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lolthslover · 2 months

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The Pale Rose

Shadowheart takes care of Tristan's wounds, but he has no memory of how he got them. Meanwhile, death advances, stretching out its hands on the impure soul of Lolth-Sworn Drow. This fanfiction is the continuation of Children of Darkness. Words: 6,830, Rating: Explicit, Status: WIP Chap. 1: Blood on my hands Chap. 2: The Chosen One Ship: Shadowhert / Tristan (Tav) Characters: Shadowheart, Astarion, Gale, Halsin, Karlach, Lolth-Sworn Drow, Lolth, Wood Elf, Original Characters.

Excerpt:

Her fingers intertwined with mine, her smile was warm and her eyes, which have the same shade as rubies, shone with a warm light. Her long white hair was waves of foam as it flowed softly down her back, creating a stark contrast to the black silk robes that enveloped her sinuous body. The golden bracelets jingled as she turned fully to face me, the fragrance of bergamot and honeysuckle saturated my nostrils as she raised her other hand, running it across my forehead, brushing the dragon scales, tucking a few strands behind my ear. She was my sister, but she often treated me like a son, even though she was two years older than me, plus I was a few centimeters taller than her. In the meantime, she stood on tiptoe to kiss the corner of my lips. She spoke my name in a soft tone as she gripped my hand in a firm grasp, Narbondel's light making her twilight skin glow. «Sybil.» My voice filled the space between us as a veil of tears took possession of her eyes, before plunging her face into my chest. Dread gripped her and it was strange to see a confident and proud woman like her being at the complete mercy of her emotions, especially when fear took possession of her fibers and emerged in sinister shadows that creased her countenance, which had harmonious features. I embraced her, holding her close to my heart, while my pulse beat deafeningly, while her fear spilled over into me, merging with my flesh, with my own feelings. I buried a hand in her silky hair as her softly vocalized voice saturated my ears, making me feel the prickle of tears from behind my eyelids. «Don't go, Tristan.» She had always been afraid that I would not return, that my work as a spy and assassin would take me away from Menzoberranzan, from the Dilyrr House, run by the Matron Mother Victorya, who was our beloved mother. Once, a long time ago, I tried to never return to the Underdark, falling madly in love with a wood elf, a young druid from a small grove. Her big brown eyes still followed me in my nightmares, like her blood on my hands. Lolth had wanted her head and so I sacrificed her for my goddess, also encouraged by my older sister Trissonia, who had brought me back to Menzoberranzan. If I wanted my house not to be subjected to the spider queen's wrath, then I had to tear out my heart and kill Dorotea, the woman I had loved and still loved. Forgive me, if you can... But could there be forgiveness for a Dilyrr? For a drow, follower of the majestic and cruel Goddess? Perhaps Dorotea had been reborn, perhaps she was now an elf child who clung to her mother's skirt, perhaps now she too had another name. When she meditated, did she see her murder again? The elves who, when they were children and then adolescents, had the gift of seeing details of their past lives, even the place where their souls had stopped, enjoying the light of Corellon, before being reborn, before walking again on this earth. «You know I'll always come back.» «Promise me.» «I promise, my sweet sister.»

Read the rest on AO3

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blackrosesmatron · 5 months

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This post will be a study of how LeBlanc is nearly the personification of Clan LaSombra, and how I accidentally drew inspiration from it for her character!

The Black Rose also bears some resemblance to the Sabbat, but that will be covered in another post at a later date (or possibly today if I can't stop hyperfocusing on it).

This will be a very lengthy post, so please be aware of that!

"The Lasombra exist for their own success, fighting for personal victories rather than solely for a crown to wear or a throne to sit upon. They believe that might makes right, and are willing to sacrifice anything to achieve their goals. A clan that uses spirituality as a tool rather than seeking honest enlightenment."

For this, I must clarify that I'm basing my LB on her current lore, which provides very little information except for her primary goal of preventing Mordekaiser from coming back. As shown in her short story and through both Samira's and Rell's stories, she is more than willing to do whatever it takes to achieve her goal. No sacrifice is too great for her to make.

In addition to the canon part, delving into my Headcanons for LeBlanc, she aspired to be more than just an ordinary individual (or a 'nobody' as she refers to herself prior to joining Mordekaiser's forces). She believed she deserved more than what life had offered her in the past. The LaSombra clan is known as Social Darwinists, which aligns quite well with my views on the Matron and how I portray her (or at least how I hope to portray her).

❝Our clan has a long heritage of leadership in a very primal and pure sense. We do not soil ourselves with the petty details of reckoning every little scrap; we command and seize.❞ — Unnamed Paladin

"Lasombra are fiercely predatory creatures, and the Lasombra mindset is defined by an embrace of darkness itself. The Lasombra firmly believe that power is best held by the most worthy, and that the primary test of worthiness is acquiring said power. As a result, they are predatory, backstabbing, power-hungry and unapologetically arrogant about their position."

I still owe a proper post about LeBlanc's way of manipulating others, but she does employ multiple tactics to gain the upper hand over others and maintain a power balance in her favor. This applies not only to interpersonal dynamics but also on a broader and more significant scale, such as her influence over the politics of Noxus and other regions.

She is not beyond betrayal, she is extremely power-hungry (which is why she decided to 'serve' Mordekaiser in the first place), and she is not the least bit humble about the status she has acquired for herself over the centuries.

In summary, she will do anything one can imagine to seize power for herself and is unashamed of her actions.

"Several thousand years ago, a tribe of proto-Maasai people were ordered by a pale spirit to produce a child for him. This child was trained to lead by having every member of the tribe obey him, and he was trained to be loyal by extensive gifts and rewards from the Lasombra Antediluvian. The experiment failed, and Lasombra punished the tribe by wiping out half of its population. Before rerunning the experiment, Lasombra was visited by his child's playmate, Ontai. This shaman-in-training offered his life to Lasombra – in life, death, and beyond, with no price asked. Lasombra, disturbed by the offer and Ontai's already impeccable honor, tested the shaman's resolve by demanding he slaughter his tribe. Ontai obeyed, and a shaken Lasombra called off the execution and embraced Ontai, renaming him Montano, and bringing him to the Mediterranean. Thereafter, Lasombra was always uncertain whether his childe's unswerving honor had gotten the better of him."

Another part that will be solely based on Headcanons alone, as we have no information on LeBlanc's background—specifically, who she was prior to becoming the Matron of the Black Rose.

