1. Home
  2. SilverPaw

SilverPaw Member

Avatar of SilverPaw

Status

User has no status, yet

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

In A Veil of Lies → 11 mos ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
Kizoh’s shadow lingered in a hidden corner of his heart, subtle yet insidious.

A moonborn in chains of gold.

Fire, so recently reined.

Azariah hadn’t flinched, though outrage and fear raked hot-cold fingers down his spine. Eryn’s presence had been a much-needed boon. He had felt the returning squeeze from her palm, had accepted and cherished the silent support.

Ensconced in the carriage, far away from the palace, it was safe again. Well, safer.

Azar took in a shuddering breath, let it out in a slow, long exhale. “Yes. Graced.” He sensed Eryn did not think of gracing as a positive, but the concept itself was so antithetical to everything he believed in, the bitter disdain in his tone was automatic.

He watched the scenery pass by through the carriage’s window. “I want…” he trailed off, shook his head. He faced his wife. “I will free him. Even if…”

Even if sending his father to the afterlife was the only freedom left to him.

His irises burned akin to the muted glow of embers; a drowsy fire, lying low as it waited to be stoked back to a full flame. It was deceptively calm – tame, Kizoh had assumed.

Good.

More the fool her. If she believed that, it was only to his – no, to their advantage.

A spark was all it would take, and sitting next to Eryn, hand in hand, was already so close.

It wasn’t a cage at all. It tasted like the beginning of freedom.

“Well,” Azar arched an eyebrow at Eryn’s answer. “Then I hope you’ll get along with our servants. They don’t bite,” he winked. “Besides, there’s always me.”

His expression grew brighter when Eryn expressed that she would like a party, after all. “Really?” His eyes sparkled with all the joy of a child in a candy shop.

“We can have a feast as soon as we get home, of course, but any true party needs planning. We could have it by the sea, if that’s what you like. We’ve a few manors bordering the Tidelands and Pearl Isles too. Or it could be at one of your estates, if that’s an option.” Azariah didn’t expect it to be, but offered regardless. “There is at least someone from the Lunevere who’d want to come?” He phrased it as a question, because if her family hadn’t even sent anyone to accompany their departing countess, he had no idea what their exact relationships, habits, or expectations were.

“Just so you know, if it’s a proper Nymere celebration, there’ll be lots of singing and dancing involved. People, music, performances – we like it loud and vibrant. Let me know if you’d rather a more private affair, though.” He bumped his shoulder lightly into his wife’s, a knowing grin emerging. From her demeanour so far, he gathered a traditional party might overwhelm her. But if she was still willing to give it a try, he’d do what he could to make it a pleasant experience for her.

He laughed at her compliment. “Oh?” He smirked, mischievous. As he felt his wife’s thumb graze his, he intertwined their fingers, clasping their hands into a grasp a shade more intimate. “I do live to defy expectations,” he waggled his eyebrows. He leaned in to whisper into her ear, “You’ve barely scratched the surface, Eryn,” he purred. He leaned back with a chuckle, the slyness lingering for a few beats longer before curiosity overtook it. “What did you imagine?”
In The Season of the Enlightened → 11 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
In The Season of the Enlightened → 11 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
In A Veil of Lies → 11 mos ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
A man who had to be Lord Serath approached the altar after Lucian. Eryn’s father did not so much glance at his daughter, so when Azariah received a nod, he merely stared at the lord, unresponsive. It was this when Azar turned around his hand, and slipped Eryn’s palm into his.

They kept holding onto each other from then on, when the memories were revealed, and beyond. Hers was a sacrifice hauntingly familiar to his, and he understood. In as much as one could ever understand another’s pain – the thoughts and feelings on any particular person were always theirs, yet commonalities wrought the chance for connection. Her hand twitched in his grasp, bidding him to offer a brief squeeze. It’s alright, he wanted to tell her. Or maybe even better: I’m here. His irises brightened with the unspoken words. Perhaps the silent wish came through, because he recognized the look in her eyes: she accepted being seen by him, just like he had acknowledged that she had witnessed him.

I will meet him there.

It was a promise.

The golden thread flashed, and wound around their hands, sinuous, sensual, as slow as a content snake wrapping her coils around her eggs. The soft brush of it struck Azariah like a spark of electricity – sudden, stinging, yet intimate. Being marked was not foreign to him, yet this was unlike anything else. His tattoos, his scars – those left an imprint only on his body. This extended further, reached far deeper.

It touched his soul. It was new, and unknown, and he had no idea what to make of it. But it was his.

