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Ildantxhe Anarane

0 · 464 views · located in The Two Kingdoms

a character in “Where rivers collide”, originally authored by Ellipsis of Gothique, as played by RolePlayGateway

So begins...

Ildantxhe Anarane's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Elizabeth Kashatir Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Rosalina Seraphine Xairali Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane Character Portrait: Bacchus L. Anarane
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#, as written by Layla
A I S L I N.
1544, Thirty-first of December | Dusk.


Murderers dined in the great hall of the Winter Palace, their cackles skittering across the marble floors to gambol through the hollow tunnels of unsuspecting ears. The noises fused into an untuned symphony, snippets of slurred speech and hefty guffaws leaping to attention like the jarring clash of cymbals when the humongous double doors swung open. She clenched her teeth against the nails that raked across her scalp as forks collided with knives, their bickering like the discordant hiss of clashing swords. Cranberry sauce spurted from a large boar as a cleaver sliced into its belly, the red oozing from its corpse like blood from a prone body. A trumpet wailed beside her left ear in 6/8 time.

"Her Royal Highness the Princess of Ezea, Aislin Serafaena of the House of Anarane," announced a vociferous voice that pummelled each syllable into the ivory walls. Heads swivelled above shoulders as thousands of eyes hammered into her, each nobleman and woman eager to chip at her edges until a nail struck her core. But Aislin Anarane was impenetrable, as inaccessible as the infinite expanse of dusk that breathed through the glass dome of the Winter Palace. Vines etched into the alabaster fortification crept towards the clear ceiling, the heart of every delicately crafted leaf winking with its diamond's light. To maintain such conspicuous grandiose in the thirteen years of war was an affront of them all. She imagined the veins embedded within the leaves to be the blood of the artists who'd painstakingly etched the unbroken mural across 1,000,000 square feet of space and wondered how much they'd been paid for their trouble, if they'd been paid at all.

Aislin kept her gaze lowered and intent upon the gleaming silk carpet as she walked between the rows of of ebony tables, searching for crinkles in the cloth that did not exist. Her father's warning hummed at the base of her skull - "lower your gaze, always" - reminding her of her eyes' inability to maintain a facade of insensate naiveté. The corset dug into her ribs, compressing the lungs behind them into that of a pigeon's and endowing her with a plunging cleavage she was certain she lacked. Her skirts swished around her heels, the deep crimson of her bodice gradually fading into a warm tangerine and the brilliant gold of a setting sun at her feet. She thought she looked like a lit torch. Albeit one that was hideously overdressed, and without the bliss of being on fire.

Her throbbing feet halted before the raised dais. She saw the eight pairs of polished shoes resting beneath the elaborately crafted top table, one remaining seat devoid of an occupant. She was late, but that Aislin already knew, having underestimated the time it would take to be cinched within an inch of her life and prodded by a sadistic liege of hair ornaments. Her stinging feet yearned for the gentle caress of soft leather, but she thought the corset might have been useful for entrapping game. It was certainly effective in entrapping her.

Aislin stood a mere stretch away from the King of Xairal and his vulnerable jugular. She saw the boots of his royal guard at his back, recalled the two framing the doors behind her and the many who stood rigid against the length of the great hall, and wondered how much time she would have before a sword punctured her heart, and then how much longer before the floor embraced her. Aislin counted the seconds it would take to duck a hand beneath her skirts to the dagger that rested in the sheath clasped to her thigh garter, and then the seconds it would take to lodge it in his throat from this distance. She could do it. She should do it. He was an avaricious being, a fraud and a murderer. She saw Ezea's green forests devastated in the war, the cinders where villages once stood and the smoke that wept towards the Heavens weeks, months and years after mothers, fathers and children became carcasses. She heard the pleas for mercy, the women and children robbed of their dignity before they were their lives, and she thought, yes. I should kill him.

Instead, Aislin clutched the folds of her skirt until the skin of her knuckles became bone and her tongue bled where she bit it, as she forced her knees to bend. She thought she could hear the groan of her cartilage as they scraped against one another in her descent, or perhaps that was the heat that flooded through her veins and turned her ears red. Her legs resisted even as her head pulled the blinds over her heart, but she knew that for her people, she would kneel. The Princess of Ezea bowed her head before the King of the country that had ravaged hers, and curtsied.

"Rise, girl," King Aegnor barked after a pregnant pause. A nerve throbbed at her temple as fury stained her vision red. Aislin had to bow before the king in his kingdom, but she would not be commanded as if she were a squirming worm beneath his boot. No, she would not rise for him.

"Rise," he repeated through gritted teeth. Aislin took her time, counting the ticks and tocks in her head until the silence of the great hall stretched to unbearable. Just before the string of toffee snapped in two as it was being pulled apart, she rose. Aislin lifted her head and met the King of Xairal's cold gaze with those forged of fire and brimstone. Molten lava bled from onyx pupils and melted into the amber of sunsets as a ring of pure gold laced the inner circle of an impossibly dark limbal ring. Her eyes burned like flames trapped within two crystal orbs as she stared at King Aegnor, a smile that was both parts feral grin and challenge lifting the corners of her lips. Thick black kohl lined her large eyes, tilting at the corners in a feline stare.

"Forgive me, your excellency," Aislin said. "I was entranced by your presence and nervous to lay eyes upon the reverent King of Xairal. You are greater than the tales, my lord." The corner of King Aegnor's lips twitched in a frown or a smirk, but soon a hefty laugh erupted from his chest which the great hall echoed. Aislin's gaze flicked to King Aegnor's right and she met the honeyed brown of her own father's. He regarded her warily, lips pressed into a thin sliver of colourless white. She beamed.

"Come, sit. Eat," King Aegnor boomed, gesturing with his right arm. A right-handed fighter, then? Would his left side be unprotected? "Resume, please," he told the inhabitants of the great hall. Aislin stepped onto the dais, strolling to the remaining seat without a glance at the royals who sat at the top table. She held her head high as she dragged her chair backwards before a servant's fingers could close around it to perform the menial task, and dropped into the seat. All the room's attention was fixed upon the two kings as they spoke in turn of peace, treaty, unity, prosperity, trade, end of the war... It freed her of the need to pretend to be the princess she evidently was not.

"A toast, brother." King Aegnor lifted his glass along with his body. King Mirus mirrored the action.

"A toast," he replied, and their glasses clinked. The room roared, chairs toppling and wine spilling over cups as they stood. Aislin stabbed her fork into a chunk of bleeding boar, and shoved it into her mouth, eyes rolling behind her closed lids. All around her, drinks collided in promise of peace, rendering thirteen years of war forgiven and forgotten. Aislin snorted.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Elizabeth Kashatir Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Rosalina Seraphine Xairali Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane Character Portrait: Bacchus L. Anarane
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Bacchus’s laughter echoed throughout the hall- no one could bring such joy to the young Prince as his little sister. Raising his wine glass, Bacchus tried to drain down the giggles that shook his body but they would not leave. “You are too harsh on yourself, dearest princess Aislin, and on my taste of fashion! But no, you look ravishing and I am sure that father is most pleased-,” Turning back to his food, Bacchus picked at it with his fork before placing his utensils down. He felt full, but for what reason the prince did not know, for he had been denying himself food for a long time. It would had made more sense if he had immediately dug in, but the elaborate feast only caused his stomach to sink within itself and his tongue to dry up. Instead, Bacchus picked up his wine glass and took a tiny sip; yet, again, the alien liquid almost got stuck in his throat. Sighing, the prince placed his cup down as well and reclined back in his seat, his eyes half closed as he allowed the din to fill his senses. All the interactions in the court proceeded as usual, as the young women tried to find themselves probable suitors and the men vied to prove themselves the stronger amongst many. Eyes constantly flickered towards the royal table, with murmurs and judging glances flying towards the two royal families in high frequency.

They were like animals being judged; yet at the same time, they were the coveted animals that ran two different nations. Stifling a yawn, Bacchus pushed back his hair and picked at the fruits on his plate, popping tiny piece by tiny piece in his mouth. It was no doubt that he was utterly and horrendously bored. But the prince did not complain but rather observed what was in front of him, noting which minister was sitting next to whom, talking to whom, watching whom, for it would be interesting to see all of the political environment in court be developed in the most simple of settings ever: a ball. But his attention was caught momentarily as the woman he recognized as his fiancée excused herself from the table, face as pale as a sheet. Raising his eyebrow once again, Bacchus allowed his eyes to follow the back of the princess before turning them back once again to the scene in front of him. She intrigued him, really, Princess Sophia, for he was to marry her in the end. Bacchus had protested, had shut himself in his quarters for ages, yet his father had not allowed the prince to worm himself out of the engagement. Rather than for his own skin, Bacchus knew he had to push off the engagement for the woman whom he was to marry- for her happiness and her name. For even Bacchus could not tell how much a marital link between him and Princess Sophia Elizabeth Kashatir would be able to tarnish the name of the beloved princess.

