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When Iyalon thinks of the House of the Heralds of Daybreak—as the Hinode Clan had once been called—he can only really picture the cold mountains of Corinth’s northern region: the unsettling chill in the air if one is too familiar with the humid heat of the lowlands, the shattered sunlight streaming through the murky clouds, the treacherous paths that stand as the natural defenses of a House that have only ever known the ways of the sword and very little else. He remembers all too well the life he had once lived amongst them; the Order of the Orchid had first been established with its members having been taken from the ranks of the Hinode Clan. Iyalon had been the first among that number, and so he had spent a year or so of his life with warriors of great skill, learning their ways and digging his roots down to the rocky soil to entwine with them. Therefore, it is only fitting that the primary emotion in his chest when he thinks of the Clan is grief, and not regret.
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• • • Royalty does not suit her at all, Varda decides very early on. The diadem—newly forged as it is, and gleaming silver—weighs heavy on her brow. Despite the assurances of her brother that the burdens of a queen’s mantle are not all that different from the burdens of noble headship, the view from the height of a throne still appears frightening from where one perches on its esteemed seat. Over the weeks upon weeks spent establishing the legal power of the Queendom, something has changed within her. She finds herself more assertive—and yet more restrained. She finds herself more courageous—and yet more fearful. Her words carry the weight of an army, now. Her actions carry the weight of a crown. And so she finds herself at the doorstep of Quinton Swan once more: ostensibly seeking advice from a friend, if one were to question her motives, wading into the fray of the Kingdom as she is doing so now. Last time, she had sought for his aid in the healing of the body, Iyalon faithful by her side. This time, Iyalon is in the highlands bargaining for the reestablishment of their vassals in her stead, and she is alone. Here, she is not a queen, but a mere woman in want of companionship. (That is of importance, whether or not it is realized in her mind at the moment.) She’d sent a missive to his estate days before in order to announce her arrival once again, but Varda does not doubt that the man is always well-prepared to receive guests, and even moreso, dare she say it, to receive herself in his home. There is a wonderment, a thrill thrumming through her as she awaits recognition from his staff, and even as she waves her armored retinue to wait for her return, she moves forward with the confidence of a sword and shield at her back. (Royalty does not suit her, not at all, but it does have its benefits.) @King
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bewitched; unceasing “Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect.” ― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness s-class artifact thread | persicaria's amulet sounds of stories: in the shadows and forest: night watercooler/ooc thread | posting: once a week, not including NPC posts
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Contrary to popular belief, Esme is dangerously prone to seasickness. She tightens her grips against the railings, palms disgustingly sweaty under the heated burn of the morning sun, and tries her very best to keep her breakfast inside her stomach, no matter how much the restless waves attempt to do so otherwise. Not too long ago, Esme had dreamed of doing this very thing under vastly different circumstances: a free bird across the waves, tanned fingers wrapped around her own. It’s altogether ironic, that she is here to further cement her ties within her noble house and not, as she had wanted once another time—and still does, really—to run away from the shackles her family name has brought upon her the very day she had been born. But: Varda had persuaded her to do her duties, had argued that this would bring the solace that her position cannot grant her, and so Esme had agreed. It’s laughable, to think that she still agrees so easily. Their course is charted for Casper, which is far away enough from home that she can pretend she’s someone else, someone ready to start a new life on the mainland. Obviously, she’s not running away, not really, and what a joy that little piece of knowledge would be to her sisters. She just—needs to go away for a while. And if this is the way things have to go for her to escape, then so be it.
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All her other siblings have had their turn. Despite her fervent wishes not to be separated from her trusty workbench and plant samples for too long, her Lady is adamant that she take up some of the burden for the glory of their House, whatever that means. All Aspen really wants to do is to stay in her laboratory and continue her crop research. “Can’t you take a little holiday from your work? You’re looking quite pale, sister.” Varda purses her lips at her in a pinched little frown. “Too little sun, I reckon.” “You realize I’ve been spending more and more time out in the gardens with you and the rest of the household nowadays, haven’t you?” Despite the anxiety mildly simmering in her gut, Aspen can’t help the amused laughter that trails from her lips. Varda harrumphs. “Extended time spent outdoors will do you a world of good, sister. I promise,” and here the Lady Hildebrand traces a cross over her own heart, raises her other hand in the air, “I won’t bother you for a good long while after you’ve done this. Please, won’t you help out?” “I’ll hold you to that,” Aspen grumbles, rolling her eyes. Of course, how could she refuse?
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There is something about flowers, the splendor and the fragility and the ephemeral brilliance they spark for the briefest of lifetimes that Nai finds him relating to. Not for their beauty, by any means, gods no—others may delude themselves into thinking themselves as magnificent, but he has never been much of a liar, either to himself or to the world; he is too sharp, too cold, too lifeless, to be anything close to similarity. The fragility, however: that, he feels down to his marrow. It is a peculiar cold dawn over the manor grounds, and the sun is a ripe mango just barely peeking out over the ridges of the hills. The rose in his hands, stem curled between his palms, still carries early-morning dew on its supple petals. A cup of tea sits at the table beside him, smoke wafting up into nothingness just before it reaches the longest tufts of his hair. It’s been quite some time since he’s allowed this sort of whimsy, this sort of frivolity where he had long since been nothing but efficiency. He blames it on his sisters, naïve sweet things that they are, enjoying a languid moment before the flurry of activity heralding their reestablishment of the branch houses. But: where the Lady Hildebrand tells him to go, he goes, no mind that he is to step out of the manor for the first time in months now. “The carriage is ready for you, my Lord,” says the servant standing tall just behind a stone pillar, and just like that, his rumination draws to a close. His tea has grown cold. Nai does not give it a second glance as he turns to leave.
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NARRATIVE - INTRO So it has come this. The woman known as Holly Sheathe has once again expressed her disinterest with the current state of her land. Gone was the soft and naive girl that was happy to work on the fields replaced by this monster in a woman's body. Recent developments had pushed Holly hard, turning her harder than before. Her hardness was perhaps inevitable. Her dark history and her recent achievements all led her to believe that might makes right and right now Holly aims to show her might to every noble house in Ursa Madeum. It will all start with one thing. That singular thing. The creation of her own personal army.
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Life goes on in Ravenel Manor, as it always does: slow and languid to the point of a snail's crawl, time stretched out immeasurable over moments of dandelion fluff and dazzling sunlight. Life goes on. Aspen goes through the motions as well, albeit with a new break in the routine, courtesy of her new guest. She walks through the halls of the West Wing with a folded parasol in hand, warm sunmotes dancing across the stone floors as light streams in from the awning windows, slightly faint in the early morning air. Her feet lead her to a door in the guest room quarters, and with one small knock, the way is opened for her. "Shall we go for a walk, Lady Stormbreaker?" @Flame Hero: Endeavor