Eryn’s eyes searched for his, and he met them, gave a light small smile, eyebrows quirking up in a silent inquiry. He had no idea at all what thoughts were spinning behind that flat grey-blue gaze. What Azariah did know was his own surety: a renewed confidence that this was the right decision. That he would make this work. That he was willing to put in the effort for it. For them. And for the kingdom, too.

So, when he felt a faint tremor running through her hand, he brushed his finger down the back of her hand. Only once, but it was a reminder: She wasn’t alone.

His sister entered, then, and Azariah watched her with pride. Orianne was of average height at around 5’6, but was striking, yet carried herself with a sense of calm. She had deep auburn hair which almost seemed black in certain lighting, her eye a serene green. As a priestess dedicated to Solvya, she was garbed in the ceremonial attire of Solethei. Her wide, white linen trousers were embroidered with sun-blessed golden thread. The pattern was subtle, abstract, sparkling – glorious even when she stood still like this, but at its most dazzling when performing their traditional dances. Her sleeveless top was a warm, dusk red, edged with delicate lace and speckled with fire quartz dust, a layer of enchantment binding it to the fabric.

Ria was utterly focused as she mixed ash and saltwater, whispering an incantation passed down mouth from mouth since times long past. Steam curled into the shape of a bloom. Hand in hand, Azar and Eryn approached, each placing a hand into the steam. Heat licked at his hand, but Azariah was used to such.

The Nymere heir squared his shoulders, fervor lighting his gaze, his tone wholly somber as he recited the Oath of his goddess.

“As Solvya binds sun to star,

So shall we be bound,

In silence, in sentence, in spark.

Let none sever what has been witnessed by goddess and sea and flame.”

A braided candle was placed on the altar, two coils of wax intertwined, the colour of House Lunevere joined with that of House Nymere.

There was a flame offered they could use to light the candle, but Azariah chose to summon his own spark of fire. He did not do so to manipulate the outcome – he would never – but to give a bit of a personal flair to the ritual. A flicker of flame between his fingers, and he lit the wick protruding from the red side.

Eryn lit her sea-green side. They watched, and they waited with bated breath. The two flames closed the distance infinitesimally until they were practically sliding up against each other. It was almost as if they were teasing them all with a ‘will-they-won’t-they’ tension while silently laughing among themselves. After long seconds stretched into longer minutes, they finally joined into one. After that, they burned bright and true, no sign of being extinguished.

Azar chuffed near-soundlessly, amused yet undeniably relieved. Orianne wrapped Solvy’s ribbon around the couple’s wrist, and pronounced them united.

The newly wedded couple turned from the altar to face the crowd, walking closer to be witnessed. They watched the court and were watched in turn – though most of the guests’ attention was on the glass ceiling above.

Azariah did not need to look. When it appeared, he felt Solvya’s blessing. It was like a warm embrace from within, its warmth bordering on hot, then subsiding into something that had all the comfort of lounging by a campfire during the year’s coldest nights.

Murmurs and stares abound, but Azar paid them no attention. It was enough for him to know that his goddess approved.

When it was all over, they departed. On the way out, a member of the Royal Court arrived to bless them. However, Azar’s was fixated on the guard next to them.

Of course.

This would be the most fitting moment – a timing most wicked.

Ishaan was fitted with the royal guard's armour and arms, expressionless, scanning them as if they were strangers. He held himself proudly, but there was nothing resembling humanity in his father's gaze. Azar searched his face, sought a hint of something. Anything. Yet, apart from his visage, there was nothing familiar about the man. Fear that his soul was long gone seized his heart.

He clutched Eryn’s hand, half for comfort, half because a surge of protectiveness arose in him. He offered only empty, polite words at whatever the royal uttered. Before he could think to say of something, the court member was finished, and bowed politely. Then, they were gone, vanishing as a if a false mirage. Then, the wife and the husband were on their way to the Nymere’s carriage.

“That was my father,” Azariah quietly explained once the grip of tension released him enough to speak. “He’s–Well, you saw.” He exhaled, a long and cleansing breath.

At the carriage, he opened the doors, and helped Eryn up if she needed it. He had not once released her hand, and now that they were inside, he wasn’t quite sure whether to let go or not.

“Is anyone coming with you?” He had a vague awareness that the Lunevere were destitute, but he thought they might spare at least one servant for Eryn. Having someone familiar with her during the transition into a new estate would surely be helpful.
In Return of a Failed Generation → 12 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Isana
Location: Kaides Estate, Ground floor dining room
Interactions: @Rune_Alchemist @OwO
Mentions: Vincent

“Maybe…” Isana wasn’t sure if Sherry was the type to have bad dreams. Not unless…? Isana decided to keep a mental tally of any oddities for now.