Enough, probably, for his associates were far and plenty and his sensual nature rather known throughout the land. It didn’t bother Bacchus, obviously, but he wondered how the known to be rather timid princess would think. However, something about her leaving figure piqued Bacchus’s interest, and his blue eyes trailed behind her until she vanished from sight. Intriguing. Chuckling to himself lightly, Bacchus once again sat back in his seat in a posture of leisureliness; in his mind, Bacchus contemplated following after his bride-to-be, wondering if the tales of her beauty could be true. However, just as he raised his hand for a servant, Bacchus suddenly noticed the deafening silence that had fallen across the hall. Turning his head slightly with a bemused look on his face, Bacchus watched as Aislin rushed to the help of a maid whom had somehow managed to spill wine across the Xerali Prince’s pants. Stifling his laughter once again, Bacchus watched with an amused look on his face as the two exchanged jibs and at the horrified look on his own royal father’s face.

If only brother were here to deal with this. However, the thought of Riven and Ildant caused Bacchus’s mood to immediately darken, for both were never late; yet one was and the other unable to attend. Standing up, Bacchus let out a sigh and walked over to his sister, picking her up from the ground and plopping her on her feet. “Remember that you are in front of a royal assembly of two nations, Aislin. Princesses do not tend to the needs of others- nor do they get on the floor on their bare knees.” He whispered in her ear as he let go of the smaller princess, his smile kind though the look in his eyes warned his sister to not engage in more tomfoolery. For though he admired her wit and courage, Bacchus knew that the setting they both were in was too grand, too dangerous to act as they did when there were only Ezean citizens present. Turning to his father, Bacchus noted a look of slight relief before turning to the prince in front of him, his smile growing slightly more strained as he stared at Prince Zandyr. “Prince Zandyr, I will, in place of the servant and my sister,” Bacchus paused here, wondering if Aislin would flay him later for commenting on her transgressions, “apologize for the incident that has befallen on your pants. I am sure that with how resourceful your palace has been as of recent during our stay here, that you will be able to be fit with a new pair of clothes immediately? I believe Aislin, as your future,” a muscle on Bacchus’s neck twitched (no one, he believed, would be good enough to have his beloved little sister), “will be willing to see to it that you are presentable once again. And now, I believe I will have to be excused, for I sense that my own fiancée is much in distress- and I must send for a servant to check on my brother.”

Placing his hand on Aislin’s back, he gave her a small pat of encouragement- Bacchus knew that she, like him, felt more the urge to give the Xirali prince a black eye than carter to his needs- before heading off where he had seen Princess Sophia disappear to. Without a second look back, Bacchus exited the large ballroom and looked left and right. Though he hated the place with a passion, Bacchus could not help but admire the architecture of the Winter Palace. Extravagant, beautiful- Bacchus felt disgusted by the castle that had been built with the lives of innocents. But he shook the thought out of his mind as he immediately walked up to the first servant he saw and inquired for the whereabouts of the princess. Following the directions of the servant, Bacchus navigated through a few corridors until two large glass doors greeted his sight of vision. A view that reminded him of home- of the prison he had given himself from days long past. A greenhouse. His eyes flickered left and right before his hands reached forward and pushed open the large glass doors, warm air immediately rushing forth to greet the young Ezean prince. Sure enough, Princess Sophia immediately came to his eyesight as Bacchus stepped in, sitting at a pagoda in the center of the dense mass of flourishing flora.

“Princess Sophia?” Bacchus called out, walking up with his head tilted to a side, watching his former fiancée with a look of concern on his face. “I hope you are not feeling unwell? And excuse my sudden intrusion- I was just a bit worried for you since you did not look too well while leaving the dining hall.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Elizabeth Kashatir Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Rosalina Seraphine Xairali Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane Character Portrait: Bacchus L. Anarane
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#, as written by Layla
A I S L I N.
1545, First of January | Zero dark.

The clock chimed, alabaster bones aligning before an onyx face as it watched the flamboyantly dressed figures amble beneath its nose, its body spiralling upwards in a blister of wiry glass that punctured the black sky a short distance behind the Winter Palace's main structure. Its silhouette gleamed before the light of the pale, round disk hanging in a wash of oblivion, the impenetrable darkness scattered by a river of starlight. Twelve echoes of sound swam downhill to tap its restless fingers on the shoulders of a winded heir - hurry, hurry, it cooed, before spinning on its heel to penetrate the clear walls of the palace greenhouse. It brushed its fingers over the Prince and Princess standing in the midst of the lush greenery, only to skate beneath the double doors to trail its wispy breath over the shocked inhabitants of the great hall and dagger the tangled source of surprise - a Zandyr Kashatir and Aislin Anarane stew of indignity and dishonour.

To say the Only Daughter of King Mirus, Nigh Crown Princess of Xiral, Clumsiest of Nobles and the Bane of her Court, was mortified, would be to say the sun was a little bright. Aislin's heart leapt from its socket, tearing a ventricle or two before slamming face-first into the rigid limbs of her rib cage, stuttering and hammering faster than her own mare could gallop. Her jaw unhinged as she stared into a set of dilated pupils framed in pure hazel, her eyes inches from his where before her lips had been inches from the apple bobbing in his throat, her head tucked in the crook of his smooth neck. Never had she been so grateful for the impracticality of her billowing skirts as then. But whilst the cloth muffled her awareness of his long legs on either side of her, it did nothing to veil the sinewy arms holding her tight against his body. Aislin was so close she could count the dark lashes framing the Crown Prince of Xiral's eyes and the perfect arch of a cupid's bow on his upper lip, his full, soft, luscious...

Aislin scrambled upright, using the Prince's body as a propellor and kneeing him between the legs in her haste. She skittered backwards until she could go no further, brazenly gaping at the sprawled body she'd recently departed from and half expecting smoke to rise from her warmed skin. She clutched the servant's cloth to her beating chest to still the tremor in her hands.

"How dare you?" a shrill voice boomed. Aislin was jerked from her stupefaction by Queen Vigdis' wailing voice and made horrifically aware of the cacophony of outrage that had descended upon the room. She could do nothing but stare at the flurry of blonde hair so pale, it was almost white, as the Queen hissed with thinly veiled fury before her. All of Aislin's snarky repartee had fled from her, melting so far into the floor where she'd landed atop the Butcher that she feared she might never again retrieve it. Chairs squealed against polished marble as more stood to either tackle the Princess of Ezea to and into her grave or garner a better view of the court drama.

"Vigdis," King Aegnor warned. "Do not be haste." He caught Aislin's gaze over the Ice Queen's shoulder, the teasing glimmer in his eyes clenching her heart in both irritation and abasement. Each word he spoke dripped with slow venom but was masked with a mastered pleasantry. "Princess Aislin is our honoured guest and our future daughter, is she not?"

"Aislin," King Mirus said slowly when she did nothing but crumple the cloth in her clenched fists. Her skin burned red for reasons unrelated to humiliation. She was livid.

Swallowing the lava in her throat, she squeezed out the words that seemed to trickle from another's mouth. "Yes, your majesty." When the King of Xiral did nothing but stare blankly at her, she ground her teeth and sank into a curtsy before the entire court. "I am grateful for your generosity and am deeply apologetic for my ineptitude."

"Rise, child. It is no matter," King Aegnor announced with a short - fake - laugh. "My boy," he continued after a pause, lowering his voice so only the few closest could hear as he spared a quick glance for his son. "Should know better than to tarnish my name with his antics." It was a jab to both her and Zandyr, but she kept her lips pressed tight lest she rediscover her snarky repartee. "But where, pray tell, is your boy?" he asked King Mirus through a tight smile. Aislin shrugged imperceptibly as her father glared at her through his periphery. He was certainly... Not in the best of moods. He rarely called her Aislin, even in court, it was always "daughter" or "séphling." Worry for her brother wound its way through the haze of anger and indignation as Aislin's gaze conducted a futile search of the great hall for Ildant's familiar gait. It was extremely unusual for him to be late for anything, much less an event as important as this. Her heart faltered as panic wiggled into her chest. It reminded her uncomfortably of the days and nights spent waiting and waiting for news of Riven from the battlefields.

"Ildantxhe had some urgent business to attend to," King Mirus explained patiently. "He is responsible for much of Ezea's affairs now that Riven is unable."

"Pity, that," King Aegnor replied.

"Perhaps we should officially introduce our children to one another," Mirus suggested after a tense silence. "Ildantxhe will arrive soon enough."

"Yes, what a brilliant idea," the other king said, turning to see the royal court stretched out before him. "Now where are the two more tolerable of my offspring?" he asked with just enough mirth to incite a shiver of laughter from some nobles.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Rosalina Seraphine Xairali Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Rosalina Seraphine Xairali Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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#, as written by Layla
A I S L I N.
1545, First of January | Zero dark.

