
“You don’t always have to tell, Daisy.”

“You can always tell me.”

Erin’s eyes snapped up first, quick and sharp, spearing through the coated lashes that framed them, the shadows cast malformed, then lifted, bisected by the colors of the night. Daisy was more casual, intentional, and unhurried, never rushed and always poised, and certainly, never taken off guard. Her head rolled slowly, her delicate neck curving into an arch as she gleaned and dissected the brunette who had approached them, unchecked and unchallenged, with Daisy dismantling everything about her in slow blinks that fluttered down and then up in excruciating increments of casual ease.

“And who,” to which she pulled more olives into her mouth, lips pursed, tongue slick against blanched teeth, time flickering away into muddled voices and music. “Are you?”

“Josie Tatl. Tatl-Tales.” There was something peculiarly antagonizing in Daisy’s countenance, a thin film worn over the breadth of her face, as a woman eternally filmed in all manners of undress and poise; everything about her was on a constant, public display, but in the ethereal luminescence of New York bedazzlement, she appeared unapproachable and detached. Different, in every sense of the word, dissociated from the mundane celebrities that crowded them and set apart by deliberate design, or perhaps unspoken hesitation that concerned peers to mind their associations standing next to such a performer. Josie shifted under her scrutiny, used to the punctuating silence that followed, whilst Daisy took a leisurely sip of her drink, the cloudy liquid drawing her gaze for just a moment, to surrender eye contact, the wordless spell severed betwixt them as Daisy finally blinked and allowed Josie a reprieve.

“That’s cute. I like it.”

“Oh, thanks.” Slowly, she lifted the recorder, clutched within her palm, fingers twitching before they stilled, an invisible line, a barrier stationed between them. Something in Daisy’s impression warranted boundaries, perhaps from the tilt of her head or the way her blinks were timed and so quick and peerless, so in control were her functions. “Do you have time to answer a few questions?”

“I like your freckles too, you have about fifty-eight that I can see.”
“Ms. Black-”
“Call me Daisy.”

“... Okay, Daisy.” Her thumb inched forward, depressing the button with a soft, barely audible click. The recorder in her grasp suddenly doubled in its weight, a pressing, eternally fixated thing that cast a line, the light a lure that dragged Daisy’s eyes down, then, like a feline lured by a laser pointer. She wasn’t going to allow this sudden oddity to prevent her from achieving what she came here to do; she had successfully intercepted and interviewed countless others, lured and championed by the varying levels of success and elusiveness, even with those less forthcoming. She was figuratively done with edging around the real inquiries she wanted to propose, the resolutions, the games, the skirting around the obvious. “Let’s start with S&S Studio and the alleged disappearances of certain stars.”

Josie inched closer, heels dragging, intentions whisper soft, the grip on her recorder flexes once, her palm aflame and her eyes wide, almost accusatory and conspiratorial in one fell swoop of her lashes. “What do you have to say about that as their biggest one, with all of your success? That sudden appearance on The Tonight Show was so sudden, wouldn’t you say? I really enjoyed it, though. Very enlightening.”

Something hissed and shifted across Daisy’s unwavering eyes, those careful and intentional blinks stalling, her eyelids peeling back, and diamond clusters flashing with garish light that shifted obliquely across her visage, shadows of night sky black and neon framing piercing eyes that gleamed a coiling, eerie green.

“What did you say your name was again?”
“Josie… Tatl.”

Daisy hummed, something soft and acknowledging, and those devilish features suddenly slithered into something with a visible, biting edge, gleaming teeth and glittering eyes, the martini in her hand lifted carefully, drawn to her mouth where she sips and pins Josie down with her eyes as an insect laid across a board, needled and helpless. Josie, though, wouldn’t back down, not from this. She had endured Bobby Rifo’s scathing remarks and Jag’s disregardant nature; she had flitted around the hedged secrets of the likes of Cozy Rosie and Hayden and tried to pick apart the influential likes of Scarlett Wren. Daisy Black? She was just a pornstar who couldn’t make it in the real movies and decided to star in her own defilement.