Ophelia sat down next to her for breakfast, which drew a gentle, pleased smile from Isa. “I’m…feeling kind of weird, to be honest,” she answered. She nodded at Ophelia’s following words. “That’s alright. Just preserve your energy for the Orientation, yeah?”

She was ready to eat in peace, but unfortunately, the first wife’s arrival put a wrench in that. Isana sighed as the catty woman went off on her tirade. In the past, this was when she’d escape. Now, she was simply going to ignore her to the best of her abilities. But then, Estelle laughed, and Isa turned to stare right at her. “Huh. Maybe…We need to talk,” she mumbled, mostly to herself. Her sisters were acting as strangely as her. She might not be right, but even if she was wrong, what’d she lose by telling them her experience?

“Really now, Amabilia,” Crescence smiled as she sat down for breakfast, unperturbed. Isana spotted a sharp glint in her eyes, though, and her expression was a tad sharp. “You should know me better by now. I don’t go after other people’s children,” she chuckled carefreely. Despite appearances, in all this time, their mother had managed to learn some passive-aggressiveness. She didn’t usually keep it up for long, though, and this time was the same. “It was actually Estelle who was trying to help out, Sherry, you know?” She beamed proudly at her oldest daughter. “That was really kind of you, my little star,” she praised. Not one to let her other two daughters feel left out, she gazed warmly to the middle and youngest daughter. “Isana, it was thoughtful of you to get us all together. Ophelia, I’m glad you’re more energetic and sociable today. Remember, though, it’s always ok when you need time and space for yourself.” Nodding firmly, she dug into her breakfast with gusto.

In the end, the family had a companionable breakfast together.


The three sisters took a carriage together, and – of course – sat next to each other in the Grand Arena. Isana was lost in thought, marveling at Kaidisyum standing whole, at all these people alive and unaware…It was a grand sight. However, when Vincent suddenly shot his hand up, her focus sharpened. Her youngest half-sibling could not possibly know about the Class Challenge, yet he had been the first to rise his hand.

Then – it must be that she was not alone.

“Ophelia, Estelle. Let’s meet up later to talk about our future.”

Her whole first life, she had spent in the Commoner Class. Now, Isana rose her hand as a matter of fact, no fanfare to her demeanour.

Now, who to challenge?

Pondering who she even remembered after so long, one face appeared in her mind like a hazy mirage. What was that girl’s name again…?

“I challenge Argenta Sylvester from the Noble Class.” Murmurs swept through the crowd as Isana descended the stands to the arena. Argenta hailed from one of Kaides’ vassal families, was one of her peers in age, yet had always exceeded her in skill – at least that was how it had been in the past.

Her opponent descended from a section of stands Sylvas and his supporters had taken over. Argenta was an albino, hair white-gray, eyes bloody crimson, skin as pale as snow. Even from the way she walked and looked down on others, Argenta was an obviously arrogant girl. She was always schmoozing the Student Council members, and had befriended Aqua, whom she’d impressed with her skill. She was a good duelist, and despite others drawbacks, a part of Isana had used to admire her.

“What, did you lot lose your marbles overnight? Or is it poison again, huh?” Argenta drawled, a nasty smirk marring her otherwise pretty face.

Yeah, that personality of hers was one reason Isana had managed to recall her name.

“No.” Refusing to elaborate, Isana walked to the weaponry, going over the selection of training weaponry. In the past, she had used longswords and greatswords, but now, she chose something she’d discovered suited her more. A pair of daggers, and a short sword were sheathed slotted on a leather belt. She marched to the center of the circular stone arena, silently facing Argenta, who was wielding a rapier, its tip padded with a bit of leather.

“Well, well.” The smirk stretched into a shit-eating grin. “Since the cowardly Kaides finally got her act together, I don’t need to hold back, do I?”

Isana merely swayed her head from left to right. “I’m ready.” So saying, she drew the shortsword with her right hand, and a dagger with her left.

The referee began the match with a, “Ready? Start!”

Before the last word even left his lips, Isana closed the distance, and opened with a side kick. She wouldn’t act as if this was a real match – there were no lethal weapons involved, so she did not need to worry about getting cut. Argenta was startled, though, credit where it’s given, she recuperated fast enough to try and strike at her exposed leg. However, Isana was faster; all she felt was a poke. Had it been a real rapier, a shallow slice might have been made, if that.

Facing her once again, Isana pressed on. She sliced and slashed with her short-sword, unusually aggressive. Argenta had lost her cocky smile, and was starting to take this seriously. She countered with quick jabs and calculated lunges. On one such exchange, Isana rolled to the side to evade, ditching her short sword. Believing this was finally an opening for her to wrap things up, Argenta crowed, stepping on her dropped weapon. Mercilessly, Isana jabbed her elbow to force her to drop her rapier, and tackled into her, knocking her onto the floor.

