mother of sorrows
𝘮𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘻, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘣 𝘮𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘵
PAX ROYALIS
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Fantasy ´ 𝑷𝑨𝑿 𝑹𝑶𝒀𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑺 ` 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲
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cavitea
𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧
hisoki of tsusaye
P
Tsusaye, the empire covered in the stifling protection of mist, glowing veins of wealth and the power that breathed down necks to back the earnings. Then there was crimson, an autumn that came before the end of winter and painted red the broken valley of 'mine'.
Each movement sees more of the petals fall, white curtains that weep, a breath rattling in the decrepit bones of the fallen. There is the greed for more, an ancestral urge feeding nourishment to the lustful drive concealed behind the sheen of a filmy veil. Petals shake as a chin surfaces itself back in the warmth of the room surrounding. It was alien to be surrounded by vintage love, a cozy atmosphere designed by another and meant for someone else. Now he sat there on a pouf, an imposter concealed in layers of silken white and bronze entrapments.
“Pull us up, higher to the heavens my sweet secret.”
A chess piece moved on the table beside him, a black rook that struck down a helpless pawn, knocking the ornate piece off the table until it rolled pitifully in a semicircle.
Eyes fluttered behind an ornate mask, brushing against woven flowers in a way that stung and pulled tears from a waterline.
“Uncalled for but understandable.”
Fingers clad in the tertiary metal reached out, a tumultuous linger along a raring knight before a bishop swiftly took the rook away. The piece was set along a growing pile of onyx, a twitch of victory making an appearance before a wave of fabric stood and took him away from the growing hunger of the fireplace in the room he had been gifted. Spending time further playing a game felt fruitless when he knew an event awaited the presence of his kingdom and furthermore him.
Hisoki, Second Prince of Tsusaye, a whispering shadow and flirting secret clothed in pastels and touted as a promise for power if only to help his brother succeed into a re-established empire.
Never the man of vanity, he found himself all the same, thankful for the lack of reflective surface in his room, standing faintly in the centre of the constellation-dotted atmosphere before fists stiffened themselves. An invitation had been extended in a scrawling font, inviting himself as one to take part in festivities secluded to an island paradise and it was he that had solemnly sat through his arrival. Mental preparations had never been so exhausting and here he was, on the cusp of stepping into the Game and weaving mysterious dates and himself into the expanding plan of Tsusaye. Determination gripped then at the still-warm door handle, metal that had seen the comfort of other hands and opened through the thorns of roses into the hallway.
He, Hisoki of Tsusaye, was ready.
Which was a perfect explanation for why he trembled, a wobbling deer taking first steps as he left the sanctuary of a love-engrained room and into the uncomfortable silence of reality.
Fabric swished itself along the sea-bleached floors, dragging through the leaves and ivy clinging to walls as ornately-covered fingers picked at the cloth covering his chest. There was a tightness he didn’t want to admit himself to acknowledge, the stubbornness barely keeping oxygen flowing into lungs as he, like many others descended upon a building of night. A sea of ornate fabric moved in the darkness alongside him, whispering forms he could reach sweetly in Charybdis and drown in to never see again.
Shadows clung to him even as he stepped from a looming night into the opulence of a star-spackled pearl. The syndactyly of his fingers itched and ached, a nervous habit satiated in secrecy with the adjustments of fabric and brushings along the flower-adorned hair hung loosely down his back and shoulders.
It was overwhelming, at the very best of terms to see elegance abound in such a flirting manner, a difference in culture that was running like ice-dipped fingers to the curve of his spine.
Yes, this was it. This was where Hisoki was sure he would make a fool of himself and perish into the petals he wore carefully in his hair. Dressed like a holiday bird he stepped in a picking manner along the edges of the ballroom, pressing to shadows that weren’t there, evaporating in the brilliant light of heaven and light. He could sense a familiarity somewhere, a wispy form of grey once embraced, once lost. It was concerning enough that the attention of the prince drew itself down from the ceiling and along the floor. The obstruction his mask gave him gave no aide in his curious search, the slipping of parchment along his arm causing a grip of fingers just managing to keep himself from the ruin of attention-pulling.
Gold abounded around him, wealth striking out like the laced fang of a viper, waggling a tail of denial to the one most strained for coin. It was surrealistic to see, the color so often abandoned within his homeland that it brought bile here in such grand amounts, a swallow that left desires behind and a wish for more.
"Prince Hisoki." A voice called to him, a curtness unexpected to the one sitting low in the clouds.
Hair dipped low, flowers from an endless supply scattering themselves in breadcrumbs on the floor as his body tilted. He had to assume those in attendance were of grander stature, certainly of greater power and wealth than a kingdom ravaged still by the aftermath of an almost ancient war. "Forgive me, good ser. I am but arrogant in my ways of court and did not see you standing so dutifull—" The gaze of forgotten autumn lifted itself only to find the partial reflection of a tray before him, hovering in its steady hold of delicate flutes filled with surely expensive carbonation and the alcohol to sweep one's feet to the night. It was held, of course, not by the noble he had automatically bowed to, a paling of skin already betraying a morbid desire for death as decorated fingers slipped around a glass in acceptance.
"Yes, of course; many thanks to you."
A stem of glass would have shattered had he reflected the shame into its delicate length, a retreat in swishing fabrics taking him a sharp angle across the floor of the room as festivities began to undertake. Heaved then was his breath, an elbow raised to conceal the biting of tongue and sharp inhalation before liquid touched nervously at his lips. Hisoki had never been one to partake in the basic sins of man, alcohol not a foreign but more distasteful fixture of events as he bore too welcome a smile at passerby, too many a nod. Bubbles would help, as he so wistfully thought, the sliding of parchment once more gracing his wrist until he held a delicate card in his hand.
Notes had been written on both sides, a detailing of both the hints his host's letter had offered him and the abbreviations he had practiced to learn the names and kingdoms of known royals within the reaches of Tsusaye. Advantageous, he had been told, lips forming themselves around syllables like a babe new to speak before the shine of another caught his eye. Eyes meeting, a commonality behind masks of secrets that spoke a simple:
Do you know what's going on? He wouldn't allow himself the connection if he could help it, a turning of face as fingers cupped more desperately to the card before him. Hints had been given and a puzzle started, puzzle-masters sitting in the nosebleed section with translucent strings trailing to each limber tendon and trembling fiber. The Game had begun and within a move they were playfully knocking aside his ivory defenses, haughty warbles of 'Checkmate' filling his mind. "Perhaps ..."
The word trailed to a silence out loud, a stunted mixture of vowels and consonants that pitter pattered pitifully onto the gleaming floor below as again his head lifted and Hisoki resigned himself to the fate of the pawn: abandoned on the floor, rolled to a stop in the eyes of mockery.
coded by xayah.ღ
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BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
lady aline bellegarde.
There was something in Aline grateful to smell the fresh, salting air of the sea. Auriche held little to no direct access to any large body of water, not ones that were so vibrant as the open sea, and as such it was rare that she could even taste the water on her tongue. All other things of the sea, such as the beach or fish-smelling docks, however, did not appeal to the noble. When she’d arrived at the island, she’d hoped and prayed that there would be none of that here. All things considered, with a name like “Mirror Isle’, there was some expectation of reverence and class.
No one else had accompanied her, busy on their own errands or political necessities, leaving Aline solely with her youngest brother, Baptiste. Kept at home most of the time, Baptiste had a lame foot that he had been struggling for years to correct. Aline had insisted she go alone, to avoid any issue-- on her own behalf, rather than his own-- but he’d been equally stubborn about it. It was a trait shared among the Bellegarde children, as vibrant in their character from the eldest: Bastien, to the youngest: Aveline, though it was hush to remind anyone of the youngest spitfire. Arguments were long and withstanding, grudges that went on for weeks-- a childhood spent pulling hairs and leaving bugs in beds. As they’d grown up, their pettiness had only matured.
Though, for once, it appeared that Baptiste was genuine in his intent to escort his sister. Silent on the way there, thoughtful even, they’d shared more silence than they had in years. It was the opposite of an excited rush of talking-- but that quiet, contemplative love of space shared with another. For once in her life she’d shut up, moreso stirred by the anxiety of her voyage.
They’d bid their goodbyes once arriving, Aline wishing to part from her brother as soon as possible. Of course, she’d never fully made her disdain evident. Pecking kisses on either of his cheeks, and wishing him a safe journey back home and to tell Maman and Papa all about it, she did her best to keep her nails from digging into his back through her gloves. Aside from the two of them, their company was rather lacking-- only one attendant had been with them, and that one was for Baptiste. Otherwise the orders had been strict, and Aline had been glowering about it the whole night prior.
But, as it always was, she’d regarded the news with a smile.
Then before she knew it, she was alone again, and the silence was stifling. The room was gorgeous and spacious, and upon having her things dropped off the first thing she did was rip her gloves off of her hands. A relief in part, but as much of a sign of distress as anything, Aline had already begun to pick at her nail beds. Ripping and picking, though she kept her nails rather short to usually avoid this, arriving in her vanilla-essenced room so covered in white and gold, she wanted to feel gratitude for it. Peace was quiet, but peace was a resounding and hollow echo of her own angry complaining.
Reading the note upon her bed, feeling a strange sensation twist in her gut. Casting a gaze to the gift as well, though far from a person to look a gift horse in the mouth, Aline was sure that she’d already brought an even better gown to wear. Fine green velvet, brocaded with a gold twine in patterns reminiscent of her family’s shield and crest. This dress, the one wrapped so delicately… something told her it was not simply a gown to wear to a ball. There was something special about it, something she figured only somebody as magically attuned as she could read from it. Perhaps it meant nothing, and was simply the same gut feeling that strayed red maidens from first paths, or perhaps it was meant for something greater.
Otherwise, the room was… Well, it was a haven, but did she feel so worthy of it?
The reflection was quick, coming around faster than the doubt had had to wiggle into her mind. No, she did deserve it, and she would not deny herself the beauty of it. A haughty thought considered that nobody else had quite as decorated a room as she, or that nobody had such a glowing slice of reverence nestled within the… well, otherwise rather opulent and red mansion. To have the light bounce upon every surface, and the sun radiate the room from the inside out… Well, she’d be a fool not to think it meant something right?
Despite having her own lack of servants, and feeling quite bothered by that, in no time the space was filled once more. One or two from the mansion, it appeared, made their arrival present. A wicked grin pressed to her cheeks, happy to be catered to as she was so used to. She’d have slunk about the mansion herself looking for someone adept in pinning hair and tying corsets if the help hadn’t found her.
In no time, Aline felt presentable. She loved balls, and events, and any sort of public reason to dress up and above all standards. Accenting her gold and green gown, having parsed through her giant box of hair accessories, she’d requested several twists of gold as her dark locks wound up and pressed their braids against the top of her head. Placing glittering pins where they would shine the best, Aline knew deep in her heart that she did so want to burn in others eyes.
Though, with these thoughts as she tended to do, Aline met the servants eyes and offered her most genuine of smiles. Pardoned thank yous, gratitude below her station, she liked to keep servants in her good graces wherever possible. Fully dressed and ornamented, fiddling already with the pearl accents on her gloves, Aline had one goal in mind.
She loved a challenge, and dammit she’d make it a competition. Ideally no one else would be so keen as to find their date as she… but it was one of her favourite things about court. Schemes and scandals were one thing, but navigating the social waters with perfumed words and scented insults was always… It got the blood pumping.
-- ♛ --
The hall was decadent, quite nearly to the extent of her room back in the Heartmoor mansion. Pouring her eyes over every surface, every body, and even towards the glittering stars above, Aline felt purposeful. This was a social terrain she knew all too well, a regular at any excuse to mingle with nobility. While these people were far from familiar, and thus it being as scary as her very first ball, Aline was not one to back down.
Immediately she was offered a drink, turning it down with a quick wave and a shake of her head. Keeping one’s head and mind clear was good for first impressions, though the further down the rabbit hole she went the more likely she was to use a drink as a crutch for conversation. Hands posed delicately at her waist, wrists limp and fingers interlaid, she let her gaze sweep over those in attendance once more.
It was hard not to feel that she had not gone out and was not provocative enough with her attire. If her lips were not visible she would have torn at them in contemplation.
Aline carried nothing on her person, having already read the note from her room twenty times or more, committing her date’s descriptions to memory… though wondering how relevant that final line had been. It did not feel… well, she ought not lead with that anyhow.
Nearly bumping into an attendant once more, this time Aline reached gratefully for a flute. She did not sip from it, but kept the glass at level with her waist. Delicately posed; clearly keen for the night’s events.
Her eyes caught on someone, a flowing set of robes and gold ordaining the spectral figure. It was one radiant of a look, and she practiced introductions in her mind-- barring, of course, her true identity.
Walking as she had so practiced, to look floating with feet hidden beneath the layers of her gown, Aline painted a smile onto her face.
Immediately she caught sight of a notecard in the stranger’s hands, and the bronze claws extending from said fingers. It was enough to wrack a stronger smirk from her lips.
“Greetings,” Aline began, her smooth and nasally Auriche accent beginning to emerge already. “And, please, you must forgive me for my forwardness, but I am in sheer awe of your attire this evening. It is not too often one sees a mask of such extravagant quality as yours. It is so… unconventional! Do you see well out of it, or are you powerless to avoid the call of… looking so daring.”
She laughed lightly, a practiced twinkle. “I must say that I am so easily swayed by such notions myself. In a ballroom like this… It is not hard to want to be as decorated.”
No one else had accompanied her, busy on their own errands or political necessities, leaving Aline solely with her youngest brother, Baptiste. Kept at home most of the time, Baptiste had a lame foot that he had been struggling for years to correct. Aline had insisted she go alone, to avoid any issue-- on her own behalf, rather than his own-- but he’d been equally stubborn about it. It was a trait shared among the Bellegarde children, as vibrant in their character from the eldest: Bastien, to the youngest: Aveline, though it was hush to remind anyone of the youngest spitfire. Arguments were long and withstanding, grudges that went on for weeks-- a childhood spent pulling hairs and leaving bugs in beds. As they’d grown up, their pettiness had only matured.
Though, for once, it appeared that Baptiste was genuine in his intent to escort his sister. Silent on the way there, thoughtful even, they’d shared more silence than they had in years. It was the opposite of an excited rush of talking-- but that quiet, contemplative love of space shared with another. For once in her life she’d shut up, moreso stirred by the anxiety of her voyage.
They’d bid their goodbyes once arriving, Aline wishing to part from her brother as soon as possible. Of course, she’d never fully made her disdain evident. Pecking kisses on either of his cheeks, and wishing him a safe journey back home and to tell Maman and Papa all about it, she did her best to keep her nails from digging into his back through her gloves. Aside from the two of them, their company was rather lacking-- only one attendant had been with them, and that one was for Baptiste. Otherwise the orders had been strict, and Aline had been glowering about it the whole night prior.
But, as it always was, she’d regarded the news with a smile.
Then before she knew it, she was alone again, and the silence was stifling. The room was gorgeous and spacious, and upon having her things dropped off the first thing she did was rip her gloves off of her hands. A relief in part, but as much of a sign of distress as anything, Aline had already begun to pick at her nail beds. Ripping and picking, though she kept her nails rather short to usually avoid this, arriving in her vanilla-essenced room so covered in white and gold, she wanted to feel gratitude for it. Peace was quiet, but peace was a resounding and hollow echo of her own angry complaining.
Reading the note upon her bed, feeling a strange sensation twist in her gut. Casting a gaze to the gift as well, though far from a person to look a gift horse in the mouth, Aline was sure that she’d already brought an even better gown to wear. Fine green velvet, brocaded with a gold twine in patterns reminiscent of her family’s shield and crest. This dress, the one wrapped so delicately… something told her it was not simply a gown to wear to a ball. There was something special about it, something she figured only somebody as magically attuned as she could read from it. Perhaps it meant nothing, and was simply the same gut feeling that strayed red maidens from first paths, or perhaps it was meant for something greater.
Otherwise, the room was… Well, it was a haven, but did she feel so worthy of it?
The reflection was quick, coming around faster than the doubt had had to wiggle into her mind. No, she did deserve it, and she would not deny herself the beauty of it. A haughty thought considered that nobody else had quite as decorated a room as she, or that nobody had such a glowing slice of reverence nestled within the… well, otherwise rather opulent and red mansion. To have the light bounce upon every surface, and the sun radiate the room from the inside out… Well, she’d be a fool not to think it meant something right?
Despite having her own lack of servants, and feeling quite bothered by that, in no time the space was filled once more. One or two from the mansion, it appeared, made their arrival present. A wicked grin pressed to her cheeks, happy to be catered to as she was so used to. She’d have slunk about the mansion herself looking for someone adept in pinning hair and tying corsets if the help hadn’t found her.
In no time, Aline felt presentable. She loved balls, and events, and any sort of public reason to dress up and above all standards. Accenting her gold and green gown, having parsed through her giant box of hair accessories, she’d requested several twists of gold as her dark locks wound up and pressed their braids against the top of her head. Placing glittering pins where they would shine the best, Aline knew deep in her heart that she did so want to burn in others eyes.
Though, with these thoughts as she tended to do, Aline met the servants eyes and offered her most genuine of smiles. Pardoned thank yous, gratitude below her station, she liked to keep servants in her good graces wherever possible. Fully dressed and ornamented, fiddling already with the pearl accents on her gloves, Aline had one goal in mind.
She loved a challenge, and dammit she’d make it a competition. Ideally no one else would be so keen as to find their date as she… but it was one of her favourite things about court. Schemes and scandals were one thing, but navigating the social waters with perfumed words and scented insults was always… It got the blood pumping.
-- ♛ --
The hall was decadent, quite nearly to the extent of her room back in the Heartmoor mansion. Pouring her eyes over every surface, every body, and even towards the glittering stars above, Aline felt purposeful. This was a social terrain she knew all too well, a regular at any excuse to mingle with nobility. While these people were far from familiar, and thus it being as scary as her very first ball, Aline was not one to back down.
Immediately she was offered a drink, turning it down with a quick wave and a shake of her head. Keeping one’s head and mind clear was good for first impressions, though the further down the rabbit hole she went the more likely she was to use a drink as a crutch for conversation. Hands posed delicately at her waist, wrists limp and fingers interlaid, she let her gaze sweep over those in attendance once more.
It was hard not to feel that she had not gone out and was not provocative enough with her attire. If her lips were not visible she would have torn at them in contemplation.
Aline carried nothing on her person, having already read the note from her room twenty times or more, committing her date’s descriptions to memory… though wondering how relevant that final line had been. It did not feel… well, she ought not lead with that anyhow.
Nearly bumping into an attendant once more, this time Aline reached gratefully for a flute. She did not sip from it, but kept the glass at level with her waist. Delicately posed; clearly keen for the night’s events.
Her eyes caught on someone, a flowing set of robes and gold ordaining the spectral figure. It was one radiant of a look, and she practiced introductions in her mind-- barring, of course, her true identity.
Walking as she had so practiced, to look floating with feet hidden beneath the layers of her gown, Aline painted a smile onto her face.
Immediately she caught sight of a notecard in the stranger’s hands, and the bronze claws extending from said fingers. It was enough to wrack a stronger smirk from her lips.
“Greetings,” Aline began, her smooth and nasally Auriche accent beginning to emerge already. “And, please, you must forgive me for my forwardness, but I am in sheer awe of your attire this evening. It is not too often one sees a mask of such extravagant quality as yours. It is so… unconventional! Do you see well out of it, or are you powerless to avoid the call of… looking so daring.”
She laughed lightly, a practiced twinkle. “I must say that I am so easily swayed by such notions myself. In a ballroom like this… It is not hard to want to be as decorated.”
coded by natasha.
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demonology
𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒚𝒕𝒉.
mpiady tejara
E
nsure you leave them reeling, hungry like we’ve been for centuries.” Her eyes, unlike their sailing partner, were dull and tepid. Dishwatered, like the single decorative plant hanging out from the window of a sandy home. They spoke to Tejara, and the longer they made eye contact with the Crownéd woman, the more they understood that the starvation she felt was unlike anything they understood. They were paltry, mistaken as mpiady when really they were a ravenous animal. Tejara realized her gaze drove them to action not because she lacked an understanding common to all other Sebajans, not that she was an outlier in their culture, but rather, she looked at him the way Dalià did.
Her eyes matched the color of their swords, and when she had passed them across the cairn that marked the edge of Clan Menara’s land, Teja thought it a note of affection. No, androgito, you will remember the eyes that bore you. There was sand in the stained glass of her eyes, glimmering and distorting under the sun. When she looked at them, they were the same strands of stars’ plath, and whatever darkness wormed its way into them, it was shared between the natal bonds.
The Crowned Queen saw them the way she watched her hawk pin a sparrow and defeather it. She had yet to decide if they were the sparrow or the hawk, Tejara sensed, but she knew the miasma that would yield either result.
So, Tejara found it best to do as she wished.
Prepare a feast and leave them wanting.
.Yet, they turned wanton amidst the warrior’s rest.
”A bed,”
they’d breathed, taking in the scent of wood. Their eyes shot to the smoke that trickled in the corner of their eye, snapping their head to find it was a stick of incense and not a fire. Their hand relaxed on the pitcher of water, shaking their head, and instead of pouring it on the fragrance, instead, they poured a glass of water.Admiring the package left for them, they finished their glass while sitting on a plush armrest, finding the actual seat too treacherous. Tenderly, they touched the scales on the dagger’s sheath, a brow twitched at the letters that accompanied it.
”They like insects,”
Tejara bemused, a penchant smirk that they were unable to evade taking grip.A glance out the window, and the water glass abandoned.
”Shit.”
***
With a water stained piece of parchment in hand, they affixed the cape using their dextrous other, tonguing the interior ridges of their scar. Next, the gauntlets. Sweat dribbled into their lashes, making it impossible to see.
”Lelena!”
they yelped, snapping a piece on and pinching the skin. Their hands shook, but they had already been shaking, so Tejara attempted to pay them no mind. It appeared a lack of caution snuck like a snake. Hmph.
The sun continued to droop, teary-eyed and burning too-fast. A great yawn, propelled by clouds settling and rustling up once more, shadowed and made The Tompondrano glimmer as they globbed a bit of pig grease into their hair. For a moment, they tempted a glance into the foreign mirror and found themself shocked by the face that looked back. The sweat-sheen matched the gold of the Dragon’s Armor, and the narrow-set to their eyes made them wonder how they must’ve looked at the Queen when she spoke to him. How foreign they would look to Dalià, to Herizo, to Papa Jean, to Thierry, if The Yo-Yo Gang, the small child headed, would recall them at all. The Queen’s words gasped in their mind, clouded with the other world that had once made up Teja. Tejara, now, and there was reminders that filtered in of when they, too, existed in another world. A scape of dunes and the eventide creakings, solemnity and the source of life — fire. They tried to remain in the room of opulence and wealth, to remind themself that this, too, was a new world, but instead their eyes wet.
Tojo,
it swelled. It slithered, bulging with their brain for a mousy treat.No, androgito, they wouldn’t recognize you either.
***
Roots, bleached and crepey like an old woman’s neck, reached towards their doorframe, reached towards them. They found Ayaan not long after leaving their quarters, eyeing the branches suspiciously. There was no sign of movement, and still, as they saw Ayaan out of the corner of their eye, they brought the serpent’s dagger from its new, out-of-place home across their thigh. Cutting a piece down, they watched it practically turn to dust on their palm.
They sensed a despondent look from the young woman. Eyeing her with a callous gaze and biting their cheek, they scattered the branch’s bones to the floor.
”Just checking something,”
they explained, stalking just past her.Still, they pretended they were strangers. Still, they sighed and asked,
”Well, are you coming?”
***
“At least we will look like we come from the same country,”
they noted to Ayaan, admiring the silk that adorned her physique. ”No mistaking us.”
While the words sounded judgemental, there was a spark of pride that bloomed. It stilled their heart and hands as the pair neared the looming Peace Hall.
”Thank you for the babysitting, but I have a date to find,”
they told their walking partner before splintering off.No destination in mind, Tejara stood ajar, half-open, half-forgotten. A waiter found them, platter full, and they soon found the champagne flutes too tender for their grasp, breaking one as they attempted to grip using their metallic hands.
The shattering caused a small heat to rise to their face, but it was quickly stomached. They walked quickly away from the mess, leaving the remains of the glass on the floor. Their panicked eyes met another across the room.
A beast meeting a flower.
Abandoning the poor servant, they quickly made their way across the room, stomping. The shielded, ‘white-gold’ boots sparked across the floor, and they wished, for a moment, that they could hold Makà, their left sword that offered a slightly bigger size and doubled almost as a shield. Instead, Makà and their sister, Lithe, laid dormant at their back. Instead, it was expected that Tejara open themselves and forge a new type of weapon.
Diplomacy,
the Queen had called it. Marriage, if it suits the occasion. Most of all, your services. My name.
”I was wondering if either of you enjoy collecting insects?”
they spoke with solidity and a dryness only those most awkward could manage.They offered a bow to the swath of fabric and buds, and another to the velveteen woman that stood besides him. They could sense that their chance-contact eyeful fellow would be receptive, but felt unsure, even fearful, of how they came across to the royal clad in green. After waiting out their responses, they finally gave way to conversation.