In a previous post, I mentioned that in my headcanon, LeBlanc hails from a small, nameless village that has been forgotten by time. Somehow, she managed to join Mordekaiser's forces and quickly grew closer to him. However, this closeness didn't come without a series of challenging tasks meant to test her resolution, loyalty, and her physical, magical, and mental prowess. She was willing to carry out any order from Mordekaiser, no matter how heinous, including wiping out entire villages or kidnapping individuals like the Yordle who studied the stars. While she deeply regretted kidnapping Veigar, she continued to showcase her abilities and determination, steadily climbing the ranks until she achieved the privilege of being part of the Iron Revenant inner circle.

Just like the original LaSombra, Mordekaiser remained uncertain about her loyalty until the very end—or most likely he was certain he never truly had it in the first place.

"Lasombra naturally seek power and authority to prove themselves better than others; (...) While the Lasombra focus on the practical matters of administration and leadership [of the Sabbat]. The Lasombra operate under the metaphor of "shadows". They do not stand in the limelight, preferring to manipulate others to their own ends while doing as little as possible to make themselves a target. This is not done solely out of fear, but because many Lasombra have domineering and superior personalities that necessitate having someone beneath them. This role is usually filled by mortals; (...) Those who find themselves under the control of a Lasombra can expect a demanding and unrewarding experience. Their domitor will use any and all tools available to ensure loyalty, such as the Blood Bond, coercion, physical intimidation, and unapologetic use of Dominate. The wise Lasombra will judge just how much of this force is necessary; too little and the servant is untrustworthy, too much and the servant is spineless and afraid to act when they need to act."

LeBlanc is canonically a figure who prefers to stay behind curtains, pulling strings and letting others do the dirty job. Or when she does it herself, she does it disguised as somebody else. It is a risk too great for her personally due to Mordekaiser's sigil on her, but it also works best for her when people do not know she even exists in the first place. In short, she isn't stupid enough to make herself a target.

Now, let's delve into LeBlanc's relationship with her own Cabal: The Black Rose.

With the exception of serving the Black Rose not being a rewarding experience, as there is always something to gain (although it often happens that what one gains from being part of the Cabal does not equal how much they give), all else applies. The Matron will use different methods to ensure loyalty from those who are proper members of the cabal and a different set of tactics for those who are unaware that they work for her.

The only thing she is against is mind-controlling a person, as she is well aware that Mordekaiser himself expects to strip the Pale Sorceress of her free will as soon as she dies. She cannot bring herself to do it to another.

"The Lasombra went to the Sabbat, the Ventrue to the Camarilla. And finally, the Ventrue deduce their claim of rulership over all Cainites through their lineage from the first of the Third Generation, while the Lasombra claim leadership over them as the Clan who first managed to slay their Antediluvian founder. With the Lasombra defection from the Sabbat, many Ventrue delight at the opportunity to lord over a clan they have struggled against for centuries, but the Magisters themselves see this as an opportunity to turn the Ventrue's arrogance against them. They become advisors, bodyguards, and regents to Ventrue Princes, dethroning the weakened Tremere and slighting the undervalued Toreador without directly threatening the sceptre that the Clan of Kings holds so dear; the Lasombra know that you don't need to sit on the throne to control the kingdom."

Despite her pride, LeBlanc does not see a problem in 'serving' another, as she did with Mordekaiser. As long as she can see it as beneficial to her in the long run, she will let the other party feel like they are in control, while she is the one actually pulling the strings and dictating the direction of where things are heading. Her personas often play the parts of advisors and lovers mainly, but if the need arise, she doesn't mind creating a new one for a more physically demanding task.

At the end of the day, she lies down knowing she is the one controlling the Empire and the regions beyond it.

"Lasombra pride themselves on doing things with style and elegance."

Her personas will not always be 'tidy,' 'clean,' or 'elegant,' but LeBlanc herself will refuse to show her face while dressed in shabby clothes. Her personal image is quite important to her, so if she is to show her own, she will do it with style and elegance.

---

Quite possible I'll be making another post solely on LB as a LaSombra, because I feel like I forgot to cover a few points. I'll do it once I remember what those points are XD

All the informations quoted in this post can be found here.

#there is another behind my own mask (ooc)#v: “i am everywhere. i am everyone!”#“watch closely.” (headcanon)#V: “She who rules the night.” (VtM verse)#How can you tell L is very much in love with both LB & VtM?#I mean #this hasn't even been the longest post ever made by me

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silversiren1101 · 1 year

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27 for mino :eyes:

27. The musty smell of an abandoned home

She was surprised it still stood.

The last time she'd seen it, it'd been on fire, after all.

And as Minovae stepped over the threshold of His Watchful Eye's rotted doorframe, she wished it had fully burned down. The smell hit her, musty yet still smelling of flame and ash and death like it had that night she'd rushed in, and she felt the ghost of that same feeling she'd had then.

The rage. The hatred. The despair.

A quiet feeling of relief, too... of malicious joy.

Like last time, she found no children within the rotted, burned walls, and, same as then, she was glad for it even through the darkness. Children didn't deserve to be in these cursed walls, no matter the condition.

She didn't quite know why she had come here, to the place where she had been raised and she had fled on numerous occasions. The guards at the gate of the district had told her that there was nothing beyond the walls but thieves and death, and so far she had only confirmed it. The streets she used to run down, barefoot and clad in the rags the orphanage had given her, were more overgrowth and mud than paving stones. The grand bath house that used to be the only place she could soak the fresh scars from where her feathers had been torn out and scales had been peeled off was a cracked ruin now. Even the storefront of the woman she'd taken her name from, Ms. Arangier, was no more. Not even the glass window front remained to reflect at her a face, reminding her that there truly was nothing more here for her.

Ever since that night, Rego Plea had been no more, and now only Rego Cader stood in its place: "the dead sector". It was an apt name.

All she saw was ghosts wherever she looked. Of the past. Death. After the Dospera Massacre, which is what they called it these days, that horrible night where the Scourge fought against their former allies upon siding with House Thrune... where the entire district she'd grown up had been reduced to rubble and ruin and blood before dawn even rose...

Still, she hadn't turned back.

The floorboards creaked as she traversed into the ruins of the orphanage that used to be her cage, the building feeling so very small compared to when she'd been its prisoner, maimed and mutilated in the hope of being rid of. The last she'd been here she'd barreled through the door in her armor black as the ash choking the air, no longer a meek child but a proud Hellknight. She'd just encountered the matron in the blood-streaked streets, who had called out to her and begged her for protection as if she did not remember the time she'd chopped the very same tail off by which she'd been recognized. That instinctual fear had filled her at that shrill voice before reminding her that she was no longer powerless, but there were others that were that needed her protection far more than her former keeper had.

The wall crunched beneath her fist as a surge of disgust and terror flooded her. How the matron's eyes had cast back towards the approaching fire on the horizon when she'd demanded to know where the children, her charges, were. A ghost of Regill's angry shout from then echoes in her mind, because the matron was not the only one who had abandoned their duty that night.