The beginning syllables of a familiar light spell formed on Argenta’s mouth. The middle Kaides daughter had honestly forgotten Sylvester knew it. However, her friend and lover had made an art out of that very same spell, so she knew how to handle it. She used the only thing available to her –

Her own spit.

“Hrr-ptui!” She shot a glob of saliva right into Argenta’s face.

“Hiieee—Eew?!” A shriek ensued, but Sylvester’s plight was ignored. Isana grabbed her head with one hand, and placed her dagger’s blade to her neck with the other. It was wooden, but she pushed its edge so it dug into the other girl’s skin, forcing her to hack.

“Ghk-ugh…Kh! I – I yield!” she managed, and it was only then that Isana unceremoniously stood up, took a step back, and offered Argenta a hand up.

The other girl was too shocked to accept it. “Wha-what the hell?” She stared at her, utterly wide-eyed, voice feeble and shaky.

“Hm. Call it inspiration.” Her smile was full of mischief and mystery as she shrugged.

The referee announced her victory while Argenta kept staring at her in disbelief. Much of the crowd was equally flabbergasted.

Just what had happened to the timid Isana Kaides?
In A Veil of Lies → 12 mos ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
When those long, pale, delicate fingers adorned their owner’s head with the rose, Azariah tracked each movement, mesmerized. Something new budded in his chest, and he was surprised to find that it wasn’t desire, not quite. Oh, he was attracted to Eryn, undoubtedly. But at her gentle yet telling gesture, he felt…Pride? Contentment? Hope?

He wasn’t sure, but he decided then and there that he liked her, even if he didn’t know her at all – not yet.

He had offered her an out, but there was no hesitation on her part. She approached like a wave; slow, gliding, but inevitable. Eryn was as serene as the calmest skies, her dress as ethereal as the wispiest clouds, framing her natural beauty with nothing more than the clever arrangement of silken layers. Her hand lifted, a trail of pale green flowing through the air as her sleeve followed, catching his attention. Instinctively, he rose his arm in response, offering it as a perch. “Let’s,” he confirmed, his smile bolstering. “It is a once in a lifetime event.”

The invocation of Anais surprised him. His eyes widened as those words left her lips, but he regained his composure with a habitual smile. “May Her light shine upon us,” he echoed, uncharacteristically reverent. He dipped his head at her next words. “I’ll remember that.”

May we not lose ourselves in the shadows.

It was a good reminder, one he kept close to heart.

There were far too many shadows here.

The one which loomed most daunting was his father’s. Ever since they’d arrived to the palace, he and his family had been on tenterhooks. They expected to see him at each and every corner, hope and despair gripping their hearts in equal measure. Each time they’d come across a royal guard, anxiety mounted. Yet, there had been hide nor hair of the former marquis so far.

Would Kizoh not show him off at all? Or would his father, Ishaan, be there when they least expected it?

No one could predict the Red Witch’s moods.

On the way to the chapel, and as they entered into the sacred hall, Azariah’s gaze habitually flicked from guard to guard. He sought that distinctive mane of golden wheat hair, those eyes whose colour he’d inherited, once full of life, yet grown cold and lifeless under the yoke of obedience spells.

But he wasn’t there.

Azar exhaled, frustrated and relieved at once. At the very least, he could fully focus on his and Eryn’s marriage ceremony.

Inhaling deeply, Azariah strode forward, pace measured and sedate. He ignored the stares, the susurrating whispers, letting each inhale of incense calm his frayed nerves. The familiar warmth of the hot red pillars tempered by softly glowing fire opals on one side, and the serene sea-evoking colouration and imagery on the other was comforting. The golden thread winding between them brought unity to what seemed like, at first glance, clashing opposites.

The pair came to a stop before the altar. Azariah dipped his head in respect to the three goddess statues standing watch. The Nymere heir settled into a more solemn demeanour than his wedded-to-be had seen up until now.

There was a moment of silence, then a priest of Myrien entered. He was a young, pale man garbed in a gray robe, whose straight black hair framed a thin face and dull jade green eyes. He was so much like a ghost trailing through the chapel, there was barely a swish of cloth as he knelt in front of Myrien’s statue. He opened the Procession of Lineage with a brief prayer, his voice holding a strange ageless quality. Then he stood, facing the crowd, hands folded behind his back. Though Eryn and Azariah were right in front of him, he stared past them, assessing, studying, appearing to take in each and every detail. “Representatives of House Lunevere and House Nymere, bring forth your offerings,” he stated, toneless as ever.

