Amethyst

Godspeed!

@Cyclone Whoops, my bad (I'd not yet gotten through all the sheets in detail when I made my post, my apologies.) I'll grab Music then.

Godspeed!

*peers in*
Hai. I see y'all are still accepting? I'll be working on a sheet today, if that's alright - can I preemptively put dibs on the Portfolio of "song"?

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Aymiria Unalim

_{Bride of Zakroti Unalim @darkwolf687 and sister-bride to Aurora Liesma @WeepingLiberty}

Lilac eyes had a most peculiar effect of seeming to ice over as Miry stared up at Aurora, gone a bit slack jawed by her.... brash idiocy, throwing hatred right and left and fury indiscriminately, as though disrespect and blind pursuit of misconception somehow earned her their favor. She steeled herself, barely flinching at the "sniveling child" comment, a thousand retorts on her lips that died as Zak stepped closer, speaking calmly against the girl's harsh words, his own fire contained (though barely, at first) within eloquent prose that she could suddenly barely keep coherent in her mind.

Her heart lurched as the memories returned in an unbidden flood, her sister's battered, tortured body, the desperate fear in her eyes and the panic in her breathless words and quaking grasp at the looming shadow in the door-

The blood everywhere, the grief and shock- the wall of too-hard air and steam that she herself had fallen into, a fox caught in her own trap under the weight of disbelief. The minor explosion of pressurized air and steam, designed a subtle trap by both sisters to keep Aery's husband from the room, instead went off as Miry too lost all focus, shredding clothing and skin indiscriminately from the tiny water gem's back and shoulders and all but flinging her to the floor, face-down into a pool of her sister's- and sister-bride's- blood...

She forced herself out of the thought, a barely audible gasp escaping her as she forced her eyes wide, tiny bits of ice crackling and tinkling off of her face as she struggled to open her eyes through the crystals that had formed with the instinctively-welling tears. Her hands clenched into shaking fists as she sized up the situation once more, feeling the fool for letting the memories seize her unbidden like that. The scars on her back- tiny, barely-visible scars like a million papercuts- were tingling and stinging as they ever did when she thought of it, but she fought against it, standing stock-still as she tried to take stock of the situation and catch up with what had been said. Had Zak managed to put out, or at least contain, the flames for once?

Zak had turned so his sword was angled slightly away from Aurora, his body tense and seeming to guard the hilt somewhat. No doubt he was reliving what had happened the last time one of the brides had gotten a blade...

Miry stepped up on that side, stepping perhaps a bit closer to Aurora than need be, and schooled her face into the blankest, softest expression she could as she stepped closer, regarding the other girl as evenly as possible (considering her eyes only came up to about the base of the other girl's ribs.) Her sadness was barely concealed in her gaze as she murmured, scarcely above a whisper, "Peace, child of Pyrus. You are not the only one to have lost her sister that night. You are not the one who still bears scars of it. So- Trust. The matter is not what you think it is."

It must have been a strange sight, the frost still crackling off her face, eyes vaguely unfocused and full of unspoken words she wished she had time to say. But even what she had just said was perhaps too much- she might have just provoked yet another tongue-lashing, or even physical violence. Her eyes flicked back to Zak and she finally bowed her head again, murmuring an apology to him as she stepped back a pace behind him once more and resumed her submissive posture, arms moving to guard her lower midsection out of instinct.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

_{Bride of Ordric @Athoriel}

She wanted to throw something, or scream, or seem as though possessed by a ghost and scare them all. Anything to get them to shut up. Having been stuffed unceremoniously into a carriage-cage thing again- by some massive misfortune with all four of the noble girls from the ride to Shadow Worth- was bad enough, but they kept. Talking. Their nervous tittering and hollow idle chatter was clearly meant to distract them from the doom they trundled towards, but it filled the air with its notes of panic and made it increasingly hard for Nenra to think.

They were treating her like she wasn’t there, and that was fine. Even in this… whatever this was. “Trade agreement” as one of the girls, who sounded quite like a rich merchant, kept saying. Even in this, they felt they had to maintain their snooty haughty aloofness, and Nenra would let them.

She leaned back against the wall of the carriage (the other girls had quickly claimed the spaces on the benches, and made no move to let Nenra join them), feeling the cold steel bars press into her back, her bare feet dug firmly into the rough wooden floor, as though trying to draw some assurance from the faint life of the raw wood planks. It was getting steadily hotter as they left the mountains, approaching what she could assume was the Drakkan capital.

Periodically the other girls would gasp, all leaning closer to the bars to look at something in the distance, shielding their eyes delicately. It all meant nothing to Nenra, who focused quite intently at the point where her vision started to blur, just in front of her toes when her legs were drawn up to her chest.

The whimpering started in earnest as they approached the city gates, a shadow falling over them as they passed into the looming walls. She rolled her eyes at the antics of these noble girls (who had, she wryly noted, long forgotten their “noble duty of the highest honor” when they realized that they were going to at best be forced into a cruel man’s bed and split apart by bearing his children.)

