Rockette

Reign of the Usurper

^{#695645 & #513e42 ....|.... tarn's rest.... |.... two months ago}

“You don’t have to go.”
“If I do not, it’ll be seen as a weakness.”

“A weakness that no daughter of stone would reveal, I would not jeopardize the chances for our children for the sake of my own vanity, to lay that cloak of cowardice on the name of Velmorra.”

“The King would understand; Rowan would not name it so.”

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

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

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

“Such a victory was not without a price; you know this most of all.”

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

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

“Such a cynic, my dear. The mind you possess is sharper than any blade.”

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

“You suspect someone…?”
“I suspect everyone.”

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

“Most of all, The Queen.”

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

^{#50404b ....|..... outfit ....|.....#9f7560 ....|..... outfit ....|.....#447989 ....|..... outfit ....|..... border of stonefallow and harrowfield}

The journey from Tarn’s Rest is not an easy endeavor to make, for it is a gamble of uncertain paths through which to traverse, the procession of northern lords and ladies of bronze and violet in itself is a political stratagem, the first of many maneuvers across a proverbial board adorned in pieces of ivory and others of black, some here are glacial and hued from crystalline forges. Others woven of gold, be whatever hue of stone or jewel, they glimmered in the offsetting sun of the realm with their branded name of house and their clandestine intention. Loosely prophetic in the destinies known and rumored and the honor sought in the peak of summer, where letters delivered by raven wing wove an elaborate tapestry of Nine.

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

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

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

“Easy, we’re just waiting for the others. That’s all.”

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

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

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

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

“She acts more like a dragon each time you bring her out from the stables. I don’t know why you don’t retire the nag.”

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

“That’s a nice way to say cun-”
“Careful, sister, with a mouth like that, you’ll likely scare away your future husband.”

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

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

“Spare you?” Seraphina mimicked his droning timbre, “Please, spare us, brood any harder, and the mountains are liable to fall over on us, swooning.”

Lyric scoffed, “I don’t brood.”

“Yes, you do.” His older siblings chimed in simultaneously, exchanging knowing glances, a muted agreement, as Niktos continued, compelled by Seraphina’s curled, smirking lips.

“In fact, the dames lined up in the halls from all manner of court would agree. Let’s just hope it works well enough against Princesses.”

The younger Velmorra flushed, but his lips lifted all the same, the color of his cheeks splotched onto his neck. “Says the heir whose only knowledge of a woman comes from books.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More interesting tales concern the younger princess, Rhea.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a gossip,” Seraphina quipped, and from over her shoulder, she could hear the deepened sigh of Lyric.

“Hardly gossip if it all reveals to be true.”

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

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

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

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

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

And then she could smell it too, something that traveled on a warm breeze, thick and heavy: iron and rot.

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

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

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

As a threat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Put aside your past grievances to consider the reasoning, the implications, the risks.”

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

“This,” she gestured with a pointed finger, her arm tensed. “It's a message to answer that threat.”

“You don’t know that. Remember, sister, you are a prospective bride too.”

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

“Evidence,” she replied coolly, voice laced with frigid cold.

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

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

“We will honor it and its life before moving farther south,” Seraphina recited, bowing her head of black hair, the antlers worn catching the light, tines of silver like white fire.

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

For their long summer had only just begun.

^{interactions ....|.... velmorra siblings ............... mentions ....|.... rowan, valenya, kenras, cantlowes, maeve, rhea, dorian, zahara. ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

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

Theron watches everyone. He’s observant, intense, with fingers steepled at his lips, elbows balanced on knees, and spine bowed with the level of scrutiny provided. Everyone is called ahead and before, finalized into groups on an alphabetical system that he quickly recognizes. The first, the second, then the third. The brim of the baseball cap layers his eyes in dusky shadows that shimmer with a film of amber, the golden pinprick of an analytically unforgiving predator that dismantles weaknesses and strengths; it’s a near second-nature inclination as he deciphers intention and habitual practices in the face of challenges. There were certain advantages in going first, and plenty more in going last, a multitude of strategies and dismantling of each course into its particular structure, through which Theron carefully constructed a predetermined execution of how he’d handle the obstacles, which seemed far more preferable than how the other demigods drifted into social circles and groups.

Earlier, he had carefully moved away from the stone wall and found himself a seat at a reasonable distance, everything about his physique drawn in so tight as an ebony donned cluster of tension and uncertainty, he didn’t care to trade conversation after his earlier exhaustion with Callista, who seemed more interested in gazing ahead and transfixed on every word and expanse of skin revealed, and if anyone approached him… The shimmer carefully dispelled from his pressing gaze, blue-green glimpses peering forward as his hands slowly descended and interlinked; he thrust out his palms, each knuckle cracking loudly and swiftly. So much had happened, so much unknown, names he could not place, and events that linked so few together in traumatic tendrils by the mention of some enchanted box. As he had roamed the surrounding forests as both stag and hound, he had been privy to the sounds of their revelry, and part of him was glad to miss it.

Even if he couldn’t deny that his eyes would flicker, briefly, shining carefully over a few of the campers, from dark, swaying tresses, to slivers of tan skin and pale delicacies, to the trilling of laughter that had previously seeded itself into his mind, a cheerful and twittering call of joy that Theron could not ignore as she completed the course as if it were a mere, long-lost friend of sorts. He marveled at that, the carefree spirit, how anyone could express themselves as such with such erratic bursts of joy. However, admiration was shortly given and lived, as Theron felt within the canine counterpart of his pacing in tight circles, unease spindling outward as the groups were called on, and on, the brush of fur against his expanding pores spelling a shudder down his back. He partially knew what was causing his anxiety, the other responsible unease, though, was how those who had completed were filing back into groups, talking, checking in on one another, to which, what did that even mean, and how did they do it so casually?

And then his name is called, finally, and in the final group no less, to which he stands to his full height immediately and reaches for his collar to pinch the silver zipper at his throat, with forefinger and thumb, he tugs down, the zipper giving way with a too sharp sound that whistled at his ears. Theron peeled off his jacket with quick, hastily done movements, white cotton tee loose over slim arms and muscles corded tight in his biceps and shoulders. He rolls them back, bones popping, grinding, the shift beneath his skin flaming heat through his entire core. He tugged the cap off his head, tossed it down on top of his jacket, and shoveled a quick gesture through his curling hair that fell over his brow as he approached the starting line. There are only four of them, but competition isn’t the domination, however, Theron cannot deny the temptation that stirs and ticks away at his bones, call it the animal nature, the predator that stewed betwixt his ribs, that inspired him to smooth his palm over the nape of his neck, his crown tipping side to side to ease the tension of his spine, a swift crack announcing his signal to start as everyone immediately formed and fell into line. It was similar to saving the best for last.

The tires came easily, almost too easily, for Theron exuded the gracefulness of a deer, as if pointed limbs were slender haunches and smooth hooves. The logs, he vaulted over, as if the stag that had traveled the forest only days prior, he treated it all as the wood in which he thrived, the beams rising higher and higher, to which Theron used his palm, swung his weight over the third, the fourth, the fifth, less of a challenge for him than most. He landed with a soft thud, fingers to the ground. Two more, a dark-haired man and blonde woman, were quick to overtake his position, but Theron allowed them to pass, eyes flashing to amber in narrowed slits as they moved onto the low crawl.

As if his serpentine self, he moved low and fast, clawing through loose grit and sand, hot and chafing, prickling against his forearms, sticking and clumping to his palm, and fitted underneath his fingernails. Theron endured it, dominated it, slithered out from underneath the wooden structure, and seized the thick, corded rope with his hands. His slender arms immediately flexed, and he propelled himself up the rope, thighs clenched around the swaying cord, feet pinched, and hand over hand, he hauled and pulled, the first touches of sweat coating his brow, gluing the curls of his hair just above his eyes, wavering between gold, blue, and green. A fluctuation of his mortal countenance before he reached the platform, only seconds behind as (Elias, he tells himself, from the roll call) moves onto the netted web swaying before them. As the kingly reign of his antlered counterpart, he pushed his feet across the thick rope nearest to him, swayed into it, and kept moving, his weight pitching forward only slightly as he neared the end, a small whoosh pumping out from his lungs. The threads of his shirt clung to the shadowed muscles of his back, chiseling out the surprisingly cut planes that lined the shoulder blades that cradled his spine.

Another rope, to which Theron grabbed hold and eased himself backward, taking a small moment to judge the distance before he ran and vaulted himself, letting the rope loose from his grasp with a grunt as he hit the ground hard with his sneaker-clad feet. His balance wavered, only slightly, a subtle animalistic aggression lacing tight through his legs, the unification of his human nature struggling against the lull and temptation to shift into something faster, better, stronger.

The balance beams shook underneath him next, but Theron held out his arms and took to it with ease, only listing to one side as he descended the final. As if in the forest still, every course is just another log, another clearing, another thicket of trees to claim.

At the pool, Theron hesitated for just a moment and reached over his shoulders to bunch the fabric on his back, grabbing fistfuls of white cotton to haul it over his head to then gather at his wrists. He didn’t know if being shirtless was part of the curriculum, but the sweat glistening on collarbones and heaving pectorals convinced him otherwise as a subtle breeze moved over his skin. He dove into the water next as if the hound that had swam through rivers had come forth, that had galloped along the shores of lakes to wade through the waters and seemingly endless depths. Though dog paddling would definitely not get him anywhere, as he clasped his palms, forged his fingers into a pointed figure, and plunged them down into the waters to launch himself forward in powerful strokes that allowed him to nearly catch up with those ahead of him, leaving the fourth member of their group behind. Theron neared the final length of the pool, lifted himself from the waters with sloshing waves parting around the athletic lines of his core, his abdomen flexing, the water dragging against the fabric of his pants, exposing the sharp, rigid bones of his slender hips until he lifted his leg and used the brace of his knee to haul himself out entirely. The ground was utterly soaked, leaving him to leap over the muddy earth until he faced the ladder with dark curls clinging to his face. He shook his head to rid the water clinging to his face and once more carved wet hands through his locks to tackle the challenge ahead, literally.

