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Post by desdemona on Jan 21, 2019 18:55:54 GMT -5
yeah even tho mines close I prefer to live Away rather than home bc otherwise me and my parents would die
so....... rp....? ]
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Post by desdemona on Jan 21, 2019 18:57:14 GMT -5
I could do a starter for kai at the inn ]]
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Post by desdemona on Jan 21, 2019 19:17:32 GMT -5
aw bones we are going out to dinner
maybe later tonight??? ]]
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Jan 21, 2019 19:56:46 GMT -5
( I feel like I need to bring Jackseye back x.x )
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ℊℓоω
ɴᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴏɴ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ʙᴜsɪɴᴇss
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Post by ℊℓоω on Jan 21, 2019 20:20:54 GMT -5
»Brasmid Redfowle ;; Selyria
His boots hit muddy water. The road was entirely soaked, creating a thick, sloppy paste that tugged at the soles of his shoes. The rain showed little indication of stopping, though he hoped for the horses' sake it would. He trudged up to the front of the carriage, patting the rump of the proud bay stallion. The horse's sides were heaving with strain. Pulling a carriage in this weather was no simple task, and the journey had been long.
A boy ran up, holding his arm over his head to prevent the downpour from hitting his face. He looked vaguely familiar and Brasmid wondered if he was one of Scout's friends. A smile tugged at the corner of the king's mouth as the boy finally remembered to bow, and then jerkily ducked his head.
"Feed them a little extra tonight, boy," instructed Brasmid. "But work them well tomorrow."
The sound of the rain followed him through the front doors of the palace. There, numerous staff were waiting to bombard him. Between the four women there were three towels, two hot beverages, and countless hushed remarks about the weather. His personal attendants hung in the wings in preparation to carry out orders. He also spotted the heads of young kitchen staff, peering out to witness the return of their king. It was his steward, however, who first demanded his attention. The portly man stood over the king as he bent to tug off his muddy shoes.
"Yes? What is it Remes?" Brasmid's attention was clearly elsewhere. His gaze found the sitting room, where a glass of wine and a roaring fire were waiting for him. His wolfhounds were sleeping on their sides at the foot of his chair. One of the kitchen girls whispered something to her friends and there was a chorus of muffled giggles.
"We've received word from Generals Lyles and Hernan, your majesty. Troops have fallen back to the gorge in Lupin Valley following the arrival of reinforcements from Vellevyn." He held up two letters, still crisply folded.
Brasmid sighed heavily and offered up an outstretched hand for the pieces of parchment.
"Like children," he hissed in annoyance. "They need to be supervised or else they make a mess of things." It wasn't entirely clear whom he was referring to. He motioned toward the prettiest of the women with towels. He'd never seen her before, and assumed she was new to the staff.
"Where's my son?" he asked to no one in particular.
There was a pregnant pause at the palace staff shared nervous glances. Brasmid dried off his hair then tossed the towel back at the pretty serving girl. "Anyone?" he asked, a hint of venom in his voice.
Remes cleared his throat. "He's in town, majesty. With his mother."
Brasmid stood. Only then did it become plainly obvious how tall the king truly was. He towered over any other in the room by almost a head. His gaze was dark as he stared down at his steward. "I wish for my son to live with me. In the palace. His mother too, is welcome to live here. Did I not instruct for quarters to be made up for them?" his voice was taught.
"Y-yes, Majesty." Remes struggled to hold the king's gaze. "But those quarters are now being used for your sister, Lady Amberle. She arrived a fortnight ago. I assumed you would wish for her to have the nicest quarters in the palace. Second only to yours, of course, your majesty."
Brasmid rolled his eyes. "Let her sleep in the stables," he said under his breath. But there was a hint of amusement on his lips. "Where is she? Warm host that I am, I should kiss her cheek and we'll share our dinner. In the private dining room."