Nenra herself decided she was… resigned. Yes, that would be a good way to put it, she thought, as the Drakken guards pulled them out of the carriage and lined them up. She wasn’t pretty, not like these other girls- there was a good chance she wouldn’t even be chosen. Rumor had it that was what happened to Lamry when she was taken. Rumor also had it that the girl at least had a quick death, spanning hours rather than weeks or years as most Brides’ fates did. It was more than most got, at least, and more than the vast majority of Myllendh had gotten, lingering in fevered agony for days or weeks until they’d expired at last from weakness…

She was strangely calm about the prospect of dying, standing rather placidly as other, far more nervous, girls were led or dragged off around her. Though one of the first brought into the room, her carriage having been the second one in line, she was among the very last to be taken away to the warlords scattered around the room, little more than intimidating blobs of ashen skin and dull colors from this distance.

As she was taken by the shoulders, she finally realized two things. One, she wasn’t being kept for later- Lamry’s fate would not be hers. Two, she’d left the nasty pinchy boots in the carriage. Part of her was glad of it, having her feet in contact with the floor (and through it the earth) was remarkably calming, and part of her feared she’d be punished for it.

Thankfully, the skirts she had been given were long enough that her feet were hidden, even while she was being roughly guided to stand before her husband. Her scruffy hair fell forward, and she looked up from under it as calmly and distantly as she could. It likely helped that her eyes could not focus on his face, instead seeing him a looming lump of chiseled ash-toned flesh with stern lines and something- an especially livid, dark scar perhaps? Carved into the side of his face.

She listened intently to what the guardsman said, though it meant nothing to her. And just as quickly as she’d been dragged over, the guard had wandered off, leaving her standing in front of her… she supposed he was to be her husband. A bit awkwardly, she stooped into a shallow curtsy, wobbling and nearly falling. The lesson to bow was still sharply fresh in her mind, the meaty thump of blows striking the other Gems lingering in her mind.

After holding the curtsy for a moment, she spoke quietly- her mostly-unused voice low, breathy, and barely carrying to her husband’s ears. “Nenra Corislen, sire. From the village of Myllendh.” She straightened uncertainly, unsure if she had been supposed to do that – or had even been supposed to provide that much information.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Scyrven Talyrrth and Gwillim Gunnvaldr

_{Husband and Wife of Hestia Gristmill @eclecticwitch
@tracyarmav told me I could puppet sorry if I wrote him wrong and also sorry for nearly-double-posting}}

After the... excitement of the near-assassination, the tournament quickly returned to its daily grind. Scyrven herself fought in two more battles that day, emerging victorious quickly in both and progressing to the second day of the tournament.

She had quickly scrubbed herself down with a cloth and basin of cool water, provided for likely that exact purpose, channeling cool air through her armor to dry the batting inside while she cleaned up. Thus refreshed, she tucked her helmet away in its pack, bundling away all weapons but her sword, which still hung from her belt. She wore the rest of her armor as they descended into the great room, not so complacent in a room full of hungry, tired, ...frustrated lords. She linked arms with Gwillim, leaning against her mate's side companionably while they waited.

As the guardsman approached, Gem in tow, her eyes went a bit wide, the reality of the situation finally settling over her. A Bride. As far as culture indicated, they were little more than playthings - pets, if one was feeling exceptionally generous. But Scyrven was eager all the same... she vowed to herself that she would not take the bride for her own fun, not until the girl agreed. While many males would force themselves on their wives that very night, as was their right and even ostensibly their duty - the whole purpose of the arrangement was for procreation - she would have only done so for her own pleasure, and she was not so cruel as to do that to a helpless individual. Even if she was desperate... aside from some brief fooling when she was very young and still at her father's court, Scyrven had hardly had time to refine her... tastes, and now the opportunity was tantalizingly close.

Of course, to coax the girl to her bed she would have to woo her. Eyes of molten amber snapped back to focus on the guard, just in time to hear his parting remark of "...bear you more strong children." A faint swell of pride filled her then- yes. Alfhi was strong and lovely already. There would be more children soon, she was certain of it. Especially with the offering of this lass.

Speaking of... Scyrven's eyes narrowed a bit as she inspected the girl, stepping away from her mate's side to reach out. A pretty, demure thing, very soft and gentle looking. She reached out, gently taking one of the girl's hands (dwarfing it in her own long fingers) and bending surprisingly gracefully to place a gentle kiss on the back of her hand, the points of her forward-curling horns just missing the girl's skin, skimming to either side of her fingers. As she straightened, she gently caught the girl's chin with the fingers of her free hand, lightly tilting her head back and slightly gasping, despite herself, as the girl's jade eyes and golden freckles caught the flickering light. Oh, she was pretty. Perhaps not in the same way as the girls who looked to be made of porcelain, the girls being handed out on either side of them, but... still strikingly gorgeous.

