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[h3]Duchess Altina Freya Bastille, The "Valkyrie"[/h3]
At Athroyeaux Castle in Ravenfell, on the day of the Athius voyage
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[center][b]V: Lingering Specters[/b][/center]
[center][@Estylwen], [@ERode], [@Click This], [@Izurich], and [@LunarParadox][/center]
[justify]“Your Grace, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, Sir Hayworth.” An exasperated sigh. “We have discussed many a time. My mind is made up.”

“But the territory of Ravenfell is—” Altina cut him off. “Mysterious? Dangerous?” Sir Hayworth could only look on wordlessly, unable to complete his sentence. Her Grace was stubborn, a fact that hadn’t changed since he’d first shook hands with her. The white-haired knight was reaching an impasse. 

Desperation streaked across his face. “Which is why I must beg you to reconsider. This could be a ploy woven by powers that seek to harm you.”

Altina cooed dismissively, “And? I am not afraid of cowards who resort to such trickery.” The duchess’ ears could no longer hear his pleas. 

Still, the good Sir Hayworth would stand his ground, undeterred. “Then allow me to accompany you, Miss Altina.” He called her by her first name, something he seldom did.

Altina bit her lip in surprise, allowing herself a brief pause. Realizing the knight’s intentions, she sighed again, though this time not out of annoyance. “I will be fine, Sawyer. So, spare me the needless concern.” She returned the favor, referring to the knight casually. It went without saying that she trusted the man wholeheartedly. With or without formalities, this did not change. “Agrovia will need you here in my stead,” she added, providing an additional line of argumentation. 

“I must insist. Your safety is my top priority.” But Sir Hayworth would not have it any other way. “You may punish my insubordination if you wish. Regardless, I too have made up my mind.” 

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Athroyeaux Castle. The place sent shivers down her spine. The dreary decor; the long, winding corridors, and the shadows flickering upon their enclosing walls; not to mention, that lonely bridge leading up to its gates, no doubt a line to divide the living from the dead. If one were not aware of its history, one could very well mistake Ravenfell for purgatory itself. Altina did not forget what she had learned about Ravenfell, harrowing as it was. The idea of turning an entire nation into unfeeling spirits churned a sensation of inexplicable dread in her stomach. And it did not help that Altina had not outgrown her fear of the paranormal.  

Fortunately, she dwelt among allies, her staunchest standing beside her. As much as she pushed back against his coming here, ultimately, she was glad she acquiesced. Sir Hayworth was a calming presence, a well-needed lighthouse in a frontier she’d yet to tread. 

She looked around, her eyes stealing a glance at the others who were invited by the Ravenfell king: the court mage of Hathforth, his Feyling apprentice, Duchess Agustria, and — of course — Duke Rhinecliff. All familiar faces from the most recent Hearthfire Gala. Her gaze eventually came to roost on the imposing figure of the Ravenfell king, Lamont DuFairre. 

Altina stilled her tongue for most of the king’s monologue. But once that mystical blade was brandished, a sudden compulsion to speak took hold of her. “Rhinecliff has brought up a prudent observation, King of Ravenfell,” she would interject at the heels of Odonfield’s duke. 

Her greatswords stirred lifelessly around her, and her golden armor clanged with each movement of her arm. She held out an outstretched hand, her palm opened wide. “Trust should be the foundation for all forms of cooperation,” she explained plainly. “And what precedes trust is transparency.” Her fingers slowly curled inward. “A house built upon sand will not last.” She quickly slammed her palm shut, as if to crush something inside it. “Surely you understand, King DuFairre.”  
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