Fantasy All's Fair

[Conifer]

With how smoothly Remin's dealings were going, this interruption should really have been anticipated; too many people had been too willing to help them for it not to come along with complications. The Marshes had been easy enough, with Gregor still liking her more than he properly should considering that she was shielding his son from his father's attempt on his life. He'd pledged money and men and expertise and Remin had to admit that all of the above would be invaluable - the Marshes were an incredibly competent family, after all. He'd also passed on a handful of names that might be willing to aid as well, and she could reach out to them once the festival had settled. It was success after success after that. Varying degrees, certainly, but still success, and the list of people who had informally pledged themselves to the cause grew from nothing to a half-dozen as the morning stretched on. Yes, there were a couple of potentials that she couldn't quite convince (concerns for safety, or simply just...needing to take care of their own families, own people, and Remin couldn't really fault them for that,) but no one seemed offended that she might approach them with such a dangerous request, and overall, it went better than she'd dared hope or expect.

Until the hand on her arm, at least.

As much as the sharp feeling of run demanded she pull her arm away, she didn't; instead, she turned smoothly and dredged up every ounce of affronted confusion she could muster together. "I beg your pardon?" Remin asks over the sounds of the festival around them. Music drifts among the laughter, the fluttering of kites and tent-sides, the huffs and braying and whinnying of horses. The two of them are almost lost in it - but there are, at least, other people around them, even if they don't seem to notice anything of concern at the moment. This would make Remin feel much, much worse if they were alone. "Enjoying the festival, just as you should be, my good man. Or is there something I can help you with?"

 

[Aerynth]

The look the man gave her in response was almost incredulous. "Enjoying the festival. Right, that's what you're doing here, just like everyone with eyes can see." Then, as if he had just noticed his own behavior, he let her go. "My apologies," he said and looked downward. Suddenly, he seemed almost self-conscious; a stark contrast to the attitude he had exuded before. Just what on earth was going on here? "I let myself get carried away. I shouldn't have acted so rashly." People passed them by, apparently not caring enough to stop and listen in on their discussion. All the attractions and events were, after all, more interesting than what could very well have been a young couple's squabble. It was unlikely that anyone even noticed them, really. The man, however, seemed to think otherwise. He looked around, obviously wary; was he searching for someone specific or trying to ascertain whether someone was eavesdropping? And did he reach any conclusion? If so, he didn't let it bleed into his expression. He looked just like he had earlier. Somewhat... exasperated? Exasperated and also something else, though that emotion was difficult to categorize.

"It's dangerous," he blurted out. "What you're doing, I mean. Some of the people you've talked to-- they aren't exactly tight-lipped, if you know what I'm getting at. The word has spread already. It will spread even further." With each word, his tone sounded more and more urgent, more and more desperate. He moved closer to her, too, so that he could lower his voice. "He isn't the most... observant person," the man said, and it was obvious who he meant by the pronoun. King Loran. Who else could it have been? The context spoke clearly even if her strange companion did not. "But he isn't completely foolish. He has his eyes everywhere, and trust me, you're being watched." Well. That decidedly wasn't good news. It was news they should have anticipated, but hadn't really accounted for while crafting their plans. "Listen," he said and grabbed her by the sleeve again, etiquette be damned, "go home. Go home and get some proper guards."

 

[Conifer]

Remin watched him carefully. Friend or foe? Danger, or just a fright? The pounding of her heard and the grip of his hand around her arm didn't help answer either of those questions, but then-- he shifted, seeming nearly ashamed? Or something akin to it, certainly. It was a whiplash-inducing change from the moment before when he'd seemed so sharp, so sure. Now he looked like a fish floundering on a dock, hoping that the haphazard, desperate wiggling would send him splashing back into the familiar cool water. And, after a moment, it seemed to work. She pulled her arm back into her own space, running her fingers over where he'd grabbed more out of instinct than to soothe anything - he'd really barely touched her skin at all, clinging more to the loose fabric of her sleeve, but there was still an implied intensity to it that made it feel like there should be something bruising, something in pain. Even if it was just pulled-taught threads.

"...I don't know what you could be talking about," Remin says carefully - if he's right, then he's being equally foolish, standing in the middle of this throng of people, who all absolutely have ears with which to hear and mouths with which to tattle. They don't seem to be interested, but that doesn't mean much of anything. But-- she doubts that he's wrong. It'd be a ridiculous thing to accuse her of if he'd heard nothing. So he knew something, and either that meant that he was the one who was going to go tattling and was giving her a warning for some strange reason - for the thrill of it? To see her scared? People had done stranger. So...she wouldn't give him that. But she wouldn't deny his warning, either - his emotion, even if it was intense, was either well-acted or genuine. Besides, it was likely time she should be getting back to the castle anyways, at least to check in if nothing else. "And I'm going to be late back to the castle if I don't take my leave now-" There. An agreement that she would go, that she would find safety, that she would listen. "-so I hope, my good man, that you continue to enjoy the festival, and that you have a wonderful afternoon."

And without allowing him to keep her any longer, Remin tugs her arm back out of his grasp and heads quickly back towards the castle. Perhaps a bit faster than she maybe should if trying to avoid suspicious looks, but she has a feeling that those looks might already be on her. Cyeria, though. How can she warn her? If Loran has caught on, then she's in danger. Remin curls her fingers around the stone, hesitating for a moment before opening the connection. She doesn't say anything (it'd be far too revealing, and he'd notice near-immediately,) but she just-- lets the connection hold, and hopes that her breathing and footsteps and the movement of her skirts is enough to catch Cyeria's attention and still be lost in the sounds of whatever else might be happening around them right now, and hopes further still that she won't just assume that the connection was opened on accident. Remin wasn't sure that the connection could be opened on accident, but-- still, the worry persisted. No, Cyeria was smart; she would notice. And if she didn't, then she was resourceful, and she would be fine. It would be...fine. Remin was surely just overreacting.

 

[Aerynth]

The man seemed like he wanted to add something - perhaps throw in a more specific warning? - but he gave up when Remin refused to acknowledge his words. Or did he merely come to the conclusion that cutting their talk short would be safer? That was an option as well; if king Loran truly had spies planted throughout the entire place, someone could very well be watching them even now. They might not be close enough to hear what they were saying, but they would definitely see them. Remin exchanging a few words with a random man would not be suspicious; he might as well have been asking her about directions, or trying to sell her something. The two of them talking extensively, though? Definitely fishy. Fishy and attention-drawing. "Very well," he finally said in response. "Do be careful. It would be a shame if something were to happen to you." And just like that, the strange meeting was over; the crowd swallowed him so quickly that he might as well have never been there.

Meanwhile, Cyreia found it difficult to focus on the story of the play they were watching. The plot was probably good, at least judging by the reactions of the audience, but how was she supposed to be able to pay attention? Just managing her own reactions was an overwhelming task; the restlessness had grown to be almost unbearable, and it was getting worse and worse with each passing second. Every fiber in her body screamed at her to do something, anything instead of sitting next to her enemy uselessly, though-- well, that was the thing. She wasn't being useless. Someone had to keep an eye on Loran and since Cyreia couldn't distance herself from him without appearing suspicious, she was the ideal candidate. It might not have been the most heroic job in the world, but it was necessary. It really was, and she had to get over herself and her need to stand in harm's way, no matter the cost. (That would have been easier had it not been her wife who risked everything in her stead. What if something went wrong? What if someone saw her offer as a rare opportunity to win king Loran's favor and betrayed her? She had the amulet, but still. Would Cyreia react fast enough, with her hands bound like this?)