Lucian rose from his seat, carrying in his hands an intricately carved ivory box. He placed it upon the altar, and opened it, revealing what rested inside. It was a sleek black flute crafted from a species of their rarest, most precious trees; an instrument House Nymere oft used in ceremony and celebration alike. The Myrien priest watched as the Lunevere delegate placed their offering, then the two figures retreated. Eryn and Azariah remained, once again front and center.

From one side of the chapel, an attendant carried in a mirror bowl filled with holy water hailing from the Lunevere, while from the other side, another brought a tray bearing a ritual knife. The priest of Myrien accepted the bowl into one hand, and the knife into another.

The priest held out the receptacle between them, then lifted the knife, awaiting. Azar offered his palm first. His thumb was pinpricked, dropping a bead of blood into the clear liquid. Eryn’s blood followed, and the crimson swirled until it was subsumed by the blessed water.

The surface cleared, stilled. A flicker, then the first images arose. Azar watched as a slice of his history was reflected within the vessel:

A village engulfed in flames, people running here to fro, some escaping…others not. Indiscernible figures burned. Buildings collapsed upon themselves, trapping some unfortunate souls. A group of soldiers descended upon those fleeing, steel flashing, blood flowing. An unknown time later, a figure of a younger man, turning a blazing palm upon his own flank, leaving an indelible mark on his skin…

Azariah suppressed a shiver, though he felt the fine hairs on his nape rising, his brow twitching into a frown. It had only been an image, but he could still hear the screams, smell the charred flesh, feel the pressure, vibrations, and heat. That self-inflicted wound pulsed faintly, and the phantom pain eased his tension. It never would make up for what he had done, but at least he had paid what he could. He wasn’t sure how this counted as his sacrifice, however –

May we not lose ourselves in the shadows.

This is a part of me, too.

When the first pair of visions faded, transitioning to one only the priest could see, Azariah lifted his head, catching Eryn’s gaze. He met hers head on. Searching, wondering, yet freely offering, conveying an acknowledgment – of himself, of her – through look alone.

Something appeared in the mirror vessel yet again, and Azar glanced down, curious. A swirl of fire red whooshed from one side, meeting a strand of pale green swaying from the other. The colours met, withdrew, approached yet again. To Azariah, it appeared like a dance, the two becoming more in tune with each passing. From one corner, a smudge of dark crimson flashed like a warning, then it was over.

The priest lifted the bowl higher, and Azariah accepted it, his attention once again returning to Eryn. He drank the holy water until half was left, then passed it over to the lady.

The Rite of Mutual Acknowledgment began. Azariah found that it was not difficult to find words of truth. “Eryn Lunevere will bring to our house a new perspective, a breath of fresh air, and peace to me,” he intoned. For the first time since the ceremony started, a slow smile stretched his lips, dawning clear and bright like the sun of a new day.
In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 12 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay



Attire: Banquet fit, a simple princely crown
Date and Time: Sola 28th, 6pm
Location: Beige drawing room → The banquet hall
Mention(s): Fritz, Torvi, Edin, Gideon, Drake
Interaction(s): @Oso Kilian, @princess Alibeth

Upon concluding the conversation with his sister and Shahzade Farim, Wulfric departed to the banquet. He took another route, hoping to catch someone who could fill him in on what he’d missed. Instead, he happened to pass by Fritz, who requested a minute of his time. The two briefly retreated into a vacant room, where the count relayed to him certain important findings in a hushed voice. As promised, he had not used more than 60 seconds to do so, and the prince inclined his head in thanks.

Then, he proceeded to the banquet hall. There was no fanfare at his entrance, though being the crown prince, eyes naturally followed him. He stalked to his seat, but instead of sitting down, he stopped just behind it. His cooly assessing gaze scanned the area, flitting from guest to guest. The silver-haired witch hunter was casually conversing with Torvi, seated amongst others as if he actually belonged there. The chained woman stood behind him, still as a decoration. No one dared to look at her, afraid that by merely acknowledging her existence, they might fall into danger themselves. Cowards. They were like mice cowering from a cat – only the cat was already mid-pounce.

“My, my, look what the mongrel brought in,” he drawled, loud enough to draw attention. “You must be one of Her Majesty the Queen’s witch hunters,” he smirked. Alibeth and Edin were both so very self-satisfied, the smugness radiating from them spilled over into the entire hall.

“So, this woman…” He tilted his head at her. She seemed familiar.

