Aleksei

"Your kindness is appreciated." Masks are a common formality amongst the wealthy. They all danced to the same tune, sang the same songs, and even combined the two into a lavish display. Necessary, these kinds of things, especially when the world they live in has slowly begun to tip back the scales. There was far too much at risk; even though the Tyrant King has been dead for a year and some months, the reign of Taen is now too fresh to believe the people are calmed by their presence. The Mythal house is not afraid of the new reign of power, they think that the Emporer will do them well, but many would disagree with their opinion. What they did, what they do, is for the greater good. Their people deserve some peace and comfort, the last thing they want or need right now is another upheaval. Austere wore his mask well, a wonderfully practiced thing that hardly cracked when under pressure. There are sure knicks in said mask though, caused by the stress and the losses his family has gone through, so he is a sensitive sort who shifted and changed at any given moment. The air in the household was suffocating and tepid with anger and fear; the memory of the bruises on his bride pecked at his mask, his overly cool demeanor. "I have a few changes, Lord Carthrage." His voice was lowered and cold - chilly, clipped. There was no reason for him to show this many any kindness, for it was the Dred Wolf who held the higher hand in this exchange. With all his wonders and praise, Carthrage is a but a speck in the grand scheme of things, and he was a pawn in this quick game of chess. "My patience is thin when it comes to abusive men." He raised a hand as to silence the man from speaking if he dared to do so. The elf wasn't going to let the Lord of the house have his way when he has little control to speak of; he is a weakened man who takes some small pleasures in abusing the members of his household. Today they are both lucky, for out of kindness not deserved, Austere will take his bride away from this painted hell and relieve the Lord of a burden. The contract he is hovering over, all the things he wants and expects from the Mythal name he will get. "You stay away from the Free Marches, far away from your daughter, and whatever she demands you will give it to her." He stood up, folding his hands behind his back as he looked down upon Carthrage. Golden hues were dark and stormy, his anger written across his gaze. "Your house has the Mythal name, but you take nothing else from us."

'Well met Zarrah, you may call me Ari.' It was good to feel at ease right out the door; a first name basis created a strange sense of welcome and comfort that aided the young lady to mold in with the new crowd. 'Currently? I've no plan. These lands are too unpredictable to rely on such ahead planning, but I would make one suggestion on our behalf. Allow me to be the scout.' Ari was confident in her fighting skills, but she was far more optimistic in Zarrah's. He looked like the sort who could handle himself well in the throes of battle, and with that manageability, he could assert himself to the rest of the group as a capable leader. She was too small of a woman to garner too much attention, plus her lack of voice made it difficult for anyone to honestly trust her. Ser Gerald was kind enough to not shun her away for intruding his mind, so was Zarrah who had kindly responded to her in an understanding manner; they are few in a sea of many who would otherwise curse the small woman. 'My skills are better suited for such things. I can fight and protect when needed, yet it would fair us better if I can stop the damage before it befalls us.' The large group trecked on forth through the muggy heat, their frowns showing exactly how they felt about the weather. A small trickle of sweat traced the length of her spine, an annoyance that would unfortunately not meet a final fate. With the variety of layers and her weapons thrown across her back, she had to suffer through the sensation. Still, outside the discomforts, she would rather the heat than the cold. When they stopped, the two were given their first task of the day. Hunting, now that is something she can do without worrying overmuch about failure. Small but mighty she is, Ari could efficiently complete this task on her own. 'Zarrah, I can do this task on my own. It would give me an opportunity to scout the area a bit, see what we must avoid and such.' They are to work together, the courteous thing she could do was show her interest in his suggestions. If he felt uncomfortable with her going out on her own, she would easily accommodate him; if he allowed her to go on her own, she would tell Ser Gerald their plan in full. It wouldn't make any sense to leave him out of the loop, especially since he appears to be the curious sort that would demand an explanation.

