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Port Thea is a study in warm colors, and the way the sun dapples over the buildings, the sand-yellow bricks, the deep blue ocean cresting on the horizon makes something ache in her chest. This is the first time she has ever set foot on the shores of Thraece, and Varda tries her best not to recreate the expression of a lost puppy as she gazes at the sights and scenery from her vantage point near the carriage window, moving leisurely through the streets on their way to House Senaria’s seat of power on the island. Jasper has it in mind for House Hildebrand—and by extension, Lady Hildebrand herself—to pay courtesy calls to every other noble house in a gesture of goodwill. Having just recently visited House Dali, and for Iyalon to have visited House Uldwar as her representative, Varda had decided to visit House Senaria next, knowing very little about the foreign-born nobles. The wildlife and water conservation projects she has heard about only bolsters her interest. Nai is silent from where he sits across the carriage, dark eyes scanning through the book in his hands with single-minded focus. In truth, Varda knows he had not wanted to come, had not wanted to be displaced from the comfort of his herbal workshop and the diligent care of their ailing mother’s health, but Lady Hildebrand had insisted, and so he had gone. Though Aspen would have been a better fit, more attuned to the relationship of nature and the land than her brother, Varda had a selfish reason for wanting otherwise: it has been too long since Nai had taken a step out of Hildebrand lands, and this foreign visit is one way to drag him out of his shell. She only wishes he’d actually take some time to look around. “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” She taps his shoulder to punctuate her intrusion into his personal bubble. It takes a moment, but then Nai lifts his gaze to catch hers, confusion evident on his face. “What is?” “The city, brother,” Varda rolls her eyes even as she smiles, gesturing out to everything outside the window. “Isn’t it beautiful?” “Ah.” He pauses, adopts a pensive look as he shifts his gaze to the scenery around them. “Yes.” A startled laugh bursts from her lips, and she clamps a hand over her mouth, glaring playfully. “Nai! That’s all you have to say?” He smirks at her, then, about to turn back to his book when the carriage makes a sharp turn, and then there it is, leaving all prior conversation forgotten. Solaria Estates stands proud and sprawling, its facade overlooking the Thraecian coast. The sight of the greenery so close to that brilliant blue beyond sparks a longing in her chest that has only very rarely been addressed: despite her love for the ancestral lands of her youth, Varda had always wanted to live near the sea, where she could farm within sight of the rolling waves framing the horizon. It calms something in her, the idea of that quiet life. “We are here, my Lord, my Lady.” Iyalon appears at the foot of the carriage, outstretched hand ready for her to take. Varda clutches the bouquet of white roses entwined with chicory tight as she alights from the step onto the ground, gazing up at the estate. The color of the stone looks almost like the wheat of her fields; if anything, she thinks she would not feel homesick, not within view of that familiar color. Nai hovers behind her, and soon, the words come spilling out so easily. “Imagine waking up to this view everyday, brother,” Varda smiles, casting her gaze out to the beautiful, restless sea, “with the wind and the waves so close. It’s, um—it’s peaceful.” Nai turns to her, follows the direction of her stare. “You wish to live like this?” He hums in thought, tilting his head as he shifts his eyes back to her. “I can understand the sentiment.” They share a half-smile for one brief moment, then they turn their attention back towards the estate, waiting for their noble hosts to meet them. @danzilla3 @Sleepy Seal