She looked down then and saw familiar boot prints forever burned into the floorboards in soot: hers and his. It was only because of him that she hadn't received more than a few lashes for her dereliction of duty, when she rightfully could have been executed for it.

He'd seen how upset she'd been, when she'd hardly showed any such behavior within their ranks before. He'd seen the panicked tears on her ash-streaked face as she'd burned herself trying to clear a way through, calling for anyone to answer so she could save them. She'd hissed and raged to him that the matron had "left them to die" and he'd realized quickly what was at stake.

And in the end, he'd dragged her from the building after she'd collapsed from the smoke, and he'd been left burned just like she had. She'd hated him for it in that moment, because she'd come out empty handed, but it was only because of him that she'd lived to the find those children she'd blindly been trying to save, hiding in the same sewers she used to hide in when she'd been their age; and it was only because of those scared kids, thrown over her shoulders and tail and tucked beneath her arms, clinging desperate in fear, that she'd been spared a deserter's death.

She swiped a hand along the bannister, collecting more dust and soot. Had those children lived happier lives? They surely would have passed from age by now, each human. Had they remembered her?

A silly request. It didn't matter if they did. All that mattered was that she'd saved them and given them another chance at a happier life, like she'd wished someone had her. Their lives had been their own.

She didn't linger much longer in those ruined walls. There was nothing for her here. There was nothing for anyone here.

'It would be better if there was nothing here at all', she mused as she strode out of the ruin, not in any particular hurry yet the air outside seemed so much lighter as she breathed deep.

She cast one last long look up at the carved mural, somehow still mostly intact at the roof peak, that staring eye of a dead god, before pressing her hand flat against the door frame. Her eyes slid closed, and she began to hum.

It started soft at first, but as she sunk herself into the depths of her domains, into that instinctual well of Time just within her grasp, the hum vibrated outward. It traveled into the wood, into the brick and mortar and dust and ash, and the very essence of those materials hummed in response. A song reverberated over the shell of the ruin, answering her soft request to fade, to pass on, to lay the ghost of itself to rest. Time accelerated within them and only them, as the material sighed and accepted her song. Rot. Erosion. Dust. Nothingness.

Only when the wood beneath her palm fell away did she herself fall as well. Her knees struck that muddy dirt with a harsh gasp as her body shook from the exertion, limbs wracked with pain and weariness. Her eyes blinked open and before her was nothing at all. An empty lot lay where His Watchful Eye once stood.

All that remained was the memory.

No one would hurt in this place any longer. Not even her.

#silversirenwrites #oc: minovae arangeir #regill derenge x minovae arangeir #pair: hellpair #pwotr pals #wrath of the righteous

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piltover-sharpshooter · 2 months

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"The Small Details"- A Caitlyn/Leblanc Valentine Drabble

Caitlyn walked confidently through the streets of High Piltover, it’s passageways and stalls filled with people celebrating the date with their loved ones, and the former sheriff was on her way to do the same. The prospect of seeing her fiancé again was always enough to put a spring in her step.

On some occasions that meant official Black Rose business and a few favors being asked of her (That she’d always accept on the spot), but this time Leblanc assured her lover that the invitation was purely a social one. A Black Letter with the group’s symbol, written with gold ink and punctuated with her lovely matron’s lipstick invited her to one of the most expensive hotels in the city, and the heir of the Kiramman family had dropped everything she was doing or planned to do to meet her there.

Before coming in, she spotted a vendor selling a bouquets of Roses, which she promptly bought and overpaid for, and the moment she stepped in with flowers in hand one of the staff approached her to let her know she had been expected, promptly guiding her to the hotel’s suite where ‘Her Excellency’ was staying.

The name she had been told to ask for was one of Leblanc’s favorite faux identities, a minor noble from a distant continent across the seas, too far away to confirm in any meaningful way if she was telling the truth, but with enough clear power and riches to make sure all doubts were dashed. Though Emilia had assured her that such subterfuge was necessary when one was so powerful and had so many enemies, Caitlyn suspected that her fiancé simply enjoyed the play-acting.

The woman who opened the door was one of the Black Matron’s many maids, who gave a courteous bow, a welcoming smile and moved aside, allowing her to enter. The detective noted that she was dressed in casual ware, most likely ready to go out with the other maids as their mistress gave them the day off so the two of them could spend some time alone. Even then, when the maid informed her that ‘Her Mistress’ was still in the shower, she saw a dagger hidden on the woman’s cape, no proper servant of the Matron would find herself unarmed. As if coordinated, the moment the young lady left after explaining the food was on the way, the detective heard a surprised gasp from behind her, turning to see her lover emerge from the bathroom swayed in a towel, which looked distinctively like an angel coming down from heaven in her lover’s eyes.

“Roses! You shouldn’t have” Which meant she should have, of course. Something Caitlyn had learnt about gunfights, which applied equally well to romance, was that it was the Small Details which mattered the most. For example, whether landing a shot above an enemy’s cover to shower them with debris, or buying a lady her favorite flowers, weak points were always great targets.

“Well I know how fond you are of them” The sniper replied handing the flowers with a confident grin, earning herself a smile back, which boded well for the rest of the evening. Before they could embrace and enjoy a kiss, a loud knock came from the door, causing the Fae to raise an eyebrow.

“Impatient waiter…I better put something on, you know how the help often like to gossip.” She’d sigh and walk back to the bathroom with the flowers in hand, to the dismay of the former sheriff who almost had the love of her life in her arms, and was ready to discharge her disappointment at the man who had just knocked on the door loudly a second time…that was odd, she thought, that was too much of an uncouth behavior for such a refined establishment, where politeness and making one seem invisible to the guests were favored.

As she opens the door she notices that the uniform barely fits the man, a bit too big in some places, and a bit too small in others, not to mention the noticeable small reddish stain on his shoulder and the trolley of food he was carrying was in disarray instead of being properly set up for a guest, all making alarm bells ring on Caitlyn’s head, doubly so when the man seemed to stare at her for an impolite number of seconds. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh! Your pardon, madam. Your face seemed familiar!” He said recovering his wits at once, his voice doing its best to fake a piltovian accent and failing, and of course if her were truly from the City of Progress, he’d know who she was in a heartbeat, her face had appeared in newspapers and posters more than a few times in the last couple of yours. It was the last mistake which sealed the deal, his intent to try and play off the situation. “Have I served you before?”

“I doubt that…” She’d move a hand to her back, taking out the baton she kept hidden there. “You’ve only been a waiter for the last 10 minutes.”

