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There was a strange flutter in my chest when he insisted on tradition first. I didn’t know what he meant until he opened the small black box, revealing the most beautiful and delicate ring. I watched as he took my hand in his warm one and slipped the ring on. A genuine smile touched my eyes when he brought my hand to his forehead and rested it there for several long moments before kissing the ring and she let her hand float gently back down to clasp the other when he let go of it.  I could tell Father was confused with the tradition and impatient to be rid of me, I was enjoying his torment a little, of course this was all formality, but it seemed far less the prison that was my home.  “It is lovely.” I said holding it up to look at it in a rare moment of enjoyment, I’d never owned something so lovely - but I couldn’t say that - it would likely cause father to fly into a rage that Agatha would pay for later.  He then removed the cloak he was wearing and explained that it was made specially for me. The weight of the fabric nearly drown me, but it was warm, and soft and comforting. It too was beautiful, more beautiful than anything I had ever owned. He told me of the care and thought and effort put into the making of it, it was a creation of many hands, not just one. It was a gift from the people, to welcome me. It was a strange feeling and I tried not to let it show on my face, it was difficult to believe or understand him, everyone has an alterior motive, everyone, even the mighty house Mythal....I knew well that the face men put on in public is very different than the one behind closed doors. I couldn’t imagine my father intentionally marrying me off to someone that might actually be kind to me. But then again, Father’s expression remained neutral, only the thunderous look in his eyes told me that he was angry.  My attention was drawn back to the Lord when he chuckled over the women arguing about the pattern that was a very obvious choice to all the men as if it were some big joke in their household. The sound was warm, genuine, and for a moment I felt like a wilted flower feeling water for the first time in a long time.  I bowed my head in genuine thanks, “I cannot thank you enough. I will carry your family crest with as much honor as it deserves.”  He dismissed me to say goodbye to my household and again I bowed my head in thanks, a plot to free Agatha forming in my head. I could tell by my father’s posture that either Lauri or Agatha would feel his rage and my guess was Agatha because I took her daughter, his favorite toy away from him. ”My Lord.” I said softly, sweetly, “I have no right to ask this of you, not since you have already done so much for me. But if I may, I would very much like to bring my two attending maids with me, they are so very helpful and they will remind me of home....”  I barely hid the flinch behind my curtsy as I turned and walked quickly back into the manor, skirting a wide path around my father. I could see his fist clench and swore I would make sure I wouldn’t be alone between this moment and when I left the doors of my prison. Even then I doubted I would feel safe as he would likely find other ways to torture me from afar.      Lord Vector   He watched her walk away with a glare directed in her direction. The bitch tried to navigate around him and refusing to let her take her closest and most caring partner with her. She’d already taken away his favorite whore - and she was trying to be the snake that she was and take away yet another of his staff. Not that he had any use for the old woman, it was far more likely he would turn Agatha out once Odelia left.  He plastered a smile on his face and turned back to Lord Austere Mythal, the powerful elf before him a gateway to more wealth and status. He could almost overlook his daughter’s willfulness, almost.  “Right this way -“ He said smoothly before leading the way into his home. Lauri followed two steps behind them and broke off to enter the kitchens as Vector entered into his study. The contract sitting out on his freshly polished desk, waiting for final review and approval.  “Please, have a seat.” He said cordially. Lauri entered with a maid behind her, she had a tray of warm Mead and some freshly baked biscuits on it. She set it down and walked out of the room briskly. Vector stared at his daft wife expectantly, she stared back in that stupidly blank face she always wore. ”Is there something you need Dear?” He asked, his voice barely laced in venom. She blinked, “Naught but to see you are properly served.” ”Perhaps you should go say your goodbyes to your beautiful step daughter then.” He suggested. She nodded and left quickly. He turned back to the contract and pointed to it. ”It is all there, my spies, armies, cattle, farming resources.” He said, “You will find that my beloved daughter comes with a large amount of some of the best bovine you will find on the island.”  His words were no boast, it was true, they were being fattened and raised for just such the occasion. Not once did he ask after assurances that his daughter would be well taken care of, not once did he question when they would be wed, he simply reviewed the contract. ”I would like your assurances that should something happen to her, like an unfortunate death-“ He paused, “These things do happen, my own dear first wife was taken by illness... that our contract stands and does not void with her death.”   