She laughed, then, stepping back and tightening her grip on the girl's hand, gently twirling her about once before pulling the small Gem in under her arm and against her side in a rather possessive way, maintaining her hold of her hand. The girl almost certainly could feel the strength in her arms, in her assured way of catching her. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, pretty one. My name is Scyrvensrel Talyrrth, and I have the honor of presenting my - well, I suppose our, husband - Gwillim Gunnvaldr. What is your name, if I may have the honor of knowing it?" Her words came easily, but the inflection was just slightly off, the faint stiffness of her body betraying her uncertainty. She made a (forced, but attempting to be) graceful gesture to Gwillim, only then noticing her husband's piercing scowl, directed at the back of the retreating guardsman.

Upon realizing they were only to be offered the one bride, Gwillim set his mouth in an impassive expression, studying the guard and weighing his words carefully. All around them various lords were being given pairs of brides, and yet they had only been offered the one. Disdainful. Was this really what decades of loyalty and service to the crown had earned them? His mate's prowess in command would have earned any man at least one bride, and his own various... projects and other favours for the crown princes should have - and probably could have, had he gone to inquire - secured promise of one from each.

As he processed what the guard said, however, he relaxed slightly, a faint pride swelling him. No slight was meant by it really, of that he assured himself. It was even intended as a compliment to his mate, perhaps - that she would be able to conceive a son, and this Gem was merely here to smooth the process out.

After considering for a split-second, Gwillim offered a slight dip of the head to the guardsman, speaking quietly. "We are humbled by his majesty's grace and congratulations, and thank him profusely for his generous gift to us." There. Simple, just enough grace and kowtowing to avoid winding up on the wrong end of a blade.

As the guardsman turned away he let out a soft growl, turning away to his mate and putting his arm lightly around her shoulders, loosely sandwiching the Gem girl between them. Scyrven leaned up into his embrace.

"I think we should go to the market after the feast," she murmured to him, loud enough that the Gem could hear. "Find some pretty clothes - such a beautiful thing deserves something more comfortable than a Gemmenite court dress." She shuddered lightly, vividly remembering her own humiliating days of being stuffed into a Gem-shaped corseted gown, and getting a soft chuckle from Gwillim.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Aymiria Unalim

_{Bride of Zakroti Unalim @darkwolf687 and sister-bride to Aurora Liesma @WeepingLiberty}

To say Miry had been glued to Zak's side would have been an understatement. After the.... conversation with the elderly warlord, she had not broken contact with him for more than a few moments for the entire day. Always her hand was on his arm, or sometimes on his thigh, or her arm around his waist- and infuriatingly his attention seemed everywhere but on her.

They had returned to their balcony after the fight, and she'd seen the massive disappointment flick across Zak's face as he realized the whore was no longer there- it was soon replaced by a pensive expression, but she could tell that's what he was thinking of, and it felt as though her heart had justabout dropped out of her throat, leaving her mouth dry and bitter and every inch of her aching. When he took his seat, having missed the opportunity to sign up for a fight, she hopped up into his lap after only a moment's hesitation, snuggling against his chest and drawing some comfort from the fact that he did at least wrap his arm around her, but his attention still seemed quite firmly on the tournament. She willed her tears away, feeling them welling up in her eyes and not wanting them to spill, not letting on how much she was actually hurt by what he'd nearly done and how he was conducting himself now.

In the evening, as the last fights of the day concluded and they were summoned to the palace, Miry's clinginess increased tenfold. She was one of two gem brides who'd been brought back today- she could see the other plain as day even through the crush of lords, filling the room around her with color without even trying - and the realization filled her with dread and panic. There were only two of them here. Was there actually a... refund policy? Was that why he was being so distant? Was he having her taken away after all?

She felt she was going to throw up or pass out, but said nothing, inserting herself under her husband's left arm and wrapping her arm tight about his waist in the hopes that his body would shield her from the drakken lords eagerly eyeing her like a piece of meat, and her touch maybe convince him to not send her off after all.

They said nothing as they waited, Miry fighting to keep her breathing even, looking at the floor and flinching every time someone approached in the mill of the crowd, still half expecting rough hands to seize her and drag her away. Heavy bootsteps, of someone wearing plate armor, approached, and a gruff voice began speaking, pushing- though Miry was still staring quite dutifully at the floor, she saw the hem of the beautiful gown and peered up through her tumbling curls, going mildly slack-jawed at the sight of the girl, the color and shimmer draining from her face.

She peered up at Zak, reassured in some small way by the similar expression on his face. She gave him a small squeeze of reassurance and pulled away, stepping back a half pace so as to not crowd him. All thoughts of being seized were pushed to the back of her mind by the sight of this new girl.

Kasari. She barely managed to stifle a cry of anguish, remembering her shattered sister begging refuge- and in terror murdering her sister bride and then herself. Then, and even now, some part of her wished that dagger had been directed at her, enabling both Aery and Kasari. Beautiful, charismatic Kasari. To have been able to live. To have given Zak his beautiful, confident wife back.