Right?

“No comment? What about the things you didn’t say on The Tonight Show, your own autonomy, morals? Any self-preservation left or what hasn’t been used up. What happened to the girl from Texas? Are you just another statistic, lost amid the glitz and glam of stardom?” She pressed harder as Daisy inclined her head, just a smidge, a mere fraction that cascaded rippling waves of red over her bare shoulder. She continued taking languid, unhurried sips from her drink, unblinking, unwavering.
“I really, really like your freckles, Josie.”

Her thumb slid off the recorder, just a singular action that gnashed the stop button with a quiet click, a near misstep from the purring annotation of her name, but it cost her the precious second it took for Daisy’s freed hand to lash out, viperish speed unburdened and secured as a vice around Josie’s hand clutched around the damnable device in her hand.

“Ms. Black– Daisy, please let me go.”

“Listen, for your sake, I’d stick to less… personal questions. Accusations. You never know who is actually listening.”
“I’m interested in truths, not conspiracies.”
“The truth will set you free, is that it?”

Carefully, slowly, Daisy relinquished her grip, extracting her fingers with a hesitancy that Josie could feel traveling up her arm in faint tremors, but were they her own, or transferred from the shuddering palm that finally plied away from her? As if the exchange had never occurred, Daisy slowly tipped her head back and lifted her glass to pour the remains of her drink down her throat, swallowing the contents with a finality that Josie understood that no more questions or answers would be extracted from their particular exchange.

“Thank you for your time, Daisy… Maybe another time we can chat without any potential listeners.”

With a final nod and regard towards the empty glass manacled in Daisy’s grasp, Josie slid off into the crowd, and the bodies surged around her, severing that connection with an echoing silence that pinged hollow through Daisy’s head until she blinked, eyes shuttered, expression downcast till she opened them and observed the wavering and flickering scenes through her lashes. Blurred shapes undulated and writhed, disoriented and disconnected bodies and mounds of flesh that amassed before her, flung far to the fringes of misconstrued reality.

“Daisy.” Erin snapped her back, another martini in hand, quickly exchanged it for the empty glass in her hand, where her fingers had clutched so tightly they were splotched red and paled around the edges of her skin.

“Right, thanks.”
“Want to tell me what that was all about?”
“Just another reporter trying to figure out the whys behind what I do.”

“Daisy-”she began, because she understood, in her own way, she truly did, but whereas she had left that life behind, Daisy was still ensnared, and Trinity would never let her go as easily as she had allowed Erin to walk out those doors.

“I’m going to dance.” She didn’t allow for any sympathy; she didn’t want it. Didn’t fucking need it. Didn’t need a single apology or understanding shoulder to curb the weight of the life she had chosen to lead. Daisy chose to immerse herself in the dancing crowd and carved out a space for herself with brutal intent, the glittering skirts dragging around her legs, serving as a shield of shadowy voids as midnight drew ever closer.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

Edit: I'd love help getting a banner created... What I did is okay but it doesn't match the rest.

@Xandrya

If you want one like I made for Qia and Roman, just send me a PM with some pictures you'd like me to use! 🫶

There's only room for one mediocre writer in this RP.

And that's me.

@Lord Wraith

gag.

edit note- Daisy will be up by this weekend. Coming back into work over the last couple of days has me catching up on a lot of stuff after being out.

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5c6d72 ....|..... outfit .....|.....arena}

There’s something in watching everyone rerun the courses that has Theron on edge, something misplaced, and he can’t quite figure it out. It’s not the announcement of places and times; he’s finished somewhere in the top, and while uncompetitive, it does gladden him to know that an impression has been left, for whatever it is worth. Even though, for just a moment, he had felt the wavering barriers of his control slip, with claws pricking forth, unbidden yet responding to the teetering balance he maintained, to coexist with his primal instincts and channel those strengths into his human reign. Muscles quivered and bunched, abdominals rolling and clenched taut, a burn coiling that slowly spread out, even coating the back of his throat. The brim of his cap shields that amber glow of his eyes, elbows resting across stilled knees, long fingers draped and lax, with only minuscule twitches noted in the slight callouses of his palms.