“So, you and Varda. Yay or nay?” In case the meaning wasn’t obvious for Iyalon, Crowley waggled his eyebrows. He didn’t really need an answer. It was more about being obnoxious than anything else. Getting under the Lord Protector’s skin had become something of a pastime over the course of their journey, partly as a means of payback, but mostly because that was just the kind of person he was: devious, silly, a little too crass for highborn snowflakes. Sometimes a little petty in spite of his knife-edged charm. Most people he’d ever spoken to were amazed when they met the man and not the legend; in terms of personality, Crowley wasn’t exactly what the leader of the Oathsworn was supposed to look like. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul,” he said. “Pinky promise. C’mon, put her up.” When the two finished locking fingers, Crowley turned his gaze back to the river. It flowed calmly at their side, clear in the afternoon light, downhill from the towering black fortress waiting for them dead ahead. Watching the monument draw closer, bit by stony bit, kind of made him feel like he was walking in a dream. An uncomfortable, stressful dream. The last time he’d visited a castle, it was to kill a king. The famous Break, and he the infamous Swornbreaker. It was the kind of reputation that made him wish he’d stayed at home, where no one knew who he was. Where he could live out a comfortable life with no one to judge him but his own shadow. He didn’t deserve that life, though. He’d come to terms with that now. It was as Iyalon had said, this was his chance to right his wrongs. Raking a hand through his hair, Crowley let out a sigh. A smidge of his anxiety went out with it. He ignored Iyalon’s glance and kept on walking, the soreness of his feet gradually occupying the space clearing in his head. By the time he actually began to enjoy the dull work of putting one foot in front of the other, it occurred to him that maybe he’d have to spend some time in court. Not because of the Hildebrands, per se. They wouldn’t throw any lawsuits at him. The rest of Andelusia, however, could want him to face justice. For what, well…between being a war criminal, a murderer, or even Ursa Madeum’s very own boogeyman - the list was long. Very long. It wouldn’t surprise him if he ended up in a dungeon by the end of all this. “Happy thoughts, Crowley. Happy thoughts.” “What?” “Nothing. Just having a midlife crisis, don’t mind me. Say, would you know if Aspen or Esme are still single by chance?” They spent the rest of the trek in relative silence after that. Probably for the best, since Iyalon looked like he’d had it up to here with him. Fortunately the tension didn’t last long, as the gates of Ravenel Manor were fast approaching. Crowley decided to hang back a few steps, scratching at the thin stubble of his ‘travel beard’. He’d let Iyalon do his thing while introductions were being passed around. I wonder if they still do absinthe. @vielle

Reed Waterman was many things. Tall, handsome, funny, a little too vain for his own good. But mostly he was just busy. Really, really busy. “You know what you need, kid?” Hakujin was already crowded, with all three numerous seats occupied by the five o’ clock trio. Riku, as always, sat in the middle. Sora and Kaito, also as always, flanked him on the left and right, specifically in that order. It was hard to tell which one of them had asked the question. They were triplets, and so they all sounded the same. Reed had also been too focused on overcooking their noodles, as they all liked their ramen mushy and soggy and, quite honestly, pretty damn disgusting. “A vacation?” Reed guessed, wrinkling his nose. “Are you going to surprise me with a ticket to Casper, is that it? Or a weekend spa trip to Chateau Bacre?” One of them snorted. Probably Kaito. “Fat chance. Who’s going to get us our weekly ramen fix?” Reed turned off the burners and dumped the noodles into three bowls. The way they sagged and nearly came apart reminded him of overcooked noodles. Nothing in life sagged and nearly came apart like overcooked noodles did. “Guys, there’s literally ten more ramen shops like thirty feet from here,” he said. Sora wagged a finger. “I counted nine, actually.” “What, seriously?” Reed handed the triplets their bowls. “I thought I was just exaggerating.” Sora nodded. “There’s Daikaya, Mensho, Kokujin No Otoko-“ “That’s not important,” Riku cut in, leaning against the counter. “What’s important is that you-“ He pointed to Reed with his chopsticks. “-need a wife.” An abrupt silence fell over the shop. Reed stared at Riku, who stared right back as he began to slurp his thick, wet noodles. “To have kids with, you mean," Reed prompted. "Who can work the farm. While I go on vacation.” Riku slurped some more. “I was thinking more about your happiness.” Reed cocked his head. That was a funny thing to say. “That’s a funny thing to say,” he said. Sora shrugged his square shoulders. The motion of it made an unpleasant crack that spoke wonders of his old age. “Listen, kid. It’s no secret that you’ve got no love for this place. At least, not anymore.” Reed frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Kaito spoke up first. “He’s right, you know. We used to think you did all this work because you liked it. But then we realized you do it to keep yourself busy. Like someone who does gardening because they can’t afford a therapist.” “Only your thing is farming on weekdays and cooking on weekends,” Riku continued. “It wouldn’t be so weird if you weren’t so muscled and young and obviously some ex-mercenary or something.” "Or a white guy running a Welander restaurant." "That too," Riku conceded. Reed didn’t respond right away. He didn’t really know what to say. “And how does this relate to me needing a wife?” “Love makes people happy,” Riku answered simply. “And you’re one very unhappy man.” Reed considered this with a nod. Even after the five o’ clock trio finished their meal and left, he still found himself thinking about what they said. Like someone who does gardening because they can't afford a therapist. ... "Senile buggers," he muttered. @vielle