A stream of violet parted the monochrome earth of the large room to settle before the 'King on the Glass Throne.' Aegnor spared the noble's gifts a cursory glance before dismissing the wiry figure and Aislin acknowledged then that the Xirali men possessed greater beauty than most of their women, whose jewels gleamed so viciously they obscured the wearer. Her glare found the shadow the Butcher had retreated into and her lips found each other as they settled into a firm line of disapproval. The Prince gave his father no protest, choosing instead to tuck his tail between his legs and settle in some forgotten corner like a well-trained dog. "A true prince," others would say, but she called him a coward.

Aislin had ignored the cry of the trumpet as it sounded again, the words that followed coalescing into a gurgling mess atop the drunken roars, and thus had failed to hear her brother's arrival. She scrambled upright where she'd been sitting when a disheveled Ildantxhe appeared before the kings, chair toppling onto the polished floor. Her eyes widened as they darted from the weary strands of hair that escaped its restraints in narrow coils to the blood splattered across his tunic.

"Papi!" she gasped, her nails sinking into her palms as the words spilled from her lips in a whispered staccato, all pre-tense of formality slipping from them. "Can't you see he's hurt?" The King ignored her as he continued to address his son, the warm chestnut brown of his eyes withering into the dark hues of burnt wood.

Her body lurched forward and fell over the raised dais with a profound thunk that sent ripples of horror through the watching masses. She nearly knocked the Crown Prince of Ezea off his feet as she crashed into him, gripping his biceps and shoving him backwards into a small blonde clad in pristine white. The youngest child of Anarane hardly registered her Kashatir counterpart as she manoeuvred her brother behind the giggling nymph etched into an alabaster pillar and through the nearest archway, pressing him firm against the cool stone. Her sinewy arms found his waist as she moulded herself to his body. "You made it," she mumbled against his chest. The sharp tang of blood scraped her nostrils and she drew back, staring at the blood that blossomed at in patches across his chest and stomach. Her relief melted quickly into a frantic worry that bubbled into fury at his utter stupidity.

Aislin frisked him from head to toe, hurtling criticisms and expletives no woman of any rank should should know. Any wounds he might've had were systematically prodded and any aching joints jostled. What bruises he lacked were made as she bared the collar of his shirt to stare at a smudge of metallic paint, slapping the hard muscle that joined his neck to shoulder when she saw it was not his.

"What in Raena's name were you doing, camel hind?" she growled. "Cleaving an army of wild boars? You look like a buttered mongrel laid victim to emaciated beasts in a Jelian bathhouse on a new moon! Where were you? Do you know the time it is? Are you in any pain? How many were there? What happened to you? Why didn't you defend yourself? How did you get here? Where is the carriage? What happened to your guards? Father was livid- I thought- Boots- He even- Prince- Find- Walking- You- Eggs- Eel dance!" The thoughts came faster than her lips could move as she subjected Ildantxhe to her unintelligible lectures, chest heaving as she gasped for air between the running sentences.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Rosalina Seraphine Xairali Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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#, as written by Layla
A I S L I N.
1545, First of January | Starlit.

The marble was cold beneath her right foot, a shadow kissing the sterling rivulets beneath the single narrow point of her left shoe. Aislin stood unbalanced and very nearly toppled over the mesh of skirts that ballooned from her contemptuous corset as she pulled away from the Crown Prince of Ezea, or rather shoved him away. Scarlet shame pooled at her cheeks, though not nearly as dark as the fury that stained her vision. The ground remained stubbornly cold even as her blood warmed and bubbled beneath her skin, shoving at its constraints, threatening to spill in a molten river she hoped would scathe her brother as it drowned him. She didn't know why she'd bothered, why she'd cared at all when he evidently did not.

"I pity the youngest princess, that she must tolerate a lifetime in your company," she told Ildantxhe, the ice grating past her throat an antithesis to the fire within. "I am infinitely grateful our family left me for the 'Kashatir woman.'" Aislin stalked towards him and leaned on the arch of her remaining shoe so their breaths were whispers apart. Her irises were two walls encircling the abyss, their bodies set ablaze as she bore her gaze into his. Fragments of gold burst from his pupils like shattered glass as she entertained the fantasy of punching the straight line of his nose into the soft folds of his brain and straight through his thick skull. "I may become his whore." The syllable hissed through her teeth like the whistle of steam from a scorching kettle. "But at least I will be free of you."

Aislin could not move fast enough as she pivoted and stormed through the archway, its branches carved from onyx crystals as they watched her dive into the herd nesting in the great hall. A trail of light caught the blades of grass etched into the door through which she'd vanished, the sparkle lending Ildant a rueful smile.

The Princess walked along the edges of the room, her thoughts yapping and swiping at one another as she fumed. Self-inflicted humiliation wrangled her throat as the minutes she'd spilled with Ildant flowed through her mind like a vicious waterfall. She'd jabbed venom into him, straight into his heart. Guilt was the coiled serpent squeezing her waist and twisting her innards, but her teeth clenched, enamel rubbing in repetitive strokes that hurt her jaws and soothed the threat of remorse.

They would stay. Ildant would stay. Bacchus would stay. The sun would be warm, a pleasant touch of light on skin like a mother's cradle, not the dry heat of Xairali deserts. They would stroll through the markets in Varlance and be met with welcome and reverence. Their lips would taste the first annual harvest of pippips, rose hued fruits she gathered in the folds of her usually impractical skirts, except this year and the next, and the one after that - it would not be her who placed them on Ildant's mahogany desk, or on Bacchus' silk sheets. No, Aislin would not be there at all.

Wives went where their husbands did, especially if their spouses were kings and the sons of kings. They would be home and she would be here, caged in a kingdom she was certain would prefer a dead queen over an Ezean one, chained to a murderer that butchered her people. She would be alone. She was alone.

Aislin wondered if clouds cared at all that raindrops shattered when they fell to the earth. Did they hesitate to pull away, to uncoil their arms and condemn the rain they'd nurtured to plunge in isolation? She thought of Xiral's frigid winters, the relentless heat and the sky that never wept, and concluded the question redundant.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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#, as written by Layla
A I S L I N.
1545, First of January | Starlit.

She planned his death, each elaborate step stacked like bricks with a keen and infallible precision until a castle emerged where Aislin fumed. Her anger paved the world's edges until she saw it all with a resplendent clarity. It chipped its way through the haze of hurt that ached to devour her dignity and leave her a blubbering lump in the nearest corner. Instead her imagination churned picturesque spectacles of the many ways he would suffer at her hand, the same hand he'd beaten, bruised and bloodied under the pre-tense of education. He reminded her frequently of her insolence and of his magnanimity in taking her as his pupil. The thought made her snort and the many nobles surrounding her gasp. Ildantxhe was a camel's ass and a hypocrite.

Already her mind was stringing together Ildantxhe's schedule, one that would dictate her own in the weeks to come. She would ensure that until the next new moon, in the time he had left as a free man, her brother's existence would be abounding with misery and woe. Aislin would begin by shaving his head in bed. Her gaze flicked to her nigh inamorato, glee erupting conspicuously from her scowl. She would shave both their heads, and make a skirt of their severed locks.

The familiar gleam of an unusual shade of brown paved its way to the raised dais in Aislin's periphery, sinking the corners of her lips until they reached for earth. She bared her teeth at his back, a narrow stream of air hissing past her teeth. A herd of ladies clad in brandish shades and gaudy jewels that had been meandering nearby skittered away. Aislin hailed the virtuous warriors that had attacked her brother and promised to cosset Ildantxhe's garments next he visited the bathhouses, which, judging by the state of his clothes, would come sooner than his bald head. The prolonged nudity she'd inflict upon him would serve to humiliate him and allow her a glimpse of his hideously disfigured body. Did the assailants take a nipple?

The gold embellishments stitched into the bottom of her outermost skirt swished with every step she took to the dais. Aislin was so immersed in her plans for revenge that she failed to notice the hush that rippled through the great hall like the aftermath of a great tide. She halted mid stride a table away from the platform as King Aegnor's astringent tone trickled into her consciousness. "...fate with our families. After all, marriage is to instigate another generation. Do you even have such a capacity with one that shares your own ritual?"

“Isn’t that what concubines are for, King Aegnor?” Ildant replied. Aislin furrowed her brows as she deciphered the conversation from what she'd garnered, but what she thought Ildant meant could not possibly be what he meant. She'd known her brother to be repulsive to the opposite sex - notwithstanding his lack of shortage in admirers, they were merely ill-informed and masochistic - but she'd never imagined his confinement to be an effect of hiding his sexuality. It was then that she comprehended the horror of what her own flesh and blood had spouted so casually. The thought of him fornicating with a real person, much less producing offspring... She balked at the thought.