Lyonene didn't ignore them, neither did she acknowledge though. It wasn't exactly her duty to come out here and do something about small-time terrorists, but she had time to burn before she was shuffled off into something bigger and better. This momentary diversion will help sharpen her reporter of skills, keep her studious and ready for any other pesky little challenges that may come up. Alterion is a not the sort of place to just stand still, there's always something happening, always someone disrupting the manufactured peace. The Untouchable was curious about the magic; everything else was just standard run-of-the-mill sort of stuff. This unusual little circumstance will undoubtedly reveal what plans this stranger has tucked away in his limitless mind - if he is left to live. It wouldn't be beyond the woman to allow such a person to live, especially if they show a promise of bountiful skill that could benefit Ocelot and his cause. He trusted her judgment, allowed her to do whatever she wished while beneath his rule; she took advantage of such freedoms from time to time, this time may be one of them. "For the greater good of course." She is but a pawn in the game, a weapon for their leaders hand to use as he saw fit. It's her duty; a duty created some time ago between him and her family, that forces her hand. The young lady is not a hero nor a villain, just an unfortunate victim to circumstances she has no power or interest to fight against. "Take care of the problem and make sure everyone goes home on time. Beyond that, I have no real plan on how to deal with this." Lyonene is forthcoming, not wanting this gentleman and his men to rely too much on the Untouchables capabilities. There's a bit too much opportunity for this whole thing to go sour, and she would rather keep their backup on their toes, prepared for anything. "I'll know more once I get in there though."

The elf helped the gentleman gather his fallen goods, and awkwardly she smiled through his apologies as if he were inconveniencing her any. Emerald hues glittered in amusement. It had been her fault for arriving without sending word beforehand. Also, she was a bit occupied with her surroundings to see where she was going. This was her first time being in an encampment, the overall hustle and bustle were impressive enough to draw the elf's attention. When they collided, there had been a passing pause between them as they awkwardly tried to figure out what to do. Taking the initiative, the gentleman desperately attempted to smooth the issue over with his apologies while gathering the items she knocked out of his arms. Shanti hoped that the awkwardness was just the naturalness of the man, and not because of who she was. In the city itself she felt like she was being suffocated by the constant worrying; here there was no one around to tell her to sit down and doing whatever she was doing, no one to tell her to go lay down and rest, no one to be the mother hen. Appreciative beyond the use of words, these strangers took care of her and offered her shelter and comforts they did not have to sacrifice for her, but such attention is foreign to her. "Please, don't worry about it." Her voice was still a bit hoarse, the angry bruise decorating her neck is a raw and angry looking thing; blues, purples, and yellows made it look like a miserable storm dancing beneath her pale skin. Talking was difficult, more so since she liked to talk. Everyone was new and strange, any opportunity to learn more about them she would take, often to the annoyance of the people who claimed to be her caretakers. They don't understand that Shanti may never get another chance to soak in the knowledge of these people. Any chance may be her only chance. "I'm sorry to bother you, but could you point me the direction of Michael?' His name had been burned into her memory, a soft little song she had repeated over and over again during her stay. When she awoke, the first question on her lips was about the man she had caught on the beach. The next round of questions was about his health: was he okay? How terrible were his injuries? Could she help him? What could she do to ease his discomfort? Shanti hadn't the strength to do anything, but her determination didn't know that it was ready to do war once more. Thankfully (unfortunately) she wasn't needed, leaving only to heal herself. Pointed in the right direction, she gave her thanks and quickly shuffled forward. She felt like she was continually swaying back and forth when she walked, the strange shifting of weight (or lack thereof) throws her off. It is to the point now she has to force herself to think about walking, to think about grasping things with her left hand for her right no longer existed. The most straightforward task was no longer common and as frustrating as it was, she welcomed this change. There was no reason for her to be angry at the loss or want to seek revenge because she is alive and these days she will not waste them on pettiness. Though she is a bit sour about the loss of her staff. The passing thought made her bored hand sift through the pale strands of curled hair; her lips turned into a pout that did well to accentuate the angles of her soft face. It was an item her master had given her when she was a child, her very first gift from him, and she is not above a bit of sentimentality. She lost it in battle at least, and not because she was careless. Briefly, she opened her only arm in thought, remembering when she had caught Michael and then when she had lost her arm protecting him. Beyond her sourness, she can at least say that the loss was well worth it, that she would do it over and over again if it meant saving him. Such decisions are not trying to make. @amenities

Yeup! Itll be up in a few hours after the little is down for bed!

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."