On the day of Chairman Tynes’ visit, Varda finds herself worrying about the amount of white roses she needs to welcome their guests, of all things. She pointedly ignores the amused glances her siblings send her from where they sit amongst the various chaise lounges around the sitting room. “All these foreigners making their way into our halls,” Jasper muses, a slight smile curling on his lips as he burrows deeper into the cushions, sprawled and languid, “and you are yet to grow used to such things.” “I know this must come easy to you, brother, but as you know, I am not very fond of being unprepared, especially for esteemed guests.” Varda shakes her head, returns to pacing back and forth across the floor, mentally going over their plans again and again. “Surely there is no need to fret, sister?” Aspen chimes in, giving her a soft grin from over the pages of the book shoved under her nose. “You say they come to negotiate trade and perhaps an alliance. If they are willing to come to us, then there might not be a need to go overboard with the preparations?" She gestures to the door leading out into the hall beyond. “Which I am sure the servants have handled well.” Nai is silent as he sits perched on the windowsill, his face turned towards the glass and the landscape beyond. Varda sends him a desperate look he does not return. “Varda.” Jasper tilts his head, his smirk fading, replaced with a serious expression. She stops guiltily, well aware of what that particular look brings upon her head. “The Lords’ Hall is spotless. The Summer Hall has been prepared for days now. Our banquet fare will be as exquisite as it always is. Your pretty flowers will be enough for all of them.” He shrugs and rises to a sitting position. “Enough of this, or you will wear down the wood at our feet and I will not appreciate having to delegate funds for redecoration.” Varda takes a moment to understand his words, then breathes deeply, in and out in a measured manner. Her brother is right, of course; he usually is, but she will not grant him the satisfaction of saying so. She nods, meets three gazes head-on. The assurance she finds is calming; it settles in her gut like a comforting blanket. “Shall we go and ready ourselves, then?” As always, as siblings ought to, they follow her out the door without question. @Tyler

Aspen is not the best choice, she thinks, for any sort of trip outside the borders of the Hildebrand domain, but really, this is something she had wanted to do herself. “Darling, you’ll be fine,” her fiancé had cooed, kissing her on the forehead and causing a flush to spread over her cheeks, and her siblings had granted her a wide range of farewells and good wishes, although she can do without seeing Nai trying to calm Esme’s mock weeping fit. She can also do without the insinuation of the spark urging her to seek the particular creatures out, but that is entirely in her own head. Leaning her head against the windowsill of the carriage, Aspen closes her eyes and breathes in slow, breathes in deep. She reminds herself of why her departure from Ravenel Manor is of her own volition. She is on the quest for the elusive beefly. Aspen chuckles to herself at the sudden, childish thought of her brandishing a sword and cutting her way through the wilderness, a wide-eyed traveller on a journey for treasure. She supposes the beefly can count for treasure, but she does not know enough about them to be sure, hence her journey across the island into the wildlands of Corinth. Perhaps this supposed Beefly Protection Group she is visiting will be able to provide more information about them as well as the means for House Hildebrand to acquire some beeflies on their own land. Varda had been most adamant about that last part, after hearing about the creatures in the first place. Her sister is quite predisposed to anything endearing and innocent, Aspen cannot help but muse with a soft smile. After a while, she watches the treeline part like tilled soil, and Aspen prepares to disembark the carriage to speak with the people advocating and protecting the beeflies. @Metty

The black-haired woman trudged along the worn path to Corinth. Despite all the dust, the found the journey a blessing. Gone were the days she would have to fight her way through multitudes of gangsters and trash criminals. The bounty on her head was rather alluring especially to the poor and needy. Perhaps the symbol she wore on her coat made her a target to those in the criminal world. Not that it bothered her in the past, but a full day of no one having to die was a new experience for this woman. Quite relaxing actually. The passing wind blasted another wave of dust upon her figure. For a moment where she felt she would die of suffocation and then her turmoil had ended. Opening her previously shut eyes, she could finally see her destination, an old farmhouse, one she recalled from her childhood memories. She had been there once or twice when her mother had brought her there. The black-haired woman winced at that memory. She remembered how the people in that farm treated her mother poorly, calling her mother names like "slut" and "whore." She was a child at that time but now that she's older, she only understood the implications of that event. Her mother just stood before those people, head hanging low in shame while the younger version of her tried to wrapped her innocent mind on why her mother's clasp on her tiny hand keeps getting tighter with each passing moment. These were memories of her past and ever since Tormo was destroyed, so too did she bury all her past life on that night of terror. And yet she persevered in hopes of finding some semblance of a family within her relatives. Relatives she barely knew and preferred to not deal with. Who knew that her mother's family was once a vassal to the noble house of the Hildebrand's? This was why Holly was on this very road. Yes, soon she will find a family of her own.