“Enough, Ildantxhe!” The caustic timbre of their father's rage nearly jerked Aislin from her remaining shoe. She crept forward cautiously.

“Am I wrong?” Though Ildant's voice was dispassionate, his words callous, she saw the tense line of his shoulder, the muscles flexing at his sleeve. It was what he did in preparation for an impending battle. She wanted to lurch forward and slam a palm over his mouth. Bacchus and Aislin were the reckless ones, Ildant's role was to be the deadpan pillar that held their haphazard hut upright.

“You are in Xairal.” The King of Ezea's voice stopped Aislin at the edge of the dais, where she'd stepped onto. It was the voice he reserved for criminals - rebels and thieves - not his children. A threat was embedded in each syllable and any words Aislin might've spelled in her head withered in surprise, and then the King's eyes were turned to her.

It was no secret Aislin was King Mirus' favourite. He'd doted on her every whim from the day they'd rediscovered her, a street rat caught stealing by her own brother. More often than not, Bacchus received punishment - bed without supper, mucking the stables - while she suffered through little more than a stern gaze, even though the crimes they'd committed were done in alliance. But now her father stared at her with hazel eyes that had darkened into coal.

"We ride for neutral ground tomorrow," he intoned. For a buoyant moment, the syllables were mundane, just sounds that spilled between them and loomed over the room. She comprehended the phrase neutral ground the way people fell off cliffs - first came the slow march towards the edge and then the rapid plummet that shoved one's lungs from their chests to their throats. Neutral ground was found where the rivers that raced through the two kingdoms met, and the space she was to wed the Butcher.

"I concur," King Aegnor replied, but not to the sentence bearing the two words that continued to jostle about in Aislin's head. Her thoughts had seized with her father's proclamation and she failed to hear whatever else he said. She failed to care. Tomorrow, her consciousness echoed, as if she hadn't heard the first time. Tomorrow. She almost failed to hear the kings asserting that she and Zandyr would be the first to wed, a precursor to solidifying the alliance. Ildantxhe and Bacchus would have time. She'd always known her freedom would be the first her father sold, but that was when she had weeks, weeks to prepare herself to become the Crown Prince of Xairals' glorified mistress.

"You said we had a moon's cycle," Aislin said. Her voice sounded high, the notes quiet and meek when she was anything but.

"Yes," King Mirus said, his eyes a challenge carved of Xairali ice. Unfamiliar. "I did."

"You promised I would go home." Before I become Xairal's whore, she didn't say. She'd been expecting to return to Ezea as an Ezean and hadn't said goodbye. She didn't even bring Mila, her dappled mare. Would someone bring her here? Would Mila survive the harsh winters and scorching summers of Xairal after lazing in Ezea's evergreen pastures her whole life? Would she see her brothers' wedding, be there when they submitted themselves to a similar fate? Or would she be trapped in this building stained indelibly with the lives of its constructors, with its see-through walls that deprived one of privacy and furniture that stabbed her every muscle? Her heart was shoving at its cage, desperate to flee its host as shackles gripped her breath.

Aislin did not care to hear her father's reply and she had no adequate retort on her tongue. Riven would have known what to say. He would've reasoned with their father. He would've defended her. He would've, he should've- He should be alive. Her ligaments solidified, joints contracting until Aislin stood paralysed. She might as well have been a limp doll, complete with matching gloves. Spine sold separately.

Crescent moons embedded themselves in her palms behind her closed fists as the torrent splintered the dam inside her. The despair morphed into rage - at the injustice, at the "Benevolent King," at Ildant, at Riven for letting himself be killed - and she opened her mouth to spew venom.

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Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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"Watching court is always an interesting affair. It is a constant dance of false platitudes and bruised ego where the manner in which something is said is just as, if not more, important than what is said." - Sixteen



Zandyr turned his head, his eyes roving over to the ornate doors as the eldest Anarane child arrived to their very amicable event. It was a foregone conclusion by now that the third child would, again, look nothing like their siblings. A less polite man would point out their very apparent and stark differences that would leave questions of family lineage in severe doubt, of course, it would spawn less polite names about both parents some of scorn, others of barely contained mockery. Either way, it was a welcomed distraction as his father's reprimand still stung in the back of his mind, a soft whisper of failure.

He was slightly more interested to see how this one acted compared to his appearance as, so far, it seemed all of the heirs of Ezea had a flair for the dramatics along with a severe inflated sense of self-worth... or in one's case, a severe lack of balance. One could only ponder at the amount of gossip the chambermaids in Ezea had at their disposal if their actions alluded to a reoccurring theme, and just like his appearance, the Crown Prince was not one to disappoint.

Standing straight, chin raised and pointedly refusing to bow to both his king and father, but also, to another king within his own hall. Refusing to even use their titles and instead refer to them by name as if throwing salt upon open wounds was the best way to undergo it. It seemed their father, or perhaps nannies, could never quite teach them how to behave, well, he grudgingly conceded, the fired haired tempest of unwieldy destruction and ruin had acted... acceptable at her introduction, but as her only competition was her brothers that was nothing approaching an achievement especially considering her following up actions.

The news of the attempt on his life, did cause Zandyr to stir within his seat, his eyes tracing the man once more to see the red stains across his attire. He was not sure why the prince decided to continue to wear it as, from Zandyr's own experience, such an amount of blood on cloth was much like mud. The blood dried and caked, drawing the cloth together and causing an unpleasant rubbing that would tug the attention away and towards that unique sensation. Was it his way of sending a message? Did he simply not have a spare? Did it matter? No, not truly, but what did matter was that an assassin had made an attempt on the Crown Prince in their palace.

Zandyr leaned back in his seat, mulling over the situation as he pointedly ignored the working and conversations around him. A large part of him would have preferred for the tardy prince to have met his end at the blade of an assassin, even if such a thing would have shattered the... negotiations, but the crucial point was that an assassin managed to infiltrate the Winter Palace and make an attempt on the prince's life that went undiscovered by the guard. Reaching up to his dark hair, he twirled a few strands around his left fingers, he was not entirely sure why they had made it on the prince's life when there was softer targets to be had, but he couldn't claim to know much of the second son, and now Crown Prince, as the man never caught his attention enough to warrant a closer look.

It could have been his father, but he doubted it. If he truly wanted to do something audacious, he would have made an attempt on the entire royal family as they were in the heart of his palace, whatever their motives, he had to ensure the protection of his family and guest.

Raising his right hand, he gestured with two fingers and called over his personal valet, Martos, and as if from the shadows, the wizened servant materialized at the side of his chair, leaning down to give them a shred of privacy, or what there was to be had in the world of politics and royal banquets, "My lord?"

"Inform Commander Tulian about the attempt on Ildant," Zandyr paused trying to remember the pronunciation that was used earlier before failing to recall it, "The Crown Prince's life. He is to find the body and bring me what personal effects on it to my study, double the guards on the royal bedchambers and switch the patrol routes and shift changes for the rest of the night and find out how the assassin got in."

"Anything else, my Lord?"

Zandyr closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cool surface of the wooden chair, mulling it over as he was sure the assassin crept in as either a servant under their service or came with one of the visiting nobles as part of their retinue, but he needed someone to blame if something else were to happen. Snapping his eyes open, he stopped twirling his hair as he added in a last command as almost an afterthought, "Remove the body before the stench spreads."

Martos gave a final bow before departing to carry out his orders, his body jerking slightly in his rush as his maimed leg struggled to support his weight. The stubborn old servant refused to use a cane for the 'tap upon the crystal' was far too 'insolent' for a humble valet, or so he claimed.

It wasn't a single phrase or sound that brought Zandyr's attention back towards the floor, but the sudden lack of noise as the hall seemed to fall silent, and the source quickly became obvious and much to his surprise, it wasn't because the young princess of Ezea had tumbled and destroyed another man's dignity. No, it seemed the blood covered crown prince was speaking, Zandyr wasn't quite sure as to the purpose yet as his attention had been elsewhere, but by the looks people kept giving him, he assumed it had something to do with him.

“Isn’t that what concubines are for, King Aegnor?” Zandyr's brow lowered as his mind turned that phrase over in his mind, did this prince intend to take concubines for some reason? Was he making a jest that his youngest sister was barren or unworthy of physical affection? No, many people were looking from the kings, to the blood stained prince, to himself... did he? No, the fellow crown prince did not just suggest that the two of them get betrothed? Did he?

It seemed he was. 'Take his soul?' How incredibly dramatic, but Zandyr knew it would not work before it began. The Crown Prince had started too aggressively, he was not 'requesting' but demanding it, his stance and tone made that clear. It was a direct challenge to his father's pride as to agree to such 'demanded' terms would, in some small way, be 'bowing' to the whims of a mere prince. If King Mirus allowed it, he would have been undermined by his own son, not only in front of many of his own nobility, but also the nobility of Xairai. The mere act that the Crown Prince had preformed was a challenge to King Mirus's authority and undermined him, accepting such a demand would be a deathblow for his reputation and authority.

