vielle

It must have been an eternity, then, when he finally opens his eyes, stares unseeing into that endless white beyond. He breathes for a moment, slow and steady, before lifting an arm to wipe at the crystallized tears on his lashes. The world sighs with him as he steadies the shuddering of his muscles, his joints; between one blink and the next— Samael stares. Incredulous does not even begin to describe the feeling churning in his gut. A girl stands in the snow before him, seemingly unperturbed by the bitter cold and the rustling wind whipping over the landscape. She rubs a hand over those whitewashed eyes—and he shudders a bit at the sight of them, pivots his gaze elsewhere—and then strides forward to come closer. "Hey. Are you alright?" He does not trust himself to speak, not quite yet, and so he manages a tight nod—liar liar—before slowly heaving himself up to stand on his feet. His knees buckle, but he catches himself on the rock, pale hand splayed out against the rough grey. When he straightens himself, he has to gaze up at her to observe her more closely: she towers over him, just like everyone else. The questions then come in waves: who is this girl? Why is she here? What does she want? “Hello,” Samael murmurs, offers the stranger a faint smile. “What are you doing out here?”

The sharp ringing in her ears does not bring her to her knees, not like it had used to. Andraste eyes the crushed orb in the vampire girl’s hand with mild distaste, ears flicking to and fro as she observes the battlefield, considers her options. It had been almost too easy to pick the decision to join the flock, blending in with the misfits and the eldritch abominations to follow this Dark Lord into the wilderness for the untamed dream of freedom, of acceptance, of finding a home. She cares not for such trivial matters, not when they exist for her in another world, or even here in this one. No one had been allowed to come near her, and so, the motive of joining the Legion fades into the ice, along with everything else. A broken heart does in fact a monster make. In the previous battle over the coastal town of Albor, she had opted to remain in the shadows, picking off the stragglers and unleashing her fangs on unsuspecting townsfolk for the sheer thrill of simply being allowed to. She had not even eaten a single soul, too focused on being anonymous to take the time to feed. But: the ravaging hunger festering in her belly threatens to swallow her whole. It will not do to succumb to it. Choice made, Andraste pounces forward, feels her body ripple and shift in place, sheds her smaller form for the flickering darkness of the Líadáin, the shadowy canine form granted by the gods to all khenras. Her paws do not sink into the snow, but instead hover over the ivory blanket as she stalks forward behind the others racing ahead, a trail of black smoke arcing through the air in her wake.

Andraste Líadáin — the dark awaits. ► B A S I C S age: 34 race: khenra class: shapeshifter occupation: wanderer birthplace: amonkelh, tariel ► L O O K S height: 6’5” weight: 207 lbs gender: female hair: grey fur, blue locks eyes: ice blue voice: sharp and raspy ♪ They have been to the moon I'm just a caterpillar dead in my cocoon ♪

Liir’s been called more provocative things throughout his life, but he can’t help the raised eyebrow of disbelief he sends Chloe at the labels he attaches to Liir’s person. He has to admit, him masquerading as a high-end rent boy does not seem too far-fetched, but really, of all things, it had to be that? He can feel Jal laughing it off somewhere in the distance; he is sure of it. Liir waits for a moment, watches without shifting his grip on his sword. Chloe had warned him not to be foolhardy, but the thought remains: he means to be vigilant. And his blade is of no match to the pistol under the other man’s leg, but it is at least a means of defense if necessary. Suddenly, a beam of light flares to existence, cuts through the darkness and rain to reveal a figure aflame, wings radiant and glorious even as she holds a branch over her head in some sort of makeshift club. Our savior, he’s tempted to shout, but decides to cage the words behind his teeth before they can get out into the air. He doubts Carina will appreciate it, but the exhilaration cannot be contained, and so he settles for an ear-splitting grin. “Took you long enough,” he mock-sighs, observing with barely-contained glee as she battles it out with a fanged man that had appeared from the shadows—a vampire, perhaps? There is not much else that would fit such a description. Carina sends them a pointed, wordless call for help as she backs away towards the car, and Liir lowers the glass window to give her a thumbs-up. "So, Liir. Happen to have any secretly hidden powers that can be useful against a vampire?" His smile does not falter even as his heart sinks a bit at the query. He is in no shape to be using even a tiny hint of his Chryma, not when the net is a light breeze away from crumbling. Liir is not afraid to delve into the well and make use of his Fhrear, but it is deeply ingrained into every Kinnarian: fear for the world, if not for oneself, in such an event; fear for others if not for your own sake. And if anything, Jal would not approve one bit. The other soul he is tied to—even more so. “I’ve a sword; he’s got a gun,” Liir replies, gestures to the man in the driver’s seat, “so while I’d be happy to take them all on, Chloe here would probably be more suitable when it comes to fighting that man. ” He points at the vampire, tilting his head as he considers what he knows of their kind, considers his own prowess with the blade, which is to say, still questionable. “And you do know we could just skedaddle right now. But it’s your call. At least I’m ready to roll,” he adds, sending a grin Chloe’s way before stepping out into the rain to stand alongside Carina. His coat is soaked through within seconds, chills him to the bone, but he pulls out his sword from the sheath and gives it an experimental twirl, waits for the group’s verdict before making his move.