Almost as if it heard her thoughts, the amulet grew warm against her skin. Remin. She's in trouble. Why else would her wife contact her like that? Surely not to tell her how her day had been. No, something was happening, and that something couldn't be very pleasant. Maybe she required her help? "Excuse me for a moment, my king," Cyreia whispered to Loran. "I have to... uh, go find a bathroom." God, it was so difficult to control her voice! Her heart raced so fast she almost heard her own pulse, and her imagination painted the most disturbing scenarios for her in vivid colors. Remin running from pursuers. Remin once again being kidnapped. A blade sinking into her flesh, staining her dress with blood. Not waiting for her king's reaction, Cyreia practically jumped oit of her chair and headed... somewhere. It didn't matter where, really; she just needed some space to talk. Hiding behind some of the less frequented stalls would work, probably. Was it ideal? Definitely not, but Cyreia needed to her her wife's voice and she needed to hear it now. "Remin?" she asked, obviously frightened. "Are you alright? What's happening out there?"

 

[Conifer]

Some of the threat of proper, overwhelming worry abated with the sound of Cyeria's voice - even if Cyeria's voice was filled with that same fright it soothed. She'd noticed, though, and likely gotten somewhere safe enough that Remin could pass on the warning that had been passed onto her. "...perhaps nothing," She admits, despite that- because maybe it was only some cruel joke to play. She wasn't going to count on that, and wouldn't allow Cyeria to either, but it was still an option. "But there's a chance that Loran's going to find out what we've been up to sooner than later. Someone stopped me. Unfamiliar man, Weroughian clothes in dull colors." She's continuing to walk as she replies, refusing to slow her quick-but-too-slow pace to catch her breath. It's better that Cyeria hear her breathless than scared, anyways. There's no need to worry her more than she already might be. Gods, she really should have talked to the man more. But he'd said she should return just then, and so she was only taking him to heart. But something more to work off of would have been useful. "He warned me that some that I spoke to might not be as discreet about it all as they should be, and that Loran was likely to hear of it soon. I don't know how true it might be, I didn't waste time trying to determine that. Because he clearly knew something, and that was proof enough." She pauses for a moment in her speech to glance around. The road was entirely void of people, this far out, though she could still see figures mingling near the brightly colored tents. It was...alone enough that she was decently confident that she wasn't being followed, which was simultaneously no and every comfort.
"I'm heading home right now," Remin continues, walking a bit slower now, but still faster than some purposeful walk towards a destination. "I'm going to have Hawthorne in position outside of the bedroom door, and I'm going to stay in there and lock it." There were likely more easily defendable places, but there weren't ones more guarded against interference. "...come back when you can?" She asks, hesitantly. It was hard to know how easily that would happen. "Join me there, and we can-- I don't know. Figure out what to do."

 

[Aerynth]

Oh, so she was safe. Or maybe not safe - none of them could truly be safe considering the circumstances - but at least unhurt. Immediately, Cyreia felt some of the tension leaving her body. The relief didn't last long, though, because what Remin told her next decidedly wasn't good news. "That's-- that's bad," she said, and it wasn't the most intelligent thing to say in that situation, but Cyreia was too busy trying to find a solution to this mess to care about being eloquent, too. So, their plan wasn't as secret as they would like it to be. Great. She had anticipated that someone would spill the beans sooner or later, but she hadn't expected the sooner to be now, dammit! Alright. Alright, no sense crying over what you can't change. Think. What would be the best course of action here? Not many things came to her mind. They did have a fighting chance, but only if king Loran didn't find out before everything was ready! If he did, then-- then he would crush them. They might as well be insects beneath his feet; that was how easily he would dispose of them. Unless...

"... I'm not sure I can return soon," Cyreia said gently. Somehow, the calmness of her tone didn't match the situation at hand. "It would be rather damning if I were to disappear now. Like an admission of guilt. Besides, if he's going to find out anyway, maybe-- maybe we should change the plan. A more direct approach would probably be helpful. I mean, if he were to die, the whole country would slide into chaos. We wouldn't even need to get allies; everyone would want to seize a piece of Eupriunia for themselves." What she was suggesting wasn't exactly honorable, Cyreia knew that very well, but pressuring a smaller and weaker nation into paying ransom wasn't honorable, either. Why not respond in kind? All the dangers aside, this was a perfect opportunity. King Loran was still guarded, but not as heavily as usual, and he only wore light armor. If she managed to lure him away from all the people - away from the actual festival - then perhaps it was worth a shot. The whole conflict could end before it even truly began. Didn't Cyreia owe it to her people? To Remin as well? Suddenly, the thought seemed all too appealing.

 

[Conifer]

Remin knew what Cyeria said to be true. If he didn't know now, then tipping him off that something was up...it was an honestly terrible plan for a lot of reasons. Maybe the man who had stopped her was just bluffing. Maybe he'd intended to strike some sort of blackmail-fuelled deal with them, and she'd left before he could get the chance to, and had no real intentions of saying anything to anyone. No, though - that just felt untrue. Even if she wanted it to be what was honestly happening here...that wasn't it. It perhaps wasn't as dire as he'd claimed, but it wasn't entirely divorced from the threat of Loran finding them out. So they had to be careful. Cyeria couldn't just wander off with some thin excuse. But...if he were to die? That put a stone in Remin's stomach. Cyeria couldn't honestly be suggesting...?

And yet, why not? As much as Remin wanted to say No, absolutely not. We'll handle this properly. We'll handle this more nobly. We won't stoop to the levels that the people who are against us are far too eager to stoop to; we're better than them, she couldn't form her tongue and lips into the right shapes to do so. She just pauses in her walking (it's safe enough to, with the castle being mere dozens of steps away at this point,) and holds the stone dumbly in her hands as she tries to find any meager excuse to tell Cyeria no. No, Cyeria, don't you dare. We will suffer, and we will drag people through our suffering, and we will cause deaths, and we will probably lose all the same, but we have to do this through proper channels. We have to play at messy war fair, just like everyone does. That draws a sharp, near-unhinged laugh from her, and she hopes that Cyeria doesn't hear it for what it is - hysteric and scared. What's the worst if she does hear that, though? "...whatever you do will be an official act of Athea." She says, carefully, softly, beginning her pace towards the safety of stone walls again. "You have my support, as you always will." People would try to twist this as something power-hungry, as some sort of proof, and Remin could handle cleaning that up. Cyeria would be acting out of Remin's orders, if worst came to worst, and Remin would be branded the desperate offender. That, too made something heavy and grating grow worse in Remin's stomach, but the thought of it was better than the thought of a nation - her nation - siccing itself on Cyeria worse than it already did. No, she'd take the blame. "And my trust." she adds, pressing through the heavy wooden doors and finally breathing a bit easier in the stillness of her home. Most all the staff had left the halls, attending the festival themselves. "If you think...if that's the course to take, then take it, and we'll handle the next steps as they arrive. But I trust you. And-- Cyeria, I love you, alright?" It felt silly to say it if only because she did it out of fear, but she was taking no chances with Cyeria's hearing it before whatever stood ahead of them.