Their brow perched at the young lady’s tone, disillusioned by it and uneasy as to what her intentions were.
Perhaps this century war would’ve been avoided if only they’d all spoken plainer ,
they thought. ”I must disagree with—“
they stopped short, unknowing of either royal’s names. ”—The beautiful lady. You are… natural in this ‘scape, as opposed to being a decoration.”
After a small smirk was lobbed to the glowing young man, Tejara continued to man the conversation, shifting it in their favor. They spoke abruptly, interrupting any response the femme noble woman might have had.
”How about we help each other find our dates?”
coded by xayah.ღ
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xayah.
i return stronger than i left
ayaan diakos
S
A sight to behold, to take in with every fiber of your being. Ayaan can tell this much, even with what little of it she sees from the small window in her cabin. Ever since embarking on this journey to the Mirror Isle, no being, illness, or even force of nature could compel the priestess to emerge from her residence. The ship's crew speculate among themselves, letting a flurry of reasons spew forth from their loose lips—they range from depression to malady, from longing for home to ceaseless amazement at all of it. But a common theme in them all is the well-known poverty of her clan, their fall from grace.
Perhaps they would've been right in their analysis, the silly little rumors they tell themselves to pass the time, had Ayaan not been of a clan of temple-bearers. Compared to the ornate temples the eldest of Clan Diakos has devoted her life's work to, this room is nothing special, far from it. She spends no time analyzing the craftsmanship of her furnishings, choosing instead to pass the hours in a mix of deep thought and prayer.
Just days ago, she woke up to the sting of the burning sun directly on her skin and her skin only in a home roughly the same size as the cabin. The heat came from no glass pane in the wall, only a square cut out of it to let light in. Around her were 7 younger siblings, five boys and two girls all embraced in what little shadow remained before the sun fully rose and illuminated all of the harsh desert. The eldest rose to her feet as lightly as possible, taking great care not to disturb the children, her parents, or her elders as she made her way to the door. There was food to be cooked, clothes to be washed, and an entire temple to be cleaned before any of them rose to greet the day.
And all of that was her God-given duty.
Just another day, Ayaan had told herself as she stepped outside. Droplets of water were already beginning to fall down from the skies. Had it not been her natural ability, perhaps she would've divined it as an omen of things to come, but she disregarded it as always, not knowing the task that awaited her when she returned that morning from her duties. She had never seen the eyes of so many look at her like that—she had been regarded with many looks before, disappointment, affection, and shame were the most common, but never was there the pity that she saw in their eyes now. The emotion was as foreign to her as snow or the feeling of a cold wind upon bare skin or even a simple expression of gratitude for her actions.
"Aya... the palace has..."
A knock at the door to her cabin startles Ayaan awake, and she sits up with a jolt. Her hand pats her face, feeling a wet spot right on her cheekbone and wipes it away. When did she fall asleep on the bed? More importantly, when had the roof above her head began leaking? It was impossible for her to cry. Ayaan had not cried since the second eldest child of her family had been born and even then, it was only out of childish jealousy. A silly fear that her parents would begin ignoring her in favor of the newborn baby boy.
In truth, it hadn't been silly, but Ayaan would not confess that, not even to any god, much less herself. She was to be a pillar of her clan, and pillars cannot crumble, not under any circumstance. No matter what life threw at her—wind, rain, sand, even soul-shattering matters of the heart—she had to endure.
"My lady, we are approaching land. Would you like to come up on deck to observe?"
Silence. She picked at her hands, the tips of her fingers, in anxious contemplation. Perhaps Ayaan had been cooped up in this room for far too long. Her dreams were certainly telling her so... yet she couldn't help but tell herself to endure a little longer. Soon, they would arrive, and she would have no reason to be a hinderance to others for longer than needed. Just as she opened her mouth to respond, the sailor on the other side interjected once more.
"A-actually. The men and I were wondering if you would bless us... w-with calm seas and clear skies for the r-return trip." Tremors riddled the poor sailor's speech. Was he afraid of what might lay beyond the door? What type of rumors had he heard about her during their few days at sea? Perhaps it was none of these but rejection he truly feared. In that case, what a ludicrous thought. Ayaan could never reject a plea for help, much less anything.
"Yes."
She slowly climbed out of the bed and opened the door to greet the person on the other side. They were still a bit of a babe, boyish in appearance and reminiscent of her younger brothers. Ayaan felt even less determined to remain in her room, adopting instead her usual role of main caretaker of the clan. "Of course I can do that for you all. Consider it my thanks for your services."
The sailor's eyes lit up, giddy like a child receiving his one and only present for the year. "Follow me, my lady!"
It truly pushed the resemblance home.
The sky quickly clouded at her arrival on deck amidst a rapid turn of heads and darkened with every passing second, like a countdown signaling how long Ayaan had until she became a burden to the crew. She hurried to the side of a figure at the bow of the ship, not noticing the difference in their attire compared to the rest of the crew until she stood side by side with them. They were built like a warrior and dressed in cloth that was unconventional and a bit much for the sea. At their belt hung a familiar token, something her family wove for esteemed visitors of their village. Each one ever created was slightly different to the one made before it, serving as a form of identification if the visitor chose to return. There was never much reason to. Nonetheless, spun with what little of the finest gold thread they had left, Ayaan had only made one or two in her entire life, and the name of the one this exact trinket belonged to danced on the tip of her tongue, wanting to be spoken into existence.
However, a droplet of rain fell directly upon her forehead, reminding her of her entire reason for being here. Her time had run out. Bowing her head, letting ringlet upon ringlet of hair fall over her shoulders, Ayaan paused for a brief moment to let the name that had been begging to be said out into the world.
"Apologies in advance, Tejara."
Then, she immediately cupped her hands in front of her and began whispering under her breath as drop upon drop began coming down more ferociously, adorning her cheeks, eyes, and everything else in the vicinity. Until the boat reached the shore, Ayaan would not cease her blessing.
---
Who was this in the mirror looking back at her?
Just hours ago, Ayaan had entered her room a drenched mess. She normally wouldn't have minded, but the whole mansion had been entirely captivating—one room must've been worth more than her entire clan's history. A variety of gorgeous hues of red accented by the occasional white and gold filled her sight as she climbed the stairs up to the second floor of the east wing. A wet trail blossomed in her wake, saturating carpet and tile and eventually the floor of her room as she entered inside.
The light in here was nothing like the harshness of Sebaja's. It was warm and colorful—stained glass painting her soaked body in vermillion, teal, mauve, azul, and a whole array of colors she had never seen before in her life. Art decorated the wall, but it was no art she had ever seen before. Instead of worshipping gods and painting angelic scenes, it depicted scenes she had never seen before, heard even less of. It was humans in all their imperfect glory: naive children, worn down adults, war, and the like. All of a sudden, she paid great mind to the state she was in—how one accidental drop could ruin such priceless work.
Her feet scurried backwards while her eyes watched every growing droplet on her body with the eyes of a hawk. They would not spill on these works of art. She would not let them.
Thump.
Ayaan bumped into her bed, shaking the bed frame and jostling a package atop of it. She delicately opened the letter attached to it, treating it with as much care as she did ancient relics:
Welcome, Ayaan. I have heard of you, even if you have not heard of me.
It makes sense the host of this affair would know my name. I was personally summoned.
I hope you will do your reputation justice.
As do I, mysterious benefactor.
For now, I offer you this gift;
Ayaan placed the box on her lap, carefully undoing the wrapping and inspecting the gifts with care. She holds them up to the light and watches as the gift reflects and gleams in direct contact. Two hourglasses, equal in size, shape, and decoration. The bases are gold, a pure, untouched kind with no evidence of being handled beforehand, while the hourglasses themselves are filled with a red liquid too bright to be blood. They are decorated by a swirl of gold leaves and butterflies from base to base. How beautiful.
...May it remind you of-
Clank!
One of the hourglasses goes flying, landing hard on the floor on the opposite side of the room. It rolls around in a semicircle like a pitiful last breath before death, but death never comes for the gift. It appears indestructible—a few more tosses from corner to corner confirm this fact. As beautiful as it may have been, as it is really, it feels like an omen of ill fortune now, a constant negative in her life from this point onwards. An 'always' just like the letter ended with, and the idea of that makes Ayaan nauseous.
But that was hours ago, and she is no longer an emotional mess. Now, she is the Lady Ayaan of Clan Diakos, dressed to the nines in a mirage of beiges and nudes which were, ironically, the only colors the stained glass panels of her room seem to be missing. The reflection she sees in the mirror is nothing like the Ayaan that had hailed from Sebaja, and if it were not for her hair being in the same style of voluminous ringlets, she would not have recognized the woman in the mirror.
Especially not in these heels.
She hugged the wall the entire time she wandered about the halls after changing. Never in her life had she worn such... torture devices for the purpose of walking. Who had created these? And why? Her knees shook with every step, but she stopped in front of some kind of plant, one she had never seen before. Were they supposed to look so sickly? Whatever inquiries she had died when a blade sliced through one of the branches, turning into ash on the spot. Her head turned, disappointment apparently evident on her face, as she found the perpetrator of such an act.
"Just checking something."
They were going to keep acting like the two had never met before, were they? What a child.
"Well, are you coming?"
Did she have any choice?
---
“At least we will look like we come from the same country,” Tejara's voice was firm, far more stable than her wobbly legs the entire walk to the Peace Hall, but she managed to form a brief 'Yes' before returning all her focus to her gait. It was uncouth to not respond to someone—a mannerism engraved onto her very soul from a very young age—but she would've agreed nonetheless. As uncharacteristic as it was to see Sebajans engaged in such frivolous clothes, even the royal family couldn't be this gaudy, Ayaan was glad she could identify with her fellow country denizen at the ball. They filled out their attire quite nicely—the outfit truly was tailored just for them—and she found herself a little bit more enamored than appropriate. She was particularly entranced by the metalwork of their outfit and found herself clinging not onto their strong arms for purchase but on the metal accents of their attire instead.
The two split off just a little ways before entering the hall. She murmured a small 'Until we meet again' in response to their departure and leaned against the wall by the entrance. Tejara entered first, seemingly unshakeable despite the unfamiliarity of it all. They seemed used to the vanity, at least more than she was, and a part of her wondered what had transpired during the years between their visit and now.
No, this wasn't the time. She had an affair to attend to, a date to find—just like Tejara—despite how ominous the last line of the letter had been. The heir to Clan Diakos had been summoned to fulfill a task, and she would do everything in her power to do so.
A deep breath. A shallow prayer.
Ayaan set foot into the hall, slow and purposeful—an image of grace people might say if only they knew the nervousness that broiled within—taking a look around. How would she engage, much less find, anyone in this colossal ballroom? It was the size of two sand dunes, perhaps even more, and there was only one person who was right for her in this crowd. Would someone come up to her if she stayed by the wall? No, that was the safe option—low risk and low reward. Perhaps she should walk to the middle of the room instead and find a conversation to join in.
Yes, that sounds most reasonable.
Ayaan lifted her right foot carefully, moving it forward slowly but smoothly, but right as it was about to make contact with the earth, an outstretched platter of glasses near her face scared the priestess out of her focus. Her body shifted too much to one side, balance becoming irreversibly uneven with muscle memory not realizing she wasn't bare-footed, and there was no way the poor girl could recover.
Time seemed to move in slow motion as embarrassment—no, was it the judgemental eyes of everyone else?—washed over her display of inadequacy before eventually coming to a standstill when she hit the ground face and chest first. The long trails of her clothes fell down slowly, only adding to the humor of the whole event, and Ayaan could not pick herself up.
No, the shame was wholly oppressive, a force stronger than gravity that kept her down. What use was there in resisting it, especially when she wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole like the deep pond of quicksand near her home in Sebaja.
Please, swallow me up and send me away. Anywhere but here. And definitely not home.
She could only imagine the horrified faces of her family if they received wind of this incident. So while her face was practically kissing the ground, she prayed.
Sincerely and very desperately.
coded by xayah.ღ
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neon reverie
ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴇʀ ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟᴇ
xiaoran liumei
[tw: death ideation]
In this hall of abandon, flowers and vines caress the dead, their terrestrial limbs growing to embrace what is cold and unfeeling; it is nature’s fleeting offer of companionship, right before it corrodes these man-build bodies. Even them, heartless and hollow, deserve to not be lonely in the end. After all, their existence had never been theirs to decide on; the birth of creations all resting in the hands of selfish living souls. It is their desire of legacy behind every life created, material or not, that makes you exist. It matters not the hardships that are to come or the pain you have to endure — for you are both their child and their chance to live after death.
No amount of love can change this fact.
And no amount of help can lift the complete weight of living. It is what you carry, always
Cold stone statues meet the gaze of an other; the void inside would make them a match if it was not for the heart beating inside. Still limbs on a bed, almost too still for one of the living; light streaks across pale skin, warming cold hands and cold eyes, A beautiful corpse she would make, if laid to rest at last.
Alas, there was no rest for the wicked. Not even with the weeks long fatigue in her bones and a rare moment of peace. Thoughts sink and swim in the depths of the mind, all buzzing around like mayfly; born and dead the same day, but undoubtedly bursting with life nonetheless. Some are reborn — same soul, different face— or linger around like a ghost, whispers soft yet haunting. Each one passes through, fake smiles on their face and burning burden in their hands; a plan in the working, a scheme yet to be woven, a goal to be reached, an expectation to fulfill, a memory to not betray — it never ends. A curse it was, both of her choosing and not.
They say the weight of a country is heavy, but the weight of a father’s hand on your shoulder is heavier. Words of pride always meld together with expectancy, one sometimes higher than the heavens above and heavier than the world below. You know what to do is the brusque command, and do not disappoint me, the whisper that never follows. No smiles or care-infused glints of worry; they parted how they always did, with an emotional distance akin to business associates — the only distinguish a reminder of duty bound by blood.
Fingers brush against the veins in the arm, the strings of blue vivid against ivory. It was a passage of the crimson shackling her so; her blood, who marks her as Liumei, first heir to the throne. For something coursing so freely within the body, it shouldn’t feel so imprisoning. It kept her alive, that much was true. A bitter blessing she loosely held, unconcerned with the shattering if it were to suddenly slip through her grasp.
Sometimes, when there were screams of hurt within, of sanctioned poison entering and leaving in coughs of red, she would look at her blood and think.
Think — if she let it all out, maybe freedom could be tasted at last.
Or maybe, she would just taste copper. Maybe, she would come to find steel bones rattling from its industrial chain links; a clockwork mechanism identical to the ones forged in fire and assembled by poor, sooted hands. Bronze heart inside, designed to produce thoughts but never feelings. A machine, built from greed treated like a virtue rather than vice, and purposed for one thing only; weaving a grand legacy. May it be from bloodied diamonds or crushed stars.
But mere idle ideations they were, ones that held no future in this life. Her death would be too ruinous an affair, with beasts stalking in every shadow, claws ready. Not to mention the vultures in her own home, all waiting, plotting, the day they could pick the crown from her flesh. There would be no more shielding the delighted giggle of Xiaoyu, the dangerously carefree attitude of Nix, or the bright mind of Lusille. All of it would crumble, bone by bone, stone by stone. And the deaths dealt in exchange would have been for naught, which, against all that Xiaoran would like to admit, might be the heaviest loss to bear.
A hand slowly reaches out to the card, eyes scanning its writing for the first time despite having been there since arrival.
A date? Hints? How annoying.
She was about to toss the card to the side again, uninterested in playing such a trivial game for the entertainment of someone else. A blur of black stops her; black ink smudged at the bottom, font strikingly different to the rest that came before. Bold letters cling to each other, as if afraid of falling from paper when let go.. Xiaoran reads the last piece of information, before letting out a low hum.Now this is interesting…
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Crimson flourishes with a red regality, her dress performing a silent ode to origins of old. Gold creeps and crowns, its weight heavy on the head and sharp against the heels. Bleeding would be unfortunate but not an issue. It could be with purpose even, for who else is more befitting to streak the marble floor rose red than the Crimon Daughter? Stand with pride, her father would say. Even if it was not your plan, it now always has been. A small golden crow rests beneath an almost translucent layer of fabric, its presence a comfort as much as a hurt. A piece of the past, if you will — one she can’t let go even if she wanted to.
Xiaoran’s gaze immediately scours the area upon arriving at the peacehall, not for her date but for a dear sibling. Lusille had been out of her sights for some time now, something that bothered the older sister more than the younger one probably. She just wants to check in, inspect how Lusille was doing, maybe survey for person framed trouble — but the inventor princess did not enter her view.
Instead, a bitter displeasure billows at the sight of someone else.
Renshu
Why her half brother had been allowed on this trip was beyond Xiaoran, especially since his decision to shed the family name. A horrible mistake, one she could neither figure out nor trust; surely he was scheming something. All of them did. She purses her lips, contemplating on letting him be or not. Pretend his existence was negligible and simply enjoy the classical strings till Lusille arrived was certainly tempting , but she would be abandoning her duty in that case.Maybe a short warning will do.
He was still representing their family after all.
"Renshu."
was the cool greeting upon approach. Her fingers find a glass of wine on a nearby tray and she lifts it up, eyes never leaving him. Tension meets distrust, two blood stained windows of the same sentiment reflecting a history of frail bonds and even frailer care.“Worry not, I will leave you within a moment. We both have better things to do than wasting time on each other."
the wine swirls within its prism, catching the blurred gaze behind the mask for a second. It returns then, and while she knows he can’t see, her tone carries the warning glaring from dark hues. ”I know you must have your reasons for changing your name, however idiotic it may be, but you should know that you are still representing our family here. So refrain yourself from embarrassing the homefront if you can.”
a pauze, gaze changing slightly, as if measuring whether or not to add something."And if you can't do it for us."
A hand grasps his shoulder, tightening its grip like a father would and has done before."Then do it for the country."
And gone she is then, too.
Without second glance.
Leaving nothing but the heavy weight of expectation on one's shoulders, its words lingering in the air like smoke after the fire.
Like father, like daughter.
coded by xayah.ღ
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mother of sorrows
𝘮𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘻, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘣 𝘮𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘵
Every night, Leksei walks the same path.
There is no horizon here. Direction cuts itself away from meaning, lost in darkness and the harsh, wet snow battering against the barrier of his arm. Wind cuts into any exposed skin like a red-hot knife, devouring the light from his eyes. Leksei never knows why he is outside or where he is going - only that there is some goal he is desperate to reach, some place he can't quite imagine. Ice breaks beneath him with each sunken, painful step and there is nothing but the howling, the forest and the babe screaming in his arms.
Leksei never sees their face. He knows not whose the babe is - surely not his - and yet he feels a terrible fear to leave without it. It is always crying.
He clutches it to his furs as best as he can, even with the freezing teeth digging past muscles and bone. The baby (he? She? He squints through the snow-heavy wind and sees nothing) is cold. Grave cold. His arm shakes around it, holding on to it like to a lantern keeping the night at bay. If he doesn't get there fast enough, they will die and it will all be his fault.
and then, stop. The tiny body in his grasp goes limp.
He hears then, somewhere, he cannot tell if left or right or ahead or behind, the tell-tale whisper of paws shuffling over snow.
When Leksei wakes from the dream, his forehead is damp with sweat and his chest constricts on a scream dying before it is born. He does not leave bed a long time after that.
***
''So. You are leaving tonight.''
Candles flicker their bronze shadows on behemoth walls, casting out the dusk that danced in every corner like an drunken guest. Beasts of eons stalk the paintings, tongues lolling and their huge heads resting by babbling rivers. Lake-depth blue painted the enormous room, like the freezing depths their sailors lose their lives at; it is silent, just as. A sunken ship that does not yet know it has drowned and whose crew keeps still by their routines. The hushed footfall of servants is the only sound breaking the delicate quiet.
On the three-headed throne sits the Queen Daughter.
Her mask is that of a snarling dog, the bone-white teeth bold against gray fur. Her long-sleeved arms sit impassively on the rests - if she is frowning or smiling or crying, there is no way to tell.
The rug is warm where it digs into Leksei's knees, the joints aching in exhaustion. He kneels like any good son should, bows his head.
The Queen makes a noise, displeased or pleased. Leksei squints past his eyebrows, trying to imagine what her expression would be and fails. Annoyed or elated, proud or scorned, she gave him a slow, ponderous nod - her mask flickers in the dim light like a dream-sight, penumbrian darkness gathering behind her crown. Her voice is two-tonal, strange;
''Go, then.'' She raises one ring-heavy hand, prepared for an execution or a caress. ''You know what you must do.''
Leksei rises. Outside, if he turns his head just to the right, he thinks he can see smoke rising.
For a moment, for one blindingly quiet moment, it seems like she is going to say more. The Queen's hand moves, as if not knowing whether to wave him closer or point out the door - in that breaking hush, he could hear the smallest intake of breath, like words about to be casted. And she -
She does not say anything.
Leksei rises. He bows. Below the window the chants grow louder.
His sisters gather around each other like startled swans, their silken dresses rustling uncertainly by the window. Birch-long necks arch to see outside, their eyes red and damp. They rush to meet him when he steps closer, a dozen gloved hands reaching out. 'Oh, Anita, she will be safe there,' cries Zarja. 'Make sure you are with her,' threatens Bogdana. 'Tell her I will miss her,' pleads Imica.
Watched or unwatched, wanted or unwanted, Leksei gives them a smile. A tired, half-lidded one, distracted, the one that he wears more and more. He raises his arms as if losing an argument, the smile growing into a grin that elicits his sisters chasing him down for sport from sheer annoyance.
It says to something that he is met only by a round of yells and a slipper that Leksei gleefully avoids. They wish him well even as such, their faces open with worry and fear - he waves them off, gently, tucking the two letters into a pouch. The paper burns through his leathers even in the snow outside, a branding mark freshly struck into flesh. Warranted or unwelcome, smart enough or not, the responsibility sobs on his shoulder, the thin cry cutting through the song and fire outside.
He shadows the doorway of Anita's home a day later like a ghost to a haunt, water melting on his boots and something ablaze in his gaze.
Firewood chirruped in the ornate hearth, the light warm against forest-dark furniture. A stark contrast to the wild outside, where the cold paces and waits to devour. Expensive furs spill from the gloom-stricken bed, half lying as if struck to death. Darkness, comforting and smelling of trees, stood guard where the fire could not reach. Their carriage has been arranged, their luggage sits waiting by the door and Leksei wonders if it would be too late to throw the letters in.
They sit together like they always have. If Anita is anxious, she does not show it; and if she is, he is not sure she would tell him so.
Sarcasm colored the words sour, a wry expression settling into his features. Anita, he is sure, would be more interested - but he simply could not share in any positivity she might hold. The courts here are no less cruel than they are anywhere else - but at least here they have the dignity to be struck in momentary quiet.
Her eyebrows raised at his words, or rather, the sarcastic twist through them. Anita searched herself for an answer, and landed not on feeling, but on the politeness that carries conversations here.
“It is exciting,” She affirmed, “It’s a good opportunity for us and our country. I wonder what the Isle will be like.”
Leksei squinted at her from under his brow at her textbook answer, as characteristic as it is. For once he wished her saying that the country may go up in flames as long as she gets to dance somewhere nicer.
Anita’s lips formed a smile, unable to quite keep the neutral charade through those words. She wondered where the scale of being excited or nervous for the journey tipped inside of him, which it was that the facade of his words was hiding. She wondered the same about herself.
“In that case, we’re both bound to go very far.” Her words mixed in with a hint of laughter.
Leksei gave a mock wave of a hand, unable to keep away the returned smile despite the low spirits threatening in his chest. As much as the anxious thoughts nagged in his brain, he did not want to destroy too many of Anita’s expectations - a journey, especially a first one, is stressful enough. Much more so with a person telling you of the terrible, hungry world you will meet soon. Anita is no child, but worry for her is real even in its needlessness.
At the question, Anita’s smile faltered, her expression slipping back into the neutrality. She wasn’t upset, still; not at him, not with him, and she was sure he’d be able to see the warmth in her eyes.
“A spouse, yes. An array of business partners will surely please her as well. What will you be looking for?” Anita stood as she asked the question, her legs unable to keep still when a carriage was waiting for them just outside. Her breath stuck in her throat as she looked across the dark room, a place she wasn’t sure she knew how to leave.
Silence.
Something sits beside them, right on the wooden chair. Something with no name or face.
It reeks of old dirt overturned and blood thrice removed, turning the floorboards sticky and the air leaden. Wet, scorching breaths damp his neck, a gaze waiting for acknowledgement. Leksei gives it no words; he looks at Anita no longer. His eyes cast to the ceiling, trying to trace patterns. A moment passes by. Another.
And then, slowly, he speaks;
He tries to reassure her. He tries to. When he closes his eyes, he sees houses burning.
“They will.” Anita’s no longer able to catch his gaze. The space between them feels twisted, wrong. She knew the weight carried on her shoulders, and imagined his must be magnitudes heavier. “Maybe we’ll be able to bring some good back.”