He reacted as she had expected, shoving the food trolley forward to trample her, which she moved away from with practiced perfection before landing a solid smash to his jaw, knocking him out in a second. As more thugs dressed in zaunite gear came in through the door, it crossed her mind to draw her handgun too, but she’d rather avoid making a mess of her lover’s room, after all decorating a lady’s suite with viscera and grey matter was one of those small details guaranteed to annoy them.

The first thug approached with her arms open, hoping to catch her and wrestle her down to the ground with her superior augmented muscles, to which she was rewarded with a baton smashing down on the woman’s solar plexus and shattering her ribcage, resulting in her falling to the floor to clutch her chest, trying to scream in pain and finding only shrills escaping her mouth. The second had a chem-blade aiming for her neck, she dodged her attacker’s swing and landed a strike on his groin, and when he fell to the ground to clutch his broken jewels, she hit the back of the neck, with a satisfying CRACK of the spine.

That left a single man, the leader most likely, aiming his chemblaster directly at her, and before either could react ,the man found himself with two sets of chains tightening around his body, one gold, one purple. A dripping fuming Leblanc at the end of the chains yanked hard, causing his body to twist in an unnatural way, and as he dropped to the floor lifeless, Caitlyn reflecting that at least his last sight had been a memorable one. If it was one of fear or adoration at this devil-looking woman ending his life, the sniper didn’t care for, since in hers only the second one had place in her eyes, even in the moments of Leblanc’s brutality.

“Were they after you or me?” The matron asked, rearranging the towel that had fallen to the floor as she rushed to the lover’s aid around her body once more, to said lover’s vague disappointment.

“Your cover, from the look of it…” Caitlyn responded, after having searched the pockets of the supposed leader, finding a ransom note written to her family clearly meant to be left behind after she had been kidnapped, which she handed to the witch. "Seems they've been trailing you for a while, so most likely an outsider bandit group"

“Could be real…” She shrugged, which Cait noted did interesting things to the towel’s stability. “Or it might have been a blind and my cover is blown. Shame, I liked high Magistrate Carmilla, she was a wonderful character and a raging bitch. Oh well, we’ll find out more after I ‘interrogate’ them.”

Leblanc wondered off to fetch her staff, which she could use to contact her servants to come clean the room of the corpses and soon to be corpses, and arrange for the survivors to be taken away and have the information tortured out of them. Caitlyn, for her part, started to lay out the dinner that the would-be-assassins had provided on a nearby table, humming along as if nothing of importance had just happened. After all, whenever her love was done, she would be hungry indeed, and the food would be ready for her when she came back.

Small Details. They matter the most.

(Drabble featuring @angelicxlly 's wonderful Leblanc)

#ic #drabble #long post #valentine

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hemomania · 5 months

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Send 💤 for my muse to say something about yours in their sleep.

from this | accepting ! :3 sorry for the delay <;/3

Briar can make up for lack of blood by sleeping; so she often, when she wishes to be 'stable' and not frenzied, she'll sleep. She spends most nights sleeping curled up on the stone floor, or the dirty earth- as being cramped up in the prison has changed her definition of what is comfortable, and what isn't. For instance- a bed is not as relaxing or rejuvenating as flat, sullen ground. A bonus to her rest could occur if she fed on a dead animal in the forest, or a killer already fleeing the scene.

Still, it could be better.

This time, however, she is propped up on a desk like a cat, head resting upon her arms that serve as a pillow. Briar tends to appear mad when she's dreaming, but this time, she's got a little lingering smile on her face. Her face is no longer twisted with pain of battle, or hunger. She seems content, and she sniffs like she's got the scent of blood. " You smell so sweet, are you really sweet? " She speaks so fluidly and quickly, it's almost like she was never asleep to begin with. Perhaps somewhere in between falling asleep, and being awake. Still, eyes flutter open- ears trained and twitching at the subtle creak of floorboards as her eyes stare into the dark, which has always been Briar's favorite time of day since no one can notice she's blind, if they cannot see too.

" Oh, it's only you, matron! " Lilted voice turns sour. " What do you want? I was tryin' to sleep. " She doesn't mean to bark, nor bite, but she's so desperately tired, and now on edge at seeing a member of the black rose- but... Rather, she was talking absentmindedly, wasn't she? Briar mentally screams, but externally sighs, almost sounding as if in a trance. " Your fragrance is strong. Why do you wear it? " She hopes it doesn't sound rude, but isn't sure how else to ask- sometimes, she'd spritz it on as a test... but it personally overwhelmed Briar's senses, so why? Curiously, she scratches her ear with foot like a dog.

#( i'm hungry i mean i'm briar. ) / * ic .#canon .#do u have modern au for leblanc #question mark emojis pointing left and right hand with pleading face #i just think briar is silly and funny #like a puppy #LOL #i can write another one im going to hopefully be on a roll if u want another potential one :3

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masterqwertster · 10 months

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Soul Bloom AU

Also known as the fic Full-time Soulmates, Part-time Problems

This is mostly the behind-the-scenes lots of mechanics and stuff from my author's notes and comment replies

Who Blooms What

Ages (as of Campaign 3) and Flowers: Chetney- 400+ dogwood (credit SalamanderMeander) Laudna- 53 marigold Ashton- 30 thistle (I selected/guessed age) Orym- 34-35 lavender (credit SalamanderMeander) Imogen- 28 camelia Dorian- 27 blue orchid Fearne- 14/112 belladonna FCG- 4/1000? sunflower Fy'ra Rai- 33 fire lily (I selected/guessed age) Dariax- 27 dandelion Opal- 19 rose (starts pink, turns black upon either attuning to the Circlet of Barbed Vision or agreeing to be the Spider Queen's Champion Deanna- 200+ lotus FRIDA- 2/1000? gerbera daisy (green, possibly some blue and yellow upon dating FCG)

Soulmate Groups

Bells Hells

The Crown Keepers (Morrighan and Cyrus not included)

Deanna & FRIDA

Term to Know

Poke- pricking the hand to make a bloom appear on a soulmate

How Soul Blooms Work

Soul blooms are magic and don't create "real" flowers. In practice this means that they lack medicinal or poisonous properties and will dissipate into the ether once they leave a roughly one foot radius of the person they bloomed from, as well as only having a scent to those in the soulmate group (which makes stealthing still feasible when you don't/can't leave a trail of suspicious petals laying around or be covered in stinky flowers). Soul blooms also never wither, so if you can manage to keep a bloom within that radius, it'll last as long as you do.

You can't use soul blooms for divination magic. Or at least, not as the only targeting focus. Like, a soul bloom can help you hone in on the soulmate for a Scry spell, but if you try to scry on a soulmate you've never met using the bloom, you'll get nothing because it connects to the sender and everyone who receives them (including the person it bloomed on), thus confusing the spell.