One had to be careful whom they allowed in their home, lest they risk losing it to greedy trespassers. "Open the gates!" Gears began to turn, forced into working by a system of chains, pulleys and the toiling work of men turning cranks. Just beyond the gates of the might Uldwar Keep was Iyalon Izora, the head of the once great Order of the Orchid. Just as the Dogs of war had suffered, so too had the faithful knights of House Hildebrand, decimated to near extinction, yet surviving on in spite of the tragedy. For their resilience and dedication to their duty, the order of knights loyal to House Uldwar gave them ample respect during their visit on this day. On this overcast day, with the sun nearly blocked out completely by the clouds, the entire order of the Dogs of War was there to greet the head knight coming to them for tutelage. Sir Gerald Ultin was in the front of this group, standing proudly along with his men, looking onwards and forwards, his heart swelling with pride at meeting a fellow master in arms. He could appreciate Iyalon, knowing his talents for martial practices were great, quite close in fact to the accolades affords his own group of honor bound warriors. They both shared in a sacred duty, however, to protect their houses at all costs, which was what brought him here to this island so steeped in the arts of Warcraft. "Hail, Sir Iyalon. Welcome to Uldwar Keep. It is my hope your journey here was peaceful and swift." With pirates and unpredictable weather conditions, travel between the islands was difficult to say the least. While he had no means of combating strange meteorological phenomenon, he was certain he could make the seas safe against the scourge plaguing them. Bowing for a moment, Sir Gerald straightened himself, then removed his helmet, revealing the ugly, misshapen face that was brutalizing through so many years of combat. "We are honored that you would come to us to teach you the ways of constructing engines of war. Not every enemy can be slain with sword alone, sometimes you have to throw a mighty large rock at them." A laugh was shared between Sir Gerald and the other knights, all of whom wore exceptional gear, finer than any craftsmanship worn by normal foot soldiers. When one was uplifted into the ranks of the Dogs of War, only the best implements of war was worthy to be used by them. "Come. Before we show you our armory, let us retreat inside before the rain comes." @ourlachesism

Midnight and already nothing is happening. All quiet, the crickets whisper, all quiet, gasp the frogs. The foxes don’t dare, eyes like ice, hardly blinking in the shadows. The trees hold stock still, pale and cold, glistening as if with frost under the moon. It is the Matriarch’s law that nothing stirs in the dead of night. This, imposed on everything on the Dali estate, from the wind to the wild. Nobody breaks it; nobody is willing to face the consequences. The Matriarch believes that sleep is most proper at night; nobody wishes to argue with her. She knows that nobody sleeps at night, that everyone is busy: busy keeping the silence and pretending to sleep. She finds it agreeable. If everyone agrees to pretend then it is real, too. There are a few exempt from this absolute. Visitors who do not know the law; those in grief and madness who can’t help themselves. Two of these inhabit the windowsill from which thin threads of candlelight seep into the moon-shine. The shadows move like a stage-play, joined at some points, torn apart at others. They are mad hands, they are abrupt like scorpions. One approaches, getting larger and larger, until she might break through. From this darkness, light, or light, into this darkness. The drawing apart of curtains implies a desire to look; the opening of doors, to change. The girl must be thinking more of one than the other when she pushes onto the balcony, leaving the door swinging wide, spilling warmth and light out into the barrens behind her. The figure of the sister’s predicament is scarcely illuminated, half in shadow, half reaching out for her, half a name on her half-parted lips. But the old restraint tightens the sister’s throat up. Mistakes cannot be continuously made; she cannot mistake her baby sister for a woman, she cannot mistake the woman for her baby sister. She has been avoiding the mistake for a long time, perhaps even forever. But it is there. When the image of the father vanishes, the little girl he is holding up so radiantly, looks just that: little. Small, glass-like, one of those crystal swans that break their wings inexplicably and inevitably, broken, it seems, by breathing, by the normal mechanism of living. By things as harmless as old news. The Matriarch told them nothing new when she told them. Yes, murder; yes, the king’s risk; and at the conclusion of this confirmation, she had -- both of them had -- received ample sympathy, as much as she suspected the Matriarch was able to provide. Is it possible to have a back broken by the reiteration of a burden, by a reminder of weight? And what more, a promise to have that weight lifted, a swearing to secrecy and an affirmation of alliance? A promise of justice. The girl on the balcony doesn’t see it that way. Little surprise that things look different on the other side of the window. It is like a puzzle cube to her, which does not make sense whichever direction she turns it. Just hours ago it had been so orderly. She had seen what twists they gave to it, the movement and precise, obvious ciphers applied. In the end it is still a mess. Promises of faith mean nothing when she does not know what to believe. Thus the opening of the door, thus the parting of the curtains. The opposite of uncertainty has to be certainty, she thinks. Prettier lies have been told, but not many. Still, she has to believe. She rests her hands on the icy rails and feels the wind slip through her nightgown, grasping her in its claws and threatening to do its worst. It would be only fair. The girl has done her worst, too. Now she wonders if she hasn’t done the right thing, after all. The door swings on its hinge; the sister has turned away from the balcony and instead sits on the bed, conscious of the cold wind fluttering in and putting all the lights out. The girl just might catch cold, if someone doesn’t stop her. @ourlachesism