Leksei knows not who she is convincing. He feeds another log to the fire and watches it until the servants knock.
The hall glimmers.
A warm, sea breeze drifts even here, where the chandeliers burn and the laughter echoes. Masks turn to birds turn to foxes turn to flowers, each ballgown bleeding into the other. Like the shores of change meeting waves the people shift into another, the first budding conversations beginning to erupt. There is a sence of fearful excitement in the air, unknown gazes meeting stranger's eyes - dates, they seem to whisper, all found through clues. Royals and nobles and church-keepers mingled with one another, truth spilling from hidden mouths and hidden intentions.
The hosts were no where to be seen.
How many generations has this hall seen? How much cruely bore it witness to, how much scheming? Once every hundred years, a life time chance to lose it all. A tradition born from ruin and ending the same.
Void blackness pooled around his body like living night, the fabric reflecting the light oddly - it moved like something alive in itself, eating up reflections. Hymns and protections from evil spoke from the saint skull, gold and lost time white. Undoubtedly religious in the ways of destructive, greedy rivers and thin mountain air. Leksei walks across the room like a storm on the horizon; there is almost arrogance in the way he walks, gaze lingering on each person he passes.
If he heard right - if - then he knows who he must find.
Music lingers inbetween words. Fabrics mesmerize and dancing shoes whisper. This is the time of observation, of deducting who to devour and who to follow after. Leksei does not get to think on it, before
CRASH.
A flash of shining black hair. A dress like liquid metal. A woman, thoroughly defeated by her own feet and sprawled over the floor like a murder victim.
Leksei's mind acts before he does.
Silence. Open mouthed stares, casted upon the poor woman as if she had just crashed down from the roof. A moment of realisation followed, the heartbeat between the thunder and the lightning - a heartbeat more and the reactions will start. Cringing, Leksei summoned the empathy (second-hand embarrassment) for the girl that probably lost all of her memories with that fall, walking over. He would not be surprised to find a crater where she laid.
It was not. It was awful. Reminiscent of a tower crumbling with a family inside or a baby deer tripping over a boulder. Leksei had enough manners to not mention as such - if she is still alive (wait, is she alive?), then she will most likely die in a day or so from the shame of it all.
There is no horizon here. Direction cuts itself away from meaning, lost in darkness and the harsh, wet snow battering against the barrier of his arm. Wind cuts into any exposed skin like a red-hot knife, devouring the light from his eyes. Leksei never knows why he is outside or where he is going - only that there is some goal he is desperate to reach, some place he can't quite imagine. Ice breaks beneath him with each sunken, painful step and there is nothing but the howling, the forest and the babe screaming in his arms.
Leksei never sees their face. He knows not whose the babe is - surely not his - and yet he feels a terrible fear to leave without it. It is always crying.
He clutches it to his furs as best as he can, even with the freezing teeth digging past muscles and bone. The baby (he? She? He squints through the snow-heavy wind and sees nothing) is cold. Grave cold. His arm shakes around it, holding on to it like to a lantern keeping the night at bay. If he doesn't get there fast enough, they will die and it will all be his fault.
"It's okay. It's okay, shhh. Calm down, I'm here."
He pats the the thick cloth the child is wrapped in, eyes pricking with tears. Sorry, he's so sorry. The wail makes his ears ring, so sharp and loud. It echoes in the drawn out gasp of the storm, feeding his panic like wood to a fire. But he must walk on, even as his legs threaten to give out and with the deep snow making him sink. The cries rise -and then, stop. The tiny body in his grasp goes limp.
He hears then, somewhere, he cannot tell if left or right or ahead or behind, the tell-tale whisper of paws shuffling over snow.
***
When Leksei wakes from the dream, his forehead is damp with sweat and his chest constricts on a scream dying before it is born. He does not leave bed a long time after that.
***
Candles flicker their bronze shadows on behemoth walls, casting out the dusk that danced in every corner like an drunken guest. Beasts of eons stalk the paintings, tongues lolling and their huge heads resting by babbling rivers. Lake-depth blue painted the enormous room, like the freezing depths their sailors lose their lives at; it is silent, just as. A sunken ship that does not yet know it has drowned and whose crew keeps still by their routines. The hushed footfall of servants is the only sound breaking the delicate quiet.
On the three-headed throne sits the Queen Daughter.
Her mask is that of a snarling dog, the bone-white teeth bold against gray fur. Her long-sleeved arms sit impassively on the rests - if she is frowning or smiling or crying, there is no way to tell.
The rug is warm where it digs into Leksei's knees, the joints aching in exhaustion. He kneels like any good son should, bows his head.
"Yes, mother, with lady Illeva."
The Queen makes a noise, displeased or pleased. Leksei squints past his eyebrows, trying to imagine what her expression would be and fails. Annoyed or elated, proud or scorned, she gave him a slow, ponderous nod - her mask flickers in the dim light like a dream-sight, penumbrian darkness gathering behind her crown. Her voice is two-tonal, strange;
''Go, then.'' She raises one ring-heavy hand, prepared for an execution or a caress. ''You know what you must do.''
Leksei rises. Outside, if he turns his head just to the right, he thinks he can see smoke rising.
"I always do."
He mumbles to himself, the beginning of a song reaching his ears.For a moment, for one blindingly quiet moment, it seems like she is going to say more. The Queen's hand moves, as if not knowing whether to wave him closer or point out the door - in that breaking hush, he could hear the smallest intake of breath, like words about to be casted. And she -
She does not say anything.
Leksei rises. He bows. Below the window the chants grow louder.
His sisters gather around each other like startled swans, their silken dresses rustling uncertainly by the window. Birch-long necks arch to see outside, their eyes red and damp. They rush to meet him when he steps closer, a dozen gloved hands reaching out. 'Oh, Anita, she will be safe there,' cries Zarja. 'Make sure you are with her,' threatens Bogdana. 'Tell her I will miss her,' pleads Imica.
Watched or unwatched, wanted or unwanted, Leksei gives them a smile. A tired, half-lidded one, distracted, the one that he wears more and more. He raises his arms as if losing an argument, the smile growing into a grin that elicits his sisters chasing him down for sport from sheer annoyance.
"Don't worry, I will care of her."
A pause. "Probably."
It says to something that he is met only by a round of yells and a slipper that Leksei gleefully avoids. They wish him well even as such, their faces open with worry and fear - he waves them off, gently, tucking the two letters into a pouch. The paper burns through his leathers even in the snow outside, a branding mark freshly struck into flesh. Warranted or unwelcome, smart enough or not, the responsibility sobs on his shoulder, the thin cry cutting through the song and fire outside.
He shadows the doorway of Anita's home a day later like a ghost to a haunt, water melting on his boots and something ablaze in his gaze.
***
Firewood chirruped in the ornate hearth, the light warm against forest-dark furniture. A stark contrast to the wild outside, where the cold paces and waits to devour. Expensive furs spill from the gloom-stricken bed, half lying as if struck to death. Darkness, comforting and smelling of trees, stood guard where the fire could not reach. Their carriage has been arranged, their luggage sits waiting by the door and Leksei wonders if it would be too late to throw the letters in.
They sit together like they always have. If Anita is anxious, she does not show it; and if she is, he is not sure she would tell him so.
"Exciting, isn't it."
He starts, leaning further into the chair that was his (unofficially, by divine rights of sitting there whenever he is here.) "We'll meet lots of wonderful people, I'm sure."
Sarcasm colored the words sour, a wry expression settling into his features. Anita, he is sure, would be more interested - but he simply could not share in any positivity she might hold. The courts here are no less cruel than they are anywhere else - but at least here they have the dignity to be struck in momentary quiet.
Her eyebrows raised at his words, or rather, the sarcastic twist through them. Anita searched herself for an answer, and landed not on feeling, but on the politeness that carries conversations here.
“It is exciting,” She affirmed, “It’s a good opportunity for us and our country. I wonder what the Isle will be like.”
Leksei squinted at her from under his brow at her textbook answer, as characteristic as it is. For once he wished her saying that the country may go up in flames as long as she gets to dance somewhere nicer.
'’Very artful. You’ll go far there if you’re astonishingly civil.’’
Anita’s lips formed a smile, unable to quite keep the neutral charade through those words. She wondered where the scale of being excited or nervous for the journey tipped inside of him, which it was that the facade of his words was hiding. She wondered the same about herself.
“In that case, we’re both bound to go very far.” Her words mixed in with a hint of laughter.
Leksei gave a mock wave of a hand, unable to keep away the returned smile despite the low spirits threatening in his chest. As much as the anxious thoughts nagged in his brain, he did not want to destroy too many of Anita’s expectations - a journey, especially a first one, is stressful enough. Much more so with a person telling you of the terrible, hungry world you will meet soon. Anita is no child, but worry for her is real even in its needlessness.
'’I see you have the charm down already. You’re going to need it.’’
He taps a finger on the dark wood. ’I’m sure your mother is eager for you to find a spouse there?’'
At the question, Anita’s smile faltered, her expression slipping back into the neutrality. She wasn’t upset, still; not at him, not with him, and she was sure he’d be able to see the warmth in her eyes.
“A spouse, yes. An array of business partners will surely please her as well. What will you be looking for?” Anita stood as she asked the question, her legs unable to keep still when a carriage was waiting for them just outside. Her breath stuck in her throat as she looked across the dark room, a place she wasn’t sure she knew how to leave.
Silence.
Something sits beside them, right on the wooden chair. Something with no name or face.
It reeks of old dirt overturned and blood thrice removed, turning the floorboards sticky and the air leaden. Wet, scorching breaths damp his neck, a gaze waiting for acknowledgement. Leksei gives it no words; he looks at Anita no longer. His eyes cast to the ceiling, trying to trace patterns. A moment passes by. Another.
And then, slowly, he speaks;
'’I have my own plans.’’
He tries to reassure her. He tries to. When he closes his eyes, he sees houses burning.
‘’Things will change. I will make sure of it.’’
“They will.” Anita’s no longer able to catch his gaze. The space between them feels twisted, wrong. She knew the weight carried on her shoulders, and imagined his must be magnitudes heavier. “Maybe we’ll be able to bring some good back.”
Leksei knows not who she is convincing. He feeds another log to the fire and watches it until the servants knock.
***
They do not talk about it when the carriage arrives.
***
The hall glimmers.
A warm, sea breeze drifts even here, where the chandeliers burn and the laughter echoes. Masks turn to birds turn to foxes turn to flowers, each ballgown bleeding into the other. Like the shores of change meeting waves the people shift into another, the first budding conversations beginning to erupt. There is a sence of fearful excitement in the air, unknown gazes meeting stranger's eyes - dates, they seem to whisper, all found through clues. Royals and nobles and church-keepers mingled with one another, truth spilling from hidden mouths and hidden intentions.
The hosts were no where to be seen.
How many generations has this hall seen? How much cruely bore it witness to, how much scheming? Once every hundred years, a life time chance to lose it all. A tradition born from ruin and ending the same.
Void blackness pooled around his body like living night, the fabric reflecting the light oddly - it moved like something alive in itself, eating up reflections. Hymns and protections from evil spoke from the saint skull, gold and lost time white. Undoubtedly religious in the ways of destructive, greedy rivers and thin mountain air. Leksei walks across the room like a storm on the horizon; there is almost arrogance in the way he walks, gaze lingering on each person he passes.
If he heard right - if - then he knows who he must find.
Music lingers inbetween words. Fabrics mesmerize and dancing shoes whisper. This is the time of observation, of deducting who to devour and who to follow after. Leksei does not get to think on it, before
CRASH.
A flash of shining black hair. A dress like liquid metal. A woman, thoroughly defeated by her own feet and sprawled over the floor like a murder victim.
Leksei's mind acts before he does.
‘’Oh, damn. That looked like it hurt.’’
Silence. Open mouthed stares, casted upon the poor woman as if she had just crashed down from the roof. A moment of realisation followed, the heartbeat between the thunder and the lightning - a heartbeat more and the reactions will start. Cringing, Leksei summoned the empathy (second-hand embarrassment) for the girl that probably lost all of her memories with that fall, walking over. He would not be surprised to find a crater where she laid.
‘’Well, this is awkward, isn't it.’’
Leksei offered a firm hand, voice half mocking and half genuine concern. ‘’If it makes you feel better, that was the most graceful fall I've seen.’’
It was not. It was awful. Reminiscent of a tower crumbling with a family inside or a baby deer tripping over a boulder. Leksei had enough manners to not mention as such - if she is still alive (wait, is she alive?), then she will most likely die in a day or so from the shame of it all.
the crown prince
leksei.
♡coded by uxie♡
Last edited:
ravensunset
no thoughts just vibes
anita.
- ,
- how are you feeling?excited, careful, careless
- outfit description: check the discord!
- locationthe peacehall
Crisply the bright snow whispered, Crunching beneath our feet; Behind us as we walked along the parkway, Our shadows danced, Fantastic shapes in vivid blue. Across the lake the skaters Flew to and fro, With sharp turns weaving A frail invisible net. In ecstasy the earth Drank the silver sunlight; In ecstasy the skaters
The boat rocked with the motions of the sea.
The man next to Anita had traveled often, had experienced this feeling, the way Anita felt that her feet were about to drop out from underneath her with each passing wave. She looked to him, the way she’d always looked to him.
When Anita was a young child, he was Crown Prince Leksei. She’d looked up to him in every way, tried to emulate him the way young girls try to emulate older siblings, try to emulate royalty, in her case, both. With time, she’d grown into an adult of her own right, but on the boat, she felt thrown back to that, looking at him for guidance in something he knew that she did not.
“Do you get used to this?” Was the question that eventually left her.
‘“To being this funny? No. I’m afraid the problem only gets worse.” Leksei gave a fine smile, eyes occupied by the horizon. “If you mean travel by boat… Well. Try to make a lot of noise if you fall out so we can fish you out.”
“Hard to imagine the humor can get much worse,” Anita tossed back, forcing her eyes to turn from him onto the sea, “But good to know. Are you worried?” She winced as soon as the question left her, knowing it was too forward, not something to talk directly about. Still. She had to know.
Leksei gave her a glance, questioning. “I try not to be.” He admits, some of the confidence peeling away to reveal what lurks beneath. “I don’t mean the people, really.”
A pause. The sea roars below, foaming. “How are you feeling about all of this? And I don’t mean the business end of it.”
“It feels,” Anita could taste the salt in the air, “Like flying. Or falling,” She settled on, looking back to him. She worried, wouldn’t anyone, but worry and responsibility swirled in the tide of excitement and adventure.
“Is that it?” There was a smudge on the horizon, a patch of green coming into view. Their destination.
As though to answer her before anyone else could, the water burst open before them. Gleaming, shimmering scales and droplets catching brilliant sunlight. The force of the serpent’s body carried up with it a wave, the water falling across them. The boat rocked beneath their feet.
Not long after Anita passed her seventh year of life, her mother took her on a trip to another city. She did not know yet why her mother seemed anxious, unhappy. What she did know is that the snow fell beautifully outside their carriage windows, she could hear singing in the distance, and she was excited to travel.
The city glimmered, cold sunlight reflecting across ice and glass, lanterns lining houses. Anita’s mother hushed her when she tried to wave at passing strangers. They arrived at a manor on the city’s outskirts, her mother meeting with a family she had business to deal with. The adults went to their own room, leaving Anita in the playroom with a boy around her age for company. Anita had been a friendly, sheltered child, and unused to having many peers, so she tried to play with him, talk to him.
He was quiet, but eventually told her he had a special, secret playspot, but he was too afraid to go there anymore. He would not tell her why, but after much persuasion, she discovered he meant a clearing in the woods behind their home, and that he’d been chased out. Anita was surprised; she’d never be allowed to go so far without supervision. He said he wasn’t either, but did anyway when he got the chance.
Anita realized then she had the chance. Despite his objections, she bundled her coat back on, and left the house. The clearing was not hard to find; she simply followed the singing she heard coming from the woods. It was high pitched and lovely. Not so lovely as the songbirds outside the windows back home, she decided, but lovely nonetheless. When she passed the final layer of trees, she found the playspot, and precisely what was obstructing it.
The wolves’ fur glimmered in pure silver as they caught the light. They shook the snow from them and looked at her, still singing a haunting melody.
Anita did not know to be afraid, so she wasn’t. She tilted her head, and sang too, in her young, childlike voice.
The wolves did not smell fear from her. So they sang together, until the sun’s light started to dim in the sky. Anita, perhaps realizing what had happened, perhaps simply changing her mind the way young ones do, turned around and started back towards the house.
It was too late. She heard shouts of her name, and before she knew it, she was swept into her mothers arms. As they left, she caught the young boy’s gaze, saw his wide and scared eyes. She tried to yell out to him, tell him what she had learned.
Anita’s mother yelled at her for weeks.
It was not until much, much later that Anita realized her mother was not angry. She was afraid.
And as long as she was afraid, there was something to be afraid of.
The retelling circled through Anita’s mind as her fingers traced across the paint on the walls of her room, landing on a wolves’ pointed howl, amidst a sprawling forest. She had explored the rest of her room, felt the softness of her pillows, opened the gift waiting for her and unpacked her own belongings, but the murals across every wall of her room, filled with people and animals and nature and stories, continued to draw her in.
She had never been anywhere quite as exciting. The sea serpent that had greeted them had failed to tip their boat, leaving them soaked on the remainder of the way but Anita laughing more than she remembered doing in quite some time.
Exciting.
The word stuck in her head just the way Leksei had pronounced it earlier. He hadn’t been quite genuine, she knew, but he was right. On more than one count, too. She felt the worry. The room could not be in more contrast with the one she had left behind at home, but it fit her almost too perfectly. Like Mirror Isle had pulled it right from within her skull. She felt comfortable, seen, excited. Like a delicately set trap.
One she couldn’t help but play along with. She was already here, and her room smelled like honey.
Anita pulled out the gown she’d wear to the first event, pressing it against her body, and took a moment to admire the craftsmanship. The delicate golden embroidery, the jewels fastened into her kokoshnik and tiny gems woven into the accents of the dress. She knew it must have taken ages to create, and talented, precise fingers.
When she slid into it, adjusted the sleeves, ensured her hair was fully wrapped inside her sarafan, she swore she could taste home. Anita stood in front of her mirror, eyes meeting her reflections’, and she could see her mother. She straightened back her shoulders, dropped her hands neatly to her side.
The outfit was a traditional one, perhaps to some, an outdated one. To Anita, its message was clear: I am Sevyershina’s, and hers only. It made her heart sting, both because it was true, and because it wasn’t.
Anita fastened the mask across her face, and her transformation was complete. Her own brown eyes stared from her reflection of a Sevyershina noble. It was comforting. She knew how to be that woman, she knew that game with its rules. That role was why she had been invited, after all, and it was its goals she sought to fulfill.
She was the mask. She was also so, so much more.
The letter in her room had called for her finest silks, it had asked her to excel. She hoped her gown met that description. She hoped she was enough.
Of course, an instruction to look good was not all the letter contained. A hint at who her date was, with no further instruction on how she was supposed to figure it out, and a warning that had, upon first seeing the handwriting change and the bolded words, made her shiver.
Don’t be afraid.
Anita shrugged off the icy feeling, but dwelled on the thought a moment longer, the secrets the others may have and whether it was a foolish move to follow along the letters’ mysterious wishes. But it didn’t seem she had a good alternative, and, curiosity was already biting at her insides. It was likely just the hosts having a touch of fun, and besides, who wasn’t hiding something?
She’d just have to find out for herself.
The ballroom glittered, seemed to dance, each of its members catching the light and reflecting brilliant colors.
Anita was no stranger to social functions. She knew them in the form of practiced manners, cold politeness. She knew dinners and business functions. Anita was not royalty, but she met with it often. The arrangement before her, however, was different. It was open and unguided, and when she stepped in, she momentarily felt out of place. She took a second, focusing on the outfits, the masks. The masks helped. Anita was no stranger to masks, a touch of familiarity in a place she felt couldn’t be further from her home.
The lights were almost blinding.
Anita straightened back her shoulders, reminding herself of the lady she was to act like, no, of the lady that she was. The clues circled through her head. Did she stand any chance at finding her date without speaking to them first?
Her eyes, free to wander, searched the crowd. They caught someone she guessed to be Leksei- she knew that mask- helping up a woman in deep tans and golds. They passed over a woman in stunning reds and golds, a floor length gown, a man in an outfit seeming almost like a military uniform, a figure in many flowing layers of white and floral motifs, before landing on another outfit that caught her curiosity.
An embroidered sleeveless top, a sheer cape leaving arms bare and visible, golden decor running all along them as though to make them shine, accents catching the light of the room. It could do. She made her way towards him, hands held neatly in front of her.
“Hello,” She started, her tone kept light, “I have to say, you look stunning tonight. Would you by any chance happen to be a chess player?”
Anita hoped he wouldn’t mind the forwardness of her question, unsure whether they were meant to find their dates by such blunt questioning. They weren’t given rules, after all. Her gaze stayed on their golden mask, trying to absorb the intricate detailing of it.
The man next to Anita had traveled often, had experienced this feeling, the way Anita felt that her feet were about to drop out from underneath her with each passing wave. She looked to him, the way she’d always looked to him.
When Anita was a young child, he was Crown Prince Leksei. She’d looked up to him in every way, tried to emulate him the way young girls try to emulate older siblings, try to emulate royalty, in her case, both. With time, she’d grown into an adult of her own right, but on the boat, she felt thrown back to that, looking at him for guidance in something he knew that she did not.
“Do you get used to this?” Was the question that eventually left her.
‘“To being this funny? No. I’m afraid the problem only gets worse.” Leksei gave a fine smile, eyes occupied by the horizon. “If you mean travel by boat… Well. Try to make a lot of noise if you fall out so we can fish you out.”
“Hard to imagine the humor can get much worse,” Anita tossed back, forcing her eyes to turn from him onto the sea, “But good to know. Are you worried?” She winced as soon as the question left her, knowing it was too forward, not something to talk directly about. Still. She had to know.
Leksei gave her a glance, questioning. “I try not to be.” He admits, some of the confidence peeling away to reveal what lurks beneath. “I don’t mean the people, really.”
A pause. The sea roars below, foaming. “How are you feeling about all of this? And I don’t mean the business end of it.”
“It feels,” Anita could taste the salt in the air, “Like flying. Or falling,” She settled on, looking back to him. She worried, wouldn’t anyone, but worry and responsibility swirled in the tide of excitement and adventure.
“Is that it?” There was a smudge on the horizon, a patch of green coming into view. Their destination.
As though to answer her before anyone else could, the water burst open before them. Gleaming, shimmering scales and droplets catching brilliant sunlight. The force of the serpent’s body carried up with it a wave, the water falling across them. The boat rocked beneath their feet.
Not long after Anita passed her seventh year of life, her mother took her on a trip to another city. She did not know yet why her mother seemed anxious, unhappy. What she did know is that the snow fell beautifully outside their carriage windows, she could hear singing in the distance, and she was excited to travel.
The city glimmered, cold sunlight reflecting across ice and glass, lanterns lining houses. Anita’s mother hushed her when she tried to wave at passing strangers. They arrived at a manor on the city’s outskirts, her mother meeting with a family she had business to deal with. The adults went to their own room, leaving Anita in the playroom with a boy around her age for company. Anita had been a friendly, sheltered child, and unused to having many peers, so she tried to play with him, talk to him.
He was quiet, but eventually told her he had a special, secret playspot, but he was too afraid to go there anymore. He would not tell her why, but after much persuasion, she discovered he meant a clearing in the woods behind their home, and that he’d been chased out. Anita was surprised; she’d never be allowed to go so far without supervision. He said he wasn’t either, but did anyway when he got the chance.
Anita realized then she had the chance. Despite his objections, she bundled her coat back on, and left the house. The clearing was not hard to find; she simply followed the singing she heard coming from the woods. It was high pitched and lovely. Not so lovely as the songbirds outside the windows back home, she decided, but lovely nonetheless. When she passed the final layer of trees, she found the playspot, and precisely what was obstructing it.
The wolves’ fur glimmered in pure silver as they caught the light. They shook the snow from them and looked at her, still singing a haunting melody.
Anita did not know to be afraid, so she wasn’t. She tilted her head, and sang too, in her young, childlike voice.
The wolves did not smell fear from her. So they sang together, until the sun’s light started to dim in the sky. Anita, perhaps realizing what had happened, perhaps simply changing her mind the way young ones do, turned around and started back towards the house.
It was too late. She heard shouts of her name, and before she knew it, she was swept into her mothers arms. As they left, she caught the young boy’s gaze, saw his wide and scared eyes. She tried to yell out to him, tell him what she had learned.
Anita’s mother yelled at her for weeks.
It was not until much, much later that Anita realized her mother was not angry. She was afraid.
And as long as she was afraid, there was something to be afraid of.
The retelling circled through Anita’s mind as her fingers traced across the paint on the walls of her room, landing on a wolves’ pointed howl, amidst a sprawling forest. She had explored the rest of her room, felt the softness of her pillows, opened the gift waiting for her and unpacked her own belongings, but the murals across every wall of her room, filled with people and animals and nature and stories, continued to draw her in.