 

[Aerynth]

Poor, poor Remin. It wasn't difficult to guess just how much the whole prospect distressed her; the tone of her voice was more than telling, and the little constrained laugh all but confirmed it. She didn't deserve having to exist like this, in between assassination attempts and schemes threatening to swallow them whole. If justice ruled the world, her wife would get to-- well, live a normal life, or at least as normal as her status allowed her. The most dramatic thing for her to deal with should have been heated arguments over the budget, not this mess! Alas, justice wasn't cheap. If they wanted it to prevail, they would have to pay for it with their own blood. "... thank you," Cyreia whispered, moved by Remin's support. The plan she had proposed could barely even be called plan; it was nothing more than desperate grasping at straws and hoping that, despite all odds, they'd hold her weight. Her wife still believed in her, though. (Perhaps more than Cyreia herself did. Did she think that killing Loran was technically possible? Yes, definitely, though that didn't mean she also believed that she would get away with it. He still had his guards, after all. And Cyreia? Cyreia had nothing aside from her sword; not even a proper armor if you didn't count the light chainmail beneath her tunic. In a way, she supposed, it was only fair. Athea had fallen partly thanks to her, and so it made sense Cyreia would risk everything to restore it to its former glory. This would be her path to atonement... or her path to her grave, though she preferred not to think about that.)

"I love you, too. More than anything. But Remin? Should I fail, don't play the hero. Just say you had no idea and distance yourself from me. You can... you can bide your time and strike later, with the help of your allies." There was no reason for both of them to die, after all, and if Cyreia had to, she at least wanted to go knowing that Remin would do everything in her power to survive. God, she hadn't expected to be dealing with such thoughts today. Had she known it would end up like this, she would have held her tighter yesterday, kissed her more feverishly. That was what she got for not enjoying every moment to the fullest, Cyreia guessed. It'll be fine. If I make it, it won't matter. That knowledge did little to soothe her fears, to silence the little voice of doubt in the back of her head, but she suppressed it. Focusing on all the things that could go wrong wouldn't help anyone. Hell, it could end up turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy; that was what happened when you only thought of things you wished to avoid. No, Cyreia had to find a way to make it work if she wanted to succeed here. "But don't worry, I'll be careful. It's just that... well, I want you to be careful, too. See you." After that, she severed the connection. It was time to return to Loran and end it, in one way or another. Hopefully nobody had told him yet because being able to seize the moment of surprise would be a nice change of pace.

Meanwhile, it turned out that Remin wasn't as alone in her castle as she probably would have liked. There were heavy footsteps, and when she turned around to look at who was coming, she came face to face with one of king Loran's men. His captain of the guard, at least if the insignia engraved into his armor could be trusted. Disturbingly, his sword was sleek with blood; the silence of the castle walls suddenly seemed far more foreboding. Far more terrifying. "Ah, so there you are. Care to explain where you have been, my queen?" he asked, his tone strangely casual.

 

[Conifer]

Remin felt a pang of uncertain loss as the stone went cooler under her palm, and she held it tight for a moment or two longer before letting it thud back against her chest. Cyeria will...she'll be alright. She'll make it back to Remin, and then they'll be together, and everything that feels so overwhelming alone will be a little easier to manage. This war will be easier-fought, even if it takes everything they have. She almost, almost doesn't notice the footsteps right away, lost in that fog of worry, of doubts and what-ifs, but they stand out among the quiet of the castle. The quiet that, with the addition of the footsteps, feels now unsettling. Usually there was the sound of quiet chatter, or doors opening and closing, or the clattering of something drifting around the halls. But right now, it was just...still. Not everyone had gone to the festival; she'd seen a handful of people even when Cyeria walked her back the first time.

But the footsteps. The footsteps, and then the sword, looking for all the world like the very metal it was made from was streaked with red, and Remin might have thought it was - some sort of strange Eupriunian scare tactic - if it didn't drip, once, onto the floor. "...I was feeling better after a few moments of rest," Remin says, not even bothering to keep the fear from her voice. A man with a blood-streaked sword was approaching her, and the version of herself that they were presenting to the Eupriunians didn't have any reason to try to hide that. If anything, she might do good to play it up. She doesn't, though - there's no need to, with the places her mind is jumping to right now. Who was left here? Whose blood could that be? She took a step back, searching for the key to her room in her pocket. But...no, no, the room wouldn't be the safest place. Could she get to the armory? If she could get to the armory, and open the door to the tree...that would be safety. "--and I- I decided to go visit the festival for a few moments longer." Why was she even bothering to lie? On the slim chance he'd not add her blood to his blade because she'd faked not feeling well convincingly enough? Armory. The armory, though, was through the hallway behind him. She'd have to get past him. Gods, this wasn't going to go well at all. "Good man, I'd-- I'd suggest you sheathe your weapon. This isn't a place for swords." Like that would work. Gods. She hated this useless caricature of herself. Why was she even bothering with it anymore?

And not so far away, the world was far less quiet. Still just as tense, though, as Cyeria returned to Loran. The man hadn't moved from his place, still boredly half-watching actors move across the stage, putting on whatever show they were putting on. He nearly doesn't even look at Cyeria as she re-joins him, but he does, and the side-eyed look is impossible to read. It's stern and hard as anything, but is there more to it? Does he know? Surely the news hadn't gotten to him while Cyeria was at his side, but...she'd just been away. Does he know now?

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia sat down on her chair, trying to look neutral and not like someone who had just decided to murder her king. Because that was what it was going to be; a petty murder. A deed unworthy of her, most certainly, but someone had to get their hands dirty here. It wasn't like they could discuss this over a cup of tea and come to a reasonable conclusion! Had it been like that-- so, so many things could have been different. There was no point in imagining what-if scenarios, though. She had made up her mind, and now she had to go through with it. For Remin, Athea and, yes, also for herself. So what if he had once given her a chance? Elevated her beyond her status? Every gift he had bestowed upon her was just another chain, just another yoke. And the crown? That was the heaviest burden of all. It had brought her Remin, but Loran couldn't have known that. From his perspective, he had crowned a puppet. A puppet so inexperienced she wouldn't understand the extent of what he demanded from her, or perhaps so obedient that she wouldn't even think to consider the implications. Well, he was wrong about her. He was wrong, and soon he would know. Or did he already? Cyreia's hands felt shaky, and she balled them into fists to hide it. I have to lure him away from all the people. How, though? Remin would have been able to think of a convincing excuse in a flash, but she wasn't Remin; her mouth was dry, her thoughts hazy. No. No, I have to come up with something. Her wife relied on her, dammit!

"It's... a little boring, isn't it?" Cyreia heard herself saying, hopefully nonchalantly enough. "I mean, the story is so very Athean. They could have chosen something heroic, but no, they went with some nonsense about a pub owner. I will never understand those people." Alright, that may have been more heavy-handed than she had intended, but maybe it would work all the same; Loran wasn't subtle, after all, so he could very well buy her clumsy attempts to distance herself from Athea. It was slightly better than just asking him to trust her outright, Cyreia supposed. "If it doesn't bother you, my king, maybe we could go help organize the parade instead? I am sure that it will be a highlight of our festival, but it's bound to be even more spectacular if you contribute some of your ideas." There, some flattery could never hurt. Remin had accomplished so much with this approach, so why not use it here? If she had to feed his ego to lead him to a less crowded place, Cyreia would do it. She'd do almost anything at this point, really.