Oh? There was an exception to the general avoidance of the elephant in the room. Duke Edwards was staring right at the woman, face blanched. Then, there was Drake, similarly affected. “Ah, she must be the Edwards family servant.” He had not been there for Alibeth’s oh-so-gracious explanation, so he had to make the connection himself. “She is a witch, then,” he concluded.

“You see, I despise dangerous prey escaping my grasp, so I hope you will enlighten me,” he addressed Kilian. “A week ago, numerous royals and nobles were incapacitated with what we assume is magic: some were bleeding, others catatonic, a few temporarily maddened. Five days ago, a man went berserk in the woods, bowling through two groups of guards, while the guests reportedly suffered from mass hallucinations. There have been one or two cases where someone was declared dead, only to turn up alive later on,” he smiled pleasantly, nonchalantly revealing what might be considered state secretes. “Instead of obtaining a lead on any of those cases, we have here a servant who…caused intoxication with magic?” A questioning lilt crept into his voice. He stared at Kilian as if he could make sense of his actions if he studied him long enough.

“I suppose, if you were to tell me you seek to eliminate all magic users, I might comprehend.” Despite saying so, his voice carried doubt. He stroked a finger across his lips, as if pondering what might be amiss. “Ah!” His smile spread – exactly like a wound spread when one dragged a knife against someone’s skin. “Here is my issue with that concept.” He had remained standing, and now took a few steps to the left, passing Edin to end up behind his mother. Almost as if he were the parent proudly presenting a child to the court, he settled his hands on Alibeth’s shoulders.

“You see, it was my very mother who showed me magic. Yes, showed it to me, not only told me about it,” he repeated, chasing away any doubt listeners might have held. “She uttered a word, and changed a tablecloth from white to yellow. That is how, a few days ago, I learned of the existence of magic.” He let the silence reign after that revelation, and patted Alibeth’s left shoulder as if to comfort her. “So, you see, I have to question: Are you knowingly and willingly working for a witch, hunter?” His head swayed to the other side. “Or is it that you cannot reliably determine who is a witch and who is not?”
In A Veil of Lies → 12 mos ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
In A Veil of Lies → 12 mos ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
On the sidelines, Nymere and Lunevere servants and family members exchanged proofs of identity for their houses’ respective heirs. Certificates of birth, portraits from childhood, inked copies of the family tree, things like that. It was all background noise to Azariah, focused as he was on Eryn. The lady was as still and silent as the night sea at rest. It was difficult to discern what she might think, or feel. But then – she took the rose.

Her fingers happened to brush against his, which he registered mainly by how cool her hands were. The touch surprised him, but not as much as the lady’s voice: it was soft, yes, but lower than he’d expected. Almost husky. It made him wonder what she’d sound like in a different setting. Before his mind could wander off, the mental image of his grand-father beat him back intro propriety.

Though the lady Lunevere did not appear particularly impressed, she was cooperating. If only to match you. A pleased huff escaped him, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That’s great,” he chuckled, perfectly happy with her compromise. His chin tilted down as he observed the rose in her hands. “Red suits you better than you think…” his voice lowered, tone a touch more contemplative. If her situation was anything like his, then she was marrying him for her own reasons. Her willingness to work with him was important. If it meant they could support each other in the future, then this would be worth it after all. When his amber gaze met hers again, his smile was gentler but no less true.

He perked up right away when the self-fashioned lace wristband was offered to him. He accepted it with a giddy laugh, amber eyes sparkling. Azariah was tempted to do so many things – crow at his prize, wave it into the air like a victory flag, kiss the fabric and direct a smoldering look at her – but something about Eryn’s demeanour restrained him. She was so attentive with the gift, so cautious and reserved, he reconsidered. Instead, he settled for pinning the fine green ribbon to his chest, where the rose used to be, and fashioned it into a bow. He did so with undeniable swagger. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not just anyone, isn’t it?” His grin was full, brash, and bright.

Azariah fiddled with his new decoration before smoothing it one final time. “Thank you,” he said honestly. He recognized she had not parted with it easily. He didn’t know what it meant to her, but he could respect it. The extras (well, his family was there too, but they really didn’t need to be right now) finally took the hint, and gave them some time alone.

“Pleasure,” he drawled, but he couldn’t help wrinkling his nose at the appellation lord. “Just…It’s Azariah.” Automatically, he extended his hand for a handshake, only to realize mid-motion it might not be considered appropriate. “Oh, whoops,” he retracted it with a sheepish huff. “That’s of those ‘habits picked up from a tavern’, or at least my uncle calls it that,” he rolled his eyes. The marquis didn’t know a thing – pub patrons didn’t get acquainted with handshakes, but by sharing drinks.