She had never been anywhere quite as exciting. The sea serpent that had greeted them had failed to tip their boat, leaving them soaked on the remainder of the way but Anita laughing more than she remembered doing in quite some time.
Exciting.
The word stuck in her head just the way Leksei had pronounced it earlier. He hadn’t been quite genuine, she knew, but he was right. On more than one count, too. She felt the worry. The room could not be in more contrast with the one she had left behind at home, but it fit her almost too perfectly. Like Mirror Isle had pulled it right from within her skull. She felt comfortable, seen, excited. Like a delicately set trap.
One she couldn’t help but play along with. She was already here, and her room smelled like honey.
Anita pulled out the gown she’d wear to the first event, pressing it against her body, and took a moment to admire the craftsmanship. The delicate golden embroidery, the jewels fastened into her kokoshnik and tiny gems woven into the accents of the dress. She knew it must have taken ages to create, and talented, precise fingers.
When she slid into it, adjusted the sleeves, ensured her hair was fully wrapped inside her sarafan, she swore she could taste home. Anita stood in front of her mirror, eyes meeting her reflections’, and she could see her mother. She straightened back her shoulders, dropped her hands neatly to her side.
The outfit was a traditional one, perhaps to some, an outdated one. To Anita, its message was clear: I am Sevyershina’s, and hers only. It made her heart sting, both because it was true, and because it wasn’t.
Anita fastened the mask across her face, and her transformation was complete. Her own brown eyes stared from her reflection of a Sevyershina noble. It was comforting. She knew how to be that woman, she knew that game with its rules. That role was why she had been invited, after all, and it was its goals she sought to fulfill.
She was the mask. She was also so, so much more.
The letter in her room had called for her finest silks, it had asked her to excel. She hoped her gown met that description. She hoped she was enough.
Of course, an instruction to look good was not all the letter contained. A hint at who her date was, with no further instruction on how she was supposed to figure it out, and a warning that had, upon first seeing the handwriting change and the bolded words, made her shiver.
Don’t be afraid.
Anita shrugged off the icy feeling, but dwelled on the thought a moment longer, the secrets the others may have and whether it was a foolish move to follow along the letters’ mysterious wishes. But it didn’t seem she had a good alternative, and, curiosity was already biting at her insides. It was likely just the hosts having a touch of fun, and besides, who wasn’t hiding something?
She’d just have to find out for herself.
The ballroom glittered, seemed to dance, each of its members catching the light and reflecting brilliant colors.
Anita was no stranger to social functions. She knew them in the form of practiced manners, cold politeness. She knew dinners and business functions. Anita was not royalty, but she met with it often. The arrangement before her, however, was different. It was open and unguided, and when she stepped in, she momentarily felt out of place. She took a second, focusing on the outfits, the masks. The masks helped. Anita was no stranger to masks, a touch of familiarity in a place she felt couldn’t be further from her home.
The lights were almost blinding.
Anita straightened back her shoulders, reminding herself of the lady she was to act like, no, of the lady that she was. The clues circled through her head. Did she stand any chance at finding her date without speaking to them first?
Her eyes, free to wander, searched the crowd. They caught someone she guessed to be Leksei- she knew that mask- helping up a woman in deep tans and golds. They passed over a woman in stunning reds and golds, a floor length gown, a man in an outfit seeming almost like a military uniform, a figure in many flowing layers of white and floral motifs, before landing on another outfit that caught her curiosity.
An embroidered sleeveless top, a sheer cape leaving arms bare and visible, golden decor running all along them as though to make them shine, accents catching the light of the room. It could do. She made her way towards him, hands held neatly in front of her.
“Hello,” She started, her tone kept light, “I have to say, you look stunning tonight. Would you by any chance happen to be a chess player?”
Anita hoped he wouldn’t mind the forwardness of her question, unsure whether they were meant to find their dates by such blunt questioning. They weren’t given rules, after all. Her gaze stayed on their golden mask, trying to absorb the intricate detailing of it.
coded by reveriee.
katherine toussaint
K
The nervous pounding of her heart faded away at the dull ache that emanated from her left hand. Her attention is drawn there, to the base knuckle of her index finger, where a pink splotch has splashed itself onto her skin. She ghosted a finger over it absentmindedly, feeling the ache intensify but not sharply enough to cause an immediate withdrawal of the pressure.
Another moderate inconvenience was the size of her room. It is much smaller than her childhood bedroom where she still currently resides. Or resided, for the time being. Past tense. This room is much more compact. Succinct. Homely. She finds it comfortable. Unfortunately, though, there was a level of choreography needed between herself and her handmaids to dance about the space. At one point Katherine had tripped on her abundant tulle and flung her hands about in an attempt to grab onto a steadying surface, and ended up knocking it against the wooden bedpost for good measure.
The resulting mark still stings. She hopes it won't leave a bruise. She worries it would look as though she got into a physical altercation with someone. How uncouth. Completely unbefitting for the Princess of Auriche.
A creaking scrape causes her to jump out of her thoughts. She whips her head around and sees a wooden chair untucked from its position, pulled back from the table as if inviting her to sit down. The mysterious letter she received sits accusingly on the tabletop.
Her nerves are far too frayed this early in the evening. Oh, curses to her eager mind! Why did she ever insist on dressing so early for the engagement and then retire her staff for the night? Now the seconds drip by with agonizing tenure. Katherine takes a deep breath and attempts to reason with her unruly spirit. This is nothing new. Well, the situation itself is simultaneously new and routine. The party aspect is definitely a staple of Auriche high society, and while it's not one she has perfected, there have been plenty she can hardly recall due to the relative uneventfulness with which they passed. The issue was the company she would be keeping. Never have the stakes been as high as this.
She counts. One two three four five. She touches her fingertips to her thumb - index, middle, ring, pinky, pinky. Pinky, ring, middle, index, index. Iambic pentameter: the rhythm of natural speech, at once the key to eloquence and literary rote memorization.
Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime—
Calls back the lovely April of her prime—
Her pacing and recitation is cut short by the new oddly shaped lump on her bed. Her current abode is much more homely than the home she's grown up in, but still an elegant display bathed in a warm beige - with the exception of a green plush frog sitting in the middle of her bed.
The frog is shaped somewhat awkwardly, sat upright with its gangly limps splayed about before it. It faced the wall in an almost attentive slump that occurred through pure happenstance amidst the shuffle of party preparation.
Katherine approached it, lowering herself and resting her arms atop her knees as she made herself eye-level with the toy.
"Henry, I fear I am terribly anxious for tonight."
The room grew heavy with a sense of childish belonging in the silence that rung out following those words. Despite its blank returning stare with its fabric-button eyes, black thread criss-crossing where its pupils should be, in this oddly cramped room with its plain interior and this amateurish fake frog with excess thread that slithered about, Katherine suddenly felt the most at home and heard than she has ever felt in Auriche. This wave of emotion threatens to crest the ocean of her eyes and - a knock interrupts this cathartic moment. Katherine jumps and whips her head to look at the offending door.
It's time.
Katherine jumps upright and smooths down the layers of her dress (or attempts to - it's far too... poofy to manage it properly), wincing when she puts too much pressure on her offending knuckle. She spins a complete circle, head angled downward, searching for any blemishes. None come to her eye. She straightens her back and swivels on her heel, marching to the door - freezes, and marches to the table. She warily eyes the letter - already opened and read, but somehow foreboding. She stands in silent internal debate long enough to warrant another knock at the door. With a worried cursory glance over her shoulder, she scoops up the parchment and makes her way to the door once more - and once more hesitates.
She turns around and reaches across her bed for the frog plush. Princess Katherine of Auriche, an adult woman and representative of her people, pulls back the duvet cover and tucks in her toy frog before leaving to attend the diplomatic event.
⋇⋆✦⋆⋇
The Marblewish Mansion is a colorful building that is just waiting to be explored, and normally Katherine would be happy to oblige. However, the current circumstances are different. She just wishes she was different as well to accommodate them; but then again, when does she not wish she was different?
She still meanders at a leisurely pace despite the pressing concerns and obligations, sticking her head through open doorways and glancing down irrelevant hallways that branch off of the path at hand. She doesn't even try to hide her obvious gawking. For a girl raised in constant grandeur, she still holds a sense of childlike awe and admiration for its different forms.
This reverence carries on as she leaves the building and begins to make her way along the twilight-lit road. The refreshing sea breeze cools her nerves heated with anxious foresight.
She takes more care to observe the foliage and garden alongside the promenade than she does at the exterior of the manors in which she and the other dignitaries reside. At one point she notices a lizard standing at the edge of the cobblestone path; upon noticing her approach, it scampers off. Katherine follows, squatting down and parting the branches of bush gently with one hand. She observes the lizard with a slight bemused smile. Its reptilian black eyes stare back up at her, unblinking. It appears to be a Plestiodon anthracinus - and a young one at that, the tip of its tail retaining a blue hue before fading to a more mature tan.
In typical lizard-fashion, it suddenly decides to shoot off into the grass abruptly. Katherine wishes she could follow, but the activity would dirty the hem of her gown. And she would be rendered late to tonight's event.
How unfortunate.
With each progressive step forward the situation at hand grew more and more real. Her pulse quickened. She became very cognizant of the possibility that she should not have brought the letter. Why did she grab it? She already read it and knows what it says. She has nowhere to put it.
Now she has to hold on to it for the rest of the evening. How inconvenient. She's already taken to absentmindedly folding over the corners, the once fresh paper rendered blunt and curling upwards from the repeated bothering. She always ruins things like this.
What on earth is she even doing here? She should just go home.
Off in the far distance, at the edge of the treeline, she spots a great oak with a bough bent so low its leaves almost sweep the grass below it. She can faintly hear the crackle of wood splintering, miniscule movement further downwards.
Katherine stops in her tracks and takes in a deep breath of fresh air. She closes her eyes. With a loud snap, the bough shoots back upwards and brings the tree along with it, correcting its posture. A family of birds is startled from the sudden movement and takes flight. The momentum causes a gentle sway as if caressed by an invisible breeze before settling once more, undisturbed.
Katherine resumes her walk to her destination.
⋇⋆✦⋆⋇
Katherine stood near the entrance of the party, nearly pressing her back against the wall in an effort to dissolve away, unseen. She was not anticipating such a foreboding building to house such a bright and elegant interior; perhaps that is a prejudiced thought she needs to be rid of. It is not a good quality for a leader to be so hasty or base with their judgement - or maybe it actually is fitting in this case. The interior of the building is actually much more intimidating than the exterior.
Katherine detests these kinds of social events.
The large and beautiful room is rendered claustrophobic with the reputation of those gathered, each dazzling representations of foreign and unfamiliar culture. Each wearing their stunning displays of wealth and status well. Headpieces and jewelry sway as their owners are already conducting business and making valuable connections. Her nerves are so frayed they might as well be a shattered glass, dashed against the marble floor. The sound resonates in her mind for a moment before she shakes it away.
Katherine taps her fingers against the letter. One, two, three, four, five.
She's noticed the enchantment on the masks; people are rendered unrecognizable underneath them. To a certain degree. She can notice elements of their face, shifts of facial features, but if she attempts to put together the entire picture of their face based on what she can recall of them: nothing comes to mind. The anonymity would be a comforting crutch were she not convinced it would not last long.
She scans the crowd, determined to find - there! Aurichean dress, emerald and gold catching the twinkling light of the party, familiar emblem catching her attention. Katherine began making her way to Aline.
She's not entirely sure why she has this impulse. Aline and Katherine are the only two from Auriche here; they are alike in representation, sisters in diplomacy. However, to be frank, they are not friends.
They had greeted each other during the trip to the island, and that was the extent of their personal acquaintance.
Elsewise, Katherine knows Aline has a family of good repute. She has siblings. And, as Katherine strides across the room (deliberately trying not to look desperate), Katherine notices Aline appears to be good at this. She's currently standing with two others, smile gracing her face. The others she is with appear to be responding to her. One, an elegant gentleman decorated with pristine florals, the other - terrifying. She's never seen so many scars before. And Aline is conversing with them so effortlessly and professionally.
Aline is a good representative of Auriche, and so unlike Katherine in every way.
Katherine abruptly turns on her heel and ricochets off in an unnatural direction.
She circles the edge of the gilded room with all the apparent nervousness of a startled fawn. Occupants are clustering together, forging alliances and early companionships. A shadowy figure helps a woman up from her prayer. A crimson figure places her hand on the shoulder of a companion, no doubt as a picture of comraderie. Katherine feels incredibly alone and out of place.
A waiter stops her and offers a flute of a clear bubbly drink. She accepts; it would be rude not to. After the waiter moves on, she sniffs and scrunches her nose in disgust. Champagne. Alcohol. Ew. Katherine is not fond of bitter foods or drinks, nor is she fond of the idea of inebriation. She can hardly control herself as it is. In cases like this, she typically finds a houseplant and - there are no plants in this building. Her gaze migrates downward and transfixes on the liquid in her hand, ripples disturbing the surface of the liquid despite her still hand.
Living Godeliève, please help this poor soul.
Katherine remains rooted in place while the waiter drifts off to help another. Her gaze is caught by a glimpse of flitting, shimmering wings of a butterfly. Sky blue silk that shines with a silvery sheen as it catches the golden light of the hall. The wings of their mask flitters with life with the slightest turn of their head.
Whatever self-conciousness that kept her rooted to the spot just moments prior has been overcome by a sense of excitement - but she still is stopped by a sense of hesitancy. She's on the docks again, heart pounding and igniting in her veins at the prospect of this adventure into unknown territory. Her gaze drifts off to analyze the vessel they are to take, and her father grabs her chin and turns her head so she is forced to maintiain his eye contact. His gaze is sharp and serious. "Katarina. Listen to me well: educated words and philosophical musings are not to be done in the halls of political dealings. Hold. Your. Tongue." Katherine opens her mouth to reply - her father's grip on her chin tightens slightly and his eyes harden. Katherine closes her mouth and nods instead.
Katherine stands in the peacehall far from home, far from her father. She's done well thus far holding her tongue. He would rather her stand in the corner for the night quietly and remain out of the way. Katherine turns and sees Aline, bringing pride to her country and family. Katherine had recieved an invitation to Mirror Isle as well as she, and evidently everyone else here. She thinks back to the handmade frog left in her room.
Katherine approaches the woman, a blooming forget-me-not glimmering in moonlight. She gives a polite curtsy,
"Good evening. The starlight graces us here in this hall, the breeze carries good humor. I could not help but notice your attire is reminiscent of Plebejus melissa samuelis, whose wings glint with a similar hue. I've many times seen them flittering about the garden at home. Are you, by any chance, intrested in lepidopterology? I am not particulalry, but I do enjoy studying and observing many types of creatures."
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
triples
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
...
fae'an de malisio
He laid under a sprawling night sky, watching the shimmering speck fall towards him like a shooting star. With one hand, he reached out... and swiped it into his grasp. It: a golden ornament, carved and painted with intricate detail, echoing some ancient melody. A gift, abandoned to be discovered on the same satin sheets where he now rested.
Fae'an rolled the ring across his calloused fingers, letting its rhythm dance against his skin. How rare it was, for him to be given without giving back. How troubling, in fact, to be certain of strings attached yet uncertain of where they land.
Absently, he threw it again into the air. Catch, throw.
Catch.
Throw.
If he could return the favour right then and there, as customs dictated, he would. Alas, the hosts remain a mystery, immaterial and almost omniscient, so he was left to do little more than wait. Troubling, indeed, for he was not a man of much faith in unseen powers.
But would he refuse their offering, then?
Of course, he would not.
Fae'an was a collector in his bones. He hunted and hid and hoarded. He built towers of nothings as if challenging someone to take it all away, Death or Fate or another beast, so desperate in his defiance one might even mistake his heart for being real. Though the habit had waned with age, childish desires curtailed by disillusion, childish fears soothed by power, at times it found its fading voice once more.
And this ring like a beating heart, this strange and exquisite thing — could it not hunger? No, it was there, screaming: mine, mine, mine.
Catch. The metal thumped against his palm, like it could hear his thoughts. Fae'an smiled.
Perhaps they had arrived too early. A fickle lover the sea was — and in that way, they got along — but today she had decided to be kind. Now, too much time in isolation had turned him into an overthinker. Twin screeches cut through the mansion walls and into his ears, a reminder that even his beloved pets had come back from their hunt.
Stretching like a cat, he lifted himself off the bed and onto the pristine crystal floor, his image within it moving with him in languid steps towards the dome's centre. As the moonlit sky hovering above shifted to a rippling azure surface, he arrived in front of a baroque desk, which held the warped image of a dazzling chandelier and a single opened letter.
It did not escape his notice, this room's particular oddity, how there was not a mirror to be seen and reflections everywhere a gaze could stray. He is just paranoid enough to believe it metaphorical. Not enough so, however, to linger or take offence. Instead, he returns his attention to the table's contents.
The letter, yes. Another enigma, a riddle laid out in swirling ink, with a secret partner as the victory prize. As he placed the ring carefully beside it, his gaze skimmed its content again. The sentences flirted and daunted in intriguing sequence, bidding farewell with ominous scratches. Amusing, he thought, but not too concerning.
Amidst the hints and poetry, he saw it for its bare form; a reimagining of the signature game of nobility, sifting for truths amidst resplendent distractions, as the twisting melody builds to a vivid crescendo. There was nothing to ponder. He would play, and he would win, only because he always did.
Hubris. An old memory resurfaced of a woman, intimate and distant, a delicate giant, towering over him with a sneer that cracked her porcelain face. It is a man's greatest downfall. Words with too much teeth to be named advice, but her voice was sweet and crooning. Don't you agree, darling?
Fae'an quite agreed.
But was what we feared of falling not truly the ground, and was sin not an abyss with no bottom line to be found? He adorns himself with a diamond mask and a careless grin all the same.
Mithril claws tapped on a polished chalice, silver gaze calm but intent as it swept across a grandiose ballroom. His reputation was less of a wallflower and far more of a centrepiece, when he so loved the eye of the storm, but tonight Fae’an studied the sidelines.
To find one who appeared most ill-at-ease in this bright hall was the arbitrary method he had chosen, based purely on his impression, with what little information he'd received. The magic cast on their masks made things considerably harder but, well, he was in no great rush.
As he lifted the goblet, suspicion, an old friend, flashed in his mind. But it seemed doubtful the hosts would seek to incite every kingdom into war with a single night on Mirror Isle. And if they dared, Fae’an mused, then perhaps he wouldn’t object to dying under such bold hands.
He took a long sip of the wine, before recalling why he disliked liquor. Taken from pretty lips, the taste was salvageable, but otherwise its merits were meagre. He drained it regardless.
Silently, he continued to survey his glistening surroundings, when he caught a familiar shadow passing by in the distance, a presence he felt accustomed to having flicker in and out of sight. By instinct, he turned his head slightly towards it.
Their eyes locked in that passing moment, and he saw recognition — relief, even — dart across the blurred features. Ah, he thought, with too little disdain to be mocking and too little pity to be fond, that child.
And a child was what this so-called brother was to him, always before and always from now, despite their difference of only three years. The young prince, the child that barely reached his shoulders. And, of course, if one paid heed to the whispers of certain crowds, Valen was a red-painted bullseye, a shining stepladder to the crown.
A tinge of sympathy tried to intrude, but it was quickly seized by talons lurking in the dark. A sharp voice laughed in his mind. A rasping, ugly, cruel cackle, mouth gaping and canines showing, all spit and spite. Hypocrite, it derided.
There was nothing to be done for a boy born with one hand on a bloody throne and weak arms. Fae’an knew best.
He raised his empty glass in reply to the smile Valen tossed, and turned his focus to another corner. Everyone was on the move, it seemed, and he too should begin searching for his own date in earnest.
The corner of his vision captured a striking frame, a man wrapped in black and hidden in a lonesome nook, so unmoving he could be mistaken for a sculpture. Though they were far apart, Fae’an could tell that the face underneath the gold-edged mask was a sombre one. Putting his cup away, he began his venture.
Long strides covered the distance between them in the blink of an eye, yet his air was unabashedly that of one who had simply wandered over as he approached the obsidian figure.
Up close, he saw that the patterns on the stranger’s dress were known to him, or at least something with the same atmosphere. Possibly from a book, or a painting. Or a display piece in some old man’s opulent tea hall. Fae’an decided it best to refrain from mentioning, either way. The chance was never good to take, when home was an island built on stolen treasure.
Still, he could give it a shot. The night was still young and sometimes, people surprise you. Like that woman, not far away, with a stunningly graceful figure and a … surprisingly ungraceful walk, though she tried her best, who looked just on the edge of a-
And there she went, her abrupt fall drawing all attention from the vicinity onto her sad silhouette. Talk about ill-at-ease, maybe she was his partner. Fae’an arched a brow, a chuckle escaping him as he commented with not little mirth,
He turned his attention back to the man beside him fully at last, when the picture of the fallen girl was blocked from him by a dark-cloaked man.
Fae'an rolled the ring across his calloused fingers, letting its rhythm dance against his skin. How rare it was, for him to be given without giving back. How troubling, in fact, to be certain of strings attached yet uncertain of where they land.
Absently, he threw it again into the air. Catch, throw.
Catch.
Throw.
If he could return the favour right then and there, as customs dictated, he would. Alas, the hosts remain a mystery, immaterial and almost omniscient, so he was left to do little more than wait. Troubling, indeed, for he was not a man of much faith in unseen powers.
But would he refuse their offering, then?
Of course, he would not.
Fae'an was a collector in his bones. He hunted and hid and hoarded. He built towers of nothings as if challenging someone to take it all away, Death or Fate or another beast, so desperate in his defiance one might even mistake his heart for being real. Though the habit had waned with age, childish desires curtailed by disillusion, childish fears soothed by power, at times it found its fading voice once more.
And this ring like a beating heart, this strange and exquisite thing — could it not hunger? No, it was there, screaming: mine, mine, mine.
Catch. The metal thumped against his palm, like it could hear his thoughts. Fae'an smiled.
Perhaps they had arrived too early. A fickle lover the sea was — and in that way, they got along — but today she had decided to be kind. Now, too much time in isolation had turned him into an overthinker. Twin screeches cut through the mansion walls and into his ears, a reminder that even his beloved pets had come back from their hunt.
Stretching like a cat, he lifted himself off the bed and onto the pristine crystal floor, his image within it moving with him in languid steps towards the dome's centre. As the moonlit sky hovering above shifted to a rippling azure surface, he arrived in front of a baroque desk, which held the warped image of a dazzling chandelier and a single opened letter.
It did not escape his notice, this room's particular oddity, how there was not a mirror to be seen and reflections everywhere a gaze could stray. He is just paranoid enough to believe it metaphorical. Not enough so, however, to linger or take offence. Instead, he returns his attention to the table's contents.
The letter, yes. Another enigma, a riddle laid out in swirling ink, with a secret partner as the victory prize. As he placed the ring carefully beside it, his gaze skimmed its content again. The sentences flirted and daunted in intriguing sequence, bidding farewell with ominous scratches. Amusing, he thought, but not too concerning.
Amidst the hints and poetry, he saw it for its bare form; a reimagining of the signature game of nobility, sifting for truths amidst resplendent distractions, as the twisting melody builds to a vivid crescendo. There was nothing to ponder. He would play, and he would win, only because he always did.
Hubris. An old memory resurfaced of a woman, intimate and distant, a delicate giant, towering over him with a sneer that cracked her porcelain face. It is a man's greatest downfall. Words with too much teeth to be named advice, but her voice was sweet and crooning. Don't you agree, darling?
Fae'an quite agreed.
But was what we feared of falling not truly the ground, and was sin not an abyss with no bottom line to be found? He adorns himself with a diamond mask and a careless grin all the same.
☾*✲⋆.☾*✲⋆.☾*✲⋆.
Mithril claws tapped on a polished chalice, silver gaze calm but intent as it swept across a grandiose ballroom. His reputation was less of a wallflower and far more of a centrepiece, when he so loved the eye of the storm, but tonight Fae’an studied the sidelines.
To find one who appeared most ill-at-ease in this bright hall was the arbitrary method he had chosen, based purely on his impression, with what little information he'd received. The magic cast on their masks made things considerably harder but, well, he was in no great rush.
As he lifted the goblet, suspicion, an old friend, flashed in his mind. But it seemed doubtful the hosts would seek to incite every kingdom into war with a single night on Mirror Isle. And if they dared, Fae’an mused, then perhaps he wouldn’t object to dying under such bold hands.
He took a long sip of the wine, before recalling why he disliked liquor. Taken from pretty lips, the taste was salvageable, but otherwise its merits were meagre. He drained it regardless.
Silently, he continued to survey his glistening surroundings, when he caught a familiar shadow passing by in the distance, a presence he felt accustomed to having flicker in and out of sight. By instinct, he turned his head slightly towards it.
Their eyes locked in that passing moment, and he saw recognition — relief, even — dart across the blurred features. Ah, he thought, with too little disdain to be mocking and too little pity to be fond, that child.