Whenever he wore a robe, the young man was often mistaken for a woman. This happened as he payed the coachman with a fine pouch of coins, uttering a word or two — then, suddenly, the old man was taken aback by a boyish voice. If it were not the prominent Adam's Apple on his throat, his pouty lips could have attracted men to his side. And that, was disturbing. Though oblivious and never has he wanted to admit, he always had a feminine grace. He has once wanted to be as manly as Iyalon, has wanted to stand tall with a heavy iron chest and a sword at his side. But, like the tide, his former ideals and aspirations were all washed away in an instant, a red ocean bringing his wishes along with it. Before he has brought a shoulder to cry on, secretly hid animals in his quarters. Now, he feels nothing of love. He may slit a mutt's throat with his blade in an act of curiosity, but he will still feel nothing. And no matter how hard he will try, he cannot shed a single tear for the death of his Lord. Pluto has changed, and he will never be the same. A gold coin dances through his glass fingers, flicking it up into the air and watched how it splattered in his palm like melted metal. His own silvery eyes studied it's spiraling movement, how he made it trickle off his fingertips and onto the music box in his lap. It bounces, however, wildly jolting up and down as the carriage found it's wheels struggle against the harsh terrain of the road to Ravenel Manor. He blinked when it happened, placing the wooden box between his thighs and attempting to decorate it's exterior once more. And when it kept happening, Pluto patiently kept doing it all over again. Then his eyes squinted as the gold went up to his face with one big bump! Like it's natural state, it dropped off his cheeks and onto the wood, where intricate patterns scatter his canvas. Still, he did not react. Instead, he tilts his head like how a dog would, taking the music box in his hand and examining it in his eyes. And he licks his lips, holding the box now with his two hands and stared down at it with hilarious, unnecessary attention. He wants it to be perfect, a habit he has grown into during his time of service. Perhaps about an hour passed as he still glared at it with peculiar eyes, the carriage eventually coming to a stop as the man who sat outside pulled on the reigns and yelled at the stallions to halt. He licks his lips again, curiously looking out the window. Well? Are you going to step out? And he did. The black robe draped on his shoulders followed behind his boots, taking his feet toward the direction of the manor. The gilded music box in his hands is stuffed into the robe's inside pocket, carefully shielding it against the soft pellets of water that fell on him. But it was not really raining, the rain had just passed. Instead, it drizzled while the sun shone down on the damp streets, blanketing the people with it's gentle heat and chilling cold. And the people whom he passed by shared their share of hushed giggles and coy smirks, both men and women chattering their own banters. But it was mostly the women. The men just teased him. But some did not whisper the way the others did. It was because they all found his face familiar. However, he is too easy to spot. Before he knew it, the pouch hanging from his belt was stolen with one swift motion. He blinked, looking down and realizing the lost item has left his reach. Then he looked to the thief, watching silently as his feet splashed wildly against the street's murky puddles. He did not turn his heel to run after the ragged child — instead, he let it happen — let the kid run off with his money. He holds a partially gloved hand to his hip, pouting as he whirled his head the opposite direction. It wasn't the box, he sighs. As long as it wasn't the box, the rat could have his wallet. Besides, he could make as much money as he wanted to. And so, the young man continued on his way to the manor, unwavering in his almost robotic steps as he was watched by bewildered passerbys who watched the strange situation happen before their eyes. It was awhile before he had now reached the tall gates of the manor, looking up at the sturdy wood that towered over him like an ant. He tilts his head, a silvery earring following his action. His hand would reach out to caress the black wood, eventually trailing down onto it's menacing door knocker. Then he licks his lips, fingertips dusted with a nostalgic feeling he cannot remember. The metal is clenched in his palm, powerfully knocking on it with an loud noise. At it's echo, he pulls down his hood, revealing his grey hair and metallic eyes. He expects a servant to come open the door like he would, waiting in the sunny rain as the droplets glittered like light. He is not nervous, no. He only feels that this is necessary. @ourlachesism @ethela penna