It seemed the prince had managed to do just that, as Zak reached and gently touched the new girl's arm, stepping close to her. In spite of Miry's roiling thoughts the jealousy seeped to the surface, and this time she shoved it away, schooling her features into a serene, tiny smile. She did not speak for the moment, instead observing the new girl. Her features, though soft, were schooled into a scowl, her eyes only for the dwarf lordling, seeming to size him up?

Miry did nothing for the moment, feeling she wasn't important enough at the moment to give an introduction- Zak hadn't introduced her, after all, or really acknowledged her in this whole mess beyond a single glance, and she tried to take her cues from him. So she stood placidly, observing the pair, the same pleasant bland expression that she had always used as a serving-girl plastered onto her face.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Aymiria Unalim

_{Interacting with Zakroti @darkwolf687 and Keregar @legion02}

Miry froze in terror as the looming warlord lumbered towards them, issuing a challenge to her husband. Chancing a look up at Zak's face, the murderous light that filled them, she had a vivid, terrible thought of the street being turned to a bloodbath.

But for the moment, though the blackguard drew their weapons and fell into a defensive form about them, Zak seemed happy to talk, if a little bit eager to go for his own sword. He sneered up at the much larger Drakkan, and in spite of everything that had transpired, every bit of anger and hurt and betrayal- Miry was afraid for him. Guards or not, it was entirely possible there would be an injury, or a death here.

Her hands balled into fists, water streaming from nearby planters on the street to coil up around her ankles, swirling up under her gown and eventually around her wrists and hands and freezing into gauntlets, small claws of ice spiraling up between her fingers. She was careful to keep her hands hidden inside her sleeves, of course, her eyes demurely on the ground. She shifted slightly to be standing mostly behind Zak, well out of his way should he suddenly move to strike, and clear of Vain's sword as well.

---

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Nenra Corislen

_{interacting with no one}

The night had been a sleepless one of burning unshed tears and tension in her chest and face. She had not gotten a wink of sleep, and felt it acutely upon dragging herself out of the bed to her door nearly being shaken off its hinges.

Her eyes were leaden, somehow even more unfocused than before, and she barely managed to keep herself upright for long enough to get a plate to fill with the dry, horrible meats they were feeding them. She mechanically plopped into a seat, obediently putting the food in her mouth (as unhungry as she had been the last few days, she knew she needed nourishment) and scarcely tasting it as she chewed.

The white haired girl sat beside her, and said something - after quite a few minutes of silence, feeling like her head was filled with lead and cotton - she realized it had been questions directed at her. She peered around, but - there was a vague commotion, and the other girls being led from the room. She froze, confused, and was promptly shaken to her senses by a brute of a guard, who dragged her to her feet and along after the other girls, telling her exactly nothing.

Had she missed something?

She was shoved roughly into the end of the line, her head filled with the others babbling about hope and how eager they were for the warm baths...

...what?

Descending into the steamy caves, pools of warm water everywhere, most of the girls were eager to cast their towels aside, easing aching bodies into the water.

Nenra hesitated, wandering around, finally finding a pool tucked as far away from the others as she could. Self-consciously she unwound her towel, slipping into the hot water while still holding it up, trying to hide behind it and conceal her blemished features, feeling very much a lump of granite among glittering gemstones. She, though lacking in the hideous pockmarks that had scarred her sisters and cousins, had nonetheless acquired more than her fair share of small scars and blemishes from her work in the fields and struggles to tame her element - her hands and feet calloused and tough, tiny oft-reopened scratches along the length of her arms, raised pinpoints from the thorns of the rosebushes she'd been tasked to tend. She was ordinarily not mad at them, nor at the faint sprinkling of freckles scattered across her collarbones and scarcely visible across her cheekbones- it made her proud, that she'd lived and lived rather than just existing in this body. But today, surrounded by all these beautiful (and mostly shameless) women, she felt so dirty and unworthy.

She eased into the water, scrunching down into the shallow pool, curling into a ball and leaning back so that she was resting on her back and all but her face and the tops of her knees were under the water. The lapping against her ears was rhythmic and oddly soothing, drowning out the goodnatured chatter and even quiet giggling that echoed around the room. Her eyes drifted shut.

It felt like she'd only been there for a few seconds when she was shaken out of her stupor, and with a yelp she tried to cover herself - but it was another of the brides, the pretty scarlet-haired doe-eyed one from the carriage.

"Get up, didn't you hear? We're leaving." She hauled on Nenra's arm, helping the (...altogether too floppy, Nen realized) girl to get her feet under her. The other girl reached over her towel and thrust it at her, looking fearfully over her shoulder at the lumbering guardsmen who approached. As they scrambled out of the pool, narrowly missing a beating, Nenra caught her foot on a rock and stumbled, striking her knees and falling to the floor, her feet tangling briefly with the bigger of the two Drakkan guards as she instinctively struggled to stand.

She yelped, the breath knocked out of her, and the guard growled. As his partner led the pretty one away, he swiftly meted out justice- two swift kicks to her ribcage and abdomen, snatching her towel away from her and dragging her up by her hair. "Watch where you're going." He hissed, shoving her ahead of him, his fingers on her shoulder in a death grip so tight she was certain her collarbones would crack.