And a child was what this so-called brother was to him, always before and always from now, despite their difference of only three years. The young prince, the child that barely reached his shoulders. And, of course, if one paid heed to the whispers of certain crowds, Valen was a red-painted bullseye, a shining stepladder to the crown.
A tinge of sympathy tried to intrude, but it was quickly seized by talons lurking in the dark. A sharp voice laughed in his mind. A rasping, ugly, cruel cackle, mouth gaping and canines showing, all spit and spite. Hypocrite, it derided.
There was nothing to be done for a boy born with one hand on a bloody throne and weak arms. Fae’an knew best.
He raised his empty glass in reply to the smile Valen tossed, and turned his focus to another corner. Everyone was on the move, it seemed, and he too should begin searching for his own date in earnest.
The corner of his vision captured a striking frame, a man wrapped in black and hidden in a lonesome nook, so unmoving he could be mistaken for a sculpture. Though they were far apart, Fae’an could tell that the face underneath the gold-edged mask was a sombre one. Putting his cup away, he began his venture.
Long strides covered the distance between them in the blink of an eye, yet his air was unabashedly that of one who had simply wandered over as he approached the obsidian figure.
“Good evening,”
he greeted, his first words of the day, and as his tone shifted from polite to understanding with a tint of laughter, he added, “or perhaps not quite so?”
Up close, he saw that the patterns on the stranger’s dress were known to him, or at least something with the same atmosphere. Possibly from a book, or a painting. Or a display piece in some old man’s opulent tea hall. Fae’an decided it best to refrain from mentioning, either way. The chance was never good to take, when home was an island built on stolen treasure.
“I take it you don’t find much enjoyment,”
he gestured vaguely, pivoting so his back faced the wall in the same posture as his new company, “in these sorts of things?”
His eyes ran over the man and recognized his staunch elegance as a mark of gifted fighters. A soldier, he opined. A performer? Less likely.Still, he could give it a shot. The night was still young and sometimes, people surprise you. Like that woman, not far away, with a stunningly graceful figure and a … surprisingly ungraceful walk, though she tried her best, who looked just on the edge of a-
And there she went, her abrupt fall drawing all attention from the vicinity onto her sad silhouette. Talk about ill-at-ease, maybe she was his partner. Fae’an arched a brow, a chuckle escaping him as he commented with not little mirth,
“At least, it appears there is someone even less settled than you or I.”
He turned his attention back to the man beside him fully at last, when the picture of the fallen girl was blocked from him by a dark-cloaked man.
“And the music is good,”
he continued. He considered if he should play with his words, before deciding that this man felt not much of a word-player. “If you won't dance, maybe you sing?”
coded by xayah.ღ
iridescent.
𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 ; 𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜
...
valen de malisio
The sea was calming for most. There was something about the salty smell of the air, the way the waves crashed against the sandy shores that calmed people, lured them into a false sense of security the way nothing else could.
Valen included. Except not now.
His first view of the island should have caused amazement, should have caused him to stare in awe. Instead it sent alarm and panic sweeping through him like a fire to wood. It reminded him too much of En Malis, looked too much like the home he’d known for 22 years. He came here to get away from the troubles and tribulations, the murders and monstrosities of En Malis, not to be reminded of them. Glancing at Fae’An standing close by on deck, he wasn’t surprised to see a complete lack of care. His half-brother already didn’t care about the murders that happened daily in their home country, why would he care that Mirror Isle resembled their home?
Stay away from him said a tiny voice inside his head. Whether he’d be able to, he didn’t know. As he turned back to stare at the shimmering sea, his thoughts wandered back to the conversation he had with his father the day of departure.
“Valen,” the King had begun, causing the prince to halt in his tracks and look back at the King.
“Yes?” replied the prince, stomach twisting.
“I know what you are, who you are,” The words were said in distaste, as if the son standing before him was nothing but dirt on the bottom of shoes. “Try your best to do En Malis proud, if you can.” The or else wasn’t said but definitely implied.
Swallowing nervously, Valen just nodded. “Yes, father. I’ll try.”
Shortly after disembarking the vessel that brought him here, he walked the path that seemed to appear just for him. Upon arrival to the mansion, Val was met by who he presumed to be staff, grimacing slightly at the low bow that they greeted him with. He was tempted to tell the man to stand upright, tell him that he didn’t have to bow or use this unnatural level of formality with him. Valen just followed and said nothing.
He soon found himself standing alone in the middle of the bedroom, the door closing silently behind him. If others, particularly his family who thought they were the shit, saw this room, they’d turn up their noses in displeasure and demand to be given a bigger and more expensive bedroom. Not him. No. Valen absolutely loved this cozy little bedroom, from the small and comfortable looking reading sofa to the windowsill overlooking the sea. He spent a long time meandering around the room, fingertips tracing over a bronze vase and grinning as he felt it hum underneath them. Those same fingertips stroked over the silken bedsheets and caused him to think that maybe it was time for a nap.
Except it wasn’t time for a nap. His attention was caught by a letter and box resting in the middle of the bed, two things he didn’t notice before. Reaching forward, he grabbed the letter and proceeded to read it. Frowning, he then set the letter down and opened the box, finding a pair of pretty, silver scissors inside. What could he do with scissors? He cautiously reached into the box and delicately picked up the scissors, rotating them slowly in his hand and watching as the silver caught the sunlight.
It was a pretty gift, anyone could see that. Yet… he wished he wasn’t gifted anything. Gift giving was practically mandatory at home and he was tired of it, tired of everyone trying to outdo one another to give him expensive gifts. This seemed expensive too, but he couldn’t send it back.
So for the next hour or so, Valen paced the length of his room, trying to figure out what the scissors were for. There wasn’t any paper here for him to cut into pretty shapes, and he wasn’t about to cut the silken sheets to make clothes or anything. Was he supposed to cut his hair? But he liked his hair, wild and crazy as it was. Releasing the lower lip that he didn’t even realize he’d been chewing on, he decided it would be best to abandon the scissor quest for now.
Pulling an old, worn novel about some fantasy land he could only dream of living in out of his luggage, Val curled up on the small reading sofa and got lost in the book. At some point, he found himself sitting on the windowsill with the book in hand but put it down as the sun began to set. Staring idly at the sea, he began to think that maybe a swim wouldn’t be so bad, or maybe he could see if this beach had any pretty seashells to add to his collection. It all would have to wait until tomorrow, however. Now it was time to get ready for the ball.
Most would be excited about this part, filled with anxious anticipation or maybe even nervousness, curious about how the night will unfold. Valen was filled with nothing but dread. Not because he didn’t want to attend this ball, but because he hated his outfit. Yes, it was pretty and yes, it would suit him well, however, was way too extravagant for his liking. “Oh, the jeweled body piece will bring it all together!” one of the staff members back home who’d help him pack for this had exclaimed. If you say so.
Though instead of shying away and refusing to put the outfit on, he found himself doing up the buttons of the pants, slipping the cutout mesh shirt over his head followed by the jeweled piece and finishing up by shrugging on the silvery-gray jacket. Next came the accessories and to finish off the look completely, he lined his eyes with gray. That’ll do, he thought, setting the eyeliner down and picking up the letter that had appeared a few hours earlier off of his dressing table.
What was once a finely furled letter soon became a completely flat one due to the amount of times Valen read and re-read it, trying to memorize the clues he would use to find his elusive partner for this evening. He’d even begun to say them aloud when a knock sounded throughout the room, so he set down the letter, placed the eagle mask over his face and followed the staff member out the door.
The walk to the ballroom was silent save from the tinkling, musical laughter that carried throughout the halls. Val looked around, expecting to see other people but was met with nothing except paintings or topiary. Perhaps this was ghostly laughter of souls that had passed here, souls he could not yet see. He just hoped they wouldn’t bother him at the ball, since that was something he definitely did not need to be dealing with.
His steps faltered when they reached the building he presumed held the ball, wondering if they tricked him and led him to a haunted house. Reluctantly, he followed the staff into the building, nothing except apprehension swirling around inside him. That all went away the moment he stepped inside. This certainly wasn’t a haunted house. This was simply beautiful.
Valen departed with a whispered thanks to the staff that guided him here before cautiously taking a few steps into the room. He accepted a flute of champagne that was handed to him and cautiously took a sip as his eyes darted around the room, looking for anyone that could fit the bill of the four clues given to him for tonight. He spotted Fae’An but knowing they weren’t paired together and remembering his earlier thought, offered nothing but a forced smile and continued on with his visual search
When it yielded no results, Valen let out a sound of frustration and slumped against the wall he was standing in front of. He knew he needed to actually go mingle and talk to the other people to find out who he was paired with, but couldn’t bring himself to do so. Letting out a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and took another small sip of champagne, praying that someone would bite the bullet and approach him first so that he didn’t have to walk around like a fish out of water, trying to find conversation
Valen included. Except not now.
His first view of the island should have caused amazement, should have caused him to stare in awe. Instead it sent alarm and panic sweeping through him like a fire to wood. It reminded him too much of En Malis, looked too much like the home he’d known for 22 years. He came here to get away from the troubles and tribulations, the murders and monstrosities of En Malis, not to be reminded of them. Glancing at Fae’An standing close by on deck, he wasn’t surprised to see a complete lack of care. His half-brother already didn’t care about the murders that happened daily in their home country, why would he care that Mirror Isle resembled their home?
Stay away from him said a tiny voice inside his head. Whether he’d be able to, he didn’t know. As he turned back to stare at the shimmering sea, his thoughts wandered back to the conversation he had with his father the day of departure.
◉ ◉ ◉
“Valen,” the King had begun, causing the prince to halt in his tracks and look back at the King.
“Yes?” replied the prince, stomach twisting.
“I know what you are, who you are,” The words were said in distaste, as if the son standing before him was nothing but dirt on the bottom of shoes. “Try your best to do En Malis proud, if you can.” The or else wasn’t said but definitely implied.
Swallowing nervously, Valen just nodded. “Yes, father. I’ll try.”
◉ ◉ ◉
Shortly after disembarking the vessel that brought him here, he walked the path that seemed to appear just for him. Upon arrival to the mansion, Val was met by who he presumed to be staff, grimacing slightly at the low bow that they greeted him with. He was tempted to tell the man to stand upright, tell him that he didn’t have to bow or use this unnatural level of formality with him. Valen just followed and said nothing.
He soon found himself standing alone in the middle of the bedroom, the door closing silently behind him. If others, particularly his family who thought they were the shit, saw this room, they’d turn up their noses in displeasure and demand to be given a bigger and more expensive bedroom. Not him. No. Valen absolutely loved this cozy little bedroom, from the small and comfortable looking reading sofa to the windowsill overlooking the sea. He spent a long time meandering around the room, fingertips tracing over a bronze vase and grinning as he felt it hum underneath them. Those same fingertips stroked over the silken bedsheets and caused him to think that maybe it was time for a nap.
Except it wasn’t time for a nap. His attention was caught by a letter and box resting in the middle of the bed, two things he didn’t notice before. Reaching forward, he grabbed the letter and proceeded to read it. Frowning, he then set the letter down and opened the box, finding a pair of pretty, silver scissors inside. What could he do with scissors? He cautiously reached into the box and delicately picked up the scissors, rotating them slowly in his hand and watching as the silver caught the sunlight.
It was a pretty gift, anyone could see that. Yet… he wished he wasn’t gifted anything. Gift giving was practically mandatory at home and he was tired of it, tired of everyone trying to outdo one another to give him expensive gifts. This seemed expensive too, but he couldn’t send it back.
So for the next hour or so, Valen paced the length of his room, trying to figure out what the scissors were for. There wasn’t any paper here for him to cut into pretty shapes, and he wasn’t about to cut the silken sheets to make clothes or anything. Was he supposed to cut his hair? But he liked his hair, wild and crazy as it was. Releasing the lower lip that he didn’t even realize he’d been chewing on, he decided it would be best to abandon the scissor quest for now.
Pulling an old, worn novel about some fantasy land he could only dream of living in out of his luggage, Val curled up on the small reading sofa and got lost in the book. At some point, he found himself sitting on the windowsill with the book in hand but put it down as the sun began to set. Staring idly at the sea, he began to think that maybe a swim wouldn’t be so bad, or maybe he could see if this beach had any pretty seashells to add to his collection. It all would have to wait until tomorrow, however. Now it was time to get ready for the ball.
Most would be excited about this part, filled with anxious anticipation or maybe even nervousness, curious about how the night will unfold. Valen was filled with nothing but dread. Not because he didn’t want to attend this ball, but because he hated his outfit. Yes, it was pretty and yes, it would suit him well, however, was way too extravagant for his liking. “Oh, the jeweled body piece will bring it all together!” one of the staff members back home who’d help him pack for this had exclaimed. If you say so.
Though instead of shying away and refusing to put the outfit on, he found himself doing up the buttons of the pants, slipping the cutout mesh shirt over his head followed by the jeweled piece and finishing up by shrugging on the silvery-gray jacket. Next came the accessories and to finish off the look completely, he lined his eyes with gray. That’ll do, he thought, setting the eyeliner down and picking up the letter that had appeared a few hours earlier off of his dressing table.
What was once a finely furled letter soon became a completely flat one due to the amount of times Valen read and re-read it, trying to memorize the clues he would use to find his elusive partner for this evening. He’d even begun to say them aloud when a knock sounded throughout the room, so he set down the letter, placed the eagle mask over his face and followed the staff member out the door.
The walk to the ballroom was silent save from the tinkling, musical laughter that carried throughout the halls. Val looked around, expecting to see other people but was met with nothing except paintings or topiary. Perhaps this was ghostly laughter of souls that had passed here, souls he could not yet see. He just hoped they wouldn’t bother him at the ball, since that was something he definitely did not need to be dealing with.
His steps faltered when they reached the building he presumed held the ball, wondering if they tricked him and led him to a haunted house. Reluctantly, he followed the staff into the building, nothing except apprehension swirling around inside him. That all went away the moment he stepped inside. This certainly wasn’t a haunted house. This was simply beautiful.
Valen departed with a whispered thanks to the staff that guided him here before cautiously taking a few steps into the room. He accepted a flute of champagne that was handed to him and cautiously took a sip as his eyes darted around the room, looking for anyone that could fit the bill of the four clues given to him for tonight. He spotted Fae’An but knowing they weren’t paired together and remembering his earlier thought, offered nothing but a forced smile and continued on with his visual search
When it yielded no results, Valen let out a sound of frustration and slumped against the wall he was standing in front of. He knew he needed to actually go mingle and talk to the other people to find out who he was paired with, but couldn’t bring himself to do so. Letting out a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and took another small sip of champagne, praying that someone would bite the bullet and approach him first so that he didn’t have to walk around like a fish out of water, trying to find conversation
coded by xayah.ღ
L3n
your moms a hoe
maharani archana
T
he smell of spice clung to her dress and veil as the boat left Wankudur’s harbor. The sea salt quickly washed away that small reminder of home. The air was thick and rich, foaming the water underneath the ship white as they passed. She could taste the salt in her mouth, making her feel unquenchably parched. She could feel the air burn in her nose, stinging with each inhale. The call of seagulls tickled her ears, the steady wind almost daring to drown them out. Archana stood there perched at the ship's railing, leaning over the side until Wandukur was just a dot in the distance; when she could no longer feel her home’s embrace. Her stomach dropped as a new feeling bubbled up inside.
Archana would be back. Her people would be fine. Her mother would be well taken care of. Everything would be okay, so why did she feel so.. bad? The Maharani’s heart sunk in her chest like a solid stone. Her breathing was shallow, her palms felt oddly clammy. Was she dreading the trip that much and she never noticed? Archana looked down at the sea helplessly as she swayed. It looked bottomless and uninviting even as it tempted her in. Her eyes lingered on the ripples the boat created as it sailed along. She couldn’t take it anymore, she wanted to go home. Archana leaned over the side of the boat and heaved.
It turned out to just be motion sickness.
The rest of the boat ride felt like a groggy dream. The kind one had paired with a bad fever. Everything blurred together and you felt warm, your skin felt sticky. She remembered clinging to the rail for the majority of the trip, holding on for dear life. Sailors tending to the ship approached her meekly a couple of times. Quiet and shy “are you alright”s had been ushered out. Archana recalled doing her best to put on a smile and wave them gently off. In hindsight, she probably looked dazed and delirious.
Once they finally arrived at the island placing her feet on the solid ground helped. The swaying she felt in her head stayed, however. Still, Archana held herself with as much dignity and grace as she could muster. Her posture was perfect, though she rocked with each step. No one could see the mess of hair underneath her veil. One thing she didn’t have to worry about was her face. An advantage of wearing a large chained Nath was that’s what drew strangers' attention. The Maharani would usher that her advisor, Anastius, would be the only one to notice how dead inside she felt from the trip. She found herself thinking about him as the servants vaguely gave her directions and sent her on her way.
The High Priest was incredibly hard to get along with. He felt like the oil to her water. No matter what one did or what they added Archana and Anastius wouldn’t mix. It wasn’t a sentiment she felt alone, either. The dislike they shared for one another was about the only thing they had in common. Archana breathed life into the nature she came across, stirring the world itself. Anastius seemed to pull from it, he seemed to want to destroy it. The Morbid One they called him. It fit.
Being an advisor one would conclude that he would be a guiding hand, helping her through her newly discovered role as royalty. That was far from reality. He was more so a bad fortune cookie. Vaguely giving off hints and riddles. He led her on a wild goose chase; she had to figure out everything by herself. It felt impractical. All that time she spent wasting, twisting over what little hints she got. But it was a challenge. Archana liked those, though she’d never give Anastius the satisfaction of knowing his unorthodox method happened to be motivating.
The competitor in her knew she couldn’t take too long to figure the riddles out. Her driven side wouldn’t let her, anyways. Once there was a problem Archana wouldn’t rest until she solved it. The issue currently happened to be a lack of sleep, how funny. She needed to rest her eyes, just for a bit. Not to mention a long, relaxing bath was calling her name.
As soon as she stumbled into her temporary room she sunk into the door. Her put-together exterior melted, her limbs becoming a puddle on the floor. Pounding head, tangled locks, and a salted sticky mess she was. She had hours to get ready for the ball and still had so much to do. Inhale, exhale.
Was that the smell.. of home?
Archana opened her eyes to take in her room. It wasn’t some ordinary guest lounge with a basic twin and dresser. Leave it to the Mirror Isle to go above and beyond. Her room wasn’t extravagantly big with shiny floors and empty walls. It wasn’t a personal ballroom with huge windows and a tall ceiling. It was small and homey. Red drapes fell from the ceiling like open hands, her bed was thick and decorated with throw pillows. Spare plants popped out vibrantly against the reds, oranges, and bright yellows. The light was so warm and gentle, basking her little room in a golden glow.
It looked like Wankudur as the sun was setting. It smelt of Kari Patta, a common household spice her mother was very generous with. And it sounded like the chatter of her village streets. She could hear them, her neighbors, through the walls. Pressing her ear against the door, she tried to make out what they were saying as if listening for gossip as she had in her own room. Tears prickled her eyes. She looked to the right, taking in a gorgeous shrine dedicated to Nashatra.
The first thing Archana did was pray.
✖✖✖
After a long bath and a short nap later Archana woke up refreshed. The motion sickness from the ship had worn off with rest, leaving her more alert than ever. The Maharani reached for her bedside table, plucking the box that was left on her bed. She had been too tired to open it before passing out. Before unwrapping her gift she weighed it in her hand. Whatever was inside felt sturdy, that’s for sure. A small, weighted object it seemed. Opening the present cautiously, Archana peered inside the box.
A statue of a deer stared back at her. She blinked. It blinked back. At least, she swore it did. Intrigued, she hesitantly picked up the animal. Expecting to feel a slight chill of the carving, her palm was met with a warm heat instead. Nope. She would deal with this later. Archana stood, making her way over to her dresser. She placed the deer on top, facing away from her bed. Before she had gotten rest she went through her closet beforehand. There were some Wandukur-style dresses. Red silks with golden embroidery. It had been her signature garment since before she could talk. The colors of her nation.
But that wasn’t what she was going to be wearing. Not in the slightest. Archana picked out the only light sea blue dress in her collection. She slipped on her hair ornaments, her corset, and a matching pair of extravagant gloves. Looking in the mirror she couldn’t recognize herself even without an enchanted mask. Her silky long hair flowed around her wing decorations like a water fairy. While red was her color, blue made her look serene. Like a rippling river, her dress cascaded out around her. It poofed and layered down to the floor, dragging behind her like a waterfall. How fitting was it that she just barfed in the ocean? She slipped on her mask before grabbing at the paper of information she had gotten.
Her heels tapped against the floor of the Heartmoor mansion as she read, accompanied by a snapping finger. For some, reading while walking was hard or dangerous. Archana happened to be a good multitasker and a bit of a showoff. With the clues she got, the Maharani was sure she’d find her match first. She was going to win. Even with it not being a race.. she’d win it. She had hesitated about wanting to find her date at all when she finished reading the paper the first time. The last clue made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. A thought in the back of her mind wouldn’t leave her be. If the Mirror Isle would tell her this horrid secret did that mean her partner knew hers?
Did they know that she…
Arriving at the ball early, Archana’s dress fluttered behind her like the wings adorning her mask. Amongst the chattering crowd, the royal did not feel the draw to dive right into a conversation. One of the clues she had gotten was physical, she just had to look at the other guest's hands. From there she’d be able to cross off the list until bam, she won the first date. She just had to stay off to the side until she was ready to mingle.
Or the party would come to her, she could work with that as well. Archana smiled as a woman approached her. She was wearing a pretty standard masquerade mask, but even in its simplicity, it looked to be bedazzled in crystals. Her dress had flowing puffy sleeves, her gown a cloudy soft purple. The stranger appeared soft, her speech far too polite and poetic to belong to someone who had such a nasty secret. Looks can be deceiving, especially at a masquerade ball, but Archana would bet that someone capable of something that despicable would not memorize an oddly specific scientific name of a bug for small talk. The stranger really said “Plebejus melissa samuelis.” Without context, Archana might have assumed it was a hex.
With a silent drawn-out intake, the Maharani switched gears, doing her best to match the eloquent speech her talking partner had. At home, they hardly if ever used such delicate and flowery talk outside of prayers. The stranger had written a poem as an introduction. Archana was happy she was at least witty enough to understand it. She gave a curtsy back. “Good evening to you as well. Lepidopterology is not quite an interest of mine either, but its variety of species is most definitely fascinating. I would say I’m more fond of wild fauna,” Archana spoke evenly, hardly giving a clue as to how out of her comfort zone she currently was. No matter how formal she spoke, her hands emoted with her, making her seem a lot more casual than she tried to come off as.
“You seem particularly well read in the subject of insects. Remembering such a precise name of a butterfly is quite the talent. Does your interest expand outside of creatures much? Let’s say to, for a wild guess, machinery?” Archana’s eyes glittered at the stranger with attentiveness. The moment the stranger had come over she knew it was unlikely they were a match. She was missing a key item, but maybe, just maybe she left it in her room.
coded by xayah.ღ
blue-jay
a secondary antagonist
lusille of vexira
T
The open sea was a welcome change but only as a temporary one. Soon, the busy bronze cityscapes of Vexira would call to Lusille again, and she would gladly return to work under its smoky sky. That was where she would always truly belong, regardless of any fleeting fancies.
Lusille’s pensive staring into the sky was interrupted by the voice of Penelope, a servant of the Liumei who was accompanying them on the journey: “Lady Lusille, are you alright?”
Lusille shrugged. She had been leaning on the edge of the deck but now turned slightly to face Penelope. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” She checked her watch as she spoke, noting that they were quickly approaching their estimated time of arrival at the Mirror Isle.
Penelope smiled sheepishly. “It’s just that this is your first time at sea. I was worried you may experience sea sickness. I’ve brought medicines just in case you—.”
The servant girl was cut off by the full, melodious laugh erupting from Lusille. After a long moment of musical Ha-ha’s, she said with a smile, “Penny, please don’t fret over me. I spent my childhood eating maggot-infested bread and inhaling all sorts of chemicals wafting over from the landfill. I likely have the constitution of a fucking lioness.” Turning back to the horizon, she could see the shape of the Mirror Isle beginning to peek over. She found herself smirking. “I’d be surprised if a few waves were enough to make me toss my cookies.”
Penny laughed with Lusille, at first nervously and then more relaxedly. She said, “Of course, Milady. Simply call for me if you need anything else,” before making her way over to the other side of the deck.
Lusille remained on the edge of the deck for some time, watching the Mirror Isle slowly grow bigger on the horizon, before getting bored and deciding to wander around. She inspected the ship’s anatomy: ran her hands across its sails, tapped the heel of her boot against the wood of its deck, pulled at its shrouds. It was made through a craft quite different from her own but a craft nonetheless, and so she was mildly intrigued. After all, there had been a time when this ship and others like it were the pinnacle of invention.
Eventually, Lusille’s wandering brought her to the upper deck and the wheel, where the Captain stood ensuring the ship stayed on course. She stared at the Captain for a few silent moments until he began to blush, and then she laughed heartily.