Theron leapt up on the first rung with a grunt and swung his left up, braced his foot, and pulled himself up, and up, trying to ignore the way his stance would quiver, the way his soaked shoe would slip from time to time. In his concentration, he barely acknowledged the slight edge on the tips of his fingers, that bestial nature peeking through and slivering out… No abilities, no powers, Theron cursed, relinquished his grip, and nearly lost it somewhere in between, suspended in the middle with pants working from his throat and shearing through his lips. He inhaled and took in sharp, whistling breaths through his nose as he regained his balance and footing and climbed the logs the rest of the way before scaling back down the other side. He landed with a thud, knees bent, arms slightly out, and shook out the tingling sensation in his hands that began prickling in his palms.

Control, he told himself, control.

The long jump, he ascended, barely hesitated, he jumped, vaulted, sailed through the air, and landed with much lighter grace, barely making a sound, as he would as a stag and rose just as gracefully, finishing just behind the others. Not making first didn’t bother him, not so much, but to finish nonetheless, in something he had never done, the first time he had participated in an activity with others that were, in many ways, and then not, like him. Different, but only different in their dominations rather than their mortal frailties. For a brief moment, a small smile bloomed there, something akin to pride that took hold, if only for a moment, before magic corded and blanketed over him, drying him immediately in such a way that he flinched. Theron shifted, feet moving, his entire body wound taut as he flashed his eyes towards River, eyes that shimmered a golden hue before he recognized their newly announced leader and paused, nodding his thanks before immediately moving to retrieve his jacket and cap, his shirt, now muddied, fisted in his right hand. He lamented over the loss of it, for just a moment, but had to remind himself that it was his to ruin, another luxury, he supposed. Theron slowly pulled his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, leaving the ends open rather than zipping it closed, and immediately shoved his baseball cap back on his head, once more shadowing his eyes from view, as if effectively cutting himself off from the world. Again.

^{interactions ....|.... river (sort of) ............... mentions ....|.... river, zelia, trinity, elias, daniel. ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#cb6583 ....|..... outfit .....|.....arena}

Pretty words. Pretty boys and pretty girls. Tragedies and a history eluded to and worn under the shadows of speeches meant to be reassuring. It all eddies out and unspools betwixt her ears amongst all the other voices that churn and sluice through her mind as Callista settles down further on the bench, elbows on her knees, knuckles nestled underneath her jaw. They begin digging into the curve of her chin when rapid jolts of energy quiver through her limbs, nurtured by the feathering emotions that flutter to and fro, like bird wings and insects that buzz and glide with secrets laid bare as twittering sensations that she can taste with every breath she takes. She tries to listen, she does, but her concentration ebbs and flows as waves of a tumultuous sea, and Callista is helpless against the tide that conspires to pull her under.

Assessment. Training. Assessments. Tests.

We ran tests on your mother
The assessment concludes –

They don’t know that Callista, nobody does.

First the mountain... And now this.
What was it all for, she inquires within.

What follows is an appreciative distraction as the course is demonstrated with such aptitude that she perks up, albeit briefly. It appears to be easily done, but in hindsight, she has to acknowledge that the theory behind the execution pales in comparison to the experiment. He just makes it look easy. The assessment, she rather reminds herself and braces chilled palms on the bench beneath her, shoulders drawn up and in, spine locked in observations as names are drilled into groups, none she recognizes, but what she does glean is that everyone here is intertwined in gatherings, cliches, and familiarity that courses into camaraderie. Friends, lovers… enemies. She can taste it rolling over her tongue and slithering through her teeth like ribbons, perched then over her pouted lip that she smooths the pad of her thumb over as hunger burns, a different sort to be satiated at another time that could no longer be placated by mere food. Perhaps she should’ve endeavored to eat earlier that day… More. She thinks.

Callista is grateful not to be in the first group, as she was a visual learner, after all, and watching others go before her continuously served her best (aside from the obvious appetizers, which were bunched muscles and glistening skin). Still, it’s not long before she hears her name, accompanied by a minute jolt that skitters her hands across to interlink on her lap. She had arrived only just, but perhaps it was similar magic that had dubbed the cabin as hers that threaded across the list within River’s grasp. Either way, the group she found herself in was such an interesting mixture of varying… temperaments. She observed each of them with a curious eye, such a medley of differing palettes that she had little time to decipher completely. Adrenaline coats the back of her throat, beading sweat down the planes of her back. Anxiety pumps and pushes out through her pores, needling against her sensitive skin; it’s enough that she crosses her arms, pinches the hem of her sweater, and lifts it up and over to reveal spandex and mesh support beneath with a twitching abdomen. Callista rolls her shoulders, inked vines undulating atop her petite frame, the skeletal work branded against her paleness a stark contrast against a frigid landscape heated by eternal enchantments. The initial chill nips, near playful, smoothing against her ribs and hips, as she reworks the threads of her hair, shaking them out over her shoulders before looping them back into a clip where the longest pieces twirl on her index finger. The signal is brief but they each launch into the course respectively, Callista herself ahead for just a small, fleeting moment that pathetically lasts long enough for her to witness the others moving ahead of her with such finesse and ease that her earlier hunger pain distracts her, dark eyes roving through each moving limb that she has to force her intense gaze away, throws it somewhere carelessly across the gathered demigods before back down where more sweat beads and trails down, collecting at the hollow of her throat and glimmering over sharp collarbones.

Callista knew what to expect with the tires, knees pulled up, feet pointed to bounce off the balls of her feet; however, her gracefulness felt lacking, her feet worn and weighted with weariness. Each time they came down, it was with literal stomps of her laced sneakers, proving more difficult to move fluidly than she initially intended. She thought to attempt the logs similarly to how those in the first two groups had: jumping on them to leap from one to the other, her balance surprisingly intact, a smile bloomed across her cheeks on the third one, arms out, feet braced, the fourth one almost too easy, by the final one though, Callista could feel the burn working into her thighs, her hike up the mountain trail catching up to her with the yawning abyss that cleaved through her middle with a festering emptiness. She misjudged it entirely, caught the brunt of her log against her stomach, air whooshing out with a gagging cough that had her plummeting to the other side with a painful fall that she captured on her hands and knees. Air sawed out from her parted lips before she moved onto the next portion of the course, the low crawl. Callista giggled breathlessly from the grittiness of the sand that gave way under her slight weight, elbows digging out furrows, streaks lined her arms and belly as she crawled out, dusted off what she could, and felt taunted by the rope suspended high before her. She doesn’t hesitate until the last second, where pain blooms and unfurls throughout her palms, her fall earlier scuffing the heels where now they burn with grit and thick, woven rope. Callista hauls herself up, mimicking the use of her sneakers to trap the rope as she had seen others do, but she misses the pinch and feels her weight plummet, burning angry, thick lines into her palms. She ran among the vineyards, climbed up posts, and ran betwixt the shaded browse and thick plants; she climbed the fences, shimmied underneath them, and rolled down the hills. She could do this.

An assessment, as they did on her mother. Like they did to her.
The results are -

Callista, with arms caught in an inferno of burning muscles, manages to finish the climb and braces her angrily pulsating palms on her hips as she studies the bridge of thick rope interlocked in a webbed pitch. Her balance reforges itself, and Callista surpasses it with ease, though at a slower pace than she would like, but it allows her a moment for her breath to ease out, working into measured breaths that punch through her nose and lips, abdomen caving inward and revealing the delicacy of her ribs. Though her hands immediately flare up in pain as another rope sways tauntingly before her, Callista hauls it back, bunches her weight into her feet and legs, feels that sweetness of a burn coil through her limbs as every muscle goes taut before she launches into a sprint, and swings forward, releasing the rope and landing with a triumphant call that twitters into a laugh. The balance beams are where she regains precious time, scaling the first, quickly crossing the second, and descending the third with arms out at her sides. She’s behind, but can catch up quickly enough to pose a threat if she tries hard enough. She’s not the competitive type, but Callista is determined to leave something of an impression, despite her injuries and the ache in her abdomen where she caught the log, the hunger that churns beneath it, forgotten momentarily as she dives into the pool. It’s like swimming in the ponds on the vineyard, the small, encapsulated pools that dotted the verdant hillscape. Her joggers, however, pull and drag; the thick cotton immediately becomes a hindrance. She’s no Olympic swimmer, but neither is she floundering in the waters; in that moment, she realizes her mistake, too focused on trying to make up for lost time. She cuts through with overarching swipes of her arms, miming the propelling stroke she’s seen on television once before, kicking out despite the heaviness of her clothing.

Fuck.
The Assessment concludes –

If she were to stop now, she’d lose even more time. As it was, pure stubbornness led her to the end where she climbed out of the pool, palms flat and wailing, arms rigid and shaking, water sluicing over her skin, the slight muscles in her slender back bunched and pounding. She hauls herself through the churning waves on hands and knees to launch forward with a sputtering laugh, utterly drenched, her sneakers squelching against the compacted earth, mud splotched instantly onto her skin as if a painting, her pale skin a canvas. It’s at the ladder where she pauses again, her chest rising and falling, lips parted around the swift pants that fluttered from her throat, every inhale prompts tantalizing sensations to whisper against her tongue and ping against the ridge of her teeth now carved into a vicious slash, a grin that shifts up as the final dregs of adrenaline coax a breathless laugh from her chest.

Callista slaps her palms against the first rung and pulls herself up, the logs damp, the spaces appearing even more of a challenge every time she reaches up, fingers splayed, palms aflame, and thighs burning to hold herself as half her body grinds against the logs, inching herself up bit by bit, abdomen twitching where an intense flame of red begins to spread. Every time Callista balances her midsection on a log to gather her weight before moving on to the next, it grows entirely more sensitive, itching across her pale skin. She feathers her fingers along her ribs at the top of the ladder, wincing against the sure-to-form bruise, the discoloration already irritated by the wood beneath her before she begins the descent, her slender frame propelling down with fingers trembling and arms exhausted and utterly spent. The finish line looms before her; the others crossing already or having finished, she’s not the last, though and Callista can’t help but glance over her shoulder to glimpse the last in their group struggle through the course, assistance wasn’t allowed, but for just a moment she entertained that thought as she dropped from the final rung and grunted with the fall, almost losing herself to the pain in her midsection.