She scarcely processed being half shoved, half dragged back to the castle, pushed into her room and left to dress. The boots she had been given were just too small for her feet, and pinchy at best - the gown itself was gorgeous, and she loathed to put it on. But they had confiscated the worn homespun dress she had brought here, and short of going to meet her new husband nude, she had to comply.

The dress fit her too well, with extra padding stitched in at all the appropriate womanly places. Nenra had never developed such features really, though it was not as though food had been scarce as many girls of her shape claimed. She just came from a long line of very angular, spindly women. The gown itself was simple, a burnt orange gown so dark it was almost black, tiny embroideries of copper and gold outlining the neck and sleeves and lending a sparkle to the otherwise exceptionally plain ensemble.

She haphazardly combed her hair flat with the provided utensil, tugging through the tangles indiscriminately (and leaving a sizeable portion of her already wisp-thin brunette locks on the floor). She elected to carry the boots, keeping her bare feet in contact with the reassuring earth as she stepped outside her room, joining the line of girls being loaded into carriages.

---

---

Scyrven Gunnvaldr

_{Interacting with Gwillim @tracyarmav}

Scyrven's heartbeat matched that of the drums. Loud, rhythmic, pulsing, every beat filling her with fire.

As the previous combatant brushed past through the ready-room, she leaned against her mate's side, rising up to gently place a kiss on his cheek (tilting her head to make certain her curling horns did not prick his skin) before sliding her helm into place in a clearly oft-practiced maneuver.

With a sly glance at her mate, she reached into a pocket inside her chestplate, producing a stone carved into a pyramidal shape. Each of the four corners was painted with a different color. Each signified a different weapon she could use. White, her sword and shield. Green, her glaive. Red, throwing weapons. Black - nothing. Only her elements.

She tossed the die onto the table, smirking as it landed green side up. Good. She had wanted an excuse to use the polearm in combat. The challenge her husband had offered at home caught her attention once more. Though her smile was not visible behind her helm of nightmares, she broke out into a grin, affording him a final half-bow before taking her glaive with a flourish and stalking onto the battlefield.

The sight of her opponent made her blood run with fire. A warlord several inches shorter than her, but in every facet of his posture as conniving and cruel as most runts had to be to make their way here. His left horn was chipped, splintered short at about half its length, and his grin was lopsided to match, his icy eyes sizing her up and so clearly internally removing her armor.

Lysander Karstagg. She had heard tales of this man and his dynasty's cruelty. Taking brides just to set them free into the swamps of his holdings, setting his hounds on them whenever they thought they would be free. He would save them once they were taken down, of course, he wouldn't have them killed before he had his fun. And he would, systematically breaking every girl he was given, casting them aside like broken playthings if they failed to give him offspring. He had tossed away his second bride, when she presented him a sickly son who soon expired, given her off to his soldiers to do with as they pleased and then cast her dead into the street.

Oh, her blood boiled as he saluted the crowd, pulling a flashy trick with his wicked twin swords. He wore no helm and little in the way of armor, in contrast to her own self, clad in steel-reinforced hardened leather, her scale mail tunic, and solid helm.

As the gaze of the masses settled on her, she swung her glaive up over her head, twirling it effortlessly and catching it after two quick twirls, planting the butt of it into the dirt floor and offering a flourishing bow to the royals' booth. The ends of her russet hair peeked out from under her helm.

They approached the circle drawn in the soft earth floor, and Karstagg inclined his head to her. "Lady Scyrvensral. It is an honor to duel you once more." He spoke slowly, his words dripping poison. "If I am to best you in combat today, I will thoroughly enjoy plowing your face into your husband's bed as I take you tonight." The words carried around the room, and the drumbeat faltered to the raucous hooting that filled the amphitheater.

Scyrven's heart leapt into her throat. He remembered. When she was a lass of merely forty, and he so much more experienced at nearly seventy, he had challenged her to a duel in her father's court, and she had lost. Badly. It was a lighthearted duel, but even still - he had wanted to take her then, after her defeat, and only her father's intervention protected her.

But she had been young then, and inexperienced, and now she had the advantage in both stature and in weapon reach. His brutality was unparalleled, but... perhaps it was a more even match now.

She swung her glaive around herself once, clearing her head as she stirred the muggy air. She stood the weapon firmly into the ground, the blade extending into the air well above her head. A grin crossed her face, hidden inside her helmet, as she thought of the perfect retort. "My lord Lysander... it is never a good idea to challenge a woman who has a longer shaft than you, now is it?"

He snarled, lunging at her well before the command was given for the fight to commence. She was bracing for it and swung her glaive up, taking the first crude overhand blow in the steel-filled-hardwood shaft of the weapon. He was good at flashy, yes, but it was a carefully calculated flashy. He was a little brute, attacking with his heart and not his head.