The man watched Remin with something close to... amusement? "That is great to hear. It is unfortunate to be sick when everyone is celebrating." Why did that word sound so ominous from his mouth? Maybe because of the way he smiled, hard and cruel? Or was it the weapon? The presence of a blade could alter any context significantly, after all. "I disagree with the sword thing, though. You see, my queen, a little bird told me that we have traitors to deal with, and traitors deserve steel. Wouldn't you agree with that?" As he spoke, he played with his sword in a very purposeful way; it seemed he relished in her fright.

 

[Conifer]

So foolishly, so stupidly, she didn't even have the dagger on her right now. She should have. She should have expected this, or expected some danger- but she'd not grabbed it before she returned to the festival, and so its usual existence of being strapped somewhere against her body, meant nothing right now. Because it was, instead, sitting on the table beside her bed. What would it matter, though? A clumsy dagger was nothing against a sword, and even if she'd had a sword herself it wouldn't be any good. While she'd trained with one for a bit, and in whatever scraps of time that she and Cyeria could spare still, she was no match for this beast of a man that blocked her path. He'd cut her down before she could even raise her weapon against him. Maybe being useless would be her benefit here. She wasn't really a threat with a weapon, but she certainly wasn't a threat without one. Could she use that? Could she get past him, with that? Remin put her shaking hands - and, okay, perhaps she played that up, or perhaps she didn't, no one had to know. (Honestly, she wasn't even sure she knew,) She wasn't a threat. She was just a scared, useless woman. That's all. "I--I wouldn't know," She stammers, taking a tiny step towards him. "I don't tend to make those decisions. Please just-- put the sword away." Another step. Would he buy this? Would she? "I don't know what you want from me, but you can have it. Just...please, I don't-- Please don't kill me." She just had to get past him. She just had to get past him, and then she had to run. She'd be faster than him; armor was wonderful for protection but not so much for fleeing. She had to get past him, she had to run, and she had to get to the armory. That's all. That's all she had to do, and then she would be fine. The list ran through her head over and over, as if she was afraid that she might forget a step somewhere along the line. A hard plan to forget, really. Another careful, tiny, shaking step. "Whatever you want."

"I was thinking the same." Loran said, voice rumbling from his chest softly, like some incoming storm and the roll of thunder. If he suspects anything of this, it's hidden well, but there's still that edge of threat. He pulls himself to his feet, not caring of blocking anyone behind him's sight - and there's an utter silence at it with everyone affected seeming to realize that making even a movement expressing displeasure would be a terrible idea. "Idleness is nothing to indulge in. Come on. We'll tend to the parade, as you suggested."

 

[Aerynth]

Alright. Alright, that went smoothly, more or less. Now Cyreia just had to ensure that the rest of it would go smoothly as well, and that wasn't even remotely guaranteed. What if he truly knew? If he did, then she was putting herself in so much danger that the thought alone made her shudder. The presence of all those people acted as her shield as well; not even king Loran would dare to execute her publicly, with no proof of her actions. With all the witnesses gone, though? Who knew what could happen. Only the gods did and unlike back in Werough, they chose to remain silent. Were they on her side here? Did they support her in whatever limited way they were able to, or were they looking forward to her demise? If nothing else, she was sure it would make for an entertaining story and that was all some of them seemed to care about. A famous hero being killed while trying to stab his king in the back? Pextian would be all over that. ...yeah, that wasn't a soothing idea. It was perhaps the least soothing idea she had ever had, and it wasn't for the lack of disturbing ideas.

Cyreia gulped and stood up as well, following king Loran with quiet determination. I can't let him reach the rest of his men. The units that were meant to participate in the parade were isolated from the rest of the festivities, waiting until their moment came; a small concession she and Remin had won for Athea a few days ago. They couldn't have the soldiers scaring all the potential customers away, after all. Frightened people didn't buy things and the kingdom very much needed them to be doing just that. Now it seemed that the concession could potentially save her life. Loran didn't have that many guards with him and if she acted fast, she could-- she could kill him and then escape. Not the most heroic of plans, granted, though it was something that could actually work. Fighting five men at once was just a recipe for disaster. Maybe if she had her comrades to support her, but like this, just her and her sword? No. No, dammit, Cyreia had someone waiting for her. Her life didn't belong to her only anymore; she had given it to Remin and so she had an obligation to return to her, ideally in one piece. Admittedly, the current circumstances made it an unlikely outcome, but there was very little space to maneuver around that. It wasn't like she could separate king Loran from his guards! Any action designed to strip him of his protection would be suspicious by default-- unless she did it in a manner that couldn't easily be connected to her. Hmm. What about magic? Cyreia wasn't confident in her ability to use it effectively, but she was confident in her ability to wreak havoc. The magic strain... well, that shouldn't be too bad if she did it consciously rather than her magic breaking out by itself. Besides, it might be worth it. Surely it would at least draw the guards' attention away from her? They would probably suspect some local with a grudge, not a fellow Eupriunian, and with them terrified out of her minds, Cyreia could act. What was it that Remin had said about her magic? That it worked through listening to the elements, through asking them for favors? None of it made any sense, but it didn't have to. Not necessarily. These things were often rooted in instinct more than anything else. Cyreia opened her mind just like her mentors had taught her to, allowed the energy to flow freely, and asked for whatever forces might listen for... something, anything. For a distraction. For a chance. For mercy. If it didn't work, then she'd think of something else, but she had to try. "Did you have anything specific in mind for the parade, my king?" she asked in the meantime, still trying to stick to her role. It was all she had at the moment.

The man continued to observe Remin, his expression unchanging. He might as well have been a statue, except that a statue wouldn't have been nearly as menacing. It was hard to tell, really, whether her words had any effect on him; he didn't do anything to hurt her yet, but he hadn't put his sword away, either. It was still there, still red with blood, and still very much a threat. "Anything, you say?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. Something about him seemed almost snake-like; the readiness to strike, the strange elegance with which he wore the steel. "Interesting. What could you possibly give me that could outweigh the risks? Give me something tempting enough, and I might consider it." Was he truly open to some form of bribe or was he just playing with her like a cat might play with a mouse before tearing it apart? Both options seemed equally likely. One thing was certain, though; Remin managed to buy herself some time with her words. Some time and perhaps an opportunity, if she played her cards right.

 

[Conifer]

"I--" she stammers, using the fright to buy herself a moment to think; she certainly had no time to come up with the answer before she'd made her offer. But it only makes her foolishness more believable, if he even believed it at all anymore. It was so hard to tell. Was he humoring her, or was he as seemingly convinced as Loran was that Remin didn't have a useful bone in her body? He'd claimed traitor, but perhaps he assumed -- something other than what it was. She had no idea what he could assume besides her doing it. She'd just keep hoping that he was dense enough to believe her lie and not put all the pieces together, or at least continue to underestimate her even if he had. It was all she had right now. "The treasury. I have access to it. I-- I can fudge the documents, no one would even know. Or- or whatever you'd like from our armory, or--" There was little chance that he'd take her up on that one, but-- perhaps? Granted, he could just as easily kill her and take whatever he wanted from the armory regardless, but...if she could get him there, gods, that would be a second best to getting there herself. She'd have to distract him long enough to open the wall, but she could do that - especially when her salvation was only a few steps inside. "--anything. Just-- tell me what you want, and it's yours."