It’s been several days since his arrival in Ursa Madeum, and surprisingly, he hasn’t the slightest inkling of homesickness. Of the five comprising his retinue—Odette and four guards she insisted come with them—only Odette found the revelation troubling. Of course, Quinton understood her argument. They’d both grown up in villages like this, beautiful, pastoral landscapes carved by Gaia and detailed by the mortal hands that worked it. They’d both strived to escape it, as well, when the wars came. Why shouldn’t he miss the more advanced civilization of Terrenus proper? Hadn’t that been their dream? Quinton hadn’t bothered explaining the importance of the nostalgia, or how it drew his thoughts to Alexander. There were good times amidst the chaos and confusion of their adolescence, times that the three of them had always promised to remember. For Odette, it brings pain. The very expression he wears when his mind drifts too close to their old friend, it squeezes her heart like an aching fruit to be juiced of its agony. For Quinton, it is merely a memory – one he can’t forget, no matter how hard he tries. “The head of the house that leads this land is a woman by the name of Varda,” Odette says, glancing over a thin dossier. “Thirty-three years of age; light of hair; light of eyes and soft-spoken. They say she is quite beautiful.” Quinton casts his eyes out the window of their private carriage, surveying the landscape. Beautiful. Simple, primitive, but beautiful. “Is she married?” “All information says no.” “Betrothed?” Odette glances over the file with a frown. It’s much too thin for her taste, he knows. If there is one thing the woman loves more than her oldest friend, it is information. “Unknown.” Then she looks at Quinton, her bright blue eyes overwhelmed with a suspicious darkness to them. “Is that what this is about?” For a moment, he doesn’t answer. It wasn’t his poorest idea, if he said so himself. Many of his finances would be tied up in Ursa Madeum’s development projects in the near future. Enough that establishing himself—especially in a noble house of sorts, at least to some capacity—would only complement the endeavors. It was said that the Hildebrand are a well-respected family, and the women born of their line quite stunning. Eventually, he ends the silence. “I won’t stress it, but if an opportunity presents itself, I’ll not shy away from it either. At the very least, I can make myself a friend.” Odette arches a slender dark eyebrow. “A friend, hm?” Quinton smirks. “I’m told it’s more socially polite to refer to them like that, as opposed to an asset.” # Just as he’d done with Aurelius the Kadian, Quinton instructs his retinue to await his return in at the carriage. Lady Varda is aware of his arrival (a message was sent mere hours after his meeting with Aurelius), out of respect, he sees no reason to burden her with the company of those who—by the standards of their current culture—were little more than servants. He’s purposefully left his proposition vague, citing a desire to elaborate in person as the reason. Writing has never come easy for him. While there are some able to bring life to the page, Quinton is not one of them. He speaks well, able to turn the tide of a room in his favor with but a few short phrases, but writing—it is an art that escapes him, and often times his impassioned speeches find themselves dead, murdered by ink and quill. No, far better to handle all my business in person whenever possible. Like before, Quinton is dressed in a freshly pressed two-piece suit of the most modern Terran trends. Black as night, it is of a sharp cut and form fitting. It betrays the persona that he’s cultivated over the years, fitting him so well, as it reveals a well-built form chiseled from years of labor (and, through some means, maintained). His black Rosinderian hair is kept cut short at the sides, and though longer at the top, it is maintained and groomed. Unlike before, he doesn’t check his watch. Not once. Instead, he waits patiently in the antechamber of the large structure, content to wait for Lady Varda for as long as she deems proper. It is a delicate game, this matter he seeks, and he intends to play it well.