SEPTEMBER 5th, 29 AO // LOCATION: The Free Marches Milorian took a moment to ignore his mother by staring out the window that gave him the perfect picture of the Free Marches.  “Milorian!” Her plea made him glance over his shoulder, but he would not give her the pleasure of his full attention. This was his decision and he doesn't need his mother, his father, or his siblings or the millers or anyone else for that matter to meddle in his decision. As the new Lord of House Mythal, he firmly believes that he has a say in what affects him as much as what influences the house in general. Such a bit of selfishness may be his undoing. Sapphire hues flicked to the plans and letter held in his mother's small hands. The portrait of the young lady was next to Cassia's right elbow, discarded for it was not beauty the family was attracted to, it was possibilities. A small tinge of annoyance worked its way into the elf's strong chest; sentimental to the core, he disliked how his mother handled the things that were his and not her own. It was by some work of God that Milorian got to the heron before Cassia did, or else the portrait of his soon-to-be-wife would have been thrown away. "What?" "Are you not going to answer?" His brows pinched together in a look of annoyance. He loves his mother dearly, but that doesn't mean he has to like her.  Pulling himself away from the window, he walked over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer that harbored a gift. The engagement had been in the throes of conversation for some time now, his reactions towards the situation showed his preparedness for it all. The impatience of his mother showed she was not as prepared or as cunning as her son though that impatience wilted away when he handed her the gift produced from the drawer. "I'll leave you to write I accept and with it send this gift." She grabbed the box that contained the engagement ring, and then she slapped her ungrateful son upside the head for testing her.

"First, tradition." They were not able to go through the usual dances and courting required for marriage, but there are some things they could do in such a short time of preparedness. This woman is soon to be his wife, and he would respect her as such by offering her his heritage, his culture, and most of all his absolute protection. What is his, he protects at all costs no matter what they may be; this is the way of the Mythal, a family that's fought and died by what is right for all.  Glowing eyes barely took note of the growing bruises, choosing to follow everyone else's indifference. Instead, he withdrew the box from earlier to reveal the chosen ring for Odelia Carthrage, soon to be Odelia Mythal of House Mythal, wife to Lord Austere Mythal, Daughter to the Dred Wolf - oh what marvelous titles to have indeed. He plucked the delicate ring from its cage; it is a blackened gold creation with a diamond thin pave band, and its center was a garnet with thorns on its four edges. Austere took great care in picking out the design, just as he had done with his first wife.  He would not give Odelia less than what he gave ... her. Carefully he slipped the ring on her finger and then pressed her knuckles sweetly against his bowed forehead for seconds. Afterward, he kissed her engagement ring. The house is an exaggerated kind who take their traditions fairly seriously. Thus they are not embarrassed by their extreme flourishes of affection and hatred.  "The women of my household made this for you," he removed the large cape from his shoulder and draped it about her shoulders, protecting her bruised form in a swath of heavy fabric. "For weeks they dye the fabric using flowers from our home, the Free Marches; the fabric itself comes from a variety of individuals - farmers, gardeners, and so forth. Then the women argue over a design that best fits the lady and then gets to sewing which takes some more weeks. It is a wedding present from everyone, welcoming you into our fold." He refrained telling her that it was also tradition for the cape to be used to wrap their first born child in. Easton still slept with his mother's cape and Austere didn't have the heart to take it away from him, his child deserves some small comforts in his sweet life.  "The design is our family's crest; amusing that the women would argue over a design when we men already know what they'll choose." The elf chuckled, a genuine happy sound that made his gaze twinkle with the amusement he felt.  "Please, take time in saying goodbye to your household," he gave her an encouraging pat on the cheek before he turned his attention on her father. "Your concern is admirable my Lord, please lead the way."

DALI ESTATE – The gardens "No, you listen here, Uldwar!" "Shit." Wyatt hissed the curse under his breath. Very delicately, as if to go any faster than a snail's crawl might threaten his life and limb, Wyatt placed down a keen pair of hedge clippers, wiped the sweat from his brow with a rough cloth he kept in the jacket of dirt-soiled trousers, and slowly stood up. Wyatt was the estate gardener. He was already out about his business keeping the hedge wall trim and neat when the lord of House Mythal and the lord and lady of House Uldwar setup shop on the other side of the obscuring partition. Wyatt admitted to the guilty indulgence of his curiosity. These were a people who lived a life far removed from his workaday experiences, and so even the minor intrigues of their lives could be an effulgent moment in his own, by comparison. They spoke a small circle around the tender heart of the matter which beat between them, until lord Mythal invited the Uldwars deeper into the circle, closer to the heart; and then the levees broke with lord Mythal's exclamation, emotion pouring out with the words. That was when Wyatt realized this was not a matter to which a lowborn laborer like himself should be privy. Making his presence known would have created awkwardness and invited their ire unto him, so he chose the left-hand path and made for a subtle egress. He walked deeper into the maze with the intention of coming out on the other side; the last words he heard fading into the middle distance were one lord calling the other selfish and a coward.