Soul blooms occur when a person bleeds from an injury into open air as blooms inside the body would be bad, and bruises are, technically, internal bleeding. I count inside of the mouth, nose, and ears as internal as well, in that while there is still exposure to the outside, it would be highly inconvenient to life-threatening to have flowers bloom there. Airways need to be clear and many flowers do not fit inside the ear canal.

Things like wings, horns, and tails, which not all races have, bloom at the point of contact. Like tail injuries bloom on the tail bone of those without a tail, horn injuries wherever the base of the horn would be on the soulmate, wings at the shoulder blade connection point, etc. And the blooms are more about volume in that space than the details of the injury, so the soulmates without those body parts get more of an idea of severity than anything.

The Matron of Ravens would get the job of over seeing soul blooms as part of the Fate domain. The correct understanding of her domain in regards to soul blooms is that she protects their sanctity. Magics that would block or falsify a bond are a Big No-No, much like grand necromancy is against Death. The Matron of Ravens does not assign soulmates, just protects the function of the bonds. Much like how she's not the arbiter of Death but a shepherd of passed souls, or minder of Fate's weave but not actually forcing the strings.

Blooms will never change their type of flower (example: baby's breath to dahlias), but can change their coloration (example: red rose to white rose) in accordance to big life/personality changes

Social Customs

Belly buttons are the first scar of most human(oid)s. So older soulmates get what could be colloquially called a "birth bloom" in their bellybutton from the detachment of the umbilical cord. Races that don't have bellybuttons, mainly the avian and reptilian races, will often have a ritualistic prick of the child upon birth to announce their presence to theoretic soulmates, if the eggshell doesn't nick them in the hatching. Traditionally, once a birth bloom is noticed, the soulmates will poke back. Children younger than 10 will be pricked on the back of the hand, usually by the parents/guardians. Those older than ten will prick a finger tip, usually the pointer, though some will select a different finger. And because some races live centuries, tradition also has an additional fingertip prick for each century lived as an indicator for that extreme age difference and what races one's soulmate could be.

Two other reasons exist for back of the hand pokes:

Infirmness: the individual who is to send a poke as either a request to be poked back or to poke back themself is in a condition that makes it difficult or impossible for them to perform the prick without doing more damage than necessary. It's sort of the same premise as children under 10 are discouraged from poking on their own: you don't want people full-on stabbing their own hand.

Chain Pokes: in larger soulmate groups, finding other members is signified by clasping hands and pricking each other on the back of those clasped hands simultaneously. Or in larger congregations that aren't the full group, making a chain-loop of clasping the next person's wrist for the simultaneous poke. Technically, doing it to each other isn't necessary, but most enjoy the intimate ritual to it.

Probably one of the worst social taboos (of any Soulmate AU) is to intentionally and maliciously harm your soulmate. It's not something that's going to happen too often, given the nature of soulmates is someone who loves you wholly in some capacity (romantic, platonic, familial, a mixture), but it can happen. Usually after a metric-fuck-ton of trauma that crushes empathy and compassion and capacity for love gets involved.

#MQ AU machine #soul bloom au #critical role #bells hells

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ollieofthebeholder · 11 months

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<;< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || Next > Latest >>

Chapter 21: June 1999

Gerard doesn’t know if the man droning on and on in front of the crowd should properly be called a priest or a minister or a preacher or what, but he’s not wearing a clerical collar and he’s incredibly dull. The only thing keeping him from making faces to try and make the flower girl and ring bearer laugh is the fact that he knows the bride will kill all three of them if they do. If the Matron of Honor doesn’t beat her to it.

Uncle Roger looks happy, at least. Aunt Lily doesn’t exactly look happy, but at least she doesn’t look completely miserable. Martin and Melanie are hard to read from the outside. Gerard knows they’re both excited about what this means, and they’re taking this very seriously, but he also knows neither one of them is particularly comfortable.

Mostly it’s the clothes. Martin’s suit, while in theory made to fit, is just a bit too tight around the middle and shoulders, and his shiny black dress shoes are narrow and pointed and probably pinching his feet, which are short for his size but wide. Melanie, on the other hand, is stuffed into a monstrosity of taffeta and tulle and metallic-threaded lace that would emphasize her curves if she had any and wearing a pair of white patent-leather heels that bring her up to Martin’s shoulder. Neither one of them can fold their arms all the way, leaving Melanie clutching both handles of her now-empty basket and elbows akimbo like a marching band member at attention and Martin biting his lips in concentration as he fights to keep his hands at the perfect distance to not drop the pillow resting on them.

It’s also hot and stuffy in the venue; Gerard is having enough of a problem, but at least there are people around him fanning themselves to keep him cool. It’s practically airless where the bridal party stands. Melanie’s hair, pressed into ringlets for the occasion, has gone limp in the heat, whereas Martin’s by contrast has curled more tightly than usual. The flames on the candles on the altar aren’t even flickering.

Still. It’s the first wedding Gerard has ever been to; not much of a surprise, as he’s a thirteen-year-old boy with no relatives aside from his mother and no connections other than the people involved in this wedding. It means he has nothing to compare it to, but it is rather nice, and a bit exciting.

If only the officiant would shut up already.

He does, finally, and then there’s a lot of talk about bonds and sanctity, and both Uncle Roger and Aunt Lily are making promises and reciting oaths. Martin steps forward carefully and presents the pillow—there’s a small tearing sound as the seam up the back of his suit jacket splits but doesn’t completely separate, thank goodness—and the couple slip rings on one another’s fingers, rings Gerard knows are made not of gold or silver but of polished bone. The officiant declares them man and wife, and they kiss, not particularly romantically or tenderly but sincerely enough.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the officiant says at last, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Roger King.”

Polite applause, the wedding march strikes up and the party processes out, and Gerard is free. Or at least as free as he can be under the circumstances.

He ditches his seat and goes looking for Martin and Melanie.

He finds them in a vestibule, tucked safely out of the way. Martin has shucked his suit jacket and stands behind Melanie, unzipping the back of her dress. Anyone else would think they were up to something inappropriate, for all they’re only ten years old, but even if they hadn’t just become stepsiblings, Martin’s known he likes boys even longer than Gerard has and Melanie swore both of them to secrecy over the fact that she got Rose Lovejoy to kiss her right before break. Still and all, it’s probably a good thing they’re somewhere hidden.

“There,” Martin says, draping his discarded jacket over Melanie’s shoulders. The split is far less noticeable, considering she’s half his size and it hangs loosely on her. “Should be enough to pass muster, anyway.”

“Thank God we did the pictures ahead of time.” Melanie turns around and grins when she sees Gerard. “Hey!”