He nodded at her following words. “Strange’s one word for it,” his smile turned wry. Azariah leaned against one of the ornate cabinets, trying to figure out whether Eryn meant she didn’t like how the world was right now either. “Yeah, me too. Wasn’t expecting to get married in the first place, but here we are,” he chuffed, amused. “You know…those things don’t have to belong to another time,” he told her casually. He paused, wondering if she’d take it as the hint he’d meant it. Then, he grinned, and strolled closer, gesturing widely as he spoke on. “We could have a party of our own later. Music, banners, colour, and light – with more cheer than this place’s ever seen. If you’d ever like to.” They were words meant to allay concerns of any would-be eavesdroppers – a spy could take his allusion of different times the wrong (or right) way – but it was a genuine offer.

“But uh…” he scratched at his head, mussing his neatly combed hair a bit. “If you’re second guessing all this, it’s the last chance to back out. I’m sure you know, but I figured I should say it.” He watched her for a moment. “I know I’ve decided to go for it. So, if it’s the same for you…” he shrugged, his voice light but comforting. “Might as well go on, eh?” He motioned to the door. To the rest of the world waiting for them. Azariah was alright with letting the world wait, though, if it meant giving Eryn the chance to choose.
In A Veil of Lies → 1 yr ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
A fortnight ago

When his uncle, Lucian, invited him into his office for brunch, Azariah didn’t think it out of the usual. The acting marquess did have a habit to nag and lecture, but more often, they’d go over their territory’s businesses, finances, and various other issues. Even if he refused to wear the façade of a lord in public, he remained the heir apparent. He had suggested to his uncle that the marquess could appoint his own son as his heir, yet the man was too traditional to do so.

Ah, well…

Azar scratched his head, and knocked on the solid mahogany door. At Lucian’s muffled invitation, he entered.

The acting marquess’s office was a neat and ordered space, even when filled with bookshelves, filing cabinets, papers, scrolls, maps, and numerous other documents. It was a contrast of light beige, warm brown, and somber gray with little in the way of décor. The exceptions were his personal collection of wine, one family portrait, and a solitary potted plant on the windowsill aunt Brighid insisted on. Aside from those, all items within the room were purely functional. His uncle was as prim and proper as always, blonde hair and beard neatly trimmed, not a hair out of place. The man was so utterly practical and dreary, Azariah to wonder if half his soul had been consumed by paperwork.

To say that Azar did not fit into his uncle’s office was an understatement. His hair was a riotous mess, his clothes were rumpled, and his boots bore streaks of dried mud. “Hello, there, uncle,” he gave a casual wave and plopped into a leather chair.

The marquess grunted, and pointed to a stack of letters awaiting him on the low table next to his chosen seat. “Take a look through those.”

Azar acquiesced with a hum. As he read through the pile, his expression darkened. He barely contained his outburst until he finished reading. “What the hell is this?” The chair screeched as he rose, turning on his uncle with fury blazing in his eyes.

Lucian finally graced him with his full attention, raising his gaze from where it’d been affixed on his own work. “Is it the act of reading which is giving you trouble, or comprehension?”

Azariah snarled. He gathered the papers, marched over to his uncle, and slammed them onto his desk, scattering the pile in the process. That earned him a frown, but fuck if he cared. “You know damn well what I mean, uncle.” His fingers itched, but he suppressed the urge to set the letters afire. “You married me off without my fucking say-so!”

Lucian raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so surprised? Arranged marriages are not uncommon amongst nobility, and you are nearing 30.”

Azar slammed his fist on the innocent desk, wishing it was his uncle’s face instead. “You could have at least asked before this was a done deal.”

“And risk having you run off?”

The younger man ground his teeth. His uncle knew him too well, damn it. “Why?”

Lucian gathered the papers, organizing them chronologically. “Oh, come now, Azariah. This will be to your benefit, as well.”

“Oh–!” He was so incredulous, words escaped him. “Do tell,” he hissed. “Because all I fucking saw in there,” his pointer finger stabbed at the re-organized stack, “were benefits for you. And what benefits you, benefits her, you goddess-forsaken bootlicker.”

“Enough!” Finally, his uncle snapped. He stood up with sudden force, holding onto the edge of his bureau with a white-knuckled grip. “I do not do this because I enjoy it!” he barked. “Do not think for a moment that I do.”

“Then why?” Azar half-demanded, half-pleaded.

“Do you still not understand, you foolish boy?” Lucian’s nostrils flared. “I thought you were cleverer than this…” With a shake of his head, he sat down again, subtle anger shining in his eyes. “I listened to you. Alliances, remember? This is the start,” he set his hand atop the letters. “We join with Lunevere – together, we will be stronger. Together, we can grow, and…one day, we may be able to win.” Those last words were a feeble hope breathed into the air, so quiet Azariah had to strain to hear them.