“Oh, Captain, no need to be embarrassed,” she said through chuckles. “I’m simply… curious.”
The Captain smiled shyly, a grown man reduced to bashfulness, before saying, “Curious about what, Milady? I could indulge you.”
Lusille’s face suddenly got serious and she leaned in towards the seaman. “What if I told you,” she began, her voice low and secretive, “that one day, ships could sail in the sky,” she motioned upward, “instead of the sea?” She motioned downward.
“I would say… that you are very ambitious, Milady.”
She looked back at the Mirror Isle getting bigger on the horizon, and a smirk spread across her face. “I’m more than ambitious, Captain. I am a fucking genius.”
And that’s why I’m here, she thought. Not because I’m a royal. Or the daughter of an aristocrat who inherited all his land from his daddy. But because I am the Inventor Princess. I worked my way to this island.
“Princess” was, of course, a purely symbolic title, and, if she allowed herself to think too much about the fact that she’d be in a room with actual princesses with actual pedigrees, it made her a little self-conscious. So, she simply didn’t allow herself to think about it!
-
As the ship was pulling up to the dock of the Mirror Isle, Lusille slid over next to her big sister, known to the world as the Crimson Daughter. "What're you thinking, Ran? Excited for a few months of romance, intrigue, and everything in between? A few backstabs and poisonings? A bloody duel if we're lucky?"
Ran simply shook her head and responded; “You know the reason why we even entertained the invite, Lusille. It has no use to imagine foolish things. Besides, excitement will find me once I am back home after completing our goal, not on that island”
Lusille pouted jokingly. "Don't be so unimaginative, Ran—all work and no play makes Jack a dull lad. What if," she dramatically swept her arm around and her tone mocked that of a dramatic poet, "you become smitten with a gorgeous, tall suitor from Auriche? Or a dashing, strong warrior from the fallen Tsuyaye? And love—a forbidden love even—blooms in the poisonous garden of international politics!"
Ran scoffed, before softly flicking Lusille’s forehead. “You read too much of those romance books; I fear it is currently affecting your realism. If I am to marry to secure our resources, then it may be so, but there will be no love blossoming of any kind. I have you, Xiaoyu and Nix — that is enough.”
Lusille laughed. This was the big sister she knew and loved, always putting the family first. She took comfort in the fact that Xiaoran, ever responsible, had her back, partially because it gave her insurance to start a bit of mischief. She replied, "I imagined as much. But when you find your heart swelling with overwhelming passions, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so.'"
-
Lusille was quite impressed with her room. It appeared that the host knew her well and had taken measures to ensure that she would be comfortable. The room had machinery galore: artificial lights, bronze veins running across the walls, cogs twisting all about, and a clock tick, tick, ticking (she loved that sound). On the right was a work desk where Lusille had set down some of her belongings, and on the left was a shelf full of trinkets that she was perusing.
She couldn’t lie: the designs of the trinkets were interesting. As much as she wanted to continue inspecting them, she had a feeling that the box and gold-edged letter on her bed were important, and so she made her way over to them.
She opened the box, genuinely curious and a little excited about the contents, and her brow furrowed when she found that it contained… empty bottles. Beautiful bottles. Lusille weighed one of them in her hand and then turned it around, examining the neat craftsmanship in the designs. And then—click! A mechanism? A delighted smile spread across her face. She’d have to find a fun way to put these to use later.
Next was the letter. Lusille expected it to be boring and only skimmed at first, but a few sentences caught her attention and caused her to give it a more careful reread. Lusille’s right eyebrow raised. A game of hints? A riddle of people? A challenge of wits? Lusille was very much up to it. Besides, her date sounded like quite the character, and Lusille hadn’t ever really spoken to anyone outside of Vexira. It would be interesting to meet them.
A maid soon arrived to help her get dressed, but Lusille gently waved her off; she preferred to dress herself. And as she stepped into her dress and slipped on her boots and accessories, she slipped the folded note into her bodice. She probably wouldn’t forget the hints, but it would be good to be able to revisit it for subtleties if needed. Puzzles were tricky like that sometimes.
She didn’t pay too much attention to the ominous text at the bottom. In fact, she practically laughed it off. After all, there were much worse things to be than what the letter claimed her date was.
-
Lusille stood near a column in the ballroom, downing a flute of champagne and munching on a pastry. She finished the pastry quickly and took a moment to curse the ridiculously small serving sizes before washing it down with the remainder of the champagne.
After handing off her cup to a servant, she turned her attention to the rest of the ballroom. Many people were already breaking into pairs or small groups, striking up conversation. Exquisite silks and jewels adorned graceful bodies. Everyone was so regal… Hmph! Lusille wasn’t intimidated by these people. She couldn’t be. She wouldn’t allow herself to be.
Across the ballroom, a woman fell on her face, and Lusille erupted in melodious laughter. Well, mostly everyone was so regal. It may have come off as mean, but she actually felt a sort of kinship with the fallen woman; watching her fall gave Lusille the last push she needed to throw herself into the fray—the elegant, silky, bedazzled fray. And if she fell on her face as well, she hoped that someone would at least get a laugh out of it.
She checked her watch: 22:03. Let’s begin!
Lusille was suddenly on the move, her speedy gait causing her to cover a large fraction of the ballroom floor within seconds. She was shorter and so were her strides, but she had the pace of a very busy woman. The boots under her dress click-clacked subtly as she walked. She looked around, scanning masked faces. She spotted Renshu as she walked and gave him a hesitant wave. She didn’t know what exactly her brother would do in an environment like this, but she was sure he could manage. Her older sister had her doubts about Ren, while Lusille was more… confused by him. But if there was one thing she wasn’t confused about, it was the fact that Ren was perfectly capable of surviving in potentially hostile environments.
As Lusille was passing a pair of women, she caught some of their exchange and stopped in her tracks. A mention of machinery? Her interest was piqued. She prepared to walk over to them, but then she got another idea. She flashed a mischievous smile in Xiaoran’s direction, and then looked back at the pair of women. She would get her sister to mingle… even if it involved a few mistruths.
She made her way over to the women, positioning herself so that they formed a triangle. She didn’t bother with a curtsy and instead gave the ladies a cheerful wave. “Hello! I’m sorry to interrupt, but I overheard that you—,” she leaned her head towards the fair-haired woman in a sparkly dress, and the horns of her impish mask stuck out slightly, “—are looking for someone interested in lepidopterology? I believe that my sister has mentioned moths to me quite a few times.” A complete lie. Lusille motioned towards where Xiaoran stood. “There she is over there, in the red. Doesn’t she look stunning?” Lusille gave a smile and a tilt of her head, indicating to the woman that she should approach the Crimson Daughter.
She then turned her attention to the other woman, who wore a blue ensemble with a butterfly mask. She looked quite impressive. “And I heard that you are looking for someone with an interest in machinery? Well, look no further.” Lusille bowed, but the form of it was clearly exaggerated for comedic effect. “Us Vexirans are pretty famous for our machinery, no? Admittedly, I don’t know much about the shit—erm, the things—that people from other countries say about us.”
She put a finger to her lip curiously and added, “How do you feel about knife-throwing? I’m afraid I’m not very deft with blades myself, but I imagine that it could make for a meditative hobby. Although, there are other methods of clearing the mind…” Lusille had dropped a hint and then a hint of a hint. She felt excitement swelling up within her but kept her demeanor cool. Had she already found her match?
She thought: If I have, then I really am a fucking genius.
MOOD
mischievous
OUTFIT
in discord
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
aeneas.
𝙖 𝙘𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙙𝙖 𝙘𝙮𝙘𝙡𝙚.
cesar ibarra.
"T
he weather is wonderful for travel, is it not?”
The words flowed as easily as the waves beneath the grand vessel. Cesar Ibarra was elated; smile challenging the light of the sun above. Perhaps his zeal was yet another reason Bandiama named him the Apollonian. The smile he adorned was almost comedic knowing how he was practically another person moments ago. Just before he aboard the boat the former revolutionary was standing solemnly by the dock. Acting as stiff as he was during the day of election results, when he was a youthful face who had more words in his mouth than meals. If anyone had saw him before the boarding, they could have compared him to a man awaiting execution. To his defense, his mind had been plagued with his reasons to travel for weeks. It was fair for him to have had the initial cold feet.Traveling outside of Bandiama’s jungle wasn’t a luxury he had always had at his disposal—a void he once filled with the exploration of his own land’s wilderness. And now that he was presented with the opportunity and ability, it had almost been overwhelming. As if this acted as the final straw of trading in one life for another. By leaving his home for the first time—be it temporary- he somehow was choosing a second life not expected from him. And that the metaphorical second life would see his weakness and like a pride of lions, pounce and tear him apart.
If someone had told Cesar when he was a scholar cooped up in a dormitory that he’d be attending an event that was last held a century ago as a minister of Bandiama. The ambitious teenager would have been over the moon—eager to embrace the cultures and experience a whole other world.
It is ironic that I once dreamed of adventure beyond while finding joy in my own adventures home. And now the roles are reversed, I only wish to stay.
It was unbecoming of him, he himself conceded to the fact. Almost demeaning that a man that had once challenged the noble hierarchy could even think to feel an ounce of inferiority. To feel a smidge of doubt. To fear the unknown. To show weakness.
He was lucky to have met eyes with friendly faces before self-loathing overcame him to the point he’d be greeting the local sea life. The captain, the crew, and the fellow representatives who joined him, most he was familiar with and those he didn’t at least knew him. Or at least knew of him. The presence of the small crowd quickly mended his worries.
And whatever remained was drowned out by the sea’s thrashing waves and the light-hearted banter he made with the crew.
✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲
Marblewish mansion seemed to have stolen Cesar’s voice away as he was left without words. The foliage reminded him distantly of home—although the humble houseplants he used to add life to his home couldn’t even compare to the grandeur. Other than the greenery, everything was unfamiliar from what he has seen beyond this point. Only reminiscent of the pictures of castles and rich architecture he had seen in books.
The comparison made the entire ordeal feel fantastical, straight out of the pictures of fairytales and fables. And it was as if he was playing the role as the curious protagonist—each step with interest as he walked deeper into wonderland. Much like a clueless protagonist in these twisted tales, he journeyed alone. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling to walk alone to the upmost floor in order to get to his room. Yet there was a shift in the tone when he made it to the very top. There were birds about though he was unfamiliar with what kind as their song was not a tune Cesar had heard before. Perhaps a native species to the island. To most, their melody may be perceived as somber; paired eerily with the silence from all other beings around. But to Cesar, he heard romance.
His room’s interior only heightened the feeling; songbirds and the painted walls mingled together to create a scene so romantic. Don’t be fooled, the romance he meant wasn’t entirely the type that pictures frolicking lovers and soft affections. It was the literature and art found in romanticism; the way passion moved fluidly, regardless of consequence. Passion in the pursuit of anything be it life, love, or liberty. It reminded him of his most favorite poetry, yet every moment lost in the madness, he felt a soft melancholy. He saw remnants of the art in the ways the swans on the walls cried for food and how the innocent children provided without a second thought. Did the ancient myths resting on the ceiling intend to watch the walls or the occupants? When was the last time this room housed a living being that wasn’t a bird?
High ceilings and expansive floors, Cesar felt like he could have gotten lost within if it weren’t for the bareness of the room. Whoever had prepared his room clearly had a love for tidiness and light furniture to emphasize the room’s brightness. It made the carefully wrapped box and a letter on his bed stick out like a sore thumb. Curious, he took the package from his bedside, unwrapping the box only to find a lovely-looking egg.
A Faberge egg if he wasn’t mistaken.
“How charming.”
He smiled at the egg as if it was the sender and had wrapped itself up for Cesar to open. It would be correct to think that Cesar was a sentimental person, he loved gifts most of the time. More so for the thought rather than the item, his reaction to the anonymous host gifting him a piece of coal would have gauged the same gracious reaction from him. Upon closer inspection, there seemed to have been a mechanism to crack open the egg. With further curiosity and determination driving him through the roof, Cesar fiddled around with the Faberge egg until he heard a satisfying click.Inside the egg were vials. Strange. Cesar didn’t entirely have any idea what he could do with the hidden gift within a gift, but he appreciated the almost puzzle-like feel of the entire ordeal. It had reminded him of the games he would play in his pass time.
The next order of business was the letter. The mention of a masquerade alone suddenly made the minister’s face heat then quickly pale. Social gatherings were once enjoyable for the lone Ibarra—on some occasions they still were, but the gathering of nobility often left him feeling an impending sense of dread. There was a clear difference between a festival in Bandiama’s provinces than to dinner parties with family names that still hold a sense of meaning in everywhere but law. Whenever Cesar found himself at the sort of events he always felt the need to somehow prove himself. That those around him were waiting for him to do so.
His face heated at the promise of a date. Despite his reputable title back at home and the requests of courtship he had received because of it, Cesar didn’t date. He hadn’t since he organized his first protest, and he was starting to believe he wouldn’t till he secured his candidacy for Tsai.
Although this isn’t for the sake of courtship and affairs now is it? Think of it as an opportunity to build connections, Cesar.
Right. Just another puzzle and way to engage with others. He ignored the faint feeling of interest when he read the clues of his mysterious date. Innocent to what was crudely written below the pleasantries above.It was when he discovered it that the heat in his face turned cold and he went pale. There truly is more than meets the eye. In nature, the most predatory animals on the food chain hide among the most beautiful fields. The same analogy could be said with Cesar. With his date. With possibly the entire roster of representatives he has yet to meet. It was concerning, to say the least as a third party. However, with his own past, the additional information wasn’t one he could judge his date for. Not when the path he has led was not one clean from crimson stains. Willfully, he decided to act as if the additional texts were but a smudge of spilled ink on the paper. Left to be ignored.
✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲
Cesar’s entrance to the peacehall wasn’t grand nor head-turning, but he preferred it to be that way. The attire he brought was not created from his own imagination. It had been given to him by those who knew much better than him about fashion and aesthetics. Call it a gift from his colleagues. A reward to reflect his apparent “loyalty to his duty”. He felt like a doll who had been played dress-up with. In a bedazzled uniform that reminded him of Bandiama’s warriors and a mask that was handmade to resemble the sun. A blatant reference to a coined name he was given the day his nation adopted him as their own.
How ironic was it for the Apollonian—the critic of nobility, to be drinking among royalty? The thought didn’t help him feel even more out of his element. It was an awkward feeling to say the least.
Listening idly in on conversations as he made his stride with no clear path to where he was going. Talks of insects, machinery, music, and the like. All topics that weren’t connected to either his interests or his date. The mission to find one’s date turned out to be more challenging for Cesar than he thought. That or it was actually extremely easy and he just didn’t want to strike up a conversation.
It was likely the latter of course.
Fed up with his own behavior, Cesar refused to continue being missing in action. He was better than this, truly, he was. Taking another sip of liquid courage, he searched for conversation among the sea of people. Everyone had dressed so nicely; he almost felt a bit underdressed—
Enough Cesar. Focus on the task at hand.
Of course, the line between the ex-revolutionary’s apparent humility and developing self-hate was thin. Just hours into the masquerade and it was beginning to look bleak for him.When he was debating himself to concede to the masquerade’s game of the night, an opportunity arose. Alright. Perhaps it would be much to say “opportunity” when Cesar really meant a person of interest. They say that misery loved company and the man dressed in glimmering jewels stood against a wall in a stance that reflected Cesar’s inner desire to leave. If anything, it showed that they would at least have something in common. And at the end of the night, Cesar Ibarra was a man of chivalry, he wouldn’t want to leave anyone lonely.
So, he bit the bullet and walked up.
“Having trouble making banter? I fear I’m the same when it comes to events like this.”
Up close, Cesar was able to appreciate the other’s mask which had been shaped like an eagle, and the waves of curls that had peaked beyond it. If the man hadn’t been alone, it wouldn’t be surprising to the minister if he would have been the center of attention. “You look remarkable by the way; I was worried that I would arrive underdressed and you proved me right.”
Light laughter blended with the end of his sentence.If another had said the compliment it wouldn’t be wrong to think it was an attempt to butter another up, but with Cesar, it was completely genuine. Fellow Bandiama ministers would accuse him of possessing the magic of charmspeak. Wherein reality, it was just Cesar speaking the way he always spoke. No magic attached. (Plus, the poor man didn’t actually possess magic, what a cruel world) It was also probably his smile, welcoming and bright.
Besides, what were the harms of being polite? The night was still young and despite the thrill of matching a face to a description of hints, he had more than enough time to make pleasantries without the ulterior motives of finding the answer. Good things come to those who wait after all.
MOOD
chivalry is not dead
OUTFIT
check discord !!
coded by xayah.ღ
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cavitea
𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧
hisoki of tsusaye
I
Here in this ball it was better to act underneath, hands pushing down into crumbling Earth and whispering contempt to the Gods slumbering beneath.
Hisoki was instead, a dog.
Bound before an emerald that whisked herself in shining carats to the recesses of his mind, tapping so brazenly along the interior corridors of his thoughts. She was different in the way that made skin curl and breaths hasten; it was constricting and elegant and an experience he only had at the first step off the island, faced with the unknown. So he breathed in desperation, an exhale that floated warmly up into the petals of his mask as the barrage of sugared insults came to a close in a mouth one could have admired had it not been so foul.
Relief came before his words found him, eyes that met and found themselves warmly greeting each other again as the bend of his body returned the bow offered, the thinnest of smiles chancing themselves onto stiffened lips. “Insects? While respect for life is appreciated in my own I must admit I’d rather they take refuge in a sphere outside of my own.”
Reflected, however, was the looked offered lightly to him, a comment upon his decorative status that found itself slashed cleanly with a sword and fluttering like a broken paper decoration.
“You flatter me, truly. From one that exudes only the most admirable of qualities I find myself indebted to you for your kindest comments. Please,” His form bent again, a hand brushing against the pale silks on his breast before he offered veiled eyes once more, “If it gives you pleasure you can refer to me as simply Moon if it easens speech; a nickname of old but befitting of such mysterious circumstances. Besides, I find honorifics stifling when eyes cannot be connected fully.”
Twitch was the only word to describe his features as they broke for a moment, eyes shifting to the velveteen judge before a step took him abreast the metal-clad mountain and dutifully further from the lips that viled. Something pressed along the back of his spine, a whisper of a ghost that spoke warnings to the one before him, the entity they stood unashamedly against as a card made itself more visible among the two, inked words in a softened scrawl marking down viable information on potential island candidates. “Working alongside you to puzzle through our letters might take us to more … amicable company. At least a stroll along such an entrancing environment might allow me to prove that, in your words, I am not merely a piece of decor.”
Dangerous to poke the beast, perhaps, but necessary.
Another world saw the ivory-carved knight shuffle forward along wood, braying in the stilled air as if to call forward the challenge as he bowed only a chin forward to the woman they were leaving behind.
“Please forgive my departure, my lady. May your evening be as unconventional as your words of greeting. Perhaps we should meet again if the Gods, auspicious as they may be, find me worthy of further punishment.”
Blood could have filled his mouth if he had bitten the tongue that wagged fast enough. Enemies were not what he was sent here to find, a ring and a promise only there to guarantee and furthering of power over the frivolity of war. This, perhaps, could be his singular exception for the time being, teeth flashing between lips before a hastened body took away flower and stone, gliding in an uneven pace.
“My daring bite does not speak true to my character, so you know. I am not sure how deeply this will aide you but your defense of my appearance seems already enough appreciated that I could not see a better candidate to share in my knowledge with.” Words of woven elegance, years of studying and head bowed over novels of phrases and foreign customs as a card made its appearance once more and slipped with a hushed whisper between them.
Hisoki would find it within himself to thank this stranger again on better terms, a promise silently crossing his lips as the two looked along written notes and the occupants of the room.
Cordial was the best he would allow himself to the stranger still, movements along the floor a quiet dance as eyes scoured the room through veiled petals. Hisoki knew the discernable feature of his expected date was a challenge on its own, an object easily stowed away under layers of fabrics or pinned in locations unbecoming of his eyes. Yet they were elegant, he could discern. A poem wrapped tightly in the weathered noose of expectations; a classical upbringing wrought with something that stained and tasted of iron in jam.
“Like autumnal leaves on winter snow.” Again they fell, a curtain of petals as chin turned expectantly, incomprehensibly.
A look was offered once more to the mountain beside him, a card slipped away in a secret between them before falsities lined along, a smile forced with the gentle pressure he could offer to the crook of an arm. “Forgive me, brave one. I may be misguided yet but I find myself with the need to leave your presence in search of another. Falter not in your quest and …” Hesitation trickled down, a simple whimsical wish for another meeting lingering as his hand slipped away from their hold.
A flash had glimmered, light that caught in a way beckoning him now as a moth to flame, step echoing in a rush of blood to his ears. There was no room for mistake for one that had fallen so far but chances would have to be tried eventually, risks. Velvet bottom moved across the chess board, a striking piece with unequal power that risked a life to save the other as a hand refrained from the need to pick and prune and he halted himself. Petals fell for another moment around him, taking delicate homes up in blankets of silk and winking carefully to the carven form he had chanced himself in front of. Pin fashioned of delicate material almost shook his hand in a silent welcome before he was bowing again, deep in motion and body.
“Forgive me for my sudden appearance.” His features rose, the flush of spring peeking warmly in the glimpse of victory from under delicate mask.
“I find myself not the stranger to puzzles yet all the same in awe of the answer. My lady, if you are gracious on this night, I ask humbly for a collection of your minutes under the stars to belong in mine possession.” Skin curled upward, an offering of gentility and warmth that fell softly between them, an invitation extended in softened palm and moonstruck skin. “Besides, if my understandings tell me correctly you have been privy to information on my lowly self.”
“Please, I can only hope our kindly hosts have not spread a negative appeal about myself, lest I banish those words further away. After all, with your expertise in language I'm sure you can find things get lost in translation.”
Fingers were still extended, a cage of an offer that carried in the bones of vengeful spirits before but now hung loosely; expectantly.
Needingly.
MOOD
softly, deftly.
OUTFIT
discord.
coded by xayah.ღ
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miyabi
𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨
MAYARI DALISAY; BANDIAMA
M
Patience.
It has become the foundation of most things encountered in her lifetime. Restraint over haste, to maintain the equanimity welded into childhood thoughts since before her firm grasp of time; most would say that it is what Mayari has been built upon. Or, rather, it is the notion heavily believed, but never quite practiced. She is hasty, in more ways than one; she is unpredictable, like the raging seas, the rapid waters that strike against heavy rock. And undoubtedly, she is impatient, but such impatience is reserved under the pretense of diligence and serenity.
She lurches forward, the spines of her whip sword in collision with his—therein a grunt of vexation. “Again,” her father straightens himself as Mayari regroups, sword brought back into a singular piece, straightened and held firmly in pressure-white palms.
They’d gone in circles then, few movements in between, the shine of blades in the wind: though she cannot prevent the urge to wriggle in anticipation, a quick dissection of expression and maneuver. Antsy. Excitable. Foolish. Mayari lurches again, presented with only a throbbing pain in her gut, the gust of wind befall formerly pursed lips. The collision of the body against stone column, a disoriented mien plastered upon crimson cheeks glistened with sweat. “Watch. Your. Haste.” Words bitten through stark pauses become ruminations, the everlasting impression that she, once again, has failed.
“I was patient. If I hadn’t moved, we would’ve been there for an eternity,” Mayari spits back, gathering herself from dust.
“It was a few seconds.”
“Same thing, papa.”
It was the consequence of time, how she was unable to properly dictate how much had passed. Impatience: the old reflex that never dies. “You should be more careful with that sword.”
A snort, quickly covered by her own hand, “isn’t this how it’s supposed to be used?”
Her father nods, a short message of “fair enough” embossed into sporadic wrinkles, “remind me next time to use the wooden ones.” There is a momentary silence, the light batter of hands against cloth dusting off the remnants of dirt from thread in Mayari’s quick motions. “Stand up straight.” Another nitpick, it never abandons familial lips. Mayari straightens in return, the subconscious habit of following word no matter the foolishness of it. “You know. Maybe you’d be married by now if you,” he clears his throat, points the end of his blade in a telling manner—wrist loose, “ahem. Attended your etiquette classes.” Further emphasis nestled deep in the intertwined words: ‘etiquette classes.’
While it shouldn’t have mattered whether or not she’d made her attendance, it mattered more than it should have. It was the consequence of her own lack of poise, bridging the aperture of her decorum; she should act accordingly, as the holder of the Dalisay name though it may not mean much anymore. Questionable, but never questioned. “How do you know I don’t show up?”
“A father knows,” he pauses, snorts much like her, and sheaths his weapon with care, “and you’re not as good at secrets as you think.”
“Are you going to tell mama?”
“No. You’re old enough to decide whether or not you should go,” a soft thud trails behind words, weapon settled in its hidden case, “not going is the right decision.”