The assessment concludes –
The results are –

… And the long jump now, where Callista has to double back, she’s near breathless before she sputters, “Shit. Okay, c’mon Cal.” and leans back, summons what strength she has remaining in her weary legs, and forces herself into a sprint, barely does she touch the beam long enough before her body flies through the air, just above the water, spin bowed, arms out. She lands with a thud, her weight pitching forward instantly to where Callista captures most of the impact suddenly on her knees, just missing the shallow pool by centimeters, the heels of her palms shred against the earth to where she can feel the slivers crack and peel through her skin, but she made it. She finished. All of the adrenaline eddies out from her pores in weeping tendrils, amalgamating with the sweat of her body and the drying patches of water until it is all suddenly whisked away, even the weight of her trousers suddenly gone, as if she had never swam through the pool clothed. It’s a mild surprise, but Callista rises, glances towards River with a dark eye that flits down his body and then back, a soft muttering of thanks fell from her pouted lip, attempting to ease the need to draw in great gulps of air.

It’s only when she begins to walk away that she lifts her arms high and interlocks her fingers upon the crown of her head, their pulsating gestures eased momentarily. Her spine extends, her ribs ease, and Callista draws breath through her nose and out her mouth, the tattoo on her back curiously shifting as if a serpent upon her skin, bracketing around her bones as if preparing to coil. With her body stretched so, she felt the immediate pain flare in her midsection and tempered it with a banded arm against her ribs, hoping to assuage the ache as she returned to grab her cropped sweater and use the fabric to ease the rawness of her hands next. The bench she had occupied before is a welcoming sight as she sits down, attempting not to appear so worn out as she felt, to breathe more evenly, even as she wanted nothing more than to lie back and collect herself.

The assessment concludes –

^{interactions ....|.... river (sort of) ............... mentions ....|.... river, sofia, nelly, mason, rae. ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Reign of the Usurper

H O U S E . V E L M O R R A

^{— . lords of stonefallow . —}

——————————————————————————————————————————————

.

H O L D . stonefallow

S I G I L . stag

C O L O R S . bronze & violet

W O R D S . "honor endures"

___________________________________________________________________________________
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————

L O R D . D A R R O N . & . L A D Y . M E R I A L L O R D . F C . russel crowe . L A D Y . F C . janet montgomery H E X C O D E . #695645 . H E X C O D E . #513e42 The House of Velmorra was once a lesser house, born from rugged peaks and unyielding snow. Its antlered patron was scarce and mysterious —a fabled stag born of rock and stone —and its people were even more aloof and bewildering. Ridged and stalwart with crown bowed, the last son of the gilded horn arose hued in violets, beautiful and wild, Darron fought within Rowan's war, answering to the call of his kith and kin, bronzed helmed and armor worn of antlers wreathed in the blood of his foes. It was the label of honor and loyalty that saw the rise of his house, and a long-standing friendship forged in the pit of rebellion that contributed to the accession of the name Velmorra when the banners of Storvane departed for the glory of kingship. Darron was fitted with glory and numerous victories. As one of Rowan's most incredible supporters, it was with little ceremony that he was chosen to rule in Stonefallow, for who better trusted than such a man, who once people greeted as General and friend. He was always a stoic creature, broad in speech and cutting in reprimand, but he inspired those underneath his charge with his perseverance in battle. When peace was secured and the realm quieted, Darron remained adorned in the regalia of his battle-hardened ways, securing the title of High Marshal, another bequeathment courtesy of his love and loyalty to the crown. Another such gift could be uttered as the hand of Merial, the woman who would have been Queen, but the tides of war could not abide by the delicate tendrils of love, no matter how deeply sown upon the soul they remained. When a marriage pact was written in exchange for military prowess, it was her mother who objected most loudly, whilst Merial remained passive and quiet, her rigid spirit unbowed by the devastation and tragedy of being denied the man she was promised to since infancy. Their house was an ancient, crumbling sort, its name the currency in which they bartered, the blood of Stonefallow deeply rooted in their affairs but shadowed by the name Storvane, which arose on the ashes of their downfall. Left adrift in the loss of matrimony, Merial provided counsel to Darron when he first took up the mantle of Lord, for she had been tutored in the intricacies of diplomacy, well versed in the tongue of negotiations and trading interests, secrets her fortitude as the house of Aerndal's last bargaining chip, her renown as a Lady of the court easily favorable when Darron appealed to her mother to wed her once coveted hand. Given her blessing and the rumored favor of Rowan, they fell into a mutual companionship, bound by their shared affections for the King. The two are a formidable pair, seated in the grand hall of Tarn's Rest where the blood of kings and swift retributions linger still.

.

.........................................

.........................................

______________________________________________________________________________________________
——————————————————————————————————————————————

.................................................................

.

L A D Y . S E R A P H I N A A G E . 28 . G E N D E R . female . S E X U A L I T Y . heterosexual H E X C O D E . #50404b . F C . anya chalotra • . charming . • . brave . • . stubborn . • . idealistic . • . resourceful . • The first born, if only by a few minutes, where the fate of Velmorra was held precariously as Merial labored with twins, though it was Seraphina that came to the world, feet first, where she would remain for years to come as solid as any stone with honor worn over her visage as the words of her house allowed. She was prepared to face all that the realm owed her and what it could offer, not as successor, as tradition would favor her kin, but as the adored first daughter of Darron, who could never deny her. No expectations beheld her; for she remained always on the move, presenting herself as swift, agile, charming, and resourceful, a true daughter of the mountains that would kneel beneath her blade of winter. The stories of war her father would spare seduced Seraphina; she envisioned herself as a knighted General, destined to lead armies to victory, herself a champion of the wild and feral wiles of untamed, feminine nature, allowing her heart the freedom so many would deny a Lady only prophesied to bear sons. Though war was a man's campaign and battle his stock, it did not prevent Seraphina from leading campaigns and investigations when hunters of River's End began poaching in Stonefallow forests on the Western borders where their territories merged, betwixt the basin of towering peaks of Cragehollow. Though initially a dispute of stolen game, minor skirmishes broke out daily with Seraphina on the front lines of each bout, eager and deadly, donned in antlers of silver wreathed through her hair, the bite of her blade cold and unforgiving, and her eyes piercing through the gloom as she stood about the lines of the simple encampment, daring any to challenge her. Such an affair disrupted trade agreements and divided resources for a time, until a truce was negotiated and new accords established by her ability to charm and intimidate her opponents, as the snow often conceals glittering facades and deathly cold found further within. She flits across the boundaries of familial obligations and duty, where uttered tales and rumors spin as ill worn shadows that Darron plots to name her as his successor, and her mother moves to barter her unwed hand at the behest of her Grandmother.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

.................................................................

.

L O R D . N I K T O S A G E . 28 . G E N D E R . male . S E X U A L I T Y . bisexual H E X C O D E . #9f7560 . F C . jamie dornan • . studious . • . patient . • . cunning . • . observant . • . reserved . • The second born, with only trailing minutes behind his sister, and where she greeted the world sure-footed, Niktos stumbled headfirst with uncertainty. He struggled during his youth despite the official title of heir that was destined for his brow, though Seraphina came before; it was tradition and inheritance that would lie in his favor, the future laid out before he even took his first breath. Swordsmanship eluded him, his proficiency being less than his sister's, who took to it with ease and aplomb. Where Darron was fond and kind to his daughter, he was strict and unyielding with his son, treating him as a soldier under his command rather than a child. Niktos grew up on similar stories of warfare. However, his lessons were in military strategy, deciphering the tales told to him, and extracting details on where battles had gone wrong and where he might alter the courses of destiny and fate entwined on the battlefield. Lessons and strict tutoring that later inspired his inevitable love for books, scrolls, dusty parchment, all of which fell better held within his grasp than any forged hilt. Through scrawling ink and the languages of old, Niktos discovered a latent power of knowledge, which he skillfully applied in his daily musings and in every inspection of court when he participated in land hold meetings at Darron's side or even in his stead. Slow of foot but quick of wit and mind, Niktos proved his worth of succession in appealing to favorable terms and relations with neighboring houses, reforging old ties and establishing newer connections, even when his sister led a phalanx of Stonefallow soldiers to the borders, Niktos remained amenable to continuing his communications with the lords of the land and sea. Many would consider his agreeable nature disadvantageous and a broadcasted weakness when the mountainous range of their home was better fitted for men of unmovable force and reckoning, but Niktos moves swiftly and silently, his goal and purpose unknown, and intentions less so.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

.................................................................

.

L O R D . L Y R I C A G E . 25 . G E N D E R . male . S E X U A L I T Y . heterosexual H E X C O D E . #447989 . F C . harry collett • . isolated . • . curious . • . broody . • . withdrawn . • . quiet . • Second son and third born, titles of the spare, positions of the unknown. Lyric is a peculiar man to most; quiet, subdued, suspended often somewhere abroad between the glories of his sister and the wit of his brother. Tutors described him as quiet and withdrawn, his aloofness a result of wavering uncertainty about his place in the realm, with such titles reserved for his older kin. Seraphina, her blades and dreams of command, Niktos and his books, Lyric with his lack of desire, content to just be. He views the world through brooding lenses, beholden to the confines of his house and the lands they reside, the mountains his bane, a cage, and the entirety of life and names and blood right bearing little to his heart. Young, but already wizened by the lack of want of living in the realm born of war. Lyric looks yonder the borders to the seas cast far and wide, his heart lulled and seduced by the prospect of traveling further East and even far out West, cresting new land and territories where names of Velmorra and sigils of reared stags mean little to nothing.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

.................................................................