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Jan 21, 2019 20:34:56 GMT -5
[ so is there going to be like a conclave between the kingdoms to sue for peace or something? ]
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Post by oвlινισи ✧ on Jan 21, 2019 20:46:05 GMT -5
Marcel & Thierry DreyfordBrisingar
The winds of winter had long been home to Brisingar. It was still a harsh and cold domain that was not for weaklings, something that its ruler Marcellus liked to remind people of. Frost bite came from both the weather and many of the natives’ tongues. Chatter had risen recently, common talk about the recent attacks down on Vellevyn’s west coast. The Redfowle king went for it with no hesitation, descending upon an otherwise vulnerable nation. There was talk about Marcel and his own intentions, for most suspected that he was interested in Vellevyn just as Brasmid was. It was just that the latter struck first. People could not help but curiously wonder if the cold state would be the next to come knocking on Vellevyn’s borders with a heavy fist. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. They were playing the waiting game, and the ball was in Marcel’s court.
The heir and Marcel’s only child, Thierry, mulled over the recent events that morning. He walked in a slow but firm manner with his hands folded behind his back. Two guards followed protectively behind him, on his tail like he was a fragile child that could break any second. He was never fond of the protection, for he did not need it. Thierry could take care of himself, as could most in that cold kingdom, if not all. Still, as a member of the royal line, guards were always tailing him around. His father was much more skilled in losing his tails, which was unfortunate for his personal guardsmen, who felt annoyed but held their tongues from protesting.
The Ravanthro castle was as cold as it was on any other day, snow falling lightly from the gray skies above. The courtyard in the middle was full of soldiers training, and their ruler had joined them. Marcel was like a quick shadow as he sparred against warrior after warrior, effortlessly leaving them on their asses. The men did not cower, continuing to strike, as if to prove their worthiness to Brisingar and their king. With every native required to be trained in combat in their youth, it was only natural for many not to be afraid of battle, even when up against a master like Marcellus. Not everyone showed the same hardened spirit and strength, naturally. Just because training was a childhood requirement did not mean that everyone still carried themselves like soldiers.
Thierry watched in silence, not deterred by the brisk winds chilling everyone’s bodies. He was used to the cold, as was everyone. He did not seem to flinch and merely kept his attention on his skilled parent.
“Father.” He acknowledged, Marcel clearly hearing him, but he didn’t glance over. Dismissing the sparring partners, he turned his head just slightly in expectance. Pausing in thought, the heir glanced back at his personal guards, gesturing for them to stand down for a while. They nodded carefully, moving away but keeping a watchful eye. “The meeting earlier.” Thierry began, looking to his father. “You didn’t mention the Redfowle king.” The heir pointed out in a slow drawl, but ultimately knew that his father did not just forget to bring up crucial information like that. Marcel always had a reason for everything he did, even if that reason was that he didn’t give a damn.
“Why waste a pointless breath?”
Marcel murmured after a few seconds, eyeing the sword in his hands like it was a piece of refined art. Not surprised at the remark, Thierry pursed his lips together and narrowed his gaze in contemplation. “And if Brasmid was to set his sights on Brisingar next?” Thierry’s muttered inquiry was left hanging in the air as Marcel didn’t care to give a quick response. There was an almost halcyon demeanor about the ruler before his unyielding green gaze snapped toward Thierry. Eyes narrowed, the man took calm steps toward his son, who remained with his feet planted on the snow. “Please, my son.” The older man said it in mild amusement, swiftly flicking the sword upward so that the blade was vertically between both men. It was closer to Thierry, but the younger remained unfazed at the quick action and kept eye-contact with Marcel.
“Redfowle would be a fool to declare war on a military state.”
Marcel declared sharply, and Thierry could not find a counter. It would be foolish to attack a nation like Brisingar. “But,” Marcel added, “If Redfowle decides to test his luck, let him come. I dare him.” He smirked darkly. “His troops wouldn’t get within miles of our guarded borders.” Amberle RedfowleSelyria
A manipulator. A seductress. A bitch. An elitist.
Amberle Redfowle had been called it all and then some. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but word will never hurt me. You’ve heard of that saying, right? It was applied here, except maybe sticks and stones couldn’t hurt her either. She could believe they wouldn’t, with that smug expression and that chin held up proudly. Being a member of the Redfowle family line granted the woman privilege as soon as she was born. A high noble status was enough for Amberle and her natural ego. Then it began to not be enough whenever her dear older brother began conquering more and more territories. One thing led to another, and the crown of Selyria was given to – or taken by Brasmid. Ah, a glorious era to be living in. Amberle could not hold back her bliss when he invited her and their other siblings to Ilysia.