There is reason unknown why the statement stings: perhaps it is the thought of realizing her selfishness, the thought of rebelling against the wishes of the mother she wishes to please in all devotion. And perhaps the statement had not been intended to do such harm. “I always felt like I was doing something wrong,” her voice, sheepish, quiet not—the contrast from the mischievous confidence in only short, prior moments.
“Is that why you never showed?”
She nods, a partial confirmation.
Scribbles, swift strokes of ink on paper—ideations in the form of barely-legible chicken scratch—Mayari writes in hastened waves of doubt.
“Make us proud,” her mother says. Because she knows that Mayari will sit for her.
“No, you’ve already made us proud,” her father retorts. Because he has seen his daughter clearly.
Mayari has come to two stages: the first is the immediate guilt, to leave the family behind while they sit idly, reliant on her protection; the second is the gut-wrenching, spine-chilling caress of independence that she is unable to decipher whether or not she is ready for. Trapped within the confines of family and expectations, one’s self-dependence is often dulled, such individualistic thoughts were often disapproved, mouths upturned into microscopic smiles when all self-governing is relinquished for the sake of blood. An upheld reputation, that is what matters most, a selfish thought despite the selfless “beliefs” the Dalisays had often toted alongside themselves. And for good reason, Mayari, like most, abhorred the behaviors entangled with it.
A cage, freedom remains in the outskirts as she claws between the bars without much thought. Though it widens, sinks further into depths until she can no longer see the stronghold; its presence still there, waning—in some instances, no longer being able to see the bars is enough, the false sense of sovereignty in thick mists.
She proved herself alive, a self-preserved, independently thinking glow in a sinking ship of self-doubt and anxiety; she has proved that she will live this memory invasively, exploring the exhilaration separate from home. The small taste of what freedom could be, horrifying and beautiful, hangs over her head. To inferno shall her guilt drown, even in the everlasting pain of leaving a home behind, even temporarily.
Home grows further apart, its silhouette in the distance; it whispers a goodbye, thick jungles and the chirp of animals—they, too, bless her with a goodbye. She feels its tears, its warm embrace detach from her bone. Yet it grants a fond farewell, shares the sight of beauty that she has seldom seen in times before; as the sunlight kisses the leaves, the fur and the flesh, the shores sandy and adorned with footprints.
“The weather is wonderful for travel, is it not?” A statement made with the function of truth, a man’s voice shares the sentiment that whirred in the depths of her thought. His voice, smooth, like the surface of marble—familiar. Her eyes, glazed with a mixture of sorrow and glee, meet the Apollonian with a gaze; the portrait of a lasting legacy, decisions she thought admirable clashed with the feeling of an implanted notion of loathing (the product of a mother’s statements). She called it a stupid kind of bravery as Mayari fought back an objectional retort.
Conflicted. Confused. Moreso starstruck. To be in the presence of the Apollonian meant being in the presence of the brave, the selfless; a shining beacon of hope and trust.
She gulps, a quick nod of agreement muddled along with a tumble of words, “it is. However, in some ways, there is a bitterness in it.” Mayari pulls the gaze away, sure to hide the shine of captivation in his presence, “do you think you will miss home, too?”
"We have barely left the dock and I already miss it. Especially my warm bed." He chuckles lightly at his own joke. "But perhaps some time away will be good for us. We learn from others, build relations, and when we return, maybe we return with more appreciation for home. With more knowledge. That's one way to see it, right?"
In more ways than one, he is right; not a single word spoken incorrect. Such interaction had only solidified the impression in her head, how the Apollonian was more than a revolutionary. He is wise, a mindful man to which she understands the people’s admirations. Her brows furrow, a small smile loosened from her formerly tense lips; there was a satisfaction felt, one of which the weight of her worries waver. Briefly, she laughs with him, yet the capacity to continue fleets; catching onto the wheeze-laugh that competed. “You’re right. We can finally traverse the knowledge we lack—grow in ways we haven’t thought possible,” Mayari lifts her head, a form of defiance from unkind thoughts.
Her peripherals catch the body of another, one whose figure lures the emotions jumbled about: a gut-wrenching feeling.
There is peace in where she resides for the time being; one that she has not felt in recent etches of memories. No longer is there the bitter murmur of scared anticipation, only the veil of tranquility that binds its fingers with hers. Ornate lines are drawn with precision, exemplary care that she cannot help but admire. A sweetness overpowers overthinking, the blossom’s scents carrying the weight of the barely-scathed pieces. Reality, here, has become the spoken-over child; a fantastical wind blowing over it, almost whisking it away, tucking anxieties behind her.
'Welcome, Mayari. I have heard of you, even if you have not heard of me. I hope you will do your reputation justice. For now, I offer you this gift; I hope it will slow down whatever thoughts of fear you might have.' The note vocalizes what the room wished to say. Comfort, it holds her in its grasp.
She reaches for the box laid atop her bed, meticulously wrapped in divinity. Its contents spread wonder in her eyes, the unfamiliar fruit whose flesh bore scents wildly different from the ones she’d found herself used to.
Don’t be greedy, save some for the family. An intrusive thought, it worms its way from the crevices of a once-clear mind. Mayari does not listen, only follows the will of her gut as she brings a blue, darkly spotted fruit to her teeth. It is reminiscent of a childhood memory, a carefree brightness from within: how she, as a child, played with the servant boy and another child she cannot speak much of. How they climbed branches and hills, trekked long halls in their games of fantasy. Another bite warrants another familiar taste, one she has had an ample amount of. Banana, sweet and soft, a gentle touch.
If you were to stand at the windows of her mind, crane your neck sideways: there, then, are the ideations that she is too afraid to chase on her own. Yet the note left challenges this issue. To search for a date as she fears the unpredictable. In more ways thought, she embraces it, bites into the fruit once more with a smirk filled in determination. To find one’s own date with such little clues, an exhilarating turn of events.
Columns and structures share stories that seemed passed down from centuries, eons. Though she cannot quantify the bodies of which have floated in each space, nor can she comprehend the amount of exchanged words in such vicinity. Mayari is lost in her thoughts again, an interruption manifested in the form of collision.
A yelp, she just barely caught herself, a quick freeze in her limbs as she looks up at the figure. The metallic shine shares breaths with her eye's gape, solid formations of scales and human stand before her; a towering height over her stature, one that she has never encountered in the form of flesh and bone, only in stone. Mayari's gasp nearly turns to a scream, both mortified and quick astonishment. "I. You," the woman crumbles into a pile of overthinking, "you're. Are you real?"
Of course they're real.
"I mean. Wow, I'm-I'm," Mayari speaks through a stutter again, a quick loss of her composure before she regrounds herself, mind flooding her with the comforting thought of her room. "I'm. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. You're just... tall." She purses her lips, holds out a hand and bows her head for a handshake, "I didn't see you there. Everything is shiny. I got a bit distracted." Her word vomit overcomplicates a conversation that shouldn't have been, the quick need of crawling into a ball becomes an overwhelming thought. She succumbs to the embarrassment, lowers her head in speech before recoiling such thought, a quick turn of events in which she holds her head confidently. Fake it 'till you make it.
MOOD
GET ME OUTTA HERE IM SO EMBARRASSED
OUTFIT
discord.
coded by xayah.ღ
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BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
aline bellegarde
T
Insects also made her pause, a grimace scrawling her face. Looking at the man in the flowing robes, she guffawed under her breath.
“Not a hobby or interest for me, unfortunately,” Aline responded in a light voice, in turn. She shuddered at the thought of bugs, to any degree. She could find pleasure outdoors, such as riding or participating in some theatre under the stars, but there was no delight to bugs infiltrating her space. She would have elaborated, but the stranger’s following words made her clench her jaw.
It appeared that what she’d said was vastly misinterpreted. While her original statement had, of course, been riddled with the judgement she so rarely withheld from others, the intent really hadn’t been to overtly offend. Though the stranger that had arrived quickly dashed her words to perceived insults. Decorations weren’t offensive were they? To be seen as the brightest, most gaudy star in the sky was a privilege, as Aline would have it.
She felt sorely cut off now, and as such a jealous pang of green seemed to bloom straight from the emerald velvet of her dress. Doing her best to keep a smile, though the grip on her drink’s stem was ever increasing, half of her considered tossing back the drink here and now. In her heart she knew it would be the second mistake of the evening, and she did not want to afford making any more sour impressions.
Perhaps Auriche's ways were not as well intended as she’d assumed she’d be able to get away with. The notion, returning her to the infancy of her first days in court and at balls, made her want to crawl into a small hole and die. The fact that the stranger would ask the man, this Moon as he said to be called, to help with their dates was even more of an insult to her.
Though she’d not be audibly aghast at it. She didn’t need anyone’s help-- so it mattered not.
This continued to inflame her heart, feeling the heat rise, but she unconsciously went to idly dig at her thumb nail beneath her glove with her pointer finger, sweeping her arm behind her back. It stung terribly, irritation from before rearing its ugly head, but it was grounding.
Moon’s words as he moved to depart with the stranger left Aline withholding any more scathing departures. Rather, accepting the blow to her ego, she offered a curtsy to the two.
“But of course. Good luck on your ventures,” Aline sang, holding out her drink as she waved a few fingers. The best outcome she could hope for, however, was that both strangers could depart with the sweet smell of rose and juniper, as she preferred to wear, and to never forget the scent.
To matters of the self, however, Aline was quick to try and lick her wounds. She’d not be left standing, so turning sharply on her heel she moved to weave through the peacehall once more. Staring down at the bubbling contents in her hand, against her better judgement, as alcohol was better as a prop during socials than for actual consumption, she shot the whole thing back. Caring not, in the briefest of moments, what anyone who wandered by would see.
She needed to correct her game. Chess, for instance, a game that she so adored, required as much logical tactics as it did spur of the moment adaptation. It was foolish of her to be so grand with a stranger.
What would her parents have said, if they had seen that?
“Mind yourself,” Aline whispered to herself so quietly, depositing her empty flute for another full one. So she’d try again. “Fall off a horse, get back up. Fall off a horse, get back up.”
Her gaze swept the room, parsing out costumes and ensembles and finding some features that she could attribute to other nations. Radiant colours, sweeping hems and shining metals distinguished themselves within the hall. From somewhere over, she swore she recognized the silhouette of Princess Katherine, a girl she’d known in passing from courtly affairs.
But she did not approach. Rather, Aline simply moved, lending an ear to whatever discussions she could include herself into. It was not so hard, was it?
Yet, as the wall towards one end of the peace hell came into view, spying two gentlemen conversing, Aline became acutely aware of the spin that had begun behind her eyes. Recounting her day, and what she had eaten… With how fast she’d polished her last flute of champagne? Even the little amount was enough to begin to sway her perspective.
Maybe standing at the wall as best. To at least find some grounding that was not purely psychological.
Her back hit rather hard, Aline gasping just a little bit, but she crossed her arms to mask the shock. Throwing a glance to the two, hearing their light conversation, she pressed a smile onto her face once more.
Mind yourself.
“Pardon me,” Aline said, leaning just slightly. “Two well-dressed gentlefolk as yourself, I would hate to interrupt but… Do either of you enjoy the pursuits of a hunt? Animals I mean… Oh well, I think, animals, at least.”
Why not begin to immediately unravel her mysterious dates’ clues? It was the most forward she’d been, and she hated the lack of affectivity in her words, but there was time yet to ease in. So long as she did not meet her third stone wall, be it physical or conversational, of the night.
coded by xayah.ღ
Wandering Owl
It just matters that someone was listening.
alon magsino
T
he sun beat down endlessly on the ocean, not a wisp of cloud to challenge it. Their ship, which had seemed so majestic in the harbor, was dwarfed by the endless expanse of water, just as the vessel itself dwarfed the figures standing on the sunlit deck. Alon would confess to not knowing much about sea travel, but it was hard to disagree with Cesar’s praise of the weather. He turned his face to the wind and listened to his companions talk. In his periphery, he caught Mayari’s defiant head tilt. The gesture pulled a corner of their mouth crooked.
“And with any luck, our journey will be a swift one.”
The words came out sharper than he had intended. It wasn’t that Alon was seasick, exactly, but the amalgam of anxiety, excitement, and vertigo that sat coiled like a serpent in the pit of their stomach, growing with every moment they spent aboard, meant he may as well have been. Too many unknowns, too much potential, hanging high over their head like that infamous sword. Once they were on the island, it would fall. One way or the other. Success or disgrace. Whatever happened, it would be a welcome release.In the end, he slipped downstairs, out of the sun’s glare. The closed door of his cabin provided only the slightest of remedies to the tension within. They heard no further talk of Mirror Isle until they felt the boat shift and settle to a halt, and heard the preparations to disembark on the floorboards above.
Nothing they could do now except move forward.
Alon parted from the other two after they alighted on the rocky shore, cordially informed they were staying elsewhere. He kept his goodbyes brief. This was supposed to be a communal event, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be too long until he saw them again.
“Just follow me, sir.”
His guide bowed their head. It felt odd, being treated to the reverence and grandeur that surrounded him, the same as any other royalty. They had worked so much against those systems. They were no stranger to power imbalances, but always with the philosophy of progression baked in, the idea that anyone working beneath him had the potential to study and persevere and rise to that level, all one part of the same system. He didn’t know what he was expecting from his room. Perhaps yet more of the elaborate scarlet-dipped antiquity that had surrounded him since stepping foot into the grounds of this mansion. He’d dreaded it a little, as he made his way upstairs.
Instead, a sudden flood of sensations greeted them. The colors and the smells, the way the light trickled through the shifting leaves all seemed to abstract into an overwhelming, aching familiarity. Alon stood frozen, caught as if in a dream. And then slowly, slowly, as they began to adjust, like pupils expanding in the dark, cracks showed in the perfect illusion. The vines supported by finely carved pillars and archways; the books scattered with deliberate precision against the edge of the water. The wilderness, set carefully at odds in a setting so manufactured. It may have seemed as though nature was reclaiming this room, but Alon was sure their hosts would not permit anything to do any permanent damage. A temporary facade to please the guests. Nothing more.
With their luggage set down in their room, Alon was quick to dismiss any offer of further help. A veneer of graciousness stretched thin over their impatience to be alone. As the door closed, it felt like letting out a held breath. They threw themselves down onto the bed, and a flicker of gold caught their eye. A letter, and a box. Their hands closed first around the letter, eyes skimming the text enclosed within.
He had thought that this event would be like the old image of royalty. Gild without substance, endlessly self-congratulatory, full of antiquated protocol and discussions too abstract to ever make a real difference. The whole event was a centuries-old ritual, played out the same way over and over. He had viewed this place, this room, this letter, all with the same unconscious detachment. A mental step back, or perhaps upwards, looking ever-so-slightly down his nose at those who hadn’t had the clarity of mind to move forward.
As his eyes caught the trail of ink, smudged like a bloodstain, he pulled the paper close to read the words scrawled within, and the metaphorical distance had burned away along with the literal.
Everything now felt very, very real.
There was a secret shared here, one its owner could not have wished him to know. The thrill of forbidden knowledge, quickly muddied by the thoughts that followed it. How would the hosts have learnt this? What was given in exchange to this person he has never met, has no knowledge of other than the pencil-sketch formed from trivial clues?
In search of clarification, or distraction, they reached for the box. Rag-edged nails tore into the paper, uncovering what lay beneath.
A cold marble mask stared back up at them. A prop for the masquerade, or–
Restlessness overtook them. On their feet before they were conscious of what they were doing, they paced the room. Back and forth. Like a caged animal. Mapping out every inch, through pillars and around the edge of the pond. Unable to extinguish that fire of impulse. Out into the crimson-stained corridor. There must be other people staying here, but luck or timing or both made his exploration a solitary one. Down through grand dining rooms, past rose-tinted glass, out to a garden of twisted thorns and fallen leaves. The afternoon sun shimmered off the sea, drawing their gaze to the distant horizon. No sight of their homeland. No sign of any land at all. Just the flat divide, stretching all around them. As they stared out over the water, they could feel that same roiling current pulsing in their chest. His conscious mind urged them to heed where he needed to be, when they needed to be there, what would people think if he was late or missing? The untamed fire that burned their lungs simply beat out its constant rhythm, an endless go, go, go. Twin serpents intertwined, pulling against each other. They reared back, and struck, and he could stand it no longer. The doorway pulled him in like a rope tied tight around his waist.
It was late by the time he returned to his room. The skies were darkening outside the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. He dressed alone by choice. Calling for help felt like an unnecessary delay. They were thankful, at least, that the outfit didn’t include anything that limited his movement too much. The clasps around his arms proved a little tricky, awareness of clock ticking down only aiding his fumbling, but at last everything was secure.
The mask he had been given lay discarded on the bed. He may not have known much about their hosts or their wishes, but he had his own plans for tonight.
As he entered the ball, Alon put a hand on the letter in their pocket. They had tried their best to commit the details to memory, but it just felt better to have it to hand. A reminder, of what this place held. Of danger and discovery.
He was abruptly aware of a figure standing behind him. They spun around, too quickly, biting back harsh words. Only a servant girl holding a tray of drinks. She flinched, and Alon quickly schooled his expression. There was a welcome sense of disconnection to this mask, that choked out any initial reaction and filtered it down into something resembling politeness. He took a proffered glass. A gesture of apology, more than anything.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
He smiled, making a point of meeting her gaze. Her eyes flickered away. Being served like this was still strange, but the way some treated these people as invisible was infinitely more so. If he could offer nothing else, he could offer basic respect.He ran a thumb idly across the glass as he surveyed the room, but refrained from taking a sip just yet. Not a choice he might have made at previous events like this, but tonight he preferred a clear head. There was deduction to be done.
Amid a dizzying swirl of silken facades, he hadn't begun to settle on a target before he noticed one approaching him. Blues and whites, laced through with gold, an outfit that seemed to fit this hall of pale stone and cold skies. He smiled and dipped his head as she approached. The old gesture came as second nature, even though he knew here he was treated as an equal.
The woman’s voice was light. It made an unusual question seem almost natural. He blinked, thrown for a moment. Undecided on how to answer on her level. His fingertips brushed a corner of paper. She must be clue gathering. Guided to him by that same mystifying medley of facts. Alon’s reputation had preceded them, even without a word spoken to their hosts. He thought back to the letter, and the gift, and wondered, and wondered.
“I am indeed. Is that an offer, or merely an investigation?”
The mask hid the twinkle in his eye, but his tone stripped any seriousness away from the words. “If questioning is the game we are playing tonight, I may as well reply in kind.”
He appraised the clues he had been given. One very particular, one expansively vague. And that final mystery, that he dared not speak aloud until he was sure of its owner. The process of elimination made the choice for him. “Are you much of a traveler, my lady?”
MOOD
intrigued
OUTFIT
white-gold (discord)
coded by xayah.ღ
demonology
𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒚𝒕𝒉.
mpiady tejara
M
oon,”
their mouth formed around the syllable with an elegance uncommon to their speech. ”Well, call me Masoandro,”
they quipped back, shoulders quivering with the thrown-back smile. The scales along their physique glittered and refracted. ”Or Sun, if that better suits you.”
It snuck up on him the way shadows often did: trickily and swift. A curve to the lips, indentations forming on their cheeks from the mask, and a small reveal of rather uninspiring teeth. Tejara watched the blossom strike down the pool-table velvet. A snicker caught in their throat, and the poor waiter whom they had gathered a glass from earlier offered them a flute of water.
”Thank you,”
they muttered, letting their new detective partner speak while they gulped, rather than sipped. They gave a brief wave to the wilting foliage, offering a befuddled look because, frankly, Tejara found it difficult to understand both conversationalists’ words. Not out of a lack of their language, though perhaps that added, but instead because they preferred marbles to chess. It appeared Moon nor the green-clad woman would degrade themselves to that level. Their eyes looked to the glass in their hand, which was rounded and squat. Bigger, less refined. Then, they moved to the spot where the flute had been abandoned, noting that Ayaan had been rescued by someone far more graceful than either Sebajans. Pondering the size of their heart, the size of their brain, they looked up. The ceiling glared back down at them, unflinching. It confirmed what they already knew.
You have always been more than a tale for Menara. You are a tale for all of Sebaja.
A wisp on the wind like a dandelion bloom, uncommon more than ever. Tojo’s eyes, clear as shards of glass, appeared in front of theirs, and a hard swallow threatened to choke them.Letting out a small cough, they were whisked away by Moon, who shone through the clouds of the misty dress of the ballroom. Tejara listened thoughtfully, their face was of clay instead of stone. It was molded by the Moon’s rays, offering a strange comfort in a space that offered little of the other he was most familiar with. He gave an explanation of his unruliness, as though a warrior needed any excuse after witnessing another preserve their honor. As though one of his mask’s petals lodged into their chest, a bloom formed over the muddied dirt the brain, tempestuous as it was, had tilled with memory.
“My daring bite does not speak true to my character, so you know. I am not sure how deeply this will aide you but your defense of my appearance seems already enough appreciated that I could not see a better candidate to share in my knowledge with.”
Like the sea, the Tompondrano was led by the will of something ethereal. Their tongue forked into their cheek’s scar, digging in like teeth to roasted pepper. They nodded, struck by the control Moon exerted, not by his physical presence or words, but instead the enchanted string that tied Teja to him. Once more, he was reminded of how it felt for a creature to creep near, how there was a lightning rod that struck through Tejara, their spine electrified, and lit their body aflame just seconds before claws reached forward.
Moon offered light, but it only made the dark all the more harrowing. The depths were treacherous, and Tejara found their mind had been replaced with them, replaced with what was most familiar and comfortable. A scant glance at their walking partner, a quirked brow, and they opted to bite the other side of their cheek, mulling over the reality at hand.
Hmmph.
They allowed the suspicion to swell, thinking of the rain that poured on them as they stood at the ship’s helm with Ayaan.“Yes,”
they sighed back, looking around the room as though they had finally woken up and realized where they were. They looked to Moon, shoulders broadening in relaxation. “Uhm, let’s see.”
They marveled at the card. “My date appears to be.. Uhm.. uncouth? Jittery?”
they struggled for the right word. ”When they’re under stress. Because that is so easy to detect in a room where everyone is trying not to start another war,”
they let loose a breathy laugh, awkwardly trying decorum on for size, thinking it meant charisma and giggles.The pair worked through the ballroom, attempting to find anyone who matched either card. It appeared that Moon found their ship to guide, offering a squeeze to Tejara’s arm.
“Falter not in your quest. . .” The words trickled in a glow, fading away as the captivation of another took hold. Moon left Sun, bound to find each other once again, but the remorse was short-lived as an Icarus soon crash-landed.
Stuttering ensued, and the mpiady stooped to show their astonished gaze. Tejara’s face broke open like a snake who eyed its tail and wished to self-digest. A smile, outfitted with a wolf’s maw, takes root as though the connection of skin tilted and the lighting rod-spine and forced nerve endings to curve. Yet, the whimsy of a chance meeting faded when her gasp almost became a scream.
Instead, clay which had once been so malleable dried into a crust and was being carted off the kiln. Their face deflated, muddied by the water of emotion.
“Are you real?”
Maybe.
Uncertainty wove the thought. Would I want to be…
came next. An image of a lanky figure replaced the blackened shards of the mind. Long wefts, shimmering of gold thread, blew in the wind as a cascade of ambrosia. The same glass-shard eyes of calamity glared back. Go home,
a shinier Tejara says. The wind still blows. The figure still stands. Go home!
A simplistic melody, silken:
I am the mpandray. I yield our clan’s histories. You are a tale.
The voice repeated itself. The voice grew into a real mammoth worth screaming in horror at.
We all have our duties, Teja,
his tone rings, soft and dewy.Straightening to their full height, they grumbled to clear their clogged throat.
"I'm. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. You're just... tall."
A golden face jingled with priceless pearls as the frightened stranger bowed. A palm outstretched, and Tejara stared at it, unsure what to do with something so dainty, equally afraid of her as they had scared her. Finally,
We all have our duties, Teja,
resounded. They remembered the thoughts that had plagued them earlier, that continue to, and set to action. Right.
Tentatively, they grasped her hand, offering a light shake and a deep bow, so low they were at eye level. They had expected to see gray. They saw shimmery lashes, and a shock of chocolate, wide like the sea. Tejara offered another smile, less toothy.
"I didn't see you there. Everything is shiny. I got a bit distracted."
They attempted to continue their gaze into the other’s eyes, despite her downturned head which even Tejara could assume was out of embarrassment. They mulled over her words.
Shiny,
it echoed. Their head tilted, just slightly, and they questioned for a moment if this would count as a loss of fancy speech.”I’m sorry,”
Tejara began simply. ”Most villagers back home screech when they see me coming, not to mention the look on noblemen’s faces when I enter a room. I don’t know why I thought I would be any less terrifying amongst strangers. Pretty important strangers, too,”
they tried another joke, hoping that maybe this one might land and show that the beast, like a dog, could learn new tricks. ”Now that I’ve scared any demons out of you, I’d like to use your undivided attention to ask — do you happen to like bugs?”