Unwilling to fully let go of his of his outrage, suspicion coloured his countenance. “The letters didn’t mention any of that,” he pointed out.

“Whelp,” Lucian snorted. “Of course, they didn’t. Don’t you know how often official correspondence is scanned?” He sniffed. “Our respective agents met. Our houses remain loyal to our goddesses, and neither wish to see them suppressed forever.”

“Not much to go on,” Azariah scoffed, having taken to pacing around the room. He was still too restless to stay put.

“That is where you come in,” his uncle offered. “Secure the alliance, and their full support.”

“You could have explained all of this before springing up on me a marriage with a stranger,” he shot the marquess another accusatory look.

“I believed you would come around to it.” In other words, the man hadn’t wanted to deal with his opposition or debate alternatives, Azar was sure.

The heir rolled his eyes. “Fine. But you better mean what you said, because I will turn that ‘may be’ into a certainty. With or without you.”

“Azariah–”

But the young man was already storming out of the office. The lingering irritation was like fire in his veins; he needed to clear his head in the outdoors.

Now

The gold and glitter of Solencia could not hide the rot festering beneath. It turned Azariah’s stomach, but he ignored it by focusing on the immediate.

Unfortunately, the immediate entailed being fussed over by his servants and family alike. A seamster was putting the final touches on his wedding suit on one side, a servant was powdering his freshly shaved face on the other, while aunt Brighid had taken it upon herself to inspect his hands.

“Not a speck on dirt on you!” She smacked her lips in satisfaction after she’d stared at each finger with eagle-eyed focus.

Azariah groaned. “I was forced to wear gloves until yesterday night. When and where would I have got the chance to get dirt on me?”

The marchioness clicked her tongue. “You never know with you boys.”

His tie was straightened, the rose on his chest misted with water, his overly-brushed hair wrangled into a tie, a cloak set over his shoulders. “Do I really need this?” He swished the mantle with a hand.

His sister’s laughter was as light and airy as wind-chimes. “Oh, Zay, you look very dashing today.”

“What do you mean, today?” he shot back, mock-offended. “I always look dashing.”

His sister hid a grin behind a hand, and glided over to him. “Trust in the goddesses, and all will be well.” She stood on her toes, and pecked his cheek. “I have to leave to make preparations for the ceremony. See you there.” She walked out at a sedate pace, and gave a light wave to the room at large.

“Ready, lad?” Came a bark from his grandfather. The one-eyed, eye-patch wearing man was his last remaining grandparent. Despite a missing arm making one of his sleeves hang empty, and a cane supporting his back, he was a dignified, gruff, and even intimidating man.

But Azariah knew no fear, and chose to be cheeky. “Ready to make my wife all mine?” he waggled his eyebrows, sly smirk in place.

Already one of his cousins had to restrain his grandfather from unleashing his fury on him with a cane, while another was pacifying him with whispers in his ear. “You will not! Don’t you dare dishonor a maiden with your whorish ways!” His cane clacked against the floor, but red-faced as he was, he looked rather silly, if you asked Azar.

“What do we know if she’s a maiden,” he grumbled. It would be just fine by him if she wasn’t, mind.

“Azariah,” his uncle chided. More than one set of chilling eyes set on him.

“Alright, alright, can we go now, please?”

He knew he was being a brat, but truth be told, he was nervous. Now, he would finally see his wedded-to-be for the first time. Who knew what she was like, how much she knew?

His closest family members and select servants exited their embassy suite, and were accompanied by a pair of guards as they headed to where the Lunevere resided. Azariah was the sole person dressed in white and gold. To make him stand out even more, all others wore shades of black, gray, or brown.

The door to the Lunevere embassy suit opened, and Azariah was surprised by a sight he had not expected.

Oh. He took her in, a satisfied smirk spreading across his lips. Not bad…Not bad at all. He’d told himself to expect the worst, because that way, nothing could disappoint him. But this? She was beauty personified.

He could work with this.

Azariah strolled up to the Lunevere heir, stopping an inch shy of her personal space, far enough to remain respectful, but close enough to invite companionship. “Why, hello there,” he performed a gallant bow. For the first time ever, he was glad to have learned the habits of nobility. “Where have they been hiding a treasure like you?” He murmured as he straightened up, meeting her gaze with a smile. Carefully, he disentangled the rose pinned to his chest, and held it out to her. “This will suit you more than me,” he winked. “Will you give me something green in exchange? We’d match then,” he whispered as if relaying a secret to her.
© 2007-2026
BBCode Cheatsheet