The new Lady of Selyria had strode proudly into the capital city and asserted her authority within seconds, letting everyone know just who and what she was. While it may have gone downhill for others, it went uphill from there for dear Amberle.
If there’s one morally good, redeeming quality about Amberle, it is her high regard for family. She is very family motivated, although this also stems from the fact that she sees the Redfowles atop the totem pole of status and fortune. Brasmid, Amberle, Leon, and Aila. In order of age. All with their similarities and differences, the latter being the more noticeable. The four siblings were notorious for many things, not necessarily humbling things depending on who you ask. Despite her young sister and brother not commonly sharing her opinionated mindset, Amberle still sees all four of them as the epitome of wealth and power.
Family is important. Family is power.
“Let her sleep in the stables.”
Family could also be mocking twits.
“That’s no way to speak about your sister, Bras.” Oh, Lady Amberle heard that little remark all right, the woman strutting into the room wearing finery robes of silk. Clearly she had just gotten out of the bath, her hair damp and a sweet scent of some sort of perfume on her body.
“I just had a lovely, warm bath as I was waiting for your arrival.” Amberle hummed with a sly smile, her dark optics flickering over to one of the servant girls who had trailed into the room behind her. The Lady of Selyria sent her a nonchalant wink like it was nothing. The girl swallowed hard at the suggestive gesture, and a mad blush rushed onto her cheeks. Her mouth gaped and she glanced briefly at her fellow servants before glancing away. Amberle smirked at the reaction, narrowing her eyes just slightly before cocking her head at her brother again. “I was overjoyed to see my brother again.” She added with dramatic emphasis, licking her teeth and glancing over Brasmid in judgement.
“And yet here you are, having the nerve to mock.”
Amberle scoffed lightly, rolling her eyes at him. “You wound me, Bras.” She sighed, running fingers through her damp, brown locks of hair. “Remes here would never.” Amberle then purred, lifting a hand and lightly grasping the boy’s chin. She smiled at him, tilting her head. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Jan 21, 2019 20:52:52 GMT -5
[ hmm where should I start Val? ]
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Post by oвlινισи ✧ on Jan 21, 2019 21:13:12 GMT -5
Maybe he and Elena are in like a council meeting? Or a meeting that's about to finish up or something, that's all I got xD
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Jan 21, 2019 21:54:38 GMT -5
[ bleh I need to go to bed soon so I'm going to reply tomorrow ]
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ℊℓоω
ɴᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴏɴ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ʙᴜsɪɴᴇss
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Post by ℊℓоω on Jan 21, 2019 22:35:20 GMT -5
»Ysara Balleirak ;; Brisingar
Ysara leaned against the familiar, sturdy columns of the palace courtyard. The men were fighting, as usual; or rather, "sparring". She understood the need for practice. What she couldn't understand was the harshness of their blows, the iciness in the stares of the men waiting on the sidelines. They were no better than hounds on leashes, snapping at the air as they anticipated a hunt. It was an unfair sentiment, and she caught her own pessimistic mood as not to let it spiral into darker places. Not all men were like hounds. Only most.
She breathed a warming breath into her fingers. They were turning bluish. Her best gloves had a hole in one finger, and she didn't want to spend the money on a new pair. Wearing threadbare gloves would be an even worse offense. If the other courtiers knew her family's fortune was squandered, she'd be shunned like a leper. Her estate wasn't starving yet, but she knew it wouldn't be long before it was impossible to keep up her facade of wealth. Last week she'd dismissed five of the staff her family had employed since she was small. Even thinking about it made her stomach twist into knots. They'll move to some place warmer and find a new estate to employ them, she drilled. She pursed her lips. It was no use worrying. She needed to be strong for the others.
Her attention flicked back to the men. The king and his son were deep in a conversation. The older was drilling the younger, though you wouldn't know it with the ease of his remarks. Marcellus had a way of making people inferior. She knew this was true even for his son, though she wasn't sure if Thierry would admit it to himself.
"--would be a fool to declare war on a military state." She supposed they were talking about the new Selyrian king, the Conquerer. News of his conquests in Vellevyn had only just reached Brisingar but already the whole kingdom was aflutter with the news. She'd heard the other courtiers whispering about it earlier. They say he's seven feet tall, one of the men had said. And that he can break a grown man's arm with his bare hands.