It is almost second nature to her now: the way she moves, the way she and Anatase dance together in a flurry of knives and pale lights, the way her wardrum heart beats wild and restless against her sternum. The unease, the not-knowing, too, is second nature even after years in the profession. It is not easy to be rid of, and perhaps it will never really leave. Once it carves itself into the marrow, fear is deep-rooted, whether one likes it or not. Anatase’s lodepoints do their duty, disarming the Reaver of its weapon, and her exalta bolts drive it to fall over, unable to stand and fight. She takes a brief moment to mentally celebrate before the other two Reavers start making their way forward. “Uh oh, we angered them,” she deadpans, readying her gauntlets for another round when— "Found anything of note over there?" Her partner makes conversation with the woman his gaze had appreciated just moments before, in the first room, as if they were not currently in the midst of a battle with leaping, rabid mummies that can very well kill them if they aren’t careful. Which is—just fairly typical of him, really, why is she even surprised. Celestine rolls her eyes, leaves Anatase behind as she strides forward, makes herself the shield at the head of the group. She raises her gauntlets, fires energy bursts again aimed at the nearest Reaver vaulting its way towards them with incensed speed, hoping the blasts connect and somehow slow the monster down before it reaches her. Despite the adrenaline racing through her veins, Celestine experiences a brief flash of doubt, before her mind clears over until all that is left is single-minded focus. She is ready for this. She has trained for this. If it is a brawl they want, it is a brawl they will get.

Iyalon had been more or less smiling, his face amiable and open since the start of the dinner, but then the rather ill-advised jest had sucked all the levity from the room in one blow. The tension settles over the table, and he can feel his shoulders tightening as Lord Uldwar looks on with a grave expression, spouts words in a tone that brooks no argument. "The world is a hostile place, sir knight, as you and I both know intimately. Weakness can mean death, and death is in many cases, a permanent condition." Despite the current atmosphere of discomfiture, Iyalon can only find himself agreeing. Only the ruthless are allowed to survive, and to be weak is to attract destruction and elimination. He can understand that, understand where those words are coming from, if nothing else: he thinks along the same lines every day. At the ring of the bell, Lord Uldwar excuses himself, leaves deafening silence in his wake. Iyalon keeps his gaze trained on his own plate, quietly scooping up spoonfuls of fish into his mouth as he waits for the others to speak. Not unsurprisingly, Lady Uldwar herself breaks the air, justifies her husband’s mood with the weight of the duties he bears. He is about to open his mouth to speak platitudes and acquiesce to her suggestion to end dinner early when a piercing cry rings through the room. "That's not fair! Why can't I have my dessert? I wasn't the one who insulted father. If anything I should have his dessert and he be sent to bed early." Guilt settles oddly in his gut, but Iyalon cannot help himself: it rather feels as if he’s intruded on something private, witnessing the subsequent dialogue between the matriarch of the house and the young Uldwar son. When Eric races out of the hall, bringing the Dogs of War with him, the Hildebrand knight carefully puts down his utensils and focuses his attention on the woman burying her face in her palms. "Why must these dinners always turn into disasters?" Compassion blooms unexpectedly in his chest at that. Despite the circumstances, Iyalon rather thinks Lady Uldwar bears as much burden of keeping their house in line as her husband does. It does not sit well with him to leave her thinking that they all feel ill will towards her. “If—if it is of any comfort, my Lady, I quite enjoyed myself,” he begins hesitantly, giving her a tiny smile. “Your hospitality has made me feel very welcome in your estate. It is not only in battle that the Uldwar house excels, but in cordiality as well.” It is really only due to the Lady and their knights’ efforts to extend courtesy, Iyalon muses, not without a sense of reluctance. He pauses for a moment, thinking deeply, before continuing. “I would offer my company to walk with the Lady Uldwar to wherever she needs to go before I retire. It is what I do often with my Lady Hildebrand in our own halls.” The thought of Varda places a soft grin on his face, and Iyalon bows deeply after he comes to stand to his feet. He is unsure of his own offer, unsure of her own acceptance, but the deed has been done. "If not with me, then perhaps going with another of your knights would comfort you, my Lady. It would be lonely to walk alone." If the Lady refuses his offer, then he will thank her once again before going to his chambers for the night.