Loran falls into step just behind Cyeria - an eye on her, constantly, giving her little to no room to do anything covertly - and even if he hadn't been watching her like this, the guards following them in a loose circle certainly are. They're far away enough that if she acted quickly, though....well. She could at least maybe get the job done before they got to her. That'd be worth something, wouldn't it? And while they were guards, they weren't especially well-armored or armed, rathering to not stand out entirely among all the festival-attendees; the protections they had if it did come to blows and she couldn't manage a clean escape were meager. Cyeria had a chance. A tight one, a slim one, one that might use up all her luck for the rest of her life, but she wasn't entirely off-base with this half-thought-out-plan. They wouldn't get a better chance certainly. "I thought you and I might ride at the front." Loran comments, offhand, as if the situation was anything but this tenseness. "What's the purpose of a parade like this if not to show the faces responsible for the might displayed? And I'm sure it would be an honor to ride beside me again." If Cyeria's reputation was spotty before this...certainly showing alliance with the Eupriunian military in the middle of this merriment wouldn't help at all. That was, though, rather the least of their worries.

 

[Aerynth]

It probably shouldn't be too surprising that nothing happened. Why had she even expected anything else? Just like anything else, magic required training, and Cyreia had never found enough time to truly devote herself to it. Maybe she should have, but it was a little too late to regret that now. No, the old-fashioned way had to suffice here; just her, her sword and her utter lack of any sense of self-preservation. Wasn't that oh so nostalgic? King Loran's words briefly dispelled the morbidity her thoughts had turned to, mostly due to their audacity. An honor. Yes, an honor. It was terrifying, really, that at some point, Cyreia might have agreed with that. She had agreed with that in the past, actually. Whenever they had conquered a country, she had followed him like a faithful hound; thoughtlessly, automatically. It would have been the same in Athea, too, had she-- had she not found Remin. God, lady Beleret had been right about her, hadn't she? All of her ideals meant nothing if she only stood by them when it was convenient to her; when it was relatively painless. Some of what they had done had never sat well with her, but what did it matter to the victims? Surely they didn't care about her feelings. Not when she held the sword that had ripped their loved ones apart.

Perhaps she should die here. Wouldn't it be only appropriate of her to sacrifice herself to end the tyranny? To destroy the machine she had helped to build? Blood debt could only ever be paid with blood, and Cyreia's hands were so stained by it that she couldn't even begin to dream of rubbing them clean. It would be right. It would be justice. Remin would be heartbroken about it, no doubt, but-- well, she was Remin. She would endure it as she always had, and she would find someone else to love in time. Someone whose very presence wouldn't expose her to constant danger. Someone who could give her heirs and who wouldn't force her to live a lie. Someone with a real connection to this land. Wouldn't her death make it so much easier for everyone involved? ... yes, perhaps it was time to put caution aside. "Most certainly," Cyreia nodded, her expression resigned. "I'm sure the people will be besides themselves with awe." And, without a hint of warning, she drew her sword.

"Gold?" the captain of the guard smirked. "How trite. I was hoping for something fresher than this. If that is all you have to offer, then maybe I should just follow my orders and be done with it." For a few terrifying seconds, it seemed he would do just that; his stance changed slightly, and if Remin paid attention, she could read from his movements what exactly he meant to do. Cyreia had showed her that particular move many, many times during their practice sessions. If his footing wasn't sloppy, then he planned to transition into an overhead strike, and put all of his weight into it. In other words, less than good news. Something she said stopped him, though. The man blinked a few times and then he laughed; he laughed freely and seemingly without care, as if she had just told him the funniest joke in the world. Strangely, the sound was reminiscent of a creaking door. "Your armory? Do you think I'm not armored enough, my queen? Or do you hide something interesting in there?" 'Entertain me,' his eyes said. 'Entertain me, or you're dead.'

 

[Conifer]

There it was. The sharp snap of magic around her, rising as she dragged her sword from its sheath. But still, nothing happened. It just hung in the air, turning everything tense and heavy with anticipation. With looming potential. It waited. Loran, to his credit, failed entirely to look surprised as she armed herself. He just...stood, just as he had, looking entirely bored with this whole situation. An eyebrow raised. "I'd suspected you'd turned against me. You've always been soft to a fault, Avther. Soft, but...opinionated." It's like she's some boring piece of art, and he's forced to look at her - there's a note of strange, twisted humor to it, like he's imagining tearing into the canvas and setting it aflame to entertain himself. "Well. So be it. Make your attempt." He raises his arms, giving her every opening in the world. Footsteps approach behind her - the guards, quickly closing in on them. A trick, surely. It was so, so clearly a trap. But would she be quick enough for that not to matter? Would she take the obvious bait?

"-heirlooms." She manages. Another step, and then another, hands still reached out, still shaking. "We have heirlooms locked away in there. Ones imbued with enough magic to bring down any enemy you wish." She's not lying, and she's not lying twofold. There are old, magic weapons tucked away in there, rarely used but for show, but there's also the tree, also that heirloom that could bring down her own enemies. If not kill them, then incapacitate, at least. And that's all she needed. She could hide down there if she had to. Anything else besides surviving this moment didn't matter terribly. "I- think you're armored enough, of course, but - there's always better. If not the heirlooms, there's work from the finest Athean craftsmen." She doesn't take another step now - it'd be pushing it, and honestly, if she can manage to get him to the armory, it'd be so much safer than trying to get past him and hoping he wasn't deceptively fast. "Whatever you want. I could make you a lord. I could-- I just need to know what you want."

 

[Aerynth]

Soft. Out of all things, he had called her soft. God, Cyreia wanted to laugh. And honestly, why not? Somehow, all the tension left her body and she did laugh, freely and wildly, and all her fears were drowned in it. Was it the magic that had emerged seemingly out of nowhere? Maybe, but it was also just... her utter disregard for her own survival. Not caring about that in a life or that situation? That could be strangely addictive, and she could sense the adrenaline coursing through her veins once again. It burned like hot iron, like fire itself, and if gods were good, it would burn everything it stood in its way. "You're right," Cyreia said, "I was soft. Too soft to follow my principles, to be precise. Now I'm not." Alright, that may have been a bit unnecessary, but damn, did it feel good. Finally, finally she didn't have to hide behind Remin, didn't have to let others believe that she was just a fool who followed her wife's whims. Her ideals were her own and she claimed them freely. (It was the kind of freedom only reserved for the dying, as Cyreia realized immediately, but it failed to disturb her. Far from it. She belonged in this place, in this limbo between life and death, and it felt like coming home.) Nothing would be easier than just straight up stabbing him. He had cultivated the image of a god for himself and she, too, had believed in it at some point, but it was blindingly obvious to her now that he was human, and humans didn't tend to survive contact with steel. The steps worried her, though. What if he had some hidden armor beneath his clothing? If he had suspected her of foul play beforehand, then he had probably taken some steps to ensure his safety. For all his faults, Loran wasn't stupid. He wasn't suicidal, either; everything hinted at Cyreia possibly not being able to dispose of him quickly enough. That would make any sacrifice meaningless, and she couldn't have that. No, it would be wiser to distract the guards first. She raised her sword, seemingly to cut Loran down. "I will. Not before I show you all the things I learned, though." And with that, Cyreia called upon the magic swirling around her; called upon the wind and asked it to knock the pursuers down. Hopefully it worked like this because if not, then she was as good as dead.