The father and son exchanged blows, both with their sparring swords and with their words. The prince was practiced with the weapon, and he sidestepped his father's attacks easily. Ysara read on his features that he was troubled by the news of Brasmid. Worry for him flashed in her mind. Who knew when he would be expected to fill his father's shoes. Perhaps soon Marcellus' problem would become his son's. Perhaps he would be the one to face the brutish king on the battlefield.
She was tired of the cold. She wanted to warm her fingers and to distract Thierry from his troubled mind. She stepped into the courtyard, ignoring the stares of the men, who stood with their swords resting in ready positions.
Her arm looped easily into Thierry's. The gaze of the king fell upon her, and she met it with an easy, non-confrontational look
"We should go inside," she said softly to the men. "The crown may make you impervious to the cold but the rest of us can't feel our toes." She smiled sweetly, lifting her chin as she looked up at Thierry.
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Post by desdemona on Jan 21, 2019 22:38:43 GMT -5
I'll be home soon, ezra can be wherever and kai is at his inn ]]
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Jan 21, 2019 22:40:31 GMT -5
[ I changed my mind ]
[ also Jackseye is probably gonna be from Selyria but livin' in Vellevyn ]
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Jan 21, 2019 23:09:37 GMT -5
»Valaerys Fenrir ;; Traevine
The wind howled down from the northern glacier, keening and bringing a deep icy chill that bit through any layer of clothing, through flesh and muscle and sinew to sink into the very bone beneath, to the very core of any man that had the audacity to stand against the blistering gale. Valaerys was such a man, but it wasn’t often he retreated to battle against the wailing winds. The King Beneath the Mountain’s dark brown gaze scanned the distant horizon, eyes dancing across the range of mountains that loomed like shadows in the far-off lands that were still held beneath his banner. They were there, standing like stone sentinels, their eternal gaze boring down on Valaerys and his kingdom and all he held dear.
He could field the mountains’ gaze, even over the wind’s gnawing shiver. Though he could not see it, he knew that the island’s largest glacier, Naernsi, lay just beyond those mountain ranges. It was from Naernsi that the wind was currently blowing, bringing with it the clean, tingling scent of ice and pine and cold. Val took a deep breath, pulling the clean scents of the open air into his lungs, trying to clear his mind. It wasn’t necessarily rare for him to step out into the cool air, but more often than not Valaerys was surrounded by the stone walls of the mountain in which his capital city was situated. Fensir had been carved into a dormant volcano, its halls twisting and twining with the volcano’s lateral vents. In the heart of the mountain was Val’s throne room; a great stone throne sat there, carved from the hardened magma – the obsidian – and accented with jewels and gems and precious metals. It was a beautiful sight, but one that a part of Valaerys hated. He’d never sought the throne, had never thought to rule; he’d been content in his life within the City Guard, had been rising through the ranks, but his name, his image, had been seen in the depths of Mirrormere – and his fate was no longer his own.
And so Valaerys Fenrir, First of His Name, Protector of the Realm and King Beneath the Mountain, was crowned and given the scepter of leadership. For eight long years he’d led his people, given them a life of prosperity and relative peace. None of the other kingdoms had really dared to threaten his borders, not that he’d ever expected them to. Traevine was not the most… hospitable place. Often referred to as the Land of Ice and Fire, Traevine was an island built from glaciers and volcanos coming together in a clash of stone and snow. Few would ever consider it a place where a people could eke out a living, but those that dwelled on Traevine’s shores were of a tougher breed, as if they, too, were birthed in the melding of fire and ice. Valaerys loved his kingdom – loved the island – but he was not particularly fond of being king, despite the fact that he was relatively good at it. He was kind and just and patient, unlike rulers of the past, and yet he’d much rather be living a simple life as a city guard. One of the few good things to come over his reign had been his meeting of Elena, his wife. A soft smile danced across his expression at the very thought of her; there was a pang in his chest as love filled him once more. Elena was his anchor, and he’d only grown to love her more over the five years they’d been married. She was like a breath of cool wind – sort of like the ones he was taking now – over the chaos and conniving of the court. For eight years Val had watched over his kingdom and made sure their borders were secure. For eight years he’d ensured their markets were kept healthy, that trade flowed in and out of the Island Nation easily. For eight years Val had kept the peace. But now… now that peace was being threatened.