.

L A D Y . P E N E L L A P H E A G E . 24 . G E N D E R . female . S E X U A L I T Y . demisexual H E X C O D E . #bd8484 . F C . adelaide kane • . compassionate . • . impressionable . • . clandestine . • . deceiving . • . patient . • Penellaphe, the fair, the youngest, the adored fourth child of the Velmorra line, blessed by the lesser and poorer, who weave her kindness into daily praises as she moves among them, permitted from Tarn's Rest with an escort guarded and assigned to her shadow. She speaks little, her method of speech through delicate smiles and careful nods, the sort of impression that hears all and witnesses it, but holds it close as guarded secrets even when tending to the unfortunate. Penellaphe idly bides her time in most interactions, carefully mulling words over in her mind, her teeth, as if distracting those around her with peculiar quirks before deigning to speak. Everything is orchestrated to the most minute detail, a trait she inherited from her mother, born of her likeness but more doe-eyed and lacking those harsh edges, her youth rounding out the rigidity that most who are born in the mountains proudly display. Deceptively soothing and patient, the sort of woman that lies within wait for the most opportune moment to finally act.

____________________________________________________________________________________
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————

^{N P C s . O F . N O T E}

V I R E L D A . A E R N D A L The matron of Aerndal, the last of a crumbling house wilting away into shadow and memorial, she taught her daughter Merial and her granddaughter, Penellaphe, the intrigue of court and politics, bartering in secrets and subterfuge, Virelda herself a pivotal and once influential presence during King Leoric's terrifying reign. She has never forgiven Rowan for forsaking the vows once promised to her daughter and seeks to ensure that the lines of Velmorra are seated upon the throne and her languishing name of Aerndal secured through the ties of royalty, through one way or another. .................................................................

N A M E . L A S T N A M E Vestibulum convallis nisi felis, ut suscipit turpis efficitur et. Aenean eu bibendum lectus. Quisque eros nunc, vehicula sit amet augue ac, fringilla cursus dolor. Sed rutrum ipsum lorem, eget tristique sapien aliquet ac. .................................................................

N A M E . L A S T N A M E Vestibulum convallis nisi felis, ut suscipit turpis efficitur et. Aenean eu bibendum lectus. Quisque eros nunc, vehicula sit amet augue ac, fringilla cursus dolor. Sed rutrum ipsum lorem, eget tristique sapien aliquet ac. .................................................................

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#cb6583 ....|..... outfit .....|..... #5c6d72 ....|..... outfit .....|..... around camp ➤ cabins ➤ arena}

There is a voice, and it threads betwixt her ears as a mantra, a repetitive nature of thought and song that loops endlessly within her head and darkens behind her eyes in every utterance it spells aloud into her mind. A curse of loosely strung whispers and guttural calls shattered through a film rapt with madness that bled red within her gaze, mahogany slivers peering through blankets of ice and snow as cold sluices through her veins and weighed into her bones like stones. There is a voice, and it is always edged in laughter, slinking away in the chasm sunk into her body, a line forged that wavers into the insatiable wants of life and the lingering void that brews insanity and inhibitions. There is a voice, and sometimes it is her mother's panicked cries. When it weeps, she turns those shadowed eyes closed and reaches for the jeweled flask tucked away into her pocket and turns it up high, allows the rivers of red to run through the corners of her mouth and down the lines of a twitching throat, she drinks until silly and mad and just a little bit calmer, she drinks until the cries turn muddied and vacant and when regret forms into muted sadness, only then does she stop.

There is a voice and it wills her to climb through the cold, an enchanted path behind her as she hikes up a mountain, cheeks rouged pink from the frost.

There is also quiet, and Callista tries to ignore the weight of stillness around her, unnerving as it was, even as the mutterings through her head kept her company in the sluggish crawl of a coming dawn. Luggage dragged behind her and straps digging into her shoulders, she tries to reason the numerous whys that have run through her thoughts since she first heard the whispering riddles that ran amok in her waking world. They sometimes followed into her dreams, that mania that soured and sank into her body, rolling through her empty belly. She was hungry, always hungry, famished and gluttonous and eternally starved. Callista palmed over her stomach, her gloved hand pressed tight against the barrenness she had felt all through the night as she tossed and turned. The flight had been grueling, the entire trip sluggish, everything she consumed lacking, like ash worn over her tongue with every bite. In the distance, stone and iron spires loomed, and silently she watched as blurred shapes passed before her, entering through the gates that immediately closed behind them. The sound echoed with such finality that she flinched, unease spiraling as she leaned back against her luggage, the leather of her oversized jacket, its fur lining sweating against her pale skin, insulating her from the cold.

A moment, she just needs a moment. To think. To… stall. To second-guess. Uncertain, she thinks, and twists a lock of brown around her index finger, the razored edges damp with melted snow.

The silence cocoons around her and presses inward on her lungs and bones; her ribs heave, and with every shift, snow cracks and crunches beneath scuffed leather boots adorned with curious golden charms that wink in soft, pale light. Her weight adjusts and settles, much like the clumps of ice and powder that shift from skeletal branches and incrusted pines. The world is encapsulated in stillness, and she is the disturbances trekking through it, made of light and song. It undulates and writhes to crush and surround her, beautiful and charming and picturesque, but misleading and unknown. It’s like the voice inside her head: deceptively placating.

Was this truly a camp, or was it a cage?

It continuously aggravated the inquiries within, all the whys and hows, the burdening thought of should she just ignore it, could she, for that matter, when the voice lingered on and on, whispering into her doubts and addled brain. Callista inhaled sharply and quickly, the shock of cold spearing into her lobe as her emotional state bubbled and churned, the vast waves of an oceanic void frothing white as if caught within a storm. How long could she linger outside the gates? Could she even get in? Her invitation was only a riddle of war and festival ruin, becoming a clairvoyant feeling that tugged at her spine; even now, it pulled taut and hummed with an energy that threaded into her limbs and urged her to move.

She shouldn’t have been surprised at the taste of magic, not when it brewed heavy on her lips and through her fingers, but there it was, tangible and simultaneously inviting whilst also hesitating, as if feeling her out and the divinity of her bi–blooded nature that lurched in response.

Calista would’ve moved then, if only to answer that sensation that lured her in, had movement not caught her eye somewhere in her peripheral, something silvered and sleek, prowling through snow as if of the winter and born of frost. It moved swiftly and yet carefully, pawing through fallen branches and deadened grass peeking through layers of cold, golden eyes surrounded in black, pinned her immediately in place, something feral and withheld blooming there in recognition, a too-human acknowledgment that paced across a magically inclined pathway that yawned into the gates that awaited them.

Theron Vale had been wandering the mountainside for weeks now, sometimes as a hound and other times as a bear. Rare snippets caught him as a stag that traveled the browse of clearings, antlered crown raised; his instincts urged him to scrape them across deadened trunks, where bark fell away into jagged pieces, creating hollowed noises that echoed across the fields. Animals burrowing deep for the winter roused at his muted callings, summoned by invisible threads that soothed and cajoled, bidding them closer to observe and recognize that bestial magnetism that shrouded his silvered body. Theron trekked the perimeter often, the concrete wall of the camp at his left or right, but never had he come so close as he did today, woven as the body of a hound that chuffed and prowled, stalking the path many traveled. He counted them each, observed at the edges, and ferried through the shadows as dawn encroached ever closer, chasing him across the snow every ticking hour. He watched a girl dance among the flurries and recite a poem, something aged as the wind teased around her as if a friend, her laugh seeded itself inside him even as she left, and never would he forget her kindness to the foxes she fed, their bellies full and warm as they returned to their den. Theron also observed twins; he assumed by their likeness, and though he could not see them, he could smell their companions and felt the curious pull of their felidae minds. Something cumbersome moved around them, sluggish and thick, differing temperaments too, but they blended seamlessly with each other as only siblings could, and Theron let them be as they too entered the camp.

The silver light of the moon had carved a celestial beacon many nights ago and lured him here after being, technically, homeless. However, the forest welcomed him immediately, and there he had settled, content just to be. Still, every night, there started a ringing chorus of earsplitting sound, something that wrestled through his mind and spurred whining cries from his jowls, where he would bay at the moon in answer to chase away the cacophony that shattered through his revere.

And now there came the girl, whose dark eyes shimmered in the light, whose frame was wound tight in the confines of black leather, and whose madness gnawed and gnashed, awash in a glamor that his golden eyes could pierce with ease.

“Are you lost, boy?” Her voice rang as bells, light and playful, but a lingering sense of laughter played off his canine ears as she spoke; enchanting and damning in every titter that fell.

“What’s a dog doing all the way out here? Weird. But this whole thing is weird, a camp up in the mountains that they make you hike up to. Like, come on.” She ground her boot into the snow, kicking up flurries, and it reminded him of the dancing girl. In contrast, she moved with a kind and adolescent grace; everything about this woman seemed edged and untamed, a kinship to his nature, but far more uninhibited, as if she couldn’t help herself.

“I get it, sort of. I’m not complaining. I just –”

“- don’t know what I’m doing here. Do you? Gods, look at me, talking to a dog. But I guess better you than the voices -”

“No,” Theron answered, very much human and very much not like a dog. Here, he shook the droplets of snow from his hair, curls playing off his ears and brow, and in his grasp, he held a coat and scarf, where he pulled them from, Callista had no idea. The transformation was so sudden and daunting that she stood with her mouth agape until she laughed aloud, an even more vicious sound than his animal forms could make.

“I don’t know why I’m here either, I don’t think anyone does.”

“Holy shit, look at you, wait, are you a demigod kid too? You have to be. Duh, Cal.”

He declined to answer her string of words and opted to don his coat in silence, all threadbare and frayed, his scarf in even more disarray as he looped it around his throat and breathed warmth in his hands. Without the comforting fur of his animal form, the frost finally purchased his mortal constitution and took it ransom as the camp lingered and beckoned, tempting with hearth and home, he mused. Still, even weeks in the forest, it had not convinced him to enter, not yet.

