Within the spires and stones of Clousea-Verhavert, the ambiance of stone and eastern splendors was lain with ice and rigidity, the usual garnish of court, flattery and ebullience of traditional joviality was lost within the masonry and spent from rivalry and entombed hatred. The ancient grounds of the previously dubbed Clousea castle was once desolate and forsaken, the denizens typically hidden behind gilded fronts and warped metals embedded deep into stone and rock with ravens of polished granite and nature poised to strike. In the induction of their sworn enemy, the Verhavert stone-workers had taken the structure of the southern lay and molded that into the coupling of foundation, to amplify the ground, to unify their edifices to compound the families of vulpine and avian sigil bearers.
Now, the southern keep of the smaller, more recluse Verhavert was sanctioned as a construction of defense, of fortitude and military prowess, where the secrets of the Clousea-Verhavert methods were kept in the forsaken spires. Very little remained and the houses were nearly vacant and left to the traveling patron or carrier, surrounded in thickets and browse. Similar flora capped the edges of the grounds, the eastern forestry thick and thriving, teeming with their fauna inspirations and heralding the stories carried yonder from the thickets. Glades murmured, the barks held memorial, and only leaves trembled with their vigils; laced with silence, burdened with memory, and encumbered in the designated charge of guarding the Clousea-Verhavert expanse. The morning sun struggled to clip the edges of stone, pouring light into the courtyards where imposing figures were constructed and heralded and the ascending beast with wings aloft and crowned was cantering towards the sky with maw agape and figurine wild and untamed.
Lady Imelda rose with the sun, her rituals began with the faintest caresses of sunlight over the crown and down the carefully detailed feathers, the fur reaped with sallow colours before the rest of the keep began to stir and rise; habits and duties never faltered. Reflective consideration glimmered within her eyes spliced of emerald of amber, and what admiration and hubris could be garnered was only slight, eclipsed by the sensuous cape of her lashes. Bustling about, those had risen came with similar endeavors, briefly glimpsing the winged beast before sweeping over the stones to tend to their own rituals, all sorts dressed in the colours carrying to their combined royalties with a tempered sort of fashion. The former Knueven carefully tucked brunette threads behind the shell of her ear, the length of her hair moderately secured in a plait twined down her spine, untended for the purposes of slight slides of the uniformity of perfection the Clousea-Verhavert generations contended for. She only returned from her days within Camelot some weeks ago, with relaying information about her brother and the intended quest and fabled treasure awaiting their endeavors, much to the increasing vexation of her betters.
With a final farewell of sweeping lashes and lingering glimpses, Imelda carefully vacated the foyer grounds, retreating into the depths of stone that were a literal tomb, suffocating to one unaccustomed to the state of architecture this far way East. These musings parried through her thoughts, idle and dexterous, always languid and fixated into a stupor of yonder consciousness. Since the time of invasing parties and where arrows fell like spears of heralding demise, Imelda had become terribly melancholic, the disillusion of the Knueven Vallore had left her with gaping regret and unbecoming notions, the sort that tarried and dallied. And thus, compared to her kin that sired to her impression, it was quite worrisome if not overall alarming to her previous graces, where Imelda’s wit and retorts were sharp and framed in crystalline tines, refusing to yield and permit lax qualms and errors. The transition was queer and misplaced, but unsurprising to those who were of the former battalion that thrived on quick execution and hushed terror.
Assassins were not meant for these relaxing affairs.
Her quarters were silent upon entry, the mute flutter of fabric, robes befitting to her station and blue-blooded siring fluttering her footfalls trained to be snuffed to the point of wraith like stillness.
“M’lady,” a quiet voice uttered from the dawning gloom, the tendrils of morning grace having not met the void of darkness within her chambers quite yet. Stationed to one wall, a woman of similar genetic bearings and graces stood, hands fiddling with the belt festooned to her slight hips and the swell of her gaze peeled wide in some indication of anxiety.
“Dousabel,” Imedla quietly intoned, head canting to one side in a brief permission that proffered the Clousea-Verhavert youth to continue.
“I’m - uh. I don’t know, if you have heard from anyone else quite yet.” She muttered, voice pitched low. “But Alysone, she - ah. She passed away during childbirth.” Her eyes were pools of quivering colour, trembling in depths of emotion so pure and raw that Imelda could only peer through their depths, to gauge the severity of her words and attempt to contain the traditional formality of all those of their blood.