From there the fight progressed in a blur. Scyrven took especial delight in twirling about him, adding just a bit of flair to every strike of her blade. The little lordling was fast, but she'd succeeded in clouding his mind. His strikes were not hitting true - and she was glad of it. Had he been on his game she was certain there would have been several times where he could have impaled her, but as it was there would be only bruising under her armor. A few times he caught her glaive against his sword, causing her to wince as the blade was likely dinged, but he - with his arrogant refusal of armor - was sporting several bleeding, shallow cuts.

The fight dragged on for several minutes, both combatants visibly tiring. Scyrven knew she had to end the fight soon - while her stamina was good, carefully honed over a century to be good, the little lordlet seemed to be faring somewhat better than she. So she pulled a move of questionable fairness.

Spinning away from him, carried in part by the mass of her weapon, she took a knee hard in the dirt, swinging her blade around (blunt side first) towards the sides of his ankles. He realized too late, jumping awkwardly, the blade still clipping the side of his boot. Knowing he would land off-balance she spun her glaive quickly, whipping it around vertically and lunging forward, jamming the iron-reinforced butt of the weapon into the center of Karstagg's exposed chest, taking him off his feet with an audible snapping of bone. Before he could try to recover Scyrven lunged to her feet, standing over him, her glaive's slightly curved blade leveled at his throat. She took some sadistic pleasure in pressing one metal-toed boot down into his groin, pressing some of her weight down, feeling his cheap codpiece crumple under her weight and a faint groan of pain escape the man.

The blood rushed in her ears, preventing her from hearing the crowd's reaction. After applying a bit more pressure against Karstagg's groin - simply for her own joy more than anything - she swung her glaive up to the ready, saluted the royals, and stalked back to the prep room, freeing her face and mane from the helm as she did.

Upon returning to the room she faced Gwillim, placing her glaive against the wall and her helm on the tabletop, leaning up to throw her arms around his neck (mostly for show, gods knew how much attention the other competitors were paying.) she purred something unintelligible out, pressing her body tight against his, hoping for the proximity to him to ground her.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Aymiria Unalim

_{interacting with: Zakroti Unalim @darkwolf687}

Miry was lost in her head for gods knew how long, until a looming shadow spread over her. Instantly she was alert, freezing in place - claws of ice starting to grow from the water she'd pooled in her clenched fists. She peered up at the monstrous Drakkan, her eyes widening in fear - he was nearly twice her height, how could she ever...

The monstrous man peered down at her for a long moment, before he flipped his visor up, and she took a shaking breath of relief, suddenly now recognizing his face, and then the engraving on his armor. "Hello again, Kzaar." she breathed, falling into step beside her husband's most terrifying bodyguard.

Another of them- Gaikus, if she had to guess. The medic always had carried himself just slightly differently than the other guards - fell into step on her other side. It was probably a good sign that Zak had sent them. Maybe he'd noticed and cared.

Or maybe not. Maybe he was just going to have them take her home so he could... enjoy the tournament.

As if in answer to her thoughts, there was a call of her name behind them. She turned to see Zak, running up the street after them. He paused before them, trying to spit out four sentences at once, finally managing to blurt out an apology.

She could not bring herself to look at him, shame coloring her face. Every part of her wanted to run to him and wrap him tight in her arms and bury her face in his chest, but she resisted it, looking intently at the cobbled road just in front of his boots. Her hands clenched into fists, and she tucked them up slightly into her sleeves so he couldn't see them trembling.

For a long moment she didn't speak, thoughts racing. He would want her to come back with him, certainly, and she... couldn't bring herself to. Not to see that whore's face again. Not to sit beside him and pretend that hadn't just happened. He'd be irritable as well... she'd been so selfish, to disrupt things as she had. No, she couldn't go back with him, she'd have to let him go and... trust him.

Finally, she forced a vague, trembling smile onto her face, looking up to him at last. "Please do not worry yourself over me, my lord. I simply feel unwell and was thinking to return myself home. You should return to the festival; your presence will be missed. You do not want to anger the noble king, certainly not so close to being granted your second bride and all." She dropped her gaze to the dusty ground, her words taking on a slightly flat inflection, and dropped into a slight curtsy before daring to look up at him again.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Aymiria Unalim

_{Interacting with: Zakroti @darkwolf687}

The walk from Zak’s manor had been a long one, but rather uneventful. Miry had settled on his arm for the entire journey, ogling all of the sights and sounds of the city, periodically babbling about some beautiful building or another that had attracted her attention. It was a lovely day, and much of it was about to be spent inside a stuffy fighting pit watching people brawl to the death. Theoretically, it wouldn’t be to the death, but it was Drakka – and the East, at that. Filthy barbarians. Gods knew the injuries that could be sustained.

She found her mental commentary to be quite amusing. Clearly Zak’s vague superiority complex was rubbing off on her. She stifled a giggle as the blackguard ushered them into the arena entryway, leading them up to a private viewing balcony up a flight of narrow stairs. As she took the seat Zak pulled out for her (legs dangling comically – she really did despise how awkward it was for her to use Drakkan furniture) she spent a long moment observing the setup of the arena below.