"No, you listen here, Uldwar!" Both men were interrupted by a voice of pragmatism, and mentally he thanked the woman for stepping between them both. Milorian shouldn't be raising his voice nor should he be so easily swayed by his emotions. This was his meeting, and he should have a firmer grasp on the whole ordeal, he should not allowing the Uldwar's to have so much sway over it. The last thing he truly wants is to battle with them on Dali estates, a place that is very deserving of its quiet peace. It shouldn't be spoiled by the likes of the Lord and Lady Uldwar. Cassandra was preaching to the choir, and it made the elf's lip curl in disdain. Oh, he knew the terrors the King had spread throughout their homeland, they were still embedded in the Free Marches, sewn into Crossroads structure, sliced in the bodies of the Mythal's. Of course, his anger is justified, of course, he has every right to be angry at them. They are not the only ones who are victim to his hatred, but their actions were the most profound during the Tyrant's rule. "This would not be the first time you've lifted a sword to the Mythal House." He cast a quick glance towards Easton who was thankfully more interested in a bumblebee buzzing around the garden. Such unbridled happiness hurt the Lord's heart, nearly moved him to tears if he hadn't been seething beneath his brooding demeanor. Apparently, the gesture hadn't gone ignored, and Milo was not going to let the man get away with it. The markings on Milorian's body glowed a soft hue of blue; they are intricate lines that start from his bottom lip, trail down his throat and expand across the rest of him. Every Mythal has their variation of the markings, even the young have been marked but in less remarkable ways; when they reach the appropriate age they are given a choice to expand on them as they see fit. Imbued with a force that enhances their capabilities as elves and wolves, the blue hue is a concoction the Mythal line has created and kept secret for many eons. "He will never know his sister or his mother, and for that, you are to blame." Milo pointed to Easton. "Anson will grow to hate your cause, for it was you who took away his father and in exchange, you gave him and his mother grief." He lowered his glowing hand, the threat of action delicately held back by reason. "You are the cowardly, selfish man who chose to accept the reign of a tyrant instead of standing up against him. You have no right to honor any more than you have the right to be alive."

And posted ❤️

I will have a post up for this today!

"Are you okay?" "Anxious." A thin strand of silence stretched between him and the voice inside his head. This situation is difficult on all accounts; there are barely any words that could convey the mixture of emotions the two were feeling. What one wants to do and what one needs to do are conflicting things at times, thinning the heart and hardening the mind while the body struggled to follow the correct directions down the right path. He wasn't the argumentative sort, but in this case, he threw a minor battle at his brother's feet, all the while knowing damn well he would lose to his sibling's reason. "Austere, if ..." If? Austere took a moment to weigh that word, amusing that there was hesitance in Milorian's voice since it was he who had made this strange arrangement. Saying if now is a bit useless in the long run, their name was already signed on the dotted line and Austere had already agreed to go on with this farce of a marriage. He didn't like it, neither did Milo, but the Dred Wolves are not the sort to allow an opportunity to slip by them. Moreso when such opportunities are just handed to them with already proclaimed promises and expectations. The elf sighed and rubbed his honey eyes hard, creating a speckled mass of stars and shapes in front of him. He has had time to mourn his losses, time to think about his position within the family, time to consider the health of himself and mostly his child. Easton is surrounded by a family of smiling faces, but Austere knew he craved his mother's attention - something he will never get again. He hopes that he is doing the best for them both, that this marriage will bring some sunshine into his child's life, if not his own. "I agreed to this Milorian, and I will see it through." The carriage arrived on time and stopped in front of the estate, the coachmen and horses waited in palpable silence while the elf gathered his courage. He idly fiddled with a simple black box, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, the perfect size for an engagement ring. Austere hoped to lessen his bride's worry by offering a gift of meaning, a gesture that would perhaps weaken her defenses a little. Hopefully, he thought while finally exiting the carriage. The elf is a tall figure with exaggerated pointed ears and honey eyes that held a mix of coldness and warmth to them. He wore an elaborate array of layers that make up the robes the Mythal men are often known to wear; the colors range from grays to blacks, with red peeking from behind extreme decorations that marked his attire. His long white hair was left unbraided, it curtained across his pointed shoulders and drifted across his waist. The smile on his face was meant to keep his company warm, but it hardly reached his eyes which were now evaluating said company. "Lord Austere Mythal, at your service."

I will have a post up and ready for you tomorrow!

HM! Let's get our toes wet in the prologue and build from there.

YAASS! Would you like me to go ahead and post in the prologue thread?