The archer simply inhaled, the passage of her nassal hissing with breath until she shuddered, her exhale trembling.
Alysone, their cousin, was among those of the Knueven Vallore that had found suitable suitors despite their shadowed involvement during the Saxon invasion, and had been among the first to be with child. Most of the Knueven had been too involved and effected by their separation to attempt little else, thus the various transfers to the keep in the south, where Imelda would have joined them if not for her other duties. To gain favour in the courts, to be the selected envoy to Camelot to compete and carry the heavy burden of the blood given name. The labels were heavy, fixating and sometimes ill-favoured, commonly by those who were informative of the Knueven and the following separation of their troupe. Imelda felt the swell of her heart ache, the organ attempting to illustrate through her frigid countenance, only the glimmer of her eyes allowing the wealth of emote she felt from the deliverance of death.
“And the child?” She breathed.
“Wrought in stillness. I’m afraid.. Her husband is distraught, mother has him being tended to.”
“I see. And the proceedings to her honour? When shall we attend?” “That’s another thing, actually...” Dousabel brought her gesture flush to her mouth, the downturn of her lips severe and her brows arched, lifted within sorrow and anguish from the mourning of one of their own. “There was a rider at the gates this dawn, with a parcel detailing your prescense within Camelot once again. Mother and father tasked me with the deliverance of these...”
Imelda stilled, her previous stature having been set to mild pacing, her mind and heart abound in reeling fixation until she stopped, oblique slashes of her emerald and amber oculi penetrating the light of the sun filtering through her domicile.
“I’ve only been home some weeks, and they summon me to return? Was there any direction or explanation as to why?” “None, I’m afraid, the contents were cryptic by Mother’s explanation, I didn’t see the letter myself.”
“Of course not.” Imelda's brow contoured, the sensuous cape of her lashes sweeping low as a sigh slid past her lips.
“I assume then Mother and Father have made the necessary preparations, unless they require an audience with me?” “They, uhm, didn’t say. But! I’m sure they’d love to see you, I mean, with Alysone -”
“That’s quite all right, Dousabel. We both believe it best that I depart immediately.” Imelda’s eyes gradually began to soften, her younger sibling obviously troubled by the depart of her elder, if not feeling unholy robbed of the impression Imelda often left to the others. Her, and her older brother, were often figures of maternal and paternal affections, replacing the dissociation and distance of their parents as the cumbersome burden of legacy and fate kept them from doting to their many children. Though, such affairs were discouraged, Imelda still swept Dousabel into an embrace, the latter’s arms cinched tight about her belted and robed waist and squeezed, her youth and warmth thus remaining with Imelda through memory and perseverance; for upon the dawning of her cousin’s death, something ill and foreboding suddenly sired within her soul.
[ ♕ ]
There were particular preceding orders and matters to Lady Imelda’s departure, for not all were informed of her sudden summons, much to the murmurs of her various kin. A contingent would follow, per the orders of her parents, who appeared to see her off with her siblings gathered about with dejected frowns. Imelda never broke revere, despite her previous embraces, and when Alysone’s misfortune was brought up, her Mother quietly dismissed the issue with clipped mutters that it would be handled and seen to properly, as was the order of things. Imelda knew she had other concerns pressing to her attention, such as the distance and ride ahead and the dread settling within her bones like ice. She had been at court for so long, and at home for only enough time to resettle and grow sluggish in her melancholy, but the sudden events left her inquiring inwardly as to why such vagueness was proffered instead of detailed instruction.
She was donned in her light armour and mail that was bequeathed to her former alliance, the memory alone seeped deep into leathers and crossing plate, and her hair was carefully pinned away from obstruction, with her horse saddled and prepared for a taxing gallop. Imedla was astride her beast within seconds, only sparing her family and the rest that had gathered a fleeting glance, the emerald catching sunlight and burning peridot before she encouraged her mount to carry her yonder to Camelot.
Member
Redacted,
OliveYou,
Hos,
TrippyNightmare,
Melissa,
Qia,
Snowdrops,
TokyoPewPew,
AmongHeroes,
AlteredTundra