True to her nature, Rou had provided her self-fashioned captor with a great deal to mull over. As the woman’s riposte played out, his mind wandered from the silkiness of her all too thin nylon against his fingertips to the smith she’d mentioned moments before. Like most mortal men, he’d concerned himself with matters that were beyond his position in this life. Who was that smith to dare believe he might stand between Rafael and that which he desired, that which he was owed? Had it not been for Rou’s timely intervention, which she had not paid for nearly dear enough (he realized this after a brief thought), the old fool would have been reduced to nothing more than a pulpy smear on the forge’s soot-caked wall. It was not like her to place herself directly in the way of danger for the sake of another, and that single, curious act of hers had been enough to pique his interest, rather than stoke the flames of his ire. All the same, Rafael made himself quite aware of the fact that he would need to pay far more attention to Rou’s developing altruism, if that is what it truly was. It always begins with one person, some poor soul—parasite—that worms their way into your heart. But then it grows, feeding on the heart, mind, and soul like cancer, and in the span of a fluttering heartbeat, that one person has become a nation. A sea of people to sweep her away from the shores of his needs and embrace, off to distant lands where he, a child of the night, a selfish and jealous and possessive god, had no place. No, no, he’d not see her step a so much as single foot upon that path; it was too great a risk. “Says the man who supposedly decided to marry his cousin upon only an eve.” It was as she’d read his mind, though Rafael suspected the quip a result of some expression he'd made. Those closest to the Elder often spoke of how easy it was to tell when his mind had drifted across the Strait and landed at Gabriela’s feet, whether or not Black Queen cared. I see it in your eyes, Father, Raveena had told him. They’re usually so bright and blue. They darken like the sky just before a terrible storm. Zenahriel, however, noticed his lips, fond of them as he was. You press them into a line so thin it’s as if your mouth has vanished completely, or perhaps, gone into hiding behind that beautiful beard. Rafael couldn’t help but wonder what Rou saw when he thought of his cousin, or if, and more likely, his ethereal kin was merely a constant in her life as well, tormenting her with all the treasures she’d acquired in her long life, yet cared nothing for. For the sake of the woman’s voice alone, which proved unchangingly delightful, no matter the words she chose—honeyed or venomous—or tone that delivered them, Rafael allowed Rou to continue her narrative uninterrupted, feigning interest in the matters she vocalized, though his attention noticeably lingered elsewhere. Indeed, there was little by way of warm affection between them, so cold and cruel he’d been to her in the span of a few days traveling, but any man fortunate enough to have been witness to the view she offered him at that moment would immediately understand the vampyre’s obsession. He guarded his treasure with all the primal fury of a dragon, and Rou was worth far more than her weight in gold, gems, and relics. To lose her, whether to the ambition of another or her reckless stubbornness, was an unacceptable consequence. Her threats, humorous and hollow though they were, elicited no manner of response from the vampyre as he edged closer to her, dexterous hands setting to the task of steadily unfastening her corset. “It would behoove you to avoid speaking of subjects you know nothing about, Rou,” he murmured, the offense of her previous claim still an irritating dagger in his side. “Whatever I have done in regard to Gabriela has been for the survival of my species, not some pitiful sentiment of the heart. I’m not so fortunate that I’ve been allowed to live a life where matters of love can supersede one’s duty.” Had they been in the position to allow it, Rafael might have struck her a pair of times, or perhaps wrenched her blood into a tight knot in her veins to punctuate his displeasure with her. Instead, he was calm, his voice even and cold as the grave. “I’ll ask that you not speak of Gabriela or the relationship I had with her, ever again.” If she provoked him further, at least Rou would never be able to say he’d not asked her, politely; warned her. The subject of his people’s grim immediate future cooled Rafael’s rapidly rising desire for her, only enough to maintain his patient unthreading of her corset. Much to Rou’s pleasure, no doubt, as her outfit was spared the fate of many lavish ensembles that had, over the years, been ripped to tatters in his more impatient moments. It was just above the small of her back that the thick cording slackened enough for him to manage what remained of it with a single hand, unspooling from the corset and pooling in his palm, weaving around and through the spaces of his fingers. Rafael’s left hand, now unburdened, gathered greedy handfuls of the skirt of her dress, tugging and pulling it up her legs as he eased her deeper into his embrace, ensnaring her like a serpent coiling around its prey.  “Besides, you have far more pressing matters to occupy your thoughts now,” the vampyre breathed, kissing the words into the skin just behind Rou’s ear. His left hand vanished beneath the dense layers of her dress’s skirt, forcing its way between her muscled thighs. Having failed to secure the nylon’s safety with threats of her ire, Rafael made short work of the fabric and continued with their juvenile brand of foreplay. Kissing his way down the curve of her neck, which he’d always favored for its long curve, the vampyre settled over the small, dimpled scars he’d left from that night at the Feeding. “Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked, left hand still working her hard, right hand cupping, groping, and kneading all that it surveyed. There was a time, so very long enough, when Rafael would have waited for an invitation to satisfy his thirst. Rou’s comfort had been paramount to him then, the trust she had in him – in her safety in his presence – one of the most important things in his world. It seemed those days had come and gone, however, for without warning, and without express permission, he slowly sank his fangs into her at the junction where her toned shoulders met the slender column of her throat. Her blood, so very much like spiced rum, burned all the way down.