“Silent type, huh. I bet that works for you. Just wait, some good girl is bound to make you crack. Or… good boy, pick your poison.”

“...Such an odd thing to say.”

“I get that a lot,” she flicked a wrist, where bangles were hidden beneath the arm of her jacket and chimed against one another; more jewelry glimmered in the dawning light, glinting off brass-colored rings worn on her thumb and middle finger in slender stacks with thick middle pieces wedged in between. “It’s hard to stop it when I’m so damn hungry.” She punctuated with snaps of her teeth, her lips peeled wide against the smile that adorned her face prettily and eerily all at once, too wide and too white, as if polished bone left to bleach in the sun. It reminded Theron of a jungle cat, the way she spoke and moved, the kind of creature that deceived many into its inclinations by lying in the sun, but with their senses always on edge and alert, ready to pounce.

That appetence stewed low within Callista, and she could feel the threads of her power inch and creep closer, as if vines were weaving across the ground, coiling as snakes to snag against his ankles to drag him deep and under.

As it would seem, she’d easily swallow him whole, if not for an echoing call that surrounded the pair with a gust of wind, it picked up the loose powder that had settled over the glazed crust of snow at their feet, the biting cold snapped through Theron as it rolled over Callista and urged her forward, a magical thread spooling through her still as the iron gate appeared closer than it had before.

“I think that’s a sign to go… in.” He bit out, the golden sheen having faded from his piercing eyes as they traveled up, studying the simplicity of the iron that spun higher still. He had never come quite this close before, but he knew that within came an end to the path woven from moonlight to bring him here. As the girl had mentioned before, he didn’t understand why he was here, only that he had traveled from afar as both beast and man, guarding the forest for a time before approaching as he did now. Theron had seen how the others entered the camp: a device that read their thumbprints and permitted them entry. Carefully, he approached that gate now and lifted one trembling hand. Behind him, he could hear the girl move, dragging something heavy through the snow that crunched beneath her boots with every step.

“You don’t have any luggage? No suitcase or anything?”

“No,” Theron admitted with a whisper, pressing his thumb against the pad that flickered with light. With a click, the iron gates began to peel apart, bidding them in with a tantalizing sensation that vibrated through his arms, all the way into his chest that cracked at the telltale feeling of coming home, as many times before when he was traded from home to house to place, never taking root and always wandering.

“I don’t have anything, really. Hard to keep things when you move around as a dog. Or a bear.”

“A bear?” Callista tracked her gaze down his form and back up, committing every detail to memory, lashes fluttering from the intensity of her observation from crown to foot. Her brow arched; slip-ons at that, ankles exposed from ill-fitted pants that appeared too short to sheath him entirely. With that speculation, he wasn’t much taller than her, but his presence was riddled with mystery and intrigue, and a muted sadness, and the way he spoke, as if unused to his human nature and interaction. This deep resonance slid through his throat and dragged against his teeth, more animalistic than anything, though there was little to compare it to.

“Crazy. What God is that, who is your parent?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Theron answered, “Who is yours?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she easily quipped back. Now, with the gate open, she adjusted the straps digging into her shoulders and moved past him; she smelled like heavy and heady fruit and a flowering plant, potently fragrant and teasing his nose, bitten with cold.

It was surreal, stepping into the camp; the entrance was bracketed in trees, but the entirety of it stretched forward and spilled outward, a field blanketed in white, slushed and browned by activity, and cabins scattered in sporadic placements, some formed into clusters and bisected by fringing trees heavy with snow. Worn pathways spidering through the thickets, all of it never known and never seen, but it gave Callista pause as some queer familiarity blossomed inside her, the chasm of her gluttonous soul pooled and churned something awful, sour, and all of this rekindled a memory of the vineyards of where she had grown up. She waltzed into that dream willingly, the vines of the past, warped and wrapped and quivering, wrapped around her heart as she walked further in, hardly noticing the stand positioned there at the start, with maps made available. Theron, though, spotted it right away; the entire campus melded into rich scents that reached inside and pulled against a keen yearning, that lone heart of his that flitted along the edges of society, lulled by the prospect of belonging. The proximity of everything close and yet set apart, with a quaint eagerness, he leaned forward and studied every facet that the map revealed, every cabin and every structure, some of which remained unclaimed… Did that mean he could choose one for himself? A place to call his own with no strings attached, no false labels or family to burden, no sense of loss to compel him elsewhere so he could be alone.

He could have this, possess it, the simple luxury.

It was overwhelming, but Theron selected one tucked away into the edges of the camp, its path curling into the copse of trees; he didn’t want to be too close, and yet…

“I think it’s your turn,” he announced, “Uh, I realize I don’t know your name.”

“Callista,” she snapped, dark eyes spinning mad with some weighted emotion that burned, a fire banked within that stare, such a peculiar color of reddish-brown with underlying tinges of rose and gold; swatches of unusual color that he immediately glanced away from.

“Theron,” he provided, though she had not asked, and instead approached the leaning stand and chose randomly, somewhere along the southern cluster, where a beach was marked with the illustrated pool of a lake. Their names shimmered and looped, spelling out in memorized characters, numbers punctuated beside. Then came the warmth that settled as a weight in each, like banked coals given life, breath rushed through their ribs; Callista saw the winter as an oppression, cumbersome, Theron saw it as a blanket to shield new life, where Spring bid its time and lulled others to sleep to be born anew. Around them, cabins flickered to life with frost-shaded light, window panes glimmering amber and yellow, aromas of simple existence woven through the path at their feet, another invisible tug as early risers moved. Some sat to enjoy the coming dawn; others headed towards a looming stone figure; industrial works, all wreathed in magic that permeated the air and threaded the firmament, all things, in a way, blessed, all in preparation for things unknown.

“Huh, guess we’re meant to go there. Judging by all the pinched, hungover faces, it must've been a crazy night. Sad I missed it.” She almost pouted, adjusted the weight on her back, and shifted, her body angled toward her cabin, judging by the map, in the opposite direction. “By what everyone is wearing… I guess it really is a training camp. Fun. I almost thought it was a cage. Maybe it still is.” A lingering taste tantalized on her lips that allowed a glimpse into the activities that had occurred the night before, further punctuating that pit of hunger that stewed low.

“Well, Theron,” she mulled around his name, straightforward but regal, as if destined for something. “I’ll see you around, then, unless you want to follow me to my cabin.”

“If you’re asking for an escort, then I’ll take you.”

“Oh,” she laughed. “Look at you, already getting attached. I think I can manage,”she patted her luggage. “I hauled all of this up the mountain just fine on my own.”

“I saw.”

Scarlet immediately blushed, something about the admission and the assuredness in which he spoke coloring her embarrassment as she smiled. Their companionship was brief but unforgettable as Callista nodded farewell and dragged her belongings along behind her. It wasn’t a terribly long trek, the path easily worn by others, but Theron watched her the entire time, hands stuffed away into his pockets before he shifted, the cold flesh of his mortal self peeling away to the silver body of a hound that shook out its fur before galloping off in the other direction, cutting a swift trajectory betwixt the stables and the armory. He loped around the arena, skirting around the edges of others that entered and immediately ran up to the entry of his cabin across the trampled snow, tongue lolling from his jaws, every muscle contorted and bunched tight from the excitement of finally having a place to call his own.

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The cabin was simple: the structure was painted a dark evergreen, camouflaged by the shadow of pines; iron-framed steps led up a simple porch; and black posts supported a slanted roof. Theron paced around it on the pretense of inspection, every exterior wall shored up solid, aside from tall, slender windows slivered in between at random sections. The true splendor of it, though, came from the back, where the walls were replaced by accordion doors of ebony metal and glass, planks of wood sloping away into the snow to create the inviting illusion of a back porch where a sunken pit of iron lay, filled with wood and shielded by a grate. Theron sniffed it out carefully, claws clicking over treated materials, the entirety of it faced the trees where he felt the draw of temptation beckon, curious to search through the confines of the camp. Instead, he shook out the remains of frost from his coat and allowed the comforts of his animal nature to shift back and away. A sharp whine heaved from his throat as he stood, shaking and panting, sweat beading on his brow as he yanked open the glass doors, pushed them open entirely, and stepped into the cabin barefoot and bare-chested. What greeted him was simple comforts, but it was his, his own, where possessions were few and far between.

Clean and fitted with low and spaced beige furniture, a hearth that beckoned from one corner, all furnishings made of iron, dark wood, and natural accents that created bright specks of color. Above lay a loft where slanted windows embedded in the roof admitted rays of dawning light, and dust motes flitted to and fro in the gloom. Theron’s breath caught at the glimpse of clothes as he climbed up bracketed steps, where thinned metal formed a staircase that led to a closet beckoning with deep, earthy tones and dark, jeweled hues of cotton.

All new. All his.

He didn’t even know where to begin, where to start, what even paired together sensibly, drawers were similarly filled with different specs of clothing, tucked away further in where simplistic shoes awaited- all in his size, had the magic of the camp done this? Grant him with such luxuries that many would take for granted, bequeathed him with not only a home but such meager things that meant the world to him. He began eagerly plucking through layers of black and white. He knew he had somewhere to be, judging by scents and the shuffling bodies he had passed, but for Theron, a moment of humanity could be spared as he held up pairs of sweats, jeans, shirts, and hooded jackets. He pinched and bunched fabric between his gestures, stretched out the polyester blends, the cotton, the random inlays of silk he spotted, and even familiarized himself with the thick socks carefully arranged. Was this a gift, perhaps, from some divine that saw what he indeed lacked? The emotion that ran through him went unnamed and unchecked, forgone of a label Theron could not discern as he made quick use of a shower tucked somewhere behind a nondescript half-wall that bisected the loft from bedroom to restroom, bathed in soft, amber light from scones attached to the black-painted walls.

He had even laid out his outfit on the bed, crisp sheets a dark, warmed gray where other pieces of clothing lay scattered about hazardously, christening the cabin as lived in, belonging to someone.