The path to Ravenel Manor was a difficult one, if taken on foot. For the winged such as her, the journey was leisurely. Hildrebrand's estate spread below, tracts of farmland and forest stretching on either side of the Symarron river. Her arrival was without fanfare; Rozharon landed silently some distance from the entrance. No dust stirred as her feet alighted on the ground. Raven wings, a dark halo around her lithe figure when extended, folded near-invisible into her back, the tips brushing the ground as a cloak's hem. Her cloak draped itself across her shoulders, guided by an unseen hand. The cowl remained hanging at the nape of her neck, her dark eyes uncovered. Her hair was in a simple bun, held up by no visible means. Her expression was neutral, though pleasant. The Empress of Taen made her way to the gates of House Hildebrand's manor. Her gaze settled on the guards standing at the side. Addressing all, and yet no particular individual, Rozharon spoke. "Gᴏᴏᴅ ᴅᴀʏ. I ᴡɪsʜ ᴛᴏ sᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ Lᴀᴅʏ Hɪʟᴅᴇʙʀᴀɴᴅ." @ourlachesism

To our most favored Andelusian High Tea Society , Under House Hildebrand, we are a simple farming house in want of spreading our wares among our people as well as the rest of the world. We would be delighted to introduce to you the prospect of entering some of our most famous treats into your tea house if you would be so willing. Enclosed is a menu of our different pastries and produce as well as some small samples for you to judge at your leisure. We would enjoy your thorough critique of our delicious treats at your earliest convenience. Sincerely, Annette Baerin-De'Laire, of Farmhouse De'Laire. P.S. Delicacies included for sampling: Miniature apple crisp Miniature Strawberry, Blueberry, Raspberry scones in variety. Miniature mixed berry tart. Miniature Raspberry torte. Miniature apple blossom pie. Variety of berry-topped and compote filled mini-muffins. Apple turnover and Strawberry Turnover. Menu *varies seasonally Apple Blossom Pie Bushel Berry Pie Berry Dainty Muffins Berrylicious Cakes Applicious Cakes Tortes: Blackberry, or Raspberry Tarts: Apple, Strawberry, Blueberry. Raspberry, and/or Blackberry Scones: Individual or mixed berry, Apple Cinnamon Turnovers: Individual, Mixed Berry, and/or Apple Cobblers: Apple, Blackberry, and/or Blueberry Jams, Jellies, & Preserves: Jarred and made to order. Curds & Compotes: Individual, Mixed Fruit/Berry, Apple Candied: Berries, Apples Dried: Berries, Apples @ourlachesism

i. Kalika does not know him, at first. She is worlds away from him, in the beginning, yet close enough in heart and mind and soul: a country girl with big dreams of becoming someone more than just a farmer’s kid, someone more than what she already is, and an aristocrat boy with big plans of becoming someone with authority, and if not someone with a crown and a throne, then at least the head of his noble house. But they do not know each other yet. Not at first.

All her life, Esme chases her own escape, chases that ever-distant star to lead her into greatness. “Excuse me, pardon me, sorry,” she smiles and nods apologetically as she weaves through the rowdy crowd, Reoldan shaking like a leaf behind her. All around them are the sounds of the marketplace, the exchanging of coin, the tinkling of children's laughter from green-patched alleyways, the hustle and bustle of yet another busy day in the life of the common folk. Esme feasts her gaze upon the colorful banners, the shop tents and the plentiful wares housed within. She enjoys the anonymity, here in the open world outside Ravenel Manor, far from the Hildebrand estate, far from Nai’s seclusion, Aspen’s nagging, Varda’s upcoming marriage to whoever-it-was from House Tankred. This town of Falcia, found to the northwest of Andelusia, is just one of her favorite places to cavort with the townsfolk, to be free from her bindings as a Hildebrand heir. Most of all, it is a place she is welcome to sing. “My lady, when you said we were just looking for a shop to buy bread,” the Orchid knight with her begins hesitantly, but the Hildebrand daughter shushes him, gives him a brilliant sunny smile. “It'll be fine, Reoldan. Besides,” Esme stops to place a golden coin in a beggar’s bowl before continuing, “it’s not like we’re doing anything bad, are we?” She hears a whimper behind her. “I would disagree—” “Oh, shush. I won’t let you come into any harm, oh sir knight.” Her mock-breathy words, crystalline echoes of light, rise above the din of the crowd. Esme whirls around and pats Reoldan on the shoulder. “I do this all the time. No worries.” When they reach the town square, the crowd thins around the stone fountain situated in the center, a small wooden platform waiting for Esme’s attention. She grins at the knight, taps her temple with a knowing glance, and casually steps onto the platform, facing the sea of townspeople. With a deep breath to steady herself, Esme closes her eyes and opens her mouth to sing. This little heart of mine, it’s cold Come light a fire in me She stands in the center of the town square, lets her voice fly, lets her words soar and shine. The world is frost, ice and snow Your hands are warm to the touch Embers deep within your soul Burning brightly People gather around her, the crowds pressing in closer and closer, like moths to a flame. This little heart of mine, it’s cold Come light a fire in me In this, she is content. In this, she is free. And in the deepest dying, smoldering embers of her heart, she knows this may be all she will ever taste of escape. @roboblu