His right hand clenched spasmodically at the thought; clutched between his fingers was a narrow slip of parchment. Upon the parchment was written a simple message: Selyria has made its move. Vellevyn is in her sights now. He gritted his teeth, reading over the raven scroll several more times. Brasmid had finally made his move to conquer more territory, and it spelled nothing but doom and chaos for the rest of the world. Even for Traevine, as isolated as it was; it still relied on trade between the other four kingdoms, and war would upset that.
War threatened everything Val had dedicated the last eight years to.
At his side lurked his other constant companion (besides Elena, of course) – his rather large wolf-dog. Traevines were renowned for their special breed of dog, more wolf than anything. They were unparalleled when it came to hunting, protection, and even the pulling of sleds. On his wedding day, one of the nobles had gifted both Val and Elena a pup from one of their litters, as a wedding gift and a way to garner favor. Val’s own wolf-dog was ghostly in color, as stark white as the distant glaciers. His coloration – and the blood-red gaze the wolf-dog had – had been why Val had named the beast ‘Ghost.’ That, and the fact that the animal moved without making a sound – ever. Ghost’s dark red eyes peered up at Val, intelligent. The wolf was far too smart for his own good. Val reached down and tangled a gloved hand in the animal’s thick fur, drawing some comfort. Far on the horizon, beyond even an eagle’s sharp gaze, he could feel the drums of war beginning to thunder. He would need to be far craftier, far smarter than he ever had to make sure Traevine came out of this as unscathed as possible.
Soft footsteps reached his ears, but Val knew without turning who it was.
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Jan 21, 2019 23:09:55 GMT -5
[ hijacking your formatting Glow bc I can ]
[ ok bedtime now. night ]
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Post by oвlινισи ✧ on Jan 21, 2019 23:15:51 GMT -5
Yasss Valaerys and nighty cloudyyy <3
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Post by oвlινισи ✧ on Jan 21, 2019 23:46:48 GMT -5
Marcel & Thierry DreyfordBrisingar
No hint of worry or vulnerability came from Marcellus, and he merely pointed his sword down toward Thierry’s, tapping the hilt. He was beckoning for his son to indulge him in a spar, whether Thierry was in the mood or not. The heir tightened his jaw, studying his father before gripping the hilt of his weapon and pulling it out. Marcel began to pace in a circle with Thierry matching the length of his stride, and the two began to exchange sparring blows. Yes, it was true, the prince was practiced with the sword, although Thierry commonly preferred spears, staffs, or two-handed swords. His father had always been more skilled in the art of stealth and agility, while his son was more gifted with longer and heavier weaponry. There were spears set up on some of the weapon racks, Thierry observed from his peripheral vision.
Although at this point, he doubted Marcel would let him switch.
He continued with their match before speaking once more, eyeing his father with a firm look. “You’re interested in Vellevyn.” A blunt and obvious observation, one that many already knew. “I know you have been for some time.” Iron clanged against iron again, Thierry then stepping back so that he could focus more on the conversation. “I also know you like to keep things to yourself.” He remarked in a suggestive murmur, narrowing his gaze just as Marcel did. “But I must know, father, do you have plans to echo his actions?” Thierry was intent on knowing the answer, even if he already knew that it was a yes. Of course, it was a yes. Marcellus may be taking his time on planning, but anyone could see that the winter ruler had intentions of striking Vellevyn at some point.
The question was when, not if.
Marcel was eyeing his son in thought, and if you were paying close enough attention, you could almost see the corner of his lips curl upward. Just slightly.
”We should go inside.”
Thierry nearly recognized the smell of her before she even spoke a word. The sparring and the conversation were taken to a halt when Ysara butted in, taking the prince’s arm. A bold move, especially in front of Marcellus. Thierry had been mildly annoyed by his father’s silence, but a warmth hit his heart at Ysara’s presence. The prince’s shoulders relaxed slightly and he glanced down at her, seeing that sweet smile on her lips.