Those who had failed naturally paired with others, and with a muted observation, Theron opted to watch for multiple reasons and purposes that are academic and lesser for the pleasure of simply being around people. Animals kept well enough company, but the echoing expanse of howls and bleats left something to be desired, which made the more tangible qualities of conversing with someone all the more apparent. He had discovered that in his brief meetings with Callista, whom he observed leaving the arena, before his gaze flicked back, watching as the redhead in her group attempted the course, fumbling and uncertain, even assisted and coaxed along by a familiar figure. Soon and perhaps helplessly, Theron is easily distracted by a slender ebonette, then by hourglass shapes accompanied by athletic men; he attempts to pair their names to their faces, and fails miserably enough to relinquish the task to mere fancy. He’d come to know them later, right?

Slowly, Theron stands to his full height and rolls his shoulders back, muscles undulating beneath the black cotton of his jacket. There wasn’t much to do here, even with a few individuals lingering here and there… He recognizes the twins from the shadows, as his canine counterpart would, but in a scant moment of uncertainty, he fails to devise a reasonable approach. Hello, I was watching you earlier as you traveled up the mountain? Maybe if he knelt down and allowed fur to overwhelm the prickling flesh coating his bones, promote and provide himself as a dog rather than a man, but then again, they were cat people. Something told him then that the brother wouldn’t appreciate it, despite the sphere of tranquility or ease he exuded. At least she, with her dark hair and bright eyes, a kindness there that bespoke of quaint sorrows, appeared approachable. If anything, he contemplated, it was a connection unbeknownst to either… In the finality of it all, Theron didn’t say anything, as his usual grace, he ducked his head, shunted his cap down farther to conceal the golden glimmer of his vaulted sensory debacle, and ducked out of the arena.

He sighed once the chill of the air settled over his exposed abdomen, heat flumed upward into his chest and spread throughout his limbs, the cold refusing to settle but rather flit playfully over slender musculature swelled with latent adrenaline and nerves. Lengthy gestures massaged over the nape of his neck whilst his eyes glimmered, reminiscent of a skyline, with the amber gradually feathering away into soft wisps of golden tendrils that bled away from the blue of a dawning sky and the verdant silence of a tempered forest.

Whenever he had been presented to a new family, to a new home, Theron always explored their homes, their yards. Whenever he would wander into new forests and fields, he would scent every league and blade of grass and branch. He knew well enough the outer perimeter of the camp, but its innards were foreign, the veining paths unknown with so many scents alchemized to produce a rich medley of life. Theron clutched his ruined shirt in one hand, his opposite flexing.

In one instance, he stood just outside the arena, venturing off into the shaded wall before a mortal physiognomy yielded to a bestial mien: elongated snout, dappled face of grey, a body of silver and white with cunning eyes shimmered bright and feral. Theron shook out the feathery soft pelt of the hound, the shift easy, second nature, preferred and favored where his human self failed. Nose to the ground, he began loping off toward the stables, passing by the fences carefully and easily with his elongated stride. The horses within were alerted to his presence and, peeking yonder scattered stalls as his shape pranced by. Curious rather than fearful. He wove through the thickets of trees that acted as barriers around some of the cabins, ducking low beneath frosted windows and quivering lights within. Soon, snows and grass gave way to gritty expanses of a beach with its quieted lake stretching out before him. There, a sort of calm overtook him, tempering him, briefly, as his canine self appreciated the picturesque quality of the moment and convinced him to approach the shoreline.

^{interactions ....|.... - ............... mentions ....|.... rae, zelia, callista, katryna, kacper. (vauge mentions of others). ............... collabs ....|.... -}

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

Everytime a cuck chair is mentioned or referenced, I giggle. Working in a hotel and all, we have weekly cuck chair videos we share from tiktok. It's great.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

Pfft, felt. Entirely. Excited to read it later this morning after I finally take my ass to bed.