At least, Zandyr was assuring himself it would not work. He could not believe it, but he had even less desire to marry another man than he did to marry courtly princess. Under less extreme circumstances, he would have offered to happily replace both of them with a family pet, perhaps a feline of some kind? As such a move could surely only be a step up from either of his choices and the added bonus that the cat wouldn't speak and the lesser chance of it biting him was also an advantage.

"We ride for neutral ground tomorrow," Zandyr's eyes widened as his mind struggled to process what had just been said. They would ride tomorrow for neutral ground. A small part of his mind applauded the King of Ezea as not only had he put his son down, he had reestablished his authority, but the larger part of his mind desired nothing more than to strangle the man. He had resigned himself to marriage to her. Resigned himself to the knowledge that he would be wedding the sister of a man he murdered in cold blood. Resigned himself, but... the sands of time were falling, he was supposed to have time. Time to idly lament his fate, time to sit and wait the time out as the dreaded darkness inched forward but.. perhaps..

"I concur," there it went. The sound of his father's pleased tone and the vanquishing of the last light of hope he had to enjoy the precious moments he had to himself. That prince. That blood stained, overly-theatrical, fool of a prince had, in a moment of stupidity, ripped the illusion of freedom he had clung onto out of his grasp. It would have almost been hilarious if it hadn't been rage inspiring. A loud bang and few clashes of metal tipping drew his eyes down as his fist throbbed in pain. In a momentary lapse of control, he had smashed the table with his fist, bruising it and knocking over various goblets and glasses from the force.

His heard, but did not comprehend, his betrothed talking to her father checking to see if she had heard true, but Zandyr stared at his throbbing half-clenched fist trying to regain control over his treacherous emotions. The rage that wanted to break through his weakening walls and burst out of his chest.

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Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane Character Portrait: Bacchus L. Anarane
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Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Elizabeth Kashatir Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Rosalina Seraphine Xairali Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane Character Portrait: Bacchus L. Anarane
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"Dig the dirt, til the fields, leave the dead behind."




The crux of the whole event was something that Lucius could not really stand, a bleating arrangement of voices and instrumental clamoring that could assault the senses if one could not sort one from the other. He so hated doing all this, just to keep up appearances and to make sure he was still in with the powers that be in the land. Though he was a lord in this place and it had been some years since he arose to this power. It was still treacherous and unforgiving day in and day out.

Ildanthe's arrival was the last of the evening for all that he could tell and it appeared from the measure that he arrived, he was having more or less a fun time of the event. A thought that caused a cursory smile to smooth across Lucius's features for a breif moment, before retuning to his wine. He spent most of his time at the celebration alone and near the small orchestra playing for all to hear, it was this place that seemed to fit his mood more. While he could enjoy the musical arrangement, their placement barley a stones throw away from the royals allowed for him to occupy his time with watching them. Only for a pretty young maid to catch his attention, stealing it away from time to time. As was usual with him in such occasions, knowing that such a distraction was always more interesting then the bureaucratically beating of chest.

Not more then a few minutes of being here did he already tire of the usual business that comes with this place. He had already forged one new relationship and destroyed two others in the process, but all was the same as before. In the end he would have to make good on several deals and bargain with another house to ensure that alliances would be kept. As the line of wine in his glass kept getting closer to the bottom, he would cast a glance back an forth across the great hall to ensure his notice of the other lords is taken.

It was then that he caught sight of Allister coming his way, most likely through the advent of a side door. The look on her face of calm surrender and the glaze she casually wiped from the edge of her mouth was a sign that she took a detour through the kitchen at some point. Allister was not the most typical of woman in Lucius's employ, being his right hand at most times gave her a powerful stance with the other houses within the kingdom. Though it was unsure of where she came from and how she became his steward, she was most obviously more then that to the people in the know.

She stood more then six feet tall herself and chose to dress more like a male counterpart then anything else. Her features were strong and narrow, with high cheek bones and very white skin. Someone accustomed to the fields she was not, but it was suspected that she came from the far north and her bright orange hair was another testament to this. However were it not for her facial features and her long singular braided hair. Many would mistake her for a rather effeminate man in the first place.

He looked on as she approached and spoke, placing herself to his ear "Everything is set and the men have been sent home my lord, would you like that I wait in the castle." Lucius took the last sip from his glass and gave her a rejecting gesture. "No, tonight is a celebration after all. Just go on about your own business and I will send for you if need be." Allister did not return with words, but simply nodded her head quickly. Causing the braid of her hair to swing wide, revealing a large silver ring that was looped with the end of the braid itself. She backed away before turning and disappeared in the same direction from whence she came.

Lucius was ready to break the ice with the royalty now and gave the empty glass to a passing waiter, primping himself, one final time. One could not chance of tainting a first impression and though he despised the idea of schmoozing it was a necessity and baiting gods with golden smiles and silver tongues, had somewhat become a favorable pass time for him. Though as he approached the young prince began to leave. Unfortunate was the thought that struck in Lucius's mind, of all the royals he believed him to be the most grounded by proxy alone. The amount of hearsay and testimony from other lords saying so, though such words can be just as easily made into conjecture.

He stepped his way up the ascension towards the King on his throne and gave a slight bow. "Your majesty, I would like to not only offer my praises for what is transpiring between the two kingdoms, but I have also come with an offer." The King weary of Lucius not only from prospect, but from knowledge of his reputation arches an eyebrow. Still the lead of curiosity's proverbial carrot was enough to entice him to edge the lord on with a nod and bade him continue. "My King having recently rebuilt my family home, it is not lost on me that it was rebuilt far larger then I could required all by myself."

"I simply suggest that if the royal family could have use for my hospitality, I would be oh so eager to give it."
He motions to the visiting royals as well and makes mention towards them "That hospitality is also extended to our friends from across the river as well. In all hopes of ensuring mutual bonds of friendship and cooperation." He gives a small bow to them as well when he speaks, looking back up to meet their individual gazes as he rises.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane Character Portrait: Lucius Dranosk
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A I S L I N.
1545, First of January | Starlit.

The discarded remnants of her remaining footwear watched the princess flee from the great hall after her prince in a flurry of crimson and gold. She nearly toppled the merchant who humbled himself before the king, his indigo hair trailing its length across her cheek to mingle with the vermillion red of her own. She barely felt the sting of its touch as it raked its nails across her cornea, nor did she spare the merchant a glance as she flew down the velvet aisle. Her father's low rumble shrivelled against the symphony roaring in her thoughts and the servants scarcely had the time to unveil the lumbering doors before Aislin was tearing through the gap, disappearing before the monarchs could withdraw their word. Not that their word meant anything much at all.

"Stables," she breathed as she stumbled to a halt, a palm held to thwart the quiet footsteps of the young girl who jerked her head towards Aislin's voice, staring unabashedly for a long moment before quickly ducking her head again. Had Aislin possessed the inclination to observe her surroundings, she would have recognised the servant as the one who'd spilled wine on her affianced, instead she stared distractedly down the spiralling hallway, noting amidst the chaos of her thoughts that the Winter Palace lacked straight corners. Instead its paths spun in spirals and curves that dizzied her and held no resemblance to home. She felt her throat contract. "Where are the stables?" Aislin clarified.

"Ah, um, t-that way, your royal highness," came the croaked reply. The girl pointed over Aislin's shoulder, her hands moving quickly as she explained. "You walk through the second arch and take a turn to the-"

"Show me," Aislin said.

The servant nodded frantically before walking timidly past Aislin. "Faster," the princess said, and soon they with lurching into a full sprint. The girl was surprisingly fast for her small stature, but Aislin had no trouble keeping pace. Their path grew darker the further they went from the lights surrounding the great hall until they burst through a wooden door made to look as if it were made of vines strung together and folded into a sturdy gate. It was the most simplistic and practical thing Aislin had seen since her arrival at the royal palace.

A sudden gust of frigid air tore through Aislin as they escaped the confines of the onyx walls. Goosebumps appeared on her exposed skin as she pulled back in surprise. Her breath left a trail of smoke before her. For a moment fascination sliced through the fog as she inhaled, exhaled, watching the condensation emerging from her lungs, as if she were moulding the empty space, leaving her mark in the negative space. She imagined the smoke as an imprint, a fleeting reminder of her existence before oblivion devoured it again, only for it to be conquered by her next breath.