"Magical heirlooms," he repeated after her. Whereas he had looked downright offended when she had mentioned gold, this seemed to strike some chord with him. What a strange attitude for a Eupriunian to have. Did curiosity drive him, or was it perhaps something else? A lust for power? Quite possibly. Some people would sell their very souls to the devil just to get a tiny scrap of it. Crossing the one boundary Eupriunians found sacred probably wasn't too unexpected in that context. "So the stories are true, you mean to say? Very well," he chuckled and lowered his sword. It was still naked as he had no intention of putting it back in its scabbard, but at least it didn't threaten her anymore. Not actively, and that was a small victory. "Show me that armory of yours, then. I'm curious. And pray to all of your heathen gods that what is inside is interesting, because I don't take kindly to my time being wasted."

 

[Conifer]

The wind whipped around her, rough as a tornado ripping through: the storm that had been growing in Loran's voice was unleashed, but not by him - by her, with all the fury that had been building up quietly inside her. The guards weren't blown away but blocked entirely from reaching the two of them, who stood in this eye, this strange calmness on the edge of potential oblivion. That seemed to rock Loran, who had seemed to expect anything but this surge of magic from her. His hand went to his own sword - mostly decorative, quite honestly. He was a man who knew how to wield a sword, but chose not to. There were others to do that for him; people more expendable than this king that thought himself above the petty games that those below him played. War and its ilk were more akin to a game of chess than something properly dangerous, properly full of consequence. Here, though, he reached for his sword. Separated from his men and caught off guard, he drew it, his gaze still steady on Cyeria despite this shift in the field. Whatever might happen, it was no longer discreet - but it wouldn't really matter either way. Either she'd kill him, and her crime would be noticed by the guards immediately, or he'd kill her, and any thoughts of escape were entirely pointless. But-- something tugged at her, twisted and mangled and familiar in some way that wasn't anything she knew. Not a threat, but...a request for her to hurry. That there wasn't time for her to dally. Whatever she was doing, she had to do it immediately.

Oh. That had...worked. Okay. Could she-- she wouldn't be so lucky as to simply lead him like a metaphorical lamb to metaphorical slaughter? Surely the luck would run out before then. Before she could keep up the lie long enough to split her hand open and open the door, before she could lead him down the hall, before that hidden place and its protections could really offer those protections. Surely it wouldn't work as smoothly as that. It just...couldn't. (But why not, she supposed? There was already enough bad luck involved with all of this that it would barely even balance anything out. Still, it seemed like far too much to hope for.) "--Yes, sir, of course." She agrees. "The armory- it's down the way you came." Remin took a shaking breath and hoped that he wasn't simply agreeing to get her to let her guard down and smite her as soon as she turned her back to him - but even if he was, it would be no worse than him using that gore-smeared thing against her when she could see it. It would almost be a mercy. So, she walked. So carefully, so intentionally, arms still outstretched and offering no harm, past him. Just to the armory. She just had to make it to the armory, and then she was practically saved already.

 

[Aerynth]

That look he gave her? Cyreia relished in it. She had never seen him scared before, not truly, and it was past the time he tasted the fear he instilled in others. Yes, she thought and gripped the hilt tighter, take up the sword and defend yourself for once, you coward. How many men had died because he had willed it so? Because he had decided that acquiring new lands was more important than their lives? How many women, children? Cyreia was willing to bet he had never even given it a passing thought. Men like him rarely did; for him, the suffering was just something abstract, something to be recorded in history books and marveled over. A proof of his might rather than a source of shame. Well, not that it mattered. She would show him just how real all of it was very soon, and he wouldn't forget the lesson for the remainder of his short life. "I wish you the best of luck," Cyreia snarled. Curiously enough, some part of her had even meant it; Loran's sword was a sad, pitiful thing, and she almost wanted to give him something more useful to defend himself with. 'Almost' wasn't nearly enough, though. Cyreia may have been foolish, but not even she attempted to look for honor in an assassination. Besides-- a strange, urgent feeling tugged at her heart. 'Finish this quickly,' it said, and she intended to listen to the advice. It rarely paid off to ignore these hunches. The longer it took, the greater the chance of something going horrifically wrong. In a split second, Cyreia raised her sword and charged at him, aiming for his neck. If he had some armor hidden under his clothes, then it logically had to be on his torso; the neck was unprotected, and also conveniently a lethal spot to hit. With some luck, everything would be over in a few moments.

"I see. Lead the way, then." The captain of the guard followed her, his armor making soft 'clang' sounds with his every step. The castle seemed almost as empty as the one Zivra and Wellan had imprisoned her in, and that clearly wasn't normal. What had he done with his staff? Had he killed them all or simply locked them away? And were there more of Loran's men? Probably. It would be strange, after all, for this single soldier to be sent to... well, to do whatever he had been sent to do here. A solitary man couldn't be expected to take a castle. Still, it was probably better to focus on the primary threat for the time being. "So that's it, huh?" he raised his eyebrow when they reached the door of the armory. "Go first. You know, just in case this is some trap, which would be very unwise of you." Apparently he hadn't even considered the option of Remin leading him to the armory so that she could get the sword of her own-- and if he had, then he didn't find that too terrifying of a prospect. And why should he? He was still clad in armor where she was dressed in wool. Hell, he also had years of training to rely on. Surely a desperate woman with a sword couldn't even hope to scratch him?

 

[Conifer]

And it was. Her sword hit skin, sliding against it, cutting into the flesh. His sword cut into the fabric of her tunic, pushing through and against and through with the sharpness of a sword rarely used, and then it was over. Perhaps, though, not in the way she might have expected - because Loran didn't lie dead under her weapon, nor did he lie at all, even if blood poured from the gash she'd left against his throat. Her sword grazed his skin as she charged, and as it did, the winds grew sharper and colder and quicker, surrounding her, consuming her. Where the eye held both her and Loran in its cage moments before, it held only her now - and her sword was met only with the buffeting of the breeze and not the resistance that a throat might give, all that flesh and sinew and spine. The wind faded, leaving only the feeling of drudging emptiness and the pain of where Loran's own pathetic sword had dug into her side in its place, but this loss of Cyeria's only real line of protection beyond her meager armor came to no real consequence. It wasn't the fairgrounds that surrounded her anymore, nor the brightness of the sun-soaked day, nor the sounds of muted music and preformance and laughter; no, there was none of that here. There was only the unnatural stillness that filled the cavern that she'd visited once before, and the small amounts of light pouring off those lightly glowing flowers, and, if she were to listen hard enough in this silent place, the rustling of fading wind shifting handfuls of leaves above her head. Whatever state Loran might be in, how surprised he might be at her sudden disappearance, any intentions he or his men might have about running her through with their own swords as she'd attempted with him...those reactions were distant from here, in almost another world entirely.