Martin turns, too. Gerard beams and holds out his arms. “Congratulations!”

They both hug him tightly. It’s cooler out here, at least, but they’re all still a bit sticky and they probably hug for too long under those circumstances. Still, Gerard is probably almost as excited for them as they are. Uncle Roger and Aunt Lily being married means Martin and Melanie won’t ever have to risk being separated—they’ll have at least one friend they can always count on, no matter where they go. Gerard will always hunt them down, too, but it’s not the same thing.

They’re family now, real family, and nobody deserves to have a loving family more than they do.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Melanie says into his shoulder. “It feels like I’m going to wake up any minute and it’s just going to be another dream.”

“I can’t believe it’s real, either,” Martin admits.

“I can believe it’s real, because if this was just a nice dream it wouldn’t be so bloody hot,” Gerard says, making both of them laugh. He pulls back and grins at them. Melanie’s got a life in her eyes he’s rarely seen, and Martin looks happier than he has since they laid his grandfather in the ground fifteen months ago. “I’ve never been to a wedding before. Do they usually go like that?”

“More or less,” Melanie says. “They didn’t have the ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ part, though.”

“Probably so no one could object,” Martin mumbles. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I was kind of worried Mum wouldn’t do it at the last minute, though. O-or that—that my dad would suddenly come back and say it was all a mistake.”

Gerard snorts. “Dead men rarely walk into the middle of highly emotional situations with nothing more than a hi, everyone, did you miss me, so I don’t think there’s any worry of that.”

Martin’s brow creases in evident confusion. “He’s not dead. He just left us. With Mum being sick, and me—he said we weren’t worth it and walked out on us a couple months before I met you.”

Oh. Okay, Gerard is, as usual, an idiot, and he definitely walked right into that. It’s going to be hard dancing at the reception with his foot in his mouth, but he’ll give it a go. “Shit. Uh, Martin, I don’t—I’m pretty sure he’s dead.” He drops his voice as low as he can. “I think he’s in Mum’s Book.”

Martin’s face turns paper white. They all know what the Book is—Gerard’s mother showed it to them last year just after Martin’s birthday, telling them to watch closely and then reading aloud in a language Gerard now knows was Sanskrit from one of the pages until somehow, none of them saw the moment it happened, the ghost of a woman appeared in front of them sobbing and begging to be freed. She meant it to demonstrate what wonderful things could be done with a powerful book in the “right hands,” or so she said, but all of them had been terrified. More so when she explained to them in detail exactly how all the people had become trapped in its pages, and what she would do to them if they ever displeased her.

“What makes you think that?” Melanie demands in a hissing whisper. “Did you see him?”

“No, but I heard Mum and Aunt Lily talking once, and it sounded like Mum was teaching her to read in some other language, and when she read that page to us I recognized some of the words. And after a while, she told Aunt Lily that ‘in a few more days, you’ll be ready to pull him up whenever you want, you’d be amazed how cathartic it is’. Something like that.”

Martin swallows hard, twisting his hands together. “That—that doesn’t mean it’s my dad. I-I mean…it could be anyone who’s done something bad to Mum.”

“Like who?” Melanie demands.

“I dunno. Anybody. Everybody. To hear Mum tell it, the whole world’s been against her since the day she was born, except Roger and Aunt Mary.” For the first time Gerard has ever heard in all the time he’s known him, a little bit of bitterness slips into Martin’s tone when he speaks about his mother. “Depending on how long ago it was, it might even be Granddad.”

“It was longer ago than that,” Gerard assures him quickly, before Melanie can get spun up. He only met Martin’s grandfather once or twice, but the old man was amazingly kind to both him and Melanie, treating them both like they were as much his grandchildren as Martin. The thought of him being bound in the Book is even more painful than the thought of Martin’s father—or Gerard’s—being bound to it, but Gerard is sure he isn’t. “It was even before Aunt Lily and Uncle Roger were dating. Why’d they wait so long to start, anyway?”

“Dad had to wait for the mourning period for Mama to be up,” Melanie answers, still looking tense but not pushing things. “He can be kind of old-fashioned sometimes. It might have been Grandmama and Grandfather pushing it, too, but I dunno. Anyway, he didn’t just wait a year after she died, he waited a year after he met Lily.” She pauses and looks up at Martin uncertainly. “Am…am I going to be calling her Mum too?”

Martin looks uncertain. “I dunno. That’s kind of up to her, I guess. Just like it’ll be up to your dad if I can call him that, too.” He thinks for a moment. “Actually, it might be Mum’s call on that, too.”

Gerard decides to try and change the subject. “We can worry about that later, I think. C’mon, let’s get out there for the reception.”

“Yeah, they’ll both be upset if we miss the cake-cutting,” Melanie agrees.

Martin gives an exaggerated bow and offers her his arm dramatically. “May I escort you, milady?”

“You may, good sir,” Melanie drawls, resting her fingertips delicately on his arm. She extends her other hand towards Gerard. “Will you accompany us, my liege?”

Gerard bows so low his hair—which he’s managed to avoid letting his mother cut for long enough that it’s down to his shoulders—brushes the floor, then sticks out his arm. “It would be my honor, mademoiselle.”

All three of them dissolve into a fit of giggles as they proceed towards the courtyard, where the reception has been set up. Gerard knows it’s going to be rough—that Martin’s mum will find something to pick at or belittle him over, that Gerard’s mum will be poisonously sweet and do something hurtful to them, that Melanie’s dad will be too wrapped up in his little cloud of bliss to notice and none of them will tell him for fear of upsetting him—but for the moment, he’s happy to be a teenager, reveling in his friends’ joy.

He can save the little bit of hurt over the fact that they get to really be brother and sister, while he’s just going to be called that, for later. There will be time enough for sadness, for knowing that he’ll never matter as much to them as they do to each other, some other time. For now, he’s going to put it out of his mind and enjoy the moment.

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#gerard keay #melanie king #martin blackwood #death mention #mention of emotional abuse

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matrilinear · 1 year

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@regina-tenebris started following you.

Soreana gripped the torch tightly. She never liked the catacombs. They were dark, cold, and foul-smelling. There wasn't even the comfort of consistency; often, she would pick out small landmarks, such as a bone that jutted out of the wall, to guide her towards their usual meeting place, only to find them missing or mixed up on her next visit. Sometimes she would surface on the other side of Prime despite having walked only a short few minutes. It was disconcerting still after all these years.

Nonetheless, she was long overdue for a visit. She straightened herself, gaze finding the Black Rose matron in the pitch darkness as though by enchantment. As usual, she was hard to look away from; a fetching blend of darks and golds wrought around her form, her pale face a stark contrast, her eyes those of a curious cat.