"My lady?" Aislin nearly leapt from her skin as the voice shattered her reverie. "We are here." Aislin hadn't realised her feet were moving whilst she'd been wandering, staring at clouds rolling past her tongue. She stepped through the door her guide held open for her, hearing the girl shuffle behind her. Suddenly a flood of light roused the horses from their slumber as a gas lamp was lit. Aislin stared at the thing of glass and metal for a long moment. She'd seen it pressed against the walls of the Winter Palace but still it surprised her. There was no flickering flame, no hint of wax, only the hypnotic glow of light. She pulled her gaze away as she walked past the stalls, the rustic scent of straw and wood chips mingling with damp sweat a familiar companion and a stinging reminder. She remembered how Riven never failed to smell at least a bit like hay no matter how often he bathed. She'd once teased that he probably slept in stables, to which he'd smiled, his eyes sparking with a familiar amusement and lips quirking in a silent admission.

The horses huffed and neighed in greeting as she passed, glancing into every stall to observe their posture, the sturdiness of their limbs, the coils of muscles, the gleam of their coat, until her feet slowed to a stop. The mare gave ignored her for a moment, before lifting its head to spare Aislin an appraising glance. Dark eyes watched Aislin watch her and Aislin returned the creature's challenge. There was a strong companion. The gate whispered quietly open like one used regularly and then Aislin was stepping carefully into the stall. Slowly, she reached out a hand, capturing the side of the mare's neck - a safe distance from its teeth.

"Will you help me?" Aislin whispered. The mare snorted in reply, nudging Aislin's cheek. Her dark mane brushed against the line of Aislin's collarbones as the mare ducked its head, letting Aislin stroke the smooth grey expanse of its body. "Thank you," Aislin whispered against the its body, and then she was moving, pulling down the saddle and bridle where it hung.

"Wait!" the servant gasped. Aislin forgot she was there. "Wait, no. You mustn't, princess." Her mouth snapped closed, realising what she'd said. "I mean, there are other horses available." She hastened to explain herself. "That is t-the... She is P-pr-prince Zandyr's steed,"

A wicked smile flicked across Aislin's features and then she said, "Even better."





She sliced through the Umbra Forest, an apt name considering the mare she was braced against, whose hair was the hue of shadows and an expectant sky. Aislin took the path less traveled, a straight path and the shortest one to Ezea. It was a hazardous journey, but no more dangerous than the adventures she'd embarked upon with her eldest brother when he'd been alive.

"Come on, Sparkle," she whispered. She'd taken to calling her companion Sparkle, for the faint dapple of pale colour on the mare's pasterns, scarcely noticeable and only in certain lights. Aislin's hair was tossed by the wind and another one of the razor needles her handmaidens had embedded in her head shook free. Coils of rustic hair fell around her face as she pushed Sparkle forward. The horse was quick, if not particularly sturdy, she seemed to be enjoying leaping over logs and jostling her rider as much as possible. Aislin was accustomed to the steed's tricks, she'd ridden enough horses to know Sparkle was challenging her, seeing how well she'd ride and if she was worthy. Aislin tightened the grip of her thighs on Sparkle's sides, a grin splitting her face despite the frigid wind and the concerns of the night thus far. By the end of the ride, Sparkle would scarcely recognise her first master's scent.

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"One of the poor souls sent in the first assault and had boiling pitch poured on him but unlike the others he survived. I saw him once, laying there underneath that white, blood stained blanket writhing and screaming in pain. Most of his body is still covered in the pitch, stuck to the molted and rotten skin underneath. What is left of his face is nearly unrecognizable save for the small bump that was once his nose and only a few strands of his auburn hair remain in the black mass that has taken dominance. He isn't going to survive long.

The surgeons assure me they can give him something to alleviate his pain and that the screams should decrease in frequency and volume soon. Part of me wants to put him out of his misery, but he isn't one of my men. It isn't my call.

-----

He keeps screaming. It has been three days, the supply cart that had our remedies, and his balms, was hit by an Ezean raiding party. I had thought I would have gotten used to it over the days, the screaming, but I don't. I never do. Each time, it chills my soul, the heart-wrenching scream of agony. Some of the men swear they can hear him begging to die. pleading with someone to stop it but that isn't possible, the man can no longer speak only gasp for air between his screams.... But sometimes, I can almost hear it too.

-----

The screams have stopped. Someone from his brigade slipped into the tent and stopped it. Stopped him. I believe their commander is looking for the culprit for disregarding standing orders but, at least, he isn't screaming anymore.

His name was Sollius. Married, three kids, I ordered the body buried nearby. I won't send it back. They don't need to see him, not like that. Sometimes, I think I can still hear him screaming for it to stop... Once again, I think sleep will elude me." - Nineteen




If Zandyr had learned one thing from this atrocious evening it was that the royal family of Ezea lacked the ability to close their mouths and keep it shut. It seemed the gift of silence and the wisdom to utilize it did not exist within the lineage. Through the sheer annoyance at the fellow Crown Prince, who could not help but bask in the theatrics he was creating, almost like a two-bit tavern bard desperately trying to catch the eye of the aging matron, that had cost him weeks of freedom. He could not help but marvel at how profoundly... weak they appeared. They were a royal family that, for all appearance sake, was tittering on the edge of the abyss. A crass princess, the overly theatrical Crown Prince that sought to undermine his own father and nation at every turn and the audacious youngest prince... He could only wonder at how their nation had managed to stand through the war. Had it been Riven? Had he been the wind keeping the shattered boat afloat?

The men of Ezea that fought, bled, and died... died for these people? Who could not be bothered to pretend to be unified in the homes of their enemies? If they had such a weak resolve, unable to mask their distaste for each other, in the face of necessity, how were they going to help his own people against the wolves howling at their door step? What use was this shattered kingdom that Zandyr had struggled with for so long against the Helyan Hordes? The shattered kingdom that looked ready to tumble and fall at the slightest breeze.

Perhaps it was a punishment. For what he, himself, did upon that bloody field. Perhaps he had struck down the keystone of Ezea, and by doing so, damned his own nation as well. Perhaps it was a divine jest from the heavens, mocking him with pale reflections of the man he once faced. A moment, a single moment, of weakness on his part... was that the cause of it? The twist of fate that had him survive that day, the day the white knight had fallen. Zandyr let his eyes trace the grains and engravings of the table before him, ignoring the Crown Prince's need to undermine their father one more time before leaving, as his mind considered it. If Riven had lived, and he fell... It would have been better. His father was strong, his father could hold their nation together, hold their family together, and Riven could keep the sinking wreck he once called his family together.

Instead they had him, and they were allied with a family with two boys who were mere reflections of their brother, both lacking the drive, honor, and duty of their elder. It was truly a divine tragedy, a great cosmic play that had begun the day he took his first pathetic breath in the world as he danced to the strings pulled by the whims of fate and the hands of gods.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft caress of cloth on flesh as his trusted valet returned, Zandyr quickly jumped on the diversion and turned his head to greet his servant and adviser only to pause at the sight of a trembling serving girl who seemed to be in quite the conundrum. Raising her head slightly to look at him, only to jerk it back down to stare at the floor, followed by the slight rise once more only to quickly jerk back down. It was almost like watching those little creatures that would pop out of the holes near the eastern plains, and it was almost as endearing.

"My lord," Martos said, his withered face blank, but there was a distinct twinkle and tilt on the old man's lip that did not bode well, "We have a small problem. This young lady," He said gesturing to the bobbing, spluttering serving girl, "Saw something rather peculiar and desired to bring it to your attention."

The serving girl stepped, or perhaps it would have been preferrable to say 'stumbled' forward stuck between bowing and begging forgiveness and trying to keep her voice low and discreet, "M-my lord," She said in rather poorly hushed whisper, "T-the p-r-rincess is g-one."

"My sisters are gone?" Zandyr asked, his eyes widening as the small jolt of fear went threw his soul. Had the assassins returned? Had they harmed them? How? When? Did they take them? His mind ran through questions faster than his mouth could ever hope to keep up even as the young serving girl struggled to clarify.

"N-no, not the princessess, sire, t-the.. L-ady Ais... A..." She said, her voice trembling further as she fought back of squeal of fear for both her job and her life.

"The crimson haired one?" Zandyr said not truly needing an answer to his rhetorical question, "And?" He said, his face returning back to its neutral barren state as it absorbed the information. The fired haired tempest was a coward that had fled, how was this his concern? Perhaps, if he was lucky, she would get kidnapped by bandits... or devoured by wolves.. no, who was he trying to fool? The odds were she would trip and crush their lives, bodies, and spirits in one go.

"S-she T-too. Ta," the serving girl paused, closing her eyes and taking a few shallow breaths as if it was physically painful for her to say it, "Shetookyourhorse!" She let out stream of nearly unintelligible words.

It took a few moments for his mind to untangle and comprehend her hastily spewed sentence, but the gravity of it was not lost on him. "Nyx," Zandyr said, more to himself then anyone else, she... had taken Nyx. "Did she take the road?" he asked, almost in afterthought.