She was startled back into the present by the clinking of armor, and she half-turned in her seat to see the Blackguard moving to admit… a gem girl. Clad in the sheerest, finest muslin Miry had ever seen, even among those of the Gemmenite court. Bile rose in her throat and she pressed back into her seat, forcing her nausea down and looking away again, focusing blindly on the podium in the center of the arena. She took the goblet from the table with a trembling hand and sipped from it, trying to calm her racing heart. Zak would remember his honor, she was certain of it.

…Or perhaps not. Though she’d vowed not to, she glanced back a few moments later, to see the girl pressing her husband back into his chair, her mouth close to his ear so that she might whisper – and his hands going to her waist.

A quiet, strangled cry escaped her, her hand tightening on the goblet’s stem so hard she was sure she heard her bones creaking. The water in it instantly froze, a fine patina of frost already forming on the outside of the metal cup. It was placed down onto the edge of the table with a quiet thunk as she inhaled sharply, trying to calm herself, tears immediately welling in her eyes and freezing on her cheeks as soon as they dared spill over her eyelashes.

Every muscle in her body tense, fists balled so tightly her fingers turned white, she turned away from the spectacle, eyes focusing with lightning’s intensity on the scene unfolding in the arena. With every fiber of her being she tried to focus her hearing on the drums and wishing they were louder, to drown out the quiet murmurings and rustling of clothes behind her. The beautiful Drakkan woman on the stage spoke in a cheery voice, a cheery voice with a razor’s edge and curdling lust for blood.

Miry heard none of the words. But, they did their job – she could focus and pretend the scene unfolding beside her wasn’t. As she did, she felt her breathing return to some approximation of normal, the crystals of ice finally sliding off her face and leaving the skin beneath red and raw. At that point, in the clarity of the moment, she began to cry in earnest. The tears spilled freely down her cheeks, though she fought to keep her crying quiet, biting her lip until it bled – she would not make a sound. Her head bowed over, dusty blonde curls spilling forward to obscure her face, hands clasping in her lap and lacing tightly over her lower abdomen.

So she really wasn’t enough for him. She would have slapped herself – not two days previously she had told him she would leave his bed if he would rather have the new bride in her place – but this was… different. At least with the other bride she would be part of the household. But he was choosing a… nobody. What even was her name? Evey? Over her. Over his wife- no, his bride, she wasn’t worthy of being called a wife really. But she was carrying his child. She knew the arrangement was… hardly fair on him. They had spent most nights entwined, before the unpleasant side effects had kicked in at least, and since they had stopped he had seemed very tense in the past few weeks. But… could he not have even waited a few more nights, to take the new bride to their wedding bed? Did he really have to indulge this… whore?

She sat like that for gods knew how long, listening until the gasping at last subsided to normal breathing, quiet, indistinct words being spoken again beside her. As quietly as she could she slipped out of her chair, soft-soled boots making little sound on the floor. Without even looking at Zak, or any of the Blackguard, she passed between them, moving to the stairs and starting down them. She made eye contact with no one, pushing through the crowd of people entering the arena, pushing her way out onto the street.

She moved with the purpose of going home, but for the moment she was alone, and in a street full of blood-lusting drakken. It was arguably not the safest place to be in – but then, neither was sitting next to her husband and his whore. She’d take her chances. So she set her jaw and proceeded up the street, sticking to the edge (and collecting water from a nearby aqueduct to pool in her hand, ready to chill into ice- just in case.)

summary

Miry is a very happy sappy in-love bride, until she’s subject to listening to her husband’s…. infidelity. At which point she has a meltdown and flees the tournament grounds. Yay.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Nenra Corislen

_{interacting with Sera @pupperr}

Though she could not clearly see far enough to understand what was happening, the cries of agony were unmistakeable. Nenra swallowed, easing out of her chair and falling to her knees on the ground, mostly under the table. Thankfully, the Drakken "lords" didn't seem to notice her, even her act of "defiance" as they would have likely assumed.

She wordlessly followed after the group towards their lessons, hovering towards the back (though she was careful to not be the very last one in the line) as they were paraded down the hall. As they walked out she flinched, too clearly hearing the meaty thud of a boot striking a girl, her whimpering gasping cry. Nenra turned towards the sound, seeing the white blur of the girl's hair as she was sprawled on the floor. The girl was picked up and roughly shoved, or at least that was what it seemed, as she came hurtling into the ragged line- directly towards her. Nenra gasped, at the last second extending her arm to catch the other girl, drawing stability, balance and calm from the stone floor beneath their feet.

For a long moment they looked at each other, the other girl swallowing nervously and mumbling something before turning to rejoin the line. She was absolutely stunning- even Nenra could see that, with her so close. Beautiful snowy white locks, fiery red eyes-

Something jiggled in her memory, a story of some sort, but she pushed it away. Now was not the time for such thoughts of stories- now was the time to think of staying alive.