Belonging to him.

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Callista’s emotions were a turbulent affair, tossed carelessly into a storm; it was memory that eclipsed the impression as she stepped into a simple, dark, wooded cabin that shone in the light of dawn. Golden wood with tinges of red, rose tones, and mahogany colors, fringes of black accessorized here and there, splotched randomly like ink on parchment. She ran her fingers over the embossed vines wreathing the door frame, such simple details that she dragged her nails against, manicured tips of pale pink scratching into the wood and dragging it down. It was a distracting gesture that molded her into the present, something to chase away the phantoms of her past, which shimmered as hazy vines and whimsical flowers unfurled under the sun. Charcoal dust with a shadowed face adorned in a crown of ivy, a continuous vision that cycled through her mind as the voices bubbled and collided, welcomewelcomewelcomewelcome.

‘Hey, Calli –'

She slams her door shut, kicks her luggage with a swift boot, shifting it across the floor to collide with a thick, boneless chair that squats near a quieted woodstove. She drags the heels of her palms against her temples and into her hair and tugs, sharp pinpricks fire alive into her nerves as temperance sluices through her frame, bringing with it an uneasy calm as the voice quiets and dissipates, her petite figure shuddering under the weight it dispelled.

There it is, she thinks, and sheds the confines of her leather jacket and folds it over the arm of the chair, she shimmies out of her clothes, all crooked layers of her blouse and trousers, socks plucked clumsily from her cold feet, strewn about in a path as she tosses them over her shoulder and to the side. On her spine, she proudly displays the knotted work of vines that snake themselves up the planes of her slender back, inked and needled into her skin to fringe ivy leaves over her shoulders and hips, as if a skeletal system of flora that peeks around the sharp edges of her ribs over which Callista runs her fingers and stretches, hearing the pop of her bones.

Exactly how much time did she have to get ready? Should she even bother? Was all this mandatory? She mused and located the hidden staircase that wound upwards into another living area. A glance revealed a low-sitting bed lifted only a couple of inches on wooden shafts, a thick, comforting duvet draped over it, and mirrors artfully displayed to reflect the light from ceiling-to-floor windows, accentuated by thin, sheer curtains. Further within the lower space, Callista found the shower, modern appliances, and potted plants curling on floating shelves, all of them crawling with ivy that spread aloft the ceiling on thin hooks. Immediately, they shuddered and moved, as if waking from a long slumber, and beckoned toward her as she passed, turning the facets to the hottest temperature she could withstand, fogging the space instantly with heated steam.

Callista showers quickly, having pinned her hair up into a claw clip to remain dry, and bathes her body in scented soaps with wild berries and woodsy herbs. She’s equally quick to dress, pulling her arms into a thick, oversized sweater cropped at her waist, slipping into fitted joggers, and knotting the thick band tight around her hips. She had to wonder if all bi-blooded children here were so equally repressed as Theron, for whilst he exuded a silent sort of feral authority, there banked something else that pulsated yonder the barriers erected around his stoic countenance. Layers upon layers not so easily dismantled in the simple minutes that had ticked on by in each other’s company, and as she laced her shoes up tight and stepped once more out in the frosted air, she couldn’t quell that thrum of magic and energy that pounded through her limbs, eager at the prospect of meeting others.

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Outside the archway that led into the arena, Theron stood, black cap pulled down low over his brows, lips drawn into a grimacing smile as Callista came jogging up close and tossed a wink in his direction, all nuances of being strangers having melted away as others filled the expanse of packed and trampled earth and meandered away into the staggered benches fringed around what appeared as an obstacle course. He eyes her curiously, for earlier she had expressed some variation of a wayward fire that burned alive in her stare. Still, here she stood, eager, refreshed, her earlier emotions traded for something lighter, almost carefree. The switch from then to now was an envious trait, to be so easily suspended on the whims of one's heart and appear better and more for it, unashamed in a way that Theron admired but made no subject to comment on as Callista entered the arena and eagerly trailed her eyes over everyone there.

Though so small in stature, she commanded a charismatic charm with her lips parted and lifted into a smile, another broadcast of something wanton, unrestrained, as she weaved herself among the stands and left Theron there at the entrance before he hid himself away into a pocket of shade to his right, uncertain what to do with his hands, much less if he should follow. Instead, he leaned back against the stone wall and finally released a held breath that whistled through his teeth.

^{interactions ....|.... callista & theron ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

callista drakonis.

.
.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅

callista drakonis....

.................................................... __________________________________________ D A U G H T E R . O F . D I O N Y S U S ________________________________________________________ 21 | female | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ hair color | brunette ▹ eye color | dark mahogany ▹ height | 5' 6" ▹ build | slender, near petite

. A B I L I T I E S alcohol manipulation - Callista can create, shape, and transmute alcohol and all related substances. She can ferment moisture into wine, alter its potency, or infuse it with emotion. She plucks grapes like candy from a vine, permeating the structure of the fruit with her intention, weaving threads of tangible emotion and spinning madness or ecstasy through, like sugar through a vintage. She can similarly dip her fingers or whisper against a vessel to influence its contents to sway towards the unhinged, as if spelling words of lunacy aloud. Callista can enhance the 'aging' of particular liquids within certain parameters of wine (she has not attempted such on liquors to alter the yeast contents or certain hops found in various brews), accelerating typical, lengthy processes into mere minutes. Unbalanced emotions and natures will churn out bitter and unpredictable results; her emotional state is reflected in the chalice that is either too full or not enough, and hardly ever satisfied. cure/induce madness - She can touch the mind and tilt its balance, pushing it toward either chaos or clarity. Akin to the wine or spirit that mortals indulge, that trickling sensation of inhibition that sluices through the body, the primal core of all creation thrumming to life as barriers crumble and reasons wither. Divine mania is a drug, a sensation, and Callista can amplify the finest threads of impulsivity as if red strings of fate woven about a heart. Through dance, song, and touch, she inspires laughter; conversely, she can also absorb one's insanity of unhinged emotions. Drinking them as a ravenous creature would consume flesh, madness, a poison that corrodes through her soul, and festers into the risk of contaminating Callista's reasoning of self-preservation. She tastes the storm of their colliding thoughts, understanding the lurking void of delirium that many would prefer to hide. ecstasy manipulation - The ability to heighten or suppress sensory and emotional experiences, blurring the line between pain and pleasure, fear and joy. Callista feeds on emotions, her palate of taste refined and euphoric, her sin of gluttony near unforgiving in search of rapturous enticements and aspects. She can floor and flood through one's lingering desires, their experiences artfully woven and wed to her whims and behaviors, prying carefully into latent wants that remain clouded and unknown. Intensity knows her name and signature aura, the utterance of her impression that dances over the borders of mortal nature to kneel before her void of hunger. Every emotion is a refined taste that blooms as saturated colors across her tongue and mind. vine manipulation - Callista can animate, grow, and shape vines and floral life, channeling both beauty and peril with a pulsating thought that hinges on her emotional affairs. Ivy coils and wisteria blooms, potted plants crawling and flicking, lashing out or quivering in ecstasy as if slaves to a hidden song. They cradle over her hands and entangle through her hair and wilt easily if she is confined or repressed. S T R E N G T H S emotional empathy & influence - She feels the emotions of those around her, tastes them upon her lips as she would taste the intricacies of wine, and easily deciphers them. charisma - Callista has a natural magnetism; part glamor, part authenticity. She inspires art, laughter, and rebellion. controlled chaos - Her father’s blood makes her adaptable. Callista can thrive in unpredictability and branch outward from routine and uniformity; she needs no plan and wouldn't abide by one anyhow. resilient - As the daughter of divine ecstasy, she can endure extremes of duress, pain, and fear. Callista dances close to divine madness and returns each time, hungry for more. W E A K N E S S E S emotional volatility - Her moods are rippling tides in a vast ocean, stones plunked into their surface creating waves that crash against uncertain shores where powers spiral, and emotional equilibrium evades her. addictive personality - Pleasure, love, risk, sensation. Callista chases all of them with abandon, feels as if eternally starved of their fulfillment. The line of ecstasy and self-destruction wavers thin and delicate, where a trap awaits to intoxicate herself and others beyond repair. control - Stillness frightens her, control exposes her, for what is she, who is she, without the rush of emotion and the indulgences that have defined her being. isolation - She’s drawn to people but rarely lets them truly see her. A genuine connection, the very thing she craves, is the thing she endangers. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y enigmatic .... | .... charming .... | .... playful .... | .... ravenous H I S T O R Y Callista was meant to die young. Her mortal heart, too frail to bear the divine madness meant to be worn over her brow as a crown of ivy and gold, her birth a painful revelation to Helena Drakonis, who labored for hours and hours, till dawn broke and Callista came into the world pink and squalling, born too early. Though the child of a God, there was a perishable frailty to her daughter, something she would later blame upon the unhinged beckoning of her own vices that made her not as a mother should be. Perhaps it was then, the brush with near death, that wove a love of life into Callista's endeavors, where she learned to be as she was meant to, despite the cowl of death that loomed eternal over her sparkling eyes and warmth. Unforgiving and careless, garbed in silk, leather, and lace, accented in gold and glass, asymmetrical layers and textures, tantalizing to the senses, she covets so dearly. She danced barefoot through the gardens of her youth, among the vineyards where her mother once worked as a sommelier who loved to paint in lush hues, who struggled with the loneliness that marred her life after love burned her through and through and wasted away to ash on her hands. When she painted, years later, it was in charcoal that ruined the carpets, the walls, that marred the surface of every once-upon-a-time story that she uttered to Callista, who found the coiling madness of her mother's affections worn onto her skin as bubbling spirits that tasted bitter and rotten. She tried to fix her, she did. She tried to weave joy into her soul, tried to brew happiness in a bottle- one after the other, in glass she poured her hopes and dreams, and Helena drank them till bone dry and shattered. Yet still she mourned and lamented, and still she crushed black dust onto white canvases and carved out the eyes that damned her life many years ago in a smoke-filled room. Callista still tried, though, tried to make her forget, tried to laugh and dance, tried to peel away the brewing insanity that carved thick through Helena's spirit, the touch of the divine woven too chaotically into her very core. When she dug too deep, when she inhaled that chaos and hate and feasted on her rage, something within snapped and withered as if a vine stretched taut, a cord that then frayed and scattered, taking with it the last of Helena Drakonis' mind. She dies a year later; they say she laughed the entire time. Callista says it was she who killed her. Her father says it was fate. He spoke to her sometimes in whispered riddles, of war, of festival ruin, and song. Blessed madness, he said, announcing her strengths and defiance against the world that would seek to temper and control, to confine and cage where she was meant to be free and wild, untamed and perhaps crazed, fated to feast and ravage. At first, she thought her mother's madness had somehow become her own, for a voice always and often lingered therein, echoing into the chasm of her thoughts. It is not doting, and it is not kind; it's mania poured betwixt her ears and addling her thoughts, it's hunger sunk into her belly, it's insanity always known and felt through every step she takes. And it's a path that leads to a camp in need of something more. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #cb6583 ........ faceclaim . | . sophie thatcher ........ creator . | . Rockette

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

theron vale.