"I-I don't think so," she said, apparently getting used to speaking to him... or at least, she was getting better at moving her lips, "I-I think she was going to the forest," Umbra. Zandyr closed his eyes, feeling the familiar rage swell up in his chest. She had taken Nyx... into the Umbra Forest at the behest of winter. Umbra Forest was home to many a dangerous creatures, and she had taken his Nyx out there when she had no idea of the dangerous of that forest.

Zandyr pushed himself up from his seat slowly as to not draw attention, "Thank you for this information," he said, bowing his head slightly to the trembling serving girl, "Martos, see that she is rewarded for her service to myself and the crown. Three gold pieces for her loyalty in coming to me first... Add a few silvers for her silence. If my father calls for me, inform him that I am currently investigating the assassins that made an attempt on the Crown Prince of Ezea. No one is to know that she is gone or that I am after her until my return."

"Of course, my lord," The old valet said, as he gently laid his arm on the small of the girls back and guided her out with him, "This way, dear," he said to keep her calm and to not create a scene... something that would be highly counter-productive.

Careful to stay on the edges, and out of the focus, Zandyr slipped out the front doors of the hall and towards the stables where the empty stall waited for him.




A small cloak was the only protection he had against the cool wind as the brown horse ran through the dark forest, its powerful legs kicking up dirt and pebbles with every powerful step. He had left as soon as he was able, stopping only to grab a cloak before heading out in the chance he would be required to sleep in the forest. Even know, upon the brown warhorse that he had chosen for its endurance and willingness to bite and snap at things that got to close, he could not believe anyone could be a foolish as this princess. She had entered a forest she had never been into, in the middle of eve, with no supplies and in a dress. Even more, he was unsure he was still on her trail as, if not handled properly, Nyx had a love of jumping and leaving the paths.

Gripping the reins, he pulled bring the horse to a stop as a small glint caught his eyes. Swinging his leg, he dropped off the stallion and bent down to examine his find. Brushing away the dirt, he lifted the small metallic needle up turning it in his hands, before the corner of his mouth twitched, it seemed the fates had not quite abandoned him after all.

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Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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#, as written by Layla


























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    XXA I S L I NXA N A R A N E
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    “Your absence has gone through me
    Like thread through a needle.
    Everything I do is stitched with its colour.

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    XXXPerhaps the Crown Prince of Xairal was not the savage, evil, hideous sorcerer who ate children for pleasure Aislin had initially believed him to be. He had - somewhat - saved her life. Of course, she could've succeeded on her own, but he'd saved her considerable trouble. Despite her awareness that she should keep one eye open at all times around him, she could not stop her lids from drooping.
    XXXSleep was the hired mercenary descending upon her quietly and mercilessly. It did not care that she was in the company of her greatest enemy, or that her body was cold and wet, none of which were suited to survival. Aislin fell into the warmth of the fire, her body slumping against the rough bark pressed behind her. Her eyes jerked open as she forced herself to stay awake, but it was like trying to stop the sun from setting.
    XXXThe rapid rattle of frightened hooves and the rustling of a creature bursting through the forage streamed into her consciousness, but sleep devoured her. It spilled into her limbs like grains of sand and she found she could not move or distinguish between reality and the swirl of nonsense her tired mind churned. Second passed but it felt like hours.
    XXXThe loud thud of a horse leaping over the river jarred Aislin awake. With great effort, she opened her eyes and pulled herself upright. Aislin blinked slowly, her chapped lips parting in surprise as her vision cleared.
    XXXGullfaxi galloped straight for their camp.
    XXXA burst of adrenaline forced Aislin to her feet, a faint hiss of colour returning to her cheeks as her heart hammered against her rib cage. She dragged herself to her feet, running - or stumbling, really - towards the desert stead.
    XXX"Gully!" she called out, but her voice was a mere whisper. "Gully, stop!" she cried louder. She grasped the horse's reigns, narrowly dodging a kick to the head as Ildant's stead rose on its hind legs. Aislin placed a firm hand on the horse's neck.
    XXX"Shh, shh," she murmured as the beast stilled. "Don't be afraid," she said as the panic rose like acid to her throat. Ildant's stead was here, but Ildant was not.
    XXXHer hands shook as she stroked Gullfaxi's mane, murmuring nonsense until the beast calmed. All thoughts of Zandyr left her mind as she held onto sand-stained locks so similar to her brother's. She was impatient but she could not ride Gullfaxi in his present state. Finally, he calmed enough to nudge her neck with his muzzle. Aislin wasted no time, hauling herself onto his back and swinging her leg over his back.
    XXX"Take me to Ildant." She pulled Gullfaxi's reigns towards the river and kicked the horse's side. He leapt into a fierce gallop, flying over the river with an ease Sparkle did not possess. Aislin didn't have the mind to relish in it. She brought them into the throngs of the Umbra Forest. She saw his hair first, stark and vivid against the white snow. It was an odd palette of olive, brown and yellow. The only beings Aislin knew of who had his colouring were camels.
    XXXShe forced Gullfaxi to go faster, gripping the reigns until her blue fingers felt eternally frozen around the rope. Branches tore at her naked skin but she barely felt them. She was close. Almost there. And then she saw the blood.
    XXXIt soaked into the alabaster snow like a ripple from Ildant's body. There was a trail of it from where he was first shot to where he fell. Aislin leapt off the horse before Gullfaxi had the chance to come to a full standstill, falling and rolling to a stand. Her feet brought her to Ildant's side and she could not fight to sobs that tore from her chest.
    XXX"Raena have mercy," she prayed. Her hands went to her shift and she tore a strip from her skirt, now mostly dry from the flames. She pressed the cloth to his wound, her hands trembling as blood seeped through her fingers.
    XXX"Don't you dare," she whispered. "You damned fool, don't you dare. Why did you come after me?" she cried. She lifted his head to rest it on her shoulder. His hair, usually soft as sand and silk, was wet with blood and snow. She gripped the shaft of the arrow and held onto his wounded arm. She bit her lip, grateful, for once, that he was unconscious.
    XXX"I'm sorry," she murmured against his hair before breaking the arrow lodged in Ildant's body. There was no time to remove it, but she could not let the arrow jostle about and wound him some more. She gripped his waist, trying to lift his body to standing so she could strap him to Gullfaxi, but he wouldn't budge.
    XXX"You accursed, overweight buffoon," she hissed, panting as she tugged his body against her own, but it was impossible. She released him, laying him gently on the ground with his head propped on her lap. Tears bit her eyes. She would lose him, as she had Riven, because he ate too many raspberry tarts. The thought infuriated her, but it was so absurd she wanted to laugh. He would die because she'd been born a scrawny girl instead of Bacchus.
    XXXBacchus should be here instead. He would've stopped Ildant from ever being shot. He wouldn't have raced through the Umbra Forest in the middle of the night or glared at Ildant with so much hatred. Was he here because of guilt? To apologise for causing what, in truth, was out of his control and not his fault? It was Aislin's. Of course it was Aislin's, and now he would die because his sister was an idiot.
    XXXNo, he will not die. I refuse to let him die. And if the Anarane siblings were good at nothing else, they were good at being hopelessly, adamantly stubborn. Ildant did not wish to die just yet, therefor he would not, and Aislin would sooner birth the Butcher's firstborn than allow Ildant to die.
    XXXRiven's mantra came to her mind. Anyone can betray anyone, he used to say.
    XXXThe Butcher. This is him. This is him.
    XXX"You... You did this!" She whirled to stare at Zandyr through the darkness. "You lured me away so you could kill the Crown Prince of Ezea. So you could wed the Princess and take our kingdom for your own."
    XXXHer eyes were two infernos in the darkness, flaming embers and rubies that burned with such hatred, they seemed capable of searing Zandyr where he stood. Her hand darted to the sword strapped to her side, but found only empty air. She was clad in her underthings and unarmed. Still she shifted so she could press the cloth to Ildant's arm and shield him with her body at the same time. She lifted her chin, ignoring the dampness on her cheeks as she stared at the Butcher.
    XXX"I will tear you apart with my bare teeth before I let you lay another finger on him," Aislin growled.

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Character Portrait: Aislin Serafaena Anarane Character Portrait: Zandyr Kashatir Character Portrait: Ildantxhe Anarane
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#, as written by Taunbon
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"I visited the wounded again, we didn't have enough supplies for them. I had to order them to treat only those that could survive. We didn't even have enough beds to spare... I ordered them to dump those that wouldn't survive outside... in the mud and ordered the holes to be dug. They died there, in the mud, tossed aside by their own comrades, by their prince, writhing in pain as they watched their own graves be dug before them.