"Good evening," she greeted in the empire's old tongue. "You look striking tonight, madam. May I ask the reason for my summoning?"

#i'm freestyling it #if you'd like to plot feel free to drop me a dm annie <3 #》. ic

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blackrosesmatron · 5 months

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@mercless asked:

"It's just a nosebleed."

From the Blood Meme

"I hope this nosebleed is the result of impure thoughts and not a fight. If it was the latter, then at least reassure me that the other person is no longer breathing."

It was uncommon for the Matron to personally encounter any members of the Black Rose, whether they were directly affiliated with the Cabal or not. However, Talon was an exception, as she had her own reasons for keeping a close eye on them.

"Now, stay still. It won't hurt any more than the punch they laid on you." She applied a red potion to a clean cloth and began gently pressing it under their bleeding nose, both removing the excess blood and facilitating the healing of the wound. It did sting as she told it would.

#V: “I am everywhere. I am everyone!” (Default verse)#mercless #TW: Blood #queued #she does care #kinda...

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shimmerbeasts · 3 months

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Smash or Pass: LeBlanc (to Ahri)

Smash Or Pass||Accepting.

"The elusive matron of what Noxians call the Black Rose?"

Ahri's claws dug themselves into the loose soil of the uneven wall, upon which top, she had perched herself. A thick, snow-white tail had curled over her legs. Ahri had placed the heel of one of her feet against the shin of the other leg. Her golden eyes inspected the woman in deep thought.

LeBlank seemed almost like a ghost herself with her pale complexion. Even so, the dark hair and garments masqueraded that fact quite well. Ahri could sense the age in her life force. Aeons and centuries of knowledge had balled themselves up into a deep surge. How deep could she travel with such an array of memories? Still, her tail and ears flicked in wariness.

Ahri said: "You are wondering whether I would lay with or on you, LeBlank?" The fox Vastaya climbed off the wall, she had been lingering on. "I will admit, I think you do look rather beautiful, even if I have very little use for intimate encounters of the carnal variety." She wandered around the matriarch, keeping her at arm's length before she began to close in with each circle.

"I would probably allow you to lay with and on me", Ahri said before her voice lowered in a warning and she placed sharp claws against LeBlank's chin, "However if I so much suspect that this is used as some part of a ritual to bind me, there will not just be blood staining your silken robes. I have lived over a thousand lifetimes. I wonder just how much that number quadruples if I take your memories too." Her smile was sardonic as if she was seeing someone else instead of LeBlank. "Your life force is like looking into a deep well. Unlucky for you, I have got a big stomach."

#blackrosesmatron #playground: meme #letter: ask #youre not afraid of me are you: ahri||in character

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piltover-sharpshooter · 5 months

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“ Paint Me ” like one of your Piltovian Girls { from. Emilia ♥ }

drabbles: send me characters and a prompt Leave a “Paint Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about one character drawing a picture of another [like one of your french girls~ be it painting them or drawing them, maybe offering a picture of them as a gift, feel free to specify.]

Caitlyn had years of painting experience, and if she could allow herself to be vain for one moment, she'd consider herself a really good one at that. But in front of her was the biggest challenge yet. Emilia Leblanc, her beloved, her fiance, standing tall and posing with her staff defiantly in the air, as if she was striking the heavens, and she could only ask herself 'how does one paint perfection?'

"I hope you are capturing my good side~" She said with that same tone of voice that made the sniper melt every time, and Cait couldn't help but smile and answer instictively "All your sides are good sides".

In truth, she had been stuck for a while in the same place, going back over and over, not convinced on how she could ever paint her properly. How does one encapsulate what the Black Matron was in just one little snippet? All she is and all she could ever be? In just one painting?...no, this wouldn't do. If overthinking it wouldn't solve it, then she'd just act on instinct.

She let's her senses and adoration take over, and what once was a dam of inspiration now was a roaring waterfall. What once was barren and white, becomes an explosion of color, as she paints and paints and paints...until finally, hours later, the work is finished.

In the complete painting there was more than one Leblanc, oh the main one in the center remained, the ruler, striking at the heavens. But there were many, there was one wielding a sword defiantly, the warrior, another with a book and pen, the record keeper, one striking down at Mordekaiser with a hammer, another still with a harp like a muse, and so on, and so forth, endless Leblanc's spreading from the first, like a blossoming rose, or a butterfly wing.

"Well now..." Leblanc inspected the work with a smirk, and Caitlyn couldn't help but gulp like an alumnus having her work graded by a professional. "If you were hoping to flatter me with this painting...it was working" And she put the canvas down onto the table, before gently putting her hands on either side of Caitlyn's face. "Shall I show you how much it worked~?"

And once more instinct takes over...this time over a simple kiss.

@angelicxlly

#ic #drabble #long post #thanks for the ask!

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heredis-sanguinis · 6 months

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"Did you miss me, my dear?"

Crimson eyes beheld the enigma that was Emilia Leblanc; Matron of the Black Rose, the Pale Lady, the Deceiver. He had known her by many names and titles by now and still there remained a certain elusiveness to her, after so many centuries.

“Does any of us truly miss one another ever, darling?”

Knowing at least her whereabouts for now would suffice to still the suspicions he held for her. After all, he knew better than anyone than to lose sight of one such as her. Oh this dance they had was one he could do blindly. He always suspected her to at least keep tabs on his activities, just like she probably knew he always did the same as well. Perhaps for the better of all, knowing full well the potential they both held.

“Only if you missed me around as well.” He finally said, with an all too familiar smirk.

#[please let it all out] ask #[trickling progress] answered #[The deceiver] - Leblanc; blackrosesmatron

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libidomechanica · 1 year

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As here mysterity, produce, next

Or in glens, scratchy and or less Hosts of dog food fragrant your of repose, a perfect must blushing arms and pure stiff icy mitted, that is. Reasonable took up them make and by his perfection seem’d, Your name I know, she boat was has

been in their face, a parting joys upon a sing some in love is with got thou wilt probes shut— at lead there was accused, I torturings for in its lay on the paints, et cetera, ’ religion in. It seed the fair Syrinx—do the roof

any tyranny had day he wanting want; more stowres of this import of silky way; but know not to the age at which my followship, cried with the wayes that pleasure—the sake off the pearlings of what in the welded anguid smile

command she is in mind with his such as falter the found sunny gems was full of Rich, no hardies, which strew daisies. But what self-will. With the worth: there’s livelong be still were garland, old English to her; yet you say thy voice. Made

a novel sen’ me, come, and all this is the her close that flatter cloud clappiness to hideous to answer’d all though the women to leap thy self, where! That we are man, the quest. Am a poem very side; pity’s distance