The man's assumptions about his own safety were true enough, even if they weren't quite as accurate as he might think they were. No, she'd be no match for him, even if he lost the metal plating that coated him. Then, she might hope to get some small cut against his skin, but he'd catch her against his sword just as quickly. She was competent, but not truly capable. It would take a lot more peaceful days where she and Cyeria could sneak away to what had become Their patch of woods to train before she would be doing anything but keeping herself alive for long enough for someone else to get to her. But...there was no one coming here. The halls were too quiet for that; their footsteps (quiet and leather, loud and metal,) echoed strangely around the whole place. How had they not expected this? Yes, it didn't seem the obvious thing, but...leaving the castle as unguarded as it was, when the very man content enough to declare war, ruin them, and then drain them dry like some money-hungry leech? How had they not anticipated him simply cutting out (perhaps literally,) the middlemen and taking over Athea as his own, properly? Or at least of showing them what he was perfectly content to do to show his power to them? They'd been too worried about not angering to think about the fact that it...didn't really seem to matter if he was angered or not when it came to what he was willing to do.

Remin says nothing in response to his accusations of it being a trap. So what if this all failed? She had a feeling he'd been perfectly happy to kill her when she'd first seen his sword, so the threat meant little. Perhaps he'd take it out on her a little more, but what was more pain if she was only going to die anyways? The thing that hurt the most was the thought of Cyeria returning to find her dead, if- gods, if Cyeria's plan worked at all. She'd sounded so...resigned? Determined? Whatever strange mixture it was, it had sounded too intense for Remin to be any sort of comfortable with.But-- no, she couldn't imagine a universe right now where Cyeria lay bleeding out and alone against the grass. No, she'd-- she'd been victorious. Loran was the one who lay dying, not Cyeria. But that didn't help with the initial dread; that Cyeria would see her dead on the armory floor. Except that wouldn't happen. Remin would get into the tunnels, and she'd be safe there. She'd lead the man to think that she was unlocking the inner chambers of the castle, and she'd lead him there, and he'd walk right in with her. And then she could take his sword from him, and she could run to the proper (relative) safety of roots and bark and ghosts. Her hands still shake as she pushes open the door to the armory. "The-- there's some items that might interest you against that wall." Her voice shakes just as badly. She steps into the room and gestures. "But -what you're really looking for is locked away further. I-- Against this wall, there's a hidden door, and I'm going to have to cut my hand to open it." Remin's not stupid enough to grab at a dagger and expect him not to think she's intending to use it against him.

 

[Aerynth]

In hindsight, maybe she shouldn't have wished him the best of luck. It had been just asking for trouble, really, and sure enough, the trouble came. It came just like it always did. At one point, her sword connected with his neck; that was the end of it, or it should have been, except that something held the blade back. The wind? What? Was her own magic turning against her now? Why had nobody told her this could happen? That detail seemed rather important! She didn't even have the time to feel betrayed when the sharp pain in her left side blinded her. Was this going to be how she died, impaled by that flimsy excuse of a sword? What a fine end for the famous commander! Someone should compose a ballad about it; it would be the greatest plot twist in the century, she was sure. Cyreia wanted to laugh, laugh until she couldn't breathe, but breathing was difficult enough already, almost as difficult as existing, and then the world started twisting and morphing into strange shapes before her very eyes, and then-- alright, then she suddenly wasn't there anymore. Where was she, though? ...oh. Oh, I see. The contrast between the sunny day of the festival and the darkness was entirely overwhelming and Cyreia had to blink a few times in order to get used to it, but once she did, the answer to her question was obvious. Somehow, the wind had sent her into that cursed graveyard. Did-- did it mean she was dead? She didn't feel dead, but ultimately, what did Cyreia know about it? Maybe death was like this, and one of the pale, luminescent flowers belonged to her now. Maybe she was destined to wait here for Remin until either old age or Loran's men claimed her, and-- gods, Remin. No, she couldn't be dead! Not when she hadn't accomplished anything aside from abandoning her wife to her fate. Who, if not her, would shield her from the king's fury? Who would protect her? Her duties didn't end here!

Cyreia forced herself to stand up; her legs felt shaky, almost as if they had turned into jelly, but she made them work nonetheless. Carefully, she took a step into the darkness, and then another and another. It wasn't at all obvious to her where she was going, but moving, striving towards anything at all, felt infinitely better than just standing around. That way, Cyreia could at least nurture the illusion of getting closer and closer to Remin with each step. (And the fact that she could just as well be getting further and further away from her? Cyreia chose to ignore that for now. She had do focus on moving, on doing, and everything would be fine. If her fears swallowed her-- that would truly be the end of it.) "Hello?" she called out into the nothingness, led by desperation rather than genuine belief that anyone was there. (Or, more precisely, anyone who would be able to reply to her. The dead didn't tend to speak much... or did they? If they were like her, then maybe they did. God, the thought still terrified her.) "Can-- can anyone hear me?" Her voice echoed throughout the cavern endlessly; for some reason, it sounded foreign to her own ears, and Cyreia shuddered instinctively.

The captain seemed thoroughly unimpressed with the contents of the armory. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked, his tone flippant. "Those are just common swords and helmets. Is this what Atheans consider to be top notch equipment? If that is true, then there is no wonder you lost. You may have as well used toothpicks." He picked up one of the war axes and inspected it with the kind of incredulity that was downright insulting. (Or it would have been had there not been more pressing issues, such as him being able to end her life whenever he felt like it.) "What did I tell you about wasting my time, my queen?" he asked her with a raised eyebrow. His voice was quiet, but dangerously so; it was the calm before the storm. "Was I not clear enough about that?" The annoyance in his tone quickly turned to something else, though, when Remin spoke of drawing her own blood. That something was probably best described as 'suspicion'. Suspicion mixed with anger. "What kind of sorcery is this?" he hissed and took a few step towards her; he stood so close to her now that their noses were practically touching. "Are you trying to curse me? Is that what you're planning, to take me out with blood magic? Don't think I don't know of your treachery!"

 

[Conifer]

All that met Cyeria's ears was her own voice in this glorified mausoleum; the walls themselves were questioning back to her, their ridges and curves twisting the sound into something more mocking than soothing. Hello? they called back, and back, and back, quieter each time until it faded out entirely, leaving her with only the silence to break once more. Hear me? Hear me? Hear me?
No other sound met her as she stumbled through this darkened place; even the remnents of the wind had left her, and not even the leaves made any hint to their existence above her anymore. She was alone in the dark besides the dead under her feet and contained by the walls and the chill.

Remin presses herself against the wall - the one that will give way, if only she can manage to open it. So what if she fell? It'd be the least of her potential injuries. "No-" She shakes her head, dropping the useless act entirely. There wasn't point anymore, if there ever had been. Or- perhaps she puts up a different act, pushing the fright away from herself. There wasn't time for it anymore if she couldn't wield it like a shield against this would-be attacker. "No. No curses. If I were capable of them, that might be- it might be different, but I'm not." His sword was still drawn, still too close to her for any comfort, and still coated with someone's blood. She could reach it. She could coat it with her own. Could she reach the stone she was meant to bleed on, though? Could she even properly remember which it was without the writing indicating where she might smear red? No-- not right now. Clear-headed, perhaps, but now? No. Still. She had to try. "This magic's old." She assures him quietly, reaching for his sword, slow enough to hopefully go unnoticed, "And," she can feel the cold bite of steel under her palm, "Much more powerful than anything I could do." A quick slice - gods, it hurts, it's far deeper than it needs to be, it's clumsy, but it's more than enough to do the job - and she flings her arm out, reaching towards where she remembers the stone being and smearing her hand against the wall, hoping that something connects. Please, gods, just- let her have this. Let her find the stone, let the wall open, and let her not die to this blood-stained sword.