.
.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅

theron vale....

.................................................... __________________________________________ S O N . O F . A R T E M I S ________________________________________________________ 22 | male | bisexual __________________________________________ ▹ hair color | brunette ▹ eye color | blue-green/ sometimes gold ▹ height | 5' 11" ▹ build | slim, athletic

. A B I L I T I E S animal shapeshifting - Theron can assume the form of beasts sacred to Artemis; dog, stag, bear, or serpent. Each transformation takes a physical toll on his body and mind, and sometimes it is difficult to separate the beast from the man in prolonged states. superior huntsman - He possesses perfect tracking through scent, sound, and instinct, even in complete darkness or illusions. His critical eye and observant habits also incline him to decipher intention through analyzing the temperaments of others, breaking down their habits and inclinations through incredible detail. speak with animals - Theron understands and speaks with any living animal, from birds to wolves to insects. The communication is not verbal but emotional, using imagery, sensations, and instincts to influence them through respect, never coercion. It's as if his senses meld seamlessly with their own, a connection forged much easily than he could ever perform with a human. heal animals - He can mend wounds, cure poison, or ease pain in animals through touch. Theron transfers vitality from his own life force, where healing costs him energy and stamina. He can also ease the passing of dying creatures peacefully, guiding their spirits to rest. Each act is physically taxing, if not emotionally draining, with his connection to animal life. weapons master - He is agile and precise, trading brute force for grace. Theron is adept with all forms of weaponry, despite feeling more at home in animal skin, preferring claws over swords, and fangs over arrows. S T R E N G T H S precise - His awareness and focus are unparalleled. He never misses a target, physical or emotional. Theron can analyze, adapt, and survive in almost any situation. calm - Nothing rattles him. Where others panic, he moves with cold clarity, making him a natural leader in a crisis. loyalty & integrity - He values honor and balance — the sanctity of life. A protector of the innocent, even if too rigid and unyielding where mercy and pragmatism collide. balance - Theron has learned to coexist with his primal instincts, rather than suppress them. He can channel animal rage or fear into tactical advantage, becoming more aware, faster, and stronger without losing control. W E A K N E S S E S emotional detachment - That calm that makes him a perfect hunter also makes him emotionally distant, incapable of expressing affection or vulnerability. Naturally, he pushes people away. loneliness - Theron doesn't quite know how to belong; social interactions unnerve him. duty - He takes responsibility for everyone, but never for himself. Theron is terrified of giving in to his primal urges (rage, desire, love) because he thinks that would betray Artemis’ vows. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y reserved .... | .... quiet .... | .... observant .... | .... moral H I S T O R Y They say he was not born, but made. Found in the forest beside a doe, covered in blood, they whispered him as a feral babe, but someone else uttered that he was balance, designed to protect, forged to trek through the dark and the light, under the sun and the moon- betwixt man and beast. Made as a weapon. One day meant to test the hostile nature of mortal and divine alike. Theron has little memory of his youth, even less of where he actually comes from. If there is a home, he knows it not, and instead recalls footsteps in the snow and arrows that never miss. Calloused palms and silver-lined eyes, a gentleness perhaps only capable of a mother, and the stern whisper of a father. Over the years, he has been traded through the system, from foster family to foster family, where he was known to wander and vanish for days, returning wild and golden-eyed, igniting fear and suspicion. Whispers cantered after his likeness, and rumors ruined his future, where he finally aged out and was left to the woods, where he would often disappear to as a queerly quiet child who never cried. It's some years later that Theron shows up at camp, guided by silver light, as a hunting hound that bays at the moon as if finally having found what he's been missing. What he has been hunting all along. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #5c6d72 ........ faceclaim . | . timothee chalamet ........ creator . | . Rockette

mus.lings

█I. Elyndra██████II. Kael'thar██████ III. Solmyr

█████^{of the dove crown.}█████████████^{of the burning eye.}███████████^{of the throne.}

███████████^{🜊 🜁 🝗███████████████████████████████████🜃 🜂 🜏███████████████████████████████████🜇 🜉 🝖}

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

█IV. Nyxira██████V. Thoryn██████ VI. Veyra

█████^{of the broken star.}█████████████^{of the laurel flame.}███████████^{of the twin flame.}

███████████^{🜄 🜁 🝖█████████████████████████████████🜂 🜃 🜏████████████████████████████████🜁 🝗 🜇}

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

█VII. Dravien██████VIII. Seliora██████ IX. Orranyth

█████^{of the cracked crown.}█████████████^{of the open eye.}███████████^{of the serpent circle.}

███████████^{🜏 🜂 🝗███████████████████████████████████🜊 🜁 🝗 🜇███████████████████████████████████🜉 🜏 🜂}

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

Well well…

@icmasticc
gross.

mus.lings

█ Lorem Ipsum

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ lorem ipsum. lorem ipsum. lorem ipsum.

█ █▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

█ ... x ... x ... Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

...

█ Lorem Ipsum

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ lorem ipsum. lorem ipsum. lorem ipsum.

█ █▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

█ ... x ... x ... Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

𝘏𝘰//𝘰𝘸 ᵇʸ ᴿᵒᶜᵏᵉᵗᵗᵉ ˣ ᴱˣᶦᵗ

<sup>The visions began as muted shades, no more than fragmented and hazed prophecies of times and places, decorated in coiling tendrils of mauve and subdued radiance that gave way to monochromatic remnants of faces and names she could never remember. Voices of melodic despair wailed and bowed deep, once a beloved song now worn and jagged, pleading against timeless boundaries that defied all barriers of reason and preservation. The visions compiled into every cleft of life and reality, perverting the natural order of here and there, within and without, back and forth, and never to return, and muddying the delicate balance of reasoning and self-worth. Adorned in swatches of violet and sapphires, a millennium, a century, times, and endless years of apparitions that sought to be known, a well of sorrows it was thus known to be, finding purchase through leagues of youth and power lost under the subjugation of faith and reverence. A destiny that could not be thwarted and a path that could not be forsaken, knowing where and when it ended, a blessing and a curse worn simultaneously through her eyes that beheld the fate of prophecy in their depths, greyed and christened with stars that fell and sparked and withered.

And through all witnessed and endured, a constant remained, of a black spire stalwart and piercing, defying all that were bedeviled by its eclipsing shadow and the crown of thorns worn over a familiar brow, bequeathed from one monarch and befallen onto another. Obsidian wraiths as burdens of legacy, mantled and worn as refinement, the Eastern void that threatened to swallow the West and the entirety of the world, suspended on baited breath as they carved and stole and reaped the soils for all their worth.

And his face emblazoned there, eyes of emeralds glaring through shadow eternal, lost in the tides of war.</sup>

> ⟒⨀ init.transfer (protocol//mirrorline.secure) ...establishing stream... ...sync:complete. > current_position: 65°29′8.09″N 78°78′12.5″S enuan::shodea::slina::07:00 > recording_location → worldnet.node23.alpha & command.relay_app/e. __________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________

_{...^{▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃█ The Council Chamber}}

▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌

. Across the lands of Shodea, offerings were being dutifully prepared, set beside requests of aid and blessings, each adorned in polished jewels or refined silks, all manner of market and trinket taken and exchanged, lifted high by whispers of a foretold royal tour, made by the Oracle herself. Sent from the gilded doors of Slina, crowned and beloved and introduced as the Crown Princess, veiled in white and given as the maiden, the High Seer, the prophesied heir to the pearlescent and ivory-worn throne. Their Radiant Majesties had adorned her prettily in mystery over the years, hidden away into shadow from palace to temple, the Fayth having raised her previously. Now she stood to travel across the continent. The preparations were elaborate and spared no expense, her retinue vast to visit village and crowned city alike, her blessed voice in accompaniment to her title of Princess and Oracle, meant to soothe their allies. And if such could be uttered as a display of power, with the moniker of Pilot worn under her majesty, then they allowed it to be so, as told by the monarchs who chose her. In place of a proper coronation, she instead would promote herself as the blessed star, savior against the rivaling empire that scourged the world. The pocket of devastation that belched smog and ash into the air, poison that plumed, and towers of malcontent and power derived from precious metal and stone. Whilst the East loomed as a potential threat, the breadth of their influence felt along every border, the eyes of Slina peered yonder their desolate and cold land, a chamber of woven ebony strands beset with golds and bronze paneled screens and palmed, glistening white interfaces. Every city and town beneath its banner was encoded into a singular, live-honed image housed in a metal-plated conduit, and by design, it transmitted everything into an outward projection, holographic and transparent, taken with considerable detail by employed drones that hovered and scanned the lands intermittently. A global interface rotated at the center of the latticed chamber, with pinpointed lights decorating every ridge of cliff and valley. A shimmering topography of either continent was given life, each capital curiously adorned with its crest, while neighboring royalty were similarly notated. The spherical masterpiece was an elaborate work of Azonite and metals, housed beneath massive cogs and gears that rotated on high, a majestic clock piece ticking away above, archaic and antique by typical grace of technology, but still harnessed with the module below, data collected on a constant rotation as the world moved outside. The lines shimmered and moved, some dulled and others blinding, while a few bore varying hues that ranged from red to orange and then to green, similar to the colors of their verdant lands. It was here most things began and ended, down in the deep, the underbelly of the resplendent kingdom that announced itself as an ally of the Fayth, its grand temple erected as a steadying, beating heart with a myriad of hidden tunnels worn beneath a glimmering surface. These were natural caves carved betwixt shields of pale rock that encapsulated cerulean pools and streams that fed into the generators that supplied power to the grandeur estates of Slina; smoothed edifices pocketed with bioengineered lighting that scattered phosphorescent blue orbs within a suspended glow. And through these natural passageways, His Radiant Majesty, Vaerion, marched, donned in golds as his resplendent want allowed, brow stern and lowered with severe lines etched around a clenched jaw. In a gauntleted fist of bronze, he held a transmission with its glassy, fizzling screen illustrating his worst fears. A town decimated entirely, the once neutral territory was razed to nothing but blackened remains as a scourge of death upon the world, lost to a reaper that had sown discord upon the rising sun. There was only one such harbinger of ruin that was capable of an unlawful act, the very peaks of obsidian spires that speared the holy sun and were seen from their borders. Aventhel had struck, the blow lain, the gauntlet now thrown, and the rippling effects of war spiraling outward as seeded attempts to inspire doubt and fear after years of fragile peace. Vaerion thrust through elaborately adorned chamber doors, bronze whorls and intricate gold spirals ringing with his announcement as a council began to gather beneath the globe that bore the blemish of the village, like an ink splotch would spoil parchment. Ranking Dukes and Marquesses clamored around a large, carved table, rounded with wood and stone, bisected with ebony connections that filled the chamber whole, wires snaking from wall, floor, and ceiling, and bracketed with brass. Advisers and intelligence gatherers scattered, procuring tablets of similar size and shape, all bearing the same message that roused The Emperor from his morning meals taken with his Empress, now gone sour in his belly. He slammed one gauntleted fist down, steel-plated knuckles grinding into the table, and summoned nothing but weighted silence and tension that grew taut, prepared to snap. “What happened. How did they cross? How did the slaughter of one of our own go unnoticed with no warning, no signal? Nothing.” “They waited until most of us were present for the princesses' tour. A distraction. We’ve pulled in some of the guards to increase the security on Slina.” Spoke Duke Teren, an older man of peppered hair and grey eyes. “An excuse.” The Emperor challenged, violet eyes ablaze at the mention of the woman taken under his crown. “If such is the case, then how did they find out? We have not yet released an official date for the royal tour.” “Their network encompasses some of the continent, despite all measures to disrupt their signals; Aven’s constantly advancing technology prevents us from entirely gridlocking them out from our space.” Clarified an Artificer, one appointed under their Raident Majesties and just one of the operators of the global interface, now warped and muddled by smudges of black; a town worn to nothing but ruin. “Even so, the Varenth Concord in place prevents them from breaching audio barriers; ever since the refraction shields have been installed, most transmissions scramble before they can properly translate them.” “Not to mention the waves of Eaeth-Song that corrupt particular signals when in full manifestation.” At the mention of the phenomena that enveloped the entirety of their sacred land, Duke Teren, with the bulk of the council muttering validations and theories under their collective breath, supplied voice to a tumbling thought that vexed him from the first mention of her royal ascension. As one of the few who publicly protested her adoption into the House of Caelvannen, it was no jarring impact when he said: “What of The Oracle, did she not foresee this doom? Was it not her prophetic visions in which she arose to such favor in your Majesties’ graces?” “Watch your tongue, Teren, lest we delve further into your conquest following the ailment of your much older, much wiser brother.” The threat hung as it did, bannered and embossed, The Emperor, in all his magnificence of power and reign, was not above such remarks, especially at the mercy of his council and the houses worn under his crown. It was an uttered conspiracy that the former Duke of Teren, adored and beloved, met with the fate of an unknown pestilence, his body contorted as a knobbed tree and rigid as stones. Some spoke of a genetic plague, whilst others whispered of a curse uttered by the tongue of his brother that similarly waggled and spat, shaming the name of the most holy and revered. Perhaps she had seen the destruction, perhaps not. Either way, Vaerion would not stand for the besmirchment, not when she stood on the precipice of her coronation, preparing to be received by the entirety of the empire as both Oracle and Princess. A much larger, more ominous presence lurked therein, silent and unwelcome, and it slithered through the chamber as a scaled wraith, hissing malicious whispers at the unknown vacancy of a once-simple town. “We need to prepare for the possibility of an invasion. Today it is one village, tomorrow it is cities raided with the East knocking on our door in a fortnight." “Then we need a show of force, show that we do not take this threat idly, send a phalanx of soldiers marching along the coast and through the Virelock Steps, and a secondary unit behind to scout better Talour, perhaps some citizens remain and require aid.” “We cannot spare the resources to split our forces up if this is indeed a War.” “Then send the Oracle to Talour. If there are survivors, her arrival will be seen as a blessing, an example of the royal army and the Fayth, come as one to comfort the lost.” They volleyed words back and forth, weighing out the influential causes and the possible retaliation by enlisting such a contingent close to the borders. If Talour’s ruin was not done by the hands of their eternal rivals, then who was responsible for the destruction of an entire town, done under the cover of night? Vaerion permitted them to debate while his mind quieted and stilled, his final decision not an easy one, but easily made despite the worry that vexed him. “Send the frame, allow for field experience. The NF zero-two is ready. It’s time we break it free from the molded ornament it has become.” “It will be perceived as an act in itself, one Aven will not take lightly.” “Then allow it to be so, too long have they lauded over us that abysmal machine of death over our heads with their so-called Prince at the helm.” Laughter and then silence were assumed as Vaerion shielded his eyes and breath from the scrutiny, lest they witness the emotion behind his critical gaze. He knew he could not reason against the words spoken, for though his word was final and law, splitting their armies would weaken their stronghold throughout Shodea should Aven act upon the temptations of war that had taunted their crowns for years. He did not anticipate that Malik would permit his children to act so rashly in his name, for it was no secret that the Emperor of Aventhal had hidden himself away as his youngest ruled since her announcement as Regent in his absence. But how long could she hold sway over her brother, whom they knew even less about? All paths suddenly converged before him, with only one fated answer to their journey. “We’ll send the Oracle, let her royal tour be the answer to Aven.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

> ⟒⨀ init.transfer (protocol//mirrorline.secure) ...establishing stream... ...sync:complete. > target.locked= entity_id:NF02-Ev/e:pilot_lómenel_lysara > current_position: 65°29′8.09″N 78°78′12.5″S enuan::shodea::slina::15:15 > recording_location → worldnet.node23.alpha & command.relay_app/e. __________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________

_{...^{▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃█ The Pilot Deck}}

▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌ ▌

. She remembers the first of many times she had stepped out from the cockpit, sweating and heaving and screaming, the pain immeasurable, the song in her head all-consuming and bathed in scarlet hate of visions she could not abate. Some instances were lesser while others more intense, each time different and yet the same, and much like before, during her many simulated ventures, she stood before the nephilhim, bound to its glory and make. With her hands clasped at her front and chin notched up in scrutiny, Lysara regarded the weapon she was fated to wield, its grace of machine and power worn into every manipulated and coded alloy, the wings lax, head bowed, horns gleaming, and halos dimmed, it stood as a sentinel, silent and threatening, yet poised to launch. The news had come swiftly by royal courier, the seal of Their Radient Majesties embossed in wax, her orders carried in a tone that she knew she could not defy. The Royal tour would commence within the week, under the darkness of Duskreach, where the next light of Firstlight would announce her departure with a decoy in place, a veiled maiden of the Fayth would stand in her stead to receive the voice of her newly appointed people, to deter any unfavored action. The looming prospect of potential assassinations had never followed her before; still, Lysara knew it was a necessary action, even at the cost of another’s life, despite her initial protests to serve another as a sacrificial lamb. She bowed her head into her rising palm as an ache spread from her brow to her nape, where restlessness had settled into her body as a buzzing cacophony; the disordance even sounded through her sleep, where her dreams turned prophetic. Her visions were woven into her reality and followed into what was meant to bring her peace, and as a reaper haunted after its quarry, so too did those emerald eyes that peered ruthlessly through the dark, pinning her into place every time. No manner of sleeping drought could stall or prevent their manifestation, and as the sky bloomed with the violet-hued waves of Eaeth-Song, so too did her visions erupt, crowding through her mind as a myriad of lilting notes and vibrating drones, each a compounded message of something she could not quite understand. She had been told of Talour’s fate, and though unspoken, she knew they questioned how she had not seen it; she had witnessed such in the courier’s eyes as they gazed upon her before and after, but never quite meeting her eyes. Lysara was perceptive, silent, and melancholic as Saelira sighed and lamented over, but no less studious and observant in her most quiet moments. Such as she studied the NF02 as both a pilot and a princess. There was no direct confirmation that the predecessor had been sent forth, but Lysara could not ignore that telltale swell of some unknown emotion that arose within her breast, a sense of longing never known, of a voided chasm that split apart at the rungs of her ribs and cracked, her heart a deadened weight that suddenly galloped at the prospect of meeting another on the field. Somewhere at her back came a voice, and she turned to face it, standing as pilot, shaded in the stern visage of a soldier prepared ultimately for combat, but there was still grace and divinity in her poise, the label of Oracle woven into the very fabric of the ivory dress she wore with a silver-gold plate molded as armor against her torso. “Prepare both of the arma. I have a feeling someone will be waiting for me."

_ _ _ _ _ _ _