Why? Because one lord a hundred leagues away decided that those supplies would be better 'misplaced' and sold to fill his coffers. Forty-Seven men died like dogs, so one man could flaunt his newest trinket to his neighbors. The physicians tell me nine more will be dead in the morning from infection. All for a trinket." - Nineteen


Zandyr nudged the small stick into the bottom of the fire, moving branches out of the way to let more air flow in trying to get the embers burning. His eyes flicked up to the horse thief slumped against the tree. She was almost bearable... when she was sleeping and not talking or glaring at him. Her frail body slumped against that dark tree, her fingers still clutching onto his jacket as her hair reflected the fire, he couldn't find the anger he had at her from earlier. Just for the night, he would watch over her, in the morning, he could go back to hating her for reasons she would never understand. If he had done all this just for her to perish, he wasn't sure he could live with that extra caveat on his day.

The thumping of hooves against soft soil brought his hand down to the handle of his dagger, not likely the odds of a rider in the middle of nowhere, under the cover of darkness and one that was heading their direction. The failed assassination attempt on the Crown Prince of Ezea flashing through his mind. The small horse burst through the trees and Zandyr was already drawing his dagger when a shout of, 'Gully', stopped him. The horse thief showed far more energy then he would have thought possible as she jumped up and ran towards the, he noticed, riderless beast. How her body was so durable despite being so small was a matter for another time.

Rising to his feet, he watched as she calmed the horse that seemed familiar to her which would only mean trouble to him, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. When she swung herself onto the horse, the feeling in his gut grew, this was just screaming trouble that he should just ride away from. If he heard the name correctly, that was her brothers steed, the owner of the nigh unspeakable name that their parents had cursed him with. Had the assassins come for him again? Had he decided to chase after him and his sister? Either way, it led to a situation he doubt he wanted to go to, being seen with the likely dead body of the crown prince with their princess's clothes in tatters, coupled with his infamy, and this would be a scandal that he doubted the kingdoms could recover from. He should leave, let her deal with the body, remove himself for the problem before it hit the critical mass, yet he found himself picking up the horse blanket and moving over to Nyx, fixing her saddle once more and swinging onto her to give chase to the direction Aislin fled... for a second time that night.

Zandyr pulled on Nyx's reins, bringing her to a stop when he caught back up to her, struggling to lift her brother but failing. Not surprising given what she had put her body through over the last few hours and her already small frame. His eyes fell on the snapped arrow in his arm, in the war, such a wound would have been ignored by the physicians as they went to treat serious wounds, that one would have been left to nurses or fellow soldiers to deal with. If the arrowhead broke the bone, infection could set in, but he was more surprised that the Crown Prince had fainted from it, Zandyr doubted he had gotten hit that long ago given the distance between him and the camp and the speed of his horse. He had never seen an arm wound from an arrow bleed to the extent to put someone down so quickly. Poison? Likely. If it was, he doubted the Crown Prince would survive the night.

Regretting his decision to follow, he swung himself off from his horse and tied the reins, trying his best to ignore the sight of the horse thief over her dying brother. It was not something he wanted to see. Zandyr took a moment to look out into the woods, wondering if the assassins would be back and how many of them they were... but more importantly, why the Crown Prince was still alive. He should be dead, why hadn't the assassins finished the job? Chased him down and open his throat? He doubted that any half-decent assassin wouldn't be able to track down a wounded man on a horse. Had they let him get away?

The sudden accusation, soaked with rage, spun him around to face the wounded siblings, he did this? He opened his mouth to refute the claim, but stopped, if she wanted to believe that, why stop her? The accusation was baseless and foolish, born from a angry, desperate mind. He did kill one of her brothers already, he was already the monster she accused him of being, although for different reasons, so why should he correct her? Tear him apart with her teeth? The raw anger in her eyes, the undiluted hatred, reminded him so much of her brother that day on the field. That same loathing that pierced his soul.

"Likely," Zandyr said, lifting his chin as his eyes moved away from hers to scan the forest pretending to look for something within their depths, but the truth was, he couldn't bear those eyes a second longer. Those intense burning orbs of rage, the fire that wanted nothing more to see him screaming and burning within their depths. They pulled him to memories he didn't want to visit.

"Maybe I did do this. Put an arrow through his arm, ditched the bow in the woods, returned to camp before his frighten horse could and before you could wake up without bothering to open his throat to finish the job. Or I hired people to do this, believing you would run, on this exact route then planted the assassins here, waiting for your brother to follow you, to finish the conquest my father started long again," Zandyr said, his voice steady and hold more strength than his eyes which he kept on the trees, unable to meet her own.

Zandyr turned his head, his dark hair following over his shoulder as looked at the wounded Crown Prince, blissfully aware of the torment his pain was causing others, "But I do know one thing, if I do not lay a finger on him, he will die here and while I don't claim to care if he lives or not, I do care about the Crown Prince of Ezea dying on Xairal soil when I am the prime suspect for such an act," and he didn't want to be the cause of the death of another of her brothers. Even now, he still couldn't meet those eyes.




Aislin worried her lower lip, clenching the piece of cloth she pressed to Ildant's arm. All remnants of white were gone, replaced by the blood that flowed steadily from the Prince's arm. She glared at Xairal with her odd crimson eyes as he spoke, pausing when he finished, brows lowered. She simmered with distrust, but with a single glance at the brother that laid wounded on her lap, her flame sputtered into mere embers.

"I am watching you," she said finally. "If you so much as entertain the notion of hurting him, it will be the last thought you will ever have. If he dies, so do you. Riven was merciful. I am not."

She lifts a hand to her head, tugging free the very last of the pins she did not lose to the water or during the journey to it. It seemed there was some benefit to having a mess of bright red curls on her head after all. She clips the sapphire bead encasing one end of the shaft in the between two fingers.

"Poison," she says with an odd smile. "Which is faster, do you think? Your clumpy sword or the flick of my wrist?"




With the inferno simmering down to a blaze, Zandyr met her eyes once more. 'Riven was merciful', yes, he was, and Zandyr would never stop loathing him, even in death, for that. While Zandyr did not doubt she would attempt to kill him should he attempt to attack her brother, he had doubts on her claims of lacking in mercy. He had seen men who were like that, cold and void of feeling, or worse yet, those who took pleasure in the torment, she was neither. She was passionate, and incredibly foolish, but he doubted she could ever become like... him.

Zandyr raised an eyebrow at her declaration of her fearsome weapon, it was an odd coincidence that what her brother may be afflicted by, she was threatening him with, "Given that I do not have a sword," he motioned to his belt which only contained a dagger, "I would assume your dainty wrist would win against my non-existent clumpy sword." He almost continued to point out that his 'sword' was not clumpy, but it did resent the wine she had spilt on it, but given the circumstance, he had more pressing matters than dragging out the barbed conversation... if one was being so generous to call it that.

Moving over to Aislin, he knelt and slowly reached out to the snapped arrow, he noted, somewhat surprised, that she had snapped the arrow and left enough of the shaft to push through if they were able either she was intelligent or she was a fool favored by the gods, he was leaning towards the latter. "We need to move him to the camp. We are going to need the fire and the water from the river," Zandyr said, "Hold his arm still, don't want him to move it too much," he ordered as he lifted the Crown Prince and laid him out across the back of his desert steed trying to mask his grunt of exertion as the last thing he needed at the moment was a barbed comment on his 'femininity'.

"Take him back to the camp," Zandyr said, looking at the Prince's pale face, "Jump the river. He is losing blood faster than he should be," he said after moment of hesitation. While the jump could jostle the arrow, he doubted they had time to ride around it to the nearby ford.




"Can't you just do it here?" she snapped. She was worried for Ildant - terrified, really - and she was furious that she would succumb to such a weakness. Worse, that her mortal enemy should be present to witness it, much less be the person to appease her fears and counteract her inefficacy. What would Ildant say if he were able?

My only hope is my man-sister and her lady-prince. I suppose I am fated to an early cessation after all.
She lifted herself onto Gullfaxi, careful not to knock against Ildant's prone form. She wrapped the reigns around Ildant's torso and grasped the rope herself.

"Smooth soaring, Gully," she muttered, more for herself. She shifted the stead in the direction of the river, held her breath, and tapped the Gullfaxi's side. The stead leapt across the river and Aislin whispered silent apologies to her brother as the arrow jostled in his arm, releasing a fresh wave of blood. Panic seized her and she turned to glare at Zandyr over her shoulder.

"Keep up, will you, grandmother?" she yelled.




Zandyr motioned for her to start riding having no desire to explain, or the time to, how to properly remove an arrow without destroying the victims arm. She would see soon enough, and for her sake, he hoped it didn't hit the bone.

Untying the reins to Nyx, he rode after her. He had to bite his retort before it escaped his lips, it wasn't his fault that, between the two of them, he was the only one that bothered to tie up his horse. One of them had to have a shred of sense, still, he did not look forward to the coming hours... It would be a long night.