Marcel’s focus strayed to the courtier, and a silence befell them for a few seconds, although it felt like much longer. Marcel’s demeanor was different than what you would expect, though. Especially if you knew of his disapproval over the budding relationship in front of him. With the way he was watching Ysara, it was not a glare. There was no exasperation on his face. There was an almost eerie calmness about the ruler’s dark green gaze, his expression not giving away any secrets about his thoughts. His lips formed a straight, unwavering line. It was a look that didn’t completely display a frown, but it was far from a smile. To the outside looking in, Marcel was unreadable, although both Thierry and Ysara knew what he was thinking.
“Wouldn’t want you to get frost bite.” Thierry’s voice was quiet, a slight smile twitching at his lips. From the corner of his eye, he knew that his father was eyeing him now. Still, Thierry remained composed and straightened up. “We will continue conversation later.” He expressed to Marcel, and it was a statement instead of a question. The ruler made no sound, only nodded slowly. Marcel looked back to Ysara, still calm despite the gears in his mind turning. Thierry said nothing more and echoed the nod before beginning to lead his lover from the courtyard.
Daissa HaalbornVellevyn
From the northern farmlands of Vellevyn to the western coast’s marketplaces. From the warm sands of Calea to the elegant shores of Selyria’s archipelago.
Daissa’s life had taken her to many places. Growing up in the north, she was not wealthy by any means, at least not in terms of coin. She was wealthy by the family surrounding her and the love that they gave. That was more important than the gold in her pockets. As a child, whenever dawn broke over the horizon, she and her little brother Iwan followed their parents out to the crop fields to work under the sun. It was hard work, harder on some days than others. Still, Daissa was never one to complain. Living in the rich streets of Arebilla was never a desire of her. Ever. The stories about the capital’s beauty echoed through the north, but they still never drew Daissa in.
She was drawn more to the west, where the coast was plentiful with people who dealt in trade and commerce. Both she and Iwan decided to pack their belongings and head for the western shores after years of staying on their farm. They moved for different reasons, though. While Daissa seemed to poor her interests into learning the trades of a merchant, her brother opted to take another life altering route. He became a part of Vellevyn’s military, which was never as huge and effective as Selyria’s or Brisingar’s, mind you. Still, he had a heart of gold and wanted to protect people. He wanted to protect his country, which he had always respected. It was easy to respect a nation like Vellevyn, especially when you were unaware of the corrupt government down in Arebilla.
Vellevyn northerners typically weren’t aware of what went on in the south.
Arebilla’s politics never really influenced Daissa’s daily routines, with her becoming a travelling merchant who would go on ships to different kingdom coasts for trade. During her first few years in that line of work, she ended up meeting Vespyr. No one could look at those two and say that there was no chemistry. Daissa fell in love with the woman, and the two married along the western coast. That was what wealth was. Love and family, but peace did not last forever. Brasmid Redfowle came roaring onto Vellevyn’s shores, and Iwan was caught in the ambush of the first attack. That man, that pure-hearted man, was killed. All because of a conqueror’s greed.
When Daissa heard the news, that pale look on her face was indescribable. A sister that lost her brother, her dear brother, someone who was caught up in a war that should have never started. The despair turned into anger and resentment, and now? Daissa despised Brasmid, and she had never really despised someone before. Not like this.
“Prepare to anchor!” The merchant captain of the ship called out to the crew as they approached the western coast. They had been gone for a few days, a trade trip to the desert nation of Calea. All had gone well. There were no obstacles in their way. Not physical, at least. Emotionally? That was another story. Daissa had clearly been caught up in her thoughts and having to sail past Selyria’s little islands to get to Calea did not help her conscience. It was hard to even look past the ship’s mast and at Selyria’s coast in the distance. Even when they arrived to Calea, Daissa had still been on edge. The thorns stabbing at her heart were not going to magically disappear. The death of her brother was still heavy on her heart and Brasmid’s existence was heavy on her mind.
Daissa leaned against the side of the ship as it was pulled into the docks, her gaze not aimed at anything specific. There were people walking down the piers to greet them, with some of the merchant ship’s crew already beginning to haul boxes and bags of items off. Daissa remained where she was, looking down at the water below. Perhaps she was imagining Brasmid’s head being held under.
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Post by desdemona on Jan 21, 2019 23:55:11 GMT -5
ill start smth once i pack my Things ]]
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