As they went about their day, being forcefully indoctrinated into beliefs they could not accept, she kept the white-haired girl in the corner of her eye. Like herself, the girl was very isolated, very self-contained. Perhaps they could do well to stick together, as most of the others had already formed pods of twos and threes for their miserable company. She seemed... different than these vapid noble girls. Carrying the weight of something as Nenra herself was.

She tried not to think too hard about the lessons. Unlike some of the girls - judging from their faces, at least those who were close enough for her to see - she had only a tie of convenience to her faith. It was born mostly from necessity. After all, the gods would not bring in the harvest, only their own hands. Faith was great, when they had the time for it, and in the winter months they were entertained by the myth and legend of their people. But for the most part their lives were of work and only work, and had been for five summers.

All of them had to grow up far too fast.

After lessons, they were brought back to the dining hall. She carefully seated herself beside the white-haired girl from earlier, though she said nothing. Then again, that was hardly surprising itself. Spoken word had grown increasingly rare in Myllendh, almost as rare as laughter - it had been months since they'd spoken above a whisper, and even that only when comforting their ailing relatives. They knew too well what their jobs were to keep the town running, and they did not, generally, care for idle chatter. They scarcely had time- or energy- for that, after all.

The white-haired girl spoke, snapping Nenra out of her thoughts. "Look what you did."

For a horrible moment Nenra thought that she, in her clumsiness, had knocked something over. Though she could see her immediate place setting, and the earthenware goblet of water she had poured herself, her vision quickly turned to a blur at the edges and she feared she must have knocked someone else's goblet over. After a good moment squinting around the table and seeing nothing amiss, she glanced over at the girl, her face softening, and tentatively extended a hand, placing it on her shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse and so quiet it could scarcely be heard. She reached for the pitcher of water, after a moment of fumbling clumsily taking it and with a trembling hand pouring into the other girl's goblet. Some splashed over the side as she overfilled it and her face flushed as she fumbled to set down the pitcher and wipe up the spill.

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Aymiria Unalim

_{Interacting with: Zakroti Unalim @darkwolf687}

Miry's body instantly relaxed as Zak moved to sit beside her. She folded herself against his side, curling up and resting her head against his chest and letting him fold his arm around her, offering him the book as his fingers traced over the well-worn page, his voice sure of the words without any hesitation. It sort of gave the impression that he could have read the book with his eyes closed.

As he read she swallowed sharply, internalizing the words. Her brow scrunched up with her thoughts, and out of habit she pulled a thin stream of water from the nearby fountain, slowly twirling it through her fingers and pooling it in her palm, then weaving it between her fingers in intricate threads so thin they nearly separated into individual droplets. It was a control exercise of her element, (one she'd mastered at the age of ten, and scarcely had to consider it now) but doing something with her hands helped her to think.

She felt his eyes on her as he read and tried to school her face into impassiveness, something she wasn't sure she succeeded at. A faint bitterness rose in her throat, her convictions of what this text was suddenly solidified. Three sons, mountains in the east, terrible monsters...

Her initial reaction had been one of recoil, considering the text blasphemous at best. Then the more... reasonable side of her mind kicked in, reminding her (against her will) that even as the mother and three younger children were made out to be dimensionless monsters in this book, so the three elder children were made into in the mythos she had been raised in.

Perhaps each was made for its own agenda, and only told half the story.

She peered up at Zak, waiting for him to continue reading or speaking about it (and mentally noting that she probably seemed like a petulant child), not yet trusting her conviction enough to speak it aloud. Her brow furrowed slightly, a troubled expression coming into her eyes, but she said nothing, instead snuggling up a bit closer to him and skimming the next part of the passage.

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Scyrvensrel Talyrrth-Gunnvaldr

_{Interacting with: Gwillim Gunnvaldr @Tracyarmav}

Scyrven carefully braided the upteenth lock of fiery orange hair, expertly weaving the small brightly colored feathers back into it now that it was mostly dry (even as thick as it was, the perk of air magic was that she could dry it.) She left the bones and beads out this time, knowing her head was going to be in a helmet come the morning and that she didn't want those to be pressed into her skull.

The bath had certainly been nice, doing its part to relax her muscles. Gwillim had done his part as well- even if he wasn't her first choice of partner, having spent a century or so together meant he did know exactly how to please her.

She tied off the final braid with a bit of wet rawhide, looking in approval at her reflection. Just as fierce and wild as ever, but perhaps a little more tame. If only because it was all going to be inside a helm.

She put her boots back on, moving down the stairs with practiced, cat-like grace. She wore a simple long tunic - knee length, with slits up the sides to her waist so as not to impede movement - over soft hide leggings. "Thank you, my love." She said to Gwillim, approaching to stand beside him and looping her arm around his waist, more as a gesture of companionship than anything. "We will be the most graceful, deadly fighters on the field tomorrow, I am certain." Of course they were not to kill, such was not the nature of the tournament, but all the same they would certainly be able to leave a mark. "Are you ready for the tournament?"

Summary

Nenra: is quiet all day, shuffling through lessons, strikes up a conversation with Sera.
Miry: Zakiria fluff! And mythology.
Scyrven: Getting ready for the tournament.