MOOD
Terribly, terribly small
OUTFIT
discord
LOCATION
The ball
TAGS
here
coded by xayah.ღ
Sear
chaos in a trenchcoat
Renshu Faelen
I
Gleaming floors echo sounds, the quiet click of claws behind him resuming. Renshu pauses, a small head tilt as the sound pauses with him. It’s a tell-tale sign of a hunt occurring, but there’s no fear reflected on his face. Only mild amusement as with the slightest shift of his body, he catches the eye of the mechanical creature trailing after him, ever so faithful. The only mechanical addition to this tomb, he muses to himself. The expectant gaze of the bird makes his lips curl up and he drops to a crouch, black trenchcoat sweeping across the floor and spreading around him.
“Bloody hell Zeru,"
the smallest of shakes of his head as his fingers curl upwards, beckoning the creature toward him. The screech of metal on metal echoes in the chamber as the raven takes flight, settling on his shoulder with its claws digging into his skin. A familiar weight composed of cold metal gears and feathers. Even the addition of a living creature brought with it little warmth to the room. Renshu straightens, resuming his procession to his bed where a gift so patiently awaited him. He pauses in front of the silk sheets, a gold-edged letter finding its way into his hand and the accompanying mirror. He turns the mirror in his hand, before bringing it up to Zeru’s beak. There’s the clack of metal against the mirror’s ornate frame as Zeru tests its sturdiness - far too eagerly in his opinion. A weighty hum echoes in the room from Renshu as he places the mirror down. The letter is of little interest, a promise of a date only earning itself a scoff of displeasure from Ren. Hints that he skims and commits to memory out of sense of need, not interest. It is only the blurring of the words, black ink smudging into an ominous line that keeps his attention. One final sentence, one final touch, and Renshu chuckles; a low and ominous sound as a lighter slips from his pocket. It’s flicked open in a practiced movement, the corner of the letter catching fire as the flame comes alive. It twists and turns, combating the chill surrounding them with its minor warmth, seeking out fuel. He brings it closer to the letter and it surges forward, desperate and greedy. It laps at the paper, edges curling up as they blacken and crumble, flitting down to the sheets on the bed. The bird on his shoulder croaks one single cry as the letter is destroyed and ash flutters through Renshu’s fingers, staining the gloves and sheets below.
Intriguing.
There’s a snap as the flame is extinguished with the closing of the lighter, and the only addition of warmth to the room is gone. Even the curl of his lips, spreading into a smile, does nothing to warm the room - for there is no warmth there either. Only malice.
——— ☆ • ♧ • 
• ♧ • ☆ ———
• ♧ • ☆ ———A white suit, adorned with golden pins of ravens taking flight. His fingers trail over one, watching it move up toward his collar. A breath of life into their still-forms and they would be in the air, scattering feathers and reflecting sunlight. With no such breath, they stay cold and still on his suit. Fitting. Slender fingers move down his attire, adjusting himself absent-mindedly - a wrinkle smoothed out here and there. Jewelry is deftly slipped onto his fingers, a wide assortment from rings and chains that adorn his fingers in gold hues, the most striking the bird skull that he glances at for a beat too long. It takes its rightful place on his pointer finger, now ignored as he keeps dressing. His fingers pause on his sleeves, gold embroidery stitched so elegantly under his touch, a subtle reminder of the money backing him. It’s unbecoming of him to be decked out in all white, the color too easily stained with the color red in his opinion. Too incompatible with the corruption eating at the soul. In a room full of royalty and conniving snakes, a statement is in order, no matter his preferred shades of attire. What better way than to present himself as one he is not? The mask in his hands goes up, concealing the face of the man behind it. Twisted golden feathers, gears, and snakes all weaved into the metal, and now presented on his face.
The final touch for this ball of little virtue.
——— ☆ • ♧ • • ♧ • ☆ ———
• ♧ • ☆ ———A room teeming with hidden hostility was the conclusion that he came to, fingers wrapped around a glass he didn’t touch. It was there for appearances, as was everything else on him. Narrowed eyes watched the ongoing events, taking in the figures surrounding him with calculating interest. A shift of his hand, and the glass was deftly placed onto a tray passing by him, making space for a cigarette that he lit and placed between his lips. A measured inhale, a slight exhale, smoke swirling around him that he disperses with a hand. The crude action a contrast to the beauty and elegance of the ball ongoing around him, but his crudeness he dismisses with a shrug of his shoulders. His eyes catch the flicker of a motion - a hand waved in his direction - and he nods back. A polite enough gesture that recognizes Lusille, and then his eyes are back to scanning the crowd. At the forefront of his mind thoughts of the inventor princess as he considers how she would fare in an environment she was not born into. Certainly better than the one that had landed face-first on the ground earlier.
The cigarette finds a place in between his fingers once more as his eyes catch the tell-tale red of the Crimson Daughter. Xiaoran. The name is bitter on his tongue, overwhelming the taste of the smoke, and he does little to conceal his own displeasure at her approach. To his unfortunate dismay, masks concealing expressions and weighty looks. He hopes for a fleeting moment that she wouldn’t approach him, but it seems that his evening was about to take an unpleasant turn.
“Xiaoran,”
Renshu tilts his head, smoke exhaled with the words of greeting. “A moment far too long.”
A snide remark, tinged with malice and disrespect, as his lips curl upward. His name change, once again the topic of conversation, unwelcome and unwanted. “How kind of you. I’ll take your words to heart.”
Sarcasm drips from his lips, acidic and burning his throat as they come up - a reminder of past events. A poisonous interaction, only proof of previous statements of conniving snakes. A squeeze of his shoulder, a tightening of his own fingers around the cigarette that finds its place once again in his mouth. A billowing cloud of smoke that follows him as he turns away from Xiaoran, leaving behind the burden she dared to shoulder him with. How shallow were her considerations, coming from a place of willful ignorance. How shallow were all of their considerations. He doesn’t linger on the thoughts of his family, long used to their sharp tongues and insincere words. For those that presented themselves so regally, the face of Vexira, they were a bunch of bastards. Of course, him included.
He makes his way through the crowd, the smell of smoke hangs around him even if it’s itself not present. With each exhale, he disperses it, but the smell clings to him all the same. In an environment that sent his skin crawling, his heart pounding with tense anticipation in the preparation for a fight, he craves a distraction and so he seeks out an interaction. His hand snakes out, a flute of champagne finding a place within his hand for the upholding of appearances. He scours the crowd for those not engaged in conversation, but his attention falls on those who are. A challenge of sorts. How to make his way into the conversation? Two conversing in a corner, another one who seemed to be attempting to make their way into the conversation. Renshu moves closer, swirling the drink in the glass as he listens in with little shame. A question on the interest of hunting animals is brought up. A chance for him to join in, albeit lacking the elegance that some weaved their words with at this ball.
“Can’t say I have any interest in a hunt, unless it’s one of a different sort,”
came the light-hearted drawl from him as he maneuvers around the emerald dress and intrudes upon all three of theirs personal space in one fluid moment. He raises the champagne glass in greeting, “Shit, I’d apologize for the intrusion,”
He doesn’t, however, smoothly moving to his question instead. “Do any of you dislike makeup?”
He doesn't wish to spend his time dancing around the purpose of his intrusion, running down his precious time. To the point was the way to go. After all, how fleeting was time.
coded by xayah.ღ
katherine toussaint
A
She doesn't quite know why her partner in conversation has assumed that she would be interested in machinery, of all things. She's certainly not one to build or compound... really anything by hand. It's been deemed unladylike. She couldn't imagine any noble in good standing tolerating a girl smudging oil on her dress. She doesn't take it as a slight though; she can see the appeal of it. Know how things work. She's heard tales and seen art of the cities of Vexira, and some business associates of her father have brought little gadgets to show off their technological powress. Copper and glittering, unseen gears turning, all united in a singular purpose. It's art in its own right.
Nonetheless, she is very pleased with how this conversation is going.
"Please, you flatter me too much. I do have some interests outside of earthly fauna, but I'm afraid machinery does not fall under that category. I do hold an admiration for the complexities of such a craft, however. My interests primarily lie with scholarly and artistic pursuits."
Her eyes sparkled with hope that the conversation can further flourish and -
The presence of another quickly becomes apparent. Speaking of copper beauty, this newcomer's dress shone with brilliancy.
However, her entrance into the conversation had all the tact of a blunt object smashing through a doorframe.
"Hello! I’m sorry to interrupt, but I overheard that you—,"
the stranger leaned forward, the horns of her mask turning her smile into an impish grin that somewhat startled Katherine. She leaned back and took a step away from the imp, unused to the invasion of her personal space. "—are looking for someone interested in lepidopterology? I believe that my sister has mentioned moths to me quite a few times."
A broad sweep of the hand (once again, such a broad gesture is... distasteful in typical court fashion, at least she has been told as such) towards a crimson figure, gleaming off in the distance. Well, she certainly does look stunning. But it has just been established in their conversation that neither she nor her conversation partner holds a particularly extravagant interest in the study.
Katherine blinks and looks back at the imp. It's somewhat rude to talk of someone behind their back, familial or no. Katherine had also been told that at one point as well.
She has not had a sip of champagne and yet she has a dreadfully bitter taste in her mouth. She tries to swallow it down and remain positive about the prospects of the newcomer in the conversation.
The newcomer has turned their attention away from Katherine and bows deeply to her butterfly clad partner. The notation of her interest in machinery piques her interest (although she could have led with that fact in order to enter the conversation rather than try to spark idle gossip - perhaps, if she could gather the way to phrase this as to not spark any feelings of animosity, she could offer a short explanation of rudimentary social etiquette), and the confirmation that the stranger is Vexiran confirms the inkling of a suspicion that she began harboring at the observation of the color of her attire and the watch on her wrist.
Katherine emitted a shocked gasp at the crass language that slipped from the stranger's tongue. Granted, she attempted to recover, but such a social faux pas would be unheard of in Auriche. She was certainly a long way from home.
"Knife throwing is quite dangerous,"
Katherine added to the conversation helpfully. She rubbed her thumb against the paper softened from the near constant worrying in an attempt to ground herself - the letter!With another sharp intake of breath, Katherine suddenly remembers that they've been assigned dates to this event. She was honestly... somewhat dreading meeting her date. They do not seem like anyone she's ever interacted with before. Nor do they seem like someone she'd... enjoy interacting with. At least based on these three qualities she sees on this paper. But perhaps she's getting ahead of herself - there is an equal chance that the experience will overall be a positive one.
She stretches her left hand out to her side and motions as if she is placing her flute of champagne (whose contents remain untouched) on an invisible table. When her fingers retract, the glass remains floating, suspended on an unseen surface. She seems to pay no mind to the defiance of gravity mere inches away from her, and takes to unfolding the letter with her newly freed two hands.
Once unfurled, she pauses, and shifts how her hands hold the letter to an interesting degree. Instead of placing her hands at the horizontal edges of the paper, she places her hands at the vertical axes, with her four fingers at the bottom of the page. The edges of a black blotch of ink peeks out from the edges of her fingers.
She didn't need to consult her letter. She's committed the bits of information to memory. However, it felt more formal to do it this way. And perhaps she wanted to check, to ensure her eyes or mind did not decieve her and that her date remained constant. No staff member who serves their mysterious benefactor has ran out of hiding to apologize profusely and amend any mistakes yet, though. She swallows back another bitter thought, stopping it quick enough before there would be need to mentally chide herself over it.
In truth, she had a suspicion upon reading the letter. She's heard... things about Vexirans. How different their customs are compared to Auriche. There's a businessman that is a frequent dinner guest at their manor, an associate of her father, who is Vexiran. He's loud and boisterous and always lights a cigar before dessert is served, and finishes five before the night is over. Once, when Katherine was a child, she attempted to inform him of some etiquette rules that she was taught recently after his uncouth display at their table. Her father had grown red in the face and forced her to apologize, even though she was just repeating the knowledge that he and the tutor he hired had imparted to her.
The qualities of her date seem to align with these stereotypical qualities of a Vexiran. The issue is that it is just that: stereotypes. She had reprimanded herself for initially thinking of that - certainly these are not qualities that only Vexirans embody! Anyone from anywhere certainly has people who are inclined to do such activities. She should apprach the event with an open mind.
And she did. But here before her is this impish woman who seems to be inclined to at least a third of these points, and certainly curiosity has gotten ahold of her, as it is such her vice, so she could not help but chase this loose thread to the end of its spool and see if it is of a matching color.
Turning to the copper-clad stranger, Katherine asks,
"Do you perchance happen to know anyone who is fond of smoking?"
coded by xayah.ღ
arthur morgan.
be loyal to what matters
.
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neon reverie
ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴇʀ ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟᴇ
xiaoran liumei
I
A pointless notion, Xiaoran thinks. For the soul has more than one face and various ways to bleed colors true; a blundering fall still echoes its nerves as do stiff muscles someone's discomfort in this glamorized political sphere. Rose compliments easily form a gradient into crimson tales, depending on the symphony that weaves them. No fantasy, however artfully painted, can truly hide the fractured nuances of reality. No matter how long you dream, you will always wake up again, cold air biting your skin and weight as heavy as life pressing down on you.
Lies and secrets; they can veil the soul, but never replace it. And yet, it remains a sin that spins the world in its grasp. Maybe because it is easy, much easier than unpacking some soul tangled truths; one wrong string pulled, and what do you have? Some matters, once undone, can never be put together quite right again; it will always be a tad disjoined, and one step closer to falling apart again. And what a mess of sharp filaments one soul can be; even heart-born statues have threads cutting deeper than a blade. Even they can bleed.
Nevertheless, stone remains harder to cut than skin. And it is this armor that she dares to not lose. A statue she will stay, too cold to touch and too hollow to be curious about. A protector that never crumbles; a thing more lifeless than living.
Interactions waltz where nations stand; the search of one’s date puncturing the flow of conversation or so it seems. Hungry hearts seek the substances they only got a written taste of as curiosity blooms within their corporeal cages. Xiaoran could understand why the hosts devised this game; what else could be more entertaining than watching the hearts of the crowned and esteemed, seek others so openly. It doesn’t mean she trusts it, though. In this world of royalty and politics, nothing is ever so simple; fun is never just fun, and a game is never just a game. Those inked whispers could have told you as much, their secret nature no doubt unearthed to a stranger with purpose. Penned it is, by a meticulous hand capable of both morality as malice. Xiaoran wonders, skeletons in her closet and secrets in her heart, which one someone else holds of hers..
A flash of crimson; it streaks the pavements red, fills those crevices with a speed as if afraid to lose existence in the downpour. There are breaths stolen by time and smoke, heat pressed against the skin as flames roar. A hand too far away to reach, a whole heart suddenly halved. Ten bullets because nine was not enough. Fists clench upon memory, gaze clouded with something darker than her own shadow and deeper than sorrow.
For fuck’s sake
,
a voice grumbles, annoyed at herself. Tired of being haunted. A larger gulp of wine slides down the throat, carrying a burn to cope and a hope to forget. It is not enough.[ it never is ]
“Forgive me for my sudden appearance.”
Soft petals materialize before her, heralding a presence of moonlight silk and lunar spring. For once, Xiaoran blesses the blurs of her own visage, needing a second more to trample unwanted emotions and slip back into stone. A bothersome formality addresses her, words so utterly embellished she almost mistakes him for an Aurichian.
How tiresome...
Ah, so this was her date.
A daring move, she’d say, to speak of the secrets written but not told. It appears neither of them knew what the letters precisely divulged; a conundrum easily solved, if it wasn’t for their secrecy’s worth. Power sits in the palm of their hands, one too grand not to use and too precious to lose. Unknown motives shadow the two as paths cross, borders briefly touching but never intertwining. Not yet.
“Please, I can only hope our kindly hosts have not spread a negative appeal about myself, lest I banish those words further away. After all, with your expertise in language I'm sure you can find things get lost in translation.”
Red lips stretch into an almost smile, his words garnering more and more interest around the secret. How much will he tell, she wonders, before the wind carries these moonbeam blossoms away. Xiaoran does not mind seeing thorns, does not mind digging into dirt to dredge up the roots cultivating this carnation so -- however ugly they may be.
“You are right. It is true that translation can have its faults, so why don’t you speak in your mother tongue? I can understand it perfectly.”
“As for the information; to be frank, I have yet to attach any attribute to it. It is hard to paint a picture, good or bad, without knowing the other, don’t you think?”
Her gaze falls down to the outstretched hand, and she slowly accepts it, cold skin pressing against a warm one. “If you want time, you can have it. But to keep it empty and silent would be a waste in my opinion. So let’s exchange questions, an answer for an answer – have our own characters speak before those letters do.”
A step closer, crimson flowing right behind, gilded fingers near sleeves of silk.
“Is it true you are a fan of mathematics and strategy?"
Inside, an essence hums.
Give me something
,
it whispers.Tell me a lie.
coded by xayah.ღ
L3n
your moms a hoe
maharani archana
A
rchana did her best to keep her shoulders from slumping when the stranger failed her test question. The odds of having the first person who approached be her partner were undoubtedly low. The Maharani had held out just a bit of hope anyways. Now she would be stuck for a few minutes making complex flowery small talk till she found a safe way out. Not that she wasn’t enjoying the chitchat, it was pleasant, in a dress-up tea party sort of way. It just happened to go against her plans; “win” the first date. It wasn’t a competition, of course, she understood that. There was no rush, she could chat with this woman for hours. Hours.
“Well, the arts are arguably just as complex and take quite the skill,” Archana politely smiled. Churning over the other's words she tried to quickly weave sentences together. It was a rush against the clock to appear as well-read as she was and it was a losing battle. Still, she didn’t want to pause dumbfoundedly while trying to decipher the others’ coded sentences. “Your talent for studying as well. All three hobbies are equally admirable.” That was it? That’s all her brain could rack up? ‘Oh dear Goddess please save me.’
“Hello!”
Just like always, her prayers were answered.
A new player, well, a mysterious stranger had approached. Their dress had an air to it that screamed clockwork. They seemed to lack the overly refined social etiquette the first princess had, not offering a curtsy as Archana had adapted to. This told her that they didn’t bend themself or their ways to make someone else feel more comfortable. Uniquely and unapologetically herself. Archana narrowed her eyes a bit, watching as the imp masked woman leaned into the studious fairy. They visually made an interesting pair. The gold and black dress with its intricate detailing clashed perfectly against the sparkling soft waves of purple fabric. The way she spoke had undoubtedly come off as not-so-subtly trying to shoo the princess away.
It was ballsy, for lack of a dolled-up description.
The imp stranger motioned over towards a gorgeous lady in red. They were sisters? Looking at the other's outfit made her wish she had adorned the color as well. There was always the next event, her closet made sure of that. It was packed to the brim with her signature look of blood. It really did look stunning on the other.
Smoothly, Lusille turned her attention over to her. The more the woman talked Archana was inclined to say she fancied her voice. And so far her humor had been a hit. She had just the right amount of charisma to play off the extravagant motions. Even with the slip of a curse, Lusille managed to pull it off, earning a gasp from the purple fairy princess.
“Why indeed I was,” Archana’s smile widened, alluding she had found the one she had been looking for. She knew she had to look for Vexirans but being a masquerade ball and all she had no idea what to keep an eye out for. Some may have come in misleading costumes, like Archana, just to spice things up. For the drama one might say. Looking around though it seemed like quite a lot of the guests were adorning cultural clothes. “Praises of Vexiran gadgets spread far. My country often hears the gossip that you guys have brilliant minds.”
Knife-throwing huh? That was the hobby they had chosen to share of hers? It had started off as a secret private practice to get some pent-up frustrations out. The better she got the more open she was to doing tricks at gatherings for her family and neighbors. It was dangerous, as the fairy princess made sure to point out, but it was relaxing. “It is as meditative as you imagine, I assure you,” Archana grinned like a fox. “You should definitely give it a try. If you build machines you must be good with your fingers,” Archana paused, “which is useful for throwing knives, of course. Speaking of which, could I see something?” The Maharani slowly reached down for one of the stranger's hands.
That confirmed everything. She had won the not a competition.
“Your watch is rather exquisite. I hear my date has one just like it,” Archana played before peeling her attention back to the fairy. The other had a partner with a habit of smoking? Archana was mentally writing down everything she could learn about the others. For innocent purposes of course. Definitely not to gossip about it later to her High Priest. That would be ridiculous.
coded by xayah.ღ
ravensunset
no thoughts just vibes
anita illeva
A
His response was easy, tone almost teasing, serving only to relax Anita further. It seemed she hadn’t made any blunders approaching him, and further, that she’d be able to just have a conversation. He’d been quick at coming up with something clever to say, and Anita straightened her shoulders back, determined to rise to the challenge.
“I haven’t played, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to provide you with any challenge,”
She started, an almost mischievous lilt to her words, and although she certainly wouldn’t decline an invitation, she hoped they’d realize she was playing along with the joke. “Although, it could be both if you’d be willing to show me a few moves,”
She offered, unclasping the hands she’d been holding in front of her and letting them drop down to her sides.With the next spoken sentence, Anita paused, suddenly glad her expression was hidden.
When Anita, back home, received a letter with her name printed neatly on it, she waited until she was alone, in the darkness and comfort of her room, to open it. She read over the words, and read them again, and traced them out with her finger, one by one.
Anita felt light. It was almost dizzying. She felt the way she had on her first kiss, or the way she had one afternoon after a day of chasing Leksei through his grounds, then collapsing into a mound of snow, staring out of breath at the blue sky, or the first time an arrow she fired successfully found its target. Despite that, all she could think about was the problems, a million reasons why it wouldn’t work.
What would she do, anyways, in a meeting with royalty, nobility, those from all sorts of lands and who would be far, far more experienced than her? What did she have to offer?
Anita didn’t sleep that night. She didn’t tell her mother. She didn’t have the words for it. Instead, she sat her down the next morning, and handed over the invitation.
“You can’t go.” Nedelya Illeva’s voice was ice cold.
“I’m done asking permission.”
She’d replied, the words thoughtless, practiced all night long.“You don’t know if all this is safe,” The older woman was sitting up straight, the cushions of her chair sewn with deep blue. Her hair, pinned up, showed streaks of gray, and when she spoke, Anita could see the wear of her frown lines. She knew the exact worries most of them had come from. She knew how justified most of them were, “Besides. I need you here. We have a business to run.”
The trade was still in Nedelya’s name, but age had taken a toll on her, and since several years prior, Anita had been running it at least in equal part. Anita could feel the responsibilities right down to her fingertips, something she’d already thought through.
“We have you and enough workers to keep everything going smoothly. I’ll be back before we know it. This will be good. I’ll make connections, we’ll find more business. Besides. It’s not an invitation I can decline.”
“It’s not good enough. You’re not going.”
Anita didn’t grace her with an answer. She didn’t want a fight, but more importantly, she knew she couldn’t be stopped. She’d had enough arguments, a screaming match almost every time Leksei had left on a trip or Anita had simply felt like it, all ending with her loses. She’d heard the world calling to her for years, but this was the first time she held a powerful enough bargaining chip. She gave her mother a nod, though not one of acceptance, and left back to her room.
On the morning Anita left to meet the world for the very first time, her mother didn’t leave her room to so much as say goodbye.
Much of a traveler. The topic was already an open nerve for her. She thought back to countless times she sat and listened to Leksei recount his journeys, doing her best to not burst open with emotion. With this, however, there was something more behind it. Anita wasn’t sure whether the rush of disappointment was over having guessed her date incorrectly, or over the fact that her pairing hadn’t been them.
Anita forced herself to smile, before remembering that the effort couldn’t be seen.
“Unfortunately, my travel here was my first time leaving my country, so I’d be hesitant to describe myself as such.”
Had her words come out short? She was sure the change was noticeable, though she hadn’t meant them to, wanting to keep up the friendly, easy tone of their conversation. Anita forced herself to remain perfectly still. Perhaps they didn’t mean their date was a traveler. Had their letter referred to her as some homebody? She wondered if he was well traveled, and what he’d think of her with this information, wondered whether all the clues had made her seem perfectly uninteresting. Without them knowing who she was, what she had in her control– and with the masks, Anita had an inclination she wasn’t meant to reveal it– she wasn’t sure how much she could change.She let out a breath, considering briefly. Anita could see the others in the ballroom pairing or grouping up, and she didn’t quite want to intercept anyone, and further, leaving the person in front of her seemed like it would be rude. She didn’t quite want to, anyways; they were quick and friendly, and that was more information she had on anyone else in the ballroom.
“Was that the answer you’re looking for, or does this mean I must find someone else to inquire about their personal hobbies? If I’m being honest, the latter sounds like it would be a hassle.”
Anita regained the light, amused tone in her words. Her shoulders had tensed, and she allowed them to drop back down. Even if he was her date, she wasn’t sure what the next move would be; the letter hadn’t given instructions on what to do with their found partner. Dance, perhaps? They were at a ball, after all, but the music was hardly dancing music, and everyone else seemed merely to be talking.
Anita decided she wouldn’t mind just keeping the conversation going. However she felt, she was here, as much as everyone else was. Someone had decided she was worthy of being here, of being as interesting, as deserving a partner as every other one of the shimmering outfits surrounding her.
She just had to act the part.
coded by xayah.ღ
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