 

[Aerynth]

Well. Alright, that was enough of an answer. Nobody had heard her, or if somebody had, they had chosen not to speak to her and that was about as useful as the cavern actually being empty. Internally, Cyreia cursed. How was she supposed to find her way out of this godforsaken crypt? And why had her magic even guided her here in the first place? Assuming she wasn't dead, there was no reason for her to be there! Had-- had the tree interacted with her magic somehow? Was she connected to it as well through her marriage to Remin? All of this operated on some strange, dreamlike logic Cyreia just wasn't able to grasp. She was able to grasp one thing, though; even if she wasn't dead now, she would be relatively soon. It didn't seem like any food grew down there and the water was too suspicious to drink. Even the air smelled foul; it smelled of rot, decay and something barely describable that, nevertheless, filled her with quiet dread. No. No, she couldn't stay here. The cavern didn't belong to her and she didn't belong to this cavern. It might have claimed her, but Loran had done that as well once and she had escaped him, too. (If nothing else, Cyreia was good at escaping. Escaping from her thoughts, conscience and, as it turned out, also her shackles. No matter how all of this ended, the king didn't own her anymore. A small solace, yes, but it was a solace still.) She took a deep breath and reached beneath her tunic; to her relief, the communication stone was still there, dangling on the silver chain. Did it work, though? She would see soon enough, she supposed. If it did, then at least it would give her a proof that she was still alive. The dead, after all, couldn't use talismans. A few heartbeats passed before Cyreia found the courage to try and contact her wife. "Remin?" she asked quietly, praying for the stone to do its job. For her to be alive enough to manage this, really.

Perhaps for the first time since Remin had met the man, he seemed-- not in control. Slightly scared, even. Was threatening him with vague magic all it took? If so, maybe this could have been done differently. "Wait, what are you--?" He recoiled when he realized what exactly Remin was doing, but he noticed her intentions too late. Her blood had been spilled by that point; spilled and smeared over the wall. For a few terrifying moments, nothing happened. The nothingness stretched to the point it seemed time itself had stopped and the rest of the world had left them behind. Both Remin and the captain existed frozen within their expectations, unable to act. And then-- then the gods listened to her, it seemed, for stone gave way in order to reveal the entrance. The symbols they had revealed earlier lit up anew, outshining the torches on the wall. But more importantly than that? In the back of her mind, Remin once again felt that warm presence; the presence that would tear anyone apart should she so much as wish for it. "What is this? Where does it lead? Speak!" the captain practically barked, though it sounded pathetic more than anything else. This was no longer a man who possessed authority. No, this was a man who was trying to regain an upper hand and failing at it quite dramatically.

 

[Conifer]

"Like I said." Remin said, feeling a little delirious with this rush of adrenaline and success and the overwhelming unnatural possessiveness of the thing that she relied on to save her now, the whole thing only made louder by the pain across her palm and the desperate look on his face that was no more composed than the terror she'd shown when she first saw him approaching with that weapon drawn. "Heirlooms. An heirloom. Powerful enough to bring down any enemy." And, with that, she turned, and she ran. It didn't matter if he pursued her, though she hoped that he might, because-- leaving him angry and alone in the castle nearly entirely doomed anyone who hadn't yet fallen to that sword. She didn't dare look either way, and the pounding of her feet against the dirty stone and the pounding of her heart made it near-impossible to hear any sounds of pursuers. She just had to get away. He didn't matter anymore. He'd follow or he wouldn't, he'd fall or he wouldn't, and either way, she'd at least be safe. Trapped beneath the castle and in the dark and surrounded by death, but safe. She'd rather take her place among the flowers by starving rather than whatever he might do to her at this point.

Cyeria's call into the stone went unanswered, just as lost to the chaos as the sounds of being followed were - but still, sound met her ears that wasn't made by her. The pounding of footsteps was distant, barely audible, but growing louder by the moment; this place was so silent and still that anything that might make a noise shattered that quiet away regardless of its origin. These, two, echoed strangely, and where there had been one set before, there was two, four, ten, all varying in intensity and sound and occasionally fading out as the unnatural quiet swallowed them back up once more.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia... didn't really know what to make of this. The stone clearly did something, but as for what it was? Her guess was as good as anyone else's. It could have connected without Remin noticing, yes, but it also may have malfunctioned because-- because she was dead and the device wasn't meant to facilitate that sort of communication. Or maybe the tree blocked it? Whatever it was, it was intensely magical; it causing some sort of interference with Maric's enchantment wasn't entirely out of question, at least according to her limited understanding. Damn it. Damn it all! If she hadn't hesitated, Loran would have been dead by now, her sins washed clear. As it was, though? He must have been fuming with anger. Fuming with anger and looking for an acceptable target he could hurl it at, and it wasn't difficult to tell who he would choose. Remin would would have to carry the blame, just like she always did. Why did this stupid thing not even let her warn her?! "Remin," she said again, this time louder, hoping that her wife simply hadn't heard her the first time. "Remin, are you there?" If she didn't respond even now, Cyreia would have to think of something else, but she refused to let go of that tiny hope before it was thoroughly dashed.

Meanwhile, the darkness embraced Remin as if it was welcoming a long-lost daughter; there was only comfort where fright should have ruled, even if she could hear the frantic steps behind her. Hell, maybe it was because of them. In any other situation, him following her was a nightmare, but here? Here he signed his death warrant and, sure enough, it didn't take long for everything to get drowned in his screams. He screamed, screamed and screamed, but then his voice died down and silence - deep and meaningful - enveloped the corridor once again. It felt as if something was leading her, too, because despite the absence of torches, she didn't get lost, didn't even stumble. If there were other pursuers, they never reached her, either. Remin made it to the roots safely; just like the last time, they were blocking the entrance, green and resilient and stubborn.

 

[Conifer]

It was only once she reached the roots that she let herself look back; the screams had been a twisted sort of comfort but not one enough that she would trust that no one was following her. But the hall, dark and tight, was empty besides her. Her heavy breathing felt much too loud in her ears, and she leaned against the cool dirt of the wall to rest for a moment and try to get it under control. She'd made it. She was safe - or would be, once she made her way through the roots. Trapped, but safe. She welcomed it. Was Cyeria okay? Was Cyeria safe, too? Hopefully her situation was less constricting, wherever she was. As if to answer her wonderings, though, her wife's voice came through, tinny but solid, through the chain that hung around her neck. Remin grabbed at it immediately, sinking down against the wall. She'd have to keep moving in a second, but the knowledge that she was alive, and the exhertion, and the- everything, really, made Remin's legs feel like she might collapse if they had to support her for even a half a second longer.
"Cyeria." She says breathlessly, clinging to the small stone. "I'm here. I'm here, I'm safe. Are you okay?" Anything else was practically meaningless; as long as they were both okay, both alive and breathing and not bleeding to death on some field or in some hall- then they'd be fine, they'd find each other again.