Location: Lake beyond/behind Farmhouse De'Laire Weather: A cool 77 degrees with hinted breezes and clear skies. Pollen content still high despite being on the tail end of summer, pronouncing sneezes as inevitable. “Maybel, stop!” Claire’s voice thickens an octave as she becomes exasperated in trying to reason with her younger sibling, “you’re going to crush it if you don’t stop squeezing it so hard.” ‘It’ being the minnow they had managed to catch. Strenuous effort led to muddied boots, soaked hems, and an all but ruined apron. The latter mentioned fabric having been used to net the tiny fish from the shallows of the lake for a great length of time. “You shouldn’t be letting her hold it anyway.” Propped lazily on one of the boulders off the water’s edge is another rugged child. Despite their ages marking them as adults in an era of King’s and Queen’s, they still tend to adhere to their natural years. “No one asked you, Rand!” Riled up now by the young man’s interruption, she sets to taking a frog from the lidded basket at her ankles and tosses it at his head. A broken croak strikes the air along with a fair amount of crunching grass and inappropriate expletives as the boy topples sideways off of the rotund stone. Several things happen then, wild screams, running, giggle-fits, and loud painful splats! against cheeks and whatever else manages to fall prey as a target. Mud happens. Lots of thick brown watery dirt, flies from small hands through the air at moving bodies. Rand’s retaliation of the frog toss, starting an all out mud-war between the group of children hanging around the farm side of the lake. Image is property of -Lilium-'s Zoey. Weather forecast brought to you by ethela penna.

i. On the day the king dies, Varda is planting wheat in the fields. The soil is well-worn, rich and dark under her fingers, the familiar weight of her personal gardening tools in her calloused hands. She pauses to wipe the sweat off her brow, a grimy hand perched against the slim handle of her shovel, and surveys her work. Perhaps, she thinks, the image she presents can be amusing: a noble lady knees-deep in the dirt, stripped of all finery to till the earth beneath her feet. She would not have it any other way. For Varda, the love affair begins with the dirt burrowed deep in her mother’s fingernails, the smell of warm earth and cool rain and the blending, the miracle of life born under the soil. The kaleidoscope of colors, of simplicity and complexity in equal measure. The persistence of living things. Jasper sneers at her sentimentality, at times. Her other siblings simply smile and nod. To each their own oddities, and this family has plenty to spare. Her heart full and satisfied, Varda decides that her work is done for the day. Placing her tools into the red-rusted wheelbarrow, she wipes the grime off her hands with a wet towel, smiles and nods to the servant pushing the handcart as they walk amidst the golden stalks, gleaming radiant in the afternoon sun. Ravenel Manor looms in the distance, a black monolith in a sea of green. “My lady.” They come to a halt as Iyalon materializes beside the wheelbarrow, his eyes narrowed, his mouth tense. “Perhaps a coat would not be amiss in this chilly wind,” he says as he holds up a green coat towards her. Iyalon has never approved of her pastime, but he is always there nonetheless. His hands support the heavy coat as she eases herself into it, broad fingers brushing the fabric flush against her lower back. The shivers trailing down her spine have nothing to do with the cold. “Thank you,” she breathes, clasping the green cloth closer to her chest. “Shall we take a walk?” “As you will, my lady.” Iyalon turns, waves away the servant to continue the long walk to the manor before offering his arm to his noble mistress. They stroll wordlessly for a while, silence broken only by the soft howl of the wind, the rustle of wheat stalks bending in the breeze. It reaches her ears then: the wave of shattered noise, the distant cries, dying voices mingled with grief. She turns her gaze to the horizon, towards Andelusia, and sees a streak of light above that distant city-speck, sees change brewing in the air. “What's that,” she whispers, a rush of uncertainty in the breath that forms her words. Her nails dig into Iyalon’s arm, unrelenting. “The city,” Iyalon says, and there’s agitation, there’s terror in every syllable. “It's under attack.”