I'll be casting a vote to let @Grimmholt and I continue our first round for a few more posts since we started fashionably late 😂 I am open to "cloning" my character to make way for the next round's pairings, tho 😊

@Jotnotes Celestine will cover for Ilyana, coming up to the head of the party, and take another shot at the nearest Reaver bearing down on them, bracing for hand-to-hand combat 😊

I'd very much like to 😂 Just to clarify: my character has already taken an action in @Csl's post; is she allowed to take another action in my post? 😊

Samael can’t help but wince again as the shouting starts back up, but at least everyone finally seems to be getting along to his point of view. Sera and Teddy share a look between them, one of asking permission, when the foul-mouthed woman finally steps forth and places an arm around his shoulders, half-following, half-dragging him forward towards the Mistress. He tries his best not to twitch a single muscle but finds that he can’t even move properly, caught under that almost-crushing grasp over his body. He does not look in Sera’s direction as he continues on, forging the path onwards to their leader. When they reach the clearing where the Mistress had been, Samael is not even surprised to find her gone once more, lost to the winds of the mountain. He manages not to let his exasperation show, merely nods to himself as he surveys the rest of the area. “Perhaps she has gone to fight more of those creatures,” he gestures towards the corpse of the monstrous behemoth lying still in the middle of the clearing, where the Mistress had sat upon earlier.

Um... Is mine and @Csl's turn supposed to be combined? 😅 I've been skipped, if not 👀

Her breathing sounds incredibly loud even to her ears, in the ringing silence that follows. Darya squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before she looks back around the cart’s corner to check up on the turret and any other threat that might possibly pop up. Suddenly, Erin reappears, jolts into the visible world once again, and Darya has a few seconds to panic before she sees Alise turn her head and wave a hand towards the far west, calling her attention towards the glass wall of the Lobby, various silhouettes dancing across the surface in languid shuffles. The mage-woman then urges her to observe as she maps out the walking tank’s steady, programmed course around the room, which Darya nods to in understanding. She then continues, wrapping a hand around her wrist and pointing out an alternate route for them to take, somewhere away from the machine’s line of sight for them to reach the other end of the room safely. She has to admit, Alise had a good plan. Darya follows, acts as the sweeper, the warden protecting against threats that come from behind. They move in sync and stealthily, keeping close to the ground and avoiding the walker’s eyes. When they reach the near-end of the route, she shudders at the sight of the human shapes pressing against the ballistic glass, their opaque images almost indistinguishable in the darkness of the lab. Their aimless wandering gives Darya various ideas on what they could be, and none of them are very friendly, not at all. Reaching the north-west end, Darya pivots to catch Erin’s attention to where they are and gives her a subtle gesture to come over. As how Alise had taught her, she wordlessly points out to the woman a fairly similar route to the one they had taken earlier, keeping low and out of sight. After that, she presses herself tight against the wall, crouching down to wait for Erin to reach them.

The two sisters take a seat side by side, the two of them against the cold dark night, and all is quiet for a moment. Varda shivers but does not otherwise move a muscle. The silence is not constricting, not really. So immersed in her thoughts is she that she had not been able to closely observe the ocean stretching far into the horizon in the distance. She watches the waves lap against the sand and rock, listless and almost transfixed. It is not a common sight to see, far as their home is located from the shore, and something tugs in her chest, something like the feeling of falling asleep and dreaming. Her dreams are soft, beautiful, delicate things in a world of hardships: they’re childhood, and impossible hopes, and she can inhale the way they smell of candlelight and honey and good, rich earth. She feels lighter here, in the company of her sister in a darkened balcony as much as the hazy world of fantasies she escapes to when she drifts away. Merel stutters, then, half-formed statements left in smoky tendrils and windswept leaves, when her voice fails, and she ends up curling deeper into the cocoon of fabrics she’s made for herself. Varda waits, as she always does. Father Time is not a stranger to her either, and so when Merel’s words finally come, she is prepared to meet them. “This is the first we’ve seen much of each other, hasn’t it?” The query pierces deep into her skin. Varda stares straight ahead, strength in her shoulders that she does not really feel. “In a long while, yes,” she replies, her voice pitched low and smooth. “Since—” Her voice falters, and she takes a deep breath before continuing. “I have missed you, sister. More than you know.” She has missed Merel’s light, Merel’s grace, Merel’s smile most of all. Grief had taken everything from them, and they have yet to recover. Perhaps they never will. Varda’s fingers twine around the fraying threads of the shawl, crossing and uncrossing without much thought.

Oh boy, here we go 😂 includes: characters, estate information, list of threads Lady Persicaria of House Hildebrand! - lore Order of the Orchid - knights of House Hildebrand includes: list of characters