with roses great cannot to be perfect must love my Julia show. Of which eyes thy loue, the swam he spoke nothings. The only may then by his good dogs had now, O saw not this source from tigress of old black and scrape of my turn in

their vows without, alas! Your Highness of passen the black downe hyred fortune at they flesh, and spring; the matrons, which skies, and also high down, my Lucasia, sincere, and to speak? But he had past return I touch one whom we two

years, what a river, an in the Giant in here state. And the began to hideous sum. The founded he tops shall mould, the Kidde stock from whom to sing did she bright, until the Europe and adulter in their sable sold. He fire with

those by blind amplify: each to fill at not so that place. In Love my back to given today to be.—Or face Ida sound them self did he, if you art of better hair, so the truth; so long. You survivor whether mouths of musike

griefs united his most moonlight present thing a lushes, floated on they know whether campfires around, darkens. To fetched if you’re ripening the did know wring. Not interest of magic, his sets darts, for the question’s spicy forth, and

thyme, and the cattle and dear perhaps they difference, are dried his head had opens the same home nearer. Parts of his night, where plaid on again: be so that Juan,—swallow’s bid the swine or Michelangel purer is our lift have form upon

the should wear trance that was hauty to catch and windship, where. Who can sails, sweets, a cheat; for needes benison; ’ said; but it’s more brilliant battle so much early days the out a son of the their right before me free-will everlasting

between the great wish to seen, with many word were branch, dark a lie: who won’t like a bow-string backwoods! I’ll but not into the Foxe by me relieve strange eye hath my soul to say. As here mysterity, produce, next his mother’s serene

will steal through it, I thou wast into reared, made my Nectar drink what in our solitary brough shee sucked thy ruffles. Be stings white, who gather therefore, dic alleries, and crush backwards in the Prince. Far relieve to fold or a more: then

dozen, and of his straight of his shall not do! Six days? This pipe of time that opinions crept upon thy from the more that shadow to patient sleeps virtue up, in a close might take my deeds must dreame to Get reach charge were been still, oh, still

a Xerox of space be good know that high treasure. I play still understands; but hung with pangs she worldly and all the cheeks the beastly to her mouths of feathers upon that loud tempests radiant in that she. Then more was to mine has been

of Death, where they tradition, as wool of thee permitted by a dead, but a books; to education that doth street liued the old, while earth a tend of cold, to fellow huntsmen of an appetits present sigh, and hear that ’s unsought.

Your win; and tree when upon my sire, great seruices flew thy purl there me those good array’d their free: but on Ransom. What glimpse of spiked aloe. Yet I looking leave our marry, come a crusted with similes at he feather arms

lonely tell hearing sight has right- side, that trace that the black and there is nothing, with all me the minstrel memory, wherefore not you no planets and that had been; an unknowing you seek these, and woof, plundermin’d to heart of Juan,—

swallow’s bidder. If I have knucklessness despatchy and weave the elder ours, of the Impressions of thee, which fold in an ever, thy bow’d caught; aye, Biarritz, Bayonne or us, like the gained the truffles the sensual phantasy.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #176 texts #ballad

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hymnal-lips · 1 year

Text

An unexpected Letter.

Alyriel was amidst writing a letter of her own when she heard a knock rapping on her door. "Come in!" Her head did not lift yet to see who it was, but her quill had stopped moving as her hand stilled.

"You were out quite late last night," the gentle voice of an old woman teased. "Surely for a pleasant reason?"

Aly mustered a tempered smile before she turned in her chair to look at her head maid.

"It was alright. One of the souls I met was pleasant, as you say, the other interesting I suppose."

The elderly matron smirked and nodded, as she held up a letter. "This arrived this morning."

Alyriel shot up from her chair with a surge of both expectation and anxiety, racing across the room. "Is it... Is it from Aurinise?" Her voice was incredulous and cautious. She was afraid to be too hopeful.

Morithea slowly shook her head, an expression of sympathy on her face. She peered at the shorter woman with a silent apology. The maid extended the letter in offering. "No my dear. No news yet from Miss Sharphade. But I hope this will contain words to cheer you up?" The maid's other hand moved from her back and revealed a black rose. "This came with it too," she gave an encouraging nod.

Alyriel felt a pang of terrible disappointment, but curiosity soothed her as best as it could. "From who...?" She reached for the small rectangle envelope, turning it about to see a return address or the name of the sender.

"Whoever this polite individual is, you seem to perhaps have made a good impression?" Morithea offered the rose as well.

The priestess seemed perplexed, unsure of what to think. "Thank you... I'd like to read it alone."

"Of course Lady Duskborne. Call if you need me." With that, the head maid left the chambers, closing the heavy doors behind her with a soft thump. She was glad the doors to her chamber were thick and heavy... insular. It shut her off from the world in comfortable isolation. Even the ongoings in the manor were closed off to her, not much sound penetrating.

Alyriel returned to her desk, pushing away the parchment she had been scratching on. As she sat, the rose was twirled between her fingers, in inspection. She felt no magics from it, no trap, no harm. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary flower. Beautiful. The rose was set down on her desk, atop a stack of papers. Her thumb then brushed along the smooth surface of the letter, pausing to press along the seal. "Hmm..." Carefully, she cracked the wax apart and pulled a letter from it. Something in her made her nervous... sent her into a brief jitter. What could it be about?

Lady Duskborne,

I hope this letter finds you well. I was careful to spell your name as best I could, though I have no address to label this letter to, so we ought to both hope that the mail system is enchanted enough to see my message safely to you.

For the sake of not alienating our Dracthyr friend, I'd not allowed myself to express how much I look forward to meeting you again. You are quite interesting, and I hope to speak with you without intrusion soon enough.

Regards,

Syn'daria Vilesun.

She read it not only once, but twice. This was entirely unexpected, but it brought a small smile to her lips. She hummed a melodic tune, pondering, reminiscing. She brushed the tips of her fingers across the page before she set it down. The cushion tailored onto the back of the chair welcomed her as she leaned back. Her hands reached to caress the pair of earrings she never took off. There had been no connection flowing through it as of late, whereas prior it would have been an open connection to her friend. There was a deep sadness and longing that had settled into her very bones. Her arms felt heavy and they dropped into her lap. The inky rose on her desk caught her eyes, however. Such a dark color rarely made it into her space. She mustered the strength to pick it up and clutch it to her chest. Perhaps too tightly, the petals squished into her bosom.

"It will work out," she murmured, as she mentally dove back into the memory of the conversations she had the night prior. Of how the whispers had tickled her ears. Her lips pulled into the beginnings of a mournful smile. Her eyes closed and she faded from the world into a lucid dream.

#roleplay #rp #wyrmrest accord #aly #writing #horde #sin'dorei #blood elf

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